Book of Ghosts — 21 - Mustapha, part 2

III

We were a pleasant party at Luxor, this third winter, not numerous, but for the most part of congenial tastes.

For the most part we were keen on hieroglyphics, we admired Queen Hatasou and we hated Rameses II.

We could distinguish the artistic work of one dynasty from that of another.

We were learned on cartouches, and flourished our knowledge before the tourists dropping in.

One of those staying in the hotel was an Oxford don, very good company, interested in everything, and able to talk well on everything--I mean everything more or less remotely connected with Egypt.

Another was a young fellow who had been an attaché at Berlin, but was out of health--nothing organic the matter with his lungs, but they were weak.

He was keen on the political situation, and very anti-Gallican, as every man who has been in Egypt naturally is, who is not a Frenchman.

There was also staying in the hotel an American lady, fresh and delightful, whose mind and conversation twinkled like frost crystals in the sun, a woman full of good-humour, of the most generous sympathies, and so droll that she kept us ever amused.

And, alas!

Jameson was back again, not entering into any of our pursuits, not understanding our little jokes, not at all content to be there.

He grumbled at the food--and, indeed, that might have been better; at the monotony of the life at Luxor, at his London doctor for putting the veto on Cairo because of its drainage, or rather the absence of all drainage.

I really think we did our utmost to draw Jameson into our circle, to amuse him, to interest him in something; but one by one we gave him up, and the last to do this was the little American lady.

From the outset he had attacked Mustapha, and endeavoured to persuade him to shake off his "squeamish nonsense," as Jameson called his resolve.

"I'll tell you what it is, old fellow," he said, "life isn't worth living without good liquor, and as for that blessed Prophet of yours, he showed he was a fool when he put a bar on drinks."

But as Mustapha was not pliable he gave him up.

"He's become just as great a bore as that old Rameses," said he.

"I'm sick of the whole concern, and I don't think anything of fresh dates, that you fellows make such a fuss about.

As for that stupid old Nile--there ain't a fish worth eating comes out of it.

And those old Egyptians were arrant humbugs.

I haven't seen a lotus since I came here, and they made such a fuss about them too."

The little American lady was not weary of asking questions relative to English home life, and especially to country-house living and amusements.

"Oh, my dear!"

said she, "I would give my ears to spend a Christmas in the fine old fashion in a good ancient manor-house in the country."

"There is nothing remarkable in that," said an English lady.

"Not to you, maybe; but there would be to us.

What we read of and make pictures of in our fancies, that is what you live.

Your facts are our fairy tales.

Look at your hunting."

"That, if you like, is fun," threw in Jameson.

"But I don't myself think anything save Luxor can be a bigger bore than country-house life at Christmas time--when all the boys are back from school."

"With us," said the little American, "our sportsmen dress in pink like yours--the whole thing--and canter after a bag of anise seed that is trailed before them."

"Why do they not import foxes?"

"Because a fox would not keep to the road.

Our farmers object pretty freely to trespass; so the hunting must of necessity be done on the highway, and the game is but a bag of anise seed.

I would like to see an English meet and a run."

This subject was thrashed out after having been prolonged unduly for the sake of Jameson.

"Oh, dear me!"

said the Yankee lady.

"If but that chef could be persuaded to give us plum-puddings for Christmas, I would try to think I was in England."

"Plum-pudding is exploded," said Jameson.

"Only children ask for it now.

A good trifle or a tipsy-cake is much more to my taste; but this hanged cook here can give us nothing but his blooming custard pudding and burnt sugar."

"I do not think it would be wise to let him attempt a plum-pudding," said the English lady.

"But if we can persuade him to permit me I will mix and make the pudding, and then he cannot go far wrong in the boiling and dishing up."

"That is the only thing wanting to make me perfectly happy," said the American.

"I'll confront monsieur.

I am sure I can talk him into a good humour, and we shall have our plum-pudding."

No one has yet been found, I do believe, who could resist that little woman.

