Mr. William Sowerby, lieutenant in the Mounted Infantry, was in a difficult situation, out of which he was little likely to come with credit—or his life. It is a dangerous thing to play with fire, so it is said; it is a more dangerous thing to walk rough-shod over Oriental customs. A man ere this has lost his life by carrying his shoe-leather across the threshold of a mosque, and this sort of thing William Sowerby knew, and of his knowledge he heeded. He did not heed another thing, however; which is, that Oriental ladies are at home to but one man in all the world, and that your acquaintance with them must be modified by a mushrabieh screen, a yashmak, a shaded, fast-driving brougham, and a hideous eunuch.
William Sowerby had not been long in Egypt, he had not travelled very far or very wide in the Orient; and he was an impressionable and harmless young man whose bark and bite were of equal value. His ideas of a harem were inaccurately based on the legend that it is necessarily the habitation of many wives and concubines and slaves. It had never occurred to him that there might be a sort of family life in a harem; that a pasha or a bey might have daughters as well as wives; or might have only one wife—which is less expensive; and that a harem is not necessarily the heaven of a voluptuary, an elysium of rosy-petalled love and passion. Yet he might have known it all, and should have known it all, if he had taken one-fifth of the time to observe and study Egyptian life which he gave to polo and golf and racquets. Yet even if he had known the life from many stand-points he would still have cherished illusions, for, as Dicky Donovan, who had a sense of satire, said in some satirical lines, the cherished amusements of more than one dinner table:
“Oh, William William Sowerby
Has come out for to see
The way of a bimbashi
With Egyptian Cavalree.
But William William Sowerby
His eyes do open wide
When he sees the Pasha’s chosen
In her “bruggam” and her pride.
And William William Sowerby,
He has a tender smile,
Which will bring him in due season
To the waters of the Nile
And the cheery crocodile!”
It can scarcely be said that Dicky was greatly surprised when Mahommed Yeleb, the servant of “William William Sowerby,” came rapping at his door one hot noon-day with a dark tale of disaster to his master. This was the heart of the thing—A languid, bored, inviting face, and two dark curious eyes in a slow-driving brougham out on the Pyramid Road; William’s tender, answering smile; his horse galloping behind to within a discreet distance of the palace, where the lady alighted, shadowed by the black-coated eunuch. The same thing for several days, then a device to let the lady know his name, then a little note half in Arabic, half in French, so mysterious, so fascinating—William Sowerby walked on air! Then, a nocturnal going forth, followed by his frightened servant, who dared not give a warning, for fear of the ever-ready belt which had scarred his back erstwhile; the palace wall, an opening door, the figure of his master passing through, the closing gate; and then no more—nothing more, for a long thirty-six hours!
Mahommed Yeleb’s face would have been white if his skin had permitted—it was a sickly yellow; his throat was guttural with anxiety, his eyes furtive and strained, for was he not the servant of his master, and might not he be marked for the early tomb if, as he was sure, his master was gone that way?
“Aiwa, efendi, it is sure,” he said to Dicky Donovan, who never was surprised at anything that happened. He had no fear of anything that breathed; and he kept his place with Ismail because he told the truth pitilessly, was a poorer man than the Khedive’s barber, and a beggar beside the Chief Eunuch; also, because he had a real understanding of the Oriental mind, together with a rich sense of humour.
“What is sure?” said Dicky to the Arab with assumed composure; for it was important that he should show neither anxiety nor astonishment, lest panic seize the man, and he should rush abroad with grave scandal streaming from his mouth, and the English fat be in the Egyptian fire for ever. “What is sure, Mahommed Yeleb?” repeated Dicky, lighting a cigarette idly.
“It is as God wills; but as the tongue of man speaks, so is he—Bimbashi Sowerby, my master—swallowed up these thirty-six hours in the tomb prepared for him by Selamlik Pasha.”
Dicky felt his eyelids twitch, and he almost gave a choking groan of anxiety, for Selamlik Pasha would not spare the invader of his harem; an English invader would be a delicate morsel for his pitiless soul. He shuddered inwardly at the thought of what might have occurred, what might occur still.
