Donovan Pasha And Some People Of Egypt, Complete - Gilbert Parker
"Twenty men will lose their heads to-morrow morning, a riot will occur,
the bank where much gold is will be broken into, some one will be made
poor, and--"
"Come, never mind twaddle about my money--we'll see about that. Those
twenty men--my men?"
"Your men, saadat el bey."
"They're seized?"
"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, Dicky 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 Assiout. What would Kingsley do? He knew
what he himself would do in the circumstances, 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
embarrassing 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, Dicky 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 shore with a whispered word. The Pasha responded,
followed by his men, but presently turned and, before Dicky 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."
Dicky 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 anticipations. 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 hit 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 shore where Dicky
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 Dicky
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 Dicky Donovan? Yet Dicky 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 ship--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 shore, when he heard a step
behind him. He turned quickly. It was the Circassian 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.
Kingsley laughed, in spite of his discomfiture, and shook it.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I am My Lady's slave," she said proudly.
"No, no--her servant. You can come and go as you like. You have wages."
"I am Mata, the slave--My Lady's slave. All the world knows I am her
slave. Was I not given her by the Khedive whose slave I was? May the
leaves of life be green always, but I am Mata the slave," she said
stubbornly, shaking her head.
"Do you tell My Lady so?"
"Wherefore should I tell My Lady what she knows? Is not the truth the
truth? Good-night! I had a brother who went to prison. His grave is by
Stamboul. Good-night, effendi. He was too young to die, but he had gold,
and the captain of the citadel needed money. So, he had to die. Malaish!
He is in the bosom of God, and prison does not last forever. Goodnight,
effendi. If you, effendi, are poor, it is well; no man will desire your
life. Then you can be a slave, and have quiet nights. If you are rich,
effendi, remember my brother. Good-night, effendi. May sacrifices be
yours . . . and My Lady says good-night." Kingsley gave her a gold-piece
and went down to Foulik Pasha.
As they steamed away Kingsley looked in vain to the house on the shore.
There was no face at window or door, no sign of life about the place.
"Well, my bold bey," said Donovan Pasha to him at last, "what do you
think of Egypt now?"
"I'm not thinking of Egypt now."
"Did the lady deeply sympathise? Did your prescription work?"
"You know it didn't. Nothing worked. This fool Foulik came at the wrong
moment."
"It wouldn't have made any difference. You see you were playing with
marked cards, and that is embarrassing. You got a certificate of
character by--"
"Yes, I know. That's what she said. Never mind. I've played as I meant to
play, and I'll abide the result. I said I'd marry her, and I mean to,
though she gently showed me the door--beautiful, proud person!"
"She is much too good for you."
"What does that matter, if she doesn't think so?"
"My opinion is she'll never touch you or your slave-gold with a
mile-measure."
Dicky did not think this, but it was his way of easing his own mind.
Inwardly he was studying the situation, and wondering how he could put
Kingsley's business straight.
"She thinks I'm still a 'slave-driver,' as she calls it--women are so
innocent. You did your part, as well as could be expected, I'm bound to
say. I only wish I wasn't so much trouble to you. I owe you a lot, Dicky
Pasha--everything! You got me the golden shillings to start with; you had
faith in me; you opened the way to fortune, to the thing that's more than
fortune--to success."
"I'm not altogether proud of you. You've messed things to-day."
"I'll set them right to-morrow--with your help. Ismail is going a bit
large this time."
"He is an Oriental. A life or two--think of Sadik Pasha. Your men--"
"Well? You think he'd do it--think he'd dare to do it?"
"Suppose they disappeared? Who could prove that Ismail did it? And if it
could be proved--they're his own subjects, and the Nile is near! Who can
say him nay?"
"I fancy you could--and I would."
"I can do something. I've done a little in my day; but my day, like
Ismail's, is declining. They are his subjects, and he needs money, and he
puts a price on their heads--that's about the size of it. Question How
much will you have to pay? How much have you in Cairo at the bank?"
