FORTUNE'S RIDDLE SOLVED
Fortune, without deigning to reply, walked slowly and proudly to her
tent, and disappeared within. She looked neither at Ryanne nor at
George. She knew that George, his soul filled with that unlucky quixotic
sense of chivalry which had made him so easy a victim to her mother,
would not accept his liberty at the price of Ryanne's, Ryanne, to whom
he owed nothing, not even mercy. And if she had had to ask one of the
two, George would have been the natural selection, for she trusted him
implicitly. Perhaps there still lingered in her mind a recollection of
how charmingly he had spoken of his mother.
She could have set out for Cairo alone: even as she could have grown a
pair of wings and sailed through the air! The fate that walked behind
her was malevolent, cruel, unjust. She had wronged no one, in thought or
deed. She had put out her hand confidently to the world, to be laughed
at, distrusted, or ignored. Was it possible that a little more than a
month ago she wandered, if not happy, in the sense she desired, at least
in a peaceful state of mind, among her camelias and roses at Mentone?
Her world had been, in this short time, remolded, reconstructed; where
once had bloomed a garden, now yawned a chasm: and the psychological
earthquake had left her dizzy. That Mahomed, now wrought to a kind of
Berserk rage, might begin reprisals at once, did not alarm her; indeed,
her feeling was rather of dull, aching indifference. Nothing mattered
now.
But Ryanne and George were keenly alive to the danger, and both agreed
that Fortune must go no farther.
Ryanne, under his bitter raillery and seeming scorn for sacred things,
possessed a latent magnanimity, and it now pushed up through the false
layers. "Jones, it's my funeral. Go tell her. You two can find the way
back to the canal, and once there you will have no trouble. Don't
bother your head about me."
"But what will you do?"
"Take my medicine," grimly.
"Ryanne, you are offering the cowardly part to me!"
"You fool, it's the girl. What do you and I care about the rest of it?
You're as brave as a lion. When you put up your fists the other night,
you solved that puzzle for yourself. For God's sake, do it while I have
the courage to let you! Don't you understand? I love that girl better
than my heart's blood, and Mahomed can have it drop by drop. Go and go
quickly! He will give you food and water."
"You go. She knows you better than me."
"But will she trust me as she will you? Percival, old top, Mahomed will
never let me go till he's taken his pound of flesh. Fortune!" Ryanne
called. "Fortune, we want you!"
She appeared at the flap of the tent.
"Jones here will go back with you. Go, both of you, before Mahomed
changes his mind."
"Miss Chedsoye, he is wrong. He's the one to go. He was hurt worse than
I was. Pride doesn't matter at a time like this. You two go,"
desperately.
Fortune shook her head. "All or none of us; all or none of us," she
repeated.
And Mahomed, having witnessed and overheard the scene, laughed, a
laughter identical to that which had struck the barmaid's ears
sinisterly. He had not studied his white man without gathering some
insight into his character. Neither of these men was a poltroon. And
when he had made the offer, he knew that the conditions would erect a
barrier over which none of them would pass voluntarily. So much for
pride as the Christian dogs knew it. Pride is a fine buckler; none knew
that better than Mahomed himself; but a wise man does not wear it at all
times.
"What is it to be?" he demanded of Fortune.
"What shall I say to him?"
"Whatever you will." Ryanne was tired. He saw that argument would be of
no use.
"All or none of us." And Fortune looked at Mahomed with all the pride of
her race. "It is not because you wish me to be free; it is because you
wish to see one of my companions made base in my eyes. I will not have
it!"
"The will of Allah!" He could not repress the fire of admiration in his
own eyes as they took in her beauty, the erect, slender figure, the
scorn upon her face, and the fearlessness in her great, dark eyes. Such
a woman might have graced the palace of the Great Caliph. He had had in
mind many little cruelties to practice upon her, that he might see the
men writhe, impotent and helpless to aid her. But in this tense and
dramatic scene, a sense of shame took possession of him; his pagan heart
softened; not from pity, but from that respect which one brave person
gives free-handed to another.
Mahomed was not a bad man, neither was he a cruel one. He had been
terribly wronged, and his eastern way had but one angle of vision: to
avenge himself, believing that revenge alone could soothe his outraged
pride and reëstablish his honor as he viewed it from within. Had the
courier returned with the Holy Yhiordes, it is not impossible that he
would have liberated them all. But now he dared not; he was not far
enough away. To Bagdad, then, and as swiftly as the exigencies of
desert travel would permit. One beacon of hope burned in his breast.
The Pasha might be deposed, and in that case he could immediately
dispose of his own goods and chattels and seek new pastures. It would
come hard, doubly hard, since he never could regain the position he was
to lose.
