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 it the sixtieth part of a minute longer, without telling you how I love you!"
"My goodness!" gasped 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 were you 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 Eton and 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 Monny!" breathlessly she cut me short.
"Nothing of the kind," I contradicted her fiercely. "You ordered me to fall in love with Miss Gilder. 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!" The soft-hearted angel was caught in the trap set for her pity.
"And a martyr. A double-dyed 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—and 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. Monny and I wouldn't have been let into Rechid'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 Rechid's, we escaped from! And it was theirs at the Temple of Mût, too. Rechid was only their cat's-paw, thinking he 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 Monny 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 Esmé, safely disguised as an important young personage, to travel with her stepmother. Bedr must have assured his employers that he was certain the pale girl was really Miss Gilder; so they thought the other one with me must be Esmé. 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'll be wasted if I can't have you. Besides, under the wing of an Embassy no one will dare to 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. But, Sh! Don't you hear, they're 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, Monny 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 every one 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 mosquito's. "And if you cough, I'll know you're a dog-in-the-manger."
"Why?" curiosity forced me to pursue.
"Because, you donkey, ye say ye don't want her yourself, yet ye won't give yer best friend a chance!"
"Can't be a dog and a donkey at the same time," I murmured. "Choose which, and stick to it, if ye want me to know what ye mean."
"Why, you—you Man, don't ye see, if we interrupt at such a minute, and such a conversation, they can never begin again where they left off? If you'd wanted her, I'd have tried to save her for ye, at any cost. But as ye don't, for goodness' sake give the two their chance to come to an understanding. Now be still, I tell ye, or they may hear us."
"We can't just sit and eavesdrop."
"Stop yer ears 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 man, 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 Monny was following up something we had (fortunately) lost. "Only how could I begin it? I don't see even now 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—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 some 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 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, Antoun Effendi. 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—an 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. Otherwise, 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 Borrow 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 Monny-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. Antoun Effendi, 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 Shepheard'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, Antoun Effendi?" Monny'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 shall 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 classed me with servants, to be your master."
"I don't blame you, Antoun Effendi! 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 Monny, 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. 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. Sorrow, 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've 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? Fate 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 Khartum?"
"I'll trust you always."
"I mean for a special thing—just till Khartum. In the foolish days when I wished 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 Borrow tell, a fact about myself which might win your favour. 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 Khartum, 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 Khartum 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 Antoun, 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 Khartum could have brought any happiness to me at all. For it would have been too late after 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 I trust without understanding, that it will be proved at Khartum.'"
Monny repeated the words after him. And although I was that vile worm, an 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," Monny 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 Monny.
"Why?"
"Oh, if we don't, they might find us."
Anthony laughed—a give-away, English-sounding laugh. But Monny 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 only you'll 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 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 that 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 flit forth from the dark recess of the pylon stairway without being seen or heard; but as luck would have it, Monny 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 have been upstairs!"
A good rule for diplomats, duffers, and others, is never to tell a falsehood when there is no hope that any one will believe it.
"We—er—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 us 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, at sight of us. And the mystery of our felucca's disappearance had to be discussed. Biddy saw to it that Monny couldn't edge in a word on the forbidden subject. How those two would talk later, in Miss Gilder's stateroom!
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 rowed 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 here by some one who is trustworthy."
"We have no right to lend the boat," returned the Nubian.
"Then I will steal it," replied the Hadji.
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 in one, as here at Philae 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 deigned at last to remember our plight.
CHAPTER XXVII
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 stayed only long enough for a talk with me. It began with 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 quite an adventure. And 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 Neill Sheridan, the American Egyptologist, had let me know that he was obliged to leave us at Wady Haifa. 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 shoulders 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 its 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 Wady Halfa. Anthony was in suspense about the way his fate might arrange itself at Khartum. 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 ours 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 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 of tragedy and brave laughter.
Monny was in suspense quite equal to Anthony's about Khartum, and what could possibly happen there to give her happiness. Brigit was in suspense about the two men who had so strangely and secretly worked with their spy, Bedr, 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 cataract's 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 as of sunshine. It was as if the treasure of all the lost mines 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 needed; and so many other ruined temples that we lost count (though one was the largest in Nubia) until we came to Wadi-es-Sabuá, "the Valley of the Lions." This we remembered, not because it was imposing, or because it had a dromos 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 rag dolls 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 Korosko, 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 lurk to prey. More temples, and many sakkeyehs (no shadoofs here, on the Upper Nile) but few boats. The spacious times were past, 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 Kasr Ibrim; and at last—there was Abu Simbel.
