 Chapter twenty-four of It Happened in Egypt. It Happened in Egypt by Charles Norris Williamson and Alice Muriel Williamson. Chapter twenty-four. Playing heavy father to Rachel. Never had the enchantress Isis looked so enchanting to my eyes as she looked that night. I felt, as the set tripped on board, like an anxious hen-mother, who contrary to her fears has safely returned a brood of ducklings to the home chicken coop after a swim out to sea. I valued each duckling, even the last downy, far more than I had dreamed it would be possible. But there was one duckling valued so much more than all the rest, how much more I had realized only when, cackling on the bank I saw it on the wave, that knowing that it was safe made me hysterical with joy. I could have kissed its napkin when it slid it off its lap and I picked it up. The napkin, not the duck, at dinner. The drawback was that I had not saved it, as Anthony had saved Manny. It had no reason to be grateful to me, or care more than it had always cared for a friend. And still another drawback presented itself when the confusion of dressing in haste and dining, as the enchantress Isis steamed out of Luxor, gave me time to think. The duckling was not my duckling, and considered that it had calmly laid plans for me to capture an heiress, considering also that it had not yet abandoned these plans. I saw little reason to hope that, now I had come to a few, just a few of my senses, it would ever take the idea seriously of becoming mine. To abandon, once and for ever, the duckling simile, the first thing I did on board the boat, after recovering from the excitement of seeing Mabel off by train with the Bronsons, was to wonder how I could make up for all this hideous waste of time when I might have been making love to Bitty. But there was no chance to say anything personal to her that night. I had to hear, and wanted to hear, the story of all that had happened from the moment she and Manny entered Rashid Bey's gate, to the moment they came out. Then there was Antoun's story to follow, and after that we had to compare notes, how everybody had felt, what everybody had thought, what everybody had done. This subject was inexhaustible, and kept cropping up in the midst of others, but that of Mabella Hanim, her escape from bondage and from conversion to Islam, and what revenge Rashid was likely to take, was almost as engrossing. When at last, late that evening, I managed to get Bitty alone for a moment, she could no more be induced to talk of herself than if she had been a ghost without visible existence, a mere voice to speak of others, Manny by preference. What a heroine Manny had been from first to last, and what did I think now about the foolishness of that theory, the theory that better was a spy, and had led his employers to believe that Mrs. Jones was travelling with her step-daughter, concealed under an impeccably important nom de guerre. What I thought was, that we must get a hold of Miss Rachel Guest, and question her as to her whole acquaintance with the Armenian, learning how, by all that was incredible, the double mystery of mixed names had originated. Manny knows only that Rachel was supposed to be the heiress, testing her personal attractions by pretending to be the poor school-teacher, said Bridget. The child's been wildly enjoying the situation, for she was tired of young men. Rachel wasn't, and Rachel's been profiting by it far more wickedly. As for Esme, I'm sure no thought of her name coming into this business ever entered Manny's head. We must try to find out what better said to Rachel at the beginning, as you advised her, and all about it. After what I told you that I heard from Esme about an exciting love romance, any mistake of this sort might be particularly dangerous. The organization might think it had more right than ever to be bitter against us. And now I don't mind your confiding in your friend Captain Fenton. I think I'd like him to know my story. What Biddy had told me about Esme was, that the girl had confessed, in a letter, having been made love to, during a summer holiday in the mountains with friends, by the son of a man her father had deeply injured. The accidental meeting had been a real romance. The girl and the young man thought that no one saved themselves, shared their secret. But who could tell, when fate itself stood between them with a drawn sword? The love of Romeo, for Juliet, was a safe and simple affair compared with the nearest flirtation between the daughter of Richard O'Brien and the son of John Halloran, whom O'Brien's testimony had sent to prison for life. Sometimes I thought, as the days went on, that Biddy guessed, not my change of heart but my new understanding of it, and that she wanted quietly and gently to show me, according to Bill Bailey's pet expression, there was nothing doing. Her expressed wish that Fenton should hear her story looked to my suddenly suspicious mind as if his strong personality and his extremely picturesque position had made an appeal to the romance in her, as it had in the case of Mrs. East and perhaps Monnie Gilder. Always interested in Mrs. Jones from first sight, when he had laughingly said that the little sprite of a woman would be almost too alluring if surrounded by an air of mystery and intrigue, Anthony was now frankly preoccupied with her affairs. He was not even annoyed that, unaided by me, her quick mind had grasped the secret of his identity. It was like her to spring on to it by instinct, he said, smiling, that thoughtful smile of his, which was more than ever effective in his air of get-up. Like her not to give anybody else a hint, except you, of course, though she must have been tempted sometimes. I suppose, and he looked up quickly, she hasn't given any one else a hint? I'd swear she hasn't. Miss Gilder, you're sure she hasn't the slightest suspicion? As sure as a man can be of anything about a woman. You aren't trying to evade the question, Duffer. On my word I'm not. I feel morally certain Miss Gilder labors under the impression that you're as brown as you're painted, that somehow or other you can't be Muslim because she's seen you without a turban, and you've got the hair of a Christian. Maybe she thinks you're a cop. I heard her learnedly arguing the other day that the cops are the only real Egyptians. She has the air of studying you sometimes, but with all her study she sees you only as an Egyptian of high birth and attainments, with a few drops of European blood in your veins, perhaps just enough to make things aggravating, and a vague right to a princely position if you choose to overlook something or other and claim it. There you have her conception of you in a nutshell. There would still have been room in that nutshell for Cleopatra's ideas concerning her niece's feelings. But if she were right it was Anthony's business to discover those feelings for himself, provided that he cared to do so. And of this I was not sure. There was the doubt that it might be bitty, even though he appeared to attach some unexplained importance to Miss Gilder's continued ignorance about himself. The day after leaving Luxor there was no time for the heart-to-heart talk I planned for Rachel Guest. Each hour, each minute almost, was taken up with my duties as conductor, which I was obliged to regard seriously whether I liked them or not. If I did not, the set growled, snapped, or clamored which gave me even more trouble than doing my duty. For some reason best known to herself, but suspected by me, Mrs. East kept to her suite, nursing a grievance and the Siberian lapdog from a suet. This saved me a certain amount of brain strain, for among other places of interest we had to pass near was ancient Hermonthus, where in her Cleopatra incarnation she had built a temple with a portrait of herself adoring the patron-bull of the city. If she had known how easy it would be to visit the ruins, she would have been capable of desiring the boat to stop, or telegraphing complaints to Sir Marcus if it hadn't. The two excitements of the day were passing through a huge lock, with sides like those of a canyon and scarlet doors such as might adorn the house of an ogre, in which we nearly stuck, and were saved by Antunes seizing the pole from the inferior hands of a Nubian boatman. Also a viznet to Esna, a very coptic town, starred with convents built by the ever-present St. Helena, sacred once to the Lattos fish, now sacred to gorgeous baskets of every size and color, also somewhat overbeated and over-scarabbed. A ruined quay jutted into the wine-brown water, where Roman inscriptions could have spied out, if any one had had eyes to spare from the basket-sellers, the sellers of grapefruit and the other shouting merchants who flocked to head us off on our way to the temple, despite a flurry of rain that freckled the deep sand of the landing-hill. But nobody did have eyes for anything, Roman, now that Cleopatra sulked in her throne room, and our only archaeologist was as absent minded as if he had been his own astral body. He had seen the wisdom of sticking to the trip and not turning back by train with the Bronsons and somebody else, as he might have yearned to do, if money were right, but history had suddenly become as dry husks to Sheridan. His soul was no longer with us, journeying up the Nile, and I suspected his body of packing to join it, as soon as things had been arranged to un-Hanim Mabel, and send her, freed from a marriage which was not marriage, freed from this fear or forcible conversion home to the United States. It was just on the cards, Anthony and I thought, that there might be another demonstration at Esna. It was just on the cards, Anthony and I thought, that there might be another demonstration at Esna, that unruly town where Muhammad Ali banished the superfluous dancing-girls of Cairo in the 1840s. If Rashid Bey had not discovered the truth about that hurried departure from Luxor for Asuat, as a matter of fact Mabel and her guardians were almost thrown on board as the train began to move, he might have sent emissaries or come himself to Esna, where he must have known the enchantress Isis would land. As for better in his employers, Anthony, who now knew Bidi's suspicions, was inclined to think that, even if she were right, we had seen the last of them. After such a setback as that in the Temple of Mut, he thought that they would not only be discouraged but frightened. They had run away from us, in the Temple, and despite the proverb concerning those who fight and run, to fight another day, it was probable that men of their caliber would see the wisdom of abandoning the chase. They had shown themselves cowards, Anthony thought, whatever their object had been in attacking Miss O'Brien and Miss Gilder, and though we must be on the watch during the rest of the trip, his idea was that the men had retreated in fear of arrest. In any case, we had no trouble at Esna, and saw no sinister faces peering out of low doorways in the bazaars, or over the heads of the pretty, sometimes fair and blue-eyed, dancing girls' descendants. Buried in the heart of the village, we came upon the Temple. Only the portico was visible under piled houses and a triumphant mosque. But once we were down in the entombed Temple itself, it gave a sense of secrecy and mystic rites to look up from under the dark roof of heavy stone with its painted zodiac, out from hidden halls of carving and color to the clustered houses of dried brick built before the Temple was uncovered. There was a sense of tragedy and failure, too, toiling up the steep slope to the town level and passing on the half-buried walls, gigantic carved figures making thwarted gestures in commemoration of kingly triumphs forgotten hundreds upon hundreds of years ago. At night there was a Fantasia on board, with our boatmen dancing each other down, like Highlanders, and the next day brought us to Edfoo, which all the women were wild to see because Robert Hitchens had called its green-blue the true color of love, an adorable Temple sacred to Horus, as there he conquered and killed it. It was only after we had passed Sir Ernest Castle's Red House, with the smoky irrigation works where fourteen hundred Arabs have chased the desert into the background, and after we had visited the splendid twin temples of light and darkness at Comombo, towering majestically above the Nile Bank, that I found time to catachize and lecture misguessed. I contrived to separate her from her sculptor and lure her to a part of the deck unfrequentened because it was windy. Ethel was looking happy, young, and prosperous in one of Manny's most becoming and expensive dresses. At first I think she felt inclined to be flattered by my desire for her society, for I had never yet wished her joy or formally congratulated Bailey. One look into my eyes, with those clever, slanting green orbs of hers, however, an instinct must have told her that my intention was different. She glanced round for an excuse to escape, but found none, for I hedged her in from all her friends. Then she quickly decided to shunt me off on an emergency track laid by herself. What a wonderful day it's been, she remarked, and Comombo