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diff --git a/17698.txt b/17698.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d1a88dc --- /dev/null +++ b/17698.txt @@ -0,0 +1,23328 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bella Donna, by Robert Hichens + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Bella Donna + A Novel + +Author: Robert Hichens + +Release Date: February 7, 2006 [EBook #17698] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BELLA DONNA *** + + + + +Produced by Sjaani, Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +BELLA DONNA + +FIFTH EDITION + +[Illustration] + + + + +Bella Donna + +A NOVEL + +By ROBERT HICHENS + +Author of "The Call of The Blood," "The Fruitful +Vine," "A Spirit in Prison." + + + + +A. L. BURT COMPANY +Publishers New York + + +Copyright, 1908 +By J. B. Lippincott Company + +Published October, 1908. + + + + +BELLA DONNA + + + + +I + + +Doctor Meyer Isaacson had got on as only a modern Jew whose home is +London can get on, with a rapidity that was alarming. He seemed to have +arrived as a bullet arrives in a body. He was not in the heart of +success, and lo! he was in the heart of success. And no one had marked +his journey. Suddenly every one was speaking of him--was talking of the +cures he had made, was advising every one else to go to him. For some +mysterious reason his name--a name not easily to be forgotten once it +had been heard--began to pervade the conversations that were held in the +smart drawing-rooms of London. Women who were well, but had not seen +him, abruptly became sufficiently unwell to need a consultation. "Where +does he live? In Harley Street, I suppose?" was a constant question. + +But he did not live in Harley Street. He was not the man to lose himself +in an avenue of brass plates of fellow practitioners. "Cleveland Square, +St. James's," was the startling reply; and his house was detached, if +you please, and marvellously furnished. + +The winged legend flew that he was rich, and that he had gone into +practice as a doctor merely because he was intellectually interested in +disease. His gift for diagnosis was so remarkable that he was morally +forced to exercise it. And he had a greedy passion for studying +humanity. And who has such opportunities for the study of humanity as +the doctor and the priest? Patients who had been to him spoke +enthusiastically of his observant eyes. His personality always made a +great impression. "There's no one just like him," was a frequent comment +upon Doctor Meyer Isaacson. And that phrase is a high compliment upon +the lips of London, the city of parrots and of monkeys. + +His age was debated, and so was his origin. Most people thought he was +"about forty"; a very safe age, young enough to allow of almost +unlimited expectation, old enough to make results achieved not quite +unnatural, though possibly startling. Yes, he must be "about forty." And +his origin? "Meyer" suggested Germany. As to "Isaacson," it allowed the +ardent imagination free play over denationalized Israel. Someone said +that he "looked as if he came from the East," to which a cynic made +answer, "The East End." There was, perhaps, a hint of both in the Doctor +of Cleveland Square. Certain it is that in the course of a walk down +Brick Lane, or the adjacent thoroughfares, one will encounter men of his +type; men of middle height, of slight build, with thick, close-growing +hair strongly curling, boldly curving lips, large nostrils, prominent +cheek-bones, dark eyes almost fiercely shining; men who are startlingly +un-English. Doctor Meyer Isaacson was like these men. Yet he possessed +something which set him apart from them. He looked intensely +vital--almost unnaturally vital--when he was surrounded by English +people, but he did not look fierce and hungry. One could conceive of him +doing something bizarre, but one could not conceive of him doing +anything low. There was sometimes a light in his eyes which suggested a +moral distinction rarely to be found in those who dwell in and about +Brick Lane. His slight, nervous hands, dark in colour, recalled the +hands of high-bred Egyptians. Like so many of his nation, he was by +nature artistic. An instinctive love of what was best in the creations +of man ran in his veins with his blood. He cared for beautiful things, +and he knew what things were beautiful and what were not. The +second-rate never made any appeal to him. The first-rate found in him a +welcoming enthusiast. He never wearied of looking at fine pictures, at +noble statues, at bronzes, at old jewelled glass, at delicate carvings, +at perfect jewels. He was genuinely moved by great architecture. And to +music he was almost fanatically devoted, as are many Jews. + +It has been said of the Jew that he is nearly always possessed of a +streak of femininity, not effeminacy. In Doctor Meyer Isaacson this +streak certainly existed. His intuitions were feminine in their +quickness, his sympathies and his antipathies almost feminine in their +ardour. He understood women instinctively, as generally only other women +understand them. Often he knew, without knowing why he knew. Such +knowledge of women is, perhaps fortunately, rare in men. Where most men +stumble in the dark, Doctor Meyer Isaacson walked in the light. He was +unmarried. + +Bachelorhood is considered by many to detract from a doctor's value and +to stand in the way of his career. Doctor Meyer Isaacson did not find +this so. Although he was not a nerve specialist, his waiting-room was +always full of patients. If he had been married, it could not have been +fuller. Indeed, he often thought it would have been less full. + +Suddenly he became the fashion, and he went on being the fashion. + +He had no special peculiarity of manner. He did not attract the world of +women by elaborate brutalities, or charm it by silly suavities. He +seemed always very natural, intelligent, alive, and thoroughly +interested in the person with whom he was. That he was a man of the +world was certain. He was seen often at concerts, at the opera, at +dinners, at receptions, occasionally even at a great ball. + +Early in the morning he rode in the Park. Once a week he gave a dinner +in Cleveland Square. And people liked to go to his house. They knew they +would not be bored and not be poisoned there. Men appreciated him as +well as women, despite the reminiscence of Brick Lane discoverable in +him. His directness, his cleverness, and his apparent good-will soon +overcame any dawning instinct summoned up in John Bull by his exotic +appearance. + +Only the unyielding Jew-hater hated him. And so the lines of the life +of Doctor Meyer Isaacson seemed laid in pleasant places. And not a few +thought him one of the fortunate of this world. + +One morning of June the doctor was returning to Cleveland Square from +his early ride in the Park. He was alone. The lively bay horse he +rode--an animal that seemed almost as full of nervous vitality as he +was--had had a good gallop by the Serpentine, and now trotted gently +towards Buckingham Palace, snuffing in the languid air through its +sensitive nostrils. The day was going to be hot. This fact inclined the +Doctor to idleness, made him suddenly realise the bondage of work. In a +few minutes he would be in Cleveland Square; and then, after a bath, a +cup of coffee, a swift glance through the _Times_ and the _Daily Mail_, +there would start the procession that until evening would be passing +steadily through his consulting-room. + +He sighed, and pulled in his horse to a walk. To-day he was reluctant to +encounter that procession. + +And yet each day it brought interest into his life, this procession of +his patients. + +Generally he was a keen man. He had no need to feign an ardour that he +really felt. He had a passion for investigation, and his profession +enabled him to gratify it. Very modern, as a rule, were those who came +to him, one by one, admitted each in turn by his Jewish man-servant; +complex, caught fast in the net of civilized life. He liked to sit alone +with them in his quiet chamber, to seek out the hidden links which +united the physical to the mental man in each, to watch the pull of soul +on body, of body on soul. But to-day he recoiled from work. Deep down in +his nature, hidden generally beneath his strong activity, there was +something that longed to sit in the sunshine and dream away the hours, +leaving all fates serenely, or perhaps indifferently, between the hands +of God. + +"I will take a holiday some day," he said to himself, "a long holiday. I +will go far away from here, to the land where I am really at home, where +I am in my own place." + +As he thought this, he looked up, and his eyes rested upon the brown +facade of the King's Palace, upon the gilded railings that separated it +from the public way, upon the sentries who were on guard, fresh-faced, +alert, staring upon London with their calmly British eyes. + +"In my own place," he repeated to himself. + +And now his lips and his eyes were smiling. And he saw the great drama +of London as something that a schoolboy could understand at a glance. + +Was it really idleness he longed for? He did not know why, but abruptly +his desire had changed. And he found himself wishing for events, tragic, +tremendous, horrible even--anything, if they were unusual, were such as +to set the man who was involved in them apart from his fellows. The +foreign element in him woke up, called, perhaps, from repose by the +unusually languid air, and London seemed meaningless to him, a city +where a man of his type could neither dream, nor act, with all the +languor, or all the energy, that was within him. And he imagined, as +sometimes clever children do, a distant country where all romances +unwind their shining coils, where he would find the incentive which he +needed to call all his secret powers--the powers whose exercise would +make his life complete--into supreme activity. + +He gripped his horse with his knees. It understood his desire. It broke +into a canter. He passed in front of the garden of Stafford House, +turned to the left past St. James's Palace and Marlborough House, and +was soon at his own door. + +"Please bring up the book with my coffee in twenty minutes, Henry," he +said to his servant, as he went in. + +In half an hour he was seated in an arm-chair in an upstairs +sitting-room, sipping his coffee. The papers lay folded at his elbow. +Upon his knee, open, lay the book in which were written down the names +of the patients with whom he had made appointments that day. + +He looked at them, seeking for one that promised interest. The first +patient was a man who would come in on his way to the city. Then +followed the names of three women, then the name of a boy. He was coming +with his mother, a lady of an anxious mind. The Doctor had a sheaf of +letters from her. And so the morning's task was over. He turned a page +and came to the afternoon. + +"Two o'clock, Mrs. Lesueur; two-thirty, Miss Mendish; three, the Dean of +Greystone; three-thirty, Lady Carle; four, Madame de Lys; four-thirty, +Mrs. Harringby; five, Sir Henry Grebe; five-thirty, Mrs. Chepstow." + +The last name was that of the last patient. Doctor Meyer Isaacson's +day's work was over at six, or was supposed to be over. Often, however, +he gave a patient more than the fixed half-hour, and so prolonged his +labours. But no one was admitted to his house for consultation after the +patient whose name was against the time of five-thirty. + +And so Mrs. Chepstow would be the last patient he would see that day. + +He sat for a moment with the book open on his knee, looking at her name. + +It was a name very well known to him, very well known to the +English-speaking world in general. + +Mrs. Chepstow was a great beauty in decline. Her day of glory had been +fairly long, but now it seemed to be over. She was past forty. She said +she was thirty-eight, but she was over forty. Goodness, some say, keeps +women fresh. Mrs. Chepstow had tried a great many means of keeping +fresh, but she had omitted that. The step between aestheticism and +asceticism was one which she had never taken, though she had taken many +steps, some of them, unfortunately, false ones. She had been a well-born +girl, the daughter of aristocratic but impecunious and extravagant +parents. Her father, Everard Page, a son of Lord Cheam, had been very +much at home in the Bankruptcy Court. Her mother, too, was reckless +about money, saying, whenever it was mentioned, "Money is given us to +spend, not to hoard." So little did she hoard it, that eventually her +husband published a notice in the principal papers, stating that he +would not be responsible for her debts. It was a very long time since +he had been responsible for his own. Still, there was a certain dignity +in the announcement, as of an honest man frankly declaring his position. + +Mrs. Chepstow's life was very possibly influenced by her parents' +pecuniary troubles. When she was young she learnt to be frightened of +poverty. She had known what it was to be "sold up" twice before she was +twenty; and this probably led her to prefer the alternative of being +sold. At any rate, when she was in her twenty-first year, sold she was +to Mr. Wodehouse Chepstow, a rich brewer, to whom she had not even taken +a fancy; and as Mrs. Chepstow she made a great fame in London society as +a beauty. She was christened Bella Donna. She was photographed, written +about, worshipped by important people, until her celebrity spread far +over the world, as the celebrity even of a woman who is only beautiful +and who does nothing can spread in the era of the paragraph. + +And then presently she was the heroine of a great divorce case. + +Mr. Chepstow, forgetting that among the duties required of the modern +husband is the faculty of turning a blind eye upon the passing fancies +of a lovely and a generally admired wife, suddenly proclaimed some ugly +truths, and completely ruined Mrs. Chepstow's reputation. He won his +case. He got heavy damages out of a well-known, married man. The married +man's wife was forced to divorce him. And Mrs. Chepstow was socially +"done for." Then began the new period of her life, a period utterly +different from all that had preceded it. + +She was at this time only twenty-six, and in the zenith of her beauty. +Every one supposed that the man to whom she owed her ruin would marry +her as soon as it was possible. Unfortunately, he died before the decree +_nisi_ was made absolute. Mrs. Chepstow's future had been committed to +the Fates, and they had turned down their thumbs. + +Notorious, lovely, now badly off, still young, she was left to shift for +herself in the world. + +It was then that there came to the surface of her character a trait that +was not beautiful. She developed a love of money, a passion for material +things. This definite greediness declared itself in her only now that +she was poor and solitary. Probably it had always existed in her, but +had been hidden. She hid it no longer. She tacitly proclaimed it, and +she ordered her life so that it might be satisfied. + +And it was satisfied, or at the least for many years appeased. She +became the famous, or the infamous, Mrs. Chepstow. She had no child to +be good for. Her father was dead. Her mother lived in Brussels with some +foreign relations. For her English relations she took no thought. The +divorce case had set them all against her. She put on the panoply of +steel so often assumed by the woman who has got into trouble. She defied +those who were "down upon her." She had made a failure of one life. She +resolved that she would make a success of another. And for a long time +she was very successful. Men were at her feet, and ministered to her +desires. She lived as she seemed to desire to live, magnificently. She +was given more than most good women are given, and she seemed to revel +in its possession. But though she loved money, her parents' traits were +repeated in her. She was a spendthrift, as they had been spendthrifts. +She loved money because she loved spending, not hoarding it. And for +years she scattered it with both hands. + +Then, as she approached forty, the freshness of her beauty began to +fade. She had been too well known, and had to endure the fate of those +who have long been talked about. Men said of her, "Mrs. Chepstow--oh, +she's been going a deuce of a time. She must be well over fifty." +Women--good women especially--pronounced her nearer sixty. Almost +suddenly, as often happens in such cases as hers, the roseate hue faded +from her life and a greyness began to fall over it. + +She was seen about with very young men, almost boys. People sneered when +they spoke of her. It was said that she was not so well off as she had +been. Some shoddy millionaire had put her into a speculation. It had +gone wrong, and he had not thought it necessary to pay up her losses. +She moved from her house in Park Lane to a flat in Victoria Street, then +to a little house in Kensington. Then she gave that up, and took a small +place in the country, and motored up and down, to and from town. Then +she got sick of that, and went to live in a London hotel. She sold her +yacht. She sold a quantity of diamonds. + +And people continued to say, "Mrs. Chepstow--oh, she must be well over +fifty." + +Undoubtedly she was face to face with a very bad period. With every +month that passed, loneliness stared at her more fixedly, looked at her +in the eyes till she began to feel almost dazed, almost hypnotized. A +dulness crept over her. + +Forty struck--forty-one--forty-two. + +And then, one morning of June, Doctor Meyer Isaacson sat sipping his +coffee and looking at her name, written against the time, five-thirty, +in his book of consultations. + + + + +II + + +Doctor Meyer Isaacson did not know Mrs. Chepstow personally, but he had +seen her occasionally, at supper in smart restaurants, at first nights, +riding in the Park. Now, as he looked at her name, he realized that he +had not even seen her for a long time, perhaps for a couple of years. He +had heard the rumours of her decadence, and taken little heed of them, +not being specially interested in her. Nevertheless, this morning, as he +shut up his book and got up to go downstairs to his work, he was aware +of a desire to hear the clock strike the half-hour after five, and to +see Henry opening the door to show Mrs. Chepstow into his +consulting-room. A woman who had lived her life and won her renown--or +infamy--could scarcely be uninteresting. + +As the day wore on, he was several times conscious of a wish to quicken +the passing of its moments, and when Sir Henry Grebe, the penultimate +patient, proved to be an elderly _malade imaginaire_ of dilatory habit, +involved speech, and determined misery, he was obliged firmly to check a +rising desire to write a hasty bread-pill prescription and fling him in +the direction of Marlborough House. The half-hour chimed, and still Sir +Henry explained the strange symptoms by which he was beset--the buzzings +in the head, the twitchings in the extremities, the creepings, as of +insects with iced legs, about the roots of the hair. His eyes shone with +the ardour of the determined valetudinarian closeted with one paid to +attend to his complaints. + +And Mrs. Chepstow? Had she come? Was she sitting in the next room, +looking inattentively at the newest books? + +"The most extraordinary matter in my case," continued Sir Henry, with +uplifted finger, "is the cold sweat that--" + +The doctor interrupted him. + +"My advice to you is this--" + +"But I haven't explained to you about the cold sweat that--" + +"My advice to you is this, Sir Henry. Don't think about yourself; walk +for an hour every day before breakfast, eat only two meals a day, +morning and evening, take at least eight hours' rest every night, give +up lounging about in your club, occupy yourself--with work for others, +if possible. I believe that to be the most tonic work there is--and I +see no reason why you should not be a centenarian." + +"I--a centenarian?" + +"Why not! There is nothing the matter with you, unless you think there +is." + +"Nothing--you say there is nothing the matter with me!" + +"I have examined you, and that is my opinion." + +The face of the patient flushed with indignation at this insult. + +"I came to you to be told what was the matter." + +"And I am glad to inform you nothing is the matter--with your body." + +"Do you mean to imply that my mind is diseased?" + +"No. But you don't give it enough to think about. You only give it +yourself. And that isn't nearly enough." + +Sir Henry rose, and put a trembling finger into his waistcoat-pocket. + +"I believe I owe you--?" + +"Nothing. But if you care to put something into the box on my hall +table, you will help some poor man to get away to the seaside after an +operation, and find out what is the best medicine in the world." + +"And now for Mrs. Chepstow!" the Doctor murmured to himself, as the door +closed behind the outraged back of an enemy. + +He sat still for a minute or two, expecting to see the door open again, +the form of a woman framed in the doorway. But no one came. He began to +feel restless. He was not accustomed to be kept waiting by his patients, +although he often kept them waiting. There was a bell close to his +elbow. He touched it, and his man-servant instantly appeared. + +"Mrs. Chepstow is down for five-thirty. It is now"--he pulled out his +watch--"nearly ten minutes to six. Hasn't she come?" + +"No, sir. Two or three people have been, without appointments." + +"And you have sent them away, of course? Quite right. Well, I shan't +stay in any longer." + +He got up from his chair. + +"And if Mrs. Chepstow should come, sir?" + +"Explain to her that I waited till ten minutes to six and then--" He +paused. The hall door-bell was ringing sharply. + +"If it is Mrs. Chepstow, shall I admit her now, sir?" + +The doctor hesitated, but only for a second. + +"Yes," he said. + +And he sat down again by his table. + +He had been almost looking forward to the arrival of his last patient of +that day, but now he felt irritated at being detained. For a moment he +had believed his day's work to be over, and in that moment the humour +for work had left him. Why had she not been up to time? He tapped his +delicate fingers impatiently on the table, and drew down his thick brows +over his sparkling eyes. But directly the door moved, his expression of +serenity returned, and when a tall woman came in, he was standing up and +gravely smiling. + +"I'm afraid I am late." + +The door shut on Henry. + +"You are twenty minutes late." + +"I'm so sorry." + +The rather dawdling tones of the voice denied the truth of the words, +and the busy Doctor was conscious of a slight sensation of hostility. + +"Please sit down here," he said, "and tell me why you come to consult +me." + +Mrs. Chepstow sat down in the chair he showed her. Her movements were +rather slow and careless, like the movements of a person who is quite +alone and has nothing to do. They suggested to the watching man vistas +of empty hours--how different from his own! She settled herself in her +chair, leaning back. One of her hands rested on the handle of a parasol +she carried. The other held lightly an arm of the chair. Her height was +remarkable, and was made the more apparent by her small waist, and by +the small size of her beautifully shaped head, which was poised on a +long but exquisite neck. Her whole outline announced her gentle +breeding. The most lovely woman of the people could never be shaped +quite like that. As Doctor Isaacson realised this, he felt a sudden +difficulty in connecting with the woman before him her notorious career. +Surely pride must be a dweller in a body so expressive of race! + +He thought of the very young men, almost boys, with whom Mrs. Chepstow +was seen about. Was it possible? + +Her eyes met his, and in her face he saw a subtle contradiction of the +meaning her form seemed eloquently to indicate. + +It was possible. + +Almost before he had time to say this to himself, Mrs. Chepstow's face +had changed, suddenly accorded more definitely with her body. + +"What a clever woman!" the Doctor thought. + +With an almost sharp movement he sat forward in his chair, braced up, +alert, vital. His irritation was gone with the fatigue engendered by the +day's work. Interest in life tingled through his veins. His day was not +to be wholly dull. His thought of the morning, when he had looked at the +patients' book, was not an error of the mind. + +"You came to consult me because--?" + +"I don't know that I am ill," Mrs. Chepstow said, very composedly. + +"Let us hope not." + +"Do you think I look ill?" + +"Would you mind turning a little more towards the light?" + +She sat still for a minute, then she laughed. + +"I have always said that so long as one is with a doctor, _qua_ doctor, +one must never think of him as a man," she said; "but--" + +"Don't think of me as a man." + +"Unfortunately, there is something about you which absolutely prevents +me from regarding you as a machine. But--never mind!" + +She turned to the light, lifted her thin veil, and leaned towards him. + +"Do you think I look ill?" + +He gazed at her steadily, with a scrutiny that was almost cruel. The +face presented to him in the bold light that flowed in through the large +window near which their chairs were placed still preserved elements of +the beauty of which the world had heard too much. Its shape, like the +shape of Mrs. Chepstow's head, was exquisite. The line of the features +was not purely Greek, but it recalled things Greek, profiles in marble +seen in calm museums. The outline of a thing can set a sensitive heart +beating with the strange, the almost painful longing for an ideal life, +with ideal surroundings, ideal loves, ideal realizations. It can call to +the imagination that lies drowsing, yet full of life, far down in the +secret recesses of the soul. The curve of Mrs. Chepstow's face, the +modelling of her low brow, and the undulations of the hair that flowed +away from it--although, alas! that hair was obviously, though very +perfectly, dyed--had this peculiar power of summons, sent forth silently +this subtle call. The curve of a Dryad's face, seen dimly in the green +wonder of a magic wood, might well have been like this, or of a nymph's +bathing by moonlight in some very secret pool. But a Dryad would not +have touched her lips with this vermilion, a nymph have painted beneath +her laughing eyes these cloudy shadows, or drawn above them these +artfully delicate lines. And the weariness that lay about these cheeks, +and at the corners of this mouth, suggested no early world, no goddesses +in the springtime of creation, but an existence to distress a moralist, +and a lack of pleasure in it to dishearten an honest pagan. The ideality +in Mrs. Chepstow's face was contradicted, was set almost at defiance, by +something--it was difficult to say exactly what; perhaps by the faint +wrinkles about the corners of her large and still luminous blue eyes, by +a certain not yet harsh prominence of the cheek-bones, by a slight droop +of the lips that hinted at passion linked with cynicism. There was a +suggestion of hardness somewhere. Freshness had left this face, but not +because of age. There are elderly, even old women who look almost +girlish, fragrant with a charm that has its root in innocence of life. +Mrs. Chepstow did not certainly look old. Yet there was no youth in her, +no sweetness of the girl she once had been. She was not young, nor old, +nor definitely middle-aged. + +She was definitely a woman who had strung many experiences upon the +chain of her life, yet who, in certain aspects, called up the thought +of, even the desire for, things ideal, things very far away from all +that is sordid, ugly, brutal, and defaced. + +The look of pride, or perhaps of self-respect, which Doctor Isaacson had +seen born as if in answer to his detrimental thought of her, stayed in +this face, which was turned towards the light. + +He realized that in this woman there was much will, perhaps much +cunning, and that she was a past mistress in the art of reading men. + +"Well," she said, after a minute of silence, "what do you make of it?" + +She had a very attractive voice, not caressingly but carelessly +seductive; a voice that suggested a creature both warm and lazy, that +would, perhaps, leave many things to chance, but that might at a moment +grip closely, and retain, what chance threw in her way. + +"Please tell me your symptoms," the Doctor replied. + +"But you tell me first--do I look ill?" + +She fixed her eyes steadily upon him. + +"What is the real reason why this woman has come to me?" + +The thought flashed through the Doctor's mind as his eyes met hers, and +he seemed to divine some strange under-reason lurking far down in her +shrewd mind, almost to catch a glimpse of it ere it sank away into +complete obscurity. + +"Certain diseases," he said slowly, "stamp themselves unmistakably upon +the faces of those who are suffering from them." + +"Is any one of them stamped upon mine?" + +"No." + +She moved, as if settling herself more comfortably in her chair. + +"Shall I put your parasol down?" he asked, stretching out his hand. + +"No, thanks. I like holding it." + +"I'm afraid you must tell me what are your symptoms." + +"I feel a sort of general malaise." + +"Is it a physical malaise?" + +"Why not?" she said, almost sharply. + +She smiled, as if in pity at her own childishness, and added +immediately: + +"I can't say that I suffer actual physical pain. But without that one +may not feel particularly well." + +"Perhaps your nervous system is out of order." + +"I suppose every day you have silly women coming to you full of +complaints but without the ghost of a malady?" + +"You must not ask me to condemn my patients. And not only women are +silly in that way." + +He thought of Sir Henry Grebe, and of his own prescription. + +"I had better examine you. Then I can tell you more about yourself." + +While he spoke, he felt as if he were being examined by her. Never +before had he experienced this curious sensation, almost of +self-consciousness, with any patient. + +"Oh, no," she said, "I don't want to be examined. I know my heart and my +lungs and so on are sound enough." + +"At any rate, allow me to feel your pulse." + +"And look at my tongue, perhaps!" + +She laughed, but she pulled off her glove and extended her hand to him. +He put his fingers on her wrist, and looked at his watch. Her skin was +cool. Her pulse beat regularly and strongly. From her, a message to his +lightly touching fingers, flowed surely determination, self-possession, +hardihood, even combativeness. As he felt her pulse he understood the +defiance of her life. + +"Your pulse is good," he said, dropping her hand. + +During the short time he had touched her, he seemed to have learnt a +great deal about her. + +And she--how much had she learnt about him? + +He found himself wondering in a fashion unorthodox in a doctor. + +"Mrs. Chepstow," he said, speaking rather brusquely, "I wish you would +kindly explain to me exactly why you have come here to-day. If you don't +feel ill, why waste your time with a doctor? I am sure you are not a +woman to run about seeking what you have." + +"You mean health! But--I don't feel as I used to feel. Formerly I was a +very strong woman, so strong that I often felt as if I were safe from +unhappiness, real unhappiness. For Schopenhauer was right, I suppose, +and if one's health is perfect, one rises above what are called +misfortunes. And, you know, I have had great misfortunes." + +"Yes?" + +"You must know that." + +"Yes." + +"I didn't really mind them--not enormously. Even when I was what I +suppose nice people called 'ruined'--after my divorce--I was quite able +to enjoy life and its pleasures, eating and drinking, travelling, +yachting, riding, motoring, theatre-going, gambling, and all that sort +of thing. People who are being universally condemned, or pitied, are +often having a quite splendid time, you know." + +"Just as people who are universally envied are often miserable." + +"Exactly. But of late I have begun to--well, to feel different." + +"In what way exactly?" + +"To feel that my health is no longer perfect enough to defend me +against--I might call it ennui." + +"Yes?" + +"Or I might call it depression, melancholy, in fact. Now I don't want--I +simply will not be the victim of depression, as so many women are. Do +you realise how frightfully women--many women--suffer secretly from +depression when they--when they begin to find out that they are not +going to remain eternally young?" + +"I realize it, certainly." + +"I will not be the victim of that depression, because it ruins one's +appearance and destroys one's power. I am thirty-eight." + +Her large blue eyes met the Doctor's eyes steadily. + +"Yes?" + +"In England nowadays that isn't considered anything. In England, if one +has perfect health, one may pass for a charming and attractive woman +till one is at least fifty, or even more. But to seem young when one is +getting on, one must feel young. Now, I no longer feel young. I am +positive feeling young is a question of physical health. I believe +almost everything one feels is a question of physical health. Mystics, +people who believe in metempsychosis, in the progress upward and +immortality of the soul, idealists--they would cry out against me as a +rank materialist. But you are a doctor, and know the empire of the body. +Am I not right? Isn't almost everything one feels an emanation from +one's molecules, or whatever they are called? Isn't it an echo of the +chorus of one's atoms?" + +"No doubt the state of the body affects the state of the mind." + +"How cautious you are!" + +A rather contemptuous smile flickered over her too red lips. + +"And really you must be in absolute antagonism with the priests, the +Christian Scientists, with all the cranks and the self-deceivers who put +soul above matter, who pretend that soul is independent of matter. Why, +only the other day I was reading about the psychophysical investigations +with the pneumograph and the galvanometer, and I'm certain that--" +Suddenly she checked herself. "But that's beside the question. I've told +you what I mean, what I think, that health triumphs over nearly +everything." + +"You seem to be very convinced, a very sincere materialist." + +"And you?" + +"Despite the discoveries of science, I think there are still depths of +mystery in man." + +"Woman included?" + +"Oh, dear, yes! But to return to your condition." + +"Ah!" + +She glanced at a watch on her wrist. + +"Your day of work, ends--?" + +"At six, as a rule." + +"I mustn't keep you. The truth is this. I am losing my zest for life, +and because I am losing my zest, I am losing my power over life. I am +beginning to feel weary, melancholy, sometimes apprehensive." + +"Of what?" + +"Middle age, I suppose, and the ending of all things." + +"And you want me to prescribe against melancholy?" + +"Why not? What is a doctor for? I tell you I am certain these feelings +in me come from a bodily condition." + +"You think it quite impossible that they may proceed from a condition of +the soul?" + +"Quite. I believe it all ends here on the day one dies. I feel as +certain of that as of my being a woman. And this being my conviction, I +think it of paramount importance to have a good time while I am here." + +"Naturally." + +"Now, a woman's good time depends on a woman's power over others, and +that power depends on her thorough-going belief in herself. So long as +she is perfectly well, she feels young, and so long as she feels young, +she can give the impression that she is young--with the slightest +assistance from art. And so long as she can give that impression--of +course I am speaking of a woman who is what is called 'attractive'--it +is all right with her. She will believe in herself, and she will have a +good time. Now, Doctor Isaacson--remember that I consider all +confidences made to a physician of your eminence, all that I tell you +to-day, as inviolably secret--" + +"Of course," he said. + +"Lately my belief in myself has been--well, shaken. I attribute this to +some failure in my health. So I have come to you. Try to find out if +anything in my bodily condition is wrong." + +"Very well. But you must allow me to examine you, and I must put to you +a number of purely medical questions which you must answer truthfully." + +_"En avant, monsieur!"_ + +She put her parasol down on the floor beside her. + +"I don't believe in subterfuge--with a doctor," she said. + + + + +III + + +Mrs. Chepstow came out of the house in Cleveland Square as the clocks +were striking seven, stepped into a taximeter cab, and was hurried off +into the busy whirl of St. James's Street, while Doctor Meyer Isaacson +went upstairs to his bedroom to rest and dress for dinner. His clothes +were already laid out, and he sent his valet away. As soon as the man +was gone, the Doctor took off his coat and waistcoat, his collar and +tie, sat down in an arm-chair by the open window, leaned his head +against a cushion, shut his eyes, and deliberately relaxed all his +muscles. Every day, sometimes at one time, sometimes at another, he did +this for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour; and in these moments, as +he relaxed his muscles, he also relaxed his mind, banishing thoughts by +an effort of the will. So often had he done this that generally he did +it without difficulty; and though he never fell asleep in daylight, he +came out of this short rest-cure refreshed as after two hours of +slumber. + +But to-day, though he could command his body, his mind was wilful. He +could not clear it of the restless thoughts. Indeed, it seemed to him +that he became all mind as he sat there, motionless, looking almost like +a dead man, with his stretched-out legs, his hanging arms, his dropped +jaw. His last patient was fighting against his desire for complete +repose, was defying his will and conquering it. + +After his examination of Mrs. Chepstow, his series of questions, he had +said to her, "There is nothing the matter with you." A very ordinary +phrase, but even as he spoke it, something within him cried to him, "You +liar!" This woman suffered from no bodily disease. But to say to her, +"There is nothing the matter with you," was, nevertheless, to tell her a +lie. And he had added the qualifying statement, "that a doctor can do +anything for." He could see her face before him now as it had looked for +a moment after he had spoken. + +Her exquisite hair was dyed a curious colour. Naturally a bright brown, +it had been changed by art to a lighter, less warm hue, that was neither +flaxen nor golden, but that held a strange pallor, distinctive, though +scarcely beautiful. It had the merit of making her eyes look very vivid +between the painted shadows and the painted brows, and this fact had +been no doubt realized by the artist responsible for it. Apparently Mrs. +Chepstow relied upon the fascination of a peculiar, almost anaemic +fairness, in the midst of which eyes, lips, and brows stood forcibly out +to seize the attention and engross it. There was in this fairness, this +blanched delicacy, something almost pathetic, which assisted the +completion, in the mind of a not too astute beholder, of the impression +already begun to be made by the beautiful shape of the face. + +When Doctor Meyer Isaacson had finished speaking, that face had been a +still but searching question; and almost immediately a question had come +from the red lips. + +"Is there absolutely no unhealthy condition of body such as might be +expected to produce low spirits? You see how medically I speak!" + +"None whatever. You are not even gouty, and three-quarters, at least, of +my patients are gouty in some form or other." + +Mrs. Chepstow frowned. + +"Then what would you advise me to do?" she asked. "Shall I go to a +priest? Shall I go to a philosopher? Shall I go to a Christian Science +temple? Or do you think a good dose of the 'New Theology' would benefit +me?" + +She spoke satirically, yet Doctor Isaacson felt as if he heard, far off, +faintly behind the satire, the despair of the materialist, against whom, +in certain moments, all avenues of hope seem inexorably closed. He +looked at Mrs. Chepstow, and there was a dawning of pity in his eyes as +he answered: + +"How can I advise you?" + +"How indeed? And yet--and that's a curious thing--you look as if you +could." + +"If you are really a convinced materialist, an honest atheist--" + +"I am." + +"Well, then it would be useless to advise you to seek priests or to go +to Christian Science temples. I can only tell you that your complaint is +not a complaint of the body." + +"Then is it a complaint of the soul? That's a bore, because I don't +happen to believe in the soul, and I do believe very much in the body." + +"I wonder what exactly you mean when you say you don't believe in the +soul." + +"I mean that I don't believe there is in human beings anything +mysterious which can live unless the body is living, anything that +doesn't die simultaneously with the body. Of course there is something +that we call mental, that likes and dislikes, loves and hates, and so +on." + +"And cannot that something be depressed by misfortune?" + +"I did not say I had had any misfortune." + +"Nor did I say so. Let us put it this way then--cannot that something be +depressed?" + +"To a certain degree, of course. But keep your body in perfect health, +and you ought to be immune from extreme depression. And I believe you +are immune. Frankly, Doctor Meyer Isaacson, I don't think you are right. +I am sure something is out of order in my body. There must be some +pressure somewhere, some obscure derangement of the nerves, something +radically wrong." + +"Try another doctor. Try a nerve specialist--a hypnotist, if you like: +Hinton Morris, Scalinger, or Powell Burnham; I fear I cannot help you." + +"So it seems." + +She got up slowly. And still her movements were careless, but always +full of a grace that was very individual. + +"Remember," she said, "that I have spoken to you so frankly in your +capacity as a physician." + +"All I hear in this room I forget when I am out of it." + +"Truly?" she said. + +"At any rate, I forget to speak of it," he said, rather curtly. + +"Good-bye," she rejoined. + +She left him with a strange sensation, of the hopelessness that comes +from greed and acute worldliness, uncombined with any, even +subconscious, conception of other possibilities than purely material +ones. + +What could such a woman have to look forward to at this period of her +life? + +Doctor Isaacson was thinking about this now. He remained always +perfectly motionless in his arm-chair, but he had abandoned the attempt +to discipline his mind. He knew that to-day his brain would not repose +with his limbs, and he no longer desired his usual rest-cure. He +preferred to think--about Mrs. Chepstow. + +She had made upon him a powerful impression. He recalled the look in her +eyes when she had said that she was thirty-eight, a look that had seemed +to command him to believe her. He had not believed her, yet he had no +idea what her real age was. Only he knew that it was not thirty-eight. +How determined she was not to suffer, to get through life--her one life, +as she thought it--without distress! And she was suffering. He divined +why. That was not difficult. She was "in low water." The tides of +pleasure were failing. And she had nothing to cling to, clever woman +though she was. + +Why did he think her clever? + +He asked himself that question. He was not a man to take cleverness on +trust. Mrs. Chepstow had not said anything specially brilliant. In her +materialism she was surely short-sighted, if not blind. She had made a +mess of her life. And yet he knew that she was a clever woman. + +She had been very frank with him. + +Why had she been so frank? + +More than once he asked himself that. His mind was full of questions +to-day, questions to which he could not immediately supply answers. He +felt as if in all she had said Mrs. Chepstow had been prompted by some +very definite purpose. She had made upon him the impression of a woman +full of purpose, and often full of subtlety. He could not rid himself of +the conviction that she had had some concealed reason for wishing to +make his acquaintance, some reason unconnected with her health. He +believed she had wished honestly for his help as a doctor. But surely +that was not her only object in coming to Cleveland Square. + +The clock on his chimney-piece struck. His time for repose was at an +end. He shut his mouth with a snap, contracted his muscles sharply, and +sprang up from his chair. Ten minutes later he was in a cold bath, and +half an hour later he was dressed for dinner, and going downstairs with +the light, quick step of a man in excellent physical condition and +capital spirits. The passing depression he had caught from his last +patient had vanished away, and he was in the mood to enjoy his +well-earned recreation. + +He was dining in Charles Street, Berkeley Square, with Lady Somerson, a +widow who was persistently hospitable because she could not bear to be +alone. To-night she had a large party. When Doctor Isaacson came into +the room on the ground floor where Lady Somerson always received her +guests before a dinner, he found her dressed in rusty black, with her +grey hair done anyhow, managing and directing the conversation of quite +a crowd of important and interesting persons, most of whom had got well +away from their first youth, but were so important and interesting that +they did not care at all what age they were. It was Wednesday night, and +the flavour of the party was political; but among the men were two +soldiers, and among the women was a well-known beauty, who cared very +little for politics, but a great deal for good talk. She was one of +those beauties who reign only in faithful London, partly because of +London's faithfulness, but partly also because of their excellent +digestions, good spirits, and entire lack of pretence. Her name was Mrs. +Derringham; her age was forty-eight. She was not "made up." She made no +attempt to look any younger than she was. Lively, energetic, without +wrinkles, and apparently without vanity, she neither forbade nor +encouraged people to think of her years, but attracted them by her +splendid figure, her animation, her zest and her readiness to enjoy the +passing hour. + +Doctor Isaacson knew her well, and as he shook hands with her he thought +of Mrs. Chepstow and of the gospel of Materialism. This woman certainly +knew how to enjoy the good things of this world; but she had interests +that were not selfish: her husband, her children, her charities, her +dependents. She had struck roots deep down into the rich and rewarding +soil of the humanities. Women like Mrs. Chepstow struck no roots into +any soil. Was it any wonder if the days came and the nights when the +souls of them were weary? Was it any wonder if the weariness set its +mark upon their beauty? + +The door opened, and the last guest appeared--a man, tall, +broad-chested, and fair, with short yellow hair parted in the middle, a +well-shaped head, a blunt, straight nose, a well-defined but not +obstinate chin, a sensitive mouth, and big, sincere, even enthusiastic, +blue eyes, surmounted by thick blond eyebrows that always looked as if +they had just been brushed vigorously upwards. A small, close-growing +moustache covered his upper lip. His cheeks and forehead were tanned by +the sun. He was thirty-six years old, but looked a great deal younger, +because he was fair. His figure was very muscular and upright, with a +hollow back and lean flanks. His capable, rather large-fingered, but not +clumsy, hands were brown. There was in his face a peculiarly straight +and bright look that suggested the North and Northern things, the +glitter of stars upon snows, cool summits of mountains swept by pure +winds, the scented freshness of pine forests. He had something of the +expression, of the build, and of the carriage of a hero from the North. +But he was surely a hero from the North who had very recently had his +dwelling in the South, and who had taken kindly to it. + +When Lady Somerson saw the newcomer, she rushed at him and blew him up. +Then she introduced him to the lady he was to take in to dinner, and, +with an alacrity that was almost feverish, gave the signal for her +guests to move into the dining-room, disclosed at this moment by two +assiduous footmen who briskly pushed back the sliding doors that divided +it from the room in which she had received. + +"Our hostess does not conceal her feelings," murmured Mrs. Derringham, +who was Doctor Isaacson's companion, as they found their places at the +long table. "Who is the man whom she has just scolded so vivaciously? I +know his face quite well." + +"One of the best fellows in the world--Nigel Armine. I have not seen him +till to-night since last October. He has been out in Egypt." + +At this moment he caught the fair man's eyes, and they exchanged with +his a look of friendship. + +"Of course! I remember! He looks like a knight-errant. So did his +father, poor Harwich. I used to act with Harwich in the early +never-mind-whats at Burnham House. One scarcely ever sees Nigel now. I +don't think he was ever at all really fond of London and gaieties. +Harwich was, of course. Yet even in his face there was a sort of +strangeness, of other-worldliness. I used to say he had kitten's eyes. +How he believed in women, poor fellow!" + +"Don't you believe in women?" + +"As a race, no. I believe in a very few individual women. But Harwich +believed in women because they were women. That is always a mistake. He +believed in them as a good Catholic believes in the Saints. And he was +punished for it." + +"You mean after Nigel's mother died? That Mrs.