She carried everything before her.

The cook placed himself and all his culinary apparatus at her feet.

We took part in the stoning of the raisins, and the washing of the currants, even the chopping of the suet; we stirred the pudding, threw in sixpence apiece, and a ring, and then it was tied up in a cloth, and set aside to be boiled.

Christmas Day came, and the English chaplain preached us a practical sermon on "Goodwill towards men."

That was his text, and his sermon was but a swelling out of the words just as rice is swelled to thrice its size by boiling.

We dined.

There was an attempt at roast beef--it was more like baked leather.

The event of the dinner was to be the bringing in and eating of the plum-pudding.

Surely all would be perfect.

We could answer for the materials and the mixing.

The English lady could guarantee the boiling.

She had seen the plum-pudding "on the boil," and had given strict injunctions as to the length of time during which it was to boil.

But, alas!

the pudding was not right when brought on the table.

It was not enveloped in lambent blue flame--it was not crackling in the burning brandy.

It was sent in dry, and the brandy arrived separate in a white sauce-boat, hot indeed, and sugared, but not on fire.

There ensued outcries of disappointment.

Attempts were made to redress the mistake by setting fire to the brandy in a spoon, but the spoon was cold.

The flame would not catch, and finally, with a sigh, we had to take our plum-pudding as served.

"I say, chaplain!"

exclaimed Jameson, "practice is better than precept, is it not?"

"To be sure it is."

"You gave us a deuced good sermon.

It was short, as it ought to be; but I'll go better on it, I'll practise where you preached, and have larks, too!"

Then Jameson started from table with a plate of plum-pudding in one hand and the sauce-boat in the other.

"By Jove!"

he said, "I'll teach these fellows to open their eyes.

I'll show them that we know how to feed.

We can't turn out scarabs and cartouches in England, that are no good to anyone, but we can produce the finest roast beef in the world, and do a thing or two in puddings."

And he left the room.

We paid no heed to anything Jameson said or did.

We were rather relieved that he was out of the room, and did not concern ourselves about the "larks" he promised himself, and which we were quite certain would be as insipid as were the quails of the Israelites.

In ten minutes he was back, laughing and red in the face.

"I've had splitting fun," he said.

"You should have been there."

"Where, Jameson?"

"Why, outside.

There were a lot of old moolahs and other hoky-pokies sitting and contemplating the setting sun and all that sort of thing, and I gave Mustapha the pudding.

I told him I wished him to try our great national English dish, on which her Majesty the Queen dines daily.

Well, he ate and enjoyed it, by George.

Then I said, 'Old fellow, it's uncommonly dry, so you must take the sauce to it.'

He asked if it was only sauce--flour and water.

'It's sauce, by Jove,' said I, 'a little sugar to it; no bar on the sugar, Musty.'

So I put the boat to his lips and gave him a pull.

By George, you should have seen his face!

It was just thundering fun.

'I've done you at last, old Musty,' I said.

'It is best cognac.'

He gave me such a look!

He'd have eaten me, I believe--and he walked away.

It was just splitting fun.

I wish you had been there to see it."

I went out after dinner, to take my usual stroll along the river-bank, and to watch the evening lights die away on the columns and obelisk.

On my return I saw at once that something had happened which had produced commotion among the servants of the hotel.

I had reached the salon before I inquired what was the matter.

The boy who was taking the coffee round said: "Mustapha is dead.

He cut his throat at the door of the mosque.

He could not help himself.

He had broken his vow."

I looked at Jameson without a word.

Indeed, I could not speak; I was choking.

The little American lady was trembling, the English lady crying.

The gentlemen stood silent in the windows, not speaking a word.

Jameson's colour changed.

He was honestly distressed, uneasy, and tried to cover his confusion with bravado and a jest.

"After all," he said, "it is only a nigger the less."

"Nigger!"

said the American lady.

"He was no nigger, but an Egyptian."

"Oh!