Nine hundred pounds English, and a comfortable fraction over; the
yellow-haired dog would have nothing in the end for his pains. It would
be what the Feringhi called a good joke.
A week passed. Christmas. And not one of them recalled the day. Perhaps
it was because years had passed since that time when it meant anything
to them. The old year went out a-lagging; neither did they take note of
this. Having left behind civilization, customs and habits were
forgotten.
Sometimes they rode all day and all night, sometimes but half a day, and
again, when the water was sweet, they rested the day and night. Never a
human being they saw, never a caravan met or crossed them. In this week,
the secret marvels of the desert became theirs. They saw it gleam and
waver and glitter under skies of brass, when the north wind let down and
a breeze came over from the Persian Gulf. They saw it covered with the
most amazing blues and greys and greens. They saw it under the rarest
azure and a stately fleet of billowy clouds; under the dawn, under the
set of sun, under the moon and the stars; and unfailingly the
interminable reaches of sand and rock and scrubby bush, chameleon-like,
readjusted its countenance to each change in the sky. George, who was a
poet without the gift of expression, never ceased to find new charms;
and nothing pleased his fancy more than to see the cloud-shadows scud
away across the sands. Once, toward the latter end of day, Fortune cried
out and pointed. Far away, palely yet distinctly, they saw an ocean
liner. She stood out against the yellowing sky as a magic-lantern
picture stands out upon the screen, and faded similarly. It was the one
and only mirage they saw, or at least noticed.
[Illustration]
Once another caravan, composed wholly of Arabs, passed. What hope the
prisoners had was instantly snuffed out. Before the strangers came
within hailing, Mahomed hustled his captives into his tent and swore he
would kill either George or Ryanne if they spoke. He forgot Fortune,
however. As the caravan was passing she screamed. Instantly Mahomed
clapped his hand roughly over her mouth. The sheik of the passing
caravan looked keenly at the tent, smiled grimly and passed on. What was
it to him that a white woman lay in yonder tent? His one emotion was of
envy. After this the prisoners became apathetic.
Upon the seventh day, they witnessed the desert's terrifying anger. The
air that had been cool, suddenly grew still and hot; the blue above
began to fade, to assume a dusty, copperish color. The camels grew
restless. Quickly there rose out of the horizon saffron clouds,
approaching with incredible swiftness. Little whirlwinds of sand
appeared here and there, rose and died as if for want of air. Mahomed
veered the caravan toward a kind of bluff composed of sand and
precipitous boulders. All the camels were made to kneel. The boys
muffled up their mouths and noses, and Mahomed gave instructions to his
captives. Fortune buried her head in her coat and nestled down beside
her camel, while George and Ryanne used their handkerchiefs. George left
his camel and sought Fortune's side, found her hand and held it tightly.
He scarcely gave thought to what he did. He vaguely meant to encourage
her; and possibly he did.
The storm broke. The sun became obscured. Pebbles and splinters of rock
sang through the pall of whirling sand. A golden tone enveloped the
little gathering.
Had there been no natural protection, they must have ridden on, blindly
and desperately, for to have remained still in the open would have been
to await their tombs. It spent its fury in half an hour; and the
clearing air became cold again. The caravan proceeded. The hair of every
one was dimly yellow, their faces and their garments.
When camp was made that night it found the captives untalkative. The
girl and the two men sat moodily about the fire. Fatigue had dulled
their bodies and hopelessness their minds. The men were ragged now,
unkempt; a stubble of beard covered their faces, gaunt yet burned.
George had lost his remaining pump, and as his stockings were now full
of holes, he had, in the last flicker of personal pride, wound about
them some cast-off cloths he had found. There was not enough water for
ablutions; there was scarcely enough to assuage thirst.
By and by, Ryanne, without turning his head, spoke to George. "You say
you questioned the courier?"
"Yes."
"He says he showed the note to no one?"
"Yes."
"And so no one will try to find us?
"No."
Ryanne had asked these questions a dozen times and George had always
given the same answers.
Up and away at dawn, for they must reach the well that night. It was a
terrible day for them all. Even the beasts showed signs of distress. And
the worst of it was, Mahomed was not quite sure of his route.
Fortunately, they found the well. They drank like mad people.
Ryanne, who had discovered a pack of cards in his pocket, played
patience upon a spot smoothed level with his hand. He became absorbed in
the game; and the boys gathered round him curiously. Whenever he
succeeded in turning out the fifty-two cards, he would smile and rub his
hands together. The boys at length considered him unbalanced mentally,
and in consequence looked upon him as a near-holy man.