--what was her name?--Mrs. +Alstruther?" + +"Yes, Mrs. Alstruther. She treated Harwich abominably. Even if she had +been free, she would never have married him. He bored her. But he +worshipped her, and thought to the end that her husband ill-used her. +So absurd, when Paul Alstruther could call neither his soul nor his +purse his own. Nigel Armine has his father's look. He, too, is born to +believe in women." + +She paused; then she added: + +"I must say it would be rather nice to be the woman he believed in." + +"Tell me something about this Mr. Armine, Doctor Isaacson," said Lady +O'Ryan, who was sitting on the Doctor's other side, and had caught part +of this conversation. "You know I am always in County Clare, and as +ignorant as a violet. Who is he exactly?" + +"A younger brother of Harwich's, and the next heir to the title." + +"That immensely rich Lord Harwich whose horses have won so many races, +and who married Zoe Mulligan, of Chicago, more than ten years ago?" + +"Yes. They've never had any children, and Harwich has knocked his health +to pieces, so Armine is pretty sure to succeed. But he's fairly well +off, I suppose, for a bachelor. When his mother died, she left him her +property." + +"And what does he do?" + +"He was in the army, but resigned his commission when he came into his +land." + +"Why?" + +"To look after his people. He had great ideas about a landlord's duties +to his tenants." + +"O'Ryan's tenants have enormous ideas about his duties to them." + +"That must be trying. Armine lived in the country, and made a great many +generous experiments--built model cottages, started rifle ranges, +erected libraries, gymnasiums, swimming baths. In fact, he spent his +money royally--too royally." + +"And were they sick with gratitude?" + +"Their thankfulness did not go so far as that. In fact, some of Armine's +schemes for making people happy met with a good deal of opposition. +Finally there was a tremendous row about a right of way. The tenants +were in the wrong, and Armine was so disgusted at their trying to rob +him of what was his, after he had showered benefits upon them, that he +let his place and hasn't been there since." + +"That's so like people, to ignore libraries and village halls, and +shriek for the right to get over a certain stile, or go down a muddy +path that leads from nothing to nowhere." + +"The desire of the star for the moth!" + +"You call humanity a star?" + +"I think there is a great brightness burning in it; don't you?" + +"There seems to be in Mr. Armine, certainly. What an enthusiastic look +he has! How could he get wrong with his tenants?" + +"It may have been his enthusiasm, his great expectations, his ideality. +Perhaps he puzzled his people, asked too much imagination, too much +sacred fire from them. And then he has immense ideas about honesty, and +the rights of the individual; and, in fact, about a good many things +that seldom bother the head of the average man." + +"Don't tell me he has developed into a crank," said Mrs. Derringham. +"There's something so underbred about crankiness; and the Harwich family +have always been essentially aristocrats." + +"I shouldn't think Armine was a crank, but I do think he is an idealist. +He considers Watts's allegorical pictures the greatest things in Art +that have been done since Botticelli enshrined Purity in paint. In +modern music Elgar's his man; in modern literature, Tolstoy. He loves +those with ideals, even if their ideals are not his. I do not say he is +an artist. He is not. His motto is not 'Art for art's sake,' but 'Art +for man's sake.'" + +"He is a humanitarian?" + +"And a great believer." + +"In man?" + +"In the good that is in man. I often think at the back of his mind, or +heart, he believes that the act of belief is almost an act of creation." + +"You mean, for instance, that if you believe in a man's truthfulness you +make him a truthful man?" + +"Yes." + +"Oh, Doctor Isaacson," said Lady O'Ryan, "do introduce Mr. Armine to my +husband, and make him believe my husband is a miser instead of a +spendthrift. It would be such a mercy to the family. We might begin to +pay off the mortgage on the castle." + +The conversation took a frivolous turn, and died in laughter. + +But towards the end of dinner Mrs. Derringham again spoke of Nigel +Armine, asking: + +"And what does Mr. Armine do now?" + +"He went to Egypt after he let his place, bought some land there, in the +Fayyum, I believe, and has been living on it a good deal. I think he has +been making some experiments in farming." + +"And does he believe in the truth and honesty of the average +donkey-boy?" + +"I don't know. But I must confess I have heard him extol the merits of +the Bedouins." + +At this moment Lady Somerson sprang up, in her usual feverish manner, +and the men in a moment were left to themselves. As the sliding doors +closed behind Lady Somerson's active back, there was a hesitating +movement among them, suggestive of a half-formed desire for +rearrangement. + +Then Armine came decisively away from his place on the far side of the +long table, and joined Meyer Isaacson. + +"I'm glad to meet you again, Isaacson," he said, grasping the Doctor's +hand. + +The Doctor returned his grip with a characteristic clasp, and they sat +down side by side, while the other men began talking and lighting +cigarettes. + +"Have you only just come back?" asked the Doctor. + +"I have been back for a week." + +"So long! Where are you staying?" + +"At the Savoy." + +"The Savoy?" + +"Are you surprised!" + +The Doctor's brilliant eyes were fixed upon Armine with an expression +half humorous, half affectionate. + +"Any smart hotel would seem the wrong place for you," he said. "I can +see you on the snows of the Alps, or your own moors at Etchingham, even +at--where is it?" + +"Sennoures." + +"But at the Savoy, the Ritz, the Carlton--no. Their gilded banality +isn't the _cadre_ for you at all." + +"I'm very happy at the Savoy," Armine replied. + +As he spoke, he looked away from Meyer Isaacson across the table to the +wall opposite to him. Upon it hung a large reproduction of Watts's +picture, "Progress." He gazed at it, and his face became set in a +strange calm, as if he had for a moment forgotten the place he was in, +the people round about him. Meyer Isaacson watched him with a +concentrated interest. There was something in this man--there always had +been something--which roused in the Doctor an affection, an admiration, +that were mingled with pity and even with a secret fear. Such a nature, +the Doctor often thought, must surely be fore-ordained to suffering in a +world that holds certainly many who cherish ideals and strive to mount +upwards, but a majority that is greedy for the constant gratification of +the fleshly appetites, that seldom listens to the dim appeal of the +distant voices which sometimes speak, however faintly, to all who dwell +on earth. + +"What a splendid thing that is!" Armine said, at last, with a sigh. "You +know the original?" + +"I saw it the other day at the gallery in Compton." + +"Progress--advance--going on irresistibly all the time, whether we see +it, feel it, or not. How glorious!" + +"You are always an optimist?" + +"I do believe in the triumph of good. More and more every day I believe +in that, the triumph of good in the world, and in the individual. And +the more believers there are--true believers--in that triumph, the more +surely, the more swiftly, it will be accomplished. You can help, +Isaacson." + +"By believing?" + +"Yes, that's the way to help. But Lord! how few people take it! +Suspicion is one of the most destructive agents at work in the world. +Suspect a man, and you almost force him to give you cause for suspicion. +Suspect a woman, and instantly you give her a push towards deceit. How I +hate to hear men say they don't trust women." + +"Women say that, too." + +"Sex treachery! Despicable! They who say that are traitresses in their +own camp." + +"You value truth, don't you?" + +"Above everything." + +"Suppose women truly mistrust other women; are they to pretend the +contrary?" + +"They can be silent, and try to stamp out an unworthy, a destructive, +feeling." + +He said nothing for a moment. Then he looked up at Meyer Isaacson and +continued: + +"Are you going anywhere when you leave here?" + +"I've accepted something in Chesham Place. Why?" + +"Must you go to it?" + +"No." + +"Come and have supper with me at the Savoy." + +"Supper! My dear Armine! You know nowadays we doctors are preaching, and +rightly preaching, less eating and drinking to our patients. I can eat +nothing till to-morrow after my morning ride." + +"But you can sit at a supper-table, I suppose?" + +"Oh, yes, I can do that." + +"Come and sit at mine. Let's go away from here together." + +"Certainly." + +"You shall see whether I am out of place at the Savoy." + + + + +IV + + +At a quarter to eleven that night Meyer Isaacson and Nigel Armine came +down the bit of carpet that was unrolled to the edge of the pavement in +front of Lady Somerson's door, and got into the former's electric +brougham. As it moved off noiselessly, the Doctor said: + +"You had a long talk with Mrs. Derringham in the drawing-room." + +"Yes," replied Armine, rather curtly. + +He relapsed into silence, leaning back in his corner. + +"I like her," the Doctor continued, after a pause. + +"Do you?" + +"And you--don't." + +"Why do you say that?" + +"Because I feel it; I gather it from the way you said 'yes.'" + +Armine moved, and leaned slightly forwards. + +"Isn't she rather _mauvaise langue_?" he asked. + +"Mrs. Derringham? I certainly don't think her so." + +"She's one of the disbelievers in women you spoke of after dinner; one +of the traitresses in the woman's camp. Why can't women hang together?" + +"They do sometimes." + +"Yes, when there's a woman to be hounded down. They hang together when +there's a work of destruction on hand. But do they hang together when +there's a work of construction to be done?" + +"Do you mean a reputation to be built up?" + +Armine pulled his moustache. In the electric light Meyer Isaacson could +see that his blue eyes were shining. + +"Because," Meyer Isaacson continued, "if you do mean that, I should be +inclined to say that each of us must build up his or her reputation +individually for himself or herself." + +"We need help in nearly all our buildings-up, and how often, how +damnably often, we don't get it!" + +"Was Mrs. Derringham specially down upon some particular woman +to-night?" + +"Yes, she was." + +"Do you care to tell me upon whom?" + +"It was Mrs. Chepstow." + +"You were talking about Mrs. Chepstow?" Isaacson said slowly. "The +famous Mrs. Chepstow?" + +"Famous!" said Armine. "I hardly see that Mrs. Chepstow is a famous +woman. She is not a writer, a singer, a painter, an actress. She does +nothing that I ever heard of. I shouldn't call such a woman famous. I +daresay her name is known to lots of people. But this is the age of +chatterboxes, and of course--" + +At this moment the brougham rolled on to the rubber pavement in front of +the Savoy Hotel and stopped before the entrance. + +As he was getting out and going into the hall, Meyer Isaacson remembered +that the letter Mrs. Chepstow had written to him asking for an +appointment had been stamped "Savoy Hotel." She had been staying at the +hotel then. Was she staying there now? He had never heard Armine mention +her before, but his feminine intuition suddenly connected Armine's +words, "I'm very happy at the Savoy," with the invitation to sup there, +and the conversation about Mrs. Chepstow just reported to him by his +friend. Armine knew Mrs. Chepstow. They were going to meet her in the +restaurant to-night. Meyer Isaacson felt sure of it. + +They left their coats in the cloak-room and made their way to the +restaurant, which as yet was almost empty. The _maitre d'hotel_ came +forward to Armine, bowing and smiling, and showed them to a table in a +corner. Meyer Isaacson saw that it was laid for only two. He was +surprised, but he said nothing, and they sat down. + +"I really can't eat supper, Armine," he said. "Don't order it for me." + +"Have a little soup, at least, and a glass of champagne?" + +Without waiting for a reply, he gave an order. + +"We might have sat in the hall, but it is more amusing in here. +Remember, I haven't been in London--seen the London show--for over eight +months. One meets a lot of old friends and acquaintances in places like +this." + +Meyer Isaacson opened his lips to say that Armine would be far more +likely to meet his friends during the season if he went to parties in +private houses. America was beginning to stream in, mingled with English +country people "up" for a few days, and floating representatives of the +nations of the earth. In this heterogeneous crowd he saw no one whom he +knew, and Armine had not so far recognized anybody. But he shut his lips +without speaking. He realized that Armine had a purpose in coming to the +Savoy to-night, in bringing him. For some reason his friend was trying +to mask that purpose, but it must almost immediately become apparent. He +had only to wait for a few minutes, and doubtless he would know exactly +what it was. + +A waiter brought the soup and the champagne. + +"If any of the patients to whom I have strictly forbidden supper should +see me now," said the Doctor, "and if they should divine that I have +come straight from a long dinner!--Armine, I am making a heavy sacrifice +on friendship's altar." + +"You don't see any patients, I hope?" + +"Not as yet," the Doctor answered. + +Almost before the words were out of his mouth, he saw Mrs. Chepstow at +some distance from them, coming in at the door. She came in alone. He +looked to see her escort, but, to his surprise, she was not followed by +any one. Holding herself very erect, and not glancing to the right or +left, she walked down the room escorted by the _maitre d'hotel_, passed +close to Armine and the Doctor, went to a small table set in the angle +of a screen not far off, and sat down with her profile turned towards +them. She said a few words to the _maitre d'hotel_. He spoke to a +waiter, then hurried away. Mrs. Chepstow sat very still in her chair, +looking down. She had laid a lace fan beside the knives and glasses that +shone in the electric light. Her right hand rested lightly on it. She +was dressed in black, and wore white gloves, and a diamond comb in her +fair, dyed hair. Her strange, colourless complexion looked +extra-ordinarily delicate and pure from where the two friends were +sitting. There was something pathetic in its whiteness, and in the quiet +attitude of this woman who sat quite alone in the midst of the gay +crowd. Many people stared at her, whispered about her, were obviously +surprised at her solitude; but she seemed quite unconscious that she was +being noticed. And there was a curious simplicity in her +unconsciousness, and in her attitude, which made her seem almost girlish +from a little distance. + +"There's Mrs. Chepstow," said a man at the next table to Armine's, +bending over to his companion, a stout and florid specimen from the +City. "And absolutely alone, by Jove!" + +"Couldn't get even a kid from Sandhurst to-night, I s'pose," returned +the other. "I wonder she comes in at all if she can't scrape up an +escort. Wonder she has the cheek to do it." + +They lowered their voices and leaned nearer to each other. Armine lifted +his glass of champagne to his lips, sipped it, and put it down. + +"If you do see any patients, you can explain it's all my fault," he said +to the Doctor. "I will take the blame. But surely you don't have to +follow all your prescriptions?" + +His voice was slightly uneven and abstracted, as if he were speaking +merely to cover some emotion he was determined to conceal. + +"No. But I ought to set an example of reasonable living, I suppose." + +They talked for a few minutes about health, with a curious formality, +like people who are conscious that they are being critically listened +to, or who are, too consciously, listening to themselves. Once or twice +Meyer Isaacson glanced across the room to Mrs. Chepstow. She was eating +her supper slowly, languidly, and always looking down. Apparently she +had not seen him or Armine. Indeed, she did not seem to see any one, but +she was rather sadly unconscious of her surroundings. The Doctor found +himself pitying her, then denying to himself that she merited +compassion. With many others, he wondered at her solitude. To sup thus +alone in a crowded restaurant was to advertise her ill success in the +life she had chosen, her abandonment by man. Why did she do this? He +could not then divine, although afterwards he knew. And he was quietly +astonished. Just at first he expected that she would presently be joined +by some one who was late. But no one came, and no second place was laid +at her table. + +Conversation flagged between Armine and him, until the former presently +said: + +"I want to introduce you to some one to-night." + +"Yes? Who is it?" + +He asked, but he already knew. + +"Mrs. Chepstow." + +The Doctor was on the verge of saying that he was already acquainted +with her, when Armine added: + +"I spoke about you to her, and she told me she had never met you." + +"When was that?" + +"Four days ago, when I was introduced to her, and talked to her for the +first time." + +The Doctor did not speak for a minute. Then he said: + +"I shall be delighted to be presented to her." + +Although he was remarkably truthful with his friends, he was always +absolutely discreet in his professional capacity. He did not know +whether Mrs. Chepstow would wish the fact of her having consulted him +about her health to be spoken of. Therefore he did not mention it. And +as Armine knew that four days ago Mrs. Chepstow and he were strangers, +in not mentioning it he was obliged to leave his friend under the +impression that they were strangers still. + +"She is staying in this hotel, and is sitting over there. But of course +you know her by sight," said Armine. + +"Oh, yes, I have seen her about." + +"I think you will like her, if you can clear your mind of any prejudices +you may have formed against her." + +"Why should I be prejudiced against Mrs. Chepstow?" + +"People are. No one has a good word for her. Both women and men speak +ill of her." + +From the tone of Armine's voice Meyer Isaacson knew that this fact had +prejudiced him in Mrs. Chepstow's favour. There are some men who are +born to defend lost causes, who instinctively turn towards those from +whom others are ostentatiously turning away, moved by some secret +chivalry which blinds their reason, or by a passion of simple human pity +that dominates their hearts and casts a shadow over the brightness of +their intellects. Of these men Nigel Armine was one, and Meyer Isaacson +knew it. He was not much surprised, therefore, when Armine continued: + +"They see only the surface of things, and judge by what they see. I +suppose one ought not to condemn them. But sometimes it's--it's devilish +difficult not to condemn cruelty, especially when the cruelty is +directed against a woman. Only to-night Mrs. Derringham--and you say +she's a good sort of woman--" + +"Very much so." + +"Well, she said to me, 'For such women as Mrs. Chepstow I have no pity, +so don't ask it of me, Mr. Armine.' What a confession, Isaacson!" + +"Did she give her reasons?" + +"Oh, yes, she tried to. She said the usual thing." + +"What was that?" + +"She said that Mrs. Chepstow had sold herself body and soul to the Devil +for material things; that she was the typical greedy woman." + +"And did she indicate exactly what she meant by the typical greedy +woman?" + +"Yes. I will say for her that she was plain-spoken. She said: 'The woman +without ideals, without any feeling for home and all that home means, +the one man, children, peace found in unselfishness, rest in work for +others; the woman who betrays the reputation of her sex by being +absolutely concentrated upon herself, and whose desires only extend to +the vulgar satisfactions brought by a preposterous expenditure of money +on clothes, jewels, yachts, houses, motors, everything that rouses +wonder and admiration in utterly second-rate minds.'" + +"There are such women." + +"Perhaps there are. But, my dear Isaacson, one has only to look at Mrs. +Chepstow--with unprejudiced eyes, mind you--to see that she could never +be one of them. Even if I had never spoken to her, I should know that +she must have ideals, could never not have them, whatever her life is, +or has been. Physiognomy cannot utterly lie. Look at the line of that +face. Don't you see what I mean?" + +They both gazed for a moment at the lonely woman. + +"There is, of course, a certain beauty in Mrs. Chepstow's face," the +Doctor said. + +"I am not speaking of beauty; I am speaking of ideality, of purity. +Don't you see what I mean? Now, be honest." + +"Yes, I do." + +"Ah!" said Armine. + +The exclamation sounded warmly pleased. + +"But that look, I think, is a question merely of line, and of the way +the hair grows. Do you mean to say that you would rather judge a woman +by that than by the actions of her life?" + +"No. But I do say that if you examined the life of a woman with a face +like that--the real life--you would be certain to find that it had not +been devoid of actions such as you would expect, actions illustrating +that look of ideality which any one can see. What does Mrs. Derringham +really know of Mrs. Chepstow? She is not personally acquainted with her, +even. She acknowledged that. She has never spoken to her, and doesn't +want to." + +"That scarcely surprises me, I confess," the Doctor remarked. + +There was a definite dryness in his tone, and Armine noticed it. + +"You are prejudiced, I see," he said. + +In his voice there was a sound of disappointment. + +"I don't exactly know why, but I have always looked upon you as one of +the most fair-minded, broad-minded men I have met, Isaacson," he said. +"Not as one of those who must always hunt with the hounds." + +"The question is, What is prejudice? The facts of a life are facts, and +cannot leave one wholly uninfluenced for or against the liver of the +life. If I see a man beating a dog because it has licked his hand, I +draw the inference that he is cruel. Would you say that I am +narrow-minded in doing so? If one does not judge men and women by their +actions, by what is one to judge them? Perhaps you will say, 'Don't +judge them at all.' But it is impossible not to form opinions on people, +and every time one forms an opinion one passes a secret judgment. Isn't +it so?" + +"I think feeling enters into the matter. Often one gets an immediate +impression, before one knows anything about the facts of a life. The +facts may seem to give that impression the lie. But is it wrong? I think +very often not. I remember once I heard a woman, and a clever woman, say +of a man whom she knew intimately, 'They accuse him of such and such an +act. Well, if I saw him commit it, I would not believe he had done it!' +Absurd, you will say. And yet is it so absurd? In front of the real man +may there not be a false man, is there not often a false man, like a +mask over a face? And doesn't the false man do things that the real man +condemns? I would often rather judge with my heart than with my eyes, +Isaacson--yes, I would. That woman said a fine thing when she said that, +and she was not absurd, though every one who heard her laughed at her. +When one gets what one calls an impression, one's heart is speaking, is +saying, 'This is the truth.' And I believe the heart, without reasoning, +knows what the truth is." + +"And if two people get diametrically different impressions of the same +person? What then? That sometimes happens, you know." + +"I don't believe you and I could ever get diametrically different +impressions of a person," said Armine, looking at Mrs. Chepstow; "and +to-night I can't bother myself about the rest of the world." + +"Don't you think hearts can be stupid as well as heads? I do. I think +people can be muddle-hearted as well as muddle-headed." + +As the Doctor spoke, it seemed to flash upon him that he was passing a +judgment upon his friend--this man whom he admired, whom he almost +loved. + +"I should always trust my heart," said Armine. "But I very often +mistrust my head. Won't you have any more champagne?" + +"No, thank you." + +"What do you say to our joining Mrs. Chepstow? It must be awfully dull +for her, supping all alone. We might go and speak to her. If she doesn't +ask us to sit down, we can go into the hall and have a cigar." + +"Very well." + +There was neither alacrity nor reluctance in Meyer Isaacson's voice, but +if there had been, Armine would probably not have noticed it. When he +was intent on a thing, he saw little but that one thing. Now he paid the +bill, tipped the waiter, and got up. + +"Come along," he said, "and I will introduce you." + +He put his hand for an instant on his friend's arm. + +"Clear your mind of prejudice, Isaacson," he said, in a low voice. "You +are too good and too clever to be one of the prejudiced crowd. Let your +first impression be a true one." + +As the doctor went with his friend to Mrs. Chepstow's table, he did not +tell him that first impression had been already formed in the +consulting-room of the house in Cleveland Square. + + + + +V + + +"Mrs. Chepstow!" + +At the sound of Nigel Armine's voice Mrs. Chepstow started slightly, +like a person recalled abruptly from a reverie, looked up, and smiled. + +"You are here! I'm all alone. But I was hungry, so I had to brave the +rabble." + +"I want to introduce a friend to you. May I?" + +"Of course." + +Armine moved, and Doctor Isaacson stood by Mrs. Chepstow. + +"Doctor Meyer Isaacson, Mrs. Chepstow." + +The Doctor scarcely knew whether he had expected Mrs. Chepstow to +recognize him, or whether he had anticipated what actually happened--her +slight bow and murmured "I'm delighted to meet you." But he did know +that he was not really surprised at her treatment of him as an entire +stranger. And he was glad that he had said nothing to Armine of her +visit to Cleveland Square. + +"Aren't you going to sit down and talk to me for a little?" Mrs. +Chepstow said. "I'm all alone and horribly dull." + +"May we?" + +Armine drew up a chair. + +"Sit on my other side, Doctor Isaacson. I've heard a great deal about +you. You've made perfect cures of most of my enemies." + +There was not the least trace of consciousness in her manner, not the +faintest suspicion of embarrassment in her look, and, as he sat down, +the Doctor found himself admiring the delicate perfection of her deceit, +as he had sometimes admired a subtle _nuance_ in the performance of some +great French actress. + +"You ought to hate me then," he said. + +"Why? If I don't hate them?" + +"Don't you hate your enemies?" asked Armine. + +"No; that's a weakness in me. I never could and never shall. Something +silly inside of me invariably finds excuses for people, whatever they +are or do. I'm always saying to myself, 'They don't understand. If they +really knew all the circumstances, they wouldn't hate me. Perhaps they'd +even pity me.' Absurd! A mistake! I know that. Such feelings stand in +the way of success, because they prevent one striking out in one's own +defence. And if one doesn't strike out for oneself, nobody will strike +out for one." + +"I don't think that's quite true," Armine said. + +"Oh, yes, it is. If you're pugnacious, people think you're plucky, and +they're ready to stand up for you. Whereas, if you forgive easily, +you're not easily forgiven." + +"If that is so," Armine said, "why don't you change your tactics?" + +As he said this, he glanced at Isaacson, and the Doctor understood that +he was seeking to display to his friend what he believed to be this +woman's character. + +"Simply because I can't. I am what I am. I can't change myself, and I +can't act in defiance of the little interior voice. I often try to, for +I don't pretend in the least to be virtuous; but I have to give in. I +know it's weakness. I know the world would laugh at it. But--_que +voulez-vous?_--some of us are the slaves of our souls." + +The last sentence seemed almost to be blurted out, so honestly was it +said. But instantly, as if regretting a sincere indiscretion, she added: + +"Doctor Isaacson, what an idiot you must think me!" + +"Why, Mrs. Chepstow?" + +"For saying that. You, of course, think we are the slaves of our +bodies." + +"I certainly do not think you an idiot," he could not help saying, with +significance. + +"Isaacson is not an ordinary doctor," said Armine. "You needn't be +afraid of him." + +"I don't think I'm afraid of anybody, but one doesn't want to make +oneself absurd. And I believe I often am absurd in rating the body too +low. What a conversation!" she added, smiling. "But, as I was all alone +in the crowd, I was thinking of all sorts of things. A crowd makes one +think tremendously, if one is quite alone. It stimulates the brain, I +suppose. So I was thinking a lot of rubbish over my solitary meal." + +She looked at the two men apologetically. + +"_La femme pense_," she said, and she shrugged her shoulders. + +Armine drew his chair a little nearer to her, and this action suddenly +made Doctor Isaacson realize the power that still dwelt in this woman, +the power to govern certain types of men. + +"And the man acts," completed Armine. + +"And the woman acts, too, and better than the man," the Doctor thought +to himself. + +Again his admiration was stirred, this time by the sledge-hammer +boldness of Mrs. Chepstow, by her complete though so secret defiance of +himself. + +"But what were you thinking about?" Armine continued, earnestly. "I +noticed how preoccupied you were even when you came into the room." + +"Did you? I was thinking about a conversation I had this afternoon. +Oddly enough"--she turned slowly towards Meyer Isaacson--"it was with a +doctor." + +"Indeed?" he said, looking her full in the face. + +"Yes." + +She turned away, and once more spoke to Armine. + +"I went this afternoon to a doctor, Mr. Armine, to consult him about a +friend of mine who is ill and obstinate, and we had a most extraordinary +talk about the soul and the body. A sort of fight it was. He thought me +a typical silly woman. I'm sure of that." + +"Why?" + +"Because I suppose I took a sentimental view of our subject. We women +always instinctively take the sentimental view, you know. My doctor was +severely scientific and frightfully sceptical. He thought me an absurd +visionary." + +"And what did you think him?" + +"I'm afraid I thought him a crass materialist. He had doctored the body +until he was able to believe only in the body. He referred everything +back to the body. Every emotion, according to him, was only caused by +the terminal of a nerve vibrating in a cell contained in the grey matter +of the brain. I dare say he thinks the most passionate love could be +operated for. And as to any one having an immortal soul--well, I did +dare, being naturally fearless, just to mention the possibility of my +possessing such a thing. But I was really sorry afterwards." + +"Tell us why." + +"Because it brought upon me such an avalanche of scorn and arguments. I +didn't much mind the scorn, but the arguments bored me." + +"Did they convince you?" + +"Mr. Armine! Now, did you ever know a woman convinced of anything by +argument?" + +He laughed. + +"Then you still believe that you have an immortal soul?" + +"More, far more, than ever." + +She was laughing, too. But, quite suddenly, the laughter died out of +her, and she said, with an earnest face: + +"I wouldn't let any one--any one--take some of my beliefs from me." + +The tone of her voice was almost fierce in its abrupt doggedness. + +"I must have some coffee," she added, with a complete change of tone. "I +sleep horribly badly, and that's why I take coffee. Mere perversity! +Three black coffees, waiter." + +"Not for me!" said Meyer Isaacson. + +"You must, for once. I hate doing things alone. There is no pleasure in +anything unless some one shares it. At least"--she looked at +Armine--"that is what every woman thinks." + +"Then how unhappy lots of women must be," he said. + +"The lonely women. Ah! no man will ever know how unhappy." + +There was a moment of silence. Something in the sound of Mrs. +Chepstow's voice as she said the last words almost compelled a silence. + +For the first time since he had been with her that night Meyer Isaacson +felt that perhaps he had caught a glimpse of her true self, had drawn +near to the essential woman. + +The waiter brought their coffee, and Mrs. Chepstow added, with a little +laugh: + +"Even a meal eaten alone is no pleasure to a woman. To-night, till you +came to take pity upon me, I should have been far happier with +'something on a tray' in my own room. But now I feel quite convivial. +Isn't the coffee here good?" + +Suddenly she looked cheerful, almost gay. Happiness seemed to blossom +within her. + +"Never mind if you lie awake for once, Doctor Isaacson," she continued, +looking across at him. "You will have done a good action; you will have +cheered up a human being who had been feeling down on her luck. That +talk I had with a doctor had depressed me most horribly, although I told +myself that I didn't believe a word he said." + +Meyer Isaacson sipped his coffee and said nothing. + +"I think one of the wickedest things one can do in the world is to try +to take any comforting and genuine belief away from the believer," said +Armine, with energy. + +"Would you leave people even in their errors?" said the Doctor. +"Suppose, for instance, you saw some one--some friend--believing in a +person whom you knew to be unworthy, would you make no effort to +enlighten him?" + +He spoke very quietly--almost carelessly. Mrs. Chepstow fixed her big +blue eyes on him and for a moment forgot her coffee. + +"Perhaps I should. But you know my theory." + +"Oh--to be sure!" + +Meyer Isaacson smiled. Mrs. Chepstow looked from one man to the other +quickly. + +"What theory? Don't make me feel an outsider," she said. + +"Mr. Armine thinks--may I, Armine?" + +"Of course." + +"Thinks that belief in the goodness, the genuineness of people helps +them to become good, genuine, so that the unworthy might be made +eventually worthy by a trust at first misplaced." + +"Mr. Armine is--" She checked herself. "It is a pity the world isn't +full of Mr. Armines," she said, softly. + +Armine flushed, almost boyishly. + +"I wish my doctor knew you, Mr. Armine. If you create by believing, I'm +sure he destroys by disbelieving." + +As she said the last words, her eyes met Meyer Isaacson's, and he saw in +them, or thought he saw, a defiance that was threatening. + +The lights winked. Mrs. Chepstow got up. + +"They're going to turn us out. Let us anticipate them--by going. It's so +dreadful to be turned out. It makes me feel like Eve at the critical +moment of her career." + +She led the way from the big room. As she passed among the tables, every +man, and almost every woman, turned to stare at her as children stare at +a show. She seemed quite unconscious of the attention she attracted. But +when she bade good night to the two friends in the hall, she said: + +"Aren't people horrible sometimes? They seem to think one is--" She +checked herself. "I'm a fool!" she said. "Good night. Thank you both for +coming. It has done me good." + +"Don't mind those brutes!" Armine almost whispered to her, as he held +her hand for a moment. "Don't think of them. Think of--the others." + +She looked at him in silence, nodded, and went quietly away. + +Directly she had gone Meyer Isaacson said to his friend: + +"Well, good night, Armine. I am glad you're back. Let us see something +of each other." + +"Don't go yet. Come to my sitting-room and have a smoke." + +"Better not. I have to be up early. I ride at half-past seven." + +"I'll ride with you, then." + +"To-morrow?" + +"Yes, to-morrow." + +"But have you got any horses up?" + +"No; I'll hire from Simonds. Don't wait for me, but look out for me in +the Row. Good night, old chap." + +As they grasped hands for a moment, he added: + +"Wasn't I right?" + +"Right?" + +"About her--Mrs. Chepstow? She may have been driven into the Devil's +hands, but don't you see, don't you feel, the good in her, struggling +up, longing for an opportunity to proclaim itself, to take the reins of +her life and guide her to calm, to happiness, to peace? I pity that +woman, Isaacson; I pity her." + +"Pity her if you like," the Doctor said, with a strong emphasis, on the +first word, "but--" + +He hesitated. Something in his friend's face stopped him from saying +more, told him that perhaps it would be much wiser to say nothing more. +Opposition drives some natures blindly forward. Such natures should not +be opposed. + +"I pity Mrs. Chepstow, too," he concluded. "Poor woman!" + +And in saying that he spoke the truth. But his pity for her was not of +the kind that is akin to love. + +The black coffee Mrs. Chepstow had persuaded Meyer Isaacson to take kept +him awake that night. Like some evil potion, it banished sleep and +peopled the night with a rushing crowd of thoughts. Presently he did not +even try to sleep. He gave himself to the crowd with a sort of +half-angry joy. + +In the afternoon he had been secretly puzzled by Mrs. Chepstow. He had +wondered what under-reason she had for seeking an interview with him. +Now he surely knew that reason. Unless he was wrong, unless he +misunderstood her completely, she had come to make a curiously +audacious _coup_. She had seen Nigel Armine, she had read his strange +nature rightly; she had divined that in him there was a man who, unlike +most men, instinctively loved to go against the stream, who +instinctively turned towards that which most men turned from. She had +seen in him the born espouser of lost causes. + +She was a lost cause. Armine was her opportunity. + +Armine had talked to her four days ago of Meyer Isaacson. The Doctor +guessed how, knowing the generous enthusiasm of his friend. And she, a +clever woman, made distrustful by misfortune, had come to Cleveland +Square, led by feminine instinct, to spy out this land of which she had +heard so much. The Doctor's sensation of being examined, while he sat +with Mrs. Chepstow in his consulting-room, had been well-founded. The +patient had been reading the Doctor, swiftly, accurately. And she had +acted promptly upon the knowledge of him so rapidly acquired. She had +"given herself away" to him; she had shown herself to him as she was. +Why? To shut his mouth in the future. The revelation, such as it was, +had been made to him as a physician, under the guise of described +symptoms. She had told him the exact truth of herself in his +consulting-room, in order that he might not tell others--tell Nigel +Armine--what that truth was. + +Her complete reliance upon her own capacity for reading character +surprised and almost delighted the Doctor. For there was something +within him which loved strength and audacity, which could appreciate +them artistically at their full value. She had given a further and a +fuller illustration of her audacity that evening in the restaurant. + +Now, in the night, he could see her white face, the look in her +brilliant eyes above the painted shadows, as she told to Nigel the +series of lies about the interview in Cleveland Square, putting herself +in the Doctor's place, him in her own. She had enjoyed doing that, +enjoyed it intellectually. And she had forced the Doctor to dance to her +piping. He had been obliged to join her in her deceit--almost to back +her up in it. + +He knew now why she had been alone at her table, why she had advertised +her ill success in the life she had chosen, her present abandonment by +men. This had been done to strike at Armine's peculiar temperament. It +was a very clever stroke. + +But it was a burning of her boats. + +Meyer Isaacson frowned in the night. + +A woman like Mrs. Chepstow does not burn her boats for nothing. How much +did she expect to gain by that sacrifice of improper pride, a pride +almost dearer than life to a woman of her type? The _quid pro quo_--what +was it to be? + +He feared for Nigel, as he lay awake while the night drew on towards +dawn. + + + + +VI + + +Mrs. Chepstow's sitting-room at the Savoy was decorated with pink and +green in pale hues which suited well her present scheme of colour. In it +there was a little rosewood piano. Upon that piano's music-desk, on the +following day, stood a copy of Elgar's "Dream of Gerontius," open at the +following words: + +"Proficiscere, anima Christiana, de hoc mundo! Go forth upon thy +journey, Christian soul! Go from this world!" + +Scattered about the room were _The Nineteenth Century and After_, _The +Quarterly Review_, the _Times_, and several books; among them Goethe's +"Faust," Maspero's "Manual of Egyptian Archaeology," "A Companion to +Greek Studies," Guy de Maupassant's "Fort Comme la Mort," D'Annunzio's +"Trionfo della Morte," and Hawthorne's "Scarlet Letter." There was also +a volume of Emerson's "Essays." In a little basket under the +writing-table lay the last number of _The Winning Post_, carefully +destroyed. There were a few pink roses in a vase. In a cage some +canary-birds were singing. The furniture had been pulled about by a +clever hand until the room had lost something of its look of a room in a +smart hotel. The windows were wide open on to the balcony. They +dominated the Thames Embankment, and a light breeze from the water +stirred the white and green curtains that framed them. + +Into this pretty and peacefully cheerful chamber Nigel Armine was shown +by a waiter at five o'clock precisely, and left with the promise that +Mrs. Chepstow should be informed of his arrival. + +When the door had closed behind the German waiter's back, Nigel stood +for a moment looking around him. This was the first visit he had paid to +Mrs. Chepstow. He sought for traces of her personality in this room in +which she lived. He thought it looked unusually cosy for a room in an +hotel, although he did not discover, as Isaacson would have discovered +in a moment, that the furniture had been deftly disarranged. His eyes +roved quickly: no photographs, no embroideries, one or two extra +cushions, birds, a few perfect roses, a few beautifully bound books, the +windows widely opened to let the air stream in. And there was an open +piano! He went over to it and bent down. + +"Proficiscere, anima Christiana, de hoc mundo! Go forth upon thy +journey, Christian soul! Go from this world!" + +So she loved "Gerontius," that intimate musical expression of the wonder +and the strangeness of the Soul! He did not remember he had told her +that he loved it. He stood gazing at the score. The light wind came in +from the river far down below, and the curtains made a faint sound as +they moved. The canaries chirped intermittently. But Nigel heard the +voice of a priest by the side of one who was dying. And as he looked at +the chords supporting the notes on which the priest bade the soul of the +man return to its Maker, he seemed to hear them, as he had heard them, +played by a great orchestra; to feel the mysterious, the terrible, yet +beautiful act of dissolution. + +He started. He had launched himself into space with the soul. Now, +abruptly, he was tethered to earth in the body. Had he not heard the +murmur of a dress announcing the coming of its wearer? He looked towards +the second door of the room, which opened probably into a bedroom. It +was shut, and remained shut. He came away from the piano. What books +was she fond of reading! Emerson--optimism in boxing-gloves; +Maspero--she was interested, then, in things Egyptian. "Faust"--De +Maupassant--D'Annunzio--Hawthorne, "The Scarlet Letter." He took this +last book, which was small and bound in white, into his hand. He had +known it once. He had read it long ago. Now he opened it, glanced +quickly through its pages. Hester Prynne, Arthur Dimmesdale--suddenly he +remembered the story, the sin of the flesh, the scarlet letter that +branded the sin upon the woman's breast while the man went unpunished. + +And Mrs. Chepstow had it, bound in white. + +"Are you judging my character by my books?" + +A warm and careless voice spoke behind him. She had come in and was +standing close to him, dressed in white, with a black hat, and holding a +white parasol in her hand. In the sunshine she looked even fairer than +by night. Her pale but gleaming hair was covered by a thin veil, which +she kept down as she greeted Nigel. + +"Not judging," he said, as he held her hand for a moment. "Guessing, +perhaps, or guessing at." + +"Which is it? 