If Sowerby had been trapped and was already dead, the knowledge would creep through the bazaars like a soft wind of the night, and all the Arab world would rejoice that a cursed Inglesi, making the unpardonable breach of their code, had been given to the crocodiles, been smothered, or stabbed, or tortured to death with fire. And, if it were so, what could be done? Could England make a case of it, avenge the life of this young fool who had disgraced her in the eyes of the world, of the envious French in Cairo, and of that population of the palaces who hated her because Englishmen were the enemies of backsheesh, corruption, tyranny, and slavery? And to what good the attempt? Exists the personal law of the Oriental palace, and who may punish any there save by that personal law? What outside law shall apply to anything that happens within those mysterious walls? Who shall bear true witness, when the only judge is he whose palace it is? Though twenty nations should unite to judge, where might proof be found—inside the palace, where all men lie and bear false witness?
If Sowerby was not dead, then resort to force? Go to Selamlik Pasha the malignant, and demand the young officer? How easy for Selamlik Pasha to deny all knowledge of his existence! Threaten Selamlik—and raise a Mahommedan crusade? That would not do.
Say nought, then, and let Sowerby, who had thrust his head into the jaws of the tiger, get it out as best he might, or not get it out, as the case might be?
Neither was that possible to Dicky Donovan, even if it were the more politic thing to do, even if it were better for England’s name. Sowerby was his friend, as men of the same race are friends together in a foreign country. Dicky had a poor opinion of Sowerby’s sense or ability, and yet he knew that if he were in Sowerby’s present situation—living or dead—Sowerby would spill his blood a hundred useless times, if need be, to save him.
He had no idea of leaving Sowerby where he was, if alive; or of not avenging him one way or another if dead. But how that might be he was not on the instant sure. He had been struck as with a sudden blindness by the news, though he showed nothing of this to Mahommed Yeleb. His chief object was to inspire the Arab with confidence, since he was probably the only man outside Selamlik’s palace who knew the thing as yet. It was likely that Selamlik Pasha would be secret till he saw whether Sowerby would be missed and what inquiry was made for him. It was important to Dicky, in the first place, that this Mahommed Yeleb be kept quiet, by being made a confidant of his purposes so far as need be, an accomplice in his efforts whatever they should be. Kept busy, with a promise of success and backsheesh when the matter was completed, the Arab would probably remain secret. Besides, as Dicky said to himself, while Mahommed kept his head, he would not risk parading himself as the servant of the infidel who had invaded the Pasha’s harem. Again, it was certain that he had an adequate devotion to his master, who had given him as many ha’pence as kicks, and many cast-off underclothes and cigarettes.
Thus it was that before Dicky had arranged what he should do, though plans were fusing in his brain, he said to Mahommed Yeleb seriously, as befitting the crime Sowerby had committed—evenly, as befitted the influence he wished to have over the Arab: “Keep your tongue between your teeth, Mahommed. We will pull him through all right.”
“But, effendi, whom God honour, for greatness is in all thy ways, friend of the Commander of the Faithful as thou art—but, saadat el basha, if he be dead?”
“He is not dead. I know it by the eyes of my mind, Mahommed—yea, by the hairs of my head, he is not dead!”
“Saadat el basha, thou art known as the truth-teller and the incorruptible—this is the word of the Egyptian and of the infidel concerning thee. I kiss thy feet. For it is true he hath deserved death, but woe be to him by whom his death cometh! And am I not his servant to be with him while he hath life, and hath need of me? If thou sayest he is alive, then is he alive, and my heart rejoices.”
Dicky scarcely heard what the Arab said, for the quick conviction he had had that Sowerby was alive was based on the fact, suddenly remembered, that Selamlik Pasha had only returned from the Fayoum this very morning, and that therefore he could not as yet have had any share in the fate of Sowerby, but had probably been sent for by the Chief Eunuch. It was but an hour since that he had seen Selamlik Pasha driving hastily towards his palace.
His mind was instantly made up, his plans formed to his purpose.
“Listen, Mahommed,” he said to the Arab. “Listen to each word I say, as though it were the prayer to take thee into Paradise. Go at once to Selamlik Pasha. Carry this ring the Khedive gave to me—he will know it. Do not be denied his presence. Say that it is more than life and death; that it is all he values in the world. Once admitted, say these words: ‘Donovan Pasha knows all, and asks an audience at midnight in this palace. Until that hour Donovan Pasha desires peace. For is it not the law, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth? Is not a market a place to buy and sell?’”
Four times did Dicky make the Arab repeat the words after him, till they ran like water from his tongue, and dismissed him upon the secret errand with a handful of silver.
Immediately the Arab had gone, Dicky’s face flushed with excitement, in the reaction from his lately assumed composure. For five minutes he walked up and down, using language scarcely printable, reviling Sowerby, and setting his teeth in anger. But he suddenly composed himself, and, sitting down, stared straight before him for a long time without stirring a muscle. There was urgent need of action, but there was more urgent need of his making no mistake, of his doing the one thing necessary, for Sowerby could only be saved in one way, not many.