"Only about ten thousand pounds."
"He'd take your draft on England, but he'll have that ten thousand
pounds, if he can get it."
"That doesn't matter, but as for my arrest--"
"A trick, on some trumped-up charge. If he can hold you long enough to
get some of your cash, that's all he wants. He knows he's got no
jurisdiction over you--not a day's hold. He knows you'd give a good deal
to save your men."
"Poor devils! But to be beaten by this Egyptian bulldozer--not if I know
it, Dicky"
"Still, it may be expensive."
"Ah!" Kingsley Bey sighed, and his face was clouded, but Dicky knew he
was not thinking of Ismail or the blackmail. His eyes were on the house
by the shore, now disappearing, as they rounded a point of land.
"Ah" said Donovan Pasha, but he did not sigh.
III
"Ah!" said a lady, in a dirty pink house at Assiout, with an accent which
betrayed a discovery and a resolution, "I will do it. I may be of use
some way or another. The Khedive won't dare--but still the times are
desperate. As Donovan Pasha said, it isn't easy holding down the
safety-valve all the time, and when it flies off, there will be dark days
for all of us. . . . An old friend--bad as he is! Yes, I will go."
Within forty-eight hours of Donovan Pasha's and Kingsley Bey's arrival in
Cairo the lady appeared there, and made inquiries of her friends. No one
knew anything. She went to the Consulate, and was told that Kingsley Bey
was still in prison, that the Consulate had not yet taken action.
She went to Donovan Pasha, and he appeared far more mysterious and
troubled than he really was. Kingsley Bey was as cheerful as might be
expected, he said, but the matter was grave. He was charged with the
destruction of the desert-city, and maintaining an army of slaves in the
Khedive's dominions--a menace to the country.
"But it was with the Khedive's connivance," she said. "Who can prove
that? It's a difficult matter for England to handle, as you can see."
This was very wily of Dicky Donovan, for he was endeavouring to create
alarm and sympathy in the woman's mind by exaggerating the charge. He
knew that in a few days at most Kingsley Bey would be free. He had
himself given Ismail a fright, and had even gone so far as to suggest
inside knowledge of the plans of Europe concerning Egypt. But if he could
deepen the roots of this comedy for Kingsley's benefit--and for the
lady's--it was his duty so to do.
"Of course," he made haste to add, "you cannot be expected to feel
sympathy for him. In your eyes, he is a criminal. He had a long innings,
and made a mint of money. We must do all we can, and, of course, we'll
save his life--ah, I'm sure you wouldn't exact the fullest penalty on
him!"
Dicky was more than wily; he was something wicked. The suggestion of
danger to Kingsley's life had made her wince, and he had added another
little barbed arrow to keep the first company. The cause was a good one.
Hurt now to heal afterwards--and Kingsley was an old friend, and a good
fellow. Anyhow, this work was wasting her life, and she would be much
better back in England, living a civilised life, riding in the Row, and
slumming a little, in the East End, perhaps, and presiding at meetings
for the amelioration of the unameliorated. He was rather old-fashioned in
his views. He saw the faint trouble in her eyes and face, and he made up
his mind that he would work while it was yet the day. He was about to
speak, but she suddenly interposed a question.
"Is he comfortable? How does he take it?"
"Why, all right. You know the kind of thing: mud walls and floor--quite
dry, of course--and a sleeping-mat, and a balass of water, and cakes of
dourha, and plenty of time to think. After all, he's used to primitive
fare."
Donovan Pasha was drawing an imaginary picture, and drawing it with
effect. He almost believed it as his artist's mind fashioned it. She
believed it, and it tried her. Kingsley Bey was a criminal, of course,
but he was an old friend; he had offended her deeply also, but that was
no reason why he should be punished by any one save herself. Her regimen
of punishments would not necessarily include mud walls and floor, and a
sleeping-mat and a balass of water; and whatever it included it should
not be administered by any hand save her own. She therefore resented, not
quite unselfishly, this indignity and punishment the Khedive had
commanded.
