Complete works of hall c.., p.463
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 463
A sudden cloud passed over the face of the Consul-General as he glanced again at the Sirdar’s despatch and saw its reference to Christ.
“How senseless everybody is becoming in this world!” be thought.
Pontius Pilate! Pshaw! When would religious hypocrisy open its eyes and see that according to all the laws of civilised states, the Roman Governor had done right? Jesus claimed to be divine, His people were ready to recognise Him as King; and whether His Kingdom was of this world or another, what did it matter? If His pretensions had been permitted they would have led to wild, chaotic, shapeless anarchy. Therefore Pilate crucified Jesus, and, scorned though he had been through all the ages, he had done no more than any so-called “Christian” governor would be compelled to do to-day.
“Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.” Why would not people understand that these words were written not in derision but in self-defence? There could have been only one authority in Palestine then, and there could be only one authority in Egypt now.
“If this visionary mummer, with his empty quackeries, should develop the idea that he is divine, or yet the messenger of divinity, I will hang him like a dog!” thought the Consul-General.
XVIII
FIVE days after the death of Lady Nuneham the Consul-General was reading at his breakfast the last copy of the Times to arrive in Cairo. It contained an anticipatory announcement of a forthcoming Mansion House Banquet in honour of the King’s birthday. The Foreign Minister was expected to speak on the “unrest in the East, with special reference to the affair of El Azhar.”
The Consul-General’s face frowned darkly, and he began to picture the scene as it would occur: The gilded hall; the crowd of distinguished persons eating in public; the mixed odours of many dishes; the pop of champagne corks; the smoke of cigars; the buzz of chatter like the gobbling of geese on a green; and then the Minister, with his hand on his heart, uttering timorous apologies for his Proconsul’s policy, and pouring out pompous platitudes as if he had newly discovered the decalogue!
The Consul-General’s gorge rose at the thought. Oh, when would these people who stayed comfortably at home and lived by the votes of the factory-hands of Lancashire and Yorkshire, and hungered for the shouts of the mob, understand the position of men like himself, who, in foreign lands, among alien races, encompassed by secret conspiracies, were spending their strength in holding high the banner of Empire?
“Having chosen a good man, why can’t they leave him alone?” thought the Consul-General.
And then, his personal feelings getting the better of his patriotism, he almost wished that the charlatan element in Ishmael Ameer might develop speedily; that he might draw off the allegiance of the native soldiers in the Soudan and break out, like the Mahdi, into open rebellion. That would bring the Secretary of State to his senses, make him realise a real danger and see in the everlasting “affair of El Azhar” if not light, then lightning.
The door of the breakfast room opened and Ibrahim entered.
“Well, what is it?” demanded the Consul-General with a frown.
Ibrahim answered in some confusion that a small boy was in the hall, asking to see the English lord. He said he brought an urgent message, but would not tell what it was or where it came from. Had been there three times before, slept last night on the ground outside the gate and could not be driven away — would his lordship see the lad?
“What is his race? Egyptian?”
“Nubian, my lord.”
“Ever seen the boy before?”
“No — yes — that is to say — well, now that your lordship mentions it, I think — yes, I think he came here once with Miss Hel — I mean General Graves’s daughter.”
“Bring him up immediately,” said the Consul-General.
At the next moment a black boy stepped boldly into the room. It was Mosie. His clothes were dirty, and his pudgy face was like a block of dark soap splashed with stale lather, but his eyes were clear and alert and his manner was eager.
“Well, my boy, what do you want?” asked the Consul-General.
Mosie looked fearlessly up into the stern face with its iron jaw, and tipped his black thumb over his shoulder to where Ibrahim, in his gorgeous green caftan, stood timidly behind him.
At a sign from the Consul-General, the Egyptian servant left the room, and then, quick as light, Mosie slipped off his sandal, ripped open its inner sole, and plucked out a letter stained with grease.
It was the letter which Helena had written in Khartoum.
The Consul-General read it rapidly, with an eagerness which even he could not conceal. So great, indeed, was his excitement that he did not see that a second paper (Ishmael’s letter to the Chancellor of El Azhar) had fallen to the floor until Mosie picked it up and held it out to him.
“Good boy,” said the Consul-General — the cloud had passed and his face bore an expression of joy.
Instantly apprehending the dim purport of Helena’s hasty letter, the Consul-General saw that what he had predicted and half hoped for was already coming to pass. It was to be open conspiracy now, not passive conspiracy any longer. The man Ishmael was falling a victim to the most fatal of all mental maladies. The Mahdist delusion was taking possession of him and he was throwing himself into the Government’s hands.
Hurriedly ringing his bell, the Consul-General committed Mosie to Ibrahim’s care, whereupon the small black boy in his soiled clothes, with his dirty face and hands, strutted out of the room in front of the Egyptian servant, looking as proud as a peacock and feeling like sixteen feet tall. Then the Consul-General called for one of his Secretaries and sent him for the Commandant of Police.
The Commandant came in hot haste. He was a big and rather corpulent Englishman, wearing a blue-braided uniform and a fez — naturally a blusterous person with his own people, but as soft-voiced as a woman and as obsequious as a slave before his chief.