I don't pretend to distinguish between your blacks and whity-browns any more than I do between your cartouches," returned Jameson.

"He was no black," said the American lady, standing up.

"But I do mean to say that I consider you an utterly unredeemed black----" "My dear, don't," said the Englishwoman, drawing the other down.

"It's no good.

The thing is done.

He meant no harm."

IV

I could not sleep.

My blood was in a boil.

I felt that I could not speak to Jameson again.

He would have to leave Luxor.

That was tacitly understood among us.

Coventry was the place to which he would be consigned.

I tried to finish in a little sketch I had made in my notebook when I was in my room, but my hand shook, and I was constrained to lay my pencil aside.

Then I took up an Egyptian grammar, but could not fix my mind on study.

The hotel was very still.

Everyone had gone to bed at an early hour that night, disinclined for conversation.

No one was moving.

There was a lamp in the passage; it was partly turned down.

Jameson's room was next to mine.

I heard him stir as he undressed, and talk to himself.

Then he was quiet.

I wound up my watch, and emptying my pocket, put my purse under the pillow.

I was not in the least heavy with sleep.

If I did go to bed I should not be able to close my eyes.

But then--if I sat up I could do nothing.

I was about leisurely to undress, when I heard a sharp cry, or exclamation of mingled pain and alarm, from the adjoining room.

In another moment there was a rap at my door.

I opened, and Jameson came in.

He was in his night-shirt, and looking agitated and frightened.

"Look here, old fellow," said he in a shaking voice, "there is Musty in my room.

He has been hiding there, and just as I dropped asleep he ran that knife of yours into my throat."

"My knife?"

"Yes--that pruning-knife you gave him, you know.

Look here--I must have the place sewn up.

Do go for a doctor, there's a good chap."

"Where is the place?"

"Here on my right gill."

Jameson turned his head to the left, and I raised the lamp.

There was no wound of any sort there.

I told him so.

"Oh, yes!

That's fine--I tell you I felt his knife go in."

"Nonsense, you were dreaming."

"Dreaming!

Not I. I saw Musty as distinctly as I now see you."

"This is a delusion, Jameson," I replied.

"The poor fellow is dead."

"Oh, that's very fine," said Jameson.

"It is not the first of April, and I don't believe the yarns that you've been spinning.

You tried to make believe he was dead, but I know he is not.

He has got into my room, and he made a dig at my throat with your pruning-knife."

"I'll go into your room with you."

"Do so.

But he's gone by this time.

Trust him to cut and run."

I followed Jameson, and looked about.

There was no trace of anyone beside himself having been in the room.

Moreover, there was no place but the nut-wood wardrobe in the bedroom in which anyone could have secreted himself.

I opened this and showed that it was empty.

After a while I pacified Jameson, and induced him to go to bed again, and then I left his room.

I did not now attempt to court sleep.

I wrote letters with a hand not the steadiest, and did my accounts.

As the hour approached midnight I was again startled by a cry from the adjoining room, and in another moment Jameson was at my door.

"That blooming fellow Musty is in my room still," said he.

"He has been at my throat again."

"Nonsense," I said.

"You are labouring under hallucinations.

You locked your door."

"Oh, by Jove, yes--of course I did; but, hang it, in this hole, neither doors nor windows fit, and the locks are no good, and the bolts nowhere.

He got in again somehow, and if I had not started up the moment I felt the knife, he'd have done for me.

He would, by George.

I wish I had a revolver."

I went into Jameson's room.

Again he insisted on my looking at his throat.

"It's very good of you to say there is no wound," said he.

"But you won't gull me with words.

I felt his knife in my windpipe, and if I had not jumped out of bed----" "You locked your door.

No one could enter.

Look in the glass, there is not even a scratch.

This is pure imagination."

"I'll tell you what, old fellow, I won't sleep in that room again.

Change with me, there's a charitable buffer.

If you don't believe in Musty, Musty won't hurt you, maybe--anyhow you can try if he's solid or a phantom.

