"We're not lost," I said. "This is the right way. We'll push on to Hathor Set."

EPISODE VIII

THE HOUSE OF REVENGE

This chapter of my life, which stands last but one in my journal, is Maida Odell's chapter rather than mine: and to make my part in it clear, her part should come first. Then the two should join, like a double ring of platinum and gold bound together with a knot.

One day Maida waked, after confused dreams of pain and terror. The dreams were blurred, as she began remembering. It was as if she were in a dim room trying to see reflections in a dust-covered mirror; then, as if she brushed off the dust, and the pictures suddenly sharpened in outline.

She saw herself reading a letter signed John Hasle. It seemed to be a true letter, and if it were true she must obey the instructions it gave; yet--she doubted. She saw herself scribbling a few words on the back of the letter, and hiding it behind the portrait of her mother, in the room she always called her "shrine," leaving just an end of white paper visible in the hope that John Hasle's eyes might light on it there. This picture was clear, and that of the mummy-case being taken out of the shrine by two men in a hurry. Why were they taking it? Why did she let it go? Oh, she remembered! The Head Sister had promised long ago to try and discover the secret of the past. She knew people all over the world, who were grateful, and glad to repay her goodness to them. Because of the mummy-case and the eye of Horus, those two mysterious treasures, the Head Sister believed that the enemy who strove unceasingly to ruin the girl's life must be an Egyptian, working to avenge some wrong, or fancied wrong. She suggested photographing the mummy, and the pictures of Maida's father and mother, in order to send snapshots to a man she knew well in Egypt--a doctor. He would take up the affair, out of friendship for her, and with those clues to go upon might learn details of inestimable value. Maida remembered writing to John Hasle at the Head Sister's suggestion, asking him to send the key of the shrine. He had answered, agreeing reluctantly; and to prove her good faith, the Head Sister had offered permission for a meeting at Roger's house. Then had come the letter from John Hasle, with its warning that the mummy was no longer safe in the shrine.

Maida had done what he told her to do, and let the mummy-case be taken away, although the Head Sister had objected, and had even seemed hurt.

But the Head Sister had not objected to go to the ship on which John Hasle said he would sail. She wished to question him before he went, and was as anxious as Maida was to know what danger threatened the mummy.

The girl recalled how, according to John Hasle's advice (brought by his messenger), she and the Head Sister had exchanged their grey costumes for blue ones, with veils hanging from neat bonnets. They had done this in the closed motor according to instructions, and they had gone on board the ship to bid John Hasle good-bye. There instead of finding him they had found a second letter, written as before on his hotel paper. It said that the plot against Maida was even more serious than he had supposed. At the last moment he had been obliged to stop in New York, and appeal to the police to help him thwart it. Her life was in danger if she returned to Long Island, or even to the city, before the enemy had been caught. There was every prospect that he would be caught in a few days, after which John Hasle would sail for Egypt as he had meant to do, and there unravel the whole mystery. The vendetta which had cursed Maida's life, and her mother's before her, would be ended. She might come into a fortune in her own right, instead of depending upon money given by the Odells. He implored her to be brave and take pa.s.sage on the ship for Naples, though no doubt the Head Sister would oppose the idea. The Head Sister had not opposed it. She had read John Hasle's letter, and had offered to be the girl's companion to Naples, to take her on to Egypt if necessary. Once, she had not liked John Hasle; but she was obliged to agree with his opinion. She believed that he was right about Maida's danger: things she had found out in her researches convinced her that it existed. The ship would not sail for an hour or more. The chauffeur was bidden to take a letter from Maida to John Hasle at the Hotel Belmont, to bring one if he were there, and also clothing necessary for the journey, of which the Head Sister made a hurried list.

A letter had come back--a hasty scrawl in John Hasle's handwriting--to express joy in Maida's decision, and to tell her that the mummy in its case would go with her on the ship, addressed to his name.

Maida remembered how ungrateful she had thought herself in doubting the Head Sister's intentions. She had tried not to doubt, for so far in her experience she had received only kindness and sympathy from that wonderful friend. Wonderful indeed! Everything the Head Sister did was magnetic and wonderful, like her whole personality. This sudden decision to go abroad for Maida's sake was no more extraordinary, perhaps, than things she had done to help others. She said that she would wire the woman who stood second in authority over the Grey Sisterhood, and explain that, for excellent reasons, she had determined to visit the lately established branch in Cairo (Maida had heard of it and had subscribed, for its object was an excellent one: the rescue of European girls stranded in Egypt); she would add that she might not return for many weeks.