"When is he to be tried?"
"Well, that is hardly the way to put it. When he can squeeze the Khedive
into a corner he'll be free, but it takes time. We have to go carefully,
for it isn't the slave-master alone, it's those twenty slaves of his,
including the six you freed. Their heads are worth a good deal to the
Khedive, he thinks."
She was dumfounded. "I don't understand," she said helplessly.
"Well, the Khedive put your six and fourteen others in prison for treason
or something--it doesn't matter much here what it is. His game is to
squeeze Kingsley's gold orange dry, if he can."
A light broke over her face. "Ah, now I see," she said, and her face
flushed deeply with anger and indignation. "And you--Donovan Pasha, you
who are supposed to have influence with the Khedive, who are supposed to
be an English influence over him, you can speak of this quietly,
patiently, as a matter possible to your understanding. This barbarous,
hideous black mail! This cruel, dreadful tyranny! You, an Englishman,
remain in the service of the man who is guilty of such a crime!" Her
breath came hard.
"Well, it seems the wisest thing to do as yet. You have lived a long time
in Egypt, you should know what Oriental rule is. Question: Is one bite of
a cherry better than no bite of a cherry? Egypt is like a circus, but
there are wild horses in the ring, and you can't ride them just as you
like. If you keep them inside the barriers, that's something. Of course,
Kingsley made a mistake in a way. He didn't start his desert-city and his
slavery without the consent of the Khedive; he shouldn't have stopped it
and gone out of business without the same consent. It cut down the
Effendina's tribute."
He spoke slowly, counting every word, watching the effect upon her. He
had much to watch, and he would have seen more if he had known women
better.
"He has abandoned the mines--his city--and slavery?" she asked chokingly,
confusedly. It seemed hard for her to speak.
"Yes, yes, didn't you know? Didn't he tell you?" She shook her head. She
was thinking back-remembering their last conversation, remembering how
sharp and unfriendly she had been with him. He had even then freed his
slaves, had given her slaves to free.
"I wonder what made him do it?" added Dicky. "He had made a great
fortune--poor devil, he needed it, for the estates were sweating under
the load. I wonder what made him do it?"
She looked at him bewilderedly for a moment, then, suddenly, some faint
suspicion struck her.
"You should know. You joined with him in deceiving me at Assiout."
"But, no," he responded quickly, and with rare innocence, "the situation
was difficult. You already knew him very well, and it was the force of
circumstances--simply the force of circumstances. Bad luck--no more. He
was innocent, mine was the guilt. I confess I was enjoying the thing,
because--because, you see he had deceived me, actually deceived me, his
best friend. I didn't know he knew you personally, till you two met on
that veranda at Assiout, and--"
"And you made it difficult for him to explain at once--I remember."
"I'm afraid I did. I've got a nasty little temper at times, and I had a
chance to get even. Then things got mixed, and Foulik Pasha upset the
whole basket of plums. Besides, you see, I'm a jealous man, an envious
man, and you never looked so well as you did that day, unless it's
to-day."
She was about to interrupt him, but he went on.
"I had begun to feel that we might have been better friends, you and I;
that--that I might have helped you more; that you had not had the
sympathy you deserved; that civilisation was your debtor, and that--"
"No, no, no, you must not speak that way to me," she interposed with
agitation. "It--it is not necessary. It doesn't bear on the matter. And
you've always been a good friend--always a good friend," she added with a
little friendly quiver in her voice, for she was not quite sure of
herself.
Dicky had come out in a new role, one wherein he would not have been
recognised. It was probably the first time he had ever tried the delicate
social art of playing with fire of this sort. It was all true in a way,
but only in a way. The truest thing about it was that it was genuine
comedy, in which there were two villains, and no hero, and one heroine.