is one of the best temples. The only thing I didn't like was those mummy crocodiles. Their smiles look so hypocritical and to think they've been smiling them for thousands of years. It must be unpleasant to smile a smile of a hypocrite even for a few weeks, I seized the chance to work up to the business. Yes, indeed, agreed Miss Guest, a slight color staining her cheeks. And didn't you notice several new sorts of wall inscriptions? Yes, I admitted, but if you don't mind I'd like to skip sixteen or seventeen centuries and come down to you. I've been wanting a chat. Why, I'm delighted, she exclaimed, frightened, but all the more ingratiating. Oh, isn't the Nile beautiful as we come toward Nubia? And aren't the Sakeas more interesting than the Shadoofs, which they mostly use when the river is low? Nile has said quite a lovely thing about the Sakeas, that their chains of great water-cups, going up and down, look like enormous strings of red and green prayer-beads, being told by unseen hands. He ought to be a poet, he's so romantic. No doubt everything about you, Miss Guest, must make an appeal to his romantic side, I cut in, while she was forced to pause for breath. I hope I do appeal to him, she said meekly, I never thought to be so happy. This was a direct appeal to me, and it hit the mark. I didn't care a rap about Willis Bailey, or his sketches or the wooden statues with crystal eyes, with which he was going to make the fashion. If Miss Guest chose to hook her shining fist with a false fly it wasn't my business. It was hers and his, and perhaps Manny's, for Manny had backed Rachel up in creating a wrong impression, as if they two had been playing together, like children, to trick the grown-ups. But I had to find out what had started the ball rolling, as it looked as if that ball had come out of the pocket of better. I'm glad you're happy, I said, and my hope is that you'll remain so. I wish you so well that perhaps you'll give me the right to ask a few questions. You see, I'm one of your oldest friends in Egypt after Miss Gilder and her aunt and Mrs. Jones. You met Miss Gilder and Mrs. East traveling in France. They've told me, yes, in a dining-car, we were put at the same table and got talking. I just loved Manny at first sight, and she's been heavenly to me. What fun we've had! I never had any fun before. I hardly knew the meaning of the word. I suppose it must have amused you and Miss Gilder, I planted my arrow at last, though not remorselessly. This quaint idea that's got round about your having changed places. Rachel's face crimsoned. Oh, Lord Ernest, she sighed in an explosive whisper, with a glance round to see if any one were near. But we were alone with the beginnings of a sunset that flushed the Dunn Hills as unright peaches are flushed on a garden wall. I've promised Manny not to say a word and spoil her fun, as long as the trip lasts. She's finding out, you see, which people are really attracted to her, for herself. She says it's a wonderful experience, and it's given her such a rest for men, the silly ones, you know. It isn't my fault. I'd tell in a minute if she'd let me. Was it she who began the game, I dared to inquire, or was it better? Now, this is a question I really have a right to ask. I'll tell you why afterward if you don't know already from Manny. No, I don't think Manny said anything to make me understand that, Rachel answered, stammering a little, and trying pathetically not to look anxious. But I'll answer you, of course. There's nothing to hide from you now that I can see. It was better who began. He was the most intelligent, extraordinary person. I don't believe anyone fully realized it except me. But from that first night at Alexandria he seemed to feel that I saw something of value behind his poor face. He was very sensitive, and he had chatched himself to me in the most beautiful, faithful way. Really and truly if there hadn't come that trouble about the Hashish place, which wasn't his fault because Manny wanted to go and when she wants things she wants them very much, I believe I could have made a Christian of him. He would have been a wonderful convert. We talked more about religion than anything else, but he used to like to chat about America because he'd been there and hoped to go again. That was the way the joke about Manny and me started. He did not ask me to speak of it, but it can't matter now. He told me when he was in New York, with a family who took him from Egypt, one day the great Mr. Gilder's daughter was pointed out to him in the street. She was with her father in an automobile, but there was a block in the traffic. A policeman was keeping it back, so he saw her distinctly for several minutes, and he was interested because his employers told him how important the Gilders were, and how Mr. Gilder used to have his daughter guarded every minute for fear she might be kidnapped for ransom, as several rich people's children had been. Manny couldn't have been more than fourteen then, as it's seven years ago, and better said that the little girl he saw in the automobile was exactly like me, hardly at all like what Manny is now. He wanted me to tell him, for a reason which he vowed and swore was very important, whether I wasn't really Miss Gilder and she was Miss Guest. Well, I thought the idea so funny, so thoroughly quaint, you know, and like something in a book, that just for fun I answered that I couldn't tell him anything until I'd consulted my friend. Manny nearly went wild about it. She said she'd come to Egypt to have adventures, and she was going to have them, no matter whether school kept or not. That's just a little slang expression people use at home sometimes. I dare say you've heard her say much the same thing. She said this idea of betters was too good to miss, and we'd get bushels of fun out of it. So we have, in different ways, and she's been lovely about giving me dresses and things. When she and I talked the matter over, she understood why better should have thought she was more like me at the age of fourteen than like her present self. She'd had typhoid fever just before the time she must have been pointed out to him, and it had left her thin as a rail and as pale as a ghost. Her hair was short, too, and some of the color had been burnt out of it by the fever. Now you know she has a brilliant complexion, and her face is much rounder than mine, as well as more pink and white. Compared to her I am sallow, I'm afraid, and lanky, and when she and I stand together her hair looks bright gold and mine light brown in comparison. Manny wouldn't let me tell better right out that he was mistaken about us. She said we wouldn't fib, but we'd act self-conscious as if we had a secret and he'd stumbled on it. He must have started the story. Oh, if you could call it a story, I don't believe anything has ever been put into words. It was in the air. People got the idea, but better must have put it into their heads. Neither Manny nor I did more than smile and look away and change the subject if anyone hinted. We said you mustn't breathe such things to Mrs. East or Mrs. Jones or they'll be angry. Apparently nobody ever did dare to breathe it to them, and I think Manny mentioned you too, Lord Ernest. She didn't want you to know. She was afraid you'd say that the whole thing was nonsense. I suppose it was Enid Biddle who came to you. She was afraid Mr. Snell, but it isn't worth talking about now. Only she is a cat. Miss Biddle had said exactly the same of Miss Skest. Naturally however I did not mention the coincidence. Now I've told you everything you wanted to know, haven't I, Rachel went on. Or were there any more questions you'd like to ask? I mean, about better? Only one more, I think. Did it ever strike you that he was curious about you, or rather about Miss Gilder who you both let him suppose was really Miss Skest? Anything about your name? Why, yes, he was curious. They say Arabs always are if you let them be. Not that he is exactly an Arab, but I suppose Armenians are the same. He seemed to want to know things about me, what I'd done, where I'd lived, and oh, lots of little questions he would ask. Me and I made up our minds from the first as I told you that there mustn't be any fibs. I simply put him off. He never got anything out of me at all. I see, I said, and let myself drift away from her into thoughtfulness. Is that all, then? Yes, that is all, thank you. Her tone sounded as if she were relieved of a mental weight, and would like to go. I expected her to make some excuse. It would soon be time to dress for dinner, or she had to write a letter. But no, she lingered. She was trying to bring herself to say something. I waited in silence, my eyes on the shining river, looking back at the golden trail of the sun that was like a rich mantel draping a gondola on a fet day in Venice. I suppose you think, she forced the words out at last, that Willis Bailey wouldn't have fallen in love, or proposed, if he hadn't thought like the rest, that I—I—I don't see why he shouldn't, Miss Guest. He really does seem to care for me, as I am, you know, and I've never told him a single untruth. I've nothing to blame myself for. I'm sure of that. Yet you don't approve of me one bit. You think I'm a kind of adventurous. So does Mrs. Jones. Me. Why, what would the people at home in Salem say if anyone suggested such a thing? You don't know the life I've led, Lernerist. I can imagine. You don't want to go back to it again, do you? It does seem as if I couldn't now. It seemed so, even before Willis—oh, I'm sure you think I never meant to go back, once I'd broken free from the dull grind. No harm in that. I'm glad you say so. It took all my legacy to see the world a little—well, nearly all, not quite, perhaps, to tell the truth—and being brave has brought me this reward, the love of a man who can give me everything worth having. I shan't be outside life any more, and Willis won't have any reason to blame me when he—when he—no reason, of course, I fit it into her long pause. But men as well as women are unreasonable sometimes, you know, and if he should be so wrong-headed as to think you'd deceived him about yourself, then he ought to blame Monnie, not me. He ought, perhaps, but the question is what he will do, and you can't like having a sword hanging over your head. Supposing he should be unjust and refuse to carry out—oh, Lord Ernest, you don't think he will after he's sworn that I'm the only woman in the world he could ever have loved—he thinks me much better looking than Monnie. He says she hasn't got a soul yet. He doubts if she will ever have one. I didn't doubt it. I thought I had heard it stirring in the throes of birth a soul such as would blind the eyes of a Rachel guest with its white shining. Monnie had said that she would find her soul in Egypt, but the mention of this was not indicated just then. I haven't the courage to tell him, even if there were really anything definite to tell, Rachel went on. It would be insulting a man like Willis to suggest that he'd been influenced. You know what I mean. But now we're talking of it. Oh, do advise me. We're planning to be married in Egypt at the end of this trip, and then settle down in Cairo for Mr. Bailey's studies at the museum. He came up the Nile only for me, you see, and he says I shall be his first model for the new style. My eyes are just right, as if they'd been made on purpose to help him. I lie awake nights, wondering what if, before the wedding, when he finds out for certain that my name is really only Rachel guest, and that I'm—oh, I dare not think of it. Then if you want me to advise, why don't you in some tactful, perhaps joking way, speak of the story better started, and—I can't, I simply can't. Yet you feel it would be better? Yes, sometimes I feel it. You help me, Lord Ernest. You tell him. And then, see if you see any signs. You'll make him understand how dreadful it would be to throw me over, because I'm poor and have been in nobody till now. I'll do my best—I heard myself weakly promising. No wonder I have earned the nickname of Duffer. CHAPTER XXV. PART I. OF IT HAPPENED IN EGYPT. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. It happened in Egypt, by Charles Norris Williamson and Alice Muriel Williamson. CHAPTER XXV. MAROONED PART I. Had any human fly ever buzzed himself so fatally into the spider webs of other people's love affairs, I asked myself sternly, as soon as Providence plucked me out of one web back I would bumble into another, though I had no time for a love affair of my own. When the enchantress Isis had slipped past many miles of desert shore, black striped and tawny as a leopard's skin, and other desert shores so fiercely yellow as to create an effective sunshine under grey skies, we arrived at Aswan. I had not yet kept my promise to Rachel, though whether from lack of opportunity or courage I was not sure. Here we were at historic Aswan, and nothing had happened—nothing which could be written down in black and white—since the excitement at Luxor. Nevertheless, some of us were different within, and the differences were due, directly or indirectly, to those excitements. Now that we were nearing Ethiopia, alias the land of Kush, though Mani said she could not bear to have it called by that name, except, of course, in the Bible, where it couldn't be helped. How would any of us like to register at an hotel as Mr. or Miss So-and-So of Kush? Oshkosh sounded more romantic. No land, however, could look more romantic than Aswan, city of the Cataracts, Greek Sain, that granite quarry whose red cyanite made obelisks and sarcophagi for kings of countless dynasties. Swan, as the cops renamed it, a frontier town of Egypt since the days of Ezekiel the Prophet, now appeared a gay place made for pleasure pilgrims. Dry and river were dazzling blue, and the sea of sand was a sea of gold, the dark rocks lying like tamed monsters at the feet of Knoom, god of the Cataract, glittered bright as jet over which a libation of red wine had gushed. The riverfront of the town, with its hotels and shops, was brightly colored as a row of shining shells from a southern sea, tense of pink and blue and amber, translucently clear in contrast with the dark green of lebic trees and palms, in whose shadow flowers burned like rainbow-tinted flames of driftwood. Between our eyes and the brilliant picture a network of thin dark lines was tangled, as if an artist had to face his canvas with scratches of a drying brush. These scratches were, in reality, the mass of moored falucas, bristling close to the shore like a high hedge of flower stems, stripped of blossoms and bent by driving wind. On the opposite side of the river the desert crouched like a lion who flings back his head with a shake of yellow mane, before he stoops to drink. And in the midst of the stream rose Elephantine Island, with its crown of feathery palms, its breastwork of Roman ruins, a medal of fame for the kings it gave to Egypt, and its undying lullabies sung by the Cataract amongst surrounding rocks. Very strange rocks they were, black as wet onyx, though for thousands of years they had been painted rose by sunrise and sunset. Shapes of animal gods, shapes of negro slaves, shapes of broken obelisks and fallen temples, shapes of elephants like those seen first by Egyptians on this island, shapes which one felt could never have taken form except in Egypt. Over our heads armies of migrating birds made a network like a great floating scarf of beads, each bead a bird, and the blue water round the slow gliding enchantress was crowded with boats of many hitherto unknown sorts that they might have been visiting craft from another world, falucas with sails red or white, or painted in strange patterns or awning, some with rails like open trellis work of many colors over which dark faces shone like copper in the sunshine, rowing boats, galleys with fluttering flags and old soap-boxes roughly lined with tin in which naked imps of boys perilously paddled. Out from the boats rushed magic in clouds like incense, wild African music of chanting voices, beating tom-toms or clapping hands that clack together like castanets. Very old men and very young youths, thumbt furiously on earthen drums, shaped like the jars of elephantine, once so famous that they traveled the length of Egypt filled with wine. The breeze that fan to us from beyond the palms and lebeques, the roses and azaleas, was soft and flower-laden. There was a sentinet, too, as of ripe grapes as if a fragrance lingered from vanished days when wine for the gods was made from elephantine vineyards, and fig trees never lost their leaves. We ourselves and our big three-decked boat were alone in our modernity if one forgot the line of gay buildings on the shore. Something else might have been out of the time when the world supposed elephantine to be placed directly on the tropic of cancer, and believed in the magic lamp which lit the unfathomable well, the time when quarries of red and yellow clay gave riches to the island, and all Egypt thanked its gods when elephantine's nilometer showed that the two lands would be plentifully watered. Most of us were going to live on board the enchantress for our three days at Aswan, but hearing that lords and ladies of high degrees swarmed at the cataract hotel with its wild, watery view of tumbled rocks, and at the Savoy in its flowery gardens, some went where they might hope to cross the path of dukes and duchesses. The Montiites were not wild about the aristocracy, nor would royalty of later date than the Ptolemies have lured Cleopatra from her suite on the boat, but the whole party was eager for shore, and no sooner had the enchantress put her foot on the yellow sands than she was deserted by her passengers. The bazaars were the first attractions, for everybody said that they were as fine in their way as the bazaars of Cairo. So very soon we were all buying silver, ivory, stuffed crocodiles and ostrich feathers from the Sudan, which now opened its gates not far ahead. The Sudan, mysterious, unknown, and vast. Cleopatra clung to me with a certain wistfulness, as if in this incarnation she were not so intimately at home in Upper Egypt as she had hoped to be. Perhaps this loneliness of her soul was due to the fact that instead of seeking her society, Anthony with an H seldom came near her now. Something had warned him off. He would never tell me or anyone on earth, but unused to the ways of women as he was, I felt sure that he had been uncomfortably enlightened as to Cleopatra's feelings. The cure, according to his prescription, was evidently to be absent treatment. But there was another which I fancied might be efficacious, the sudden arrival on the scene of Marcus Antonius Lark. I happened to know that he proposed a dash from Cairo to Aswan by train, for I had received two telegrams at the moment of walking off the boat. The first message announced his almost immediate advent, the second regretted unavoidable delay, but expressed an intention not to let us steam away for Wadi Halfa without seeing him. The alleged excuse was business, but I thought I saw through it, and sympathized, for he whom I once cursed as a brutal pirate of money-bags, now loomed large as a pathetic figure. Despite the lesson of the lotuses, I believed that his motive was to try his chance with Mrs. East, that life had become intolerable, unless Lark's luck might hold again, and that he could not wait till the cruel lady returned to Cairo. It was a toss-up, as we walked side by side to the incense-laden bazaar, whether I told her the news or left her to be surprised by the unexpected visitor. Eventually I decided that silence would help the cause, and in thus making up my mind I was far from guessing that my own fate and Monies and Anthony's and Bridget's hung also on that insignificant decision. I was thankful that Mrs. East said no more of bringing her niece and me together, and that on the contrary she dropped dark hints about everything in life which she had wanted, being now too late and useless to hope for in this incarnation. Why she had changed her plans for Monie I could not be sure, enough for me that she apparently had changed them. Sir Marcus did not appear the next day or the next, and I heard no more. Indeed between dread of breaking the truth to Bill Bailey, and self-approach at letting time pass without breaking it, I almost forgot Lark's love affair. I salved my conscious by working unnecessarily hard and even helping Kruger with his accounts when Anthony too generously relieved me of other duties. How I envied Fenton at this time, because no girls asked him what men they ought to marry, or implored him to prevent men from jilting them, or urged him to enlighten handsome sculptors with wavy soft hair and hard eyes resembling the crystal orbs which were to become fashionable in society. Anthony loved Aswan, and apparently enjoyed displaying its beauties. Not knowing that I hit a fox under my mantle, he meant to be kind in taking people off my hands, giving them tea on the cataract hotel veranda, escorting them to the ruined Saracen Castle which, with Elephantine opposite, barred the river and made a notable gateway, leading them at sunset to the Arab Cemetery in the desert, and to the Bisharan village where wild dark creatures, whose hair was pinned with arrows and whose ancestors were mentioned in the Bible, sold baskets and bracelets and what not. There were really, as Sir John Biddle remarked, a plethora of sights, not counting the magnificent rock tombs, since the set had definitely struck against tombs of all descriptions. But even with an excursion to the ancient quarries, for a look at half finished obelisks, for once I had not enough to do, and Fenton had snatched Biddy for me as well as Monnie. Mercilessly he had them sight-seeing every moment, and I could no longer scold Rachel for letting things slide. To blame her would be, for the pot to call the kettle black. It was on the day of the great dam that I screwed my courage to the sticking-place, and made Bailey understand that his fiancée was nobody but Rachel Guest, that she would be Rachel Guest all her life until she became Mrs. some one or other, preferably Mrs. Willis Bailey. Somehow it seemed appropriate to do the deed at the dam. And always in future, when people ask what impression the eighth wonder of the world made upon me, I shall doubt for an instant whether they refer to the American sculptor or to the barrage. The way in which we went was so impressive that it was comparatively easy to be keyed up to anything. Most travelers make the trip on donkey-back, or else, as far as Chalal, in a white, blue-eyed desert train, where violet window-glasses sooth their eyes and prepares their minds for a future journey to Cartoon. After Chalal they go on in small boats to the wide, still lake, which the great dam has doored up for the supply of Egypt. But we of the enchantress Isis were super-travelers. Her boat being of less bulk than her new rivals, she was able to reach the barrage by passing up through its many locks, and proceed calmly along the upper Nile, between the golden shores of Nubia to Wadi Halfa. We remained on board for the experience, and though I had the task of telling Bailey still before me, I would not have changed places with a king, as standing on deck with Biddy by my side I felt myself ascending the once impassable cataracts of the god Canoom. If Biddy had been the only person by my side, I should have risked telling her the secret she ought always to have known. But there were as many others as could crowd along the rail. For once they were reflective, not inclined to chatter. Perhaps the same thought took different forms, according as it fitted itself into different heads, the thought of that marvellous campaign of the boats, which fought their way past these cataracts to relieve Gordon. The ascent was appagent for us. For them it had meant strife and disaster and death. We admired the glimpses of Yellow Desert, we exclaimed joyously at the mad turmoil of green water, the blood-red and jet-black rocks below the dam. For us it was a scene of unforgettable majesty. For those others the waste of stone-choked river must have yawned like a wicked mouth, full of water and jagged black teeth which opened to gulp down boats and men. It was on the brink of the barrage itself that I spoke to Bailey. And there, looking down over the immense granite parapet, upon line after line of tamed cataracts breathing rainbows, we were so small, so insignificant, that surely it could not matter to a man whether the girl of his heart were an heiress or a beggarmaid. There was room in the world only for the mighty organ music of these waters and the ever-underlying song of love. I saw by the look in Bailey's eyes, however, as he gazed away from me to the long-necked dragon-form of a huge derrick, that it did matter. I had been tactful. I had mentioned the mistaken identity as if it were a silly game played by children, a game which neither he nor I nor anyone could ever have regarded seriously. He controlled himself and took it well, so far as outward appearance went, but soon he made an excuse to escape, and presently I saw him strolling off alone, head down, hands in pockets. Luncheon was being prepared on the veranda of a house belonging to the chief engineer of the dam. Its owner was a friend of Sir Marcus Lark, and being away had agreed to lend his place to our party, Kruger having done no end of writing and telegraphing to secure it. Many of our people had got off the enchantress Isis on one of the locks, and had walked up the steps to the summit level of the barrage, Bridget and I, among others. And as we assembled for lunch it was an odd sight to see our white floating home rising higher and higher until at last she rode out on the surface of the broad sea of Nile which is held up by the granite wall of the barrage. She was to be moored by the dam and to wait for us there until evening when we should have exhausted the barrage and ourselves and have visited Filet. By and by Luncheon was ready, served by our white-robed, red-sashed waders from the Isis, but Bailey did not return. Rachel begged that our table might wait for a few minutes. Perhaps he had gone the length of the dam in one of those handcars, on which some