It Happened in Egypt — 21 - Chapter XIX, part 1

"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Besides, there had been a red sunrise, which in the Nile country had meant, since Egyptians superseded the prehistoric "new race," that Rã had conquered his enemies, and stained the sky with their blood.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."