Maida felt that she ought never to have doubted. As for the letters from John Hasle, the handwriting seemed unmistakable; they could not be forgeries: the idea was ridiculous. She remembered how she had argued this in her mind, and how she had tried not to think of herself as helpless. She was doing what she wished to do! And yet, when she had asked "What else could I do, if I didn't wish to do this?" the answer was disquieting. Short of making a scene on shipboard and appealing to the captain, it was difficult to see how she could go against the Head Sister's urgent advice. She did not try to go against it; and after sailing, two or three wireless messages signed John Hasle brought her comfort. It was a coincidence that there should be a band of nurses on board the ship, with costumes almost precisely like hers and the Head Sister's, chosen apparently at random by John Hasle: but then, after all, there was a strong resemblance in the dresses of all nurses, provided the colours happened to be the same.

Even more clearly than the days on shipboard, Maida remembered arriving at Naples, and being met by an Englishman who introduced himself as an agent of John Hasle. He had a long comprehensive telegram to show, purporting to come from his employer in New York. This announced that John Hasle had not been able to obtain leave as soon as he expected, but that he had learned the "whole secret of the past." Miss Odell was to put herself in the hands of his agent who would conduct her and her companion to Egypt and there to a house where all mysteries would be cleared up. She would find herself in charge of important persons, old acquaintances of her parents, who would watch over her interests and explain everything connected with her family. All trouble and danger would be over for ever. Her brother Roger with his wife, Grace, having just returned to New York from the Argentine, would sail with John Hasle a few days after the sending of the telegram, to join Miss Odell and bring her home by way of France and England.

Maida recalled with a dull aching of heart and head her disappointment, her uneasiness; how she had insisted upon sending telegrams to her adopted brother, and to John Hasle, in New York, waiting for answers before she would consent to go on. The answers came, apparently genuine, and she had gone on. There had been two days in Cairo, at the house of a rich, elderly man who called himself French, but looked like a Turk or Egyptian. He stated that he was a friend of Maida's grandfather who was, he said, a general in Ismail's service. He had done a great wrong to a n.o.ble family of ancient Egyptian aristocracy, who had sworn revenge, and had taken it for several generations. But now all its members were dead except one aged woman who wished to see and atone to Maida for the cruel punishment inflicted on her people.

The mummy which had been stolen many years ago was to be given back; and in return Maida would not only learn a great secret, but receive a great fortune. The house was in the country, and could be reached by a short desert journey after travelling to Asiut by rail. In order to escape the surveillance of the British authorities, so strict in war time, she and her faithful friend the Head of the Grey Sisterhood, were advised to travel in the costumes of Egyptian women.

All this seemed hundreds of years ago to Maida, as she relived incident after incident. Everything was far in the background of a night in the desert inn when she had seen--or thought she had seen--a face which had been the terror of her life. Since her earliest childhood she had seen it in dreams, and sometimes--she believed--in reality. It was as like the face of the mummy in the painted mummy-case as a living face could be, except that the expression of the mummy was n.o.ble and even benign, whereas that of the dream-face--the living face--was malevolent. The hood of the caravan leader had been blown aside by the fierce desert wind in a sand-storm, and a pair of terrible eyes had looked at her for an instant before the hood was drawn close again; and, after that--but Maida could remember nothing after that, except a struggle and a sudden blotting out of consciousness.

She was afraid to wake fully lest she should find herself again in the desert inn where it seemed that something hideous had happened. But the room there had been shabby. This room in which she opened her eyes was beautiful, far more beautiful than any in the house at Cairo. It was soothingly simple, too, in its decorations, as the best Eastern rooms are. The walls were white, ornamented with a frieze of arabesques. There were one or two large plaques of lovely old tiles let into this pure whiteness, and a wonderful Persian rug in much the same faded rainbow hues hung between two uncurtained windows with carved, cedarwood blinds. The ceiling also was of carved cedar, painted with ancient designs in rich colours. There was very little furniture in the room, except the large divan-like bed on which Maida was lying; but on a fat embroidered cushion squatted a girl wearing the indoors dress of an Egyptian woman--a girl of the lower cla.s.ses. She sat between Maida and the windows, so that her figure was silhouetted against the light: and outside the windows was a glimpse of garden: a tall cypress and a palm with a rose bush climbing up the trunk: dully, Maida thought that it must be an inner patio, such as her room had looked out upon in the house at Cairo.

"Where is the white camel?" she heard herself say, aloud: and it seemed that her voice was tired and weak, as if she had been ill.