It was useless to ask the Khedive’s intervention—Ismail dared not go against Selamlik in this. Whatever was done must be done between Selamlik Pasha, the tigerish libertine, and Richard Donovan, the little man who, at the tail end of Ismail’s reign, was helping him hold things together against the black day of reckoning, “prepared for the devil and all his angels,” as Dicky had said to Ismail on this very momentous morning, when warning him of the perils in his path. Now Dicky had been at war with Selamlik ever since, one day long ago on the Nile, he and Fielding had thwarted his purposes; and Dicky had earned the Pasha’s changeless hatred by calling him “Trousers”—for this name had gone up and down throughout Egypt as a doubtful story travels, drawing easy credit everywhere. Those were the days when Dicky was irresponsible. Of all in Egypt who hated him most, Selamlik Pasha was the chief. But most people hated Selamlik, so the world was not confounded by the great man’s rage, nor did they dislike Dicky simply because the Pasha chose to do so. Through years Selamlik had built up his power, until even the Khedive feared him, and would have been glad to tie a stone round his neck and drop him into the Nile. But Ismail could no longer do this sort of thing without some show of reason—Europe was hanging on his actions, waiting for the apt moment to depose him.
All this Dicky knew, and five minutes from the time Mahommed Yeleb had left him he was on his way to Ismail’s palace, with his kavass behind him, cool and ruminating as usual, now answering a salute in Turkish fashion, now in English, as Egyptians or Europeans passed him.
II
There was one being in the Khedive’s palace whose admiration for Dicky was a kind of fetish, and Dicky loathed him. Twice had Dicky saved this Chief Eunuch’s life from Ismail’s anger, and once had he saved his fortune—not even from compassion, but out of his inherent love of justice. As Dicky had said: “Let him die—for what he has done, not for something he has not done. Send him to the devil with a true bill of crime.” So it was that Dicky, who shrank from the creature whom Ministers and Pashas fawned upon—so powerful was his unique position in the palace—went straight to him now to get his quid-pro-quo, his measure for measure.
The tall, black-coated, smooth-faced creature, silent and watchful and lean, stepped through the doorway with the footfall of a cat. He slid forward, salaamed to the floor-Dicky wondered how a body could open and shut so like the blade of a knife—and, catching Dicky’s hand, kissed it.
“May thy days be watered with the dew of heaven, saadat el basha,” said the Chief Eunuch.
“Mine eyes have not seen since thy last withdrawal,” answered Dicky blandly, in the high-flown Oriental way.
“Thou hast sent for me. I am thy slave.”
“I have sent for thee, Mizraim. And thou shalt prove thyself, once for all, whether thy hand moves as thy tongue speaks.”
“To serve thee I will lay down my life—I will blow it from me as the wind bloweth the cotton flower. Have I not spoken thus since the Feast of Beiram, now two years gone?”
Dicky lowered his voice. “Both Mustapha Bey, that son of the he-wolf Selamlik Pasha, still follow the carriage of the Khedive’s favourite, and hang about the walls, and seek to corrupt thee with gold, Mahommed Mizraim?”
“Saadat el basha, but for thy word to wait, the Khedive had been told long since.”
“It is the sport to strike when the sword cuts with the longest arm, O son of Egypt!”
The face of Mizraim was ugly with the unnatural cruelty of an unnatural man. “Is the time at hand, saadat el basha?”
“You hate Selamlik Pasha?”
“As the lion the jackal.”
Dicky would have laughed in scorn if he might have dared—this being to class himself with lions! But the time was not fit for laughter. “And the son of Selamlik Pasha, the vile Mustapha Bey?” he asked.
“I would grind him like corn between the stones! Hath he not sent messages by the women of the bazaar to the harem of my royal master, to whom God give glory in heaven? Hath he not sought to enter the harem as a weasel crawls under a wall? Hath he not sought to steal what I hoard by a mighty hand and the eye of an eagle for Ismail the Great? Shall I love him more than the dog that tears the throat of a gazelle?” The gesture of cruelty he made was disgusting to the eyes of Dicky Donovan, but he had in his mind the peril to Sowerby, and he nodded his head in careless approval, as it were.
“Then, Mizraim, thou son of secrecy and keeper of the door, take heed to what I say, and for thine honour and my need do as I will. Thou shalt to-night admit Mustapha Bey to the harem—at the hour of nine o’clock!”