of our people had dashed up and down the famous granite mile, their little vehicles pushed by Arabs. He might be back in a few minutes. But the minutes passed and he did not come. The dragon-derrick stretched its neck from far away as if to peer curiously at Rachel. The black and red and purple monsters disguised as rocks for this wild masquerade ball of the Nile, foamed at the mouth with watery mirth at the trouble these silly things called girls had always been bringing upon themselves since Earth and Egypt were young together. The look of the forsaken, the jilted, was already stamped upon Rachel's face. She tried to eat, when the picnic-meal could be put off no longer, but could scarcely swallow. Monnie glanced at her anxiously from time to time, perhaps suspecting something of the truth. And the eyes of both girls turned to me now and then with an appeal which made unplatable my well-earned hard-boiled eggs and drumsticks. Bother the whole-blamed business, thought I, hadn't I done all I could? Wasn't I practically running the lies of these tiresome tourists as well as their tour? What did that adventurous out of a New England school-room want of me now when I'd washed my hands of her and her affairs? But all through there was no real use in asking myself these questions. I knew what Rachel wanted, and that I should have to do it if only to please Biddy, who would be broken-hearted if Monnie's indiscretions should wreck the happiness of even the most undeserving young female. Darling Monnie must be saved from remorse at all costs. One of the costs to me was luncheon as well as peace of mind. I excused myself from the table. I pretended to have forgotten some business of importance. I whispered to the enchantress, dining-room steward, who had come to look after the waiters, that the meal must be served as slowly as possible. Drag out the courses, said I, make them eat salad by itself and everything separate except bread and butter. Having given these last instructions, I was off like an arrow shot from the bow, a reluctant arrow sulking at its own impetus. Instinct was the hand that aimed me, the enchantress Isis was the target, and debt cabin number thirty-six was the bull's-eye. As I expected Bailey was in his state-room. I had not far to go, only to hurry from the engineer's house, along the river-bank to the landing-place, where a number of native boats were lying, jump into one, and row out a few yards. At the heat of noon, after the cool shade of the veranda, was terrific. I arrived out of breath, my brow richly embroidered with crystal beads, just in time to find Bailey squeezing his bath-sponge preparatory to packing it, in a yawning kit-bag already full. At such a moment he could squeeze a sponge. I hated him for this, as though the sponge had been Rachel's heart. On his birth lay a letter addressed to her and another to me. No doubt he told us both that he had received an urgent telegram. He was so taken aback at the sight of the taskmaster that he let me withdraw the sponge from his pulseless fingers. I laid it reverently on the wash-hand stand, as a heart should be laid on an altar. End of Chapter 25 Part 1 Chapter 25 Part 2 of It Happened in Egypt This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. It happened in Egypt, by Charles Norris Williamson and Alice Muriel Williamson. Chapter 25 Marooned Part 2 My dear fellow, I began. Yes, to my credit, be it spoken, I said, dear fellow, you don't know what you are doing. I speak for your own sake. Think what people will say. Everyone will see why you left her. When you don't want to leave her, you know. Of course you don't. You love Miss Guest. She loves you. Not all the crystal eyes in the world can make you the fashion if the eyes of your fiance are red with tears because you jilted her when you found out she was only herself. People don't like such things. They won't have their artists cold and calculating. It isn't done. You can't afford to have squeezed this—I mean break a heart in this fashion. It will ruin your reputation. Though I argued with a certain eloquence, forcing conviction until with a fierce gesture Bailey snatched six collars from his bag and flung them on the bed. Seeing thus clearly what I thought showed him what others were sure to think, and the world's opinion was life itself to Bailey. He was code, then conquered. At last I dared to say, may I? He nodded. Instantly I tore the letters into as many pieces as there were collars. Afterward, when we walked off the boat, arm in arm, I dropped them into the water. We got back to the engineers before the picnickers had finished their belated Turkish coffee. Bailey took the vacant chair between Miss Guest and Monty Gilder. Biddy said that she had asked to have some coffee kept hot for me. I needed it. That is what delayed our start for Filet, and is, I suppose, why everything that took place there afterward happened exactly as it did. If we had left the dam an hour earlier there would have been no excuse to stop for sunset at the temple which those who love it call the pearl of Egypt. As it was—but that comes afterward. When Strabo went from Cyene to Filet he drove in a chariot with the prefect of that place, through a very flat plain, and on both sides of their road, I fear for their bones it was a rough one, rose blocks of dark hard rock resembling Hermes' towers. Only two thousand years later we were rode to the same temple across an immensely deep, vast sheet of shining crystal. We lulled, I am fond of that word, though aware that it's reserved for villainesses, in galleys painted in colors so violent that they looked like tropical birds. They were awinged and convulsively propelled by newbians whose veins swelled in their full black throats, and whose ebony faces were plastered with a grayish froth of sweat. Each pressed a great toe, like a dark-skinned potato, on the seat in front of him for support in the fierce effort of rowing. Turbans were torn off shaved, perspiring heads, and even skull-caps went in the last extreme. Wild animals were chanted to all the handiest saints to grant aid in the terrible undertaking. An eagle-eyed child at the steering-wheel gazed pityingly at his agonized elders. And then, just as you expected the whole crew to fall dead from heart failure, they chuckled with glee at some joke of their own. There was always breath and energy enough to spare when they wanted it. But what would you? The laborer must be worthy of his hire and a little something over. When Strabo saw Filet, she was a distant neighbor of the mighty cataracts. Now the waters which once rushed down are prisoned by the great dam, and stand enslaved to wall the temple round like a great pearl in a crystal case. She is the true bride of the Nile, for, as long ago the fairest of maidens gave herself to the water as a sacrifice. So Filet gives herself for the life of the people. She drowns, but in death she is more beautiful than when the eyes of the old historian beheld her, glowing with the colors of her youth, yet already old, deserted by gods and priests and worshippers. Now she has worshippers from the four ends of the earth, and the greatest singers of the world chant her funeral hymn. For in all Egypt, with its many temples of supreme magnificence, there is nothing like Filet. None can forget her. None can confuse her identity for a moment with that of any other monument of a dead religion. And if she were the only temple in Egypt, Egypt would be worth crossing the ocean to sea because of this dying pearl in its crystal case. This rose from the sea. Filet, the marriage temple of Osiris and Isis, Venus of Egypt, sinks into the sea of waters poured over her by Canum, god of the cataracts. Thus the great enchantress sings her swan song to touch the heart of the world, her fair head afloat like a sacred lotus on the gleaming water. I think there were few among us who did not fancy that they heard that song as our Nubian men rode across the sea stored up by the great barrage. From far away we saw a strange apparition, as of a temple rising from the waters. It seemed unreal at first, a mere mirage of a temple. Then it took solid outline, darkly cut in silver, a low, column-supported roof, a pylon towering high, and to the south, separated from both these, a thing that might have been a huge wreath of purple flowers. We knew, however, from too many photographs and postcards, that this was Pharaoh's bed, the unfinished temple of Augustus and Trajan, standing on a flooded island. Our boat glided close to the flower-like stems of the columns supporting the low roof. Far down in the clear depths we could see the roots of the pillars or their phantom reflections, and in the light of afternoon the water was so vivid a green that the color of it seemed to have washed off from the painted stones. Onto this roof we scrambled, up a flight of steps, and found that we were not to have filet to ourselves. There were other boats, other tourists, but we pretended that they were invisible, and they played the same game with us. Ignoring one another, the rival bands wandered about, wondered what the place would be like with the water down, quoted poetry and guide-books, and climbed the pylon. In that height the kiosk, called Pharaoh's bed, showed a mirrored double, like an old ivory casket with jeweled sides, piled full of a queen's emeralds. We loitered, we explored, and having descended sat down to rest, dangling irreverent feet over barrel depths, splashed with gold. Thus we wiled away an hour, perhaps. Then the set, impressed at first, had had enough of the mermaid temple's tragic beauty. Sir John Biddle reminded me that it had been a long day for the ladies, and very hot. Hadn't we better get back to the enchantress before sunset? But that was exactly what some of us did not want to do. The matter was finally settled by retaining our one small boat, with two rowers, and sending off the two larger galleys with their full complement of passengers, accepting only Mrs. Jones, Miss Gilder, Antuna Fendi, the melancholy Cleopatra, and the guilty shepherd of the flock, who knew he had no business to desert his sheep. He did nevertheless feel, poor brute, that after such a day he had earned a little pleasure, and accordingly proceeded to snatch it from fate, despite disapproving glances. Punishment, however, fell as soon as it was due. I had stayed behind with the intention of amusing Bridget. But Manny took her from me, as if she had bought the right to use my childhood's friend whenever it suddenly occurred to her to want to chaperone. Instead of bitty, I got Cleopatra, and by this time, so far as we knew, all tourists save ourselves had gone. I knew in my heart that, in accusing Manny Gilder of claiming Bridget O'Neill because she was paying her expenses, I did the girl an injustice. Manny was afraid of herself with Anthony. I saw that plainly, since the fact had been laid under my nose by Mrs. East. She feared the glamour of this magical place, perhaps, and felt the need of Bitty's companionship to keep her strong, not realizing that anyone else was yearning for the lady. This was the whole front of her offending, yet I was so disappointed that I wanted to be brutal. Without Bitty I should wish but to howl at the sunset as a dog bays at the moon, and feeling thus I may not have made myself too agreeable to Cleopatra. In any case, after we had sat in silence for a while, waiting for a sunset not yet ready to arrive, she turned reproachful eyes upon me. Lord Ernest, she said, I think you had better go and join Manny. Why? I surly inquired. I thought you thought that idea of yours was too late to be of any use now. I do think so, she replied. Everything interesting is now too late. Still you'd better go. Are you tired of me? I stupidly catachised her. Well, I feel as if I should like to be alone in this wonderful place. I want to think back. I see, said I, scrambling up from my seat on the edge of the temple-roof, and trying not to show by my expression that I was pleased, or that both my feet had gone to sleep. In that case I'll leave you to the spooks. May none but the right ones come. Thank you, she returned dryly, and I limped off, walking on air, tempered with pins and needles. Joy! My luck had turned. At the top of the worn stone stairway, cut in the pylon, I met Biddy. She was dim as one of Cleopatra's Ptolemaic ghosts, in the darkness of the passage, but to me that darkness was brighter than the best thing in sunsets. Salutation to Caesar, from one about to die, I ejaculated. What do you mean, she asked? I mean that both my feet are fast to sleep, and I shall certainly fall and kill myself if I try to go one step further, up or down. You, the climber of impossible cliffs after seabird's nests, she laughed. But she stood still. I'm after something better than seabird's nests now, said I. The question is whether it's not still more inaccessible. Are you talking about Manny, she wanted to know in a whisper? Sit down, and I'll tell you, was my answer. Oh, not here at the top of the steps, if it's anything as private as that, Biddy objected, all excitement in an instant. Let's come into a tiny