Lord John in New York Part 24

"In New York, your father persuaded your mother to run away with him, when she was on the eve of marrying Roger Odell--old Roger who became your guardian. They went together to England, and lived in the Annesley house, which is in Devonshire. Soon, young Essain's chance came. He shot your father dead, in your mother's presence; but in escaping he lost sight of her. She knew the curse which had fallen on the Annesleys. She feared for you, if not for herself. She took you, and the mummy-case, and an Eye of Horus which had been a gift from the elder Essain to Irene, and she contrived to vanish from the knowledge of Essain the younger.

"It was only for a time, however, that he and his twin sister--able to help him now--searched in vain. He traced the travellers eventually by means of the mummy-case. Your mother was dead: but his vow to his father was not fulfilled while you were alive, and the mummy of Hathor Set under the roof of the Odells. You were too well protected to be easily reached, but there are many ways of accomplishing an end. You were never a strong girl. Plots against your peace of mind were planned and carried out. Once or twice you came near death, but always luck stood between you and what Essain and his sister Zorah believed to be justice. The drama of your life has been a strange one. Your death alone without the restoration of the mummy would not have sufficed, though, had you died, Essain would have moved heaven and earth to gain possession of the body of Hathor Set. At last he has obtained it. The oath of his father's ancestor not to open the mummy was but for the son and the son's son. That has run out many years ago, and Essain felt that the time had come to learn and profit by the secret. He has done so, and holds a wonderful treasure in his hands. The like of it has never been seen in the new world, except in museums of the East. Now the whole duty of Essain's son and daughter has been accomplished, except in one last detail. What that is, you, Madeleine Annesley can guess. I have finished my explanation. But if you would understand more, go now, and look at the mummy-case."

As if fascinated, Maida obeyed. Her brain was working fast. Was her instinct right? Had she been brought here to the House of Revenge to die, or would this soft, sweet voice, telling so calmly the terrible story of two families, add that the last sacrifice would not be permitted? Was the command to rise and look at the mummy-case a test of her physical courage after what she had heard?

To her own surprise, she was no longer conscious of fear. A strange, marble coldness held her in its grip, as if she were becoming a statue.

She moved across the room and stopped in front of the mummy-case.

Living eyes looked out at her. She saw the dark face so like in feature to the withered face of the mummy. This was the face of her dreams.

The girl recoiled from it and turned to the woman who had been her friend. For the first time the Head Sister had lifted her veil and taken off the mask always worn at the Sisterhood House. Her face seemed identical with that in the mummy-case. It also was the face of Maida's dreams, the haunting horror of her life. Without a word the mystery of the mask and veil became clear to her. The Head Sister's one reason for wearing them was to hide her startling likeness to Essain, her twin brother.

"The end has come," a voice said Maida did not know whether the man or woman spoke. As the mummy-case opened and the figure within stepped out, the world broke for the girl into a cataract of stars which overwhelmed her.

I have told already how I was guided in the direction of Hathor Set. I hoped and believed that I was right, but even so I was far from the end of my quest. Hathor Set is a small town, important only because of its situation and the fact that several rich Arabs have their country houses on the outskirts of the oasis. Each hour, each moment counted: yet how was I to learn which of the houses was Maida's prison? Judging by the precautions taken for the first stages of the journey, it was in no optimistic mood that I rode with my little caravan into the princ.i.p.al street--if street it could be called--of Hathor Set. Our camels trod sand, but to our left was the market, and beyond, a few shops. In the background the secretive white walls of houses cl.u.s.tered, the plumed heads of palms rose out of hidden gardens, and the green dome of a mosque glittered like a peac.o.c.k's breast against the hot blue sky.

It was not market day, and the open square with its booths and enclosures was deserted: but men stood in the doors of two small shops hopefully designed to attract tourists. One exhibited coa.r.s.e native pottery, and the other, more ambitious, showed alleged antiques, silk gandourahs, embroideries and hammered bra.s.swork. Above the open door was the name "Said ben Ha.s.san," and underneath was printed amateurishly in English: "Egyptian Curios: Fine Embroideries: French, English and American Speaken."

