It Happened in Egypt

by C. N. Williamson; A. M. Williamson

"If we go, we shall be playing into Miss Gilder's hands. If we stay, we shall be playing into mine. Which do you prefer?"

"Oh, I suppose we'd better stay—for fear of something. But you must be good."

Then abruptly I attacked her with a change of weapons. I had fenced lightly, knowing that Biddy liked a man who could laugh. But now I threw away my rapier and snatched a club. I told her I would stand no more of this. Did she want to spoil my life and break my heart? She was the one thing I needed. Now she would have to say whether she'd put me off because she didn't love me and never could, or because of that trash about not wanting to involve me in her troubles. No use prevaricating! I should know whether she lied or told the truth by the sound of her voice. But I might as well confess before she began, that I'd rather be loved by her and refused, than not loved and refused. Women seemed to think the unselfish thing was to pretend not to care, if a man had to be sent away; because in the end that made it easier for him. But in real life, with a real man, it was the other way round.

"I think you're right, Duffer," Biddy said softly. "That's why I wouldn't answer you for good and all, that night at Philae. I felt then it might be kinder to tell you I could never care. But I've thought of nothing else since—except a little about Monny—and I decided that if it were me, I'd rather be loved, whatever happened. Men can't be so very different where their hearts are concerned. So I'm going to tell you I do love you. It was hard to give you to Monny. But I thought it would be for your happiness. I nearly died of love for you when I was a little girl. I kept every tiniest thing you ever gave me. I was in love with your memory when you went up to Oxford. And it was then Richard O'Brien came. He swept me off my feet, and made me think my heart was caught in the rebound. When it was too late, I realised that it hadn't been caught at all. Only hypnotized for a while. I've loved you always, Duffer dear. The thought of you was my one comfort, often, although I hardly expected to see you again: or maybe, for that very reason. No, don't touch me! please let me go on now, or I'll not tell you any more. I wonder if you never guessed what I had in that chamois-skin bag you're so worried about?"

"Why, yes, I did guess, Biddy, right or wrong."

"And I'll bet you it was wrong! What did you think, when I wouldn't understand any of your hints to tell what I wore over my heart?"

"I thought then," I answered after a moment's deliberation, "that you kept—compromising documents which might be of interest to the organization you and I have talked about. Now I think differently. I think you kept a lock of my childish hair, or my first tooth."

"You conceited Duffer!—not so bad as that, because I had never a chance of getting either. Once I did keep in that bag just what you said: compromising documents, that the organization would have given thousands of dollars to get. And my life wouldn't have stood in their way for a minute, I'm sure. But that was before Richard died. He was afraid—I mean, I thought it would be better and less suspicious if I had charge of the papers. And if the Society had ever got hold of him, he believed the letters and lists of names I had, might have bought back his safety, if I played my hand well. He'd told me just what to do. But when he was ill, he had a nurse whom I began to suspect as a spy. Once when I was called into Richard's room suddenly, half dressed, the chamois-skin bag showed, as my wrapper fell open at the breast. I caught her looking at it with an eager look; and that very night I had it locked up in a bank. It was only a few days later that Richard died; and with him gone, I felt there was no more need to keep papers which might cost the lives or liberty of men. Richard had wronged his friends, and I wanted none of them to come to harm through me, though they'd made me suffer with him. I burned every scrap of paper I had, every single one! And it wasn't till there was an attempt to kidnap Esmé that I asked myself if I'd been right. Still, even now, I am not sorry. I wouldn't hurt a hair of their heads. For a while the bag was empty; but coming away from America and feeling a bit lonesome, I thought it would do me good to look now and then at the only love-letter you ever wrote me. It was on my ninth birthday—but I don't believe you could write a better one now. There was a photograph, too, of my lord when he was seventeen. I stole that, but it was all the dearer. At this very minute, the letter and the picture are lying on my heart. So now you know whether I care for you or not; and you can understand why I wouldn't put the bag into a bank."

"Oh, Biddy darling," I said, "you've made me the happiest man in the world."

"Well, I'm glad," she snapped, twisting away from me, "that it takes so little to make you happy."