room off the stairway, which the Guardian showed me a few minutes ago. There's a bench in it. You see, he's up there on the pylon-roof now with Manny and Captain Fenton. I can't call him Antoon when I talk to you, it's too silly, and he'll probably be coming down in a minute. Then if we stop where we are, we'll have to jump up and get out of the way to let him pass, and he's sure to linger and work off his English on us. I don't think we'll want to be interrupted that way, do you? No, nor any other way, I agreed. Oh, but what about the sunset? We may miss it. Hang the sunset. Let it slide down behind the dam, if it likes. I don't wonder you feel so, you poor deer, Biddy sympathized, when it's a question of Manny and all our hopes going to pieces the way they are doing every minute. There isn't a second to lose. So we went into the little room in the tower, which was lit only by a small square opening over our heads. We sat down on the bench. It was beautifully dark. I began to talk to Biddy. We had forgotten my feet, and I forgot Mrs. East. But I must tell what was happening to her at the time, as I learned afterward through the confession of an impenitent, before I begin to tell what happened to us. Otherwise, the situation which developed can't be made clear. I left Cleopatra calling spirits from the Vasty Deep, or rather one spirit, the spirit of Antony. I am morally sure that any other would have been to trope, and sailing to her across the wide water from Chalal came Marcus Antonius Lark. I can't say whether she considered him an answer to her prayer or a denial of it. Anyhow there he was, better perhaps than nobody until she learned from his own lips, tactless though ardent lips that he had come from Cairo to Aswan, from Aswan to Filet to see her. Then she took alarm and remarked in the old conventional way of women that they'd better go look for the others. But Sir Marcus hadn't spent his time, money, and gray matter in hurrying to Filet from Chalal for nothing. Finding himself too late to catch us at Aswan he had paid for a special train in order to follow his enchantress, the lady, and the boat. Having a falooka with a fine spread of canvas and many rowers, which characteristically he bargained for at the Chalal landing-place, he sailed across to the moored steamer, only to learn from Kruger that we had gone on our expedition to Filet. That meant a long sail and row for the impatient lover. For us the longer it was the better, one of the chief charms of our best day. But for him it must have been tedious, despite a good breeze that filled the sails and helped the rowers. On his way to the temple he met galleys going home to the enchantress Isis. An instant shock of disappointment, and then the glad relief of realizing that the one he sought was still at the place where he wished to find her. There were only four obstacles which might prevent an ideal meeting. The names of these obstacles in his mind were Jones, Gilder, Fenton, and Borrow, and being an expert in abolishing obstacles the great Sir Marcus began to map out a plan of action. Only for him our small boat had moved out of Cleopatra's sight, as she sat and dreamed on the low temple-roof, while we four obstacles disborded ourselves on different paths of the high pylon. The two Nubians wished to play a betting game with a kind of Egyptian jackstones, and it was not desirable that the pensive lady should behold them doing it. Observing the graceful figure of Mrs. East silhouetted against the sky's eternal flame of blue, and at the same time noticing that she could not see the waiting boat, Sir Marcus got his inspiration. He knew that the four obstacles were somewhere about the temple. Now was his great chance while they were out of the way, and if he resolved to play them a trick, perhaps he salved his conscious by telling it that the obstacles, male and female, ought to thank him. Cleopatra publicly thought, if she glanced up to see his boat, oh, dear, another load of tourists, and promptly looked down to avoid the horrid vision. By the time Sir Marcus came within, how do you do, distance, he had bribed our waiting boatman to row away. This in order not to be caught in a lie. With our Nubians and their craft out of his watery way he was free to fib when the time came. Go look for the others, he echoed Mrs. East's proposal. Why, they've gone, I met them. Gone, and left me behind when they knew I was here, she explained. They can't have done such a thing. I'm afraid there's been a mistake, replied Sir Marcus presently. They certainly have gone. I met the boat. Borrow was expecting me to-day, you know, or maybe you didn't know. And when he saw me in my feluca, he stopped his to explain that evidently there'd been a contra-tomps. I'm sure Lark mispronounced that word. The temple guardian said a gentleman had arrived and taken the lady who was waiting off in a boat. Of course, Borrow thought I had come along and persuaded you to go with me, after telling the guardian to let him know. I expect the guardians got mighty little English, and they say white ladies all look alike to blacks. He must have mixed you up with some other lady. I suppose my folks haven't been the only people at Filet since you came. Mrs. East admitted that a number of creatures had come and gone, as she thought all had vanished before the departure of the galleys. You see, you thought wrong. That's all there is to it, Sir Marcus assured her. And having taken these elaborate measures to secure the lady's society for himself alone, Nubian rowers don't count, he proceeded to lure her hastily into his own boat, lest any or all of the obstacles should arrive to spoil his coup. That was the manner of our marooning. At the time we were ignorant of what was happening behind our backs, the sunset, for instance, and the only available boat calmly rowing away from the drowned temple of Filet. We were thinking of something else, and so was Sir Marcus, or he would not have forgotten the repentant promise he had made of himself soon to send back a boat and take us off. We were therefore in the position of unrehearsed actors in a play who don't know what awaits them in the next act, while those who may read this can see the whole situation from above, below, and on both sides. Four of us marooned at Filet, not knowing it, and night coming on. CHAPTER XXVI. What we said, what we heard. Biddy, you were never wiser in your life, I exploded as I got her on the bench. You warned me there wasn't a second to lose. I've lost years already, and I can't stand at the sixtieth part of a minute longer without telling you how I love you. My goodness, gasp, Biddy, do be serious for once, Duffer. This is no time for jokes. Don't you know you've delayed and delayed in spite of my advice till you've practically lost that girl? And if there's any chance left, the only chance I want is with you, I said. Darling, I want you with my heart and soul, and all there is of me, have I any chance? And how long since you were taken this way, demanded Biddy, at her most Irish, staring at me through the darkness of the little dim room in the pylon. Ever since you were an adorable darling of four years, I assured her. Only I was interrupted by going to Eaton in Oxford, and your being married. But the love has always been there, in a deep undertone. The music's never stopped once. It never could. And when I saw you on the Laconia, you fell in love with Manny. Breathlessly she cut me short. Nothing of the kind, I contradicted her fiercely. You ordered me to fall in love with Miss Guilder. I objected politely. You overruled my objections or tried to. I let you think you had. And for a while after that, you know perfectly well, Biddy. The set gave me no time to think any thoughts at all, connected with myself. You poor fellow, you have been a slave. Your soft-hearted angel was caught in the trap set for her pity. And a martyr, a double-died martyr. I deserve a reward. Give it to me, Biddy, promise, here in this beautiful marriage temple to marry me. Let me take care of you all the rest of your life. My patience, a nice reward for you, she snapped, let you be hoist by the same petard that's always lying around to hoist me. What do you think of me, Duffer, after all the proofs we've just had of the dangerous creature I am? Why the whole trouble at Luxor was on my account. Even you must see that. Manny and I wouldn't have been let into Rashid's house if those secret men hadn't persuaded him to play into their hands and revenge himself on you men as well as on us for interfering with Mabel. It was their plot, not Rashid's, we escaped from, and it was theirs at the temple of Mut, too. Rashid was only their cat's paw, thinking he had played his own hand. Just what they wanted to do, I can't tell, but I can tell from what one of them said to Manny in the temple that they took her for Richard O'Brien's daughter. Poor child, her love for me and all her affectionate treatment of me must have made it seem likely enough to them that she was Esme, safely disguised as an important young personage to travel with her stepmother. Better must have assured his employers that he was certain the pale girl was really misguided, so they thought the other one with me must be Esme. You can't laugh at my fears any more, and I ask you again, what do you think of me to believe I'd mix you up in my future scrapes? I think you're the darling of the world, said I, and my one talent, as you must have noticed, is getting people out of scrapes. It'd be wasted if I can't have you. Besides, under the wing of an embassy no one will dare try and steal you or blow you up. We'll be diplomats together, Biddy. Come. You say I've duffed all my life to get what I wanted. Certainly I've done a lot of genuine duffing in love, but do bear out your own expressed opinion of the work by saving it from failure. Couldn't you try and like me a little, if only for that? You were always so unselfish. Hush, said Biddy, suddenly. Hush. Do you hate me, then? Is it by any chance, Anthony, you love? No. No. Hold your tongue, Duffer. No, to both questions. I shan't stop till you answer. No, to both, then. Now will you be silent? Not unless you say you do care for me. Yes, yes, I do care. Hush. Don't you hear their talking just outside that window in the wall? If you can't keep a still tongue in your head, then for all the saints, whisper. Her brogue was exquisite, and so was she. I worshipped her. When I slipped my arm round her waist, she dared not cry out. The same when I clasped her hand. Things were coming my way at last, and if I put my lips close against her ear, I could whisper as low as she liked. I liked it, too, and I loved the ear. She was right. They were, indeed, talking just outside the window, Monnie Gilder and Anthony Fenton. The prologue was evidently over, and the first act was on. It began well with a touch of human interest, certain to please an audience. But unfortunately for everyone concerned, this was a private rehearsal for actors only, not a public performance. Biddy and I had no business in the dark auditorium. We were deadheads. We had sneaked in without paying. The situation was one for a nightmare. For heaven's sake let me cough or knock something over, I implored Biddy's ear, which, it struck me at the moment, was more like a flower than an unsympathetic shell, best similes to the contrary. Who could have imagined that it would be so heavenly a sensation to have your nose tickled by a woman's hair? There's nothing you can knock over but me, Biddy retorted, as fiercely as she could in a voice no louder than a mosquitoes, and if you cough I'll know you're a dog in the manger. Why, curiosity forced me to pursue. Because, you donkey, you say you don't want her yourself, yet you won't give your best friend a chance. Can't be a dog in a donkey at the same time, I murmured. Choose which and stick to it if you want me to know what you mean. Why, you, you man, don't you see, if we interrupt at such a moment and such a conversation, they can never begin where they left off. If you'd wanted her, I'd have tried to save her for yet, at any cost. But as you don't, for goodness sakes give the two their chance to come to an understanding. Now, be still, I tell you, or they may hear us. We can't just sit and eavesdrop. Stop pureers, then, it'll take both hands. It would, which is the reason I didn't do it. That would have been asking too much of the most honourable men in the circumstances. Meanwhile, the two outside went on talking. Believing themselves to be alone with the sunset, there was no reason to lower their voices. They spoke in ordinary tones, though what they said was not ordinary, and we, on the other side of the little unglazed window, could not help hearing every word. I've been wanting to say it for a long time. In a voice like that of a penitent child, Monnie was following up something we had, fortunately, lost. Only how could I begin it? I don't see even how I did begin, exactly. It's almost easy, though, since I have begun. I was horrid, horrid! I can't forgive myself, yet I want you to forgive me for doing your whole race a shameful injustice, for not