EPISODIC
Fortune had immediately returned from the bazaars. And a kind of torpor
blanketed her mind, usually so fertile and active. For a time the
process of the evolution of thought was denied her; she tried to think,
but there was an appalling lack of continuity, of broken threads. It was
like one of those circumferential railways: she traveled, but did not
get anywhere. Ryanne had told her too much for his own sake, but too
little for hers. She sat back in the carriage, inert and listless, and
indeterminedly likened her condition to driftwood in the ebb and flow of
beach-waves. The color and commotion of the streets were no longer
absorbed; it was as if she were riding through emptiness, through the
unreality of a dream. She was oppressed and stifled, too; harbinger of
storms.
Mechanically she dismissed the carriage at the hotel, mechanically she
went to her room, and in this semiconscious mood sat down in a chair,
and there George's wish found her, futilely. Oh, there was one thing
clear, clear as the sky outside. All was not right; something was wrong;
and this wrong upon one side concerned her mother, her uncle and Ryanne,
and upon the other side, Mr. Jones. Think and think as she might, her
endeavors gave her no single illumination. Four blind walls surrounded
her. The United Romance and Adventure Company--there could not possibly
be such a thing in existence; it was a jest of Ryanne's to cover up
something far more serious.
She pressed her eyes with a hand. They ached dully, the dull pain of
bewilderment, which these days recurred with frequency. A sense of time
was lacking; for luncheon hour came and passed without her being
definitely aware of it. This in itself was a puzzle. A jaunt, such as
she had taken that morning, always keened the edge of her appetite; and
yet, there was no craving whatever.
Where was her mother? If she would only come now, the cumulative doubts
of all these months should be put into speech. They had treated her as
one would treat a child; it was neither just nor reasonable. If not as a
child, but as one they dared not trust, then they were afraid of her.
But why? She pressed her hands together, impotently. Ryanne, clever as
he was, had made a slip or two which he had sought to cover up with a
jest. Why should he confess himself to be a rogue unless his tongue had
got the better of his discretion? If he was a rogue, why should her
mother and her uncle make use of him, if not for roguery's sake? They
were fools, fools! If they had but seen and understood her as she was,
she would have gone to the bitter end with them, loyally, with sealed
lips. But no; they had chosen not to see; and in this had morally
betrayed her. Ah, it rankled, and the injustice of it grew from pain to
fury. At that moment, had she known anything, she certainly would have
denounced them. Of what use was loyalty, since none of them sought it in
her?
The Major was wiser than he knew when he spoke of the hundredth danger,
the danger unforeseen, the danger against which they could make no
preparation. And he would have been first to sense the irony of it
could he have seen where this danger lay.
Why should they wish the pleasant young man out of the way? Why should
Ryanne wish to inveigle him into the hands of this man Mahomed? Was it
merely self-preservation, or something deeper, more sinister? Think! Why
couldn't she think of something? It was only a little pleasure trip to
Cairo, they had told her, and when she had asked to go along, they
seemed willing enough. But they had come to this hotel, when formerly
they had always put up at Shepheard's. And here again the question, why?
Was it because Mr. Jones was staying here? She liked him, what little
she had seen of him. He was out of an altogether different world than
that to which she was accustomed. He was neither insanely mad over cards
nor a social idler. He was a young man with a real interest in life, a
worker, notwithstanding that he was reputed to be independently rich.
And her mother had once borrowed money of him, never intending to pay it
back. The shame of it! And why should she approach him the very first
day and recall the incident, if not with the ulterior purpose of using
him further? As a ball strikes a wall only to rebound to the thrower,
so it was with all these questions. There was never any answer.
Tired out, mentally and physically, she laid her head upon the cool top
of the stand. And in this position her mother, who had returned to dress
for tea, found her. Believing Fortune to be asleep, Mrs. Chedsoye
dropped a hand upon her shoulder.
Fortune raised her head.
"Why, child, what is the matter?" the mother asked. The face she saw was
not tear-stained; it was as cold and passionless as that by which
sculptors represent their interpretations of Justice.
"Matter?" Fortune spoke, in a tone that did not reassure the other. "In
the first place I have only one real question to ask. It depends upon
how you answer it. Am I really your daughter?"
"Really my daughter?" Mrs. Chedsoye stepped back, genuinely astonished.
"Really my daughter? The child is mad!" as if addressing an imaginary
third person. "What makes you ask such a silly question?" She was in a
hurry to change her dress, but the new attitude of this child of hers
warranted some patience.
"That is no answer," said Fortune, with the unmoved deliberation of a
prosecuting attorney.
"Certainly you are my daughter."