'The Scarlet Letter'! I got it a year ago. I read it. And +when I had read it, I sent it to be bound in white." + +"Why was that?" + +"'Though your sin shall be as scarlet,'" she quoted. + +He was silent, looking at her. + +"Let us have tea." + +As she spoke, she went, with her slow and careless walk which Isaacson +had noticed, towards the fireplace, and touched the electric bell. Then +she sat down on a sofa close to the cage of the canary-birds, and with +her back to the light. + +"I suppose you are fearfully busy with engagements," she continued, as +he came to sit down near her. "Most people are, at this time of year. +One ought to be truly grateful for even five minutes of anybody's time. +I remember, ages ago, when I was one of the busy ones, I used to expect +almost servile thankfulness for any little minute I doled out. How +things change!" + +She did not sigh, but laughed, and, without giving him time to speak, +added: + +"Which of my other books did you look at?" + +"I saw you had Maspero." + +"Oh, I got that simply because I had met you. It turned my mind towards +Egypt, which I have never seen, although I've yachted all over the +place. Last night, after we had said good night, I couldn't sleep; so I +sat here and read Maspero for a while, and thought of your Egyptian +life. I didn't mean to be impertinent. One has to think of something." + +"Impertinent!" + +Her tone, though light, had surely been coloured with apology. + +"Well, people are so funny--now. I remember the time when lots of them +were foolish in the opposite way. If I thought of them, they seemed to +take it as an honour. But then I wasn't thirty-eight, and I was in +society." + +The German waiter came in with tea. When he had arranged it and gone +out, Nigel said, with a certain diffidence: + +"I wonder you don't live in the country." + +"I know what you mean. But you're wrong. One feels even more out of it +there." + +She gave him his cup gently, with a movement that implied care for his +comfort, almost a thoughtful, happy service. + +"The Rector is embarrassed, his wife appalled. The Doctor's 'lady,' much +as she longs for one's guineas, tries to stop him even from attending +one's dying bed. The Squire, though secretly interested to fervour, is +of course a respectable man. He is a 'stay' to country morality, and his +wife is a pair of stays. The neighbours respond in their dozens to the +_mot d'ordre_, and there one is _plantee_, like a lonely white moon +encircled by a halo of angry fire. Dear acquaintance, I've tried it. +Egypt--Omaha--anything would be better. What are you eating? Have one of +these little cakes. They really are good. I ordered them specially for +you and our small festivity." + +She was smiling as she handed him the plate. + +"I should think Egypt would be better!" exclaimed Nigel, with a strength +and a vehemence that contrasted almost startlingly with her light, +half-laughing tone. "Why don't you go there? Why don't you try the free +life?" + +"Live among the tribes, like Lady Hester Stanhope in the Lebanon? I'm +afraid I could never train myself to wear a turban. Besides, Egypt is +fearfully civilized now. Every one goes there. I should be cut all up +the Nile." + +The brutality of her frankness startled and almost pained him. For a +moment, in it he seemed to discern a lack of taste. + +"You are right," she said; and suddenly the lightness died away +altogether from her voice. "But how is one not to get blunted? And even +long ago I always hated pretence. Women are generally pretending. And +they are wise. I have never been wise. If I were wise, I should not let +you see my lonely, stupid, undignified situation." + +Suddenly she turned so that the light from the window fell full upon +her, and lifted her veil up over the brim of her hat. + +"Nor my face, upon which, of course, must be written all sorts of +worries and sorrows. But I couldn't pretend at eighteen, nor can I at +thirty-eight. No wonder so many men--the kind of men you meet at your +club, at the Marlborough, or the Bachelors', or the Travellers'--call me +an 'ass of a woman.' I am an ass of a woman, a little--little--ass." + +In saying the very last words all the severity slipped away out of her +voice, and as she smiled again and moved her head, emphasizing +humorously her own reproach to herself, she looked almost a girl. + +"The 'little' applies to my mind, of course, not to my body; or perhaps +I ought to say to my soul, instead of to my body." + +"No, 'little' would be the wrong adjective for your soul," Nigel said. + +Mrs. Chepstow looked touched, and turned once more away from the light, +after Nigel had noticed that she looked touched. + +"Have you seen your friend, Doctor Isaacson, to-day?" she said, seeming +to make an effort in changing the conversation. "I like that man, though +usually I dislike Jews because of their love for money. I like him, and +somehow I feel as if he had liked me the other night, as if he had felt +kindly towards me." + +"Isaacson is a splendid fellow. I haven't seen him again. He has been +called away by a case. We were to have ridden together this morning, but +he sent to say it was impossible. He has gone into the country." + +"Will he be away long?" + +"I don't know. I hope not. I want him here badly." + +"Oh?" + +"I mean that he's congenial to me in many ways, and that congenial +spirits are rare." + +"You must have troops of friends. You are a man's man." + +"I don't know. What is a man's man?" + +"A man like you." + +"And a woman's man?" he asked, drawing his chair a little towards her. + +"Every man's man is a woman's man." + +"You say you cannot pretend. Cannot you flatter?" + +"I can pretend to that extent, and sometimes do. But why should I +flatter you? I don't believe you care a bit about it. You love a kindly +truth. Who doesn't? I've just told you a kindly truth." + +"I should like to tell you some kindly truths," he said. + +"I'm afraid there are not many you, or any one else, could tell. I dare +say there are one or two, though, for I believe there is in every one +of us a little bit--almost infinitesimal, perhaps--of ineradicable good, +a tiny flame which no amount of drenching can ever extinguish." + +"I know it." + +"Oh, but it does want cherishing--cherishing--cherishing all the time, +the tiny flame of ineradicable good." + +She took his cup quickly, and began to pour out some more tea for him, +like one ashamed of an outburst and striving to cover it up by action. + +"Bring Doctor Isaacson to see me one day--if he'll come," she said, in a +changed, cool voice, the non-committal voice of the trained woman of the +world. + +He felt that the real woman had for an instant risen to the surface, and +had sunk again into the depths of her; that she was almost ashamed of +this real, good woman. And he longed to tell her so, to say to her, +"Don't be ashamed. Let me see the real woman, the good woman. That is +the woman I seek when I am near you." But he did not dare to strike a +blow on her reserve. + +"I will bring Isaacson," he said, quietly. "I want him to know you +really. Why are you smiling?" + +"But--I am not smiling!" + +Nor was she; and, seeing her quiet gravity and wonder, he was surprised +that he had imagined it. + +"I must tell you," she said, "that though I took such a fancy to Doctor +Isaacson, I don't think he is like you; I don't think he is a +psychologist." + +"You think me a psychologist?" said Nigel, in very honest surprise. + +"Yes, and I'll tell you why, if you'll promise not to be offended." + +"Please--please do." + +"I think one reads character as much with the eyes of the heart as with +the eyes of the brain. You use two pairs of eyes in your reading. But I +am not sure that Doctor Isaacson does." + +"Why did you ask me not to be offended? You meant to put it differently. +And you would have been right. Isaacson is a brilliant man, and I am +not. But he has as much heart as I, although he has so much more brain +than I. And the stronger each is, the better for a man." + +"But the brain--oh, it has such a tendency to overshadow, to browbeat +the heart. In its strength it so often grows arrogant. The _juste +milieu_--I think you have it. Be content, and never let your brain cry +out for more, lest your heart should have to put up with less." + +"You think too well of me," he said; "much too well." + +She leaned forward over the tea-table and looked at him closely, with +the peculiar scrutiny of one so strongly concentrated upon the matter in +hand as to be absolutely unself-conscious. + +"I wonder if I do," she said; and he felt as if she were trying to drag +the very heart out of him and to see how it was beating. "I wonder if I +do." + +She relaxed her muscles, which had been tense, and leaned back, letting +her right hand, which for a moment had grasped the edge of the table, +drop down on to her lap. + +"It may be so. I do think well of you. That is certain. And I'm afraid I +think very often badly of men. And yet I do try to judge fairly, and not +only to put on the black cap because of my own unfortunate experiences. +There are such splendid men--but there are such utter brutes. You must +know that. And yet I doubt if a man ever knows how good, or how bad, +another man can be. Perhaps one must be a woman thoroughly to know a +man--man, the beast and the angel." + +"I dare say that is true." + +He spoke almost with conviction. For all the time he had been with her +he had been companioned by a strange, unusual feeling of being +understood, of having the better part of him rightly appraised, and even +too greatly appreciated. And this feeling had warmed his mind and heart +almost as a generous wine warms the body. + +"I'm sure it is true." + +He put down his cup. Suddenly there had come to him the desire to go +away, to be alone. He saw the curtains moving gently by the windows, and +heard the distant, softened sound of the voices and the traffic of the +city. And he thought of the river, and the sunset, and the barges +swinging on the hurrying tide, and of the multitudes of eddies in the +water. Like those eddies were the thoughts within his mind, the feelings +within his heart. Were they not being driven onwards by the current of +time, onwards towards the spacious sea of action? Abruptly his heart was +invaded by a longing for largeness, a longing that was essential in his +nature, but that sometimes lay quiescent, for largeness of view, such as +the Bedouin has upon the desert that he loves and he belongs to; +largeness of emotion, largeness of action. Largeness was +manliness--largeness of thinking and largeness of living. Not the +drawing-room of the world, but the desert of the world, with its +exquisite oases, was the right place for a man. Yet here he was in a +drawing-room. At this moment he longed to go out from it. But he longed +also to catch this woman by the hand and draw her out with him. And he +remembered how Browning, the poet, had loved a woman who lay always in a +shrouded room, too ill to look on the sunshine or breathe the wide airs +of the world; and how he carried her away and took her to the peaks of +the Apennines. The mere thought of such a change in a life was like a +cry of joy. + +"What is it?" said Mrs. Chepstow, surprised at the sudden radiance in +Nigel's face, seeing before her for the first time a man she could not +read, but a man whose physique now forcibly appealed to her--seemed to +become splendid under some inward influence, as a half-naked athlete's +does when he slowly fills his lungs, clenches his fists, and hardens all +his muscles. "What is it?" + +But he did not tell her. He could not tell her. And he got up to go +away. As he passed the piano, he looked again at the score of "The Dream +of Gerontius." + +"Are you fond of that?" he asked her. + +"What? Oh--'Gerontius'" + +She let her eyes rest for a brief instant on his face. + +"I love it. It carries me away--as the soul is carried away by the +angel. 'This child of clay to me was given'--do you remember?" + +"Yes." + +He bade her good-bye. The last thing he looked at in her room was "The +Scarlet Letter," bound in white, lying upon her table. And he glanced +from it to her before he went out and shut the door. + +Just outside in the corridor he met a neatly dressed French girl, whose +eyes were very red. She had evidently been crying long and bitterly. She +carried over her arm the skirt of a gown, and she went into the room +which communicated with Mrs. Chepstow's sitting-room. + +"Poor girl!" thought Nigel. "I wonder what's the matter with her." + +He went on down the corridor to the lift, descended, and made his way to +the Thames Embankment. + +When the door shut behind him, Mrs. Chepstow remained standing for a +minute near the piano, waiting, like one expectant of a departing +guest's return. But Nigel did not come back to say any forgotten, final +word. Presently she realized that she was safely alone, and she went to +the piano, sat down, and struck the chords which supported the notes on +which the priest dismissed the soul. But she only played them for a +moment. Then, taking the music off the stand and throwing it on the +floor, she began to play a Spanish dance, lascivious, alluring, as full +of the body as the music of Elgar is full of the soul. And she played it +very well, as well, almost, as a hot-blooded girl of Seville could have +danced it. As she drew near the end, she heard a sound in the adjoining +room, and she stopped abruptly and called out: + +"Henriette!" + +There was no reply. + +"Henriette!" Mrs. Chepstow called again. + +The door of the bedroom opened, and the French girl with red eyes +appeared. + +"Why don't you answer when I speak to you? How long have you been +there?" + +"Two or three minutes, madame," said the girl, in a low voice. + +"Did you meet any one in the corridor?" + +"Yes, madame, a gentleman." + +"Coming from here?" + +"Yes, madame." + +"Did he see you?" + +"Naturally, madame." + +"I mean--to notice you?" + +"I think he did, madame." + +"And did he see you go into my room--with those eyes?" + +"Yes, madame." + +An angry frown contracted Mrs. Chepstow's forehead, and her face +suddenly became hard and looked almost old. + +"Heavens!" she exclaimed. "If there is a stupid thing to be done, you +are sure to--Go away! go away!" + +The maid retreated quickly, and shut the door. + +"Idiot!" Mrs. Chepstow muttered. + +She knew the value of a last impression. + +She went out on to her balcony and looked down to the Embankment, idly +watching the traffic, the people walking by. + +Although she did not know it, Nigel was among them. He was strolling by +the river. He was looking at the sunset. And he was thinking of the poet +Browning, and of the woman whom love took from the shrouded chamber and +set on the mountain peaks. + + + + +VII + + +Although Nigel Armine was an enthusiast, and what many people called an +"original," he was also a man of the world. He knew the trend of the +world's opinion, he realized clearly how the world regarded any actions +that were not worldly. The fact that often he did not care did not mean +that he did not know. He was no ignorant citizen, and in his +acquaintance with Mrs. Chepstow his worldly knowledge did not forsake +him. Clearly he understood how the average London man--the man he met at +his clubs, at Ranelagh, at Hurlingham--would sum up any friendship +between Mrs. Chepstow and himself. + +"Mrs. Chepstow's hooked poor old Armine!" + +Something like that would be the verdict. + +Were they friends? Could they ever be friends? + +Nigel had met Mrs. Chepstow by chance in the vestibule of the Savoy. He +had been with a racing man whom he scarcely knew, but who happened to +know her well. This man had introduced them to each other carelessly, +and hurried away to "square things up with his bookie." Thus casually +and crudely their acquaintance was begun. How was it to continue? +Or--was it to continue? + +Nigel was a strong man in the flower of his life. He was not a saint. +And he was beginning to wonder. And Isaacson, who was again in town, was +beginning to wonder, too. + +During the season the Doctor was very busy. Many Americans and +foreigners desired to consult him. He adhered to his rule, and never +admitted a patient to his house after half-past five had struck, yet his +work was seldom over before the hour of seven. He could not see Nigel +often, because he could not see any one often; but he had seen him more +than once, more than once he had heard gossip about him, and he +realized, partly through knowledge, and partly through instinct, his +situation with Mrs. Chepstow. Nigel longed to be frank with Isaacson, +yet told him very little, held back by some strange reserve, subtly +inculcated, perhaps, by the woman. Other men told Isaacson far too much, +drawing evil inferences with the happy laughter of the beast and not of +the angel. + +And the Doctor drew his own conclusion. + +From the very first, he had realized that the acquaintance between this +socially ruined, no longer young, yet still fascinating woman, and this +young, enthusiastic man would be no slight, ephemeral thing. The woman +had willed it otherwise. And perhaps the almost ungovernable +root-qualities of Nigel had willed it otherwise, too, although he did +not know that. Enthusiasm plies a whip that starts steeds in a mad +gallop it is not easy to arrest. Even the vigorous force that started +them may be unable to pull them up. + +Where exactly was Nigel going? + +Smiling and sneering men in the clubs said, to a crude liaison. They +said more. They said the liaison was a fact, and marvelled that a fellow +like Armine should be willing to be "a bad last." Isaacson knew the +untruth of this gossip. There was no liaison. But would there ever be +one? Did Mrs. Chepstow intend that there should be one? Or had her +intention from the beginning been quite otherwise? + +Isaacson did not know in detail what Nigel's past had been. He imagined +it, from the man's point of view, to have been unusually pure. But he +did not suppose it stainless. His keen eyes of a physician read the +ardour of Nigel's temperament. He made no mistake about his man. Nigel +ought to have married. That he had never done so was due to a sorrow in +early life, the death of a girl whom he had loved. Isaacson knew nothing +of this, and sometimes he had wondered why no woman captured this nature +so full of impulse and of sympathy, so full of just those qualities +which make good women happy. If Mrs. Chepstow should capture it, the +irony of life would be in flood. + +Would she win the love as well as the pity and the chivalry of Nigel, +which she already had? Would she awaken the flesh of this man as well +as the spirit, and through spirit and flesh would she attain his soul? + +And then? + +Isaacson's sincerity was sorely tested by his friendship at this period. +Original though he was, and full of the sensitive nature's distaste for +marching with the mob, he was ranged with the mob against Nigel in this +affair of Mrs. Chepstow. Yet Nigel claimed him as an ally, a kindred +spirit. He was not explicit, but in their fugitive intercourse he was +perpetually implying. It was "You and I," and the rest of the world shut +out. Pity was working within him, chivalry was working, the generosity +of his soul, but also its fighting obstinacy. There was something in +Nigel which loved to have its back against the wall. He wanted to put +Isaacson into the same pugnacious position, facing the overwhelming +odds. But the overwhelming odds were on the same side as the Doctor. On +the whole, Isaacson was not sorry that he had so few hours to spare. For +he did not know what to do. Professional secrecy debarred him from +telling Nigel what Mrs. Chepstow had said of herself. What others said +of her would never set Nigel against her, but would always incline him +towards her. + +So far Mrs. Chepstow and he were acquaintances. But already the moment +had come when Nigel was beginning to want of her more than mere +acquaintanceship, and, because of this driving want of more, to ask +himself whether he should require less. His knowledge of the world +might, or might not, have told him that with Mrs. Chepstow an +unembarrassed friendship would be difficult. That would have been +theory. Practice already taught him that the difficulty would probably +prove insurmountable even by his enthusiasm and courage. Were they +friends? Could they ever be friends? + +Even while he asked himself the question, a voice within him answered, +"No." + +Women who have led certain lives lose the faculty for friendship, if +they ever possessed it. Events have taught them, what instinct seems to +teach many women, to look on men as more physical even than they are. +And such women show their outlook perpetually, in word, in look, in +action, and in the indefinable _nuances_ of manner which make a person's +atmosphere. This outlook affects men, both shames them and excites them, +acting on god and brute. Neither shamed god nor brute with lifted head +is in the mood for friendship. + +Mrs. Chepstow had this instinctive outlook on male creation, and not +even her delicate gifts as a _comedienne_ could entirely disguise it. + +At last Nigel reached a crisis of restlessness and uncertainty, which +warned him that he must drift and delay no longer, but make up his mind +quite definitely what course he was going to take. He was not a man who +could live comfortably in indecision. He hated it, indeed, as an +attribute of weakness. + +He must "have it out" with himself. + +It was now July. The season would soon be over. And his acquaintance +with Mrs. Chepstow? Would that be over too? It might come to an end +quite naturally. He would go into the country, presently to Scotland for +the shooting. And she--where would she go? This question set him +thinking, as often in these last days--thinking about her loneliness, a +condition exaggerated and underlined by her to make an impression on +him. She did not seem to dwell upon it. She was far too clever for that. +But somehow it was always cropping up. When he paid her a visit, she was +scarcely ever out. And if she was in, she was invariably alone. +Sometimes she wore a hat and said she had just come in. Sometimes, when +he left her, she would say she was going out. But always the impression +created was of a very lonely woman, with no engagements and apparently +no friends, who passed the long summer days in solitude, +playing--generally "Gerontius"--upon the little rosewood piano, or +reading "The Scarlet Letter," or some sad or high-minded book. There was +no pose apparent in all this. Indeed, sometimes Mrs. Chepstow seemed +slightly confused, almost ashamed, at being so unoccupied, so unclaimed +by any society or any bright engagements. And more than once Nigel +suspected her of telling him white lies when she spoke of dining out +with "people" in the evening, or of joining a "party" for the play. For +he noticed that when she made such statements it was generally after +some remark, some little incident, which had indicated his pity. And he +divined the pride of a well-bred woman stirring within her, the desire +to conceal or to make the least of her unfortunate situation. Far from +posing to gain his pity, he believed her to be "playing up," if +possible, to avoid it. And this belief, not unnaturally, rendered it far +more keen. So he fell in with her intention. + +Once or twice when, in mental colloquies, he played, as he supposed, the +part of the ordinary man of the world arguing out the question with the +impulsive, chivalrous man, he said, and insisted strongly, that a woman +such as Mrs. Chepstow, justifiably famous for beauty and scandalously +famous for very different reasons, if she sought to deceive--and of +course the man of the world thought such women compact of +deception--would try to increase her attraction by representing herself +as courted, desired, feted, run after by men. Such women always did +that. Never would she wish it to be known that she was undesired, that +she was abandoned. Men want what other men want. But who wants the +unwanted? The fact that Mrs. Chepstow allowed him to see and to realize +her solitude, so simply and so completely, proved to Nigel her almost +unwise unworldliness. The man of the world, so sceptical, was convinced. +And as to the enthusiast--he bowed down. + +Nigel made the mistake of judging Mrs. Chepstow's capacity by the +measure of his own shrewdness, which in such a direction was not great. +What seemed the inevitable procedure of such a woman to Nigel's amount +of worldly cleverness, seemed the procedure to be avoided to Mrs. +Chepstow's amount of the same blessing. She seldom took the obvious +route in deception, as Isaacson had realized almost from the first +moment when he knew her. She paid people the compliment of crediting +them with astuteness, and thought it advisable to be not only more +clever than they were stupid, but more clever than they were clever. + +And so Nigel's pity grew; and now, when he was "having it out" with +himself, he felt that when the season was over Mrs. Chepstow must miss +him, not because she had picked him out as a man specially attractive to +her, but simply because he had brought the human element into a very +lonely life. In their last conversation he had spoken of the end of the +season, of the exodus that would follow it. + +"Oh--yes, of course," she had said, rather vaguely. + +"Where are you going?" + +She had sat for a moment in silence, and he had believed he followed the +movement of her thought. He had felt certain that she was considering +whether she would tell him a lie, recount some happy plan invented at +the moment to deceive him. Feeling this certainty, he had looked at her, +and his eyes had asked her to tell him the truth. And he had believed +that she yielded to them, when at length she said: + +"I haven't any special plans. I dare say I shall stay on quietly here." + +She had not given him an opportunity of making a rejoinder, but had at +once turned the conversation to some quite different topic. And again he +had divined pride working busily within her. + +She must miss him. + +She must miss any one who occasionally stepped in to break her solitude. +Sometimes he had wondered at this solitude's completeness. He wondered +again now. Everybody had their friends, their intimates, whether +delightful or preposterous. Who were hers? Of course the average woman +had "dropped" her long ago. But there are other women in London besides +the average woman. There are brilliant women of Bohemia, there are +clever women even belonging to society who "take their own way," and +know precisely whom they choose, whoever interests or attracts them. +And--there are friends, faithful through changes, misfortunes, even +disasters. Where were Mrs. Chepstow's? He did not dare to ask. + +He recalled his first visit to her, not with any maudlin sentimentality, +but with a quiet earnestness: the empty room looking to the river, the +open piano and the music upon it, the few roses, and the books. He +recalled "The Scarlet Letter" bound in white, and her partial quotation +from the Bible in explanation of its binding. Abruptly she had stopped, +perhaps suddenly conscious of the application to herself. At tea she had +said of the cakes that were so good, "I ordered them specially for you +and our little festivity." There was a great simplicity in the words, +and in her voice when she had said them. In her loneliness, a cup of tea +drunk with him was a "festivity." He imagined her sitting alone in that +room in August, when the town is parched, dried up, and half deserted. +How would she pass her days? + +He compared his life with hers, or rather with a life he imagined as +hers. And never before had he realized the brightness, even the +brilliance, of his life, with its multitudinous changes and activities, +its work--the glorious sweating with the brown labourers in the sand +flats at the edge of the Fayyum--its sport, its friendships, its +strenuous and its quiet hours, so dearly valued because they were rather +rare. It was a good life. It was almost a grand life. London now, +Scotland presently; then the late autumn, the train, the sight of the +sea, the cry of the siren, the throbbing of the engines, and +presently--Egypt! And then the winter of sunshine, and the songs of his +workmen, his smiling fellahin, and the reclaiming of the desert. + +The reclaiming of the desert! + +Nigel was alone in his bedroom in the Savoy. It was late at night. He +was in pajamas, smoking a cigar by the open window. He looked down to +the red carpet on which his bare feet were set in their red babouches, +and suddenly he realized the beauty of what he was doing in the Fayyum. +He had never really thought of it before in this way--of the reclaiming +of the desert; but now that he did think of it, he was glad, and his +heart bounded, looking forward in affection to the winter. + +And her winter? What would that be like? + +What an immense difference one honest, believing, and therefore +inspiring affection must make in a lonely life! Only one--that is +enough. And the desert is reclaimed. + +He saw the brakes of sugar-cane waving, the tall doura swaying in the +breeze, where only the sands had been. And his brown cheeks glowed, as a +hot wave of blood went through them. + +Progress! He loved to think of it. It was his passion. That grand old +Watts's picture, with its glow, its sacred glow of colour, in which was +genius! Each one must do his part. + +And in that great hotel, how many were working consciously for the +cause? + +Excitement woke in him. He thought of the rows and rows of numbered +doors in the huge building, and within, beyond each number, a mind to +think, a heart to feel, a soul to prompt, a body to act. And beyond his +number--himself! What was he doing? What was he going to do? He got up +and walked about his room, still smoking his cigar. His babouches +shuffled over the carpet. He kicked them off, and went on walking, with +bare, brown feet. Often in the Fayyum he had gone barefoot, like his +labourers. What was he going to do to help on the slow turning of the +mighty wheel of progress? He must not be a mere talker, a mere raver +about grand things, while accomplishing nothing to bring them about. He +despised those windy talkers who never act. He must not be one of them. +That night, when he sat down "to have it out" with himself, he had done +so for his own sake. He had been an egoist, had been thinking, perhaps +not solely but certainly chiefly, of himself. But in these lonely +moments men are generally essentially themselves. Nigel was not +essentially an egoist. And soon himself had been almost forgotten. He +had been thinking far more of Mrs. Chepstow than of himself. And now he +thought of her again in connection with this turning of the great wheel +of progress. At first he thought of her alone in this connection, then +of her and of himself. + +It is difficult to do anything quite alone, anything wholly worth the +doing. That was what he was thinking. Nearly always some other intrudes, +blessedly intrudes, to give conscious, or unconscious, help. A man puts +his shoulder to the wheel, and in front of him he sees another shoulder. +And the sight gives him courage. + +The thought of strenuous activity made him think of Mrs. Chepstow's +almost absolute inactivity. He saw her sitting, always sitting, in her +room, while life flowed on outside. He saw her pale face. That her face +was carefully made pale by art did not occur to him. And then again he +thought of Mrs. Browning and of the mountain peaks. + +What was he going to do? + +He made a strong mental effort, as he would have expressed it, to "get +himself in hand." Now, then, he must think it out. And he must "hold up" +his enthusiasm, and just be calm and reasonable, and even calculating. + +He thought of the girl whom he had loved long ago and who had died. +Since her death he had put aside love as a passion. Now and then--not +often--a sort of travesty of love had come to him, the spectre of the +real. It is difficult for a young, strong man in the pride of his life +never to have any dealing either with love or with its spectre. But +Isaacson was right. Nigel's life had been much purer than are most men's +lives. Often he had fought against himself, and his own natural +inclination, because of his great respect for love. Not always had he +conquered. But the fights had strengthened the muscles of his will, and +each fall had shown him more clearly the sadness, almost the horror, +imprinted on the haggard features of the spectre of the real. + +Mrs. Chepstow for years had been looking upon, had been living with, +that spectre, if what was said of her was true. + +And Nigel did not deceive himself on this point. He did not +sentimentally exalt a courtesan into an angel, as boys so often do. Mrs. +Chepstow had certainly lived very wrongly, in a way to excite disgust, +perhaps, as well as pity. Yet within her were delicacy, simplicity, the +pride of breeding, even a curious reserve. She had still a love of fine +things. She cared for things ethereal. He thought of his first visit to +her, the open piano, "Proficiscere, anima Christiana," "The Scarlet +Letter," and her quotation. What had she been thinking while she played +Elgar's curiously unearthly music, while she read Hawthorne's pitiful +book? She had been using art, no doubt, as so many use it, as a means of +escape from life. And her escape had been not into filth or violence, +not into the salons of wit, or into the salons where secrets are +unveiled, but into the airy spaces with the angel, into the forest with +Hester and little Pearl. + +Why could they not continue friends? + +His body spoke in answer, and he laid the blame for the answer entirely +on himself. He condemned himself at that moment, was angry with himself, +cursed himself. And he cursed himself, not because he was morbid, but +because he was healthy-minded, and believed that his evil inclinations +had been aroused by his knowledge of Mrs. Chepstow's past. And that fact +was a beast, was something to be stamped on. He would never allow +himself comfortably to be that sort of man. Yet he was, it seemed, +enough that sort of man to make friendship with Mrs. Chepstow difficult, +perhaps impossible. If love had led him to such an inclination, he +would, being no prude, have understood it as a perfectly natural and +perfectly healthy thing. But he did not love Mrs. Chepstow. He would +never love, really love, again. For years he had said that to himself, +and had believed it. He said it again now. And even if he could renew +that strange power, to love, he could not love a woman who was not pure. +He felt certain of that. He thought of the dead girl and of Mrs. +Chepstow. But to-night he could not recall the dead girl's figure, +face, look, exactly. Mrs. Chepstow's he could, of course, recall. He +had seen her that very day. And the girl he had loved had been dead for +many years. She lived in his memory now rather as a symbol of purity and +beauty than as a human being. + +Mrs. Chepstow, of course, would never find a man sincerely to love her +now. + +And yet why not! Suddenly Nigel checked himself, as he generally did +when he found himself swiftly subscribing to the general opinion of the +great mass of men. Why not? The shoulder to the wheel; it was nearly +always the shoulder of love--love of an idea, love of a woman, love of +humanity, love of work, love of God. All the men he knew, or very nearly +all, would laugh at the idea of Mrs. Chepstow being sincerely loved. But +the fact that they would laugh could have no effect on a manly heart or +a manly spirit. + +He felt almost angry with her for the loneliness and the immobility +which pained his chivalry and struck at his sense of pity. If he could +think of her as going away, too, as wandering, in Switzerland, in Italy, +in some lovely place, he would feel all right. But always he saw her +seated in that room, alone, deserted, playing the piano, reading, with +no prospect of company, of change. Mrs. Chepstow had acted her part +well. She had stamped a lonely image upon the retina of Nigel's +imagination. + +He was still walking about his room in bare feet. But his cigar had gone +out, though it was still between his lips. The hour was very late. He +heard a distant clock strike two. And just after he had listened to its +chime, followed by other chimes in near and distant places of the city, +the night idea of a strong and young man came to him. + +If he could not be friends with Mrs. Chepstow, could he be--the other +thing to her! + +He put up his hand to his lips, took away the cigar, and flung it out of +the window violently. And this physical violence was the echo of his +mental violence. She might allow such a thing. Often, if half of what +was said of her was true, she had entered into a similar relation with +other men. He would not believe that "often." He put it differently. +She had certainly entered into a similar relation with some men--perhaps +with two or three, multiplied by scandal--in the past. Would she enter +into it with him, if he asked her? And would he ever ask her? + +He threw himself down again in his arm-chair, and stared at his bare +feet planted firmly on the floor. But he saw, not his feet, but the ugly +spectre of love, that hideous, damnable ghost, that most pretentious of +all pretensions. She had lived with the ghost till she had become pale +like a ghost. In the picture of "Progress," which he loved, there was a +glow, a glory of light, raying out to a far horizon. It would be putting +a shoulder to the wheel to set a glow in the cheeks of a woman, not a +glow of shame but of joy. And to be--and then Nigel used to himself that +expression of the laughing men in the clubs--"a bad last!" No, that sort +of thing was intolerable. + +Suddenly the ghost faded away, and he saw his brown feet. They made him +think at once of the sun, of work, of the good, real, glowing life. + +No, no; none of those intolerable beastlinesses for him. That thought, +that imagination, it was utterly, finally done with. He drew a long +breath, and stretched up his arms, till the loose sleeves of his +night-suit fell down, exposing the strong, brown limbs. And as he had +looked at his feet, he looked at them, then felt them, thumped them, and +rejoiced in the glory of health. But the health of mind and heart was +essential to the complete health of the body. He felt suddenly +strong--strong for more than one, as surely a man should be--strong for +himself, and his woman, for her who belongs to him, who trusts him, who +has blotted out--it comes to that with a woman who loves--all other men +for him. + +Was he really condemned to an eternal solitude because of the girl who +had died so many years ago? For his life was a solitude, as every +loveless life is, however brilliant and strenuous. He realized that, and +there came to him a thought that was natural and selfish. It was this: +How good it must be to be exclusively loved by a woman, and how a +woman, whom men and the world have abandoned, must love the man who +comes, like a knight through the forest, and carries her away, and takes +her into his life, and gives her back self-respect, and a place among +women, and, above all, the feeling that of all feelings a woman holds +dearest, "Somebody wants me." It must be good to be loved as such a +woman would love. His generosity, which instinctively went out to +abandoned things, walked hand in hand with man's eternal, indestructible +selfishness that night, as he thought of Mrs. Chepstow for the first +time as married again to some man who cared not for the world's opinion, +or who cared for it so much as to revel in defying it. + +How would she love such a man? + +He began to wonder about that part of her nature dedicated to, designed +for, love. + +With him she was always perfectly simple, and seemed extremely frank. +But he felt now that in her simplicity she had always been reserved, +almost strangely reserved for such a woman. Perhaps that reserve had +been her answer to his plainly shown respect. Just because of her +position, he had been even more respectful to her than he was to other +women, following in this a dictate of his temperament. What would she be +like in the unreserve of a great love? + +And now a fire was kindled in Nigel, and began to burn up fiercely. He +felt, very consciously and definitely, the fascination of this woman. Of +course, he had always been more or less subject to it. Isaacson had +known that when he saw Nigel draw his chair nearer to hers at the +supper-table in the Savoy. But he had been subject to it without ever +saying to himself, "I am in subjection." He had never supposed that he +was in subjection. The abrupt consciousness of how it was with him +excited him tremendously. After the long interval of years, was he to +feel again the powerful fever, and for a woman how different from the +woman he had loved? She stood, in her young purity, at one end of the +chain of years, and Mrs. Chepstow--did she really stand at the other? + +He seemed to see these two looking at each other across the space that +was set by Time, and for a moment his face contracted. But he had +changed while traversing that space. Then he was an eager boy, in the +joy of his bounding youth. Now he was a vigorous man. And during the +interval that separated boy from man had come up in him his strong love +of humanity, his passion for the development of the good that lies +everywhere, like the ore in gold-bearing earth. That love had perhaps +been given to him to combine the two loves, the altruistic love, and the +love for a woman bringing its quick return. + +The two faces of women surely softened as they gazed now upon each +other. + +Such loves in combination might crown his life with splendour. Nigel +thought that, with the enthusiasm which was his birthright, which set +him so often apart from other men. And, moving beneath such a splendour, +how absolutely he could defy the world's opinion! Its laughter would be +music, its sneering word only the signal to a smile. + +But--he must think--he must think-- + +He sprang up, pulled up his loose sleeves to his shoulders, tucked them +together, and with bared arms leaned out to the night, holding his hands +against his cheeks. + + + + +VIII + + +Mrs. Chepstow had said to Nigel, "Bring Doctor Isaacson--if he'll come." +He had never gone, though Nigel had told him of her words, had told him +more than once. Without seeming deliberately to avoid the visit, he had +deliberately avoided it. He never had an hour to spare in the day, and +Nigel knew it. But he might have gone on a Sunday. It happened that, at +present, on Sundays he was always out of town. + +He had said to himself, "_Cui bono?