The Hawk of Egypt
salutation to the old white woman who was of their mistress's race.
Came Mustapha, the Ethiopian, into whose care the Sheikh had given his
wife all those years ago, when they had ridden out of the desert up to
his dwelling amongst the talik palms of the Flat Oasis.
He was on foot--not that he had done the entire journey in like
manner--and held the golden chain of the magnificent camel upon which
his mistress rode.
She rode in a palanquin of ivory with curtains of rose satin
embroidered in precious stones; on either side, also on camels, rode
two slaves who waved huge circular fans on long staffs to cool the air
about this woman who was so beloved throughout the land for her good
deeds and loving, helping hand.
She was in silk robes of rose covered in a satin cloak of deeper shade;
she was closely veiled as becomes the wife of a Mohammedan, and wore no
jewels save a rope of pearls; and her steady, wonderful blue eyes,
which were just twin heavens of happiness, shone with delight as she
looked up at the old woman who had known her as a girl, with her hair
hanging in two great plaits.
She put both hands to her forehead and spread them out in the beautiful
Eastern gesture of welcome, then bowed to her knees, as she passed.
Then, turning, she pulled her yashmak a little to one side. "_Petite
Maman_!" she cried. "Welcome, _Petite Maman_!" and blew her a kiss
from the tips of her rosy fingers.
Arrived at the entrance, the armed escort made a circle round her with
drawn knives; her camel knelt; a Persian carpet was laid across the
_quasi_-clean stones; then Mustapha the Ethiopian made a sign, upon
which Ameena, the little hunchback woman who loved her mistress more
than her life and who had been transported with joy when she had laid
the first-born, the son, in the mother's arms, came running swiftly.
Mustapha and Ameena lived one long life of secret feud; they fought
like cat and dog as to who could do the most in their mistress's
service; they stood shoulder to shoulder and fought everybody else in
the same good cause; and the huge man scowled fiercely as the deformed
little woman arranged the flowing robes and walked up the Persian
carpet behind the wife of the great Sheikh.
"Well, I never!" was Hobson's comment as she peeked from behind a door.
"Her grace must have made a mistake. You take that downstairs," she
added, coming boldly out onto the landing to intercept the slave with
the monkey. "Downstairs," and she pointed down to the entrance,
surging with people, "unless you want the place to be full of feathers
and fur!"
Jill stood in the doorway; looked across at her godmother, and made the
beautiful gesture of salutation, then removed her veil, picked up her
robes and ran across the room right into the outstretched arms.
Tears were very close as they laughed and held each other by the hand,
but the laughter died away altogether as they sat in the falling
shadows, the younger one with her head on the older one's lap.
Two wise women, they were fighting for the happiness of the young, as
the shadows fell and the stars came out and faded before the light of
the moon as she trailed her silver garments across the heavens.
Jill had risen once to her feet, in a moment of anger, and had gone out
onto the balcony and stood looking down, smiling upon the crowd,
composed chiefly of women, who had raised their hands and called down
the blessings of Allah upon her.
The steps were strewn with gifts, ranging from live goats to masses of
sticky sweetmeats and glass beads. Mothers had brought their sickly
babies and laid them down amongst the goats and beads, hoping that if
even the shadow of the blessed woman were to fall upon them they might
be healed.
Mustapha kept guard, hurling abuse at those who tarried, helping their
departure by the aid of his foot. Hobson stood like a grim sentinel
outside the sitting-room door. She had made tea under the greatest
difficulty--the kettle of tepid water had been flung at the salaaming
offender who had brought it--and had taken it in blushing brick-red
when Jill had risen and kissed her on both cheeks. Dinner had been
served, hardly tasted, and been sent away, and a whole tray of cups
full of burnt milk showed the perturbation of the maid's mind as she
waited, and waited for the sound of the little bell which summoned her
to her grace's presence.
"You are a noble-looking woman, my child," said the duchess, as she
keenly scrutinised the fair face with great blue eyes and broad
humourous mouth, which, but for an added serenity and dignity, was so
very like the face of the girl who had been left behind at Ismailiah
over twenty years ago, and who had journeyed into the desert with the
Arabian Sheikh and had married him. "I'm not surprised your husband
adores you. Could he not have come with you? I have always longed to
see him."
It seemed that the Sheikh Hahmed had been invited to Bagdad, to some
conference concerning the big Arabian question, but hoped to be able to
greet her grace before her departure. In the meanwhile his dwellings,
his servants, his horses and everything he was possessed of were hers.
"And he means it, _Petite Maman_; he loves making people happy. I--I
_love_ him." She paused for a moment; then looked straight into the
stern old eyes. "My love for my son is as great as my love for his
father, and I would lay down my life for their happiness."
There was no tenderness in the sad old eyes and no lines of yielding in
the stern old mouth; for although her heart was aching to say yes to
the mother's insistent demands for her son's happiness, her common
sense had turned her into a very rock of resistance.