The girl who was embroidering looked up. Her face was very brown, and the eyes were painted. She wore a dark blue dress, which was a lovely bit of colour against the white wall. Smiling at the invalid as at a child, she went to the door, and called out something in a language Maida could not understand. Then she effaced herself respectfully, stepping into the background, and the Head Sister came in--the Head Sister, just as she used to be at the Sisterhood House far away on Long Island. She wore a grey uniform and the short veil with which her face had always been covered in the house.

"My dear child!" she exclaimed, in her deep, pleasant voice, with its slight accent of foreignness which could never quite be defined. "How thankful I am to see you conscious! We have been waiting a long time.

You've been ill, and delirious; but I can see from the look in your eyes that it's over now--those dreams of horror I could never persuade you were not real."

Maida looked earnestly at the Head Sister whom she had once so utterly loved and trusted. Did she love and trust her now? The girl felt that she did not. Yet she felt, too, that the sad change might be but the dregs in her cup of dreams. Never had the wonderful woman's voice been more kind. "If I tell you a piece of good news, will it make you better, or will it give you a temperature?" the Head Sister went on.

"It will make me better," Maida said, a faint thrill of hope at her heart. There was only one piece of news, she thought, which would be good.

"Very well, then. It is this: we are expecting your brother and Lord John Hasle in a few days. Are you pleased?"

"Yes," Maida answered. She composed her voice, and spoke quietly; but new life filled her veins. The dullness was gone from her brain, the la.s.situde from her limbs. She felt as if she had drunk a sparkling tonic.

"You look another girl already," said the Head Sister. "If this improvement keeps up, you'll be able to walk about your room a little to-day, and to-morrow you may be strong enough to be helped out into the balcony that runs along over the patio, and leads to the room of your hostess. She is impatient for you to be well enough to come there; and it will be a test of your strength. Besides--I know you are anxious to hear what you have travelled so far to find out."

Maida could not have explained then, or afterwards, why the Head Sister's suppressed eagerness brought back the fear she had known in her dreams. She would have liked to answer that she preferred to wait and see the unknown "hostess" after Roger and John had arrived. But something told her she had better not say that. Instead, she smiled, and answered that she would try to walk that afternoon, and test her strength.

The Head Sister seemed satisfied, seemed to take it for granted that the plan she was making would be carried out; and then she made an excuse to leave the room. The girl Hateb would watch over Maida, as she had watched faithfully since the day when the unconscious patient had been put into her care. Hateb, the Head Sister added, had learned in Cairo to speak a little English and French. Maida could ask for anything she wished. But for a long time Maida did not wish to ask for anything at all. She lay still and thought--and wondered: and Hateb went on embroidering. She finished a thing like a charming little table cover on which she had worked a design in dull blues and reds, a design like the patterns of old tiles from Tunis. Then, pausing to roll up the square of creamy tissue, she began to make the first purple flower of a new design on another square.

At last, as if fascinated, Maida did ask a question. She asked what Hateb did with these things when they were finished. Were they for her mistress?

The girl shook her head, and managed to make Maida understand that all the women of the household who could embroider sent their work by the negroes into the oasis town of Hathor Set where there was a shop which sold such things to tourists. Very few tourists came now, but sometimes there were officers and soldiers. They always bought souvenirs for their families at home. Harem ladies sold their work for charity among the poor, but their servants--well, it was pleasant to earn something extra. This house was often shut up for months. The master and mistress lived away, and seldom came, so there was much time--too much time--and it hung heavy on their hands unless they were kept busy.

"I know how to embroider, too," said Maida, "not as you do, but after the fashion of my country. I make my own designs. I should love to embroider an end of a scarf or something like that, to show you how fast I can work. Then you may sell what I do, and keep the money. If any English or American people come to that shop in the town you speak of they will be surprised to see such a thing if it is displayed well, and they will be glad to offer a good price, because they will be reminded of home. But you must let no one in this house see my work, or they may be angry with you for allowing me to exert myself. It will do me good, but they will not believe that."

The girl was delighted with the idea. Her curiosity was aroused to see the work of a foreigner, which would sell for much money, and she was pleased with the prospect of having that money for herself. She gave Maida materials, and the invalid sat up in bed to begin her task. With a pencil she traced a queer little border which might have represented breaking hearts or flashes of lightning. Inside this border she formed the word "Help" with her name "Maida" underneath, in elaborate old English letters impossible for Hateb to read with her scant knowledge of English. Despite her weakness, Maida worked with feverish haste, and finished the whole piece of embroidery, in blue and gold and reddish purple, before evening. She p.r.o.nounced herself too ill to rise, but promised to make an effort next day. It was in her mind to delay the visit to her unknown "hostess," and meanwhile to send out a message, like a carrier pigeon. But there was the strong will of the Head Sister to reckon with. The latter gently, yet firmly insisted that, now dear Maida's delirium had pa.s.sed, it would do her good to take up life again where she had left it off. The Egyptian woman they had made this long journey to meet was impatient. She was unable to come to Maida. Maida must go to her. Besides, it would be discouraging to Roger Odell and John Hasle to arrive and find their dear one pale and ill. She must make the effort for their sakes if not for her own.