_" + +He had the sensitive nature's dislike of mingling intimately in the +affairs of others, and moreover he felt instinctively that if he tried +to play a true friend's part to Nigel, he might lose Nigel as a friend. +His clear insight would be antagonistic to Nigel's blind enthusiasm, +his calm worldly knowledge would seem only frigid cruelty to Nigel's +generosity and eagerness in pity. And, besides, Isaacson had a strong +personal repulsion from Mrs. Chepstow, a repulsion almost physical. + +The part of him that was Jewish understood the part of her that was +greedy far too well. And he disliked, while he secretly acknowledged, +his own Jewishness. He seldom showed this dislike, even subtly, to the +world and never showed it crudely, as do many of Jewish blood, by a +strange and hideous anti-Semitism. But it was always alive within him, +always in conflict with something belonging to his nature's artistic +side, a world-feeling to which race-feeling seemed stupid and very +small. The triumphs of art aroused this world-feeling within him, and in +his love of art he believed that he touched his highest point. As +Isaacson's mental unconventionality put him _en rapport_ with Nigel, his +Jewishness, very differently, put him _en rapport_ with her. There is a +communion of repulsion as well as a communion of affection. Isaacson +knew that Mrs. Chepstow and he could be linked by their dislike. His +instinct was to avoid her, not to let this link be formed. Subsequent +circumstances made him ask himself whether men do not often call things +towards them with the voices of their fears. + +The season was waning fast, was nearly at an end, when one night, very +late, Nigel called in Cleveland Square. Isaacson had just come back from +dining with the Dean of Waynfleet when the bell rang. He feared a +professional summons, and was relieved when a sleepy servant asked if he +would see Mr. Armine. They met in a small, upstairs room where Isaacson +sat at night, a room lined with books, cosy, but perhaps a little +oppressive. As Nigel came in quickly with a light coat over his arm and +a crush hat in his hand, a clock on the mantel piece struck one. + +"I caught sight of you just now in St. James's Street in your motor, or +I wouldn't have come so late," Nigel said. "Were you going straight to +bed? Tell me the truth. If you were, I'll be off." + +"I don't think I was. I've been dining out, and should have had to read +something. That's why you kept your coat?" + +"To demonstrate my good intention. Well!" + +He put the coat and hat on a chair. + +"Will you have anything?" + +"No, thanks." + +Nigel sat down in an arm-chair. + +"I've seen so little of you, Isaacson. And I'm going away to-morrow." + +"You've had enough of it?" + +"More than enough." + +Isaacson was sitting by a table on which lay a number of books. Now and +then he touched one with his long and sallow fingers, lifted its cover, +then let it drop mechanically. + +"You are coming back in the autumn?" + +"For some days, in passing through. I'm going to Egypt again." + +"I envy you--I envy you." + +As he looked at Nigel's Northern fairness, and thought of his own +darkness, it seemed to him that he should be going to the sun, Nigel +remaining in the lands where the light is pale. Perhaps a somewhat +similar thought occurred to Nigel, for he said: + +"You ought to go there some day. You'd be in your right place there. +Have you ever been?" + +"Never. I've often wanted to go." + +"Why don't you go?" + +Isaacson's mind asked that question, and his Jewishness replied. He made +money in London. Every day he spent out of London was a loss of so much +money. + +"Some day," Nigel continued, "you must take a holiday and see Egypt." + +"This winter?" said Isaacson. + +He lifted the cover of a book. His dark, shining, almost too intelligent +eyes looked at Nigel, and looked away. + +"Not this winter," he added, quietly. + +"But--why not this winter?" + +Nigel spoke with a slight embarrassment. + +"I couldn't get away. I have too much work. You'll be in the Fayyum?" + +Nigel was staring at the Oriental carpet. His strong hands lay palm +downwards on the arms of his chair, pressing them hard. + +"I shall go there," he replied. + +"And live under the tent? I met a man last night who knows you, an +Egyptian army man on leave, Verreker. He told me you were reclaiming +quite a lot of desert." + +"I should like to reclaim far more than I ever can. It's a good task." + +"Hard work?" + +"Deuced hard. That's why I like it." + +"I know; man's love of taming the proud spirit." + +"Is it that? I don't think I bother much about what prompts me to a +thing. But--I say, Isaacson, sometimes it seems to me that you have a +devilish long sight into things, an almost uncanny long sight." + +He leaned forward. + +"But in you I don't mind it." + +"I don't say I acknowledge it. But why should you mind it in any one?" + +Nigel quoted some words of Mrs. Chepstow, but Isaacson did not know he +quoted. + +"Hasn't the brain a tendency to overshadow, to brow-beat the heart?" he +said. "Isn't it often arrogant in its strength?" + +"One must let both have an innings," said Isaacson, smiling at the slang +which suited him so little and suited Nigel so well. + +"Yes, and I believe you do. That's why--but to go on with what we were +saying. You've got a long sight into things. Now, living generally, as +you do, here in London, don't you think that men and women living in +crowds often get off the line of truth and kindness? Don't you think +that being all together, backed up, as it were, by each other--as a +soldier is by his regiment when going into battle--they often become +hard, brutal, almost get the blood-lust into them at times?" + +Isaacson did not reply for a moment. + +"Perhaps sometimes they do," he answered at last. + +"And don't you think they require sacrifices?" + +"Do you mean human sacrifices?" + +"Yes." + +"Perhaps--sometimes." + +"Why have you never been to call on Mrs. Chepstow?" + +Again the sallow fingers began to play with the book-covers, passing +from one to another, but always slowly and gently. + +"I haven't much time for seeing any one, except my patients, and the +people I meet in society." + +"And of course you never meet Mrs. Chepstow in society." + +"Well--no, one doesn't." + +"She would have liked a visit from you, and she's very much alone." + +"Is she?" + +"Are you stopping on much longer in London?" + +"Till the twelfth or fifteenth of August." + +"She is stopping on, too." + +"Mrs. Chepstow! In the dog-days!" + +"She doesn't seem to have anywhere special to go to." + +"Oh!" + +Isaacson opened a book, and laid his hand upon a page. It happened to be +a book on poisons and their treatment. He smoothed the page down +mechanically and kept his hand there. + +"I say, Isaacson, you couldn't have the blood-lust?" + +"I hope not. I think not." + +"I believe you hate it as I do, hate and loathe it with all your soul. +But I've always felt that you think for yourself, and don't care a rap +what the world is thinking. I've looked in to-night to say good-bye, and +to ask you, if you can get the time, just to give an eye to--to Mrs. +Chepstow now and again. I know she would value a visit from you, and she +really is infernally lonely. If you go, she won't bore you. She's a +clever woman, and cares for things you care for. Will you look in on her +now and then?" + +Isaacson lifted his hand from the book. + +"I will call upon her," he said. + +"Good!" + +"But are you sure she wishes it?" + +"Quite sure--for she told me so." + +The simplicity of this answer made Isaacson's mind smile and something +else in him sigh. + +"I have to go into the country," Nigel said. "I've got to see Harwich +and Zoe, my sister-in-law you know, and my married sister--" + +A sudden look of distress came into his eyes. He got up. The look of +distress persisted. + +"Good-night, Isaacson, old fellow!" + +He grasped the Doctor's hand firmly, and his hand was warm and strong. + +"Good-night. I like to feel I know one man who thinks so entirely for +himself as you do. For--I know you do. Good-bye." + +The look of distress had vanished, and his sincere eyes seemed to shine +again with courage and with strength. + +"Good-bye." + +When he was gone, Isaacson stood by the mantel-piece for nearly five +minutes, thinking and motionless. The sound of the little clock striking +roused him. He lifted his head, looked around him, and was just going to +switch off the light, when he noticed the open book on his table. He +went to shut it up. + +"It must be ever remembered that digitalin is a cumulative poison, and +that the same dose, harmless if taken once, yet frequently repeated +becomes deadly; this peculiarity is shared by all poisons affecting the +heart." + +He stood looking at the page. + +"This peculiarity is shared by all poisons affecting the heart." + +He moved his head as if in assent. Then he closed the book slowly and +switched off the light. + +On the August Bank Holiday, one of the most dreadful days of London's +year, he set out to call on Mrs. Chepstow. + +A stagnant heat pervaded London. There were but few people walking. Few +vehicles drove by. Here and there small groups of persons, oddly +dressed, and looking vacant in their rapture, stared, round-eyed, on the +town. Londoners were in the country, staring, round-eyed, on fields and +woods. The policemen looked dull and heavy, as if never again would any +one be criminal, and as if they had come to know it. Bits of paper blew +aimlessly about, wafted by a little, feverish breeze, which rose in +spasms and died away. An old man, with a head that was strangely bald, +stared out from a club window, rubbed his enquiring nose, looked back +into the room behind him and then stared out again. An organ played "The +Manola," resuscitated from a silence of many years. + +London was at its summer saddest. + +Could Mrs. Chepstow be in it? Soon Isaacson knew. In the entrance hall +of the Savoy, where large and lonely porters were dozing, he learnt that +she was at home. So be it. He stepped into the lift, and presently +followed a servant to her door. The servant tapped. There was no answer. +He tapped again more loudly, while Isaacson waited behind him. + +"Come in!" called out a voice. + +The servant opened the door, announcing: + +"Doctor Meyer Isaacson." + +Mrs. Chepstow had perhaps been sitting on her balcony, for when Isaacson +went in she was in the opening of a window space, standing close to a +writing-table, which had its drawers facing the window. Behind her, on +the balcony, there was a small arm-chair. + +"Doctor Meyer Isaacson!" she said, with an intonation of surprise. + +The servant went out and shut the door. + +"How quite amazing!" + +"But--why, Mrs. Chepstow?" + +He had taken and dropped her hand. As he touched her, he remembered +holding her wrist in his consulting room. The sensation she had +communicated to him then she communicated again, this time perhaps more +strongly. + +"Why? It is Bank Holiday! And you never come to see me. By the way, how +clever of you to divine that I should be in on such a day of universal +going out." + +"Even men have their intuitions." + +"Don't I know it, to my cost? But to-day I can only bless man's +intuition. Where will you sit?" + +"Anywhere." + +"Here, then." + +He sat down on the sofa, and she in a chair, facing the light. She was +without a hat. Isaacson wondered what she had been doing all the day, +and why she was in London. That she had her definite reason he knew, as +a woman knows when another woman is wearing a last year's gown. As their +eyes met, he felt strongly the repulsion he concealed. Yet he realized +that Mrs. Chepstow was looking less faded, younger, more beautiful than +when last he had been with her. She was very simply dressed. It seemed +to him that the colour of her hair was changed, was a little brighter. +But of this he was not sure. He was sure, however, that a warmth, as of +hope, subtly pervaded her whole person. And she had seemed hard, cold, +and almost hopeless on the day of her visit to him. + +A woman lives in the thoughts of men about her. At this moment Mrs. +Chepstow lived in Isaacson's thought that she looked younger, less +faded, and more beautiful. Her vanity was awake. His thought of her had +suddenly increased her value in her own eyes, made her think she could +attract him. She had scarcely tried to attract him the first time that +she had met him. But now he saw her go to her armoury to select the +suitable weapon with which to strike him. And he began to understand why +she had calmly faced the light. Never could such a man as Nigel get so +near to Mrs. Chepstow as Doctor Meyer Isaacson, even though Nigel should +love her and Isaacson learn to hate her. At that moment Isaacson did +not hate her, but he almost hated his divination of her, the "Kabala," +he carried within him and successfully applied to her. + +"What has kept you in this dreary city, Doctor Isaacson," she said. "I +thought I was absolutely alone in it." + +"People are still thinking they are ill." + +"And you are still telling them they are not?" + +"That depends!" + +"I believe you have adopted that idea, that no one is ill, as a curative +method. And really there may be something in it. I fancied I was ill. +You told me I was well. Since that day something--your influence, I +suppose--seems to have made me well. I think I believe in you--as a +doctor." + +"Why spoil everything by concluding with a reservation?" + +"Oh, but your career is you!" + +"You think I have sunk my humanity in ambition?" + +"Well, you are in town on Bank Holiday!" + +"In town to call on you!" + +"You were so sure of finding me on such a day?" + +She sent him a look which mocked him. + +"But, seriously," she continued, "does not the passion for science in +you dominate every other passion? For science--and what science brings +you?" + +With a sure hand she had touched his weak point. He had the passion to +acquire, and through his science of medicine he acquired. + +"You cannot expect me to allow that I am dominated by anything," he +answered. "A man will seldom make a confession of slavery even to +himself, if he really is a man." + +"Oh, you really are a man, but you have in you something of the woman." + +"How do you know that?" + +"I don't know it; I feel it." + +"Feeling is woman's knowledge." + +"And what is man's?" + +"Do women think he has any?" + +"Some men have knowledge--dangerous men, like you." + +"In what way am I dangerous?" + +"If I tell you, you will be more so. I should be foolish to lead you to +your weapons." + +"You want no leading to yours." + +It was, perhaps, almost an impertinence; but he felt she would not think +it so, and in this he accurately appraised her taste, or lack of taste. +Delicacy, reverence, were not really what she wanted of any man. Nigel +might pray to a pale Madonna; Isaacson dealt with a definitely blunted +woman of the world. And in his intercourse with people, unless indeed he +loved them, he generally spoke to their characters, did not hold +converse with his own, like a man who talks to himself in an unlighted +room. + +She smiled. + +"Few women do, if they have any." + +"Is any woman without them?" + +"Yes, one." + +"Name her." + +"The absolutely good woman." + +For a moment he was silent, struck to silence by the fierceness of her +cynicism, a fierceness which had leapt suddenly out of her as a drawn +sword leaps from its sheath. + +"I don't acknowledge that, Mrs. Chepstow," he said--and at this moment +perhaps he was the man talking to himself in the dark, as Nigel often +was. + +"Of course not. No man would." + +"Why not?" + +"Men seldom name, even to themselves, the weapons by which they are +conquered. But women know what those weapons are." + +"The Madame Marneffes, but not the Baroness Hulots." + +"A Baroness Hulot never counts." + +"Is it really clever of you to generalize about men? Don't you +differentiate among us at all?" + +He spoke entirely without pique, of which he was quite unconscious. + +"I do differentiate," she replied. "But only sometimes, not always. +There are broad facts which apply to men, however different they may be +from one another. There are certain things which all men feel, and feel +in much the same way." + +"Nigel Armine and I, for instance?" + +A sudden light--was it a light of malice?--flashed in her brilliant +eyes. + +"Yes, even Mr. Armine and you." + +"I shall not ask you what they are." + +"Perhaps the part of you which is woman has informed you." + +Before she said "woman" she had paused. He felt that the word she had +thought of, and had wished to use, was "Jewish." Her knowledge of him, +while he disliked it because he disliked her, stirred up the part of him +which was mental into an activity which he enjoyed. And the enjoyment, +which she felt, increased her sense of her own value. Conversation ran +easily between them. He discovered, what he had already half suspected, +that, though not strictly intellectual--often another name for +boring--she was far more than merely shrewd. But her mentality seemed to +him hard as bronze. And as bronze reflects the light, her mentality +seemed to reflect all the cold lights in her nature. But he forgot the +stagnant town, the bald-headed man at the club window, the organ and +"The Manola." Despite her generalizing on men, with its unexpressed +avowal of her deep-seated belief in physical weapons, she had chosen +aright in her armoury. His brain had to acknowledge it. There again was +the link between them. When at last he got up to go, she said: + +"I suppose you will soon be leaving London?" + +"I expect to get away on the fifteenth. Are you staying on?" + +"I dare say I shall. You wonder what I do here?" + +"Yes." + +"I am out a great deal on my balcony. When you came I was there." + +She made a movement towards it. + +"Would you like to see my view?" + +"Thank you." + +As he followed her through the window space, he was suddenly very +conscious of the physical charm that clung about her. All her movements +were expressive, seemed very specially hers. They were like an integral +part of a character--her character. They had almost the individuality of +an expression in the eyes. And in her character, in her individuality, +mingled with much he hated was there not something that charmed? He +asked himself the question as he stood near her on the balcony. And now, +escaped from her room, even at this height there came upon him again the +hot sluggishness of London. The sun was shining brightly, the air was +warm and still, the view was large and unimpeded; but he felt a strange, +almost tropical dreariness that seemed to him more dreadful than any +dreariness of winter. + +"Do you spend much of your time here?" he said. + +"A great deal. I sit here and read a book. You don't like it?" + +She turned her bright eyes, with their dilated pupils, slowly away from +his, and looked down over the river. + +"I do. But there's a frightful dreariness in London on such a day as +this. Surely you feel it?" + +"No. I don't feel such things this summer." + +In saying the words her voice had altered. There was a note of triumph +in it. Or so Isaacson thought. And that warmth, as of hope, in her had +surely strengthened, altering her whole appearance. + +"One has one's inner resources," she added, quietly, but with a thrill +in her voice. + +She turned to him again. Her tall figure--she was taller than he by at +least three inches--was beautiful in its commanding, yet not vulgar, +self-possession. Her thin and narrow hands held the balcony railing +rather tightly. Her long neck took a delicate curve when she turned her +head towards him. And nothing that time had left of beauty to her +escaped his eyes. He had eyes that were very just. + +"Did you think I had none?" + +Suddenly he resolved to speak to her more plainly. Till this moment she +had kept their conversation at a certain level of pretence. But now her +eyes defied him, and he replied to their defiance. + +"Do you forget how much I know of you?" he said. + +"Do you mean--of the rumours about me?" + +"I mean what you told me of yourself." + +"When was that? Oh, do you mean in your consulting room? And you believe +all a woman tells you?" + +She smiled at him satirically. + +"I believe what you told me that day in my consulting-room, as +thoroughly as I disbelieve what you told me, and Mr. Armine, the night +we met you at supper." + +"And what are your grounds for your belief and disbelief?" + +"Suppose I said my instinct?" + +"I should answer, by all means trust it, if you like. Only do not expect +every one to trust it, too." + +Her last words sounded almost like a half-laughing menace. + +"Why should I want others to trust it?" he asked, quietly. + +"I leave your instinct to tell you that, my dear Doctor," she answered +gently, with a smile. + +"Well," he said, "I must say good-bye. I must leave you to your inner +resources. You haven't told me what they are." + +"Can't you imagine?" + +"Spiritual, I suppose!" + +"You've guessed it--clever man!" + +"And your gospel of Materialism, which you preached to me so powerfully, +gambling, yachting, racing, motoring, theatre-going, eating and +drinking, in the 'for to-morrow we die' mood: those pleasures of the +typical worldly life of to-day which you said you delighted in? You have +replaced them all satisfactorily with 'inner resources'?" + +"With inner resources." + +Her smiling eyes did not shrink from his. He thought they looked hard as +two blue and shining jewels under their painted brows. + +"Good-bye--and come again." + +While Isaacson walked slowly down the corridor, Mrs. Chepstow opened her +writing-table drawer, and took from it a packet of letters which she had +put there when the servant first knocked to announce the visitor. + +The letters were all from Nigel. + + + + +IX + + +Isaacson did not visit Mrs. Chepstow again before he left London for his +annual holiday. More than once he thought of going. Something within him +wanted to go, something that was perhaps intellectually curious. But +something else rebelled. He felt that his finer side was completely +ignored by her. Why should he care what she saw in him or what she +thought about it? He asked himself the question. And when he answered +it, he was obliged to acknowledge that she had made upon his nature a +definite impression. This impression was unfavorable, but it was too +distinct. Its distinctness gave a measure of her power. He was aware +that, much as he disliked Mrs. Chepstow, much as he even shrank from +her, with a sort of sensitive loathing, if he saw her very often he +might come to wish to see her. Never had he felt like this towards any +other woman. Does not hatred contain attraction? By the light of his +dislike of Mrs. Chepstow, Isaacson saw clearly why she attracted Nigel. +But during those August days, in the interior combat, his Jewishness +conquered his intellectual curiosity, and he did not go again to the +Savoy. + +His holiday was spent abroad on the Lake of Como, and quite alone. Each +year he made a "retreat," which he needed after the labours of the year, +labours which obliged him to be perpetually with people. He fished in +the green lake, sketched in the lovely garden of the almost deserted +hotel, and passed every day some hours in scientific study. + +This summer he was reading about the effects of certain little-known +poisons. He spent strange hours with them. He had much imagination, and +they became to him like living things, these agents of destruction. +Sometimes, after long periods passed with them, he would raise his head +from his books, or the paper on which he was taking notes, and, seeing +the still green waters of the lake, the tall and delicate green +mountains lifting their spires into the blue, he would return from his +journey along the ways of terror, and, dazed, like a tired traveller, he +would stare at the face of beauty. Or when he worked by night, after +hours during which the swift action of the brain had rendered him deaf +to the sounds without, suddenly he would become aware of the chime of +bells, of bells in the quiet waters and on the dreaming shores. And he +would lift his head and listen, till the strangeness of night, and of +the world with its frightful crimes and soft enchantments, stirred and +enthralled his soul. And he compared his two lives, this by the quiet +lake, alone, filled with research and dreams, and that in the roar of +London, with people streaming through his room. And he seemed to himself +two men, perhaps more than two. + +Soon the four weeks by the lake were gone. Then followed two weeks of +travel--Milan, Munich, Berlin, Paris. And then he was home again. + +He had heard nothing of Nigel, nothing of Mrs. Chepstow. + +September died away in the brown arms of October, and at last a letter +came from Nigel. It was written from Stacke House, a shooting-lodge in +Scotland, and spoke of his speedy return to the South. + +"I am shooting with Harwich," he wrote, "but must soon be thinking about +my return to Egypt. I didn't write to you before, though I wanted to +thank you for your visit to Mrs. Chepstow. You can't think how she +appreciated it. She was delighted by your brilliant talk and sense of +humour, but still more delighted by your cordiality and kindness. Of +late she hasn't had very much of the latter commodity, and she was quite +bowled over. By Jove, Isaacson, if men realized what a little true +kindness means to those who are down on their luck, they'd have to 'fork +out,' if only to get the return of warm affection. But they don't +realize. + +"I sometimes think the truest thing said since the Creation is that +'They know not what they do.' Add, 'and what they leave undone,' and you +have an explanation of most of the world's miseries. Good-bye, old chap. +I shall come to Cleveland Square directly I get to London. Thank you for +that visit. Yours ever, Nigel Armine." + +Nigel's enthusiasm seemed almost visibly to exhale from the paper as +Isaacson held the letter in his hands. "Your cordiality and kindness." +So that had struck Mrs. Chepstow--the cordiality and kindness of his, +Isaacson's manner! Of course she and Nigel were in correspondence. +Isaacson remembered the occasional notes almost of triumph in her +demeanour. She had had letters from Nigel during his absence from +London. His letters--the hope in her face. Isaacson saw her on the +balcony looking out over the river. Had she not looked out as the human +soul looks out upon a prospect of release? In the remembrance of them +her expression and her attitude became charged with more definite +meaning. And he surely grasped that meaning, which he had wondered about +before. + +Yet Nigel said nothing. And all this time he had been away from Mrs. +Chepstow. Such an absence was strange, and seemed unlike him, quite +foreign to his enthusiastic temperament, if Isaacson's surmise was +correct. But perhaps it was not correct. That well-spring of human +kindness which bubbled up in Nigel, might it not, perhaps, deceive? + +"Feeling is woman's knowledge." Isaacson had said that. Now mentally he +added, "And sometimes it is man's." He felt too much about Nigel, but +he strove to put his feeling away. + +Presently he would know. Till then it was useless to debate. And he had +very much to do. + +Not till nearly the end of October did Nigel return to London. The +leaves were falling in battalions from the trees. The autumn winds had +come, and with them the autumn rain, that washes sadly away the last +sweet traces of summer. Everywhere, through country and town, brooded +that grievous atmosphere of finale which in England seldom or never +fails to cloud the waning year. + +The depression that is characteristic of this season sent many people to +doctors. Day after day Isaacson sat in his consulting-room, prescribing +rather for the minds of men than for their bodies, living rather with +their misunderstood souls than with their physical symptoms. And this +year his patients reacted on him far more than usual. He felt almost as +if by removing he received their ills, as if their apprehensions were +communicated to his mind, as germs are communicated to the body, and as +if they stayed to do evil. He told himself that his holiday had not +rested him enough. But he never thought for a moment of diminishing his +work. Success swept him ever onward to more exertion. As his power grew, +his appetite for it grew. And he enjoyed his increasing fortune. + +At last Nigel rang at his door. Isaacson could not see him, but sent out +word to make an appointment for the evening. They were to meet at eight +at an orchestral concert in Queen's Hall. + +Isaacson was a little late in keeping this engagement. He came in +quickly and softly between two movements of Tschaikowsky's "Pathetic +Symphony," found Nigel in his stall, and, with a word, sat down beside +him. The conductor raised his baton. The next movement began. + +In the music there was a throbbing like the throbbing of a heart, that +persisted and persisted with a beautiful yet terrible monotony. Often +Isaacson had listened to this symphony, been overwhelmed by the two +effects of this monotony, an effect of loveliness and an effect of +terror that were inextricably combined. To-night, either because he was +very tired or for some other reason, the mystery of the sadness of this +music, which floats through all its triumph, appealed to him more than +usual, and in a strangely poignant way. The monotonous pulsation was +like the pulse of life, that life in which he and the man beside him +were for a time involved, from which presently they would be released, +whether with or against their wills. The pulse of life! Suddenly from +the general his mind passed to the particular. He thought of a woman's +pulse, strong, regular, inexorable. He seemed to feel it beneath his +fingers, the pulse of Mrs. Chepstow. And he knew that he had thought of +her because Nigel Armine was thinking of her, that he connected her with +this music because Nigel was doing the same. This secretly irritated +Isaacson. He strove to detach his mind from this thought of Mrs. +Chepstow. But his effort was in vain. Her pulse was beneath his fingers, +and with every stroke of it he felt more keenly the mystery and cruelty +of life. When the movement was finished, he did not speak a word. Nor +did he look at Nigel. Even when the last note of the symphony seemed to +fade and fall downwards into an abyss of misery and blackness, he did +not speak or move. He felt crushed and overwhelmed, like one beaten and +bruised. + +"Isaacson!" + +"Yes?" + +He turned a little in his seat. + +"Grand music! But it's all wrong." + +"Why?" + +"Wrong in its lesson." + +The artist in Isaacson could not conceal a shudder. + +"I don't look for a lesson; I don't want a lesson in it." + +"But the composer forces it on one--a lesson of despair. Give it all up! +No use to make your effort. The Immanent Will broods over you. You must +go down in the end. That music is a great lie. It's splendid, it's +superb, but it's a lie." + +"Shall we go out? We've got ten minutes." + +They made their way to the corridor and strolled slowly up and down, +passing and repassing others who were discussing the music. + +"Such music puts my back up," Nigel continued, with energy; "makes me +feel I won't give in to it." + +Isaacson could not help smiling. + +"I can't look at Art from the moral plane." + +"But surely Art often makes you think either morally or immorally. +Surely it gives you impulses which connect themselves with life, with +people." + +Isaacson looked at him. + +"I don't deny it. But these impulses are like the shadowy spectres of +the Brocken, mere outlines which presently, very soon, dissolve into the +darkness. Though great music is full of form, it often creates chaos in +those who hear it." + +"Then that music should call up in you a chaos of despair." + +"It does." + +"It makes me want to fight." + +"What?" + +"All the evil and the sorrow of the world. I hate despair." + +Isaacson glanced at him again, and noticed how strong he was looking, +and how joyous. + +"Scotland has done you good," he said. "You look splendid to-night." + +Secretly he gave a special meaning to the ordinary expression. To-night +there was a splendour in his friend which seemed to be created by an +inner strength radiating outward, informing, and expressing itself in +his figure and his features. + +"I'm looking forward to the winter." + +Isaacson thought of the note of triumph in Mrs. Chepstow's voice when +she said to him, "I don't feel such things this summer." Surely Nigel +now echoed that note. + +An electric bell sounded. They returned to the concert-room. + +They stayed till the concert was over, and then walked away down Regent +Street, which was moist and dreary, full of mist and of ugly noises. + +"When do you start for Egypt?" said Meyer Isaacson. + +"In about ten days, I think. Do you wish you were going there?" + +"I cannot possibly escape." + +"But do you wish to?" + +For a moment Isaacson did not answer. + +"I do and I don't," he said, after the pause. "Work holds one strangely, +because, if one is worth anything as a worker, its grip is on the soul. +Part of me wants to escape, often wants to escape." + +He remembered a morning ride, his desire of his "own place." + +"The whole of me wants to escape," Nigel replied. + +He looked about him. People were seeking "pleasure" in the darkness. He +saw them standing at street corners, watchfully staring lest they should +miss the form of joy. Cabs containing couples rolled by, disappeared +towards north and south, disappeared into the darkness. + +"I want to get into the light." + +"Well, there it is before us." + +Isaacson pointed to the brilliant illumination of Piccadilly Circus. + +"I want to get into the real light, the light of the sun, and I want +every one else to get into it too." + +"You carry your moral enthusiasm into all the details of your life," +exclaimed Isaacson. "Would you carry the world to Egypt?" + +Nigel took his arm. + +"It seems so selfish to go alone." + +"Are you going alone?" + +The question was forced from Isaacson. His mind had held it all the +evening, and now irresistibly expelled it into words. + +Nigel's strong fingers closed more tightly on his arm. + +"I don't want to go alone." + +"I would far rather be alone than not have the exactly right +companion--some one who could think and feel with me, and in the sort of +way I feel. Any other companionship is destructive." + +Isaacson spoke with less than his usual self-possession, and there were +traces of heat in his manner. + +"Don't you agree with me?" he added, as Nigel did not speak. + +"People can learn to feel alike." + +"You mean that when two natures come together, the stronger eventually +dominates the weaker. I should not like to be dominated, nor should I +like to dominate. I love mutual independence combined with perfect +sympathy." + +Even while he was speaking, he was struck by his own exigence, and +laughed, almost ironically. + +"But where to find it!" he exclaimed. "Those are right who put up with +less. But you--I think you want more than I do, in a way." + +He added that lessening clause, remembering, quite simply, how much more +brilliant he was than Nigel. + +"I like to give to people who don't expect it," Nigel said. "How hateful +the Circus is!" + +"Shall we take a cab to Cleveland Square?" + +"Yes--I'll come in for a little." + +When they were in the house, Nigel said: + +"I want to thank you for your visit to Mrs. Chepstow." + +He spoke abruptly, as a man does who has been for some time intending to +say a thing, and who suddenly, but not without some difficulty, obeys +his resolution. + +"Why on earth should you thank me?" + +"Because I asked you to go." + +"Is Mrs. Chepstow still in London?" + +"Yes. I saw her to-day. She talks of coming to Egypt for the winter." + +"Cairo, I suppose?" + +"I think she is sick of towns." + +"Then no doubt she'll go up the Nile." + +There was a barrier between them. Both men felt it acutely. + +"If she goes--it is not quite certain--I shall look after her," said +Nigel. + +Meyer Isaacson said nothing; and, after a silence that was awkward, +Nigel changed the conversation, and not long after went away. When he +was gone, Isaacson returned to his sitting-room upstairs and lit a +nargeeleh pipe. He had turned out all the electric burners except one, +and as he sat alone there in the small room, so dimly lighted, holding +the long, snake-like pipe-stem in his thin, artistic hands, he looked +like an Eastern Jew. With a fez upon his head, Europe would have dropped +from him. Even his expression seemed to have become wholly Eastern, in +its sombre, glittering intelligence, and in the patience of its craft. + +"I shall look after her." + +Said about a woman like Mrs. Chepstow by a man of Nigel's youth, and +strength, and temperament, that could only mean one of two things, a +liaison or a marriage. Which did it mean? Isaacson tried to infer from +Nigel's tone and manner. His friend had seemed embarrassed, had +certainly been embarrassed. But that might have been caused by something +in his, Isaacson's, look or manner. Though Nigel was enthusiastic and +determined, he was not insensitive to what was passing in the mind of +one he admired and liked. He perhaps felt Isaacson's want of sympathy, +even direct hostility. On the other hand, he might have been embarrassed +by a sense of some obscure self-betrayal. Often men talk of uplifting +others just before they fall down themselves. Was he going to embark on +a liaison with this woman whom he pitied? And was he ashamed of the deed +in advance? + +A marriage would be such madness! Yet something in Isaacson at this +moment almost wished that Nigel contemplated marriage--his secret +admiration of the virtue in his friend. Such an act would be of a piece +with Nigel's character, whereas a liaison--and yet Nigel was no saint. + +Isaacson thought what the world would say, and suddenly he knew the +reality of his affection for Nigel. The idea of the gossip pained, +almost shocked him; of the gossip and bitter truths. A liaison would +bring forth almost disgusted and wholly ironical laughter at the animal +passions of man, as blatantly shown by Nigel. And a marriage? Well, the +verdict on that would be, "Cracky!" + +Isaacson's brain could not dispute the fact that there would be justice +in that verdict. Yet who does not secretly love the fighter for lost +causes? + +"I shall look after her." + +The expression fitted best the cruder, more sordid method of gaining +possession of this woman. And men seem made for falling. + +The nargeeleh was finished, but still Isaacson sat there. Whatever +happened, he would never protest to Nigel. The _feu sacre_ in the man +would burn up protest. Isaacson knew that--in a way loved to know it. +Yet what tears lay behind--the tears for what is inevitable, and what +can only be sad! And he seemed to hear again the symphony which he had +heard that night with Nigel, the unyielding pulse of life, beautiful, +terrible, in its monotony; to hear its persistent throbbing, like the +beating of a sad heart--which cannot cease to beat. + +Upon the window suddenly there came a gust of wild autumn rain. He got +up and went to bed. + + + + +X + + +Very seldom did Meyer Isaacson allow his heart to fight against the +dictates of his brain; more seldom still did he, presiding over the +battle, like some heathen god of mythology, give his conscious help to +the heart. But all men at times betray themselves, and some betrayals, +if scarcely clever, are not without nobility. Such a betrayal led him +upon the following day to send a note to Mrs. Chepstow, asking for an +appointment. "May I see you alone?" he wrote. + +In the evening came an answer: + + "Dear Doctor: + + "I thought you had quite forgotten me. I have a pleasant + recollection of your visit in the summer. Indeed, it made me + understand for the first time that even a Bank Holiday need not be + a day of wrath and mourning. Do repeat your visit. And as I know + you are always so busy telling people how perfectly healthy they + are, come next Sunday to tea at five. I shall keep out the + clamouring crowd, so that we may discuss any high matter that + occurs to us." + + Yours sincerely, + + "Ruby Chepstow." + +It was Wednesday when Isaacson read, and re-read, this note. He +regretted the days that must intervene before the Sunday came. For he +feared to repent his betrayal. And the note did not banish this fear. +More than once he did repent. Then he and Nigel met and again he gave +conscious help to his heart. He did not speak to Nigel of the projected +visit, and Nigel did not say anything more about Mrs. Chepstow. Isaacson +wondered at this reserve, which seemed to him unnatural in Nigel. More +than once he found himself thinking that Nigel regretted what he had +said about the possibility of Mrs. Chepstow visiting Egypt. But of this +he could not be sure. On Sunday, at a few minutes past five, he arrived +at the Savoy, and was taken to Mrs. Chepstow's room. + +The autumn darkness had closed over London, and when he came into the +room, which was empty, the curtains were drawn, the light shone, a fire +was blazing on the hearth. Not far from it was placed a tea-table, close +to a big sofa which stood out at right angles from the wall. + +There were quantities of white carnations in vases on the mantel-piece, +on the writing-table, and on the top of the rosewood piano. The piano +was shut, and no "Gerontius" was visible. + +Meyer Isaacson stood for a moment looking round, feeling the atmosphere +of this room, or at least trying to feel it. In the summer had it not +seemed a little lonely, a little dreary, a chamber to escape from, +despite its comfort and pretty colours? Now it was bright, cosy, even +hopeful. Yes, he breathed a hopeful atmosphere. + +A door clicked. Mrs. Chepstow came in. + +She wore a rose-coloured dress, cut very high at the throat, with tight +sleeves that came partly over her hands, emphasizing their attractive +delicacy. The dress was very plainly made and seemed moulded to her +beautiful figure. She had no hat on, but Isaacson had never before been +so much struck by her height. As she came in, she looked immensely tall. +And there was some marked change in her appearance. For an instant he +did not know what it was. Then he saw that she had given to her cheeks +an ethereal flush of red. This altered her extraordinarily. It made her +look younger, more brilliant, but also much less refined. She smiled +gaily as she took his hand. She enveloped him at once with a definite +cheerfulness which came to him as a shock. As she held his hand, she +touched the bell. Then she drew him down on the sofa, with a sort of +coaxing cordiality. + +"This shall be better than Bank Holiday," she said. "I know you pitied +me then. You wondered how I could bear it. Now I've shut out the river. +I'm glad you never came again till I could have the lights and the fire. +I love the English winters, don't you, because one has to do such +delicious things to keep all thought of them out. Now, in the hot places +abroad, that people are always raving about, all the year round one can +never have a room like this, an hour like this by a clear fire, with +thick curtains drawn--and a friend." + +As she said the last three words, her voice had a really beautiful sound +in it, and a sound that was surely beautiful because of some moral +quality it contained or suggested. More than a whole essay of Emerson's +did this mere sound suggest friendship. The leaves of the book of this +woman's attractions were being turned one by one for Isaacson. And of +all her attractions her voice perhaps was the greatest. + +The waiter came in with tea. When he had gone, the Doctor could speak. + +But he scarcely knew what to say. Very seldom was his self-possession +disturbed. To-day he felt at a disadvantage. The depression, perhaps +chiefly physical, which had lately been brooding over him, and which had +become acute at the concert, deepened about him to-day, made him feel +morally small. Mrs. Chepstow's cheerfulness seemed like height. For a +moment in all ways she towered above him, and even her bodily height +seemed like a mental triumph, or a triumph of her will over his. + +"But this is only autumn," he said. + +"We can pretend it is winter." + +She gave him his cup of tea, with the same gesture that had charmed +Nigel on the day when he first visited her. Then she handed him a plate +with little bits of lemon on it. + +"I've found out your tastes, you see. I know you never take milk." + +He was obliged to feel grateful. Yet something in him longed to refuse +the lemon, the something that never ceased from denouncing her. He +uttered the right banality: + +"How good of you to bother about me!" + +"But you bother about me, and on your only free day! Don't you think I +am grateful to you?" + +There was no mockery in her voice. Today her irony was concealed, but, +like a carefully-covered fire, he knew it was burning still. And because +it was covered he resented it. He resented this comedy they were +playing, the insincerity into which she was smilingly leading him. She +could not imagine that she deceived him. She was far too clever for +that. Then what was the good of it all?