Between Fortune and George, conversation dwindled down to a query and an
answer.
"Can I do anything for you?"
"No, thanks; I am getting along nicely."
To-night she retired early, and George joined Ryanne's audience.
"It averages about nine cards to the play," he commented.
Ryanne turned over an ace. Ten or fifteen minutes went by. In the
several attempts he had failed to score the full complement.
George laughed.
"What's in your mind?" cried Ryanne peevishly. "If it's anything worth
telling, shoot it out, shoot it out!"
"I was thinking what I'd do to a club-steak just about now."
Ryanne stared beyond the fire. "A club-steak. Grilled mushrooms."
"Sauce Bordelaise. Artichokes."
"No. Asparagus, vinaigrette."
"What's the matter with endives?"
"That's so. Well, asparagus with butter-sauce."
"Grilled sweets, coffee, Benedictine, and cigars."
"And a magnum of '1900' to start off with!" Ryanne, with a sudden change
of mood, scooped up the cards and flung them at George's head. "Do you
want us both to become gibbering idiots?"
George ducked. He and the boys gathered in the fluttering paste-boards.
"You're right, Percival," Ryanne admitted humbly. "It will not hurt us
to talk out loud, and we are all brooding too much. I am crazy for the
want of tobacco. I'd trade the best dinner ever cooked for a decent
cigar."
George put a hand reluctantly into his pocket. He brought forth, with
extreme gentleness, a cigar, the wrapper of which was broken in many
places. "I've saved this for days," he said. With his pen-knife he sawed
it delicately into two equal parts, and gave one to Ryanne.
"You're a good fellow, Jones, and I've turned you a shabby trick. I
shan't forget this bit of tobacco."
"It's the last we've got. The boys, you know, refuse a pull at the
water-pipe; defiles 'em, they say. Funny beggars! And if they gave us
tobacco, we shouldn't have paper or pipes."
"I always carry a pipe, but I lost it in the shuffle. I never looked
upon smoking as a bad habit. I suppose it's because I was never caught
before without it. And it is a bad habit, since it knocks up a chap this
way for the lack of it. Where do you get your club-steaks in old N. Y.?"
And for an hour or more they solemnly discussed the cooking here and
there upon the face of the globe.
By judicious inquiries, George ascertained that the trip to Bagdad,
barring accidents, would take fully thirty-five days. The daily journeys
proceeded uneventfully. Mahomed maintained a taciturn grimness. If he
aimed at Ryanne at all, it was in trifling annoyances, such as
forgetting to give him his rations unless he asked for them, or walking
over the cards spread out upon the sand. Ryanne carried himself very
well. Had he been alone, he would have broken loose against Mahomed; but
he thought of the others, and restrained himself--some consideration was
due them.
But into the blood of the two men there crept a petty irritability.
They answered one another sharply, and often did not speak. Fortune
alone seemed mild and gentle. Mahomed, since that night she had braved
him, let her go and come as she pleased, nor once disturbed her. Had she
shown weakness when most she needed courage, Mahomed might not have
altered his plans. Admiration of courage is inherent in all peoples. So,
without appreciating it, that moment had been a precious one, saving
them all much unpleasantness.
By the twentieth day, the caravan was far into the Arabian desert, and
early in the afternoon, they came upon a beautiful oasis, nestling like
an emerald in a plaque of gold. So many days had passed since the
beloved green of growing things had soothed their inflamed eyes, that
the sight of this haven cheered them all mightily. Once under the shade
of the palms, the trio picked up heart. Fortune sang a little, George
told a funny story, and Ryanne wanted to know if they wouldn't take a
hand at euchre. Indeed, that oasis was the turning-point of the crisis.
Another week upon the dreary, profitless sands, and their spirits would
have gone under completely.
This oasis was close to the regular camel-way, there being a larger
oasis some twenty-odd miles to the north. But Mahomed felt safe at this
distance, and decided to freshen up the caravan by a two-days' rest.
George immediately began to show Fortune little attentions. He fixed her
saddle-bags, spread out her blanket, brought her some ripe dates of his
own picking, insisted upon going to the well and drawing the water she
was to drink. And oh! how sweet and cool that water was, after the
gritty flat liquid they had been drinking! Just before sundown, he and
Fortune set out upon a voyage of discovery; and Ryanne paused in his
game of patience to watch them. There was more self-abnegation than
bitterness in his eyes. Why not? If Fortune returned to her mother,
sooner or later the thunderbolt would fall. Far better that she should
fall in love with Jones than to go back to the overhanging shadow. A
smile lifted the corners of his lips, a sad smile. Percival didn't look
the part of a hero. His coat was variously split under the arms and
across the shoulders; his trousers were ragged, and he walked in his
cloth pads like a man who had gout in both feet. A beard covered his
face, and the bare spots were blistered and peeling. But there was youth
in Percival's eyes and youth in his heart, and surely the youth in hers
must some day respond. She would know this young man; she would know
that adversity could not crush him; that the promise of safety could not
make a coward of him; that he was loyal and brave and honest. She would
know in twenty days what it takes the average woman twenty years to
learn, the manner of man who professed to love her. Ryanne left the game
unfinished, stretched himself upon the ground with his face hidden in
the crook of his arms. Oh, the bitter cup, the bitter cup!
