It Happened in Egypt — 15 - Chapter XIV, part 2

All this was beautiful; but I wondered painfully if Monny could be happy in spite of the bumps, now that the desert was taking her.

Strange, how a disagreeable sensation constantly repeated at the end of a mere bone can change a man's outlook on life!

If Monny had come to my camel-side and whispered, "I found your buried letter, oh, Men-Kheper-Rã.

Behold that bird now flying toward you.

It is my Ba--my Heart or Soul-bird carrying the gift of my love:" I should with difficulty have prevented myself from snapping out, "Thanks very much; but, my good girl, I'm in no mood to talk tommy-rot."

It was sympathy, kind, friendly sympathy I yearned for, not spoken in words, but given from soft, sweet eyes, as little Biddy had given it when I tore my hands and barked my shins birds'-nesting on the rocks a hundred years ago.

I think we should have liked the excuse to stop and gaze at the ruinous Pyramids of Abusir; but the dragoman-guide supplied by Slaney urged us on to the great plateau of the Pyramids and Necropolis of Sakkara.

There, on the terrace of Marriette's House, we saw a crowd of Cook's tourists from Bedrachen, and I had some moments of guilty fear lest my Secret should leak out, as their dragoman rushed down and warmly greeted ours.

But in the throes of rolling off their camels for the first time, the ever-wakeful suspicions of the Set were submerged under physical emotions.

It's an ill camel that bumps no one any good!

I was only too glad to lure my charges away from danger-zone; and luckily it was so early that the influential ones who never lunched until two "at home," gave the word, "Tombs before food."

Girding up its aching loins, the procession allowed itself to be led by me and my dragoman down inclined planes into dark, mysteriously warm passages where our lights were wandering red stars.

Now and then a face would start suddenly out of the gloom, haloed with candle-light: and in this way, Biddy's flashed upon me, starry-eyed.

"Oh, I'm glad to see you!"

she whispered.

Bedr and his two tourists are here.

I'm afraid!"

"My dear child," I said soothingly, but not as soothingly as if I hadn't had toothache in the spine, "you may be afraid of Bedr, but hardly of two stout Germans in check suits."

"Not if they _are_ Germans.

But are they?

Just now one of their candles almost collided with mine, and his eyes stared so!

Then they looked over my head at Monny, who was behind me.

And where she is now, heaven knows!"

"Nothing can happen to either of you here," I assured her.

"And probably our fuss about Bedr is much ado about nothing.

We have no evidence--" "The man who stared at me over his candle has a scar on his forehead," said Biddy.

"Maybe he got it in that row in front of the House of the Crocodile.

Maybe he is Burke, and has just come out of the hospital."

"Most likely he is Schmidt, and adorned himself with the wound in a student duel," said I. "It's too fresh-looking.

He must be over thirty," she objected, but at that moment Miss Hassett-Bean loomed into sight; and in the stuffy atmosphere of the tomb felt the need of my arm to keep her from fainting.

We "did" the Pyramid of Unas, dilapidated without, secretively beautiful within.

We went from tomb to tomb, lingering long in the labyrinthine Mansion of Mereruka who, ruddy and large as life, stepped hospitably down in statue-form from his stela recess, to welcome us in the name of himself and wife.

Almost he seemed to wave his hands and say, "Look at these nice pictures of me and my family and our ways of life, painted on the walls--our servants, our dwarfs, our mountebanks and acrobats, our flocks and herds.

Sorry there's no refreshment at present on my alabaster mastaba, or table of offerings, but you see I didn't prepare for visitors outside my own immediate circle of Ka's and Ba's. Still, as you _have_ come, make yourselves at home, and take pot luck.

I think when you've examined everything, you'll admit that you haven't a Soul-House in Europe to touch mine which, if I do say it, is the best thing this side of Thebes."

Next came the Tomb of Thi; but by this time, mural representations of fish, flesh, and fruit began to be aggravating.

It would be past two before we could reach our luncheon-tent; and somehow it seemed less desirable to feed after than before that sacred hour, though the custom be sanctioned by royalty.

"Another tomb to see before lunch?"

groaned Sir John Biddell, when the dragoman firmly insisted on the Apis Mausoleum.

"Oh, darn!

_Need_ we?

What?