--that she had put him, that she +kept him, at a disadvantage. + +She handed him the muffins. She ministered to him as if she wanted to +pet him. Again he had to feel grateful. Even in acute dislike men must +be conscious of real charm in a woman. And Isaacson did not know how to +ignore anything that was beautiful. Had the Devil come to him--with a +grace, he must have thought, "How graceful is the Devil!" Now he was +charmed by her gesture. Nevertheless, being a man of will, and, in the +main, a man who was very sincere, he called up his hard resolutions, and +said: + +"No, I don't think you are grateful. I don't think you are the woman to +be grateful without a cause." + +"Or with one," he mentally added. + +"But here is the cause!" + +She touched his sleeve. And suddenly, with that touch, all her charm for +him vanished, and he was angry with her for daring to treat him like +those boys by whom she had been surrounded, for daring to think that she +could play upon the worst in him. + +"I'm afraid you are mistaken," he said. "I am no cause for your +gratitude." + +She looked more cordial and natural even than before. + +"But I think you are. For you don't really like me, and yet you come to +see me. That is unselfishness." + +"Only supposing what you say were true, and that you did like me." + +"I do like you." + +She said it quite simply, without emphasis. And even to him it sounded +true. + +"Some day perhaps you will know it." + +"But--I do not believe it." + +He had recovered from the stroke of her greatest weapon, her voice. + +"That does not matter. What is matters, not what some one thinks is, or +is not." + +"Yes," he said. "What is matters. I have come here, not to pay a formal +call, or even a friendly visit, but, perhaps, to commit an +impertinence." + +She smilingly moved her head, and handed him her cigarette-case. + +"No, you would never do that." + +He hesitated to take a cigarette--and now her bright eyes frankly mocked +him, and said, "A cigarette commits you to nothing!" Certainly she knew +how to make him feel almost like an absurd and awkward boy; or was it +his feeling of overwork, of physical depression, that was disarming him +today? + +"Thank you." + +He lighted a cigarette, and she lighted another, still with a happy air. + +"How do you know that?" he asked. + +"I feel it." + +With a little laugh, she reminded him of his saying about women. + +"You are wrong. I am going to do it," he said. + +"But--do you really think it an impertinence?" + +He was beset by his sensitive dislike to mix in other people's affairs, +but almost angrily he overcame it. + +"I don't know. You may. Mrs. Chepstow, you were raving just now about +the delights of the English winter--" + +"Shut out!" she interpolated. + +"Then why should you avoid them?" + +"And who says I am going to?" + +"Are not you going to Egypt?" + +She settled herself in the angle of the sofa. + +"Would it be the wrong climate for me, Doctor Isaacson?" + +She put an emphasis on "Doctor." + +"I am not talking as a doctor." + +"Then as a friend--or as an enemy?" + +"As a friend--of his." + +"Of whom?" + +"Of Nigel Armine." + +"Because he is working in the Fayyum, may not I go up the Nile?" + +"If you were on the Nile, Armine would not be in the Fayyum." + +"You are anxious about his reclaiming of the desert? Have you put money +into his land scheme?" + +"You think I only care for money?" he said, nettled, despite himself, at +the sound of knowledge in her voice. + +"What do you know of me?" + +"And you--of me?" + +She still spoke lightly, smilingly. But he thought of the inexorable +beating of that pulse of life--of life, and the will to live as her +philosophy desired. + +"I don't wish to speak of any knowledge I may have of you. But--leave +Armine in the Fayyum." + +"Did he say I was going to Egypt?" + +"He spoke of it once only. Then he said you might go." + +"Anything else?" + +"He said that if you did go he would look after you." + +She sat looking at him in silence. + +"And--why not?" she said at last, as he said nothing more. + +"Others have--looked after you." + +Her face did not change. + +"Doesn't he know it?" she said. + +"And he isn't like--others." + +"I know what he is like." + +When she said that, Isaacson hated her, hated her for her woman's power +of understanding, and, through her understanding, of governing men. + +"What does he mean by--looking after you?" he said. + +And now, almost without knowing it, he spoke sternly, and his dark face +was full of condemnation. + +"What did you mean when you said that 'others' have done it?" + +"Then it is that!" + +Isaacson had not meant to speak the words, but they escaped from his +lips. No passing light in her eyes betrayed that she had caught the +reflection of the thought that lay behind them. + +"Men! Men!" his mind was saying. "And--even Armine!" + +"You are afraid for the Fayyum?" she said. + +"Oh, Mrs. Chepstow!" he began, with a sudden vehemence that suggested +the unchaining of a nature. Then he stopped. Behind his silence there +was a flood of words--words to describe her temperament and Armine's, +her mode of life and Armine's, what she deserved--and he; words that +would have painted for Mrs. Chepstow not only the good in Isaacson's +friend, but also the secret good in Isaacson, shown in his love of it, +his desire to keep it out of the mud. And it was just this secret good +that prevented Isaacson from speaking. He could not bear to show it to +this woman. Instinctively she knew, appreciated, what was, perhaps, not +high-minded in him. Let her be content with that knowledge. He would not +make her the gift of his goodness. + +And--to do so would be useless. + +"Yes?" she said. + +She sat up on the sofa. She was looking lightly curious. + +"If you do go to the Nile, let me wish you a happy winter." + +He was once more the self-possessed Doctor so many women liked. + +"If I go, I shall know how to make him happy," she replied, echoing his +cool manner, despite her more earnest words. + +He got up. Again he hated her for her knowledge of men. He hated her so +much that he longed to be away from her. Why should she be allowed to +take a life like Armine's into her soiled hands, even if she could make +him happy for a time, being a mistress of deception? + +"Good-bye." + +He just touched her hand. + +"Good-bye. I am grateful. You know why." + +Again she sent him that cordial smile. He left her standing up by the +hearth. The glow from the flames played over her rose-coloured gown. Her +beautiful head was turned towards the door to watch him go. In one hand +she held her cigarette. Its tiny wreath of smoke curled lightly about +her, mounting up in the warm, bright room. Her figure, the shape of her +head, her eyes--they looked really lovely. She was still the "Bella +Donna" men had talked about so long. But as he went out, he saw the tiny +wrinkles near her eyes, the slight hardness about her cheekbones, the +cynical droop at the corners of her mouth. + +Armine did not see them. He could not make Armine see them. Armine saw +only the beauties she possessed. His concentration on them made for +blindness. + +And yet even he had his ugliness. For now Isaacson believed in the +liaison between him and Mrs. Chepstow. + +Only eight days later, after Mrs. Chepstow and Nigel had sailed for +Alexandria, did he learn that they were married. + + + + +XI + + +Immediately after their marriage at a registrar's office, Nigel and his +wife, with a maid, and a great many trunks of varying shapes and sizes, +travelled to Naples and embarked on the _Hohenzollern_ for Egypt, where +Nigel had rented for the winter the Villa Androud, on the bank of the +Nile near Luxor. + +Nigel was happy, but he was not wholly free from anxiety, although he +was careful to keep that anxiety from his wife, and desired even +sometimes to deny that it existed to himself. In making this marriage he +had obeyed the cry of two voices within him, the voice of the senses and +the voice of the soul. He did not know which had sounded most clearly; +he did not know which inclination had prevailed over him most strongly, +the longing for a personal joy, or the pitiful desire to shed happiness +and peace on a darkened and soiled existence. The future perhaps would +tell him. Meanwhile he put before him one worthy aim, to be the perfect +husband. + +Although the month was November, and the rush for the Nile had not +begun, the _Hohenzollern_ was crowded with passengers, and when the +Armines came into the dining-room for lunch, as the vessel was leaving +Naples, every place was already taken. + +"Give us a table upstairs alone," said Nigel to the head-steward, +putting something into his hand. "We shall like that ever so much +better." + +He had caught sight of a number of staring English faces, on some of +which there seemed to be more than the dawning of a recognition of Mrs. +Armine. + +As if mechanically the rosy Prussian retained the something, and +replied, with a strong German accent: + +"I must give you the table at the top of the staircase, sir, but I +cannot promise that you will be alone. If there are any more to come, +they will have to sit with you." + +"Anyhow, put us there." + +"Pray that we have this to ourselves for the voyage, Ruby," said Nigel, +a moment later, as they sat side by side on a white settee close to the +open door which led out on to the deck at the top of the main companion. + +As he finished speaking, a steward appeared, quickly conducting to their +table a tall and broad young man, who made them a formal bow, and +composedly sat down opposite to them. + +He was remarkably well dressed in clothes which must have been cut by an +English tailor, and which he wore with a carelessness almost English, +but also with an easy grace that was utterly foreign. Thin, with mighty +shoulders and an exceptionally deep chest, it was obvious that his +strength must be enormous. His neck looked as powerful as a bull's, and +his rather small head was poised upon it with a sort of triumphant +boldness. His hair was black and curly, his forehead very broad, his +nose short, straight, and determined, with wide and ardent nostrils. +Under a small but dense moustache his lips were thick and rather +pouting. His chin, thrust slightly forward in a manner almost +aggressive, showed the dusk of close-shaven hair. The tint of his skin, +though dark, was clear--had even something of delicacy. His hands, +broad, brown, and muscular, had very strong-looking fingers which +narrowed slightly at the tips. His eyes were large and black, were set +in his head with an almost singular straightness, and were surmounted by +brows which, depressed towards the nose, sloped upwards towards the +temples. These brows gave to the eyes beneath them, even to the whole +face, a curiously distinctive look of open resolution, which was +seizing, and attractive or unattractive according to the temperament of +the beholder. + +He took up the _carte du jour_, studied it at length and with obvious +care, then gave an order in excellent French, which the steward hastened +away to carry out. This done, he twisted his moustaches and looked +calmly at his companions, not curiously, but rather as if he regarded +them with a polite indifference, and merely because they were near him. +Mrs. Armine seemed quite unaware of his scrutiny, but Nigel spoke to him +almost immediately, making some remark about the ship in English. The +stranger answered in the same language, but with a strong foreign +accent. He seemed quite willing to talk. He apologized for interrupting +their tete-a-tete, but said he had no choice, as the saloon was +completely full. They declared they were quite ready for company, Nigel +with his usual sympathetic geniality, Mrs. Armine with a sort of +graceful formality beneath which--or so her husband fancied--there was +just a suspicion of reluctance. He guessed that she would have much +preferred a private table, but when he said so to her, as they were +taking their coffee on deck, she answered: + +"No, what does it matter? We shall so soon be in our own house. Tell me +about the villa, Nigel, and Luxor. You know I have never seen it." + +With little more than a word she had deftly flicked the intruding +stranger out of their lives, she had concentrated herself on Nigel. He +felt that all her force, like a strong and ardent stream, was flowing +into the new channel which he had cut for her. He obeyed her. He told +her about Egypt. And as he talked, and watched her listening, he began +to feel thoroughly for the first time the vital change in his life, and +something within him rejoiced, that was surely his manhood singing. + +The voyage passed swiftly by, attended by perfect weather, calm, +radiant, blue--weather that releases humanity from any bonds of +depression into a joyous world. Yet for the Armines it was not without +an unpleasant incident. Among the passengers were a Lord and Lady +Hayman, whom Nigel Armine knew, and whom Mrs. Armine had known in the +days when London had loved her. It was impossible not to meet them, +equally impossible not to perceive their cold confusion at each +encounter, shown by a sudden interest in empty seas and unpopulated +horizons. That they mistook the situation was so evident to Nigel that +one day he managed to confront Lord Hayman in the smoke-room and to +have it out with him. + +"Congratulate you, I'm sure, congratulate you!" murmured that gentleman, +whose practical brown eyes became suddenly wells full of ironical +amazement. "Tell my wife at once. Knew nothing at all about it." + +He got away, with a moribund cigar between his teeth, and no doubt +informed Lady Hayman, who thereafter bowed to Nigel, but with a +reluctant muscular movement that adequately expressed an inward moral +surprise mingled with condemnation. Mrs. Armine seemed totally +undisturbed by these demonstrations, her only comment upon the lady +being that it was really strange that "in these days" any one could be +found to wear magenta and red together, especially any one with a +complexion like Lady Hayman's. And her astonishment at the triple +combination of colours seemed so simple, so sincere, that it had to be +believed in as merely an emanation from an artistic temperament. It was +probable that the Haymans told other English on the _Hohenzollern_ the +news of Nigel's marriage, for several of the faces that had stared from +the luncheon-tables continued to stare on the deck, but with a slightly +different expression; the sheer, dull curiosity being exchanged for that +half-satirical interest with which the average person of British blood +regards a newly-married couple. + +This contemplation of them made Nigel secretly angry, and awoke in him a +great and peculiar tenderness for his wife, founded on a suddenly more +acute understanding of the brutality of the ostracism, combined with +notoriety, which she had endured in recent years. Now at last she had +some one to protect her. His heart enfolded her with ample wings. But he +longed to be free from this crowd, from which on a ship they could not +escape, and they spoke to no one during the voyage except to their +companion at meals. + +With him they were soon on the intimate terms of shipboard--terms that +commit one to nothing in the future when land is reached. Although he +was dressed like an Englishman, and on deck wore a straw hat with the +word "Scott" inside it, he soon let them know that his name was Mahmoud +Baroudi, that his native place was Alexandria, that he was of mixed +Greek and Egyptian blood, and that he was a man of great energy and +will, interested in many schemes, pulling the strings of many +enterprises. + +He spoke always with a certain polite but bold indifference, as if he +cared very little what impression he made on others; and all the +information that he gave about himself was dropped out in a careless, +casual way that seemed expressive of his character. The high rank, the +great riches of his father he rather implied than definitely mentioned. +Only when he talked of his occupations was he more definite, more +strongly personal. Nigel gathered that he was essentially a man of +affairs, had nothing in common with the typical lazy Eastern, who loves +to sit in the sun, to suffer the will of Allah, and to fill the years +with dreams; that he was cool, clear-headed, and full of the marked +commercial ability characteristic of the modern Greek. Whether this +aptitude was combined with the sinuous cunning that is essentially +Oriental Nigel did not know. He certainly could not perceive it. All +that Baroudi said was said with clearness, and a sort of acute +precision, whether he discussed the land question, the irrigation works +on the Nile, the great boom of 1906, in which such gigantic fortunes +were made, or the cotton and sugar industries, in both of which he was +interested. The impression he conveyed to Nigel was that he was born to +"get on" in whatever he undertook, and that in almost any form of +activity he could be a fine ally, or an equally fine opponent. That he +was fond of sport was soon apparent. He spoke with an enthusiasm that +was always mingled with a certain serene _insouciance_ of the horses he +had bred and of the races he had won in Alexandria and Cairo, of +yachting, of big-game shooting up the Nile beyond Khartum in the country +of the Shillouks, and of duck, pigeon, and jackal shooting in the Fayyum +and on the sacred Lake of Kurun. + +Nigel found him an excellent fellow, the most sympathetic and energetic +man of Eastern blood whom he had ever encountered. Mrs. Armine spoke of +him more temperately; he did not seem to interest her, and Nigel was +confirmed by her lack of appreciation in an idea that had already +occurred to him. He believed that Baroudi was a man who did not care for +women, except, no doubt, as the occasional and servile distractions of +an unoccupied hour in the harem. He was always very polite to Mrs. +Armine, but when he talked he soon, as if almost instinctively, +addressed himself to Nigel; and once or twice, when Mrs. Armine left +them alone together over their coffee and cigars, he seemed to Nigel to +become another man, to expand almost into geniality, to be not merely +self-possessed--that faculty never failed him--but to be more happily at +his ease, more racy, more ready for intimacy. Probably he was governed +by the Oriental's conception of woman as an inferior sex, and was unable +to be quite at home in the complete equality and ease of the English +relation with women. + +When the _Hohenzollern_ sighted Alexandria, Baroudi went below for a +moment. He reappeared wearing the fez. They bade each other good-bye in +the harbour, with the usual vague hopes of a further meeting that do +duty on such occasions, and that generally end in nothing. + +Mrs. Armine seemed glad to be rid of him and to be alone with her +husband. + +"Don't let us stay in Cairo," she said. "I want to go up the river. I +want to be in the Villa Androud." + +After one night at Shepheard's they started for Luxor, or rather for +Keneh, where they got out in the early morning to visit the temple of +Denderah, taking a later train which brought them to Luxor towards +evening, just as the gold of the sunset was beginning to steal into the +sky and to cover the river with glory. + +Mrs. Armine was fatigued by the journey, and by the long day at +Denderah, which had secretly depressed her. She looked out of the window +of their compartment at the green plains of doura, at the almost naked +brown men bending rhythmically by the shadufs, at the children passing +on donkeys, and the women standing at gaze with corners of their dingy +garments held fast between their teeth; and she felt as if she still saw +the dark courts of Hathor's dwelling, as if she still heard the cries of +the enormous bats that inhabit them. When the train stopped, she got up +slowly, and let Nigel help her down to the platform. + +"Is the villa far away?" she said, looking round on the crowd of staring +Egyptians. + +"No, I want you to walk to it. Do you mind?" + +His eyes demanded a "no," and she gave it him with a good grace that +ought to have been written down to her credit by the pen of the +recording angel. They set out to walk to the villa. As they went through +the little town, Nigel pointed out the various "objects of interest": +the antiquity shops, where may be purchased rings, necklaces, and +amulets, blue and green "servants of the dead," scarabs, winged discs, +and mummy-cases; the mosque, a Coptic church, cafes, the garden of the +Hotel de Luxor. He greeted several friends of humble origin: the black +barber who called himself "Mr. White"; Ahri Achmed, the Folly of Luxor, +who danced and gibbered at Mrs. Armine and cried out a welcome in many +languages; Hassan, the one-eyed pipe-player; and Hamza, the praying +donkey-boy, who in winter stole all the millionaires from his protesting +comrades and in summer sat with the dervishes in the deep shadows of the +mosques. + +"You seem to be as much at home here as in London," said Mrs. Armine, in +a voice that was rather vague. + +"Ten times more, Ruby. And so will you be soon. I love a little place." + +"Yes?" + +After a pause she added: + +"Are there many villas here?" + +"Only two on the bank of the Nile. One belongs to a Dutchman. Our villa +is the other." + +"Only two--and one belongs to a Dutchman!" she thought. + +And she wondered about their winter. + +"When I've settled you in, I must run off to the Fayyum to see how the +work is going, and rig up something for you. I want to take you there +soon, but it's really in the wilds, and I didn't like to straight away. +Besides I was afraid you might be dull and unhappy without any of your +comforts. And I do want you to be happy." + +There was an anxiety that was almost wistful in his voice. + +"I do want you to like Egypt," he added, like an eager boy. + +"I am sure I shall like it, Nigel. There's no Casino, I suppose!" + +"Good heavens, no! What should one do with a Casino here!" + +"Oh, they sometimes have one, even in places like this. A friend of mine +who went to Biskra told me there was one there." + +"Look at that, Ruby! That's better than any Casino--don't you think?" + +They had turned to the left and come to the river bank. + +All the Nile was flooded with gold, in which there were eddies of pale +mauve and distant flushes of a red that resembled the red on the wing of +a flamingo. The clear and radiant sky was drowned in a quivering +radiance of gold, that was like a thing alive and sensitively +palpitating. The far-off palms, the lofty river banks that framed the +Nile's upper reaches, the birds that flew south, following the direction +of the breeze, the bats that wheeled about the great columns of the +temple, the boats that with wide-spread lateen sails went southward with +the birds, were like motionless and moving jewels of black against the +vibrant gold. And the crenellated mountains of Libya, beyond Thebes and +the tombs of the Kings, stood like spectral sentinels at their posts +till the pageant should be over. + +"Isn't it wonderful, Ruby?" + +"Yes," she said. "Quite wonderful." + +She honestly thought it superb, but the dust in her hair and in her +skirts, the lassitude that seemed to hang, almost like spiders' webs +about wood, about the body which contained her tired spirit, restrained +her enthusiasm from being a match for his. Perhaps she knew this and +wished to come up with him, for she added, throwing a warm sound into +her voice: + +"It is exquisite. It is the most magical thing I have ever seen." + +She touched her veil, as she spoke, and put up her hand to her hair +behind. Two Frenchmen, talking with sonorous voices, were just then +passing them on the road. + +"I didn't know any sunset could be so marvellous." + +She was still touching her hair, and now she felt clothed in dust; and, +with the ardour of a fastidious woman who has not seen the inside of a +dressing-room for twenty-four hours, she longed to be rid both of the +sunset and of the man. + +"Where is the villa, Nigel?" + +"Not ten minutes away." + +The spirit groaned within her, and she went resolutely forward, passing +the Winter Palace Hotel. + +"What a huge hotel--but it isn't open!" she said. + +"It will be almost directly. We turn to the right down here." + +Some large rats were playing on the uneven stones close to the river; +from a little shed close by there came the dull puffing of an engine. + +"Where on earth are we going, Nigel? This is only a donkey track." + +"It's all right. Just wait a minute. There's the Dutchman's castle, and +we are just beyond it. Am I walking too fast for you, Ruby?" + +"No, no." + +She hurried on. Her whole body was clamouring for warm water with a +certain essence dissolved in it, for a change of stockings and shoes, +for a tea-gown, for a sofa with a tea-table beside it, for a hundred and +one things his manhood did not dream of. + +"Here it is at last!" he said. + +A tall and amiable-looking boy in a flowing gold-coloured robe suddenly +appeared before them, holding open a wooden gate, through which they +passed into a garden. + +"Hulloh, Ibrahim!" cried Nigel. + +"Hulloh, my gentleman!" returned the boy, inclining his body towards +Mrs. Armine and touching his fez with his hand. "I am Ibrahim Ahmed, my +lady, the special servant called a dragoman of my Lord Arminigel. I can +read the hieroglyphs, and I am always young and cheerful." + +He took Nigel's right hand, kissed it and placed it against his forehead +rapidly three times in succession, smiled, and looked sideways on the +ground. + +"I am always young and cheerful," he repeated, softly and dreamily. He +picked a red rose from a bush, placed it between his white teeth, and +turned to conduct them to the white house that stood in the midst of the +garden perhaps a hundred yards away. + +"What a nice boy!" said Mrs. Armine. + +"He's been my dragoman before. This is our little domain." + +Mrs. Armine saw a flat expanse of brown and sun-dried earth, completely +devoid of grass, and divided roughly into sunken beds containing small +orange-trees, mimosas, rose-bushes, poinsettias, and geraniums. It was +bounded on three sides by earthen walls and on the fourth side by the +Nile. + +"Is it not beautiful, mees?" said Ibrahim. + +Mrs. Armine began to laugh. + +"He takes me for a _vieille fille_!" she said. "Is it a compliment, +Nigel? Ibrahim,"--she touched the boy's robe--"won't you give me that +rose?" + +"My lady, I will give you all what you want." + +Already she had fascinated him. As she took the rose, which he offered +with a salaam, she began to look quite gay. + +"All what you want you must have," continued Ibrahim, gravely. + +"Ibrahim reads my thoughts like a true Eastern!" said Nigel. + +"What I want now is a bath," remarked Mrs. Armine, smelling the rose. + +"Directly we have had one more look at the Nile from our own garden," +exclaimed Nigel. + +But she had stopped before the house. + +"I can't take my bath in the Nile. Good-bye, Nigel!" + +Before he could say a word she had crossed a little terrace, disappeared +through a French window, and vanished into the villa. + +Ibrahim smiled, hung his head, and then murmured in a deep contralto +voice: + +"The wife of my Lord Arminigel, she does not want Ibrahim any more, she +does not want the Nile, she wants to be all alone." + +He shook his head, which drooped on his long and gentle brown neck, +sighed, and repeated dreamily: + +"She wants to be all alone." + +"We'll leave her alone for a little and go and look at the gold." + +Meanwhile within the house Mrs. Armine was calling impatiently for her +maid. + +"For mercy's sake, undress me. I am a mass of dust, and looking +perfectly dreadful. Is the bath ready?" she asked, as the girl, who had +come running, showed her into a good-sized bedroom. + +The maid, who was not the red-eyed maid Nigel had met at the Savoy, +shrugged up her small shoulders, and extended her little, greedy hands. + +"It is ready, madame; but the water--oh, _la, la!_" + +"What's the matter. What do you mean?" + +"The water is the colour of madame's morning chocolate." + +"Oh!" said Mrs. Armine, almost with a sound of despair. + +She sank into a chair, taking in with a glance every detail of the +chamber, which had been furnished and arranged by a rich and consumptive +Frenchman who had lived there with his mistress and had recently died at +Cairo. + +"Bring me the mirror from my dressing-case, and get me out of this +gown." + +Marie hastened to fetch the mirror, into which, after unpinning and +removing her hat and veil, Mrs. Armine looked long and earnestly. + +"There are no women servants, madame." + + * * * * * + +"All the servants here are men, madame, and all are as black as boots." + +"Shut the door into monsieur's room, and don't chatter so much. My head +is simply splitting." + + * * * * * + +"What are you doing? One would think you had never seen a corset before. +Don't fumble! If you fumble, I shall pack you off to Paris by the first +train to-morrow morning. Now where's the bath?" + +Marie, wrinkling up her nose, which looked like a note of interrogation, +led the way into the bathroom, and pointed to the water with a grimace. + +"_Voila_, madame!" + +"_Mon Dieu!_" said Mrs. Armine. + +She stared at the water, and repeated her exclamation. + +"That makes pity to think that madame--" + +"Have you put in the _eau de paradis_?" + +"But certainly, madame." + +"Very well then--ugh!" + +She shuddered with disgust as the rich brown water of the Nile came up +to her breast, to her chin. + +"And to think that it looked golden," she murmured, "when we were +standing on the bank!" + + + + +XII + + +Soon after half-past eight that evening, when darkness lay over the Nile +and over the small garden of the villa, a tall Nubian servant, dressed +in white with a scarlet girdle, spread two prayer rugs on the terrace +before the French windows of the drawing-room, and placed upon them a +coffee-table and two arm-chairs. At first he put the chairs a good way +apart, and looked at them very gravely. Then he set them quite close +together, and relaxed into a smile. And before he had finished smiling, +over the parquet floor behind him there came the light rustle of a +dress. The Nubian servant turned round and gazed at Mrs. Armine, who had +stopped beside a table and was looking about the room; a +white-and-yellow room, gaily but rather sparsely furnished, that +harmonized well with the fair beauty which moved the black man's soul. + +He thought her very wonderful. The pallor of her face, the delicate +lustre of her hair, quite overcame his temperament, and when she caught +sight of him and smiled, and observed the contrast between the snowy +white of his turban, his scarlet girdle and babouches, and the black +lustre of his skin, with eyes that frankly admired, he compared her +secretly to the little moon that lights up the Eastern night. He went +softly to fetch the coffee, while she stepped out on to the terrace. + +At first she stood quite still, and stared at the bit of garden which +revealed itself in the darkness; at the dry earth, the untrimmed, +wild-looking rose-bushes, and the little mimosa-trees, vague almost as +pretty shadows. A thin, dark-brown dog, with pale yellow eyes, slunk in +from the night and stood near her, trembling and furtively watching +her. She had not seen it yet, for now she was gazing up at the sky, +which was peopled with myriads of stars, those piercingly bright stars +which look down from African skies. The brown dog trembled and blinked, +keeping his yellow eyes upon her, looked self-consciously down sideways, +then looked at her again. + +From the hidden river there came a distant song of boatmen, one of those +vehement and yet sad songs of the Nile that the Nubian waterman loves. + +"Sh--sh--sh!" + +Mrs. Armine had caught sight of the dog. She hissed at him angrily, and +made a threatening gesture with her hands, which sent him slinking back +to the darkness. + +"What is it, Ruby?" called out a strong voice from above. + +She started. + +"Oh, are you there, Nigel?" + +"Yes. What's the matter?" + +"It was only a dreadful-looking dog. What are you doing up there?" + +"I was looking at the stars. Aren't they wonderful to-night?" + +There was in his voice a sound of warm yet almost childlike enthusiasm, +with which she was becoming very familiar. + +"Yes, marvellous. Oh, there's the dog again! Sh--sh--sh!" + +"I'll come down and drive it away." + +In a moment he was with her. + +"Where is the little beast?" + +"It's gone again. I frightened it. Oh, you've brought me a cloak, you +thoughtful person." + +She turned for him to put it round her, and as he began to do so, as he +touched her arms and shoulders, his eyes shone and his brown cheeks +slightly reddened. Then his expression changed; he seemed to repress, to +beat back something; he drew her down into a chair, and quietly sat +down by her. The Nubian came with coffee, and went softly away, smiling. + +Mrs. Armine poured out the coffee, and Nigel lit his cigar. + +"Turkish coffee for my lord and master!" she said, pushing a cup towards +him over the little table. "I think I must learn how to make it." + +He was gazing at her as he stretched out his hand to take it. + +"Do you feel at home here, Ruby?" he asked her. + +"It's such a very short time, you dear enquirer," she answered. +"Remember I haven't closed an eye here yet. But I'm sure I shall feel at +home. And what about you?" + +"I scarcely know what I feel." + +He sipped the coffee slowly. + +"It's such a tremendous change," he continued. "And I've been alone so +long. Of course, I've got lots of friends, but still I've often felt +very lonely, as you have, Ruby, haven't you?" + +"I've seldom felt anything else," she replied. + +"But to-night--?" + +"Oh, to-night--everything's different to-night. I wonder--" + +She paused. She was leaning back in her chair, with her head against a +cushion, looking at him with a slight, half-ironical smile in her eyes +and at the corners of her lips. + +"I wonder," she continued, "what Meyer Isaacson will think." + +"Of our marriage?" + +"Yes. Do you suppose it will surprise him?" + +"I--no, I hardly think it will." + +"You didn't hint it to him, did you?" + +"I said nothing about any marriage, but he knew something of my feeling +for you." + +"All the same, I think he'll be surprised. When shall we get the first +post from England telling us the opinion of the dear, kind, +generous-hearted world?" + +"Ruby, who cares what any one thinks or says?" + +"Men often don't credit us with it, but we women, as a rule, are +horribly sensitive, more sensitive than you can imagine. I--how I wish +that some day your people would try to like me!" + +He took one of her hands in his. + +"Why shouldn't they? Why shouldn't they? But this winter we'll keep to +ourselves, learn to know each other, learn to trust each other, learn +to--to love each other in the very best and finest way. Ruby, I took +this villa because I thought you would like it, that it would not be so +bad as our first home. But presently I want you to come with me to +Sennoures. When we've had our fortnight's honeymoon here, I'll go off +for a few nights, and look into the work, and arrange something for you. +I'll get a first-rate tent from Cairo. I want you in camp with me. And +it's farther away there, wilder, less civilized; one gets right down to +Nature. When I was in London, before I asked you to marry me, I thought +of you at Sennoures. My camp used to be pitched near water, and at +night, when the men slept covered up in their rugs and bits of sacking, +and the camels lay in a line, with their faces towards the men's tent, +eating, I used to come out, alone and listen to the frogs singing. It's +like the note of a flute, and they keep it up all night, the beggars. +You shall come out beside that water, and you shall hear it with me. +It's odd how a little thing like that stirs up one's imagination. Why, +even just thinking of that flute of the Egyptian Pan in the night--" He +broke off with a sound that was not quite a laugh, but that held +laughter and something else. "We've got, please God, a grand winter +ahead of us, Ruby," he finished. "And far away from the world." + +"Far--far away from the world!" + +She repeated his words rather slowly. + +"I must have some more coffee," she added, with a change of tone. + +"Take care. You mayn't be able to sleep." + +"Nigel--do you want me to sleep to-night?" + +He looked at her, but he did not answer. + +"Even if I don't sleep I must have it. Besides I always sit up late." + +"But to-night you're tired." + +"Never mind. I must have the coffee." + +She poured it out and drank it. + +"I believe you live very much in the present," he said. + +"Well--you live very much in the future." + +"Do I? What makes you think so?" + +"My instinct informs me of the fact, and of other facts about you." + +"You'll make me feel as if I were made of glass if you don't take care." + +"Live a little more in the present. Live in the present to-night." + +There was a sound of insistence in her voice, a look of insistence in +her bright blue eyes which shone out from their painted shadows, a +feeling of insistence in the thin and warm white hand which now she laid +upon his. "Don't worry about the future." + +He smiled. + +"I wasn't worrying. I was looking forward." + +"Why? We are here to-night, Nigel, to live as if we had only to-night to +live. You talk of Sennoures. But who knows whether we shall ever see +Sennoures, ever hear the Egyptian Pan by the water? I don't. You don't. +But we do know we are here to-night by the Nile." + +With all her force, but secretly, she was trying to destroy in him the +spiritual aspiration which was essential in his nature, through which +she had won him as her husband, but which now could only irritate and +confuse her, and stand in the way of her desires, keeping the path +against them. + +"Yes," he said, drawing in his breath. "We are here to-night by the +Nile, and we hear the boatmen singing." + +The distant singers had been silent for some minutes; now their voices +were heard again, and sounded nearer to the garden, as if they were on +some vessel that was drifting down the river under the brilliant stars. +So much nearer was the music that Mrs. Armine could hear a word cried +out by a solo voice, "Al-lah! Al-lah! Al-lah!" The voice was accompanied +by a deep and monotonous murmur. The singer was beating a _daraboukkeh_ +held loosely between his knees. The chorus of nasal voices joined in +with the rough and artless vehemence which had in it something that was +sad, and something that, though pitiless, seemed at moments to thrill +with yearning, like the cruelty of the world, which is mingled with the +eternal longing for the healing of its wounds. + +"We hear the boatmen singing," he repeated, "about Allah, and always +Allah, Allah, the God of the Nile, and of us two on the Nile." + +"Sh--sh! There's that dog again! I do wish--" + +She had begun to speak with an abrupt and almost fierce nervous +irritation, but she recovered herself immediately. + +"Couldn't the gardener keep him out?" she said, quietly. + +"Perhaps he belongs to the gardener. I'll go and see. I won't be a +minute." + +He sprang up and followed the dog, which crept away into the garden, +looking around with its desolate, yellow eyes to see if danger were near +it. + +Allah--Allah--Allah in the night! + +Mrs. Armine did not know that this song of the boatmen of Nubia was +presently, in later days she did not dream of, to become almost an +integral part of her existence on the Nile; but although she did not +know this, she listened to it with an attention that was strained and +almost painful. + +"Al-lah--Al-lah--" + +"And probably there is no God," she thought. "How can there be? I am +sure there is none." + +Abruptly Meyer Isaacson seemed to come before her in the darkness, +looking into her eyes as he had looked in his consulting-room when she +had put up her veil and turned her face towards the light. She shut her +eyes. Why should she think about him now? Why should she call him up +before her? + +She heard a slight rustle near her, and she started and opened her eyes. +By one of the French windows the dragoman Ibrahim was standing, +perfectly still now, and looking steadily at her. He held a flower +between his teeth, and when he saw that she had seen him, he came +gracefully forward, smiling and almost hanging his head, as if in +half-roguish deprecation. + +"What did you say your name was?" Mrs. Armine asked him. + +He took the flower from his teeth, handed it to her, then took her hand, +kissed it, bent his forehead quite low, and pressed her hand against it. + +"Ibrahim Ahmed, my lady." + +She looked at his gold-coloured robe, at his European jacket, at the +green and gold fringed handkerchief which he had wound about his +tarbush, and which covered his throat and fell down upon his breast. + +"Very pretty," she said, approvingly. "But I don't like the jacket. It +looks too English." + +"It is a present from London, my lady." + +"Al-lah--" + +Always the sailors' song seemed growing louder, more vehement, more +insistent, like a strange fanaticism ever increasing in the bosom of the +night. + +"Where are those people singing, Ibrahim?" said Mrs. Armine. + +She put his flower in the front of her gown, opening her cloak to do so. + +"They seem to get nearer and nearer. Are they coming down the river?" + +"I s'pose they are in a felucca, my lady. They are Noobian peoples. They +always make that song. It is a pretty song." + +He gently moved his head, following the rhythm of the music. Between +the green and gold folds of his silken handkerchief his gentle brown +eyes always regarded her. + +"Nubian people!" she said. "But Luxor isn't in Nubia." + +"Noobia is up by Aswan. The obelisks come from there. I will show you +the obelisks to-morrow, my lady. There is no dragoman who understands +all 'bout obelisks like Ibrahim." + +"I am sure there isn't. But"--those voices of the singing sailors were +beginning almost to obsess her--"are all the boatmen Nubians then?" + +"Nao!" he replied, with a sudden cockney accent. + +"But these that are singing?" + +"I say they are Noobian peoples, my lady. They are Mahmoud Baroudi's +Noobian peoples." + +"Baroudi's sailors!" said Mrs. Armine. + +She sat up straight in her chair. + +"But Mahmoud Baroudi isn't here, at Luxor?" + +Ibrahim's soft eyes had become suddenly sharp and bright. + +"Do you know Mahmoud Baroudi, my lady?" + +"We met him on the ship coming from Naples." + +"Very big--big as Rameses the Second, the statue of the King hisself +what you see before you at the Ramesseum--eyes large as mine, and hair +over them what goes like that!" + +He put up his brown hands and suddenly sketched Baroudi's curiously +shaped eyebrows. + +Mrs. Armine nodded. Ibrahim stretched out his arm towards the Nile. + +"Those are his Noobian peoples. They come from his dahabeeyah. It is at +Luxor, waiting for him. They have nuthin' to do, and so they make the +fantasia to-night." + +"He is coming here to Luxor?" + +Ibrahim nodded his head calmly. + +"He is comin' here to Luxor, my lady, very nice man, very good man. He +is as big as Rameses the Second, and he is as rich as the Khedive. He +has money--as much as that." + +He threw out his arms, as if trying to indicate the proportions of a +great world or of an enormous ocean. + +"Here comes my gentleman!" he added, suddenly dropping his arms. + +Nigel returned from the darkness of the garden. + +"Hulloh, Ibrahim!" + +"Hulloh, my gentleman!" + +"Keeping your mistress company while I was gone? That is right." + +Ibrahim smiled, and sauntered away, going towards the bank of the Nile. +His golden robe faded among the little trunks of the orange-trees. + +"It was the gardener's dog," said Nigel, letting himself down into his +chair with a sigh of satisfaction. "I've made him feed the poor brute. +It was nearly starving. That's why it came to us." + +"I see." + +"Al-lah!" he murmured, saying the word like an Eastern man. + +He looked into her eyes. + +"The first word you hear in the night from Egypt, Ruby, Egypt's night +greeting to you. I have heard that song up the river in Nubia often, +but--oh, it's so different now!" + +During her long experience in a life that had been complex and full of +changes, Mrs. Armine had heard the sound of love many times in the +voices of men. But she had never heard till this moment Nigel's full +sound of love. There was something in it that she did not know how to +reply to, though she had the instinct of the great courtesan to make the +full and perfect reply to the desires of the man with whom she had +schemed to ally herself. She owed this reply to him, but she owed it how +much more to something within herself! But there existed within him a +hunger for which she had no food. Why did he show this hunger to her? +Already its demonstration had tried her temper, but to-night, for the +first time, she felt her whole being set on edge by it. Nevertheless, +she was determined he should not see this, and she answered very +quietly: + +"I am hearing this song for the first time with you, so I shall always +associate it with you." + +He drew a little nearer to her. And she understood and could reply to +the demand which prompted that movement. + +"We must drink Nile water together, Ruby, Nile water--in all the +different ways. I'll take you to the tombs of the Kings, and to the +Colossi when the sun is setting. And when the moon comes, we'll go to +Karnak. I believe you'll love it all as I do. One can never tell, of +course, for another. But--but do you think you'll love it all with me?" + +Mingled with the ardour and the desire there was a hint in his voice of +anxiety, of the self-doubt which, in certain types of natures, is the +accompaniment of love. + +"I know I shall love it all--with you," she said. + +She let her hand fall into his, and as his hand closed upon it she was +physically moved. There was in Nigel something that attracted her +physically, that attracted her at certain moments very strongly. In the +life that was to come she must sweep away all interference with that. + +"And some day," he said, "some day I shall take you to see night fall +over the Sphinx, the most wonderful thing in Egypt and perhaps in the +whole world. We can do that on our way to or from the Fayyum when we +have to pass through Cairo, as soon as I've arranged something for you." + +"You think of everything, Nigel." + +"Do you like to be thought for?" + +"No woman ever lived that did not." + +She softly pressed his hand. Then she lifted it and held it on her knee. + +Presently she saw him look up at the stars, and she felt sure that he +was connecting her with them, was thinking of her as something almost +ideal, or, if not that, as something that might in time become almost +ideal. + +"I am not a star," she said. + +He did not make any answer. + +"Nigel, never be so absurd as to think of me as a star!" + +He suddenly looked around at her. + +"What do you say, Ruby?" + +"Nothing." + +"But I heard you speak." + +"It must have been the sailors singing. I was looking up at the stars. +How wonderful they are!" + +As she spoke, she moved very slightly, letting her cloak fall open so +that her long throat was exposed. + +"And how beautifully warm it is!" + +He looked at her throat, and sighed, seemed to hesitate, and then bent +suddenly down as if he were going to kiss it. + +"Al-lah!" + +Almost fiercely the nasal voice of the singing boatman who gave out the +solo part of the song of the Nile came over the garden from the river, +and the throbbing of the _daraboukkeh_ sounded loudly in their ears. +Nigel lifted his head without kissing her. + +"Those boatmen are close to the garden!" he said. + +Mrs. Armine wrapped her cloak suddenly round her. + +"Would you like to go down to the river and see them?" he added. + +"Yes, let us go. I must see them," she said. + +She got up from her chair with a quick but graceful movement that was +full of fiery impetus, and her eyes were shining almost fiercely, as if +they gave a reply to the fierce voices of the boatmen. + +Nigel drew her arm through his, and they went down the little sandy path +past the motionless orange-trees till they came to the bank of the Nile. +Ibrahim was standing there, peeping out whimsically from his fringed and +tasselled wrappings, and smoking a cigarette. + +"Where are the boatmen, Ibrahim?" said Nigel. + +"Here they come, my gentleman!" + +Upon the wide and moving darkness of the river, a great highway of the +night leading to far-off African lands, hugging the shore by a tufted +darkness of trees, there came a felucca that gleamed with lanterns. The +oars sounded in the water, mingling with the voices of the men, whose +vague, uncertain forms, some crouched, some standing up, some leaning +over the river, that was dyed with streaks of light into which the +shining drops fell back from the lifted blades, were half revealed to +the watchers above them in the garden. + +"Here come the Noobian peoples!" + +"I wonder what they are doing here," said Nigel, "and why they come up +the river to-night. Whose people can they be?" + +Ibrahim opened his lips to explain, but Mrs. Armine looked at him, and +he shut them without a word. + +"Hush!" she whispered. "I want to listen." + +This was like a serenade of the East designed to give her a welcome to +Egypt, like the voice of this great, black Africa speaking to her alone +out of the night, speaking with a fierce insistence, daring her not to +listen to it, not to accept its barbaric summons. A sort of animal +romance was stirred within her, and she began to feel strongly excited. +She heard no longer the name of Allah, or, if she heard it, she +connected it no longer with the Christian's conception of a God, with +Nigel's conception of a God, but perhaps with strange idols in dusky +temples where are mingled crimes and worship. Her imagination suddenly +rose up, gathered its energies, and ran wild. + +The boat stayed opposite the garden. + +"It must be meant for me, it is meant for me!" she thought. + +At that moment she knew quite certainly that this boat had come to the +garden because she lived in the garden, that it paused so that she might +be sure that the music was directed to her, was meant for no one but +her. It was not for her and Nigel. Nigel had nothing to do with it. He +did not understand its meaning. + +At last the boat moved on, the flickering spears of light on the water +travelled on and turned away, the voices floated away under the stars +till the night enfolded them, the light and the music were taken and +kept by the sleepless mystery of Egypt. + +"Shall we go into the villa, Ruby?" said Nigel, almost diffidently, yet +with a thrill in his voice. + +She did not answer for a moment, then she said, + +"Yes, I suppose it is time to go to bed." + +Nigel drew her arm again through his, and they went away towards the +house, while Ibrahim looked after them, smiling. + + + + +XIII + + +"Ruby," said Nigel, a fortnight later, coming into his wife's bedroom +after the morning walk on the river bank which invariably succeeded his +plunge into the Nile, "whom do you think I've just met in Luxor?" + +He was holding a packet of letters and papers in his hand. The post had +just arrived. + +Mrs. Armine, wrapped in a long white gown which did not define her +figure, with her shining hair coiled loosely at the back of her neck, +was sitting before the toilet-table, and looked round over her shoulder. + +"Some one we both know, Nigel?" she asked. + +He nodded. + +"Not the magenta and red together, then?" + +"The Haymans--no, though I believe they are here at the Winter Palace." + +"God bless them!" she murmured, with a slight contraction of her +forehead. "Is it a man or a woman?" + +"A man." + +"A man!" She turned right round, with a sharp movement, holding the arms +of her chair tightly. "Not Meyer Isaacson?" + +"Isaacson! Good heavens! He never takes a holiday except in August. Dear +old chap! No, this is some one not specially interesting, but not bad; +only Baroudi." + +Mrs. Armine's hands dropped from the arms of the chair, as she turned +towards the glass. + +"Baroudi!" she said, as if the name meant nothing to her. "Why do you +string one up for nothing, Nigel?" + +She took up a powder-puff. + +"Do you mean the man on the _Hohenzollern_? What has he to do with us?" + +Nigel crossed the room, and sat down on a chair by the side of the +toilet-table, facing his wife and holding in his lap the bundle of +letters and papers. + +"Are you disappointed, Ruby?" + +"No, because we don't need any one. But you roused my expectation, and +then played a cold douche upon it, you tiresome person!" + +There was a sort of muffled crossness in her voice, but as she passed +the powder-puff over her face her eyes and her lips were smiling. Nigel +leaned his arm upon the table. + +"Ruby," he said. + +"Well--what is it?" + +She stopped powdering. + +"I wish you wouldn't do--all that." + +"All what?" + +"All those things to your face. You are beautiful. I wish you would +leave your face alone." + +"I do, practically. I only try to save it a little from the sun. You +wouldn't have me look like the wife of one of what Ibrahim calls 'the +fellaheen peoples,' would you?" + +"I want you to look as natural and simple as you always are with me. I +don't mean that you are simple in mind, of course. I am speaking of your +manner." + +"My dear Nigel, who is affected nowadays? But I really mustn't look like +the fellaheen peoples. Ibrahim would be shocked." + +Nevertheless, she put the powder-puff down. + +"You don't trust your own beauty, Ruby," he said. + +She sat back and looked at him very gravely, as if his remark had made a +strong impression upon her. Then she looked into the mirror, then she +looked again at him. + +"You think I should be wise to trust it as much as that?" + +"Of course you would." + +He laid his hand on hers. + +"You are blossoming here in Egypt, but you hardly let one know it when +you put things on your face." + +She gazed again into the glass in silence. + +"Any letters for me?" she said, at last. + +"I haven't looked yet. I walked with Baroudi on the bank. He's joined +his dahabeeyah, and is going up to Armant to see to his affairs in the +sugar business up there." + +"Oh!" + +"I believe he only stays till to-morrow or Wednesday. He invited me to +go over to his boat and have a look at it this afternoon." + +"Are you going?" + +"I told him I'd let him know. Shall I go?" + +"Don't you want to?" + +"I should like to see the boat, but--you see, he's half an Oriental, and +perhaps he didn't think it was the proper thing to do, but--" + +"He didn't invite me. Why should he? Go, Nigel. You want a man's society +sometimes. You mustn't always sit in my pocket. And besides, you're just +off to the Fayyum. I must get accustomed to an occasional lonely hour." + +He pressed his hand on hers. + +"I shall soon come back. And soon you shall come with me there." + +"I love this place," she said. "Are there any letters for me?" + +He untied the string of the packet, looked over the contents, and handed +her three or four. + +"And now run away and read yours," she said. "When you're in my room I +can do nothing. You take up all my attention. I'll come down in a few +minutes." + +He gave her a kiss and obeyed her. + +When he was in the little drawing-room, he threw the papers carelessly +on a table without taking off their wrappers. He had scarcely looked at +a paper since he had been in Egypt; he had had other things to do, +things that had engrossed him mind and body. Like many men who are +informed by a vital enthusiasm, Nigel sometimes lived for a time in +blinkers, which shut out from his view completely the world to right and +left of him. He could be an almost terribly concentrated man. And since +he had been in Egypt he had been concentrated on his wife, and on his +own life in relation to her. The affairs of the nations had not troubled +him. He had read his letters, and little besides. Now he took those +which had come that morning, and went out upon the terrace to run +through them in the sunshine. + +Bills, a communication from his agent at Etchingham, a note from his man +of affairs in Cairo, and--hullo!