“Draw up your chair, Commandant — closer — now listen,” said the Consul-General.
And then in a low tone he repeated what he had already learned from Helena’s letter, and added what he had instantly divined from it — that Ishmael Ameer was to return to Cairo; that he was to come back in the disguise of a Bedouin Sheikh; that his object was to draw off the allegiance of the Egyptian Army in order that a vast horde of his followers might take possession of the city; that this was to be done during the period of the forthcoming festivities, while the British Army was still in the provinces, and that the conspiracy was to reach its treacherous climax on the night of the King’s birthday.
The Commandant listened with a gloomy face, and, looking timidly into the flashing eyes before him, he asked if his Excellency could rely on the source of his information.
“Absolutely! Infallibly!” said the Consul-General.
“Then,” said the Commandant nervously, “I presume the festivities must be postponed?”
“Certainly not, sir.”
“Or perhaps your Excellency intends to have the British Army called back to Cairo?”
“Not that, either.”
“At least you will arrest the ‘Bedouin.’”
“Not yet, at all events.”
The policy to be pursued was to be something quite different.
Everything was to go on as usual. Sports, golf, cricket, croquet, tennis-tournaments, polo-matches, race-meetings, automobile-meetings, “all the usual fooleries and frivolities” — with crowds of sight-seers, men in flannels, and ladies in beautiful toilettes — were to be encouraged to proceed. The police-bands were to play in the public gardens, the squares, the streets, everywhere.
“Say nothing to anybody. Give no sign of any kind. Let the conspiracy go on as if we knew nothing about it. But—”
“Yes, my lord? Yes?”
“Keep an eye on the ‘Bedouin.’ Let every train that arrives at the railway-station and every boat that comes down the river be watched. As soon as you have spotted your man see where he goes. He may be a fanatical fool, miscounting his ‘divine’ influence with the native soldier, but he cannot be working alone. Therefore find out who visit him, learn all their movements, let their plans come to a head, and, when the proper time arrives, in one hour, at one blow, we will crush their conspiracy and clap our hands upon the whole of them.”
“Splendid! An inspiration, my lord!”
“I’ve always said it would some day he necessary to forge a special weapon to meet special needs, and the time has come to forge it. Meantime undertake nothing hurriedly. Make no mistakes, and see that your men make none.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
“Investigate every detail for yourself, and, above all, hold your tongue and guard your information with inviolable secrecy.”
“Surely, my lord.”
“You can go now. I’m busy. Good-morning!”
“Wonderful man!” thought the Commandant, as he went out at the porch. “Seems to have taken a new lease of life! Wonderful!”
The Consul-General spent the whole of that day in thinking out his scheme for a “special weapon,” and when night came and he went upstairs — through the great echoing house that was like the bureau of a department of State now, being so empty and so cheerless, and past the dark and silent room whereof the door was always closed — he felt conscious of a firmer and lighter step than he had known for years.
Fatimah was in his bedroom, for she had constituted herself his own nurse since his wife’s death. She was nailing up on the wall the picture of the little boy in the Arab fez, and, having her own theory about why he had taken it down in the library, she said:
“There! It will be company for your lordship and nobody will ask questions about it here.”
When Fatimah had gone the Consul-General could not but think of Gordon. He always thought of him at that hour of the night, and the picture of his son that rose in his mind’s eye was always the same. It was a picture of Gordon’s deathly white face and trembling lower lip, as he stood bolt upright while his medals were being torn from his breast, and then said, in that voice which his father could never forget: “General, the time may come when it will be more painful to you to remember all this than it has been for me to bear it.”
Oh, that Gordon could be here now and see for himself what a sorry charlatan, what a self-deceived quack and conspirator, was the man in whose defence he had allowed his own valuable life to rush down to a confused welter of wreck and ruin!
As the Consul-General got into bed he was thinking of Helena. What a glorious, courageous, resourceful woman she was! It carried his mind back to biblical days to find anything equal to her daring and her success. But what was the price she had paid for them? He remembered something the Sirdar had said of “a marriage, a sort of betrothal,” and then he recalled the words of her first letter: “I know exactly how far I intend to go and I shall go no farther. I know exactly what I intend to do and I shall do it without fear or remorse.”
What had happened in the Soudan? What was happening there now? In what battle-whirlwind had that splendid girl’s magnificent victory been won?
XIX
MEANTIME Helena in Khartoum was feeling like a miserable traitress.
She had condemned an innocent man to death! Ishmael had not killed her father, yet she had taken such steps that the moment he entered Cairo he would be walking to his doom!
One after another, sweet and cruel memories crowded upon her, and in the light of the awful truth, as Gordon had revealed it, she began to see Ishmael with quite different eyes. All she had hitherto thought evil in his character now looked like good; what she had taken for hypocrisy was sincerity; what she had supposed to be subtlety was simplicity. His real nature was a rebuke to every one of her preconceived ideas. The thought of his tenderness, his modesty, his devotion, and even the unselfishness which had led to their betrothal, cut her to the quick. Yet she had doomed him to destruction. The letter she had written to the Consul-General was his death-warrant.