This solicitude for Roger and John was new on the part of the Head Sister, who had deliberately taken Maida away from one, and separated her from the other: but she frankly confessed that her point of view had changed. She saw that the girl had no real vocation for the Grey Sisterhood. If the mystery of her past could be solved, and happiness could come out of sorrow, Maida would have a place in the world, and John Hasle--the Head Sister admitted--deserved a reward for patience and loyalty.

These arguments did not ring true in the ears of Maida, but she had reached a place where it was impossible to turn back. She was in the woman's power, whether the woman were enemy or friend; and if she refused to follow the Head Sister's counsel, she believed that she would be forced to follow it. Maida was too proud to risk being coerced; and when the first day after the sending out of the embroidery pa.s.sed without result, she obeyed the directress and let herself be dressed.

The girl suffered a great deal, but she had not lost physical or mental courage. She believed that she had sprung from a family of soldiers, and she wanted to be worthy of them, even if no one save herself ever knew how she faced a great danger. Something in the Head Sister's air of fiercely controlled excitement told her that she was about to face danger when, with the elder woman's supporting arm round her waist, she walked from her own room to the door of a room at the end of a long balcony--the balcony overlooking the patio garden.

As she went, the scent of magnolias and orange blossoms pressed heavily on her senses like the fragrance of flowers in a room of death. It was evening, just the hour of sunset, and as the girl looked up at the sapphire square of sky above the white walls and greenish-brown roofs, the pulsating light died down suddenly, as if an immense lamp had been extinguished.

Maida shivered. "What is the matter? Are you afraid?" the Head Sister asked.

"No, I am not afraid," Maida answered firmly. "It is only--as if someone walked on my grave."

"Your grave!" the woman echoed, with a slight laugh. "That is very far away to the west, let us hope."

Yet Maida's words must have brought to her mind the picture of a highballed garden of orange trees, no further to the west than the western end of that house. She must have seen the negroes digging there, under the trees, digging very fast, to be ready in time. She must even have known the depth and width and length of the long, narrow hole they dug, for it had been measured to fit the painted mummy-case brought to Egypt from Maida's "shrine" in New York. That mummy-case, long wanted, long sought, was useful no longer. Its occupant for thousands of years had been rifled of his secret. The jewels which had lain among the spices at his heart had been removed. They were safe in custody of those who claimed a right over them, and the revenge of generations might now be completed.

The Head Sister tapped at the door of the room, and then, after a slight pause, when no answer came, opened it. Gently she pushed Maida in ahead of her, and followed on the girl's heels, shutting the door behind them both.

The room was very large and very beautiful. Already the carved cedar-wood blinds inside the windows shut out the light of day. Not a sound in the room--if there should be a sound--could be heard even in the patio or the orange gardens. Two huge Egyptian oil lamps of old, hand-worked bra.s.s hung from the painted wooden ceiling. They lit with a flittering, golden light the white arabesquesed walls, the dado of lovely tiling, the marble floor and the fountain pool in the centre where goldfish flashed. There was little furniture: a divan covered with a Persian rug; a low, inlaid table or two; some purple silk cushions piled near the fountain; and Maida's eyes searched vainly for the "hostess" who waited eagerly to tell her the secret. The only conspicuous object in the room was a familiar one--the painted mummy-case, standing upright as it had stood in the shrine, far away in Roger Odell's house in New York. It stood so that Maida, on entering the room, saw it in profile. She was not surprised to see it there, for she knew that it had travelled with them--by John Hasle's wish, she had been told--and certainly with his name on the packing-box in which it was contained. It was easy enough to believe that the mummy had a connection with the "secret" she was to hear, for always it had been for her a mystery as well as a treasure. It was easy, also, to understand why the "hostess" should have had the thing brought into her room and unpacked. But she--the hostess--was not there.

"Patience for a few minutes, my child," said the Head Sister, no doubt reading Maida's thought. "I have been asked to tell you a story. It is a long story, but you must hear it to understand what follows. Sit down with me, and listen quietly. Your questions may come at the end."

Maida would have taken a few steps further, to look into the mummy-case, and see if its occupant were intact after the journey by sea and land: but the elder woman stopped her. With a hand on the girl's arm, she made her sit down on a divan where the mummy-case was visible still only in profile.