Round the fire that night, the camel-boys got out their tom-toms and
reeds, and the eerie music affected the white people hauntingly and
mysteriously. For thousands of years, the high and low notes of the
drums (hollow earthen-jars or large gourds covered with goat-skin at one
end) and the thin, metallic wail of the reeds had echoed across the
deserts, unchanged. The boys swayed to and fro to the rhythm, gradually
working themselves into an ecstatic frenzy.
Fortune always remembered that night. Wrapped in her blanket, she had
lain down just outside the circle, and had fallen into a doze. When the
music stopped and the boys left the prisoners to themselves, George and
Ryanne talked.
"I never forget faces," began George.
"No? That's a gift."
"And I have never forgotten yours. I was in doubt at first, but not
now."
"I never met you till that night at the hotel."
"That's true. But you are Horace Wadsworth, all the same, the son of the
millionaire-banker, the man I used to admire in the field."
"You still think I'm that chap?"
"I am sure of it. The first morning you gave yourself away."
"What did I say?" anxiously.
"You mumbled foot-ball phrases."
"Ah!" Ryanne was vastly relieved. He seemed to be thinking.
"Do you persist in denying it?"
"I might deny it, but I shan't. I'm Horace Wadsworth, all right. Fortune
knows something about that chapter, but not all. Strikes you odd, eh?"
continued Ryanne, iron in his voice. "Every opportunity in the world;
and yet, here I am. How much do you know, I wonder?"
"You took some money from the bank, I think they said."
"Right-O! Wine, Percival; cards, wine and other things. Advice and
warning went into one ear and out of the other. Always so, eh? You have
heard of my brother, I dare say. Well, he wouldn't lend me two stamps
were I to write for the undertaker to come and collect my remains.
Beautiful history! I've been doing some tall thinking these lonely
nights. Only the straight and narrow way pays. Be good, even if you are
lonesome. When I get back, if I ever do, it's a new leaf for mine.
Neither wine nor cards nor women."
Silence. The fire no longer blazed; it glowed.
"Who is Mrs. Chedsoye?" George finally began anew.
"First, how did you chance to make her acquaintance?"
"Some years ago, at Monte Carlo."
"And she borrowed a hundred and fifty pounds of you."
"Who told you that?" quickly.
"She did. She paid you back."
"Yes."
"And she hadn't intended to. You poor innocent!"
"Why do you call me that?"
"To lend money at Monte Carlo to a woman whose name you did not know at
the time! Green, green as a paddy field! I'll tell you who she is,
because you're bound to learn sooner or later. She is one of the most
adroit smugglers of the age; jewels and rare laces. And never once has
the secret-service been able to touch her. Her brother, the Major,
assists her when he isn't fleecing tender lambs at all known games of
chance. He's a card-sharp, one of the best of them. He tried to teach
me, but I never could cheat a man at cards. Never makes any false moves,
but waits for the quarry to offer itself. That poor child has always
been wondering and wondering, but she never succeeded in finding out the
truth. Brother and sister have made a handsome living, and many a time I
have helped them out. There; you have me in the ring, too. But who
cares? The father, so I understand, married Fortune's mother for love;
she married him for his money, and he hadn't any. Drink and despair
despatched him quickly enough. She is a remarkable woman, and if she had
a heart, she would be the greatest of them all. She has as much heart as
this beetle," as he filliped the green iridescent shell into the fire.
"But, after all, she's lucky. It's a bad thing to have a heart,
Percival, a bad thing. Some one is sure to come along and wring it, to
jab it and stab it."
"The poor little girl!"
"Percival, I'm no fool. I've been watching you. Go in and win her; and
God bless you both. She's not for me, she's not for me!"
"But what place have I in all this?" evasively.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Why did Mrs. Chedsoye pay me back, when her original intention had been
not to pay me?"
"You'll find all that written in the book of fate, as Mahomed would say.
More, I can not tell you."
"Will not?"
"Well, that phrase expresses it."
They both heard the sound. Fortune, her face white and drawn, stood
immediately behind them.