--a letter from his brother, Harwich! + +That did not promise him much pleasure. Already he had received several +family letters scarcely rejoicing in his marriage. They had not bothered +him as much as he had formerly feared they would. He did not expect his +relations, or the world, to look at things with his eyes, to think of +Ruby with gentleness or even forgiveness for her past. He knew his world +too well to make preposterous mental demands upon it. But Harwich had +already expressed himself with his usual freedom. There seemed no +particular reason why he should write so soon again. + +Nigel tore open the letter, read it quickly, re-read it, then laid it +down upon his knees, pulled his linen hat over his eyes, and sat for a +long while quite motionless, thinking. + +His brother's letter informed him that his sister-in-law, Zoe, Harwich's +wife, had given birth to twin children--sons--and that they were +"stunningly well--hip, hip, hooray!" + +Harwich's boisterous joy was very natural, and might be supposed to +spring from paternal feelings that did him honour, but there was a note +of triumph in his exultation which Nigel understood, and which made him +thoughtful now. Harwich was glorying in the fact that Nigel and Nigel's +wife were cut out of the succession--that, so far as one could see, Mrs. +Armine would now never be Lady Harwich. + +For himself Nigel did not care at all. Harwich was ten years older than +he was, but he had never thought about succeeding him, had never wished +to succeed him, and when he had married Ruby he had known that his +sister-in-law was going to have a child. He had known this, but he had +not told it to Ruby. He had not concealed it; simply, it had not +occurred to him to tell her. Now the tone of Harwich's letter was making +him wonder, "Will she mind?" + +Presently he heard her coming into the room behind him, crossing it, +stepping out upon the terrace. + +"Nigel! Are you asleep?" + +"Asleep!" he said. "At this hour!" + +For once there was an unnatural sound in his voice, a note of +carelessness that was forced. He jumped up from his chair, scattering +his letters on the ground. + +"You haven't read your letters all this time!" + +"Not yet; not all of them, at least," he said, bending to pick them up. +"I've been reading one from my brother, Harwich." + +"From Lord Harwich?" She sent a sharp look to him. "Is it bad news? Is +Lord Harwich ill?" + +"No, Ruby." + +"Then what's the matter?" + +"The matter? Nothing! On the contrary, it's a piece of good news." + +In spite of himself almost, his eyes were staring at her with an +expression of scrutiny that was fierce, because of the anxiety within +him. + +"Poor old Harwich has had to wait so long, and now at last he's got what +he's wanted." + +"What's that?" + +"A child--that is, children--twins." + +There was a moment of silence. Then Mrs. Armine said, with a smile: + +"So that's it!" + +"Yes, that's it, Ruby." + +"Girls? Boys? Girl and boy?" + +"Boys, both of them." + +"When you write, congratulate him for me. And now read the rest of your +letters. I'm going to take a stroll in the garden." + +As she spoke, she put up her parasol and sauntered away towards the +Nile, stopping now and then to look at a flower or tree, to take a rose +in her hand, smell it, then let it go with a careless gesture. + +"Does she really mind? Damn it, does she mind?" + +There had been no cloud on her face, no involuntary movement of dismay, +yet in her apparently unruffled calm there had been a reticence that +somehow had chilled him. She was so clever in reading people that surely +she must have felt the anxiety in his heart, the eager desire to be +reassured. If she had only responded to it frankly, if she had only come +up to him, touched his hand, said, "Dear old boy, what does it matter? +You don't suppose I've ever bothered about being the future Lady +Harwich?"--something of that kind, all his doubts would have been swept +away. But she had taken it too coolly, almost, had dismissed it too +abruptly. Perhaps that was his fault, though, for he had been reserved +with her, had not said to her all he was thinking, or indeed anything he +was thinking. + +"Ruby! I say, Ruby!" + +Following a strong impulse, he hastened after her, and came up with her +on the bank of the Nile. + +"Look!" she said. + +"What? Oh, Baroudi's dahabeeyah tied up over there! Yes, I knew that. +It's to get out of the noise of Luxor. Ruby, you--you don't mind about +Harwich and the boys?" + +"Mind?" she said. + +Her voice was suddenly almost angry, and an expression that was hard +came into her brilliant eyes. + +"Mind? What do you mean, Nigel?" + +"Well, you see it makes a lot of difference in my position from the +worldly point of view." + +"And you think I care about that! I knew you did. I knew exactly what +you were thinking on the terrace!" + +There was a wounded sound in her voice. Then she added, with a sort of +terribly bitter quietness: + +"But--what else could you, or anyone, think?" + +"Ruby!" he exclaimed. + +He tried to seize her hand, but she would not let him. + +"No, Nigel! don't touch me now. I--I shall hate you if you touch me +now." + +Her face was distorted with passion, and the tears stood in her eyes. + +"I don't blame you a bit," she said. "I should be a fool to expect +anyone, even you, to believe in me after all that--all that has +happened. But--it is hard, sometimes it is frightfully hard, to bear all +this disbelief that one can have any good in one." + +She turned hurriedly away. + +"Ruby!" he said, with a passion of tenderness. + +"No, no! Leave me alone for a little. I tell you I must be alone!" she +exclaimed, as he followed her. + +He stopped on the garden path and watched her go into the house. + +"Beast, brute that I am!" he said to himself. + +He clenched his hands. At that moment he hated himself; he longed to +strike himself down--himself, and all men with himself--to lay them even +with the ground--cynics, unbelievers, agents destructive of all that was +good and noble. + +Mrs. Armine went straight up to her room, locked the door against her +maid, and gave way to a violent storm of passion, which had been +determined by Nigel's impulse to be frank, following on his news of +Harwich. With the shrewd cleverness that scarcely ever deserted her, she +had forced her temper into the service of deception. When she knew she +had lost her self-control, that she must show how indignant she was, she +had linked her anger to a cause with which it had nothing to do, a cause +that would stir all his tenderness for her. At the moment when she was +hating him, she was teaching him to love her, and deliberately teaching +him. But now that she was alone, all that was deliberate deserted her, +and, disregarding even the effect grief and anger unrestrained must have +upon her appearance, she gave way, and gave way completely. + +She did not come down to lunch, but towards tea-time she reappeared in +the garden, looking calm, but pathetically tired, with soft and wistful +eyes. + +"When are you starting for the dahabeeyah?" she asked, as Nigel came +anxiously, repentantly forward to meet her. + +"I don't think I'll go at all. I don't want to go. I'll stay here and +have tea with you." + +"No, you mustn't do that. I shall like to have tea alone to-day." + +She spoke very gently, but her manner, her eyes, and every word rebuked +him. + +"Then I'll go," he said, "if you prefer it." + +He looked down. + +"Baroudi's men have come already to take me over." + +"I heard them singing, up in my bedroom. Run along! Don't keep him +waiting." + +With the final words she seemed to make an effort, to try to assume the +playful, half-patronizing manner of a pretty woman of the world to a man +supposed to adore her; but she allowed her lips to tremble so that he +might see she was playing a part. He did not dare to say that he saw, +and he went down to the bank of the Nile, got into the felucca that was +waiting, and was rowed out into the river. + +As soon as he had gone, Mrs. Armine called Ibrahim to come and put a +chair and a table for her in the shadow of the wall, close to the stone +promontory that was thrust out into the Nile to keep its current from +eating away the earth embankment of the garden. + +"I am going to have tea here, Ibrahim," she said. "Tell Hassan to bring +it directly the sun begins to set." + +"Yes, suttinly," replied the always young and cheerful. "And shall +Ibrahim come back and stay with you?" + +She shook her head, looking kindly at the boy, who had quickly learnt to +adore her, as had all the Nubians in the villa. + +"Not to-day, Ibrahim. To-day I want to be alone." + +He inclined his long, thin body, and answered gravely: + +"All what you want you must have, my lady." + +"Don't call me 'my lady' to-day!" she exclaimed, with a sudden +sharpness. + +Ibrahim looked amazed and hurt. + +"Never mind, Ibrahim!"--she touched her forehead--"I've got a bad head +to-day, and it makes me cross about nothing." + +He thrust one hand into his gold-coloured skirt, and produced a glass +bottle full of some very cheap perfume from Europe. + +"This will cure you, my la--mees. Rub it on your head. It is a bootiful +stink. It stinks lovely indeed!" + +She accepted it with a grateful smile, and he went pensively to order +the tea; letting his head droop towards his left shoulder, and looking +rather like a faithful dog that, quite unexpectedly, is not wanted by +his mistress. Mrs. Armine sat still, frowning. + +She could hear the Nubians of Baroudi singing as they bent to their +mighty oars; not the song of Allah with which they had greeted her on +her arrival, obedient perhaps to some message sent from Alexandria by +their master, but a low and mysterious chaunt that was almost like a +murmur from some spirit of the Nile, and that seemed strangely +expressive of a sadness of the sun, as if even in the core of the golden +glory there lurked a canker, like the canker of uncertainty that lies in +the heart of all human joy. + +The day was beginning to decline; the boatmen's voices died away; +Hassan, in obedience to Ibrahim's order, brought out tea to his mistress +in the garden. When he had finished arranging it, he stood near her for +a moment, looking across the water to Baroudi's big white dahabeeyah, +which was tied up against the bank a little way down the river. In his +eyes there were yellow lights. + +"What are you doing, Hassan?" asked Mrs. Armine. + +The tall Nubian turned towards her. + +"Mahmoud Baroudi is rich!" he said. "Mahmoud Baroudi is rich!" + +He looked again at the dahabeeyah; then he came to the little table, +moved a plate, touched and smoothed the table-cloth, and went quietly +away. + +Mrs. Armine sipped her tea and looked, still frowning, at the river, +which began to lose its brown colour slowly, to gleam at first with +pallid gold, then with a gold that shone like fire. The eddies beyond +the breakwater were a light and delicate mauve and looked nervously +alive. A strange radiance that was both ethereal and voluptuous, that +seemed to combine elements both spiritual and material, was falling over +this world, clothing it in a sparkling veil of beauty. And as the gold +on the river deepened in hue, it spread swiftly upon the water, it +travelled down towards Luxor, it crept from the western bank to the +eastern bank of the Nile, from the dahabeeyah of Baroudi almost to the +feet of Mrs. Armine. + +"Mahmoud Baroudi is rich! Mahmoud Baroudi is rich!" + +Why had Hassan said that? What had it to do with her? She looked across +at Baroudi's great white boat, which now was turning into a black jewel +on the gold of the moving river, and she felt as if, like some magician +who understood her nature, he was trying to comfort her to-day by +showering gold towards her. It was an absurd fancy, at which, in a +moment, she was smiling bitterly enough. + +She almost hated Nigel to-day. When she had left him in the garden +before luncheon, she had quite hated him for his unworldliness, combined +with a sort of boyish simplicity and wistfulness. Of course he had +known, he must have known, that Zoe Harwich was going to have a child; +he must have known it when he was shooting with his brother in the +autumn. And he had never said a word of it to her. And now he was cut +out of the succession. He might never have succeeded his brother; but +there had been a great chance that he would, that some day she would be +reigning as Lady Harwich. That thought had swayed her towards him, had +had very much to do with the part she had played in London which had won +her Nigel as a husband. If what was now a fact had been a fact a few +weeks ago, would she ever have schemed to marry him, would such an +alliance have been "worth her while"? + +How Lady Hayman and all her tribe, a tribe which once had petted and +entertained the beautiful Mrs. Chepstow, had dubbed her "Bella Donna," +how they must be rejoicing to-day! She could almost hear what they were +saying as she sat in the sunset by the Nile. "What a mercy that woman +has overreached herself!" "How furious she must, be, now Harwich has got +sons!" "What a delicious slap in the face for her after catching that +foolish Nigel Armine!" Hundreds of women were smiling over her +discomfiture at this moment, and probably also hundreds of men. For no +one would give her credit for having married Nigel for himself, for +having honestly fallen in love with him and acted "squarely" towards +him. And, of course, she had not fallen in love with him. He was not, +indeed, the type of man with whom a nature and a temperament like hers +could fall in love. She had liked him before she married him, he had +even had for her a certain physical attraction; but already that +physical attraction--really the passing fancy of a capricious and a +too-experienced woman--had lost its savour, and for a reason that, had +he known it, would have cut Nigel to the heart. + +She could not bear his love of an ideal, his instinct to search for +hidden good in men and women, but especially in herself, his secret +desire for moral progress. She knew that these traits existed in him, +and therefore was able to hate them; but she was incapable of really +understanding them, clever woman though she was. Her cleverness was of +that type which comprehends vice more completely than virtue, and +although she could apprehend virtue, as she had proved by her conduct in +London which had led to her capture of Nigel, she could never learn +really to understand its loveliness, or to bask happily in its warmth +and light. Morally she seemed to be impotent. And the great gulf which +must for ever divide her husband from her was his absolute disbelief +that any human being can be morally impotent. He must for ever +misunderstand her, because his power to read character was less acute +than his power to love. And she, in her inmost chamber of the soul, +though she might play a part to deceive, though she might seldom be, +however often appearing to be, truly her natural self, had the desire, +active surely or latent in the souls of all human creatures, to be +understood, to be known as she actually was. + +Nigel had been aware that Zoe Harwich was going to have a child, and he +had never let her know it. + +She repeated that fact over and over in her mind as she sat and looked +at the sunset. Ever since the morning she had been repeating it over and +over. Even her violent outburst of temper had not stilled the insistent +voice which in reiteration never wearied. In the first moments of her +bitterness and anger, the voice had added, "Nigel shall pay me for +this." It did not add this now, perhaps because into her fierceness had +glided a weariness. She was paying for her passion. Perhaps Nigel would +have to pay for that payment too. He was going away to the Fayyum in two +or three days. How she wished he was going to-night, that she need not +be with him to-night, need not play the good woman, or the woman with +developing goodness in her, to-night, now that she was weary from having +been angry! + +The tea had become almost black from standing. She poured out another +cupful, and began to drink it without putting in milk or sugar. It +tasted acrid, astringent, almost fierce, on her palate; it lifted the +weariness from her, seemed to draw back curtains from a determined +figure which slipped out naked into the light, the truth of herself +untired and unashamed. + +Nigel would have to reckon with that some day. + +The gold was fading from the river now, the water was becoming like +liquid silver, then, in a moment, like liquid steel. On the dahabeeyah, +which began to look as if it were a long way off and were receding from +her, shone a red and a blue light. Still the vehement voices of the +brown fellahin at work by the shaduf rose unwearied along the Nile. +During the last days Mrs. Armine's ears had grown accustomed to these +voices, so accustomed to them that it was already becoming difficult to +her to realize that but a short time ago she had never heard them, never +felt their curious influence, their driving power, which, mingled with +other powers of sun and air, flogs the souls of men and women into +desire of ungentle joys and of sometimes cruel pleasures. And now, with +the fading away of the daylight, those powerful, savage, and sad voices +gained in meaning, seemed no more to be issuing from the throats of +toiling and sweating Egyptians, but to be issuing from the throat of +this land of ruins and gold, where the green runs flush with the sand, +and the lark sings in the morning, where the jackal whines by night. + +For a long time Mrs. Armine listened, sitting absolutely still. Then +suddenly she moved, got up, and went swiftly towards the house. Nigel +was coming back. Mingling with the voices of the shaduf men she heard +the voices of Baroudi's Nubians. + +When she had reached the house, she went up at once to her bedroom, shut +the door, and stood by the open window that gave on to a balcony which +faced towards the Nile. The voices of the shaduf men had now suddenly +died away. With the rapid falling of night the singers' time for repose +had come; they had slipped on their purple garments, and were walking to +their villages. Those other voices drew nearer and nearer, murmuring +deeply, rather than actually singing, their fatalistic chaunt which set +the time for the oars. + +Darkness came. The voices ceased. + +Mrs. Armine leaned forward, with one hand on the window-frame. Her white +teeth showed on her lower lip. + +In the garden she heard two voices talking, and moving towards the +house. + + * * * * * + +"Marie! Marie!" + +Her maid came running. + +"_V'la_, madame? What does madame want?" + +"I am going to change my gown." + +"Madame is going to dress for the evening?" + +"No. I don't dine for two hours." + +"Then madame--" + +"Don't talk so much. Get me out a white gown, that white linen gown I +got at Paquin's and have never worn yet. And put me out--" + +She gave some directions about stockings and shoes, and went in to her +dressing-room, where she stood before the mirror, carefully examining +her face. Then she took off the hat she was wearing. + +"Lock the bedroom door and the door into monsieur's room!" she called, +in a moment. + +"_Bien_, madame!" + +"_Mon Dieu!_" muttered the maid, as she went to turn the keys, "is she +going mad? What has she? There is no one here, there is no one coming, +and all this _tohu-bohu!_" + +"Get out the white hat with the white picotees!" + +"Ah, _mon Dieu!_" + +"Do you hear? The white--" + +"I hear, I hear, madame! Oh, _la, la, la!_" + +"Make haste!" + +"_Bien_, madame, _tres bien!_" + +The girl ran for the hat, and Mrs. Armine, who had lighted all the +candles, sat down before the glass. She remembered Nigel's desire +expressed to her that day that she would give up "doing things" to her +face. Well, she would respond to it in this way! + +Very carefully and cleverly she began to whiten her face, to touch up +her eyes and her narrow, definite eyebrows. + +"All is ready, madame!" + +Marie was standing at the dressing-room door; she started and swung +round on her heels as there came a knock at the door of the bedroom, the +creak of the handle turning. + +"Be quiet!" + +Mrs. Armine had caught her arm. The girl stood still, staring and +marvelling, while her mistress went noiselessly into the bedroom and +sat down on the far side of the bed, leaning backwards till her head was +near the pillows, which she took care not to touch. + +"Ruby! Ruby!" + +"What is it? Who's there? Who's there?" + +The voice that replied sounded both languid and surprised. + +"I--Nigel!" + +Mrs. Armine sat up. + +"What is it, Nigel? I'm lying down." + +"Oh, I'm--I'm sorry if I've disturbed you, but--you're not ill?" + +"No, only resting. What is it, Nigel?" + +"I've brought Baroudi over to see you and the villa, and to dine with us +to-night." + +"Oh--very well." + +"You don't mind, Ruby?" + +The voice outside the door was suddenly very low. + +"Go down and entertain him, and I'll come almost directly." + +The handle creaked, as he let it go, but for a moment there was no sound +of retreating footsteps. + +"Look here, Ruby, if--" + +"Go down! I'll come directly." + +Footsteps went towards the stairs. + +"Get me into my gown! Wait--change my stockings first." + +Marie knelt down quickly on the floor. As she bent her head, she was +smiling. + +She began to understand. + + + + +XIV + + +When Mrs. Armine came into the little drawing-room, it was empty, but +she smelt cigars, and heard the murmur of voices outside near the +terrace. The men were evidently walking up and down enjoying the soft +air of the evening. She did not go out immediately, but stood and +listened to the voices. + +Ah, they were talking about the Fayyum--doubtless discussing some +question of sowing, planting, of the cultivation of land! + +This evening her face seemed to retain in its skin an effect of her +outburst of passion, a sensation of dryness and harshness, as if it were +unduly stretched over the flesh and had lost its normal elasticity. Just +before she came out of her bedroom, Marie, with a sort of reluctant +admiration, had exclaimed, "_Madame est exquise ce soir!_" She wondered +if it were true, and as the voices without grew softer for a moment, +more distant, she went to stand again before a mirror, and to ask +herself that question. + +She had chosen to put on a walking-dress instead of a tea-gown, because +she believed that in it she would look younger, her splendid figure +being still one of her greatest advantages. Yes, her figure was superb, +and this gown showed it off superbly. The long quiet of her very dull +life in London while she had known Nigel, followed by her comparative +repose in the splendid climate of Egypt, had done wonders for her +appearance. Certainly to-night, despite any ravages made by her +injudicious yielding to anger, she looked years younger than she had +looked in Isaacson's consulting-room. The wrinkles about her eyes showed +scarcely at all, or--not at all. And she was marvellously fair. + +Orientals delight in fairness, and always suppose Occidentals to be +years younger than they really are, if they have succeeded in retaining +any of the charms of youth. + +Marie was not far wrong. + +She turned to step out upon the terrace. + +"Ah, Mahmoud Baroudi!" she said, with a sort of lazy but charming +indifference, as the two men came to meet her. "So you have come up the +river to look after--what is it? your something--your sugar?" + +"My sugar; exactly, madame," he replied gravely, bowing over her hand. +"I hope you will forgive my intrusion. Your husband kindly insisted on +bringing me over--and in flannels." + +His apology was extremely composed, but Nigel was looking a little +excited, a little anxious, was begging forgiveness with his eyes for all +the trouble of the morning. She was not going to seem to give it him +yet; a man on the tenter-hooks was a man in the perfectly right place. +So she was suave, and avoided his glance without seeming to avoid it. +They strolled about a little, talking lightly of nothing particular; +then she said, speaking for the first time directly to her husband, + +"Nigel, don't you think you'd better just go and tell Hassan we shall be +three at dinner, and have a little talk to the cook? Your Arabic will +have more effect upon the servants than my English. Mahmoud Baroudi and +I will sit on the terrace till you come back." + +"Right you are!" he said. + +And he went off at once, leaving them together. + +As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Armine sat down on a basket chair. For a +moment she said nothing. In the silence her face changed. The almost +lazy naturalness and simplicity faded gradually out of it, revealing the +alert and seductive woman of the world. Even her body seemed to change, +to become more sensitive, more conscious, under the eyes of Baroudi; and +all the woman in her, who till now, save for a few subtle and fleeting +indications of life, had lain almost quiescent, rose suddenly and +signalled boldly to attract the attention of this man, who sat down a +little way from her, and gazed at her in silence with an Oriental +directness and composure. + +Although they had talked upon shipboard, this was the first time they +had been _en tete-a-tete_. + +To-night Mrs. Armine's eyes told Baroudi plainly that she admired him, +told him more--that she wished him to know it; and he accepted her +admiration, and now made a bold return. For soon the change in her was +matched by the change in him. The open resolution of his face, which on +the ship had often attracted Nigel, was now mingled with a something +sharp, as of cunning, with a ruthlessness she could understand and +appreciate. As she looked at him in the gathering darkness of the night, +she realized that housed within him, no doubt with many companions, +there was certainly a brigand, without any fear, without much pity. And +she compared this brigand with Nigel. + +"How do you find Egypt, madame? Do you like my country?" + +He leaned a little forward as at last he broke their silence, and the +movement, and his present attitude, drew her attention to the breadth of +his mighty shoulders and to the arresting poise of his head, a poise +that, had it been only a shade less bold, would have been almost +touchingly gallant. + +"Have you seen all the interesting things in Thebes and Karnak?" + +"Yes. We've been quite good tourists. We've been to the Colossi, the +tombs, the temples. We've dined by moonlight on the top of the Pylon at +Karnak. We've seen sunset from Deir-al-Bahari." + +"And sunrise?" + +"From nowhere. I prefer to sleep in the morning." + +"And do you care about all these things, tombs, temples, +mummies--madame? Have you enjoyed your Egyptian life?" + +She paused before answering the question. As a fact, she had often +enjoyed her expeditions with Nigel in the bright and shimmering gaiety +of the exquisite climate of Luxor; the picnic lunches out in the open, +or within the walls of some mighty ruin; the smart canters on the +straight brown paths between the waving green prairies or crops, above +which the larks sang and the wild pigeons flew up to form the only cloud +in the triumph of gold and of blue; the long climbs upward into the +mountains along the tiger-coloured ways, where the sun had made his +empire since the beginning of the world; the descents when day was +declining, when the fellahin went homewards under the black velvet of +the palm-trees, and the dust stirred by their brown and naked feet rose +up in spirals towards the almost livid light of the afterglow. And she +had enjoyed the dinner at Karnak in the pale beams of a baby moon. For +she still had the power to enjoy, and much of the physical energy of the +average Englishwoman, who is at home in the open air and quite at her +ease in the saddle. And Egypt was for her a complete novelty, and a +novelty bringing health, and a feeling almost of youth. + +Nevertheless, she paused before replying. + +Secretly, during all these days she was now considering, she had been as +one who walks in a triumph. She had been exulting in the _coup_ she had +made just when her life seemed turning to greyness, exulting in the blow +she had struck against a society which had despised her and cast her +out. Exultation had coloured her days. Now suddenly, unexpectedly, she +knew she had been living in a fool's paradise, into which Nigel had led +her. And this knowledge fell, like a great shadow, over all the days in +Egypt behind her, blotting out their sunshine, their gaiety, their glow. + +"Pretty well," she said, at last. "Do you care about such things?" + +He shrugged his mighty shoulders. + +"Madame, I am not a tourist. What should I do in the temples among the +bats, and in the tombs where one can almost smell the dead people? You +must not come to us Egyptians for all that. You must go to the old +English maidens--is that it?--maidens who wear helmets on their grey +hair done so"--he put up his brown hands, and pretended to twist up a +tiny top-knot at the back of his head--"and who stroke the heads of the +dragomans sitting there at their feet, what they call their +'tootsicums,' and telling them thousands of lies. Or you must go to the +thin antiquaries, with the red noses and the heads without any hair, who +dig for mummies while their wives--ah, well I must not say that! But we +Egyptians, we have other things to do than to go and stare at the +Sphinx. We have always seen it. We know it is there, that it is not +going to run away. So we prefer to enjoy our lives while we can, and not +to trouble about it. Do you blame us?" + +"No," she said. "I never blame any one for enjoying life." + +There was in his look and manner, even in his attitude, a something that +was almost like a carelessly veiled insolence. In a European she would +perhaps have resented it. In him not only did she not resent it, but she +was attracted by it. For it seemed to belong as of right to his great +strength, his bold and direct good looks, which sprang to the eyes, his +youth, and his Eastern blood. Such a man must feel often insolent, +however carefully he might hide it. Why should he not show some grains +of his truth to her? + +"Nor for any way of enjoying life, madame?" he said. + +And he leaned still a little more forward, put up one big hand to his +cheek, let it drop down to his splendid throat, and kept the fingers +inside his soft turn-down collar while he looked into her eyes. + +"I didn't say that." + +"Would you care much what way it was if it gave the enjoyment?" + +"Would you?" + +"I! Certainly not. But--I am not like Mr. Armeen." + +He slightly mispronounced the name. + +"Mr. Armine?" she said. "What about him?" + +"Would he not think that some things one might do and many things one +must not do? All the Englishmen are like that. Oh, dear, if one does the +thing they think wrong! Oh, dear! Oh, Law!" + +He took away his hand from his throat, held it up, then slapped it down +upon his knee. + +"My word!" he added, smiling, and always searching her eyes with his. +"It is worse than to eat pig by daylight in Ramadan would seem to an +Egyptian." + +"Do you dislike the English?" + +"What must I say?" + +"Say the truth." + +"If it is the English ladies, I think them lovely." + +"And the Englishmen?" + +"Oh, they are all--good fellers." + +He threw into the last two words an indescribable sound of half-laughing +contempt. + +"They are all--good fellers. Don't you think so?" + +"But what does that mean?" + +"Splendid chaps, madame!" + +He sat up straight, and threw out his chest and thumped it. + +"Beef, plum pudding, fine fellers, rulers!" + +"You mustn't laugh at my countrymen." + +"Laugh--never! But--may I smile, just at one corner?" + +He showed his rows of little, straight, white teeth, which looked strong +enough to bite through a bar of iron. + +"The Englishman rules us in Egypt. He keeps saying we are ruling, and he +keeps on ruling us. And all the time he rules us, he despises us, +madame. He thinks us silly children. But sometimes we smile at him, +though of course he never smiles at us, for fear a smile from him should +make us think we are not so far below him. It is very wrong of us, but +somehow Allah permits us to smile. And then"--again he leaned forward, +and his chair creaked in the darkness--"there are some Englishwomen who +like to see us smile, some who even smile with us behind the +Englishman's back." + +He spoke calmly, with a certain subtle irony, but quite without any hint +of bitterness, and in speaking the last words he slightly lowered his +voice. + +"Is it very wrong of them, madame? What do you say? Do you condemn +them?" + +She did not answer, but her mobile, painted lips quivered, as if she +were trying to repress a smile and were not quite succeeding. + +"If they smile, if they smile--isn't that a shame, madame?" + +He was smiling into her eyes. + +"It is a great shame," she said. "I despise deceitful women." + +"And yet who does not deceive? Everybody--except the splendid fellers!" + +He threw back his head and laughed, while she looked at his magnificent +throat. + +"You never talked like this on the _Hohenzollern_," she said. + +"Madame, I was never alone with you. How could I talk like this? I +should not have been properly understood." + +Not only in his eyes, but also in this assumption of a certain +comradeship and sympathy from which Nigel and Nigel's kind were +necessarily excluded, there was a definite insolence that seemed to +strike upon and challenge Mrs. Armine, like a glove flung in her face. +Would she perhaps have resented it even yesterday? She could not tell. +To-night she was ready to welcome it, for to-night she almost hated +Nigel. But, apart from her personal anger, Baroudi made an impression +upon her that was definite and strong. She felt, she ever seemed to +perceive with her eyes, the love of brigandage in him--and had she not +been a brigand? There were some ruined men who could have answered that +question. And in this man there was a great fund of force and of energy. +He threw out an extraordinary atmosphere of physical strength, in which +seemed involved a strength that was mental, like dancing motes in a beam +of light. Mrs. Armine was a resolute woman, as Meyer Isaacson had at +once divined. She felt that here was a human being who could be even +more resolute than herself, more persistent, more unyielding, and quite +as subtle, quite as cool. Though he was an Eastern man and she was a +Western woman, how should each not understand much of the other's +character? And as to him--Orientals are readers of brains, if not of +souls. + +She felt a great sense of relief, as if a balm were laid at evening upon +the morning's wound. + +"Ruby!" + +Baroudi leaned back quietly, looking calm and strong and practical. And +this time Mrs. Armine noticed that the basket chair did not creak +beneath his movement. + +"Is it all right about the dinner, Nigel?" + +"I hope so," he said. "But Baroudi mustn't suppose we've got a _chef_ +like his." + +"I'll leave you for a little while," she said, getting up. "Dinner at a +quarter past eight." + +"Thank you, madame." + +He was standing up. + +"You pardon my flannels?" + +"I like men in flannels, don't I, Nigel?" + +She spoke carelessly, almost absently, and went slowly into the house. +Again she had subtly cast around her a gentle atmosphere of rebuke. + +On the table in the drawing-room were lying, still in their wrappers, +the papers which had come by the morning's post. She took one up, as she +passed, and carried it upstairs with her; and when she was in her +bedroom she opened it, and glanced quickly through the social news. Ah! +there was a paragraph about Lady Harwich! + +"The birth of twin sons to the Countess of Harwich has given much +satisfaction in social circles, as both Lord and Lady Harwich are +universally popular and esteemed. It is said that the baptism of the +infants will take place, in the Chapel Royal of St. James's Palace, and +that His Majesty the King will be one of the sponsors. Until this happy +event, the next heir to the title and the immense estates that go with +it was the Honourable Nigel Armine, who recently married the well-known +Mrs. Chepstow, and who is ten years younger than Lord Harwich." + +Somehow, now that she saw the fact stated in print, Mrs. Armine felt +suddenly more conscious both of the triumph of Lady Harwich and of the +Harwich, which was the social, faction generally, and of what seemed her +own defeat. What a comfortable smile there must be just now upon the +lips of the smart world, upon the lips of numbers of women not a bit +better than she was! And Nigel had "let her in" for it all. Her lips +tightened ominously as she remembered the cool American eyes of Lady +Harwich, which had often glanced at her with the knowing contempt of the +lively but innocent woman, which stirs the devil in women who are not +innocent, and who are known not to be innocent. + +She put down the paper; she went to the window and looked out. From the +garden there rose to her nostrils the delicate scent of some hidden +flower that gave its best gift to the darkness. In the distance, to her +right, there was a pattern of coloured fire relieved against the +dimness, that was not blackness, of the world. That was Baroudi's +dahabeeyah. + +Women were smiling in London, were rejoicing in her misfortune. As she +looked at the lines of lamps, they seemed to her lines of satirical +eyes, then, presently, lines of eyes that were watching her and were +reading the truth of her nature. + +She called Marie, and again she changed her gown. + +While she was doing so, Nigel came up once more, taking Baroudi to a +bedroom, and presently tried the door between her bedroom and his. + +"Can't come in!" she called out, lightly. + +"You're not changing your dress?" + +"I couldn't dine in linen." + +"But we are both--" + +"Men--and I'm a woman, and I can't dine in linen. I should feel like a +sheet or a pillow-case. Run away, Nigel!" + +She heard him washing his hands, and presently she heard him go away. +She knew very well that the lightness in her voice had whipped him, and +that he was "feeling badly." + +When the small gong sounded for dinner, she went downstairs, dressed in +a pale yellow gown with a high bodice in which a bunch of purple flowers +was fastened. She wore no jewels and no ornament in her hair. + +As she came into the room, for a moment Nigel had the impression that +she was a stranger coming in. Why was that? His mind repeated the +question, and he gazed at her with intensity, seeking the reason of his +impression. She was looking strangely, abnormally fair. Had she again, +despite the conversation of the morning, "done something" to her face? +Was its whiteness whiter than usual? Or were her lips a little redder? +Or--he did not know what she had done, whether, indeed, she had done +anything--but he felt troubled, ill at ease. He felt a longing to be +alone with Ruby, to make her forgive him for having hurt her in the +morning. He hated the barrier between them, and he felt that he had +created it by his disbelief in her. Women are always more sensitive than +men, and who is more sensitive than the emerging Magdalen, encompassed +by disbelief, by irony, by wonder? He felt that in the morning he had +been radically false to himself, that by his lapse from a high ideal of +conduct he had struck a heavy blow upon a trembling virtue which had +been gathering its courage to venture forth into the light. + +During the dinner, almost everything, every look, tone, gesture, +attitude, that was expressive of Ruby, confirmed him in self-rebuke. She +was certainly changed. The rather weary and wistful woman who had stayed +alone in the garden when he went to the dahabeeyah had given place to a +woman more resolute, brilliant, animated--a woman who could hold her +own, who could be daring, almost defiant, and a woman who could pain him +in return, perhaps, for the pain he had inflicted on her. The dinner was +quite good. Their Nubian cook had been trained in a big hotel, and Mrs. +Armine had nothing to apologize for. Baroudi politely praised the +cooking. Yet she felt that behind his praise there lurked immeasurable +reservations, and she remembered the time when her _chef_ was the most +famous in London, a marvel who had been bribed by a millionaire lover of +hers to leave the service of a royalty to bring his gift to her. She +mentioned this fact to Baroudi. It was a vulgar thing to do, and at +heart she was not vulgar; but she was prompted by two desires. She felt +in her guest the Oriental's curious and almost romantic admiration of +riches, and wished to draw this admiration towards herself; and she +wanted to inflict some more punishment on Nigel. + +"You seem to be something of an epicure, Mahmoud Baroudi," she said. "I +suppose you have heard of Armand Carrier?" + +"The best _chef_ in Europe, madame? How should I not have heard of him +among my friends of Paris?" + +"He was in my service for five years." + +There was a pause. Nigel suddenly turned red. Baroudi moved his large +eyes slowly from Mrs. Armine to him, and at length observed calmly: + +"I felicitate you both. You must have had a treasure. But why did you +let him go?" + +He addressed the question to Nigel. + +"He was not in my service," said Nigel, with a sudden, very English +stiffness that was almost like haughtiness. "It was long before we were +married." + +"Oh--I see. But what a pity! Then you did not have the benefit of eating +his marvellous _plats_." + +"No. I don't care about that sort of thing." + +"Really!" + +They talked of other matters, but Nigel had lost all his _bonhomie_, and +seemed unable to recover it. + +Baroudi, like a good Mohammedan, declined to drink any wine, but when +the fruit was brought, Mrs. Armine got up. + +"I'll leave you for a little while," she said. "You'll find me on the +terrace. Although Mahmoud Baroudi drinks nothing, I am sure he likes +men's talk better than woman's chatter." + +Baroudi politely but rather perfunctorily denied this. + +"But what do you say," he added, "to coming as my guest to take a cup of +coffee and a liqueur at the Winter Palace Hotel? To-night there is the +first performance of a Hungarian band which I introduced last winter to +Egypt, and which--I am told; I am not, perhaps, a judge of your Western +music--plays remarkably. What do you say? Would it please you, madame?" + +"Yes, do let us go. Shan't we go?" + +She turned to Nigel. + +"Of course," he said, "if you like. But can you walk in that dress?" + +She nodded. + +"It's perfectly dry outside. I'll come down in a moment." + +She was away for nearly ten; then she returned, wrapped up in a +marvellous ermine coat, and wearing on her head a yellow toque with a +high aigrette at one side. + +"I'm ready now," she said. + +"What a beautiful coat!" Nigel said. + +He had not seen it before. He gently smoothed it with his brown fingers. +Then he looked at her, took them away, and stepped back rather abruptly. + +When they arrived at the great hotel the band was already playing in the +hall, and a number of people, scattered about in little detached groups, +were listening to it and drinking Turkish coffee. It was very early in +the season. The rush up the Nile had not begun, and travellers had not +yet cemented their travelling acquaintanceships. People looked at each +other rather vaguely, or definitely ignored each other, with profiles +and backs which said quite plainly: "We won't have anything