I had halted, meaning to descend and buy something as an excuse to ask questions, when a dirty, crouching figure which squatted near the floor scrambled up and flung itself before me whining for backsheesh. "Get away!" roared my camel-man, who was in a bad temper because of a forced march. He struck at the beggar with his goad, while the shopkeeper rushed forward to prove his zeal in ridding a customer of the nuisance.

"Wretch!" he exclaimed. "How often have I told thee to depart from my door and not annoy the honoured ones who come to buy? This time it is too much. Thou shalt spend thy next days in prison."

Between the two hustling the lame man, he fell, crying; and humbug though he might be, my gorge rose. For an instant I forgot that I had meant to ingratiate myself with the shopkeeper, and abused him in my most expressive Arabic. I scolded my own man, and, without waiting for my camel to bend its knees and let me down, I slid off to the rescue.

"The fellow is worthless," pleaded the shopkeeper, anxious to justify his violence. "It was for Effendi's sake that I pushed him. He is rich. He is the king of all the beggars--the scandal of Hathor Set."

"Whatever he may be, he's old and weak, and I won't have him struck," I said. "Here, let this dry your tears," I went on: and enjoying the suppressed rage of Abdullah my camel-man, I raised the weeping beggar from the ground and gave him a handful of piastres. With suspicious suddenness his sobs ceased and turned to blessings. He wished me a hundred years of life and twenty sons: and then, exulting in the rout of Said ben Ha.s.san and Abdullah, defiantly returned to the rag of sacking he had spread like a mat on the sand. The keeper of the shop glared a menace: but his wish to sell his goods overcame the desire for revenge; and contenting himself with a look which said "Only wait!" he turned with a servile smile to me. Would the honoured master enter his mean shop, give himself the pain to examine the wonderful stock superior to any even in Cairo, and sip sherbet or Turkish coffee?

I paused, reflecting that it might be better to inquire somewhere else.

Humble as the man's tone was, his eyes glittered with malice; and once he had my money he would delight in sending me on a wild-goose chase.

As I thought what to answer, my eyes wandered over his show window, and suddenly concentrated on a piece of embroidery. Some small table-covers and scarfs of thin Eastern silk were draped on a bra.s.s jardiniere. On the smallest of all I read, in old English lettering, the words "Help. Maida."

I kept my self-control with an effort. For a few seconds I could not speak. Then I inquired the price of that piece of embroidery, pointing it out. The shopkeeper's fat brown face became a study. He was asking himself in an anguish of greed how high he might dare to go. "Five hundred piastres," he replied, leaving generous room for the beating down process. But I did not beat him down.

"That's a large price," I said, "but I will pay if you tell me where the embroidery came from. It's an old English design. That's why I'm curious to know how you got it."

Said ben Ha.s.san seemed distressed. "Honoured Sir, I would tell you if I could, but I cannot. It would be as much as my life is worth.

Ladies of the harem make these embroideries, or their women. I sell them, and they use the money for their charities. It is a sacred custom. I can say no more."

"I will give you a thousand piastres," I said.

The man looked ready to cry, but persisted. "It is a great pain to refuse," he mourned. "But I would have to make the same answer if Effendi offered two thousand."

"I offer three," I went on.

But the man was not to be tempted. He groaned that it was a question of his life. Poor as it was, he valued it. He groaned, he apologised, he explained, he pressed upon me the true history of all the antiquities in his shop, and the five hundred piastres I was ready to pay for the bit of embroidery had shrunk in his eyes to a sum scarcely worth taking. At last, when I turned away, deaf to his eloquence, he caught me by the coat. "If Effendi must know, I will risk all and give him his will!" he wailed. "The embroidery came from Asiut. I will write down the name of the powerful pasha who is master of the house: that is, I will do so if Effendi is still ready to pay three thousand piastres."

I knew that the man was lying, yet my best hope lay in his knowledge--practically my one hope. How to get the truth out of him, was the question.

"I must think it over," I said. As I spoke I became conscious that the lame beggar who had crawled off his mat to the door of the shop was whining again.