“Saadat el basha!” The eunuch’s face was sickly in its terrified wonder.
“Even so. At nine.”
“But, saadat—”
“Bring him secretly, even to the door of the favourite’s room; then, have him seized and carried to a safe place till I send for him.”
“Ah, saadat el basha—” The lean face of the creature smiled, and the smile was not nice to see.
“Let no harm be done him, but await my messenger, Mahommed Yeleb, and whatsoever he bids you to do, do it; for I speak.”
“Ah, saadat el basha, you would strike Selamlik Pasha so—the great beast, the black river pig, the serpent of the slime...!”
“You will do this thing, Mizraim?”
“I shall lure him, as the mirage the pilgrim. With joy I will do this, and a hundred times more.”
“Even if I asked of thee the keys of the harem?” asked Dicky grimly.
“Effendi, thou wouldst not ask. All the world knows thee. For thee the harem hath no lure. Thou goest not by dark ways to deeds for thine own self. Thou hast honour. Ismail himself would not fear thee.”
“See, thou master of many, squeak not thy voice so high. Ismail will take thy head and mine, if he discovers to-night’s business. Go then with a soft tread, Mizraim. Let thy hand be quick on his mouth, and beware that no one sees!”
III
Upon the stroke of midnight Dicky entered the room where Selamlik Pasha awaited him with a malicious and greasy smile, in which wanton cruelty was uppermost. Selamlik Pasha knew well the object of this meeting. He had accurately interpreted the message brought by Mahommed Yeleb. He knew his power; he knew that the Englishman’s life was in his hands to do with what he chose, for the law of the harem which defies all outside law was on his side. But here he was come to listen to Dicky Donovan, the arrogant little favourite, pleading for the life of the English boy who had done the thing for which the only penalty was death.
Dicky showed no emotion as he entered the room, but salaamed, and said: “Your Excellency is prompt. Honour and peace be upon your Excellency!” “Honour and the bounty of the stars be upon thee, saadat el basha!”
There was a slight pause, in which Dicky seated himself, lighted a cigarette, and summoned a servant, of whom he ordered coffee. They did not speak meantime, but Dicky sat calmly, almost drowsily, smoking, and Selamlik Pasha sat with greasy hands clasping and unclasping, his yellow eyes fixed on Dicky with malevolent scrutiny.
When the coffee was brought, the door had been shut, and Dicky had drawn the curtain across, Selamlik Pasha said: “What great affair brings us together here, saadat el basha?”
“The matter of the Englishman you hold a prisoner, Excellency.”
“It is painful, but he is dead,” said the Pasha, with a grimace of cruelty.
Dicky’s eyes twitched slightly, but he answered with coolness, thrusting his elbow into the cushions and smoking hard: “But, no, he is not dead. Selamlik Pasha has as great an instinct for a bargain as for revenge. Also Selamlik Pasha would torture before he kills. Is it not so?”
“What is your wish?”
“That the man be set free, Excellency.”
“He has trespassed. He has stolen his way into the harem. The infidel dog has defiled the house of my wives.”
“He will marry the woman, with your permission, Excellency. He loved her—so it would seem.”
“He shall die—the dog of an infidel!”
Dicky was now satisfied that Sowerby was alive, and that the game was fairly begun. He moved slowly towards his purpose.
“I ask his life, as a favour to me. The Khedive honours me, and I can serve you betimes, Excellency.”
“You called me ‘Trousers,’ and all Egypt laughed,” answered the Pasha malignantly.
“I might have called you worse, but I did not. You may call me what you will—I will laugh.”
“I will call you a fool for bringing me here to laugh at you, who now would kiss Selamlik Pasha’s shoe. I would he were your brother. I would tear out his fingernails, pierce his eyes, burn him with hot irons, pour boiling oil over him and red cinders down his throat—if he were your brother.”
“Remember I am in the confidence of the Khedive, Pasha.”
“Ismail! What dare he do? Every Egyptian in the land would call him infidel. Ismail would dare do nothing.” His voice was angrily guttural with triumph.
“England will ask the price of the young man’s life of you, Excellency.”
“England dare not move—is thy servant a fool? Every Mussulman in the land would raise the green flag—the Jehad would be upon ye!”
“He is so young. He meant no ill. The face of your daughter drew him on. He did not realise his crimen—or its penalty.”
“It is a fool’s reasoning. Because he was a stranger and an infidel, so has he been told of dark things done to those who desecrate our faith.”