understanding it, or you, or anything. You've shown me what a modern Egyptian man can be, in spite of things I've read and heard, and been silly enough to believe. Oh, it isn't just that you come from seven great family, and that you could call yourself a prince if you liked, as Lord Ernest says. He's told me how you could have had a fortune and a great place in your country if you'd reconcile yourself with your grandfather in Constantinople, but that you won't, because it would mean going against England. It isn't your position, but what you are, that has made me see how small and ridiculous I've been, I'm too nefendi. Can you possibly forgive me for the way I treated you at first? Now I've confessed, and told you I'm very, very sorry and ashamed. I would forgive you if there were anything to forgive, Anthony answered, and it must have taken pretty well all his immense self-control to go on speaking to the girl in French and alien language just then. Perhaps there would be something to forgive if I weren't on my side a great deal more to blame than you. Will you let me confess? If you wish. Only you needn't, for I've deserved I do wish, but first will you answer me a question? I'm sure you wouldn't ask me a question I oughtn't to answer. It's only this. Did Ernest Borough tell you anything else about me? Nothing except his opinion of you, and you must know that by this time. I think I do, or Mrs. Jones or Mrs. East, neither have, for any reason, advised you to apologize to me for what you very nobly felt was wrong in your conduct. No, not a soul has advised me. If they had—she didn't finish, but Biddy and I both knew the Manny habit of conscientiously going against advice. Thank you. You've changed your opinion of me, then, without urging from outside. It has all come from inside, from recognition of—of what you are and what you've done for—for us all. You've been a hero, and you've been kind as well as brave. Antunefendi, I think you are a very great gentleman, and I respect Egyptians for your sake. Wait, said Anthony. You haven't heard my confession. When I first saw you on the terrace at Sheppard's, I willed you to look at me, and you did look. How strange! Yes, I felt it. Something made me look. Why did you will me, Antunefendi? Manny's voice was soft, but it was not like a child's now. It was a woman's voice. Listening with tingling ears, I knew what she wanted him to answer. Perhaps he also knew, but he boldly told the truth. It was a kind of wager I made with myself. There was some troublesome business I had to carry out in Cairo. A good deal hung upon it. I saw your profile. You didn't turn my way, and I said to myself, if by willing I can make that girl look at me, I'll take it for a sign that I should succeed in my work. Oh! It was nothing to do with me. Not then. Afterward I knew that, while I thought my own free will suggested my influencing you, it was destiny that influenced me. Kismet! It had to happen so. But you punished me for my presumption. You treated me as if I were a slave, a thing that hardly had a place in your world. I know. That's what I've asked you to forgive me for. And because you've asked me to forgive, I'm telling you this. I was furious, and I said, she shall be sorry. I will make her sorry. My whole wish was to humble you. I wanted to conquer, and though you clasped me with servants, to be your master. I don't blame you, Antonofendi, and you have conquered in a better way than you meant when you were angry and hating me. You've conquered by showing your true self. You are my friend. That's what you want, isn't it, not to be my master when you don't hate me any longer? No, that is not what I want. I still want to be your master. Then you do hate me even now? No, I don't hate you, mademoiselle Gilder, although you've punished me over and over again for being the brute I was at first. You have conquered me, not I, you. But I don't want to be your friend. If you didn't look at me as being a man beyond the pale, you would understand very well what I want. Don't say that, cried Monnie, quickly. Don't say that you're a man beyond the pale. I can't stand it. Oh, I do know what you want. I do understand it. I think I should have died if you hadn't wanted it. And yet I could almost die because you do. You could die because I love you? Yes, of joy, and—you care for me? Wait. I could die of joy and sorrow, too. Joy because I do care, and my heart longs for you to care. Oh, because—oh, it's the saddest thing in the world, but we can never be any more to each other than we are now. You say that so firmly, because you think of me in your heart as a man of Egypt. Dearest and most beautiful, you are great enough if you choose to mount to your happiness over your prejudice. If you can love me in spite of what I am, I love you in spite of it, and because of it, too, and for every reason and for no reason. Thank God for that. You said this to me against your convictions. I have won. No, for it's all I can ever say. There can be no more between us. You couldn't love me enough to be my wife, though I tell you now that you're the star of my soul? Never till I saw you have I loved a woman, or spoken a word of love to one, except my beautiful mother. I've kept all for you more than I dreamed I had to give. And it's yours, for ever and ever. But just because you've said to yourself that we're of stranger races, who mustn't meet in love, you raise a barrier between us. Are our souls of stranger races? No. Sometimes it almost seems as if our souls were one. You have waked mine with a spark from your own. I think I was fast asleep. I didn't know I had a soul, scarcely even a heart. But now I know. Learning to know you has taught me to know myself. And if I'm kinder to everybody, all the rest of my life, even silly rich people I used to think didn't need kindness, it will be through loving you. I'm not afraid to tell you that. And though I used to be afraid I might love you, I'm glad I do now. Glad. I shall never regret anything, even when I suffer. And I shall suffer when we're parted. You're sure we must part? Sure, because there's no other way, being what we are, and life being what it is. Always I've thought, since my father died, that he was near me, watching to see what I did with my life. For he loved me dearly, and I loved him. We were everything to each other. Even if that were the only reason, I couldn't do a thing that would have broken his heart. It would be treacherous, now that he's helpless to forbid me. Don't you see? I see. And if it were not for that reason? If it were not for that, oh, I don't know, I don't know. But yes, I do know. The truth comes to me. It speaks out of my heart. If it were only for myself, if I felt free from a vow, nothing could make me say to you go out of my life. That's what I wanted to be sure of. I could thank you on my knees for those words. For I, too, have made a vow which I won't break. And if I were free of it, I might tell you a thing now which would beat down the barrier. Well, we will keep our vows, both of us, my queen. Yes, we must keep them. But oh, how are we to bear it? It has brought us together, and it's going to part us. We love each other, and we must go out of one another's lives. What shall we do when we can't see each other any more? Ever, any more? That time shall not come. But it must, soon. Will you trust me till cartoon? I'll trust you always. I mean for a special thing, just till cartoon. In the foolish days when I wish to conquer you and make you humble yourself to me, I vowed by my mother's love that I'd not tell you, or let borrowed tell, a fact about myself which might win your favor. It was a bad vow to make, a stupid vow, but a vow by my mother's love I could not break any more than you can break one to your father's memory. I'll abide by it, but trust me till cartoon, and there you shall know what I can't tell you now. I always hoped you would find out there, if we went as far as cartoon together. Then I hoped, because I was a conceited fool. Now I hope this thing, and all it means, because I am your lover. Ah, dear untoon, don't hope, because it seems to me that nothing nearer than heaven can bring us the kind of happiness you want. If you hadn't told me you cared, nothing that may come at cartoon could have brought us any happiness to me at all, for it would have been too late for that, for you to say you cared, and for the word to have the value it has now. You've said it in spite of yourself. Trust me for the rest, will you? If you ask me like that, yes, I trust you, though I don't understand. That's what I want. Say this. I believe that we shall be happy, and trust without understanding that it will be proved at cartoon. Monty repeated the words after him. And although I was that vile worm and eavesdropper, I was so happy that I could have picked Biddy up in my arms and waved her like a flag. Anthony was going to be happy, and that ought to be a good omen that I should be happy too. I am almost happy now, Monty went on, happier than I thought I could be with things as they are. I used to be miserable, partly about myself, partly because I thought you were in love with Biddy. You were so much nicer to her than me, and partly because I believed, till I knew you well, that you wanted to marry Aunt Clara for money, though you cared for someone else. I even told Lord Ernest that about you. I had to tell somebody. And besides, I felt it would be good for him to think you cared for Biddy. Being jealous might wake him up to see that he was in love with her himself. He really is rather a duffer at times. And oh, talking of him and Biddy reminds me of them. Where can they be all this time? Heaven alone knows or cares, replied Anthony, and I realized the truth of the proverb about listeners, even where their best friends are concerned. I was obliged to kiss Biddy to keep from laughing out loud, and she couldn't scream or box my ears, or all our dreadful precautions would have been vain. We must find them, said Monty. Why? Oh, if we don't, they might find us. Anthony laughed, a give-away, English-sounding laugh. But Monty did not recognize its birthplace. Her own laugh interrupted it too soon, ringing out so happily it probably surprised herself. If they find us here, quavered Biddy, clinging to me. They can't if you'd only let me hold you tight enough, I whispered. If they look in, they'll just take us for a black spot in the dark. But they didn't look in. They went downstairs, and then there was the time to get in the rest of my deadly work with Biddy. We must wait a few minutes, or they couldn't help knowing we'd been near them, and I made the best use of those few minutes. Biddy wouldn't promise anything, but said she would think it over and let me know the result of her thinking in a day or two. To our great surprise, on arriving in open air at the level of the roof below, we saw that the sun was gone and a slim young moon was sliding down the rose-red trail. It is indeed wonderful, say prophets of the obvious, how quickly time passes when your attention is engaged, and one comfort of being obvious is that you are generally right. We tried to flip forth from the dark recesses of the pile and stairway without being seen or heard, but as luck would have it Monty and Fenton had had just time to discover that our boat was gone. The girl was hunting for us to see if we were anywhere, or if in some mad freak we could have gone off and left them to their fate. As we sneaked guiltily out she caught us. Biddy, Lord Ernest, she exclaimed, why, why you've been upstairs. A good rule for diplomats, duffers, and others, is never to tell a falsehood when there is no hope that anyone will believe it. We—uh, yes, we both mumbled. But there isn't any upstairs except where we were. Yes there is, Biddy assured her hastily, too hastily. You were on the roof. We were in the little room of the Guardian. He showed it to us. There's a window. Oh, we were under it. You must both have heard. Murder will out, I said, with the calmness of despair. But then it occurred to me that there was a way of using the weapon which threatened as a boomerang. Dearest! Biddy adjured her beloved, humbly. You wouldn't have had to spoil everything by moving, would you? I said to the duffer when he wanted to do something desperate. If we interrupt them, nothing will ever come right. Besides, we were too busy getting engaged ourselves, said I, to bother for long about what anybody else was saying or doing. You were? Oh, Biddy, that's what I've prayed for. Nothing of the sort began Mrs. O'Brien ferociously. But the boomerang had come to my hand and I'd caught it on the fly. Before she could go on contradicting me, Anthony, followed by the guardian of the temple, had mounted the steps from the lower ledge of the roof where we had landed in the afternoon. It wasn't you who took the boat, then, for a joke, said Fenton, aside of us, and the mystery of our Feluca's disappearance had to be discussed. Biddy saw to it that Monnie couldn't edge a word in on the forbidden subject. How those two would talk later in Miss Gilder's state room. Nobody could explain what had happened, not even the guardian. He, it seemed, spent his night at the siren temple in the water, sleeping in the cell where I had blackmailed Biddy, and not even appearing to know that the custom scintillated with romance. By and by his companion, who joined him for night work, would arrive in a small boat, bringing food, but this man rode himself, and neither could leave the temple again that night. You will lend the boat to us, said Anthony, we'll row and send it back to you by someone who is trustworthy. We have no right to lend the boat, returned the Nubian. Then I will steal it, replied the Haji. But none of us cared how long a time might pass before deliverance came. The enchantress Isis couldn't steam away and leave her conductor behind. As Mrs. East had disappeared I vaguely associated the puzzle of our missing craft with Sir Marcus, and anyhow curiosity wasn't the strongest emotion in my being just then. I thought that perhaps never in my life again would love and romance and beauty all blend together into one, as here at Filet in the moonlight. The sharp sickle of the young moon cut a silver edge on each tiny wave that murmured against the submerged pillars like a chanting of priests under the sea. The temple commemorating love triumphant was carved in silver and drowned in a silver flood. The flowering capitals of the columns as they showed above the water blossomed white as lilies bound together in sheaves with silver cords and placed before an altar. Yes, Egypt was giving us what we asked. But would she give us all we asked? Just as there might have been a renewed chance of getting an answer to this question, black men in a black boat hailed us. Sir Marcus had dained at last to remember our plight. End of Chapter 26 Chapter 27 of It Happened in Egypt. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. It happened in Egypt by Charles Norris Williamson and Alice Muriel Williamson. Chapter 27 The Inner Sanctuary We made a sensation when we returned to the fold. Everybody wondered so much that they gave us no time to answer their questions even if we would. But somehow it seemed to be taken for granted that the whole thing was my fault. Perhaps Mrs. East or Sir Marcus had spread the report. I let it pass. As for Sir Marcus, he saved only long enough for a talk with me. It began with a trumped-up business and ended in a confession. She had snubbed him, it seemed. Snubs being new to Sir Marcus, he had been dazed and had forgotten for a while to send us a boat. I assured him that we bore no grudge, really, none whatever. It had been an adventure, but I tried to cheer him up. Better luck next time. Why wouldn't he go on with us? Fenton and I could chum together, to give him cabin room, and Neil Sheridan, the American Egyptologist, had let me know that he was obliged to leave us at Wadi Halfa. There would be an empty cabin going down again. But no, the boss refused his conductor's hospitality. I think the less she sees of me the better she likes me, he said, dismally. She was civil enough until I—but no matter. I suppose a man can't expect his luck to always hold. Don't split your infinitives till things get desperate, I begged. It hasn't come to that yet. If you must go back, I'll take it on my soldiers to watch your private interests a bit, as well as the rest. Look out for a telegram one of these fine days, saying, Come at once. You'll know what it means. I will, bless you, my boy, he said heartily, though I am hanged if I know what you mean by a split infinitive. I hope if it's improper I've never inadvertently done it before a lady. There seemed to be an atmosphere of suspense for everybody who mattered, as we steamed on between strange black mountainettes and tiger golden sands toward Wadi-Halfa. Anthony was in suspense about the way his fate might arrange itself at Khartoum. I was in suspense, as to Biddy's decision, which nothing I was able to say could wheedle or browbeat out of her. He and I were both in suspense together about the mountain of the golden pyramid. It would be hours now, we knew that. But what would be in it? Would it be full of treasure, or full of nothing but mountain, just as a crusty, baked pudding is full of pudding? The doubt was harder to bear, now that Anthony was in love with a very rich girl, and desired something from the mountain more substantial than the adventure, which would have once have contented him. Harder to bear for me, too, wanting Biddy and wanting to give her luxury as well as peace, such as she had never known in her life a tragedy and brave laughter. Biddy was in suspense, quite equal to Anthony's, about Khartoum, and what could possibly happen there to give her happiness. Bridget was in suspense about the two men who had so strangely and secretly worked together with their spy, better, and whom she expected to meet again later. Rachel was in suspense about Bailey, although I had told her it was going to be all right, and he had said not a word of the business to her. What she wanted was to make sure of him, and there was the difficulty at present since we had failed to arrange for a registry office or a clergyman on board. Other hearts were no doubt throbbing with the same emotions, but they were of comparatively small importance to me. Our feelings were all so different and so much more intense than they had been that the extraordinary difference in the scenery gave us a vague sense of satisfaction. We were in another world, now that we had heard the first cataracts roar and left it behind, a world utterly unlike any conceptions we had formed of Egypt. But we did not, for a long time, leave the influence of the barrage. Black rocks ringed in a blue basin so lake-like that it was hard to realize it as the Nile. Now and then a yellow river of sand poured down to the sapphire sea, and where its bright waves were reflected the water became liquid gold under a surface of blue glass. The sky was overcast, and through a thick silver veil the sun shone with a mystic light, as of a lamp burning in an alabaster globe, yet the flaming gold of the sand created an illusion of sunshine. It was as if the treasure of all lost minds of nub had been flung out on the black rocks and lay in a glittering carpet there. We passed small, submerged temples with their foreheads just above water, drowning palm groves whose plumes trailed sadly on the blue expanse, and deserted mud villages where the high Nile looked in at open doors to say, This is for Egypt's good. Then there was the little temple of Dendur whose patron goddess was prayed to spit if rain were nated, and so many other ruined temples that we lost count, though one was the largest in Nubia until we came to Wadi-e-Sabua, the Valley of the Lions. This we remembered not because it was imposing, or because it had a drum-os of noble-faced sphinxes, the only hawk-faced ones in Egypt, or because of its prehistoric writings on dark boulders, or because it had been used as a Christian church, but owing to the fact that the ladies bought ragdolls from little Nubian girls, who wore their hair in a million greased braids. Here the influence of the dam faded out of sight. Forlorn trees and houses no longer crawled half out of water. Mountains crowded down to the shore, wild and dark, and stately as Nubian warriors of ancient days. Then came Khorosco, point of departure for the old caravan route, where kings of forgotten Egyptian dynasties, sent for Acacia Wood, and Englishmen in the campaign of the cataracts fought and died, deserted now, with houses dead and decayed, their windows staring like the eye-sockets of skulls, and the black tortured mountain-shapes behind, lurking in the background as hyenas lurked to prey. More temples and many saquillas, no shadoves here on the upper Nile, but few boats. The spacious times were passed when loads of pink granite, honey-coloured sandstone, fragrant woods, and spices from the land of punt went floating down the stream. There were tombs as well as temples which we might have seen, savage gorges and mild green hills. There was the great grim fort of Kasser-e-Brim, and at last there was Abu-Simble. Somehow I knew that things were bound to happen at Abu-Simble. I didn't know what they would be, but they hovered invisible at my birth-side in the night, and whispered to warn me that I might expect them. A few people rose stealthily before dawn to prepare for Abu-Simble, because it had been hammered into their intellects by me that this rock-temple was the great thing of the upper Nile. Also that every he, she, or it, who did not behold the place at sunrise, would be as mean a worm as one who had not read the Arabian Nights. Not everybody heeded the advice, though at bedtime most had resolved to do so. We had anchored for the night not far off in order to have the mysterious light before sun-up to go on again and see the grand approach to the grandest temple of the old world. But after all most of the cabin eyelids were still down when we arrived before dawn at our journey's end, and only a few intrepid ghosts flitted out on deck, elderly male ghosts and thick dressing gowns, youthful ghosts of the same sex, fully clothed and decently groomed because cloaked girl-ghosts with floating hair, if there were enough to float effectively, others made a virtue of having it put up, and male-aged female ghosts with transformations apparently hindsight in front. No ghosts looked matter much, however, for good or ill, since the slowly moving enchantress had swept aside a purple curtain of distance, and shown us such a stage setting as only nature's stupendous theatre can give. It was a stage still dimly, but most effectively revealed. Lights down, pale blue, lilac and cold green, a thrilling, almost sinister combination, no gold or rose switched on yet. Turned obliquely toward the river, facing slightly northward, four figures sat on thrones, super giants, immobile, incredible against a background of rock, once they had been released by forgotten sculptors, released to live while the world lasted. These seated kings gave the first shock of odd admiration, then lesser marvels detached themselves in detail from the shadows of the vast facade, the frieze, the cornice, the sun-god in his niche over the door of the great temple, the smaller temple of Hathor, divided from her huge brother by a cataractive sand, whose piled gold dust already called the sun as a magnet calls iron. The stage lights were still down when the enchantress moored by the riverbank, within a comparatively short walk of the mountain which romances the second had turned into a temple, as usual glorifying himself. But though the walk was comparatively short, on second thoughts elderly ghosts chilled to the bone, funked it on empty stomachs. They made various excuses for putting off the excursion. The boat was to remain till late afternoon, until finally the sun worshipers were reduced to a party of ten. Since Filet, Biddy had kept out of my way when she could do so without being actually rude, but as our small, shivering procession formed she suddenly appeared at my side. Thus we, too, headed to the band, save for a sleepy Drago-man who knew the rather intricate paths, through scaly, dried mud, sand, and vegetation. I want to say something to you, Duffer, she murmured, and the roughness of the way excused me for slipping her arm through mine. Not as much as I want to say something to you, I retorted fervently. But this is serious, she reproached me. So is—please listen, there isn't much time. I heard this only last night, or I'd have spoken before, and asked you what you thought. Do you happen to know whether Captain Fenton wrote a note to Manny, asking her to wait for him in the inner sanctuary of the temple, till after the people had gone, as he wanted to see her alone about something of great importance? I don't know, I said. Anthony hasn't mentioned Miss Gilder's name to me since Filet. As a matter of fact, he's been particularly taciturn. You haven't quarreled, surely? Anthony and I—thank goodness, no, but I'm afraid he misunderstands and is a bit annoyed. Miss Gilder, of course, told him we'd overheard a certain conversation, and he's never given me a chance to explain. After cartoom it will be all right, if not before, but meanwhile—I see. Then let me tell you quickly what's happened. When we came back on board the boat, after climbing about the fort of Cusser-Ebrem, Manny found on the table in her cabin a note in French, typewritten on enchantress Ice's paper. It had no beginning or signature, only an urgent request to grant the writer five minutes just after sunrise, in the sanctuary at Abu Simbel, as soon as everyone was out of the way. There's only one typewriter on board, isn't there? Yes, Kruger's. And nobody but you and he and Captain Fenton ever use it, I suppose. Nobody else, so far as I know. Captain Fenton didn't land with us to see the fort, but came up later, just as we were ready to go down. Well, for all these reasons and the note being in French, Manny thinks it was written by Antoine Effendi. It was only in chatting last night about the sunrise expedition that she mentioned finding the letter. I begged her to make