Where they buried _Bulls_?

I'd as soon see a slaughter house, on an empty stomach.

Lady Biddell and I will go sit in the shadow of our camels."

And they did; nor would they believe the twins' assertions that the dark Mausoleum, with its cavernous rock chambers and granite vaults, was the most impressive thing they had seen in Egypt.

"You say that to be aggravating, because we weren't there," I heard Lady Biddell snap, over the grumbling of the camels.

The sky blazed down and the sand blazed up.

The desert was white-hot, with a silver whiteness hotter than gold, and the foreshortened shadows were turquoise blue.

It was heaven to arrive at a miniature oasis, and see the open-fronted, awninged luncheon-tent reflected with its green frame of palms, in a clear lagoon, thoughtfully left by the receding Nile.

At sight of this picture, my popularity went up with a bound.

It really was a lovely vision: the big tent lined with Egyptian appliqué work in many colors, the porchlike roof extension supported by poles, and in its shadow a white table loaded with good things and guarded by Arab waiters waving beaded fly-whisks.

As we lingered over our chicken-salad, fruit, and cool drinks, and lazily watched our camels munching bersím, all our first enthusiasm for these interesting beasts streamed back.

The ladies called them poor dears, and sweet things; and the men marvelled at their calm endurance, or the number of their leg-joints.

Monny was gay and charming, and looked at me so kindly that I thought she must mean to give a favorable answer to the buried letter.

I

blessed Cleopatra for the "tip" she had given, though I wondered what was the "humiliation" from which I could save her niece.

"After all," said I, "the desert trip's going to pan out a success."

But it must have been about this time that the wind rose.

It blew Miss Hassett-Bean's hat up instead of down, and other hats off, when we had started again--and it blew into our eyes grains of sand as large as able bodied paving-stones.

Also, as we passed through a picturesque mud-village which ought to have pleased everybody, it blew into our noses smells which Lady Biddell knew would give us plague.

As if this were not enough, the sandcart nearly turned over in a rut, and Miss Hassett-Bean said that she must go home or be left to die in the desert.

I had to lead the little stallion before she would consent to go on, and realized when I had ploughed through fifty yards of sand, that the manicured snob of a leader was a thin brown hero.

By the time I had had a mile or two of this, the dark Pyramids of Dahshur were visible, and I knew that our camp was to be pitched not far beyond.

My first emotion was pleasure; my second, panic.

What if Slaney had forgotten his promise to remove the Cook labels?

Since remounting Farag (only the coastguard camels had names; the baggage-beasts smelt as sweet without) Monny and I had been bumping along side by side, and she had just said, "If I tell you something, you'll never breathe it to a soul, will you?"

when I saw those Pyramids, and was smitten with the fear of Cook.

"Never!"

I vowed, torn between the desire to hear her secret, and to dash ahead of the caravan into camp.

"It's about 'Antoun,'" Monny went on.

"You know I said to you the other night, that perhaps I knew something about him?"

"Yes--er--oh, yes!"

We were within a few hundred yards of the Pyramids now.

At any instant the camp might burst into sight.

"You don't look interested!"

"But I am, awfully!"

"You're _sure_ you won't tell?"

"_Dead_ sure."

(Was that a flag fluttering on the horizon?

) "Well, then--it isn't _my_ business, of course.

But one can't help being interested in him, he's such a--such a romantic sort of figure, as you said yourself.

And there's something so high and noble about him--I mean, about his looks and manners--that one hates to be disappointed."

"You _would_ have him with us, you know!"

"I know.

And--and I'm glad I--we--_have_ got him.

It's a--it's an experience.

I suppose he's rather wonderful.

But don't you think he ought to remember that he isn't _exactly_ a prince?

He isn't even called Bey.

And if he were, its not the same as being a prince of Ancient Egypt."

"In what way has he presumed on his--er--near--princehood?"

"I believe he has--fallen in love with Biddy!"

"By Jove!

_Let_ the flag flutter!"

"What flag?"

"Oh--er--that was only an expression.

They use it where I live.

Why shouldn't he fall in love with Biddy, when you come to think of it?"

"He's of a darker race.

Though--he does seem so like _us_.

Of course she couldn't marry him.

It wouldn't do.

_Would_ it?"

"I don't know.