to do with +you until we know more about you." The entrance of the party from the +Villa Androud created a strong diversion. As soon as Baroudi was +perceived by the attendants, there was a soft and gliding movement to +serve him. The tall Nubians in white and scarlet smiled, salaamed, and +showed their pleasure and their desire for his notice. The German hall +porter hastened forward, with a pink smile upon his countenance; the +_chef d'orchestre_, a real Hungarian, began to play at him with fervour; +and a black gentleman in gold and scarlet, who looked like a Prince of +the East, but who was really earning his living in connection with the +lift to the first floor, bounded to show them to a table. + +Baroudi accepted all these attentions with a magnificent indifference +that had in it nothing of assumption. They sat down, he ordered coffee +and liqueurs, and they listened to the music, which was genuinely good, +and had the peculiar fervent and yet melancholy flavour which music +receives from the bows of Hungarian fiddlers. Nigel was smoking. He +seemed profoundly attentive, did not attempt any conversation, and kept +his eyes on the ground. Mrs. Armine seemed listening attentively, too, +but she had not been sitting for five minutes before she had seen and +summed up every group in her neighborhood; had defined the +nationalities, criticized the gowns and faces of the women, and made up +her mind as to the characters of the men who accompanied them, and as to +the family or amorous ties uniting them to each other and the men. + +And she had done more than this: she had measured the amount of +interest, of curiosity, of admiration, of envy, of condemnation which +she herself excited with the almost unerring scales of the clever woman +who has lived for years both in the great and the half worlds. + +Quite near them, not level with their table, but a little behind it on +the right, within easy range of her eyes, Lord and Lady Hayman were +sitting, with another English couple, a Sir John and Lady Murchison, +smart, gambling, racing, pleasure-loving people, who seemed to be +everywhere at the same time, and never to miss any function of +importance where their "set" put in an appearance. Lady Murchison was a +pretty and vindictive blonde--the sort of woman who looks as if she +would bite you if you did not let her have her way. She was smiling +cruelly now, and murmuring to Lady Hayman, a naturally large, but +powerfully compressed personage, with a too-sanguine complexion +insufficiently corrected by powder, and a too-autocratic temperament +insufficiently corrected by Lord Hayman. + +All these people--Mrs. Armine knew it "in her bones"--had just been +reading the _Morning Post_. Here in Egypt they stood for "London." She +saw London's verdict, "Serve her right," in their cool smiles, their +moments of direct attention to herself--an attention hard, insolent, +frigid as steel--in the curious glances of pity combined with a sort of +animal, almost school-boy, amusement, which the two men sent towards +Nigel. + +She looked from "London" to "Egypt," represented by Baroudi. In marrying +Nigel she had longed to set her heel upon the London which had despised +her; she had hoped some day to set the heel of Lady Harwich upon more +than one woman whom she had known before she was cast out. Secretly she +had reckoned upon that, as upon something that was certain, something +for which she had only to wait. Lord Harwich was worn out, and he was a +wildly reckless man, always having accidents, always breaking his bones. +She would only have to wait. + +And now--twin boys, and all London smiling! + +Again she looked at Baroudi. The fervent and melancholy music was rising +towards a climax. It caught hold of her now, had her in a grip, swept +her onwards. When it ceased, she felt as if she had been carried away +from "London," and from those old ambitions and hopes for ever. + +Baroudi's great eyes were upon her, and seemed to read her thoughts; and +now for the first time she felt uneasy under their resolute gaze, felt +the desire, almost the necessity to escape from it and to be unwatched. + +"Have you had enough of the music, Nigel?" she said to her husband, as +the musicians lifted their chins from their instruments, and let their +arms drop down. + +He started. + +"What, Ruby? By Jove, they do play well!" + +There was a look in his eyes almost as of one coming back from a long +and dark journey underground into the light of day. That music had taken +him back to the side of the girl whom he had loved, and who had died so +long ago. Now he looked at the woman who was living, and to whom the +great power to love which was within him was being directed, on whom it +was being concentrated. + +"Do you mind if we go home?" she said. + +"You have had enough of it already?" + +"No, not that; but--I'm tired," she said. + +As she spoke, skilfully, without appearing to do so, she led him to look +towards the little group of the Murchisons and the Haymans; led him to +pity her for their observation, and to take that as the cause of her +wish to go. Perhaps it was partly the cause, but not wholly, and not as +she made him believe it. + +"Ill take you home at once," Nigel said, tenderly. + +When they were outside Baroudi bade them good-bye, and invited them to +tea on the _Loulia_--so his dahabeeyah was called--on the following day. + +"In the evening I may start for Armant," he said. "Will it bore you to +come, madame?" + +He spoke politely, but rather perfunctorily, and she answered with much +the same tone. + +"Thanks, I shall be delighted. Good-night. The music was delicious." + +His tall figure went away in the dark. + +When he had left them there was a silence. Nigel made a movement as if +he were going to take her hand, and draw her arm within the circle of +his; but he did not do it, and they walked on side by side by the river, +not touching each other, not speaking. And so, presently, they came to +the villa, and to the terrace before the drawing-room. Then Nigel spoke +at last. + +"Are--you are going in at once, Ruby?" he said. + +"Yes." + +"I--will you call from your window presently?" + +"Why?" + +"When I may come up. After this morning I must talk to you before we +sleep." + +She looked at him, then looked down, resting her white chin on the warm +white fur of the ermine. + +"I'll call," she said. + +As she went away he looked after her, and thought how almost strangely +tall she looked in the long white coat. He paced up and down as he +waited, listening for the sound of her voice. After what seemed to him a +very long time he heard it at last. + +"Nigel! You can come up now--if you like." + +He went upstairs at once to her room, and found her sitting in an +arm-chair near the window, which led on to the balcony, and which was +wide open to the night. She was in a loose and, to him, a mysterious +white and flowing garment, with sleeves that fell away from her arms +like wings. Her hair was coiled low at the back of her neck. + +The room was lit by two candles, which burned upon a small +writing-table, and by the wan and delicate moonlight that seemed to +creep in stealthily, yet obstinately, from the silently-breathing Egypt +in whose warm breast they were. He stood for a moment; then he sat down +on a little sofa, not close to her, but near her. + +"Ruby," he said. + +"Well, Nigel?" + +"This has been the first unhappy day for me since we've been married." + +"Unhappy!" + +"Yes, because of the cloud between us." + +She said nothing, and he resumed: + +"It's made me know something, though, Ruby; it's made me know how much I +care--for you." + +He leaned forward, and, as he did so, her mind went to Baroudi, and she +remembered exactly the look of his shoulders and of his throat when he +was leaning towards her. + +"I don't think I really knew it before. I'm sure I didn't know it. What +made me understand it was the way I felt when I found I had hurt you, +had done you a wrong for a moment. Ruby, my own feeling has punished me +so much that I don't think you can want to punish me any more." + +"I punish you!" she said. "But what wrong have you done me? And how +could I punish you?" + +"I did you a wrong this morning by thinking for a moment--" He stopped; +he found he could not put it quite clearly into words. "Over Harwich and +the boys," he concluded. + +"Oh, that! That didn't matter!" she said. + +She spoke coldly, but she was feeling more excited, more emotional, +than she had felt for a very long time, than she had known that she +could feel. + +"It mattered very much. But I don't think I really thought it." + +"Yes, you did!" she said, sharply. + +He sat straight up, like a man very much startled. + +"You did think it. Don't try to get out of it, Nigel." + +"Ruby, I'm not trying. Why, haven't I said--" + +But she interrupted him. + +"You did think, what every one thinks, that I'm a greedy, soulless +woman, and that I even married you"--she laid a fierce emphasis on the +pronoun--"out of the wretched, pettifogging ambition some day to be Lady +Harwich. You did think it, Nigel. You did think it!" + +"For one moment," he said. + +He got up from the sofa, and stood by the window. He felt like a man in +a moral crisis, and that what he said at this moment, and how he said +it, with how much deep sincerity and how much warmth of heart, might, +even must, determine the trend of the future. + +"For one moment I did just wonder whether perhaps when you married me +you had thought I might some day be Lord Harwich." + +"Of course." + +"Al-lah--" + +Through the open window came faintly the nasal cry of the Nubian sailor +beginning the song of the Nile upon the lower deck of the _Loulia_. With +it there entered the very dim throbbing of the beaten _daraboukkeh_, +sounding almost like some strange and perpetual ground-swell of the +night, that flood of shadowy mystery and beauty in which they and the +world were drowned. The distant music added to her sense of excitement +and to his. + +"Ruby--try to see--I think it was partly a humble feeling that made me +wonder--a difficulty in believing you had cared very much for me." + +"Why should you, or any one, think I have it in me to care?" + +"I thought so in London, I think so here, I have always thought +so--always. If others have--have disbelieved in you ever, I haven't been +like them. You doubt it?" + +He moved a step forward, and stood looking down on her. + +"But I could prove it." + +"Oh--how?" + +"Meyer Isaacson knows it." + +He did not refer to his marrying her as a proof already given, for that +might have meant something else than belief in the hidden unworldliness +of her, and in her hidden desire for that which was good and beautiful. + +"And don't you--don't you know it, even after this morning?" + +"After this morning--I don't want to hurt you--but after this morning +you will have to prove it to me, thoroughly prove it, or else I shall +not believe it." + +The solo voice of the Nubian sailor was lost in the chorus of voices +which came floating over the Nile. + +"I don't want to be cold," she continued, "and I don't want to be +unkind, but one can't help certain things. I have been driven, forced, +into scepticism about men. I don't want to go back into my life, I don't +want to trot out the old 'more sinned against than sinning' _cliche_. I +don't mean to play the winey-piney woman. I never have done that, and I +believe I've got a little grit in me to prevent me ever doing it. But +such a thing as happened this morning must breed doubts and suspicions +in a woman who has had the experience I have had. I might very easily +tell you a lie, Nigel. I might very easily fall into your arms and say +I've forgotten all about it, and I'll never think of it again, and all +that sort of thing. It would be the simplest thing in the world for me +to act a part to you. But you've been good to me when I was lonely, and +you've cared for me enough to marry me, and--well, I won't. I'll tell +you the truth. It's this: I can't help knowing you did doubt me, and I'm +not really a bit surprised, and I don't know that I'd any right to be +hurt; but whether I had any right or not, I was hurt, and it will take +a little time to make me feel quite safe with you--quite safe--as one +can only feel when the little bit of sincerity in one is believed in and +trusted." + +She spoke quietly, but he felt excitement behind her apparent calm. In +her voice there was an inflexible sound, that seemed to tell him very +clearly it meant what it was saying. + +Always across the Nile came the song of the Nubian sailors. + +"I'm not surprised that you feel like that," he said. + +He stood for a moment considering, then he sat down once more, and began +to speak with a resolution that seemed to be prompted by passion. + +"Ruby, to-day I think I was false to myself, because to-day I was false +to my real, my deep-down belief in you. In London I did think you cared +for me as a man, not perhaps specially because I'd attracted you by my +personality, but because I felt how others misunderstood you. It seemed +to me--it seems to me now--that I could answer to a desire in you to +which no one else ever tried, ever wished to answer. The others seemed +to think you only wanted the things that don't really count--lots of +money, luxury, jewels, clothes--you know what I mean. I felt that your +real desire was--well, I must put it plainly--to be loved and not lusted +after, to be asked for something, not only to be given things. I felt +that, I seemed to know it. Wasn't I right?" + +"To-night--I don't know," she said. + +Her ears were full of the music that wailed and throbbed in the breast +of the night. + +"Can't you forgive that one going back on myself after all these days +and--and nights together? Haven't I proved anything to you in them?" + +"You have seemed to, perhaps. But men so often seem, and aren't. And I +did think you knew why I had married you." + +"Tell me why you married me." + +"Not to-night." + +"Long ago," he said, and now he spoke slowly, and with a deep +earnestness which suddenly caught the whole of her attention, "Long ago +I loved a girl, Ruby. She was very young, knew very little of the world, +and nothing at all of its beastlinesses. I think I loved her partly +because she knew so little, she was so very pure. One could see--see in +her eyes that they had never looked, even from a distance, on mud, on +anything black. She loved me. She died. And, after that, she became my +ideal." + +He looked at her, slowly lifting his head a little. There was a light in +his eyes which for a moment half frightened, half fascinated her, so +nakedly genuine was it--genuine as a flame which burns straight in an +absolutely windless place. + +"In my thoughts I always kept her apart from all other +women--always--for years and years, until one night in London, after I +knew you. That night--I don't know how it was, or why--I seemed to see +her and you standing together, looking at each other; I seemed to know +that in you both--I don't know how to tell it exactly"--he stopped, +looked down, like one thinking deeply, like one absorbed in +thought--"that in you both, mixed with quantities of different things, +there was one thing--a beautiful thing--that was the same. She--she +seemed that night to tell me that you had something I had loved in her, +that it was covered up out of sight, that you were afraid to show it, +that nobody believed you had it within you. She seemed to tell me that I +might teach you to trust me and show it to me. That night I think I +began to love you. I didn't know I should ever tell this to any one, +even to you. Do you think I could tell it if I distrusted you as much as +you seem to think?" + +"Give me a glass of Apollinaris, will you, Nigel?" she said. "It's over +there beside the bed." + +"Apollinaris!" + +He stared at her as if confused by this sudden diversion. + +"Over there!" + +She pointed. The long sleeve, like a wing, fell away from her soft, +white arm. + +"Oh--all right." + +He went to get it. She sat still, looking out through the open window to +the moonlight that lay on the white stone of the balcony floor. She +heard the chink of glass, the thin gurgle of liquid falling. Then he +came back and stood beside her. + +"Here it is, Ruby." + +The enthusiasm had gone out of his voice, and the curious light had gone +out of his eyes. + +"Thank you." + +She took it, put it to her lips, and drank. Then she set the glass down +on the writing-table. + +"We're at the beginning of things, Nigel," she said. "That's the truth. +We can't jump into a mutual perfection of relationship at once. I've got +very few illusions, and I dare say I'm absurdly sensitive about certain +matters, much more sensitive than even you can imagine. The fact is +I've--I've been trodden on for a long while. A man can't know what a +woman--a lady--who's been thoroughly 'in it' feels when she's put +outside, and kept outside, and--trodden on. It sends her running to +throw her arms round the neck of the Devil. That may be abominable, but +it's the fact. And, when she tries to come back from the Devil--well, +she's a mass of nerves, and ready to start at a shadow. I saw a shadow +to-day in the garden--" + +"I know, I know!" + +"You remember the night we dined on the Pylon at Karnak? After dinner +you tried to show me the ruins by moonlight, and wherever we went a +black-robed watchman followed us, or a black-robed watchman glided from +behind a pillar, or an obelisk, or a crumbling wall, and faced us, and +at last we took to flight. Well, that's what life is like to certain +women; that's what life has been for a long time to me. Whenever I've +tried to look at anything beautiful quietly, I've been followed or faced +by a black-robed watchman, staring at me suspiciously. And to-day you +seemed to be one when you asked me that about Harwich." + +She took up the glass and drank some more of the water. When she put it +down he was kneeling beside her. He put his arms around her. + +"I won't be that again." + +A very faint perfume from her hair came to him, now that he was so close +to her. + +"I don't want to be that ever." + +He held her, and, while he held her, he listened to the Nubian sailors +and to the word that was nearly always upon their tireless lips. + +"Al-lah--Al-lah--Al-lah!" + +God was there in the night, by the great, mysterious Nile, that flows +from such far-off sources in the wild places of the earth; God was +attending to them--to him and Ruby. He had the simple faith almost of a +child in a God who knew each thing that he thought, each thing that he +did. Thousands of men have this faith, and thousands of men conceal it +as they might conceal a sin. They fear their own simplicity. + +The purpose of God, was it not very plain before him? He thought now +that it was. What he had to do was to restore this woman's confidence in +the goodness that exists by having a firm faith in the goodness existing +in her, by not letting that faith be shaken, as he had let it be shaken +that day. + +He hated himself for having wounded her, and as he hated himself his +strong arms closed more firmly round her, trying to communicate +physically to her the resolution he was forming. + +And the Nubian sailors went on singing. + +To him that night they sang of God. + +To her they sang of Mahmoud Baroudi. + + + + +XV + + +"What is the meaning of that Arabic writing, Mahmoud Baroudi?" said Mrs. +Armine on the following afternoon, as she stood with him and her husband +upon the lower deck of the _Loulia_, at the foot of the two steps which +led down to the big door dividing the lines of living-rooms from the +quarters of the Nubian sailors. The door was white, with mouldings of +gold, and the inscription above it was in golden characters. + +"It looks so significant that I must know what it means," she added. + +"It is taken from the Koran, madame." + +"And it means?" + +He fixed his great eyes upon her. + +"'The fate of every man have we bound about his neck.'" + +"'The fate of every man have we bound about his neck,'" she repeated, +slowly. "So that is the motto for the _Loulia_!" + +She was standing quite still, staring up at the cabalistic signs beneath +which she was going to pass. + +"Do you dislike it, madame?" + +"No, it's strong, but--well, it leaves no loophole for escape, and it +rather suggests a prison." + +"We are in the prison of our lives, and we are in the prison of +ourselves," he answered, calmly. + +She dropped her eyes from the words. + +"Yes?" she said, looking at him like one who asks for more. + +"Prison!" said Nigel, behind her. "I hate that word. You're wrong, +Baroudi. Life is a fine freedom, if we choose it to be so, and we can +act in it according to our own free-will. Our fate is not bound about +our necks. It is only we ourselves who can bind it there." + +"All that is not at all in my belief," returned Baroudi, inflexibly. +"Here are cabins for servants." + +He led them into a passage, and pointed to little doors on the right and +left. + +"And here is my room for working and arranging all I have to do. I +believe you English call it a 'den.'" + +He opened a door that faced them at the end of the passage, and preceded +them into his "den." The effect of this chamber was that it was a +"double room," for an exquisite screen of mashrebeeyeh work, in the +centre of which was a small round arch, divided it into two +compartments. On each side of this arch, facing the entrance door, were +divans covered with embroideries and heaped with enormous cushions. +Prayer-rugs covered the floor, prayer-rugs of very varied patterns and +colours, on which yellows, greens, mauves, pinks, reds, purples, and +browns dwelt in perfect accord; on which vases were seen with trees, +lamps with flowers, strange and conventional buildings with ships, with +chains, with pedestals, with baskets of fruit, mingled together, +apparently at haphazard, yet forming a blend that was restful. By the +windows there were lattices of mashrebeeyeh work, which could be opened +and closed at will. At present they were open. Beneath them were fitted +book-cases containing rows of books, in English and French, many of them +works on agriculture, on building, on mining, on the sugar and cotton +industries in various parts of the world. There was a large +writing-table of lacquer-work, on which stood a movable electric lamp +without a shade, in the midst of a rummage of pamphlets and papers. Near +it were a coffee-table and two deep arm-chairs. From the ceiling, which +was divided into compartments painted in dark red and blue, hung a heavy +lamp by a chain of gilded silver. A stick of incense burned in a gilded +holder. The dining-room, on the other side of the screen, was fitted +with divans running round the walls, and contained a large table and a +number of chairs with curved backs. The table was covered with a long +and exquisitely embroidered Indian cloth, of which the prevailing colour +was a brilliant orange-red, that glowed and had a sheen which was almost +fiery. In the centre of this table stood a tawdry Japanese vase, worth, +perhaps, five or six shillings. A lovely bracket of carved wood fixed to +the wall held a cheap cuckoo-clock from Switzerland. + +Mrs. Armine looked around in silence, with eyes that missed no detail. +The clock whirred, a minute door flew open, the cuckoo appeared, and the +two notes that are the cry of the English spring went thinly out to the +Nile. Then the cuckoo disappeared, and the little door shut sharply. + +Mrs. Armine smiled. + +"You bought that?" she asked. + +"Yes, madame. Everything here was bought by me, and arranged according +to my poor judgment." + +He opened the door, and led them into a long passage with a shining +parquetted floor. + +"Here are the bedrooms, madame." + +He pushed back two or three doors, showing beautiful little cabins, +evidently furnished from Paris, with bedsteads, mosquito-curtains, long +mirrors, small arm-chairs in white, and green and rose-colour; walls +painted ivory-white; and delicate, pretty, but rather frivolous, +curtains and portieres, with patterns of flowers tied up with ribands, +and flying and perching birds. All the toilet arrangements were perfect, +and each room had a recess in which was a large enamelled bath. + +"That is my bedroom, madame," said Baroudi, pointing to a door which he +did not open. "It is the largest on the boat. And here is my room for +sitting alone. When I want to be disturbed by no one, when I want to +smoke the keef, to eat the hashish, or just to sit by myself and forget +my affairs, and dream quietly for a little, I shut myself in here." + +An embroidered curtain, the ground of which was orange colour, covered +with silks of various hues, faced them at the end of the corridor. +Baroudi pulled aside this curtain, pushed back a sliding door of wood +that was almost black, and said: + +"Will you go in first, madame?" + +Mrs. Armine stepped in, with an almost cautious slowness. + +She found herself in a large saloon, which took in the whole width of +the stern of the dahabeeyah. The end of this saloon widened out and was +crescent-shaped, and contained a low dais with curving divans, divided +by two sliding doors which were now pushed back in their recesses, +giving access to a big balcony that looked out over the Nile and that +was protected by an awning. The wooden ceiling was cut up into lozenges +of black and gold, and was edged by minute inscriptions from the Koran, +in gold on a black ground. All the windows had lattices of mashrebeeyeh +work fitted to them, and all these lattices were closed. Against the +walls, which were as dark in colour as the mashrebeeyeh work, there were +a number of carved brackets, on which were placed various extremely +common things--cheap and gaudy vases from Naples and Paris, two more +Swiss cuckoo-clocks, a third clock with a blue and white china face--and +a back that looked as if were made of brass, a musical-box, and a +grotesque monster, like a dragon with a dog's head, in rough yellow and +blue earthenware. There were no chairs in the room, though there were +some made of basket-work on the balcony, but all the lower part of the +wall space was filled with broad divans. In the centre of the floor +there was a sunken receptacle of marble, containing earth, in which +dwarf palms were growing, and a faskeeyeh, or little fountain, which +threw up a minute jet of water, upon which airily rose and fell a gilded +ball about the size of a pea. All over the floor were strewn exquisite +rugs. The room was pervaded by a faint but heavy perfume, which had upon +the senses an almost narcotic effect. + +"What a strange room!" said Mrs. Armine. + +She had stood quite still near the door. Now she walked forward, +followed by the two men, until she had passed the faskeeyeh and had +reached the foot of the dais. There she turned round, with her back to +the light that came in through the narrow doorways leading to the +balcony. Baroudi had shut the door by which they had come in, and had +pulled over it a heavy orange-coloured curtain, which she now saw for +the first time. Although lovely in itself both in colour and material, +fiercely lovely, like the skin of some savage beast, it did not blend +with the rest of the room, with the dim hues of the superb embroideries +and prayer-rugs, with the dark wood of the lattices that covered the +windows. Like the cheap clocks on the exquisite brackets, and the vulgar +ornaments from Naples and Paris, it seemed to reveal a certain +childishness in this man, a bad taste that was naive in its crudity, but +daring in its determination to be gratified. Oddly, almost violently, +this curtain, these clocks and vases, the musical-box, even the tiny +gilded ball that rose and fell in the fountain, displayed a part of him +strangely different from that which had selected the almost miraculously +beautiful rugs, and the embroideries on the divans. Exquisite taste was +married with a commonness that was glaring. + +Mrs. Armine wished she could see his bedroom. + +"I wish--" she began, and stopped. + +"Yes, madame?" said Baroudi. + +"What is it, Ruby?" asked Nigel. + +"You'll laugh at me. But I wish you would both go out upon the balcony, +shut the doors, and leave me for a minute shut up alone in here. I think +I should feel as if I were in the heart of an Eastern house." + +"In a harim, do you mean?" asked Nigel. + +"That--perhaps. Do go." + +Baroudi smiled, showing his rows of tiny teeth. + +"Come, Mr. Armeen!" he said. + +He stepped out on to the balcony, followed by Nigel, and pulled out from +the recess the first of the sliding doors. + +"You really wish the other, too?" he asked, looking in upon Mrs. Armine. +"You will be quite in the dark." + +"Shut it!" she said, in a low voice. + +He pulled out the second door. Gently it slid across the oblong of +sunlight, blotting out the figures of the two men from her sight. +Baroudi had said that she would be quite in the dark. That was not +absolutely true. How and from where she could not determine, a very +faint suggestion--it was hardly more than that--of light stole in to +show the darkness to her. She went to the divan on the starboard side of +the vessel, felt for some cushions, piled them together, and lay down, +carefully, so as not to disarrange her hat. The divan was soft and +yielding. It held and caressed her body, almost as if it were an +affectionate living thing that knew of her present desire. The cushions +supported her arm as she lay sideways--listening, and keeping perfectly +still. + +She had some imagination, although she was not a highly or a very +sensitively imaginative woman, and now she left her imagination at play. +It took her with it into the heart of an Eastern house which was +possessed by an Eastern master. Where was the house, in what strange +land of sunshine? She did not know or care to know. And indeed, it +mattered little to her--an Eastern woman whose life was usually bounded +by a grille. + +For she imagined herself an Eastern woman, subject to the laws and the +immutable customs of the unchanging East, and she was in the harim of a +rich Oriental, to whom she belonged body and soul, and who adored her, +but as the man of the East adores the woman who is both his mistress and +his slave. For years she had ruled men, and trodden them under her feet. +She had lived for that--the ruling of men by her beauty and her clever +determination. Now she imagined herself no longer possessing but +entirely possessed; no longer commanding, but utterly obedient. What a +new experience that would be! All the capricious womanhood of her seemed +to be alert and tingling at the mere thought of it. Instead of having +slaves, to be herself a slave! + +She moved a little on the divan. The heavy perfume that pervaded the +room seemed to be creeping about her with an intention--to bring her +under its influence. She heard the very faint and liquid murmur of the +faskeeyeh, where the tiny gilded ball was rising, poising, sinking, +governed by the aspiring and subsiding water. That, too, was a slave--a +slave in the Eastern house of Baroudi. + +Slowly she closed her eyes, in the Eastern house of Baroudi. + +Here Baroudi lay, as she was lying, and smoked the keef, and ate the +hashish, and dreamed. + +He would never be the slave of a woman. She felt sure of that. But he +might make a woman his slave. At moments, when he looked at her, he had +the eyes of a slave-owner. But he might adore a slave with a cruel +adoration. She felt cruelty in him, and it attracted her, it lured her, +it responded to something in her nature which understood and respected +cruelty, and which secretly despised gentleness. In his love he would be +cruel. Never would he be quite at the feet of the woman. His eyes had +told her that, had told it to her with insolence. + +The gilded ball in the faskeeyeh, the slave covered with jewels in the +harim. + +She stretched out her arms along the cushions; she stretched out her +limbs along the divan, her long limbs that were still graceful and +supple. + +How old did Baroudi think her? + +Arabs never know their ages. A man, a soldier whom she had known, had +told her that once, had told her that Arabs of sixty declare themselves +to be twenty-five, not from vanity, but merely because they never reckon +the years. Baroudi would probably never think of her as Englishmen +thought of her, would never "bother about" her age. She had seen no +criticism of that kind in his eyes when they stared at her. Probably he +believed her to be quite young, if he thought of her age at all. More +probably he did not think about the matter. + +She was in the Eastern house of Baroudi. + +When she and Nigel had left London for Egypt she had imagined herself +one day, if not governing London--the "London" that had once almost +worshipped her beauty--at least spurning it as Lady Harwich. She had +wrapped herself in that desire, that dream. All her thoughts had been +connected with London, with people there. Some day Lord Harwich would +die or get himself killed. Zoe Harwich would sink reluctantly into "Zoe, +Lady Harwich," and she, once the notorious Mrs. Chepstow, would be +mistress of Harwich House, Park Lane; of Illington Park, near Ascot; of +Goldney Chase in Derbyshire; of Thirlton Castle in Scotland; and of +innumerable shooting-lodges, to say nothing of houses at Brighton and +Newmarket. Society might not receive her, but society would have to envy +her. And perhaps--in the end--for are not all things possible in the +social world of to-day?--perhaps in the end she would impose herself, +she would be accepted again because of her great position. She had felt +that her cleverness and her force of will made even that possible. +Harwich's letter had swept the dream away, and now, the first shock of +her new knowledge passed, though not the anger, the almost burning sense +of wrong that had followed immediately upon it, she was +characteristically readjusting her point of view upon her future. She +had schemed for a certain thing; she had taken the first great step +towards the realization of her scheme; and then she had suddenly come +upon catastrophe. And now her thoughts began to turn away from London. +The London thoughts were dying with the London hopes. "All that is +useless now." That was what her mind was saying, bitterly, but also with +decision. Schooled by a life filled with varying experiences, Mrs. +Armine had learnt one lesson very thoroughly--she had learnt to cut her +losses. How was she going to cut this loss? + +She was in the Eastern house of Baroudi. + +Only a few hours ago she had looked out upon Egypt and things Egyptian +almost as a traveller looks upon a world through which he is rushing in +a train, a world presented to him for a brief moment, but with whose +inhabitants he will never have anything to do, in whose life he will +never take part. She had to be in Egypt for a while, but all her desires +and hopes and intentions were centred in London. There her destiny would +be played out, there and in the land of which London was the beating +heart. + +Now she must centre her desires, her hopes, her intentions elsewhere, +if she centred them anywhere. She must centre them upon Nigel, must +centre them in the Fayyum, in the making of crops to grow where only +sand had been, both in the Fayyum and in another place, or she must +centre them-- + +She smelt the heavy perfume; she smoothed the silken pillows with her +long fingers; she stretched her body on the soft divan; she listened to +the liquid whisper of the faskeeyeh. + +There were many sorts of lives in the world. She had had many +experiences, but how many experiences she had never had! No longer did +she feel herself to be a traveller rushing onward through a land of +which she would never know, or care to know, anything. The train was +slackening speed. She saw the land more clearly. Details came into view, +making their strange and ardent appeal. The train would presently stop. +And she would step out of it, would face the new surroundings, would +face the novel life. + +Suddenly she distended her nostrils to inhale the perfume more strongly, +her hands closed upon the silken cushions with a grip that was almost +angry, and something within her, the something that tries to command +from its secret place, scourged her imagination to force it to more +violent efforts--in the Eastern house of Baroudi. + +"Ruby! Ruby!" + +One of the sliding doors was pushed back, the sunlight came in, tempered +by the shade thrown by the awning, and she saw the little ball dancing +in the faskeeyeh, and her husband looking inquiringly upon her, framed +in the oblong of the doorway. + +"What on earth are you doing?" + +"Nothing!" she said, sitting up with a brusque movement. + +He laughed. + +"I believe you were taking a nap." + +She got up. + +"To tell the truth, I was almost asleep." + +She stood up, put her hands to her hat, to her hair, and with a slight +but very intelligent movement sent the skirt of her gown into place. + +"Let me out," she said. + +Nigel drew back, and she stepped out upon the balcony, where Baroudi was +leaning upon the railing, looking over the sunlit Nile. He turned round +slowly and very calmly to meet her, moving with the almost measured ease +of the very supple and strong man, drew forward a basket chair, arranged +a cushion for her politely, but rather carelessly, and not at all +cleverly, and said, as she sat down: + +"You like the heart of my Eastern house?" + +"How do you manage the fountain?" she asked. + +He embarked upon a clear and technical explanation, but when he had said +a very few words, she stopped him. + +"Please don't! You are spoiling my whole impression. I oughtn't to have +asked." + +"Baroudi is a very practical man," said Nigel. "I only wish I had him as +my overseer in the Fayyum." + +"If I can ever give you advice I shall be very glad," said Baroudi. "I +know all about agriculture in my country." + +Mrs. Armine leaned back, and looked at the broad river, upon which there +were many native boats creeping southward with outspread sails, at the +columns of the great Temple of Luxor standing up boldly upon the eastern +bank, at the cloud of palm-trees northward beyond the village, at the +far-off reaches of water, at the bare and precipitous hills that keep +the deserts of Libya. At all these features of the landscape she looked +with eyes that seemed to be new. + +"Talk about agriculture to my husband, Mahmoud Baroudi," she said. +"Forget I am here, both of you." + +"But--" + +"_Pas de compliments!_ This is my first visit to a dahabeeyah. Your Nile +is making me dream. If only the sailors were singing!" + +"They shall sing." + +He went up a few steps, and looked over the upper deck; then he called +out some guttural words. Almost instantly the throb of the _daraboukkeh_ +was audible, and then a nasal cry: "Al-lah!" + +"And now--talk about agriculture!" + +Baroudi turned away to Nigel, and began to talk to him in a low voice, +while Mrs. Armine sat quite still, always watching the Nile, and always +listening to the sailors singing. Presently tea was brought, but even +then she preserved, smiling, her soft but complete detachment. + +"Go on talking," she said. "You don't know how happy I am." + +She looked at her husband, and added: + +"I am drinking Nile water to-day." + +Into his face there came a strong look of joy, which stirred irony in +the deeps of her nature. He did not say anything to her, but in a moment +he renewed his conversation with Baroudi, energetically, vivaciously, +with an ardour which she had deliberately given him, partly out of +malice, but partly also to gain for herself a longer lease of +tranquillity. For she had spoken the truth. She was drinking Nile water +to-day, and she wanted to drink more deeply. + +The river was like a dream, she thought. The great boats, with their +lateen sails and their grave groups of silent brown men, crept +noiselessly by like the vessels that pass in a dream. Against the sides +of the _Loulia_ she heard the Nile water whispering softly, whispering +surely to her. From the near bank, mingling with the loud and nasal song +of the Nubian sailors, rose the fierce and almost tragic songs of the +fellahin working the shadufs. How many kinds of lives there were in the +world! + +The blow that had fallen upon Mrs. Armine had made her unusually +thoughtful, unusually introspective, unusually sensitive to all +influences from without; had left her vibrating like a musical +instrument that had been powerfully struck by a ruthless hand. The gust +of fury that had shaken her had stirred her to a fierce and powerful +life, had roused up all her secret energies of temper, of will of +desire, all her greed to get the best out of life, to wring dry, as it +were, of their golden juices every one of the fleeting years. "To-morrow +we die." Those who believe that, as she believed it, desire to live as +no believer in a prolonged future in other worlds can ever desire to +live--here, for the little day--and never had she felt that hungry wish +more than she felt it now. Through her dream she felt it, almost as a +victim of ardent pain feels that pain, without suffering under it, after +an injection of morphia. If she could not have the life to which she had +looked forward of triumph in England, she must have in its place some +other life that suited her special temperament, some other life that +would answer to the call within her for material satisfactions, for +strong bodily pleasures, for the joys of the pagan, the unbeliever, who +is determined to "make the most of" the short span of human life on +earth. + +How could she now have that other life with Nigel? He would never be +Lord Harwich. He would never be anything but Nigel Armine, a man of +moderate means interested in Egyptian agriculture, with a badly let +property in England, and a strip of desert in the Fayyum. He would never +be anything except that--and her husband, the man who had "let her in." +She did not mentally add to the tiny catalogue--"and the man who loved +her." + +For a long while she sat quite still, leaning her head on the cushion, +hearing the singing and crying voices, the perpetual whisper of the +water against the _Loulia's_ sides, watching the gleaming Nile and the +vessels that crept upon it going towards the south; and now, for the +first time, there woke in her a desire to follow them up the river, to +sail, too, into the golden south. Instead of the longing to return to +and reign in England, came the desire to push England out of her life, +almost to kick it away scornfully and have done with it for ever. Since +she could never reign in England, she felt that she hated England. + +"In the summer? Oh, I always spend the summer in England." + +Nigel was speaking cheerfully. She began to attend to his conversation +with Baroudi, but she still looked out to the Nile, and did not change +her position. They were really talking about agriculture, and apparently +with enthusiasm. Nigel was giving details of his efforts in the Fayyum. +Now they discussed sand-ploughs. It seemed an unpromising subject, but +they fell upon it with ardour, and found it strangely fruitful. Even +Baroudi seemed to be deeply interested in sand-ploughs. Mrs. Armine +forgot the Nile. She was not at all interested in sand-ploughs, but she +was interested in this other practical side of Baroudi, which was now +being displayed to her. Very soon she knew that of all these details +connected with land, its cultivation, the amount of profit it could be +made to yield in a given time, the eventual probabilities of profit in a +more distant future, he was a master. And Nigel was talking to him, was +listening to him, as a pupil talks and listens to a master. The greedy +side of Mrs. Armine was very practical, as Meyer Isaacson had realized, +and therefore she was fitted to appreciate at its full value the +practical side of Baroudi. She felt that here was a man who knew very +well how and where to tap the streams whose waters are made of gold, +and, as romance seduces many women, so, secretly, this powerful +money-making aptitude seduced her temperament, or an important part of +it. She was fascinated by this aptitude, but presently she was still +more fascinated by the subtle use that he was making of it. + +He was deliberately rousing up Nigel's ambitions connected with labour, +was deliberately stinging him to activity, deliberately prompting him to +a sort of manly shame at the thought of his present life of repose. But +he was doing it with an apparent carelessness that was deceptive and +very subtle; he was doing it by talking about himself, and his own +energy, and his own success, not conceitedly, but simply, and in +connection with Nigel's plans and schemes and desires. + +Why was he doing this? Did he want to send Nigel to spend the winter in +the Fayyum? And did he know that Nigel intended to "rig up something" in +the Fayyum for her? + +[Illustration] + +She began to wonder, to wonder intensely, why Baroudi was stirring up +Nigel's enthusiasm for work. It seemed as if, for the moment, the two +men had entirely forgotten that she was there, had forgotten that in the +world there was such a phenomenon as woman. She had a pleasant sensation +of listening securely at a key-hole. Usually she desired to attract to +herself the attention of every man who was near her. To-day she wished +that the conversation between her husband and Baroudi might be +indefinitely prolonged; for a strange sense of well-being, of calmness, +indeed of panacea, was beginning to steal at last upon her, after the +excitement, the bitter anger that had upset her spirit. It seemed to her +as if in that moment of utter repose in the darkness of the chamber near +the fountain a hypnotic hand had been laid upon her, as if it had not +yet been removed. Really she was already captured by the dahabeeyah +spell, although she did not know it. A dahabeeyah is the home of dreams, +and of a deeply quiet physical well-being. Mrs. Armine was a very +sensuous woman, and sensitive to all sensuous impressions; so now, while +her husband talked eagerly, enthusiastically, of the life of activity +and work, she received from the Nile its curious gift of bodily +indolence and stillness. Her body never moved, never wished to move, in +the deep and cushioned chair, was almost like a body morphia-stricken; +but her mind was alert, and judging the capacities of these two men. And +still it was seeking secretly the answer to a "Why?" when Nigel at +length exclaimed: + +"Anyhow, I meant to get off by the train to-morrow night. And you? When +are you starting up the river?" + +"I have a tug. I go away to-night." + +"To Armant?" + +"To Armant for some days. Then I go farther up the river. I have +interests near Kom Ombos. I shall be away some time, and then drop down +to Assiout. I have nothing more to do here." + +"Interests in Assiout, too?" + +"Oh, yes; at Assiout I have a great many. And just beyond here I have +some--a little way up the river on the western bank." + +"Lands?" + +"I have orange-gardens there." + +"I