"Good. If you had denied it, I should have held my peace; but since you
admit that I am of your flesh and blood, I am going to force you to
recognize that in such a capacity I have some rights. I did not ask to
come into this world; but insomuch as I am here, I propose to become an
individual, not a thing to be given bread and butter upon sufferance. I
have been talking with Horace. I met him in the bazaars this morning. He
said some things which you must answer."
"Horace? And what has he said, pray tell?" Her expression was flippant,
but a certain inquietude penetrated her heart and accelerated its
beating. What had the love-lorn fool said to the child?
"He said that he was not a good man, and that you tolerated him because
he ran errands for you. What kind of errands?"
Mrs. Chedsoye did not know whether to laugh or take the child by the
shoulders and shake her soundly. "He was laughing when he said that.
Errands? One would scarcely call it that."
"Why did you renew the acquaintance with Mr. Jones, when you knew that
you never intended paying back that loan?"
Here was a question, Mrs. Chedsoye realized, from the look of the child,
that would not bear evasion.
"What makes you think I never intended to repay him?"
Fortune laughed. It did not sound grateful in the mother's ears.
"Mother, this is a crisis; it can not be met by counter-questions nor by
flippancy. You know that you did not intend to pay him. What I demand to
know is, why you spoke to him again, so affably, why you seemed so eager
to enter into his good graces once more. Answer that."
Her mother pondered. For once she was really at a loss. The
unexpectedness of this phase caught her off her balance. She saw one
thing vividly, regretfully: she had missed a valuable point in the game
by not adjusting her play to the growth of the child, who had, with that
phenomenal suddenness which still baffles the psychologists, stepped out
of girlhood into womanhood, all in a day. What a fool she had been not
to have left the child at Mentone!
"I am waiting," said Fortune. "There are more questions; but I want this
one answered first."
"This is pure insolence!"
"Insolence of a kind, yes."
"And I refuse to answer. I have some authority still."
"Not so much, mother, as you had yesterday. You refuse to explain?"
"Absolutely!"
"Then I shall judge you without mercy." Fortune rose, her eyes blazing
passionately. She caught her mother by the wrist, and she was the
stronger of the two. "Can't you understand? I am no longer a child, I am
a woman. I do not ask, I demand!" She drew the older woman toward her,
eye to eye. "You palter, you always palter; palter and evade. You do not
know what frankness and truth are. Is this continual evasion calculated
to still my distrust? Yes, I distrust you, you, my mother. You have made
the mistake of leaving me alone too much. I have always distrusted you,
but I never knew why."
Mrs. Chedsoye tugged, but ineffectually. "Let go!"
"Not till I have done. Out of the patchwork, squares have been formed.
What of the men who used to come to the villa and play cards with Uncle
George, the men who went away and never came back? What of your long
disappearances of which I knew nothing except that one day you vanished
and upon another you came back? Did you think that I was a fool, that I
had no time to wonder over these things? You have never tried to make a
friend of me; you have always done your best to antagonize me. Did you
hate my father so much that, when his death put him out of range, you
had to concentrate it upon me? My father!" Fortune roughly flung aside
the arm. "Who knows about him, who he was, what he was, what he looked
like? As a child, I used to ask you, but never would you speak. All I
know about him nurse told me. This much has always burned in my mind:
you married him for wealth that he did not have. What do you mean by
this simple young man across the corridor?"
Mrs. Chedsoye was pale, and the artistic touch of rouge upon her cheeks
did not disguise the pallor. The true evidence lay in the whiteness of
her nose. Never in her varied life had she felt more helpless, more
impotent. To be wild with rage, and yet to be powerless! That alertness
of mind, that mental buoyancy, which had always given her the power to
return a volley in kind, had deserted her. Moreover, she was distinctly
alarmed. This little fool, with a turn of her hand, might send tottering
into ruins the skilful planning of months.
"Are you in love with him?" aiming to gain time to regather her
scattered thoughts.
"Love?" bitterly. "I am in a fine mood to love any one. My question, my
question," vehemently; "my question!"
"I refuse absolutely to answer you!" Anger was first to reorganize its
forces; and Mrs. Chedsoye felt the heat of it run through her veins.
But, oddly enough, it was anger directed less toward the child than
toward her own palpable folly and oversight.
"Then I shall leave you. I will go out into the world and earn my own
bread and butter. Ah," a little brokenly, "if you had but given me a
little kindness, you do not know how loyal I should have been to you!
But no; I am and always have been the child that wasn't wanted."
The despair in the gesture that followed these words stirred the
mother's calloused heart, moved it strangely, mysteriously. "My child!"
she said impulsively, holding out her hands.
"No." Fortune drew back. "It is too late."
"Have it so. But you speak of going out into the world to earn your
bread and butter. What do you know about the world? What could you do?
You have never done anything but read romantic novels and moon about in
the flower-garden. Foolish chit! Harm Mr. Jones? Why? For what purpose?