I must think it over.

Is that all you were going to tell me?"

"No. I suppose it's natural he should fall in love with Biddy.

She's _so_ attractive!

But the worst part about it is that he has _proposed_ to Aunt Clara."

"Not possible!"

"Yes.

He has.

I saw part of the letter--the first part.

She's the only one of us who thinks it would be right to marry a man of Egyptian blood, because you know she believes she's Egyptian herself--and she's always talking about reincarnations.

_I_ don't see that It's such a wonderful coincidence his name being 'Antoun.'

It wouldn't be so bad if he were in love with her; but it's Biddy who is always right in everything she says and does, according to him--just as I am always wrong.

Aunt Clara is richer than Biddy.

I can't bear to fancy that's why he has proposed; it would take away all the romance" "Don't strip him of his romance yet," said I, again torn between interest in Monny's incredible statement, and excitement which grew with the growing in size of those flags on the horizon.

"You may wrong him.

If you saw only the _first_ part of the letter--" "There could be no mistake.

It was in hieroglyphics, and who but 'Antoun' would have written such a letter to Aunt Clara?

She asked me to translate it, the night she dug it up at Fustât--" "Dug--" "And when I'd read as far as, 'Beautiful Queen, Star of my Heart, be my wife,' she snatched the paper away, and put it inside her dress, saying she'd look up the rest in one of my books."

"Good heavens!

You must have changed places at Fustât. That letter couldn't have been for her!"

"It couldn't have been for any one else.

'Beautiful Queen' meant Queen Cleopatra.

She said so herself.

I don't know what she's going to do about it."

"Do about it?"

I echoed desperately.

"Why--" and just then my straining eyes saw that on the middle flag in the fluttering row were four large red letters on a white ground.

Slaney had betrayed me!

Everything depended on getting that flag down before those letters declared themselves to other eyes.

"Excuse me," I finished my sentence with a gasp.

Monny must have gasped also, as she saw me suddenly dash away from her at full speed of one-camel power.

But I had no time to think about what she might think.

I suppose I must have done something to the steering-gear of that camel, which coastguard camels do not permit.

Whatever it was, it got me into the midst of camp before I could draw breath; but I have a dim recollection of being caught by Arab arms, and seeing suppressed Arab grins, as mechanically I felt to see how far the end of my spine stuck out at the top of my head.

"That flag!

Pull it down!"

was my first gasp, pointing convulsively to the banner which shrieked, "Cook!"

"Quick--before they come!"

Dazed by my vehemence, several Arabs scuttled to obey the order, but there were too many of them.

Each hindered his neighbour, and as I danced about, making matters worse, out pounced our withered chêf from the kitchen-tent.

"It was _he_ brought that flag, wrapped round something," explained one of the men, in Arabic.

"When he saw we had other flags, but none of Cook, he gave it to us to put over the biggest tent, because he thought it shameful to have no flag of the master's." "Cook isn't the master.

I'm it," I burbled, with a leap to catch the tell-tale square of white as it reluctantly came down.

But I was too late.

Sir John Biddell and Harry Snell, the newspaper man, came gallumping up on their camels before I could stuff the flag into my pocket.

"What's the matter?"

they asked, as their animals squatted to let them down.

"Were you run away with?

What are you so mad about?

Hullo!

What flag's that--C-O-O-K!"

"It should be over the kitchen-tent," I heard myself explaining.

"Don't you see?

C-O-O-K!

It's the cook's special flag.

He brought it himself, but these chaps went and flew it over the dining-tent in place of the Union Jack.

That's why he and I are mad."

And I thanked all the stars on Monny's tent flag that none of the Set understood Arabic.

After this, how could I hope to explain to Monny that the hieroglyphic proposal was mine, and that she, not Cleopatra, ought to have dug it up?

She isn't a girl used to having men run away from her, on camelback or anything else--so naturally she thought me a rude beast, and showed it.

Besides, even if I'd dared, I should have had no chance to straighten matters out; for though the flag-episode was after all no fault of Slaney's, there were a few little things which had escaped even his Napoleonic memory; and it was only by combining the feats of an acrobat with those of a juggler that I saved my reputation during the next half hour.

No sight could have been more beautiful in our eyes than that village of white tents in the waste of yellow sand.