Somehow I knew that things were bound to happen at Abu Simbel. I didn't know what they would be, but they hovered invisible at my berth-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 Simbel, 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 in thick dressing-gowns: youthful ghosts of the same sex, fully clothed and decently groomed because of cloaked girl-ghosts, with floating hair (if there were enough to float effectively: others made a virtue of having it put up): and middle-aged female ghosts, with transformations apparently hind-side in front.
No ghost's looks mattered much, however, for good or ill, once the slowly moving Enchantress had swept aside a purple curtain of distance and shown us such a stagesetting 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 whence they had been released by forgotten sculptors—released to live while the world lasted. These seated kings gave the first shock of awed admiration; then lesser marvels detached themselves in detail from the shadows of the vast façade; 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 cataract of 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 river bank, within a comparatively short walk of the mountain which Rameses II had turned into a temple, as usual glorifying himself. But though the walk was comparatively short, on second thoughts elderly ghosts already 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-worshippers were reduced to a party of ten.
Since Philae, 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 two headed the band, save for a sleepy dragoman 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 Monny, 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 Philae. As a matter of fact he's been particularly taciturn."
"You haven't quarrelled, 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 Khartum 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 Kasr Ibrim, Monny found on the table in her cabin a note in French, typewritten on Enchantress Isis 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 every one 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 Monny thinks it was written by Antoun 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 Antoun, 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 bestir 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 Colossi, 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 grille 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 colour here and there; of columns in a chamber beyond, and still a third chamber, whence three rooms opened off, the side doorways mere blocks of ebony in the dimness. 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: Harmachis, Rameses, Amen and Ptah. 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 to-day 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 ours, 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 ray 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 Monny wasn't with the others?" asked Brigit, 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 typewritten 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 stay and wait?"
"If we go, we shall be playing into Miss Gilder's hands. If we stay, we shall be playing into mine. 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 round.
"I think you're right, Duffer," Biddy said softly. "That's why I wouldn't answer you for good and all, that night at Philae. I felt then it might be kinder to tell you I could never care. But I've thought of nothing else since—except a little about Monny—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 Monny. 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 Richard O'Brien came. He swept me off my feet, and made me think my heart was caught in the rebound. When it was too late, I realised that it hadn't been caught at all. Only hypnotized for a while. I've loved you always, Duffer dear. The thought of you was 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 bag you're so worried about?"
"Why, yes, I did guess, Biddy, right or wrong."
"And I'll bet you it was wrong! What did you think, when I wouldn't understand any of your 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 conceited Duffer!—not so bad as that, because I had never 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. But that was before Richard died. He was afraid—I mean, I thought it would be better and less suspicious if I had charge of the papers. And if the Society had ever got hold of him, he believed the letters and lists of names I had, might have bought back his safety, if I played my hand well. He'd 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-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 it locked up in a bank. It was only a few days later that Richard died; and with him gone, I felt 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 Esmé 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, Biddy 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 Esmé and me. And that I can't fancy they'll ever do, till the millenium. I shall be past the marrying age then! Oh, Duffer, I almost wish you had fallen in love with Monny as I wanted you to do—'
"Honest Injun, 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'd seen you caring for Monny, 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 half afraid he was in love with you! I can tell you I've had my trials, Biddy. 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 Biddell and Harry Snell; and even your stepdaughter, Esmé O'Brien—"
"Duffer, she's married!"
"What, to young Halloran? How did they manage it?"
"I don't know yet. I've had only a telegram. It came to Assuan too late, and Sir Marcus Lark brought it to the boat. I found it that night when we got back from Philae. 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 Esmé 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 Vesubie, last summer. They find out everything, sooner or later. Probably they thought I'd whisked her off to Egypt with me (helped by my rich 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're 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 Esmé's married the more reason for us to follow her example. After Khartum, when Miss Gilder—"
"Who's taking my name in vain?" inquired the owner of it, at the sanctuary door.
"Oh, then you have come, Monny!" Brigit exclaimed. "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 Antoun Effendi didn't write that note."
"I told you so! Who did?"
"He's trying to find out. Probably it was a silly practical joke some one wanted to play on me. There are lots quite capable of it, on board! Antoun Effendi said the sunrise was much finer really, from on top of the great sandhill, so we 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 Kasr Ibrim. There was a steam dahabeah moored not far off, if you remember, with Oriental decorations; so we fancied it must belong to an Egyptian or a Turk."
"It could easily have been hired at Assuan," Biddy 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 are always imagining, the dahabeah would have to be near here, too," Monny 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."
"Ugh, don't speak of it!" Biddy shuddered, "Let's go out into the sunlight again, as quick as ever we can!"