certain it was from him before doing what it asked, because you see I'm still afraid of anything that seems queer or mysterious. But she laughed and said, What nonsense? Who else could have written it except Lord Ernest, unless you think Mr. Kruger's in a plot? And she refused to question Antoine, because if he'd wanted the thing to be talked over, he'd have spoken instead of writing. As for doing what he asked, she pretended not to have made up her mind. She said she'd see what mood she was in after the others had finished with the sanctuary. Well, what I want is for you and me to stay in the place ourselves when the others have gone. With the greatest of pleasure on earth, said I, Don't be foolish. You aren't to torment me there. That depends on what you call tormenting. If I'm to be made a spoil-sport for Fenton and Miss Gilder, a kind of live scarecrow, I mean to get something out of it for myself. There was no time for more. We had arrived at the foot of the long flight of stone steps which lead up to the rocky plateau of the great temple. In the east, a golden fire below the horizon was sending up premonitory flames, and the procession must besture itself or be too late. The whole object of arriving at this unearthly hour would be defeated if, before the sun's forefinger touched the faces of the altar statues, we were not in the sanctuary. No time to study the features of the Colossae, or to search for the grave of Major Tidwell. These things must wait. The dark-faced guardian examined our tickets and let us file through the rock-hewn doorway whose iron grill he had just opened. As we passed into the cavernous hall of roughly carved Osiride columns, the huge figures attached to them loomed vaguely out of purple gloom. There was an impression of sculptured rock walls with splashes of color here and there, of columns in a chamber beyond, and still a third chamber, whence three rooms opened off, the side doorway's mere blocks of ebony in the distance. But already the sun's first ray groped for its goal, like the wandering finger of a blind man. We had only time to hurry through the faintly lit middle doorway and plaster ourselves round the rock walls of the sanctuary, when the golden digit touched the altar and found the four sculptured forms above—harmarchus, romances, amen, and patah. Night lingered in the temple a black, brooding vulture, but suddenly the bird's dark breast was struck by a golden bullet, and from the wound a magic radiance grew. The effect, carefully calculated by priests and builders thousands of years ago, was as thrilling today as on the morning when the sun first poured gold upon the altar. The sightless faces of the statues were given eyes of an unearthly brilliance to stare into hours and search our souls. But with most of the party, to be thrilled for a minute was enough. As the sun's finger began to move, they found it time to move also. There was the whole temple to be seen, and then the walk back to the boat before dressing for breakfast. Soon Biddy and I had, or seemed to have, the sanctuary to ourselves. Even the sun's rays had left us, mounting higher and passing above the doorway of the inner shrine. The momentarily disturbed shadows folded round us again, with only a faint glimmer on the wall over the altar, to show that day was born. Did you notice that Manny wasn't with the others, asked Bridget in a low voice? She lingered behind, I think, and never came near us. I wasn't sure till I watched the rest filing out of this room. Then I saw she wasn't among them. Neither was Captain Fenton. If they're together it's all right, I assured her. Yes, but are they? That affair of the type written note has worried me. You're very nervous, darling, but no wonder. You mustn't call me darling. Why not? It's no worse than Duffer. I like your calling me that. I wonder if we ought to go, as she never came, or to stay and wait. If we go, we shall be playing into Miss Gilder's hands. If we stay, we shall be playing into mind. Which do you prefer? Oh, I suppose we'd better stay, for fear of something, but you must be good. Then abruptly I attacked her with a change of weapons. I had fenced lightly, knowing that Biddy liked a man who could laugh. But now I threw away my rapier and snatched a club. I told her I would stand no more of this. Did she want to spoil my life and break my heart? She was the one thing I needed. Now she would have to say whether she'd put me off because she didn't love me and never could, or because of that trash about not wanting to involve me in her troubles. No use prevaricating. I should know whether she lied or told the truth by the sound of her voice. But I might as well confess, before she began, that I'd rather be loved by her and refused than not loved and refused. Women seemed to think the unselfish thing was to pretend not to care if a man had to be sent away, because in the end that made it easier for him. But in real life with a real man it was the other way around. I think you're right, Duffer, but he said softly. That's why I wouldn't answer you for good and all that night at Filet. I felt then it might be kinder to tell you I could never care. But I thought of nothing else since, except a little about Manny, and I decided that if it were me I'd rather be loved whatever happened. Men can't be so very different where their hearts are concerned. So I'm going to tell you I do love you. It was hard to give you to Manny. But I thought it would be for your happiness. I nearly died of love for you when I was a little girl. I kept every tiniest thing you ever gave me. I was in love with your memory when you went up to Oxford. And it was then that Richard O'Brien came. He swept me off my feet and made me think that my heart was caught in the rebound. When it was too late I realized that it hadn't been caught at all, only hypnotized for a while. I've loved you always, Duffer dear. The thought of you is my one comfort, often, although I hardly expected to see you again. Or maybe for that very reason. No, don't touch me. Please let me go on now, or I'll not tell you any more. I wonder if you never guessed what I had in that chamois skin bad you're so worried about. Why, I did guess, Bitty, right or wrong. And I bet you it was wrong. What did you think, when I wouldn't understand any of her hints to tell what I wore over my heart? I thought then, I answered after a moment's deliberation, that you kept compromising documents which might be of interest to the organization you and I have talked about. Now I think differently. I think you kept a lock of my childish hair or my first tooth. You conceded, Duffer, not so bad as that, because I never had a chance of getting either. Once I did keep in that bag just what you said, compromising documents that the organization would have given thousands of dollars to get. And my life wouldn't have stood in their way for a minute, I'm sure. That was before Richard died. He was afraid, I mean, I thought it would be better and less suspicious if I had the charge of the papers. And if the society had ever got hold of him, he believed the letters and list of names I had might have bought back his safety if I played my hand well. He told me just what to do. But when he was ill he had a nurse whom I began to suspect as a spy. Once when I was called into Richard's room suddenly, half dressed, the chamois's skin bag showed as my wrapper fell open at the breast. I caught her looking at it with an eager look, and that very night I had locked up in a bank. It was only a few days later that Richard died, and with him gone I felt that there was no more need to keep papers which might cost the lives or liberty of men. Richard had wronged his friends and I wanted none of them to come to harm through me, though they'd made me suffer with him. I burned every scrap of paper I had, every single one. And it wasn't till there was an attempt to kidnap Esme that I asked myself if I'd been right. Still even now I am not sorry. I wouldn't hurt a hair of their heads. For a while the bag was empty, but coming away from America and feeling a bit lonesome, I thought it would do me good to look now and then at the only love letter you ever wrote me. It was on my ninth birthday, but I don't believe you could write a better one now. There was a photograph, too, of my lord when he was seventeen. I stole that, but it was all the dearer. At this very minute the letter and the picture are lying on my heart. So now you know whether I care for you or not, and you can understand why I wouldn't put the bag into a bank. Oh, Bitty darling, I said, you've made me the happiest man in the world. Well, I'm glad, she snapped, twisting away from me, that it takes so little to make you happy. So little when I'm going to have you for my wife? But you're not. You said you'd rather be loved and refused. I would, if I had to choose between the two. That's not the case with me, for I shall marry you now I know the truth, in spite of fifty or fifty thousand refusals, or any other little obstacles like that. Never, Duffer, not for all the world would I be your wife, loving you as I do, unless the organization would forget or forgive Esme and me. And that I can't fancy they'll ever do till the millennium. I shall be past the marrying age then. Oh, Duffer, I almost wish you had fallen in love with Monnie as I wanted you to do. Honest engine, you really wanted that to happen? Well I tried to want it for your sake, and in a way for my own too. If I had seen you caring for Monnie I should have found some medicine to cure my heartache. Oh, it would have been a very good thing all around except for your friend, Anthony Fenton. And I was a half afraid he was in love with you. I can tell you I've had my trials, Bitty. It's my turn to be happy now, and yours too. Just think, nearly everybody in the world is engaged, but us, or next door to being engaged. Miss Gilder and Anthony, who's the only man on earth to keep her in order, and Rachel Guest and Bailey and Enid Biddle and Harry Snell, and even your stepdaughter, Esme O'Brien, Duffer she's married. What, young Halloran? How did they manage it? I don't know yet. I've had only a telegram. It came to Aswan too late, and Sir Marcus Lark brought it to the boat. I found it that night when we got back from Filet. But I haven't told, because I dared not be with you alone long enough to speak of private affairs, till I could decide whether to let you know I loved you, or make believe I didn't care a scrap. As if I could have believed your tongue unless you had shut your eyes. So Esme is married, and off your hands? Not off my hands, I'm afraid. This may be visited on me. They must have known of her meeting Tom Halloran at St. Martin Vesta B. last summer. They find out everything, sooner or later. Probably they thought I'd whisked her off to Egypt with me, helped by my young friend Miss Gilder, for whom they took Rachel Guest, in order to let her meet Tom Halloran again and marry him secretly. Well she has married him secretly. When they discover what's happened they are sure to put the blame on poor me. And indeed it is a shocking thing for the son of that man in prison, and the daughter of the man who sent him there to be husband and wife. I don't see that at all, I argued. Why shouldn't their love end the feud? It can't, for strong as it may be it won't release prisoners or bring back to life those who are dead. Anyhow, don't borrow trouble, said I. If Esme's married, the more reason for us to follow her example. After cartoon, when Miss Gilder—'Who's taking my name in vain?' inquired the owner of it at the sanctuary door. Oh, then you have come, Manny,' Bridget explained. I—I'd given you up. I haven't come for the reason you thought, returned the girl promptly. I was sure you meant to head me off, and I've learned without asking that Antune Effendi didn't write that note. Who told you so? Who did? He's trying to find out. Probably it was a silly practical joke someone wanted to play on me. There are lots quite capable of it on board. Antune Effendi said the sunrise was much finer, really, from on top of the Great Sand Hill, so he climbed up. And it came out that he hadn't asked me to meet him here. If any one not on the boat wrote the letter, some steward must have been bribed to sell a bit of writing paper, and allow a stranger to come on board, while we were away at Kosser Ebram. There was esteem to Habia moored not far off, if you remember, with oriental decorations, so he fancied it must belong to an Egyptian or a Turk. It could easily have been hired at Aswan, Bridget exclaimed, and it could have beaten us. We've stopped at such heaps of temples where other boats only touch coming back. If there were a plot, as you were always imagining, the Dahabia would have to be near here, too. Monty laughed incredulously. And so it may be. We haven't seen round the corner of the Great Temple yet. One would think, to hear you talk, that you'd expected this poor little sanctuary to be stuffed with murderers, or, at the least, kidnappers. Don't speak of it, bitty shuttered. Let's go out into the sunlight again, as quick as ever we can. End of Chapter 27