Blow me if the knife felt like a phantom."

"I do not quite see my way to changing rooms," I replied; "but this I will do for you.

If you like to go to bed again in your own apartment, I will sit up with you till morning."

"All right," answered Jameson.

"And if Musty comes in again, let out at him and do not spare him.

Swear that."

I accompanied Jameson once more to his bedroom, Little as I liked the man, I could not deny him my presence and assistance at this time.

It was obvious that his nerves were shaken by what had occurred, and he felt his relation to Mustapha much more than he cared to show.

The thought that he had been the cause of the poor fellow's death preyed on his mind, never strong, and now it was upset with imaginary terrors.

I gave up letter writing, and brought my Baedeker's _Upper Egypt_ into Jameson's room, one of the best of all guide-books, and one crammed with information.

I seated myself near the light, and with my back to the bed, on which the young man had once more flung himself.

"I say," said Jameson, raising his head, "is it too late for a brandy-and-soda?"

"Everyone is in bed."

"What lazy dogs they are.

One never can get anything one wants here."

"Well, try to go to sleep."

He tossed from side to side for some time, but after a while, either he was quiet, or I was engrossed in my Baedeker, and I heard nothing till a clock struck twelve.

At the last stroke I heard a snort and then a gasp and a cry from the bed.

I started up, and looked round.

Jameson was slipping out with his feet onto the floor.

"Confound you!"

said he angrily, "you are a fine watch, you are, to let Mustapha steal in on tiptoe whilst you are cartouching and all that sort of rubbish.

He was at me again, and if I had not been sharp he'd have cut my throat.

I won't go to bed any more!"

"Well, sit up.

But I assure you no one has been here."

"That's fine.

How can you tell?

You had your back to me, and these devils of fellows steal about like cats.

You can't hear them till they are at you."

It was of no use arguing with Jameson, so I let him have his way.

"I can feel all the three places in my throat where he ran the knife in," said he.

"And--don't you notice?

--I speak with difficulty."

So we sat up together the rest of the night.

He became more reasonable as dawn came on, and inclined to admit that he had been a prey to fancies.

The day passed very much as did others--Jameson was dull and sulky.

After déjeuner he sat on at table when the ladies had risen and retired, and the gentlemen had formed in knots at the window, discussing what was to be done in the afternoon.

Suddenly Jameson, whose head had begun to nod, started up with an oath and threw down his chair.

"You fellows!"

he said, "you are all in league against me.

You let that Mustapha come in without a word, and try to stick his knife into me."

[Illustration: "YOU LET THAT MUSTAPHA COME IN, AND TRY AND STICK HIS KNIFE INTO ME."

] "He has not been here."

"It's a plant.

You are combined to bully me and drive me away.

You don't like me.

You have engaged Mustapha to murder me.

This is the fourth time he has tried to cut my throat, and in the _salle à manger_, too, with you all standing round.

You ought to be ashamed to call yourselves Englishmen.

I'll go to Cairo.

I'll complain."

It really seemed that the feeble brain of Jameson was affected.

The Oxford don undertook to sit up in the room the following night.

The young man was fagged and sleep-weary, but no sooner did his eyes close, and clouds form about his head, than he was brought to wakefulness again by the same fancy or dream.

The Oxford don had more trouble with him on the second night than I had on the first, for his lapses into sleep were more frequent, and each such lapse was succeeded by a start and a panic.

The next day he was worse, and we felt that he could no longer be left alone.

The third night the attaché sat up to watch him.

Jameson had now sunk into a sullen mood.

He would not speak, except to himself, and then only to grumble.

During the night, without being aware of it, the young attaché, who had taken a couple of magazines with him to read, fell asleep.

When he went off he did not know.

He woke just before dawn, and in a spasm of terror and self-reproach saw that Jameson's chair was empty.

Jameson was not on his bed.

He could not be found in the hotel.

At dawn he was found--dead, at the door of the mosque, with his throat cut.