"I am happy, radiantly happy." Jill, who was sitting on a stool at the
old woman's feet, slipped to her knees and caught the wrinkled old
hands in her own. "So why should the little girl not be happy with my
son, who is the finest man and dearest son ever born to woman? Tell me
what difference is there? Why should my son be made unhappy? Tell me!"
She knew perfectly well. Her son's words on the roof of his dwelling
under the stars were ringing in her ears; but she was hanging on to a
very forlorn hope with both hands, tricking herself with the thought
that, out of her love for her, the wise old woman might see things in a
different light and give her consent to the marriage just because the
man was her son.
But the old woman caught the mother to her breast and stroked the
golden head and kissed it with a world of pain in her sad old eyes.
"Because, dear," and the words were very gentle and the voice was very
soft, "just because, when we love, we think of ourselves only, and not
of those to come."
The old woman sighed as Jill raised her head sharply: "Try to
understand, little one. You, my dear, a white woman, married a
pure-bred Arab. Ah! my, dear, my dear, forgive me, your son is------"
Jill sprang to her feet, and as she sprang caught the rope of pearls
upon the arm of the chair, breaking it and scattering the jewels to the
four corners of the room.
She flung out her hands, making the Eastern sign to scare away evil
spirits. "The omen!" she whispered. "The omen! A broken string of
pearls means--means--death."
"Come, come, child," said the old lady sharply, and to allay the
unsightly terror in the other's face, and also because she believed in
using an axe in felling a tree, repeated her last remark. "You are
suffering now through the selfishness of love. Women who marry without
giving a thought to the result of the marriage, to the good or the harm
it might bring to the children of that marriage, deserve to suffer.
Marry the man, if you really love him and can help him by being his
wife; but let there be no children if there is anything in the union
that might hurt them." She rose and crossed to the girl who was
standing staring into a corner of the room, with a world of horror in
her eyes. She moved back as the old woman, came towards her, holding
out her hands as though to ward off some evil thing she saw in the
shadows.
"I can't bear it," she whispered; "I can't bear it. I don't believe
that anyone, could think _that_ of Hugh. Remember how loved he was at
Harrow------"
"Ah! my dear, my dear, there was your great mistake . . ."
"You're wrong," interrupted Jill harshly. "You're hopelessly, cruelly
wrong. He was idolised in England; he is loved out here. It was sheer
spite on the part of the--woman who told him that he was--was----" She
pressed her hands over her mouth as she backed to the wall, then flung
her arms out wide; her face was dead-white, her eyes blazing; she
reminded the old woman of a tigress fighting for her cubs; she was
beautiful beyond words in the tragedy of her motherhood. "I don't
believe you--I don't believe you--I--you------"
"Listen, Jill." The old woman's voice was as cold as ice as she
watched the agony in the fair face. Dear heavens! she did not want to
hurt; she wanted to give in and gather the child up in her arms, but
she knew what was best. "Your boy knows it, dear; he knows he is out
of the running. Come over to me and listen whilst I tell you
something." She sat down and pulled the suffering child down beside
her, who lay across the silken knees like the stricken mother across
the knees of the wise Madonna and made no sound or movement whilst she
listened to the bitter words of the fortune-teller in the hotel garden
at Cairo.
A little silence fell; then, very gently, very tenderly the old woman
spoke:
"So you see, dear, until she is of age it will be only my duty to see
that Damaris does not marry your son."
And Jill sprang to her feet and beat her hands together.
"And I," she said, "I will give my heart's blood to bring happiness to
my son. Death alone shall------"
She stopped and shivered as she glanced over her shoulder out into the
night, then drew herself up with a surpassing dignity and threw out her
hands in the Eastern gesture of resignation.
"You say 'I will not,' I say 'I will,' but it is God who decides."
With a little sobbing sigh she relinquished the unequal struggle, just
as Hobson walked boldly into the room and stood inside the door, like a
graven image of intense displeasure, when her mistress, unable to
withstand the unspoken disapproval, consented, after a promise to Jill
to have another long talk on the morrow, to go to bed.
But there was to be no long talk anyway in the town of Khargegh on the
morrow.
She lay in bed, propped by pillows against which, divested of its mask
of red and white and blue, the dear little old face shone brown. A
priceless bit of lace hid her own white locks, free for the night of
the outrageous perruque which covered them by day and which lay at the
moment hidden in its box.
A pair of crimson bed-slippers peeped from under the bed, another pair,
absurdly small, outrageously high-heeled, buckled and crimson, made a
splash of colour near the dressing-table. Her little hands were gently
folded under the ruffles of priceless lace of her cashmere night-attire
as she lay quite still, trying to find a way out through the jungle of
pain and grief which seemed to spread round and about so many she
loved; whilst Dekko, puffed out with sleepiness, sat on the back of a
chair, muttering incoherently to some fanciful image of his weird brain.
Hobson lay fast asleep in the next room, which had a communicating door
with that of her mistress. Knowing nothing of nerves or of
temperament, she had dropped asleep as soon as her head, with scanty
locks tortured into a _chevaux-de-frise_ of steel pins, had touched the
pillow; her strong hands were clenched on the frill of her stout calico
nightdress; her powerful face looked grim in the dim light of the moon,