That night she could fix her mind on nothing except the horror of her position, but next morning she set herself to think out schemes for stopping the consequences of her own act.
The black boy was gone; it was not possible to overtake him; there was no other train to Egypt for four days, but there was the telegraph; she could make use of that.
“I’ll telegraph to the Consul-General to pay no attention to my letter,” she thought.
Useless! The Consul-General would ask himself searching questions and take his precautions just the same.
“I’ll telegraph that my letter is a forgery,” she thought.
Madness! The Consul-General would ask himself how, if it was a forgery, she could know anything about it.
“I’ll go across to the Sirdar and tell him everything, and leave him to act for both of us as he thinks best!”
Impossible! How could she explain her position to the Sirdar without betraying Gordon’s identity and thereby leading to his arrest?
That settled everything. There was no escape from the consequences of her conduct, no way to put an end to the network of dangers by which she had surrounded Ishmael. Mosie was now far on his way to Cairo; he carried to the Consul-General not only her own letter, but also the original of Ishmael’s letter to the Chancellor of El Azhar. The hideous work was done.
Two days passed during which her over-excited feelings seemed to paralyse all her powers of thought. Then a new idea took possession of her and she set herself to undo what she had done with Ishmael himself. Little by little, in tremulous tones, and with a still deeper sense of duplicity than before, she began to express halting doubts of the success of their enterprise.
“I have been thinking about it,” she said nervously, “and now I fear—”
“What do you fear, O Rani?” asked Ishmael.
“I fear,” said Helena, trembling visibly, “that the moment the Government learn from the Sirdar, as they needs must, that the great body of your people have left Khartoum, and are travelling north, they will recall the British Army to protect the capital and thus—”
But Ishmael interrupted her with a laugh.
“If the day of the Redeemer has come,” he said, “will human armies hinder Him? No!”
It was useless! Ishmael was now more than ever an enthusiast, a fanatic, a visionary. His spiritual ecstasy swept away every obstacle, and made him blind to every danger.
Helena felt like a witch who was trying to undo the effects of her charm. She could not undo them. She could not destroy the potency of the spell she herself had raised, and the effort to do so put her into a fever of excitement.
Two days more passed like this, and still Helena was in the toils of her own actions. From time to time she saw Gordon as he sat at meals or moved about the house. He did not speak to her, and she dropped her head in shame as often as they came close together. But at length she caught a look in his face which seemed to her to say: “Are you really going to let an innocent man walk into the jaws of death?”
That brought her wavering mind to a quick conclusion. Gordon was waiting for her to speak. She must speak! She must confess everything! She must tell Ishmael what she had done, and by what tragic tangle of error she had done it. At any cost, no matter what, she must put an end to the false situation in which she lived, and thus redeem herself in Gordon’s eyes and in her own.
At noon that day, being Friday, Ishmael lectured in the mosque, delivering a still more fervent and passionate message. The kingdom of heaven which the Lord Isa had foretold was soon to come! When it came, God would lend them legions of angels, if need be, to protect the oppressed and to uphold the downtrodden! Therefore let the children of God fear nothing from the powers and principalities of the world! Their pilgrimage was safe! No harm could come to them, for however their feet might slip, the arms of the Compassionate would bear them up!
As Ishmael’s ecstasy had increased so had the devotion of his people, and when he returned home they followed him in a dense crowd through the streets, shouting the wildest acclamations:
“Out of the way! The Master is coming! The Messenger is here! Allah! El Hamdullillah!”
Helena heard them, but she did not hear Ishmael reprove them, as in earlier days he had been wont to do.
She was standing in the guest-room, and the noise of the approaching crowd had brought Gordon from his bedroom, at the moment when Ishmael, surrounded by a group of his people, stepped into the house.
Ishmael was in a state of excitement amounting to exaltation, and after holding out hands both to Helena and Gordon he turned to his followers to dismiss them.
“Go back now,” he said, “and to-night, two hours after sunset, let the Ulema and the Notables come to me that we may decide on the details of our pilgrimage.”
“Allah! El Hamdullillah!” cried the people.
More than ever they were like creatures possessed. Hungry and ragged as many of them were, the new magnificence that was to he given to their lives appeared to be already shining in their eyes.
Helena saw this, and her heart was smitten with remorse at thought of the cruel confession she had decided to make. She could not make it in sight of the hopes it must destroy. But neither could she look into Gordon’s searching face and remain silent, and as soon as the crowd had gone, she made an effort to speak.
“Ishmael,” she said, trembling all over, “there is something I wish to say — if it will not displease you.”
“Nothing the Rani can say will displease me,” said Ishmael.
He was looking at her with the expression of enthusiastic admiration which she had seen in his eyes before. It was hard to go on.
“Your intentions are now known to everybody,” she said. “You have not hidden them from any of your own people. That has been very trustful, very noble, but still—”
“Still — what, my sister?”
“If somebody — should betray your scheme to the Government, and — and the moment you set foot in Cairo—”