"But there it is," he repeated, having gone as far as his cue warranted.
"I didn't know he had given up his desert-city till two days before you
did, and I didn't know he knew you, and I don't know why he gave up his
desert-city--do you?"
There was a new light in her eyes, a new look in her face. She was not
sure but that she had a glimmering of the reason. It was a woman's
reason, and it was not without a certain exquisite egotism and vanity,
for she remembered so well the letter she had written him--every word was
etched into her mind; and she knew by heart every word of his reply. Then
there were the six slaves he sent to her-and his coming immediately
afterwards. . . . For a moment she seemed to glow, and then the colour
slowly faded and left her face rather grey and very quiet.
He might not be a slave-driver now, but he had been one--and the world of
difference it made to her! He had made his great fortune out of the work
of the men employed as slaves, and--she turned away to the window with a
dejected air. For the first time the real weight of the problem pressed
upon her heavily.
"Perhaps you would like to see him," said Dicky. "It might show that you
were magnanimous."
"Magnanimous! It will look like that--in a mud-cell, with mud floor, and
a piece of matting."
"And a balass of water and dourha-cakes," said Dicky in a childlike way,
and not daring to meet her eyes.
He stroked his moustache with his thumb-nail in a way he had when
perplexed. Kingsley Bey was not in a mud-cell, with a mat and a balass of
water, but in a very decent apartment indeed, and Dicky was trying to
work the new situation out in his mind. The only thing to do was to have
Kingsley removed to a mud-cell, and not let him know the author of his
temporary misfortune and this new indignity. She was ready to visit him
now--he could see that. He made difficulties, however, which would
prevent their going at once, and he arranged with her to go to Kingsley
in the late afternoon.
Her mind was in confusion, but one thing shone clear through the
confusion, and it was the iniquity of the Khedive. It gave her a
foothold. She was deeply grateful for it. She could not have moved
without it. So shameful was the Khedive in her eyes that the prisoner
seemed Criminal made Martyr.
She went back to her hotel flaming with indignation against Ismail. It
was very comforting to her to have this resource. The six slaves whom she
had freed--the first-fruits of her labours: that they should be murdered!
The others who had done no harm, who had been slaves by Ismail's consent,
that they should be now in danger of their lives through the same tyrant!
That Kingsley Bey, who had been a slave-master with Ismail's own approval
and to his advantage, should now--she glowed with pained anger. . . . She
would not wait till she had seen Kingsley Bey, or Donovan Pasha again;
she herself would go to Ismail at once.
So, she went to Ismail, and she was admitted, after long waiting in an
anteroom. She would not have been admitted at all, if it had not been for
Dicky, who, arriving just before her on the same mission, had seen her
coming, and guessed her intention. He had then gone in to the Khedive
with a new turn to his purposes, a new argument and a new suggestion,
which widened the scope of the comedy now being played. He had had a
struggle with Ismail, and his own place and influence had been in
something like real danger, but he had not minded that. He had suggested
that he might be of service to Egypt in London and Paris. That was very
like a threat, but it was veiled by a look of genial innocence which
Ismail admired greatly. He knew that Donovan Pasha could hasten the
crisis coming on him. He did not believe that Donovan Pasha would, but
that did not alter the astuteness and value of the move; and, besides, it
was well to run no foolish risks and take no chances. Also, he believed
in Donovan Pasha's honesty. He despised him in a worldly kind of way,
because he might have been rich and splendid, and he was poor and
unassuming. He wanted Kingsley Bey's fortune, or a great slice of it, but
he wanted it without a struggle with Dicky Donovan, and with the British
Consulate--for that would come, too, directly. It gave him no security to
know that the French would be with him--he knew which country would win
in the end. He was preying on Kingsley Bey's humanity, and he hoped to
make it well worth while. And all he thought and planned was well
understood by Dicky.