I have no more interest in him than if he were one of those mummies over
in the museum. And I certainly meant to repay him. I should have done so
if you hadn't taken the task upon your own broad shoulders. I am in a
hurry. I am going out to Mena House to tea. I've let Celeste off for the
day; so please unhook my waist and do not bother your head about Mr.
Jones." She turned her back upon her daughter, quite confident that she
had for the time suppressed the incipient rebellion. She heard Fortune
crossing the room. "What are you doing?" petulantly.
"I am ringing for the hall-maid." And Fortune resumed her chair, picked
up her Baedeker, and became apparently absorbed over the map of Assuan.
Again wrath mounted to the mother's head. She could combat anger, tears,
protestations; but this indifference, studied and unfilial, left her
weaponless; and she was too wise to unbridle her tongue, much as she
longed to do so. She was beaten. Not an agreeable sensation to one who
counted only her victories.
"Fortune, later you will be sorry for this spirit," she said, when she
felt the tremor of wrath no longer in her throat.
Fortune turned a page, and jotted down some notes with a pencil. Sad as
she was at heart, tragic as she knew the result of this outbreak to be,
she could hardly repress a smile at the thought of her mother's
discomfiture.
And so the chasm widened, and went on widening till the end of time.
Mrs. Chedsoye was glad that the hall-maid knocked and came in just then.
It at least saved her the ignominy of a retreat. She dressed, however,
with the same deliberate care that she had always used. Nothing ever
deranged her sense of proportion relative to her toilet, nothing ever
made her forget its importance.
"Good-by, dear," she said. "I shall be in at dinner." If the maid had
any suspicion that there had been a quarrel, she should at least be
impressed with the fact that she, Mrs. Chedsoye, was not to blame for
it.
Fortune nibbled the end of her pencil.
The door closed behind her mother and the maid. She waited for a time.
Then she sprang to the window and stood there. She saw her mother driven
off. She was dressed in pearl-grey, with a Reynolds' hat of grey velour
and sweeping plumes: as handsome and distinguished a woman as could be
found that day in all Cairo. The watcher threw her Baedeker, her
note-book, and her pencil violently into a corner. It had come to her at
last, this thing she had been striving for since noon. She did not care
what the risks were; the storm was too high in her heart to listen to
the voice of caution. She would do it; for she judged it the one thing,
in justice to her own blood, she must accomplish. She straightway
dressed for the street; and if she did not give the same care as her
mother to the vital function, she produced an effect that merited
comparison.
She loitered before the porter's bureau till she saw him busily engaged
in answering questions of some women tourists. Then, with a slight but
friendly nod, she stepped into the bureau and stopped before the
key-rack. She hung up her key, but took it down again, as if she had
changed her mind. At least, this was the porter's impression as he bowed
to her in the midst of the verbal bombardment. Fortune went up-stairs.
Ten or fifteen minutes elapsed, when she returned, hung up the key, and
walked briskly toward the side-entrance at the very moment George, in
his fruitless search of her, pushed through the revolving doors in
front. And all the time she was wondering how it was that her knees did
not give under. It was terrible. She balanced between laughter and
tears, hysterically.
She had gone scarcely a hundred yards when she was accosted by a tall
Arab whom she indistinctly recollected having seen before; where, she
could not definitely imagine. It was the ragged green turban that
cleared away her puzzlement. The Arab was the supposed beggar over whom
Percival (how easily she had fallen into the habit of calling him that!)
had stumbled. He stood so tall and straight that she knew he wasn't
going to beg; so naturally she stopped. Without a word, without even a
look that expressed anything, he slipped a note into her hand, bowed
with Oriental gravity, and stepped aside for her to proceed. She read
the note hastily as she continued her way. Horace? Why should he wish to
meet her that evening, at the southeast corner of the Shâri'a
Mahomoud-El-Fäläki, a step or so from the British Consulate's? And she
mustn't come in a carriage nor tell any one where she was going? Why all
such childish mystery? He could see her far more conveniently in the
lounging-room of the hotel. She tore the note into scraps and flung them
upon the air. She was afraid. She was almost certain why he wished to
meet her where neither her mother's nor her uncle's eyes would be within
range. Should she meet him? Deeper than this, dared she? Why had she
come to Cairo, when at Mentone she had known peace, such peace as
destiny was generous enough to dole out to her? And now, out of this
tolerable peace, a thousand hands were reaching to rend her heart, to
wring it. She decided quickly. Since she had come this far, to go on to
the end would add but little to her burden. Better to know all too soon
than too late.
That the note had not been directed to her and that she was totally
unfamiliar with Ryanne's handwriting, escaped her. She had too many
other things upon her mind to see all things clearly, especially such
trifles. She finished her walk, returning by the way she had gone, gave
the key to the lift-boy, and in her room dropped down upon the bed,
dry-eyed and weary. The most eventful day she had ever known.