“Had he been an Egyptian or a Turk—”
“I should slay him, were he Ismail himself. Mine own is mine own, as Mahomet hath said. The man shall die—and who shall save him? Not even the Sultan himself.”
“There are concessions in the Fayoum—you have sought them long.”
“Bah!”
“There is the Grand Cordon of the Mejidieh; there is a way to it, Excellency.”
“The man’s blood!”
“There is a high office to be vacant soon, near to the person of the Khedive, with divers moneys and loans—”
“To see Donovan Pasha cringe and beg is better.”
“There is that mercy which one day you may have to ask for yourself or for your own—”
“The fool shall die. And who shall save him?”
“Well, I will save him,” said Dicky, rising slowly to his feet.
“Pish! Go to the Khedive with the tale, and I will kill the man within the hour, and tell it abroad, and we shall see where Donovan Pasha will stand to-morrow. The Khedive is not stronger than his people—and there are the French, and others!” He spat upon the floor at Dicky’s feet. “Go, tell the Khedive what you will, dog of an Englishman, son of a dog with a dog’s heart!” Dicky took a step forward, with an ominous flare of colour in his cheek. There was a table between him and Selamlik Pasha. He put both hands upon it, and leaning over said in a voice of steel:
“So be it, then. Shall I go to the Khedive and say that this night Mustapha Bey, eldest and chosen son of Selamlik Pasha, the darling of his fat heart, was seized by the Chief Eunuch, the gentle Mizraim, in the harem of his Highness? Shall I tell him that, Trousers?”
As Dicky spoke, slowly, calmly, Selamlik Pasha turned a greenish-yellow, his eyes started from his head, his hand chafed the air.
“Mustapha Bey—Khedive’s harem!” he stammered in a husky voice.
“By the gentle Mizraim, I said,” answered Dicky. “Is Mustapha Bey’s life worth an hour’s purchase? Is Selamlik Pasha safe?”
“Is—is he dead?” gasped the cowardly Egyptian, furtively glancing towards the door. Suddenly he fell back fainting, and Dicky threw some water in his face, then set a cup of it beside him.
“Drink, and pull yourself together, if you would save yourself,” said Dicky.
“Save—save myself,” said Selamlik Pasha, recovering; then, with quick suspicion, and to gain time, added quickly: “Ah, it is a trick! He is not a prisoner—you lie!”
“I have not a reputation for lying,” rejoined Dicky quietly. “But see!” he added; and throwing open a door, pointed to where the Chief Eunuch stood with Mahommed Yeleb, Mustapha Bey gagged and bound between them. Dicky shut the door again, as Selamlik Pasha shrank back among the cushions, cowardice incarnate.
“You thought,” said Dicky with a soft fierceness, “you thought that I would stoop to bargain with Selamlik Pasha and not know my way out of the bargain? You thought an Englishman would beg, even for a life, of such as you! You thought me, Donovan Pasha, such a fool!”
“Mercy, Excellency!” said Selamlik, spreading out his hands.
Dicky laughed. “You called me names, Selamlik—a dog, and the son of a dog with a dog’s heart. Was it wise?”
“Is there no way? Can no bargain be made?”
Dicky sat down, lighting a cigarette.
“To save a scandal in Egypt,” answered Dicky drily, “I am ready to grant you terms.”
“Speak-Excellency.”
“The life of the Englishman for the life of your son and your own. Also, the freedom of the six Circassian slaves whom you house now at Beni Hassan, ready to bring to your palace. Also, for these slaves two hundred Turkish pounds apiece. Also, your written word that you will bring no more slaves into Egypt. Is the bargain fair?”
“Mizraim may still betray us,” said Selamlik, trembling, with relief, but yet apprehensive.
“Mizraim is in my power—he acts for me,” said Dicky. “Whose life is safe here save my own?”
“Malaish! It shall be as your will is, Excellency,” answered Selamlik Pasha, in a shaking voice; and he had time to wonder even then how an Englishman could so outwit an Oriental. It was no matter how Mustapha Bey, his son, was lured; he had been seized in the harem, and all truth can be forsworn in Egypt, and the game was with this Donovan Pasha.
“Send to your palace, commanding that the Englishman be brought here,” said Dicky. Selamlik Pasha did so.
Sowerby of the Mounted Infantry was freed that night, and the next day Dicky Donovan had six Circassian slaves upon his hands. He passed them over to the wife of Fielding Bey with whom he had shared past secrets and past dangers.
Selamlik Pasha held his peace in fear; and the Khedive and Cairo never knew why there was a truce to battle between Dicky Donovan and that vile Pasha called Trousers.
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