"This room was once made ready in honour of a bride," the Head Sister said. "All its beauties were for her: the pool, the rare old tiles, the Persian embroideries and rugs. The bridegroom was an Egyptian of a line which had been royal in the past. I speak of the long ago past, thousands of years ago. He had records which proved his descent without doubt. When I say he was an Egyptian, I don't mean a Turk. I mean a lineage far more ancient than the Turkish invasion in Egypt.

The family, however, had intermarried with Turks and had become practically Turkish, except by tradition. This mummy-case and its contents was the dearest treasure of Essain Bey, the man who decorated the room you see for the woman he adored. Immemorable generations ago it had been taken from the Tombs of the Kings--not stolen, mind you, but taken secretly by a descendant who had proofs that the mummied man had been a famous, far-away ancestor of his own. Even so, though this forbear of Essain's had a right to the mummy, he would have let it lie in peace, hidden for ever in the rock-caverns of the tombs if illegal excavations had not been planned. He saved the mummy-case from violation, although he could not save the tomb; and though there was a legend that the body was filled with precious things he vowed that it should not be rifled--vowed for himself and his son and his son's son.

"The legend ran that the last Egyptian king hid the royal treasure inside the mummy of his father, before setting out to fight the invader, and that after his death in battle, the secret descended from one representative of the family to another: but the whereabouts of the tomb was lost, and only found again a century ago through the translation of a papyrus. As I said, the mummy in its case was sacredly preserved, and was considered to keep good fortune in the family so long as it remained intact. When Essain married his beautiful Greek bride he would have given her his soul if she had asked for it. Instead, she asked for the mummy of Hathor Set. It should be hers, he promised, the day she gave him his first boy, and he kept his word. But with the boy came a girl also. The Greek woman, Irene Xanthios, was the mother of twins. The mummy in its case--the luck of the family--was called hers. It was kept in this room, where she felt a pleasure in seeing it under her eyes. She delighted her husband by telling him she loved the dark face because of the likeness to his. He was happy, and believed that she was happy too. Perhaps she would always have remained faithful, had it not been for an Englishman, an officer in the service of Ismail.

"Now, when I speak of Ismail being in power, you will understand that all this happened many years ago; to be precise it was fifty-four years ago to-day that the twin boy and girl were born and the mummy given to their mother, Irene. How she met the Englishman I do not know. I suppose the monotony of harem life bored her, though she had adopted the religion and customs of Essain Bey. She was beautiful, and maybe she let her veil blow aside one day when she looked out of her carriage window at the handsome officer who pa.s.sed. How long they knew each other in secret I cannot tell either; but the twins were four years old when their mother ran away with the Englishman. She left them behind, as if without regret, but--she took the luck of the family with her--the mummy of King Hathor Set in his painted case. So, you can guess who was the man: your grandfather. His name was Sir Percival Annesley. He was no boy at the time. Already he had been made a Lieutenant in Ismail's army: but he fled from Egypt with the woman he stole--and the booty--and after that they lived quietly in England.

They hid from the world: but they could not hide from Essain's revenge.

"In this room--coming back from a council at the Khedivial Palace in Cairo--Essain learned how his wife had profited by his absence of a week. In this room he vowed vengeance, not only upon her and the man who took her from him, but upon that man's descendants, male or female, until the last one had paid the penalty of death. In this room he made his two children swear that, when they grew old enough, they would help exterminate the children of Percival Annesley, and if unfortunately these survived long enough to have children, exterminate them also. In this room he branded the flesh of his young son and daughter with the Eye of Horus, to remind them that their mission was to watch--ever to watch.

"Essain turned his back upon this house when it had become a house of disgrace, but he did not sell or dispose of it. He had made up his mind that, from a house of disgrace it must become a house of revenge.

His will was that the place should be kept up; that servants should be ready to do anything they were bidden to do. With his own hands he killed your grandfather, in sight of Irene and her baby boy, your father. Later, Irene died of grief, but your father lived. He too came to Egypt, and served in the army, by that time in the hands of the British. Essain was dead, but Essain's son lived, and had one great aim in his life; to kill Perceval Annesley's son, and retrieve the mummy. Perceval Annesley's son was named Perceval too. He met your mother when she was travelling in Egypt as a girl, and followed her to America. The younger Essain would not have allowed him to leave Egypt, if the mummy had been there, but he had left it at home in England. So far as young Essain had been able to find out, the mummy had never been desecrated: this was the one virtue of the Annesleys: they had left it intact.