And all the while George sat by the window and watched, and at length
fell into a frame of mind that was irritable, irascible and
self-condemnatory. And when he found that his precious Yhiordes was
gone, his condition was the essence of all disagreeable emotions. It was
beyond him how any one could have stolen it. He never failed to lock
his door and leave the key with the porter. And surely, only a man with
wings could have gained entrance by the window. Being a thorough
business man among other accomplishments, he reported his loss at once
to the management; and the management set about the matter with
celerity. At half after seven every maid and servant in the hotel had
been questioned and examined, without the least noticeable result. The
rug was nowhere to be found. George felt the loss keenly. He was not so
rich that he could afford to lose both the rug and the thousand pounds
he had paid for it. His first thought had been of Ryanne; but it was
proved that Ryanne had not been in the hotel since morning; at least, no
one had seen him.
George gloomed about. A beastly day, all told; everything had gone
wrong, and all because he had overslept. At dinner something was wrong
with the soup; the fish was greasy; the roast was dry and stringy; the
wine, full of pieces of cork. Out into the lounging-room again; and then
the porter hurried over to him with a note from Ryanne. It stated
briefly that it was vitally important for Mr. Jones to meet him at nine
o'clock at the English-Bar in the Quarter Rosetti. Any driver would
show him the way. Mahomed-El-Gebel, the guardian of the Holy Yhiordes,
had turned up, and the band was beginning to play. Would Mr. Jones like
a little fun by the wayside?
"I'm his man," said George. "But how the devil did this Mahomed ever get
into my room?"
Had Fortune dined down-stairs instead of alone in her room, events might
have turned out differently. Ryanne had really written to George, but
not to Fortune.
Mahomed, fatalist that he was, had thrown everything upon the whirling
scales of chance, and waited. Later, he may have congratulated himself
upon his good luck. But it wasn't luck; it was the will of Allah that
he, Mahomed, should contribute his slender share in working out the
destinies of two young people.
George was in the proper mood for an adventure. He went so far as to
admit to himself that he would have liked nothing better than a
fisticuff. The one mistake he made in his calculations was dress. Men
didn't generally go a-venturing in such finical attire. They wore
bowlers and sack-coats and carried heavy walking-sticks. The only
weapons George had were his two hands, now adorned with snug-fitting
opera-gloves.
He saw Mrs. Chedsoye, spoke to her, inquired about Fortune, and was
informed that she had dined in her room. A case of doldrums, Mrs.
Chedsoye believed.
"I'm in a peck of trouble," said George, craving a little sympathy.
"In what way?"
"That rug I told you about is gone."
"What? Stolen?"
"Yes. Vanished into thin air."
"That's too bad. Of course, the police will eventually find it for you."
"I'm afraid that's exactly the trouble. I really daren't put the case in
the hands of the police."
"Oh, I see." Mrs. Chedsoye looked profoundly sorry.
"And here I am, due for Port Saïd to-morrow."
"That's the kind that bowls you over," said the Major. "If there is
anything I can do after you are gone...."
"Oh, I shouldn't think of bothering you. Thanks, though."
"You must have lost your key," suggested Mrs. Chedsoye.
"No. It's been hanging up in the porter's bureau all day."
"Well, I hope you find the rug," said the Major, with a sly glance at
his sister.
"Thanks. I must be off. The chap I bought it of says that the official
guardian from Bagdad has arrived, and that there's likely to be some
sport. I'm to meet him at a place called the English-Bar."
"The English-Bar?" The Major shook his head. "A low place, if I
remember."
"And you are going dressed like that?" asked Mrs. Chedsoye.
"Haven't time to change." He excused himself and went in search of a
carriage.
"The play begins, Kate," whispered the Major. "This Hoddy of ours is a
wonderful chap."
"Poor fellow!"
"What; Hoddy?"
"No; Percival. He'll be very uncomfortable in patent-leather pumps."
The Major laughed light-heartedly. "I suppose we might telegraph for
reservation on the _Ludwig_."
"I shall pack at once. Fortune can find her way to Mentone from Naples.
I am beginning to worry about that girl. She has a temper; and she is
beginning to have some ideas."
"Marry her, marry her! How much longer must I preach that sermon? She's
growing handsomer every day, too. Watch your laurels, Kate."
Mrs. Chedsoye inspected her rings.
Meanwhile, George directed his driver to go post-haste to the
English-Bar. That he found it more or less of a dive in nowise alarmed
him. He had been in places of more frightful aspect. As Ryanne had
written him to make inquiries of the barmaid relative to finding him, he
did so. She jerked her head toward the door at the rear. George went
boldly to it, opened it, and stepped inside.
And vanished from the haunts of men.