To my astonishment he hurriedly jumbled in English words as if he wished to hide them. Under his appeal, in Arabic that I should buy a fetish he held up in a knotted old hand, he was mumbling in English, that he would tell me for grat.i.tude, what Ben Ha.s.san dared not tell me for money. "Do not give him one piastre: he is lying," muttered the beggar. "Buy this fetish. Inside you will find explanations."

The fetish was a tiny silver box of native make, one of those receptacles intended to contain a text from the Koran, and to hang from a string on the breast of the Faithful. I threw the man a look and I threw him money. Squatting there, he seemed to pick up both before he crawled away. I burned to call him back as I saw him wrap the sacking over head and shoulders, and start--without a backward glance--to hobble off. But I dared not make a sound. Ha.s.san, if he suspected, might ruin the beggar's plan. I slipped the fetish into my pocket, and told the shopkeeper that I would content myself for the present with buying the piece of embroidery. I must reflect before paying the price he wanted for information. I should, I said, spend the night at the inn, for I was tired. There would be time to think.

The inn at Hathor Set is hardly worth the name, being little better than the desert borg which, in my mind, I called the Borg of the Watching Eye; but its goodness or badness did not matter. As for Abdullah, he was glad of the rest. I had made him start before dawn in the midst of a sand-storm which had blown itself out only late in the baking heat of afternoon when we neared the oasis of Hathor Set. When I shut myself into an ill-smelling room of the inn, to open the silver fetish, it was still baking hot, but close upon sunset. If I had not felt some strange impulse of confidence in the lame beggar who hid his English under vulgar Arabic slang, I should have resented the coming of night. As it was, I was glad of the falling dusk. I could work to find Maida only under the cover of darkness, I knew: for there was no British consul here, no Justice to whom I could appeal. There were only my own hands and my own brain: and such help as the beggar might give because he hated Said ben Ha.s.san.

A torn sc.r.a.p of paper was rolled inside the tiny silver box: but it was not a text from the Koran.

"Dine at eight to-night with the beggar Haroun and his friends and hear something to your advantage. Anyone can show you the house," I read, written in English with pencil. If I had had time to think of him much I should have been consumed with curiosity as to the brown-faced old man who begged by day, and in faultlessly spelled English invited strangers to dine with him by night. But I had time to think only of what I might hear "to my advantage." The mystery of the "beggar king of Hathor Set" was lost for me in the mystery of Maida Odell, as a bubble is lost in the sea.

The Eastern darkness fell like a purple curtain over a lighted lamp. I went out long before eight, and showed a coin as I asked the first cloaked figure I met for the house of Haroun the beggar. It was strange that a beggar should have a house, but everything about this beggar was strange!

The house was in the heart of the crowded town, a town of brown adobe turning to gold under a rising moon. All the buildings were huddled together like a family of lion cubs, but my guide led me to a square of blank wall on the lower edge of a hill. The door was placed at the foot of this hill; and when a negro opened it at my knock I found myself in a squalid cellar. At the far end was a flight of dilapidated stone steps: at the top of this another door, and beyond the door--a surprise. I came out into a small but charming garden court with orange trees and a fountain. A white embroidered cloth was spread on the tiled pavement, and surrounded with gay silk cushions for more than a dozen guests. Coloured lanterns hung from the trees and lit with fairy-like effect dishes of crystallised fruit and wonderful pink cakes.

Figures of men in gandourahs came forward respectfully, and the King of the Beggars bade me welcome. He offered a bra.s.s bowl of rose-water in which to dip my fingers, and as he himself dried them with a lace-trimmed napkin he spoke in English.

"I am grateful," he said, "for your trust. You shall not regret it."

Then he went on, without giving me time to answer, "I am a beggar by day, and the beggars' king at night, as you see. This is my existence.

It has its adventures, its pleasures; this meeting is one of the highest. It reminds me that I have English blood in my veins.

