Donovan Pasha, and Some People of Egypt Part 23

"They are in prison."

"Where?"

"At Abdin Palace."

Kingsley Bey had had a blow, but he was not dumfounded. In Egypt, the wise man is never surprised at anything, and Kingsley had gone from experience to experience without dismay. He realised the situation at once. The Khedive had been worked upon by some one in the circle, and had put on this pressure, for purposes of backsheesh, or blackmail, or whatever it might be called. His mind was made up at once.

"Very well, Pasha. Though there's no reason why I should go with you except to suit myself. You'll excuse me for a moment, please." He turned back. Meanwhile, d.i.c.ky had been distracting the mind of the lady with evasive and cheerful suggestions of urgent business calling Kingsley to Cairo. He saw the plot that had been laid, and it made him very angry, but nothing could be done until he met the Khedive.

He guessed who had filled the Khedive's mind with cupidity. He had seen old Selamlik Pasha, who had lent the Khedive much money, entering the palace as he left with Kingsley Bey thirty-six hours before. He had hope that he could save the situation, but meanwhile he was concerned for the new situation created here at a.s.siout. What would Kingsley do? He knew what he himself would do in the circ.u.mstances, but in crises few men of character do the necessary thing in exactly the same way. Here was comedy of a high order, a mystery and necessary revelation of singular piquancy. To his thinking the revelation was now overdue.

He looked at the woman beside him, and he saw in her face a look it never had had before. Revelation of a kind was there; beauty, imagination, solicitude, delicate wonder were there. It touched him. He had never been arrested on his way of life by any dream of fair women, or any dream of any woman. It did not seem necessary--no one was necessary to him; he lived his real life alone, never sharing with any one that of himself which was not part of the life he lived before the world. Yet he had always been liked by men, and he had been agreeable in the sight of more women than he knew, this little man with a will of iron and a friendly heart. But he laughed silently now as he saw Kingsley approaching; the situation was so beautifully invented. It did not seem quite like a thing in real life. In any other country than Egypt it would have been comic opera--Foulik Pasha and his men so egregiously important; Kingsley so overwhelmed by the duty that lay before him; the woman in a whimsically embarra.s.sing position with the odds, the laugh, against her, yet little likely to take the obvious view of things and so make possible a commonplace end. What would she do?

What would Kingsley do? What would he, d.i.c.ky Donovan, do? He knew by the look in Kingsley's eyes that it was time for him to go. He moved down to Foulik Pasha, and, taking his arm, urged him towards the sh.o.r.e with a whispered word. The Pasha responded, followed by his men, but presently turned and, before d.i.c.ky could intervene--for he wanted Kingsley to make his own revelation--said courteously:

"May the truth of Allah be with you, I will await you at the boat, Kingsley Bey."

d.i.c.ky did not turn round, but, with a sharp exclamation of profanity, drew Foulik Pasha on his imbecile way.

As for Kingsley Bey, he faced a woman who, as the truth dawned upon her, stared at him in a painful silence for a moment, and then drew back to the doorway of the house as though to find sudden refuge. Kingsley's head went round. Nothing had gone according to his antic.i.p.ations. Foulik Pasha had upset things.

"Now you know--I wished to tell you myself," he said.

She answered at once, quietly, coldly, and with an even formal voice: "I did not know your name was Kingsley."

"It was my grandmother's name."

"I had forgotten--that is of no consequence, however; but--" she stopped.

"You realise that I am--"

"Yes, of course, Kingsley Bey--I quite understand. I thought you Lord Selden, an English gentleman. You are--" she made an impatient gesture--"well, you are English still!"

He was. .h.i.t hard. The suggestion of her voice was difficult to bear.

"I am not so ungentlemanly as you think. I meant to tell you--almost at once. I thought that as an old friend I might wait a moment or two. The conversation got involved, and it grew harder every minute. Then Foulik Pasha came-and now...."

She showed no signs of relenting. "It was taking advantage of an old-acquaintance. Against your evil influence here I have been working for years, while you have grown rich out of the slavery I detest. You will pardon my plain speaking, but this is not London, and one has had to learn new ways in this life here. I do not care for the acquaintance of slave-drivers, I have no wish to offer them hospitality. The world is large and it belongs to other people, and one has to endure much when one walks abroad; but this house is my own place, a little spot all my own, and I cherish it. There are those who come to the back door, and they are fed and clothed and sent away by the hand of charity; there are those who come to the front door, and I welcome them gladly--all that I have is theirs; there are those who come to a side door, when no one sees, and take me unawares, and of them I am afraid, their presence I resent. My doors are not open to slave-drivers."