Our wildest imaginings could have pictured nothing more perfect, more peaceful.

Tea was ready, in the huge dining-tent, where folding chairs were grouped round a white-covered table.

The floor of sand was hidden with thick, bright-coloured rugs, and it was finding "T. C.

and Son" on the wrong side of one which Miss Hassett-Bean's foot turned up, that filled me with renewed alarms.

Hastily I laid the rug straight, placed a chair upon it, and persuaded everybody to have tea before inspecting their bedroom tents.

While they drank draughts and dabbed jam on an Egyptian conception of scones, I hurried like a haggard ghost from tent to tent, seeking the forbidden thing.

Cook on the backs of the little mirrors hanging from the pole hooks!...

Will it wash off?...

No!

Cut it out with a penknife!

Down on your knees and tear off the label from the wrong side of another carpet!

(Memo: Must do the one in the dining-tent when the people are asleep for the night.

) Cram three Cook towels into my pockets.

Hastily pin a handkerchief over the name on a white bit of a tent wall.

Must have it cut out, and patched with something, later.

Shall have to pay damages when I settle up with Slaney.

Lady Macbeth wasn't in it with me!

All she needed was a little water.

I have to have pins and penknives and pockets all over the place.

I didn't get any tea.

But that was a detail.

And everybody was so delighted with everything that my spirits rose, despite a snub or two from Monny--for which Biddy tried to make up.

People took desert strolls, or sat on dunes, and gazed into the sunset which couldn't have been better if I had turned it on myself.

Along the western horizon ran a pale flame of green blending with rose, rose blending with amethyst, and in the distance the Pyramids of Dahshur burned with the red of pigeon-blood rubies.

The wind had died among the desert dunes, and it was not till after dinner that any one realized the arctic fall of temperature.

It was too cold to enjoy playing bridge or any of the games I had brought; and the only hope of comfort was in bed.

People said good night to each other in the comparatively warm dining-tent, and then gave surprised shrieks or grunts (according to sex) at the piercing cold.

Several of the elder ladies fell over ten-tropes, despite the large lanterns illuminating the desert, and had to be escorted to their bedroom tents, and soothed.

After this, silence reigned for a few minutes, and I had stealthily begun to work on the biggest rug-label, when arose a clamour of voices and presently appeared the dragoman lent by Slaney.

"Eight ladies wishing hot-water bottles," he explained.

But there were no hot-water bottles.

We had thought of everything, it seemed, except hot-water bottles.

"I tell them very sorry but can't have?"

Yusef suggested, looking pleased.

"Let me think!"

I groaned.

"What about the mineral water bottles we emptied at lunch and dinner?

Let the cook boil water, and we'll supply the bottles."

This was done; and I was proud of the inspiration, with the pride that comes before a fall.

When I began to write, in my bedroom tent, wrapped in all the blankets of the bed that should be Anthony's, I had the place to myself.

But about midnight a head was unexpectedly thrust through the door-flap.

It looked ghostly in the haze of colour made by the gorgeous appliqué work of high roof and octagon walls, which gave an effect of sitting at the bottom of a giant kaleidoscope.

"Who's that?"

I hissed, in a whisper meant to be discreet, but which roused a camel or two in the ring outside the tents.

"Biddell--Sir John Biddell," replied the head.

"I saw your light, and remembered you had your tent to yourself to-night.

Those hot-water bottles have been leaking.

There's one at least gone wrong in most of the ladies' tents.

The married men have given their beds to girls who are drowned out.

'Twas _your_ idea about those bottles, wasn't it?

I

expect you'll hear from it in the morning!

Three of us want to come and camp in here with you."

"All right," I sighed, with a sinking heart.

"I _like_ sitting up, and you can toss for the cots."

* * * * * At this moment Sir John Biddell reposes in one of them, General Harlow in the other.

These gentlemen were so affected with the cold that they went to bed in their clothes, then got up to put on their overcoats, then got up again and put on their hats.

On the floor lies a certain Mills of Manchester, rolled in all the rugs, except one which I have on, after surrendering my blankets.

He has his head in a basket, to keep off the icy draught; and in the ruggy region of his spine, as he rests on his side, are the letters C-O-O-K. I wonder if I could rip them off without waking him up?

CHAPTER XV