Besides, if I help you I shall help myself to revenge. My father was English, but turned Mohammedan for the love of my mother. English was the first language I learned to speak. In the days of Ismail I was in his army--an officer. I was proud of my English blood and I promised my aid to an Englishman--an officer, too, named Annesley--aid against one of my own religion. I helped him to run away with a beautiful woman. He escaped with her. I was caught, wounded, and cruelly punished. My career was at an end--my money gone. Lame and penniless, I had no power to take revenge. Many years have pa.s.sed. I was young then. Now, I am old. The man who broke me is dead, but his children live--twins, a son and a daughter. They have come home from some country far away, to their father's house. I saw them come--I, the lame beggar lying in the street, a Thing that does not count! Two women were with Essain, his sister and another who was ill--perhaps unconscious--lying upon a litter on camel back. The embroidery you saw, with the English words which I, too, could read--came from his house. It was brought by a negro, to-day, to the shop of Said ben Ha.s.san, and put in his window an hour before you rode into Hathor Set.

But Ben Ha.s.san is afraid of Essain Pasha, the man I speak of, and he would never have told you anything about his house: he would only have lied and sent you off on a false track in repayment for your money. As for me, I can tell all you wish to know: and when you have honoured me by eating my food, I can show you the house. It is not more than a mile distant from the town. If you wish to injure Essain, so much the better. Because of what his father did to me, and because of your kindness, I should like to help you do it."

"For G.o.d's sake, come with me now," I broke in at last. "You asked me here to dine, but a girl's life may be hanging in the balance. Her name is Madeleine Annesley. She must be the granddaughter of the man who was your friend, and the woman you helped him take. You speak of revenge! It is for revenge she has been brought here by the man you call Essain and his sister who is as wicked as himself. I never knew till I heard your story what that woman was to him, or why they worked together. But now I understand all--or nearly all. I love Madeleine Annesley, and I know she's in danger of her life."

"I thought," said Haroun, "there might be some such matter afoot, and that is why I asked my friends to be here. They are ready to obey my orders, for they count me as their king; and I have chosen them from among others for their strength and courage. I am the only one who is old and lame, but I am strong enough for this work. When it is done, we can feast, and we will not break our fast till then. Essain has no fear of an attack in force. His house, though it is the great one of the place, is guarded but by a few negroes, the servants who have kept it in his absence. There are orange gardens which surround the house.

Without noise we will break open a little gate I remember, and once inside, with fifteen strong men at our service, the surprise will be complete--the house and all in it, male and female, at our mercy."

Not a man of the fifteen but had a weapon of some sort, an old-fashioned pistol or a long knife, and some had both.

We started in the blue, moony dusk, walking in groups that we might not be noticed as a band: and it was astonishing how fast the lame beggar could go. We led--he and I--and such was the greedy haste with which his limping legs covered the distance that he kept pace with me at my best.

Soon we were out of the huddled town, walking beside the rocky bed of the _oued_ or river; and never leaving the oasis we came at last to a high white wall.

"This is Essain's garden," Haroun whispered. "And here is the little gate I spoke of. Listen! I thought I heard voices. But no. It may have been the wind rustling among the leaves."

"It wasn't the wind," I said. "There are people talking in the garden.

Don't try to break the gate. You may make a noise. I'll get over the wall and open the gate from inside."

"The wall is high," said Haroun, measuring it with his eyes.

"And I am tall," I answered. "One of your men will give me a leg up."

In another moment I was letting myself cautiously down on a dark, dewy garden fragrant with the scent of orange blossoms. There was broken gla.s.s on the top of the wall, and my hands were cut: but that was a detail.

Noiselessly I slid back the big bolt which fastened the gate. The men filed in like a troop of ghosts, and followed me as I tiptoed along, crouching under trees as I walked.

The voices, speaking together in low, hushed tones, became more audible, though, even when we came near, we could catch no words. A singularly broad-shouldered man in European dress, with a fez on his rather small head, stood with his back to us, giving orders to four negroes. They were out in the open, where the moon touched their faces, and we in the shadow could see them distinctly. They had a long, narrow box somewhat resembling a coffin, which, by their master's directions, they were about to lower by means of ropes into a grave-like hole they had dug in the soft earth.