"What is the difference between the letter from the slave-driver's hand and the slave-driver himself?"

She started and flushed deeply. She took the letter slowly from her pocket and laid it on the table.

"I thought it a letter from a man who was openly doing wrong, and who repented a little of his wrongdoing. I thought it a letter from a stranger, from an Englishman who, perhaps, had not had such advantages of birth and education as came to you."

"Yet you had a good opinion of the letter. There seemed no want of education and all that there--won't you be reasonable, and let me explain? Give me half a chance."

"I do not see that explanation can mend anything. The men you sent me to free: that was a-well, call it a manoeuvre, to achieve what, I cannot tell. Is it not so? The men are not free. Is it not so?"

"I am afraid they are not free," he answered, smiling in spite of himself.

"Your coming here was a manoeuvre also--for what purpose I do not know.

Yet it was a manoeuvre, and I am--or was to be--the victim of the plot."

She smiled scornfully. "I trust you may yet be the victim of your own conduct."

"In more ways than one, maybe. Don't you think, now that the tables are turned, that you might have mercy on 'a prisoner and a captive'?"

She looked at him inquiringly, then glanced towards the sh.o.r.e where d.i.c.ky stood talking with Foulik Pasha. Her eyes came back slowly and again asked a question. All at once intelligence flashed into them.

"You wished to see Kingsley Bey a prisoner; you have your wish," he said smiling.

"Whose prisoner?" she asked, still coldly. "The Khedive's."

A flash of triumph crossed her face. Her heart beat hard. Had it come at last, the edict to put down slavery? Had the Khedive determined to put an end to the work of Kingsley Bey in his desert-city-and to Kingsley Bey himself?... Her heart stopped beating now. She glanced towards d.i.c.ky Donovan, and her pulses ran more evenly again. Would the Khedive have taken such a step unless under pressure? And who in Egypt could have, would have, persuaded him, save d.i.c.ky Donovan? Yet d.i.c.ky was here with his friend Kingsley Bey. The mystery troubled her, and the trouble got into her eyes.

"You are going to Cairo?" she said, glancing towards the boat.

"It would seem so."

"And Donovan Pasha goes too?"

"I hope so. I am not sure."

"But he must go," she said a little sharply.

"Yes?"

"He--you must have somebody, and he has great power."

"That might or might not be to my benefit. After all, what does it matter?"--He saw that she was perturbed, and he pressed his advantage.

She saw, however, and retreated. "We reap as we sow," she said, and made as if to go inside the house. "You have had the game, you must pay for the candles out of your earnings."

"I don't mind paying what's fair. I don't want other people to pay."

She turned angrily on him, he could not tell why. "You don't want others to pay! As if you could do anything that doesn't affect others. Did you learn that selfishness at Skaw Fell, or was it born with you? You are of those who think they earn all their own success and happiness, and then, when they earn defeat and despair, are surprised that others suffer. As if our penalties were only paid by ourselves! Egotism, vanity! So long as you have your dance, it matters little to you who pays for the tune."

"I am sorry." He was bewildered; he had not expected this.

"Does a man stoop to do in a foreign land what he would not do in his own country--dare not do?--One is so helpless--a woman! Under cover of an old friend s.h.i.+p--ah!" She suddenly turned, and, before he could say a word, disappeared inside the house. He spoke her name once, twice; he ventured inside the house, and called, but she did not come. He made his way to the veranda, and was about to leave for the sh.o.r.e, when he heard a step behind him. He turned quickly. It was the Circa.s.sian girl, Mata.

He spoke to her in Arabic, and she smiled at him. "What is it?" he asked, for he saw she had come from her mistress.

"My Lady begs to excuse--but she is tired," she said in English, which she loved to use.

"I am to go on--to prison, then?"

"I suppose. It has no matter. My Lady is angry. She has to say, 'Thank you, good-bye.' So, goodbye," she added naively, and held out her hand.