wonder you can manage to look after it all--sugar, cotton, quarries, +house property, works, factories. Phew! It almost makes one's head spin. +And you see into everything yourself!" + +"Where the master's eye does not look, the servant's is turned away. Do +you not find it so in the Fayyum?" + +"I shall know in two or three days." + +Nigel suddenly looked round at his wife. + +"I hear you," she said, slowly. "You had forgotten all about me, but I +was listening to you." + +She moved, and sat straight up, putting her hands on the broad cushioned +arms of the chair. + +"I was receiving a lesson," she added. + +"A lesson, Ruby?" said Nigel. + +"A lesson in humility." + +Both men tried to make her explain exactly what she meant, but she would +not satisfy their curiosity. + +"You have brains enough to guess," was all she said. + +"We must be going, Nigel. Look! it is nearly sunset. Soon the river will +be turning golden." + +As she said the last word, she looked at Baroudi, and her voice seemed +to linger on the word as on a word beloved. + +"Won't you stay and see the sunset from here, madame?" he said. + +"I am sure you have lots to do. I have been listening to some purpose, +and I know you are a man of affairs, and can have very little time for +social nonsense, such as occupies the thoughts of women. I feel almost +guilty at having taken up even one of your hours." + +Nigel thought there was in her voice a faint sound as if she were +secretly aggrieved. + +Baroudi made a polite rejoinder, in his curiously careless and calmly +detached way, but he did not press them again to stay any longer, and +Nigel felt certain that he had many things to do--preparations, +perhaps, to make for his departure that evening. He was decidedly not a +"woman's man," but was a keen and pertinacious man of affairs, who liked +the activities of life and knew how to deal with men. + +He bade them good-bye on the deck of the sailors. + +Just before she stepped down into the waiting felucca, Mrs. Armine, as +if moved by an impulse she could not resist, turned her head and gazed +at the strange Arabic Letters of gold that were carved above the doorway +through which she had once more passed. + +"The fate of every man have we bound about his neck." + +Baroudi followed her eyes, and a smile, that had no brightness in it, +flickered over his full lips, then died, leaving behind it an impassible +serenity. + +That night, just when the moon was coming, the _Loulia_, gleaming with +many lights, passed the garden of the Villa Androud, and soon was lost +in the night, going towards the south. + +On the following evening, by the express that went to Cairo, Nigel +started for the Fayyum. + + + + +XVI + + +The _Loulia_ gone from the reach of the river which was visible from the +garden of the Villa Androud; Nigel gone from the house which was +surrounded by that garden; a complete solitude, a complete emptiness of +golden days stretching out before Mrs. Armine! When she woke to that +little bit of truth, fitted in to the puzzle of the truths of her life, +she looked into vacancy, and asked of herself some questions. + +Presently she came down to the drawing-room, dressed in a thin coat and +skirt that were suitable for riding, for walking, for sitting among +ruins, for gardening, for any active occupation. Yet she had no plan in +her head; only she was absolutely free to-day, and if it occurred to her +to want to do anything, why, she was completely ready for the doing of +it. Meanwhile she sat down on the terrace and she looked about the +garden. + +No one was to be seen in it from where she was sitting. The Egyptian +gardener was at work, or at rest in some hidden place, and all the +garden was at peace. + +It was a golden day, almost incredibly clear and radiant, quivering with +brightness and life, and surely with ecstasy. She was set free, in a +passionate wonder of gold. That was the first fact of which she was +sharply conscious. By this time Nigel must be in Cairo; by the evening +he would be in that fabled Fayyum of which she had heard so much, which +had become to her almost as a moral symbol. In the Fayyum fluted the +Egyptian Pan by the water; in the Fayyum, as in an ample and fruitful +bosom, dwelt untrammelled Nature, loosed from all shackles of +civilization. And there, perhaps to-morrow, Nigel would begin making his +eager preparations for her reception and housing--his ardent +preparations for the taking of her "right down to Nature," as he had +once phrased it to her. She touched her whitened cheek with her +carefully manicured fingers, and she wondered, not without irony, at the +strange chances of human life. What imp had taken her by the hand to +lead her to a tent in the Fayyum, in which she would dwell with a man +full of an almost sacred moral enthusiasm? She would surely be more at +home lying on embroideries and heaped-up cushions, with her nostrils +full of a faint but heavy perfume of the East, and her ears of the +murmur of dancing waters, and her mind, or spirit, or soul, or whatever +it was, in contact with another "whatever it was," unlit, unheated, by +fires that might possibly scorch her, but that could never purify her. + +What a marvellous golden day it was! This morning she felt the +beneficent influence of the exquisite climate in a much more intimate +way than she had ever felt it before. Why was that? Because of Nigel's +absence, or because of some other reason? Although she asked herself the +question, she did not seek for an answer; the weather was subtly +showering into her an exquisite indifference--the golden peace of "never +mind!" In the Eastern house of Baroudi, as she squeezed the silken +cushions with her fingers, something within her had said, "I must +squeeze dry of their golden juices every one of the fleeting years." In +this day there were some drops of the golden juices--some drops that she +must squeeze out, that her thirsty lips must drink. For the years were +fleeting away, and then there would come the black, eternal nothingness. +She must turn all her attention towards the joys that might still be +hers in the short time that was left her for joy--the short time, for +she was a woman, and over forty. + +A tent in the Fayyum with Nigel! Nobody else but Nigel! Days and days in +complete isolation with Nigel! With the man who had "let her in"! And +life, not stealing but clamorously rushing away from her! + +She thought of this, she faced it; the soul of her condemned it as a +fate almost ludicrously unsuited to her. And yet she was undisturbed in +the depths of her, although, perhaps, the surface was ruffled. For the +weather would not be gainsaid, the climate would have its way; the blue, +and the gold, and the warmth, combining with the knowledge of freedom, +could not be conquered by any thought that was black, or by any fear. It +seemed to her for a moment as if she were almost struggling to be angry, +to be unhappy, and as if the struggle were vain. + +She was quite free in this world of gold. What was she going to do with +her freedom? + +In the golden stillness of the garden she heard the faint rustle of a +robe, and she looked round and saw Ibrahim coming slowly towards her, +smiling, with his curly head drooping a little to the left side. Behind +both his ears there were roses, and he held a rose in his hand with an +unlighted cigarette. + +"What are we going to do to-day, Ibrahim?" said Mrs. Armine, lazily. + +Ibrahim came up and stood beside her, looking down in his very gentle +and individual way. He smoothed the front of his djelabieh, lifted his +rose, smelt it, and said in his low contralto voice: + +"We are goin' across the river, my lady." + +"Are we?" + +"We are goin' to take our lunchin'; we are goin' to be out all day." + +"Oh! And what about tea?" + +"We are goin' to take it with us in that bottle that looks all made of +silver." + +"Silver and--gold," she murmured, looking into the radiant distance +where Thebes lay cradled in the arms of the sun-god. + +"And when are we going, Ibrahim?" + +He looked at her, and his soft, pale brown lips stretched themselves and +showed his dazzling teeth. + +"When you are ready, my lady." + +She looked up into his face. Ibrahim was twenty, but he was completely a +boy, despite his great height and his tried capacities as a dragoman. +Everything in him suggested rather the boy than the young man. His long +and slim and flexible body, his long brown neck, his small head, covered +with black hair which curled thickly, the expression in his generally +smiling eyes, even his quiet gestures, his dreamy poses, his gait, his +way of sitting down and of getting up, all conveyed, or seemed to +convey, to those about him the fact that he was a boy. And there was +something very attractive in this very definite youngness of his. +Somehow it inspired confidence. + +"I suppose I am ready now." + +Mrs. Armine spoke slowly, always looking up at Ibrahim. + +"But is there a felucca to take us over?" she added. + +"In four five minutes, my lady." + +"Call to me from here when it is ready. I leave all the lunch and tea +arrangements to you." + +"All what you want you must have, my lady." + +Was that a formula of Ibrahim's? To-day he seemed to speak the words +with a conviction that was not usual, with some curious under-meaning. +How much of a boy was he really? As Mrs. Armine went upstairs she was +wondering about him. + +Nigel had said to her, "You are blossoming here." And he had said to +her, "You are beautiful, but you do not trust your own beauty." And that +was true, perhaps. To-day she would be quite alone with Ibrahim and the +Egyptians; she would be in perfect freedom, and downstairs upon the +terrace the idea had come to her to fill up the time that must elapse +before the felucca arrived in "undoing" her face. She went into her +bedroom, and shut and locked the door. + +"The felucca is here suttinly, my lady!" + +Ibrahim called from the terrace some ten minutes later; then he came +round to the front of the house, and cried out the words again. + +"I shall be down in a moment." + +Another ten minutes went by, and then Mrs. Armine appeared. She had an +ivory fly-whisk in her hand, and a white veil was drawn over her face. + +"Is everything ready, Ibrahim?" + +"Everythin'." + +They went to the felucca and crossed the river. + +At a point where there was a stretch of flat sandy soil on the western +shore, Hamza, the praying donkey-boy, was calmly waiting with two large +and splendidly groomed donkeys. Mrs. Armine stepped out of the felucca, +helped by Ibrahim, and the felucca at once put off, and began to return +across the Nile. The boatmen sang in deep and almost tragic voices as +they plied the enormous oars. Their voices faded away on the gleaming +waste of water. + +Mrs. Armine had stood close to the river listening to them. When the +long diminuendo was drawn back into a monotonous murmur which she could +scarcely hear, she turned round with a sigh; and she had a strange +feeling that a last link which had held her to civilization had snapped, +and that she was now suddenly grasped by the dry, hot hands of Egypt. As +she turned she faced Hamza, who stood immediately before her, motionless +as a statue, with his huge, almond-shaped eyes fixed unsmilingly upon +her. + +"May your day be happy!" + +He uttered softly and gravely the Arabic greeting. Mrs. Armine thanked +him in English. + +Why did she suddenly to-day feel that she lay in the hot breast of +Egypt? Why did she for the first time really feel the intimate spell of +this land--feel it in the warmth that caressed her, in the softness of +the sand that lay beneath her feet, in the little wind that passed like +a butterfly and in the words of Hamza, in his pose, in his look, in his +silence? Why? Was it because she was no longer companioned by Nigel? + +On the day of her arrival Nigel had pointed out Hamza to her. Now and +then she had seen him casually, but till to-day she had never looked at +him carefully, with woman's eyes that discern and appraise. + +Hamza was of a perfectly different type from Ibrahim's. He was +excessively slight, almost fragile, with little bones, delicate hands +and feet, small shoulders, a narrow head, and a face that was like the +face of a beautiful bronze, grave, still, enigmatic, almost inhuman in +its complete repose and watchfulness--a face that seemed to take all and +to give absolutely nothing. As Mrs. Armine looked at him she remembered +the descriptive phrase that set him apart from all the people of Luxor. +He was "the praying donkey-boy." + +Why had Ibrahim engaged him for their expedition to-day? She had never +had him in her service before. + +In a low voice she asked Ibrahim the question. + +"He is a very good donkey-boy, but he is not for my lord Arminigel." + +Mrs. Armine wondered why, but she asked nothing more. To-day she felt +herself in the hands of Egypt, and of Egypt Ibrahim and Hamza were part. +If she were to enjoy to-day to the utmost, she felt that she must be +passive. And something within her seemed to tell her that in all that +Ibrahim was doing he was guided by some very definite purpose. + +He helped her on to her donkey. Upon the beast he was going to ride +were slung two ample panniers. The fragile-looking Hamza, whose body was +almost as strong and as flexible as mail, would run beside them--to +eternity, if need be--on naked feet. + +"Where are we going, Ibrahim?" + +"We are goin' this way, my lady." + +He gave a loud, an almost gasping, sigh. Instantly his donkey started +forward, followed by Mrs. Armine's. The broad river was left behind; +they set their course toward the arid mountains of Libya. Ibrahim kept +always in front to lead the way. He had pushed his tarbush to the back +of his curly head, and as he rode he leaned backwards from his beast, +sticking out his long legs, from which the wrinkling socks slipped down, +showing his dark brown skin. He began to sing to himself in a low and +monotonous voice, occasionally interrupting his song to utter the loud +sigh that urged the donkey on. Hamza ran lightly beside Mrs. Armine. He +was dressed in white, and wore a white turban. In his right hand he +grasped a long piece of sugar-cane. As he ran, holding himself quite +straight, his face never changed its expression, his eyes were always +fixed upon the mountains of Libya. + +Upon the broad, flat lands that lay between the Nile and the ruins of +Thebes the young crops shed a sharp green that looked like a wash of +paint. Here and there the miniature forests of doura stood up almost +still in the sunshine. Above the sturdy brakes of the sugar-cane the +crested hoopoes flew, and the larks sang, fluttering their little wings +as if in an almost hysterical ecstasy. Although the time was winter, and +the Christians' Christmas was not far off, the soft airs seemed to be +whispering all the sweet messages of the ardent spring that smiles over +Eastern lands. This was a world of young rapture, not careless, but +softly intense with joy. All things animate and inanimate were surely +singing a love-song, effortless because it flowed from the very core of +a heart that had never known sorrow. + +"You are blossoming here!" + +Nigel had said that to Mrs. Armine, and she thought of his words now, +and she felt that to-day they were true. Where was she going? She did +not care. She was going under this singing sky, over this singing land, +through this singing sunshine. That was surely enough. Once or twice she +looked at Hamza, and, because he never looked at her, presently she +spoke to him, making some remark about the weather in English. He turned +his head, fixed his unyielding eyes upon her, said "Yes," and glanced +away. She asked him a question which demanded "No" for an answer. This +time he said "Yes," but without looking at her. Like a living bronze he +ran on, lightly, swiftly, severely, towards the tiger-coloured +mountains. And something in Hamza now made Mrs. Armine wonder where they +were going. Already she had seen the ruins on the western shore of the +Nile; she was familiar with Medinat-Habu, with Deir-al-Bahari, with +Kurna, with the Ramesseum, with the tombs of the Kings and of the +Queens. They had landed at a point that lay to the south of Thebes, and +now seemed to be making for Medinat-Habu. + +"Where are we going, Hamza?" she asked. + +"Yes," he replied. + +And he ran on, holding the piece of sugar-cane, like some hieratic +figure holding a torch in a procession. Ibrahim stopped his song to +sigh, and struck his donkey lightly under the right ear, causing it to +turn sharply to the left. In the distance Mrs. Armine saw the great +temple of Medinat-Habu, but it was not their destination. They were +leaving it on their right. And now Ibrahim struck his donkey again, and +they went on rapidly towards the Libyan mountains. The heat increased as +the day wore on towards noon, but she did not mind it--indeed, she had +the desire that it might increase. She saw the drops of perspiration +standing on the face of the living bronze who ran beside her. Ibrahim +ceased from singing. Had the approach of the golden noontide laid a +spell upon his lips? + +They went on, and on, and on. + + * * * * * + +"This is the lunchin'-place, my lady." + +At last Ibrahim pulled up his donkey, and slid off, drawing his +djelabieh together with his brown hands. + +"Ss--ss--ss--ss!" + +Hamza hissed, and Mrs. Armine's donkey stopped abruptly. She got down. +She was, or felt as if she was, in the very heart of the mountains, in a +fiery place of beetling yellow, and brownish and reddish yellow, +precipices and heaped up rocks that looked like strangely-shaped flames +solidified by some cruel and mysterious process. The ground felt hot to +her feet as she stood still and looked about her. Her first impression +was one of strong excitement. This empty place excited her as a loud, +fierce, savage noise excites. The look of it was like noise. For a +moment she stood, and though she was really only gazing, she felt as if +she were listening--listening to hardness, to heat, to gleam, that were +crying out to her. + +Hamza took down the panniers after laying his wand of sugar-cane upon +the burning ground. + +"Why have you brought me here?" + +The question was in Mrs. Armine's mind, but she did not speak it. She +put up her hands, lifted her veil, and let the sun fall upon her +"undone" face, but only for an instant. Then she let her veil down +again, and said to Ibrahim: + +"You must find me some shade, Ibrahim." + +"My lady, you come with me!" + +He walked on up the tiny, ascending track, that was like a yellow riband +which had been let down from the sun, and she followed him round a rock +that was thrust out as if to bar the way, and on to a flat ledge over +which the mountain leaned. A long and broad shadow fell here, and the +natural wall behind the ledge was scooped out into a shape that +suggested repose. As she came upon this ledge, and confronted this +shadow, Mrs. Armine uttered a cry of surprise. For against the rock +there lay a pile of heaped-up cushions, and over a part of the ledge was +spread a superb carpet. In this hot and savage and desolate place it so +startled that it almost alarmed her to come abruptly oh these things, +which forcibly suggested luxury and people, and she glanced sharply +round, again lifting her veil. But she saw only gleaming yellow and +amber and red rocks, and shining tresses of sand among them, and +precipices that looked almost like still cascades of fire. And again she +seemed to hear hardness, and heat, and gleam that were crying out to +her. + +"This is the lunchin'-place, my lady." + +Ibrahim was looking at the ground where the carpet was spread. + +"But--whom do these things belong to?" + +"Suttinly they are for you." + +"They were put here for me!" + +"Suttinly." + +Always he looked like a gentle and amiable boy. Mrs. Armine stared at +him searchingly for a moment, then, swayed by a sudden impulse, she went +to the edge of the great rock that hid Hamza and the donkeys from them, +and looked round it to the path by which she had come. On it Hamza was +kneeling with his forehead against the ground. He lifted himself up, and +with his eyes fast shut he murmured, murmured his prayers. Then he bent +again, and laid his forehead once more against the ground. Mrs. Armine +drew back. She did not know exactly why, but she felt for an instant +chilled in the burning sunshine. + +"Hamza is praying," she said to Ibrahim, who stood calmly by the carpet. + +"Suttinly!" he replied. "When Hamza stop, him pray. Hamza is very good +donkey-boy." + +Mrs. Armine asked no more questions. She sat down on the carpet and +leaned against the cushions. Now she was protected from the fierce glare +of the sun, and, almost as from a box at a theater, she could +comfortably survey the burning pageant that Nature gave to her eyes. +Ibrahim went to and fro in his golden robe over the yellow ground, +bringing her food and water with lemon-juice in it, and, when all was +carefully and deftly arranged, he said: + +"Is there anythin' more, my lady?" + +Mrs. Armine shook her head. + +"No, Ibrahim. I have everything I want; I am very comfortable here." + +"All what you want you must have to-day, my lady." + +He looked at her and went away, and was hidden by the rock. It seemed to +her that a curious expression, that was unboyish and sharp with meaning, +had dawned and died in his eyes. + +Slowly she ate a little food, and she sipped the lemon and water. + +Ibrahim did not return, nor did she hear his voice or the voice of +Hamza. She knew, of course, that the two Egyptians were near her, behind +the rock; nevertheless, presently, since she could not see or hear them, +she began to feel as if she were entirely alone in the mountains. She +drew down one of the cushions from the rock behind her, and laid and +kept her hand upon it. And the sensation the silk gave to her fingers +seemed to take her again into the Eastern house of Baroudi. She finished +her meal, she put down upon the carpet the empty glass, and, shutting +her eyes, she went on feeling the cushions. And as she felt them she +seemed to see again Hamza, with his beautiful and severe face, praying +upon the yellow ground. + +Hamza, Ibrahim, Baroudi. They were all of Eastern blood, they were all +of the same faith, of the faith from the bosom of which emanated the +words which were written upon the _Loulia_: + +"The fate of every man have we bound about his neck." + +Of every man! And what of the fate of woman? What of her fate? + +She opened her eyes, and saw Baroudi standing near her, leaning against +a rock and looking steadily at her. + +For an instant she did not know whether she was startled or not. She +seemed to be aware of two selves, the conscious self and the +subconscious self, to know that they were in a sharp conflict of +sensation. And because of this, conflict she could not say, to herself +even, that the sum total of her was this or that. For the conscious +self had surely never expected to see Baroudi here; and the subconscious +self had surely known quite well that he would come into this hard and +yellow place of fire to be alone with her. + +"Thank you so much for the carpet and the cushions." + +The subconscious self had gained the victory. No, she was not surprised. +Baroudi moved from the rock, and, without smiling, came slowly up to her +over the shining ground that looked metal in the fierce radiance of the +sun. He wore a suit of white linen, white shoes, and the tarbush. + +"_Puisque votre mari n'y est plus, parlons Francais_," he said. + +"_Comme vous voulez_," she replied. + +She did not ask him why he preferred to speak in French. Very few whys +stood just then between her and this man whom she scarcely knew. They +went on talking in French. At first Baroudi continued to stand in the +sun, and she looked up at him with composure from her place of shadow. + +"Armant is in this direction?" she said. + +"I do not say that, but it is not so far as the Fayyum." + +"I know so little of Egypt. You must forgive my ignorance." + +"You will know more of my country, much more than other +Englishwomen--some day." + +He spoke with an almost brutal composure and self-possession, and she +noticed that he no longer closed his sentences with the word "madame." +His great eyes, as they looked steadily down to her, were as direct, as +cruelly direct, in their gaze as the eyes of a bird of prey. They +pierced her defences, but to-day did not permit her, in return, to +pierce his, to penetrate, even a little way, into his territory of +thought, of feeling. She remembered the eyes of Meyer Isaacson. They, +too, were almost cruelly penetrating; but whereas they distinctly showed +his mind at work, the eyes of Baroudi now seemed to hide what his mind +was doing while they stared at the working of hers. And this +combination of refusal and robbery, blatantly selfish and egoistic, +conveyed to her spirit an extraordinary sense of his power. For years +she had dominated men. This man could dominate her. He knew it. He had +always known it, from the first moment when his eyes rested on hers. Was +it that which was Greek or that which was Egyptian in him which already +overcame her? the keenly practical and energetic or the mysterious and +fatalistic? As yet she could not tell. Perhaps he had a double lure for +the two sides of her nature. + +"Do you think so?" she said. "I doubt it. I'm not sure that I shall +spend another winter in Egypt." + +His eyes became more sombre, looked suddenly as if even their material +weight must have increased. + +"That is known, but not to you," he said. + +"And not to you!" she said, with a sudden sharpness, very womanly and +modern. + +With a quick and supple movement he was beside her, stretching his +length upon the ground in the shadow of the mountain. He turned slightly +to one side, raising himself up a little on one strong arm, and keeping +in that position without any apparent effort. + +"Please don't try the old hypnotic fakir tricks upon me, Baroudi," she +added, pushing up the cushions against the rock behind her. "I know +quantities of hysterical European women make fools of themselves out +here, but I am not hysterical, I assure you." + +"No, you are practical, as I am, and something else--as I am." + +He bent back his head a little. The movement showed her his splendid +throat, which seemed to announce all the concentrated strength that was +in him--a strength both calm and fiery, not unlike that of the rocks, +like petrified flames which hemmed them in. + +"Something else? What is it?" + +"Why do women so often ask questions to which they know the answers? +Here is Ibrahim with our coffee." + +At this moment, indeed, Ibrahim came slowly from behind the rocky +barrier, carrying coffee-cups, sugar, and a steaming brass coffee-pot on +a tray. Without speaking a word, he placed the tray gently upon the +ground, filled the cups, handed them to Mrs. Armine and Baroudi, and +went quietly away. He had not looked at Mrs. Armine. + +And she had thought of Ibrahim as just a gentle and amiable boy! + +Could all these people read her mind and follow the track of her +distastes and desires, even the dragomans and the donkey-boys? For an +instant she felt as if the stalwart Englishmen, the governing race, whom +she knew so well, were only children--short-sighted and frigid +children--that these really submissive Egyptians, Baroudi, Ibrahim, and +the praying Hamza, were crafty and hot-blooded men with a divinatory +power. + +"Your coffee," said Baroudi, handing to her a cup. + +She drank a little, put down the cup, and said: + +"The first night we were at the Villa Androud your Nubian sailors came +up the Nile and sang just underneath the garden. Why did they do that?" + +"Because they are my men, and had my orders to sing to you." + +"And Ibrahim--and Hamza?" she asked. + +"They had my orders to bring you here." + +"Yes," she said. + +She was silent for an instant. + +"Yes; of course they had your orders." + +As she spoke a hot wave of intimate satisfaction seemed to run all over +her. From Alexandria this man had greeted her on the first evening of +her new life beside the Nile. He had greeted her then, and now he had +surely insulted her. He acknowledged calmly that he had treated her as a +chattel. + +She loved that. + +He had greeted her on that first evening with a song about Allah. Her +mind, moving quickly from thought to thought, now alighted upon that +remembrance, and immediately she recollected Hamza and his prayer, and +she wondered how strong was the belief in Allah of the ruthless being +beside her. + +"They sang a song about Allah," she said, slowly. "Allah was the only +word I could understand." + +Baroudi raised himself up a little more, and, staring into her face, he +opened his lips, and, in a loud and melancholy voice, sang the violent, +syncopated tune the Nubian boatmen love. The hot yellow rocks around +them seemed to act as a sounding-board to his voice. Its power was +surely unnatural, and, combined with his now expressionless face, made +upon her an effect that was painful. Nevertheless, it allured her. When +he was silent, she murmured: + +"Yes, it was that." + +He said nothing, and his absolute silence following upon his violent +singing strengthened the grip of his strangeness upon her. Only a little +while ago she had felt, had even known, that she and Baroudi understood +one another as Nigel and she could never understand one another. Now +suddenly she felt a mystery in Baroudi far deeper, far more +impenetrable, than any mystery that dwelt in Nigel. This mystery seemed +to her to be connected with his belief in an all-powerful God, in some +Being outside of the world, presiding over its destinies, ordering all +the fates which it contained. And whereas the belief of her husband, +which she divined and was often sharply conscious of, moved her to a +feeling of irony such as may be felt by a naturally sardonic person when +hearing the naive revelations of a child, the faith of Baroudi +fascinated her, and moved her almost to a sensation of awe. It was like +a fire which burnt her, and like an iron door which shut against her. + +Yet he had never spoken of it; he did not speak of it now. But he had +sung the song of Nubia. + +"Did you tell Ibrahim that he was to choose Hamza as my donkey-boy +to-day?" she said. + +She was still preoccupied, still she seemed to see Hamza running beside +her towards the mountains, praying among the rocks. + +"Yes." + +"Why?" + +"Hamza is a very good donkey-boy." + +In that moment Mrs. Armine began to feel afraid of Hamza, even afraid of +his prayers. That was strangely absurd, she knew, because she believed +in nothing. Baroudi now let himself sink down a little, and rested his +cheek upon his hand. Somewhere he had learnt the secret of European +postures. There had been depths of strangeness in his singing. There was +a depth of strangeness in his demeanour. He had greeted her from the +Nile by night when he was far away in Alexandria; he had ordered Ibrahim +and Hamza to bring her into this solitary place, and now he lay beside +her with his strong body at rest, and his mind, apparently, lost in some +vagrant reverie, not heeding her, not making any effort to please her, +not even--so it seemed to her now--thinking about her. Why was she not +piqued, indignant? Why was she even actually charmed by his +indifference? + +She did not ask herself why. Perhaps she was catching from him a mood +that had never before been hers. + +For a long time they remained thus side by side, quite motionless, quite +silent. And that period of stillness was to Mrs. Armine the most strange +period she had ever passed through in a life that had been full of +events. In that stillness she was being subdued, in that stillness +moulded, in that stillness drawn away. What was active, and how was it +active? What spoke in the stillness? No echoes replied with their +charmed voices among the gleaming rocks of the Libyan mountains. +Nevertheless, something had lifted up a voice and had cried aloud. And +an answer had come that had been no echo. + +In repose there is renewal. When they spoke again the almost avid desire +to make the most of the years that remained to her had grown much +stronger in Mrs. Armine, and there had been born within her one of those +curious beliefs which, it seems, come only to women--the belief that +there was reserved for her a revenge upon a fate, the fate that had +taken from her the possibility of having all that she had married Nigel +to obtain, and the belief that she would achieve that revenge by means +of the man who lay beside her. + + + + +XVII + + +That evening, when Mrs. Armine stepped out of the felucca at the foot of +the garden of the Villa Androud, she did not wait for Ibrahim to help +her up the bank, but hurried away alone, crossed the garden and the +terrace, went to her bedroom, shut and locked the door, lit the candles +on either side of the long mirror that stood in the dressing-room, +pushed up her veil, and anxiously looked at her "undone" face in the +glass. + +Had her action been very unwise? Several times that day, while with +Baroudi, she had felt something that was almost like panic invade her at +the thought of what she had done. Now, quite alone and safe, she asked +herself whether she had been a fool to obey Nigel's injunction and to +trust her own beauty. + +She gazed; she took off her hat and she gazed again, hard, critically, +almost cruelly. + +There came a sharp knock against the door. + +"Who is it?" + +"_C'est moi, madame!_" + +Mrs. Armine went to the door and opened it. + +"Come here, Marie!" she said, almost roughly, "and tell me the truth. I +don't want any flattering or any palavering from you. Do you think I +look younger, better looking, with something on my face, or like this?" + +She put her face close to the light of the candles and stood quite +still. Marie examined her with sharp attention. + +"Madame has got to look much younger here," she said, at length. "Madame +has changed very much since we have been in Egypt. I do not know, but I +think, perhaps, here madame can go without anything, unless, of course, +she is going to be with Frenchmen. But if madame is much in the sun, at +night she should be careful to put--" + +And the maid ran on, happy in a subject that appealed to her whole +nature. + +Mrs. Armine dined alone and quickly. It was past nine o'clock when she +finished, and went out to sit on the terrace and to smoke her cigarette +and drink her coffee. In returning from the mountains she had scarcely +spoken to Ibrahim, and had not spoken to Hamza except to wish him +good-night upon the bank of the Nile. She remembered now the expression +in his almond-shaped eyes when he had returned her salutation--an +unfathomable expression of ruthless understanding that stripped her +nature bare of all disguises, and seemed to leave it as it was for all +the men of this land to see. + +Ibrahim's eyes never could look like Hamza's. And yet between Ibrahim +and Hamza what essential difference was there! + +Suddenly she said to herself: "Why should I bother my head about these +people, a servant and a donkey-boy?" + +In England she would never have cared in the least what the people in +her service thought about her. But out here things seemed to be +different. And Ibrahim and Hamza had brought her to the place where +Baroudi had been waiting to meet her. They were in Baroudi's pay. That +was the crude fact. She considered it now as she sat alone, sipping the +Turkish coffee that Hassan had carried out to her, and smoking her +cigarette. She said to herself that she ought to be angry, but she knew +that she was not angry. She knew that she was pleased that Ibrahim and +Hamza had been bought by Baroudi. Easterns are born with an appetite for +intrigue, with a love of walking in hidden ways and creeping along +devious paths. Why should those by whom she happened to be surrounded +discard their natures? + +And then she thought of Nigel. + +How much more at her ease she was with Baroudi than she could ever be +with Nigel! What Nigel desired she could never give him. She might seem +to give it, but the bread would be really a stone, even if he were +deceived. And he would be deceived. But what Baroudi desired she could +give. It seemed to her to-night indeed that she was born to give just +what he desired. She made no mistake about herself. And he could give to +her exactly what she wanted. So she thought now. For, since the long day +in the mountains, her old ambition seemed to have died, to have been +slain, and, with its death, had suddenly grown more fierce within her +the governing love, or governing greed, for material things-for money, +jewels, lovely bibelots, for all that is summed up in the one word +_luxe_. And Baroudi was immensely rich, and would grow continually +richer. She knew how to weigh a man in the balance, and though, even for +her, there was mystery in him, she could form a perfectly right judgment +of his practical capacity, of his power of acquirement. + +But he could give her more than _luxe_, much, more than _luxe_. + +And as she acknowledged that to herself, there came into Mrs. Armine's +heart a new inhabitant. + +That inhabitant was fear. + +She knew that in Baroudi she had found a man by whom she could be +governed, by whom, perhaps, she could be destroyed, because in him she +had found a man whom she could love, in no high, eternal way-she was not +capable of loving any man like that--but with the dangerous force, the +jealous physical passion and desire, the almost bitter concentration, +that seem to come to life in a certain type of woman only when youth is +left behind. + +She knew that, and she was afraid as she had never been afraid before. + +That night she slept very little. Two or three times, as she lay awake +in the dark, she heard distant voices singing somewhere on the Nile, and +she turned upon the bed, and she longed to be out in the night, nearer +to the voices. They seemed to be there for her, to be calling her, and +they brought back to her memory the sound of Baroudi's voice, when he +raised himself up, stared into her face, and sang the song about Allah, +the song of the Nubian boatmen. And then she saw him before her in the +darkness with a painful clearness, as if he were lit up by the burning +rays of the sun. Why had she met this man immediately after she had +taken the vital step into another marriage? For years she had been free, +free as only the social outcast can be who is forcibly driven out into +an almost terrible liberty, and through all those years of freedom she +had used men without really loving any man. And then, at last, she had +once more bound herself, she had taken what seemed to be a decisive step +towards an ultimate respectability, perhaps an ultimate social position, +and no sooner had she done this than chance threw in her way a man who +could grip her, rouse her, appeal to all the chief wants in her nature. +Those words in the Koran, were they not true for her? Her fate had +surely been bound about her neck. By whom? If she asked Baroudi she knew +what he would tell her. Strangely, even his faith fascinated her, +although at Nigel's faith she secretly laughed; for in Baroudi's faith +there seemed to be a strength that was hard, that was fierce and cruel. +Even in his religion she felt him to be a brigand, trying to seize with +greedy hands upon the promises and the joys of another world. He was +determined not to be denied anything that he really desired. + +She turned again on her pillows, and she put her arms outside the sheet, +then she put her hands up to her face and felt that her cheeks were +burning. And she remembered how, long ago, when she was a young married +woman, one night she had lain awake and had felt her burning cheeks with +her hands. + +That was soon after she had met the man for whom she had been divorced, +the man who had ruined her social life. Does life return upon its steps? +She remembered the violent joys of that secret love which had ultimately +been thrown down in the dust for all the world to stare at. Was she to +know such joys again? Was it possible that she could know them, had she +the capacity to know them after all she had passed through? + +She knew she had that capacity, and with her fear was mingled a sense +of triumph; for she felt that with the years the capacity within her for +that which to her was joy had not diminished, but increased. And this +sense of increase gave her a vital sense of youth. Even Nigel had said, +"You are blossoming here!" Even he, whom she had so easily and so +completely deceived, had seen that truth of her clearly. + +And when he came back from the Fayyum to stay again with her, or, more +probably, to fetch her away? + +The voices that had come to her from far away on the Nile were hushed. +The night at last had imposed herself on the singers, and they had sunk +down to sleep under the mantle of her silence. But Mrs. Armine still lay +awake, felt as if the cessation of the singing had made her less capable +of sleeping. + +When Nigel came to fetch her away to the tent in the Fayyum, what then? + +She would not think about that, but she would obey her temperament. She +had two weeks of freedom before her, she who had had so many years of +freedom. She had only two weeks. Then she would use them, enjoy them to +the uttermost. She would think of nothing but the moment. She would +squeeze, squeeze out the golden juices that these moments contained +which lay immediately before her. The tent in the Fayyum--perhaps she +would never see it, would never come out in the night with Nigel to hear +the Egyptian Pan by the water. But--she would surely hear Baroudi sing +again to-morrow, she would surely, to-morrow, watch him while he sang. + +She put her arms inside the bed, and feverishly drew the sheet up +underneath her chin. She must sleep, or to-morrow her face would show +that she had not slept. And Baroudi stared at her while he sang. + +Again she was seized by fear. + + + + +XVIII + + +Late the next morning there awoke with Mrs. Armine a woman who for a +time had lain in a quiescence almost like that of death, a woman who +years ago had risked ruin for a passion more physical than ideal, who, +when ruin actually overtook her, had let the ugly side of her nature run +free with a loose rein, defiant of the world. + +Only when she awoke to that new day did she fully realize the long +effort she had been making, and how it had tired and irritated her +nerves and her temperament. She had won her husband by playing a part, +and ever since she had won him she had gone on playing a part. And this +acting had not hitherto seemed to her very difficult, although there had +been moments when she had longed fiercely to show herself as she was. +But now that she had spent some hours with a man who read her rightly, +and who desired of her no moral beauty, no strivings after virtue, no +bitter regret for any actions of the past, she realized the weight of +the yoke she had been bearing, and she was filled with an almost angry +desire for compensation. + +She felt as if destiny were heavily in her debt, and she was resolved +that the debt should be paid to the uttermost farthing. + +Freed from the restraint of her husband's presence, and from the burden +of his perpetual though very secret search for the moral rewards she +could never give him, her whole nature seemed violently to rebound. +During the days that immediately followed she sometimes felt more +completely, more crudely, herself than she had ever felt before, and she +was often conscious of the curious, almost savage, relief that the West +sometimes feels when brought into close touch with the warm and the +subtle barbarity of the East, of the East that asks no questions, that +has omitted "Why?" from its dictionary. + +Baroudi was as totally devoid of ordinary scruples as the average +well-bred Englishman is full of them. He had, no doubt, a code of his +own to guide his conduct towards his co-religionists, but this code +seemed wholly inoperative when he was brought into relation with those +of another race and faith. + +And Mrs. Armine was a woman, and therefore, in his eyes, on a lower +plane than himself. + +Among the attractions which he possessed for Mrs. Armine, certainly not +the least was his lack of respect for women as women. It is usually +accepted as true of all women that, however low one of them has fallen, +she preserves for ever within her a secret longing to be respected by +man. Whether Mrs. Armine shared this secret longing or not, one thing is +certain: her husband had respect for her, and she wore his respect like +a chain; Baroudi had not respect for her, and she wore his lack of +respect like a flower. + +When she had visited the _Loulia_, reading, as women often do, the +character of a man in the things by which he has deliberately surrounded +himself, Mrs. Armine had grasped at once certain realities of him which, +in his intercourse with her, he was at no pains to conceal. Mingled with +his penetration, his easy subtlety, his hard lack of scruple, his +boldness that was smooth, and polished, and cool as bronze, there went a +naive crudity, a simplicity like that of a school-boy, an uncivilized +ingenuousness which was startling, and yet attractive, in its +unexpectedness. The man who had bought the cuckoo-clocks and the cheap +vases, who had set the gilded ball dancing upon the water of the +faskeeyeh, who had broken the dim harmony of the colours in his +resting-place by the introduction of that orange hue which seemed to +reflect certain fierce lights within his nature, walked hand-in-hand +with the shrewd money-maker, the determined pleasure-seeker, the sensual +dreamer, the acute diplomatist. The combination was piquant, though not +very unusual in the countries of the sun. It appealed to Mrs. Armine's +wayward love of novelty, it made her feel that despite her wide +experience of life in relation to men there still remained _terra +incognita_ on which she might set her feet. And though she did not care +particularly for children, and had never longed to have a child of her +own, she knew she would love occasionally to play with the child +enclosed in this man, to pet it, to laugh at it, to feel superior to it, +to feel tender over it, as the hardest woman can feel tender over that +which wakes in her woman's dual capacity for passion and for +motherliness. She both feared Baroudi and smiled, almost laughed, at +him; she both wondered at and saw through him. At one moment he was +transparent as glass to her view, at another he confronted her like rock +surrounded by the blackness of an impenetrable night. And he never cared +whether she was looking through the glass or whether she was staring, +baffled, at the rock. + +Never, for one moment, did he seem to be self-conscious when he was with +her, did he seem to be anxious about, or even attentive to, what she was +thinking of him. And the completeness of his egoism called from her +egoism respect, as she was forced to realize that he possessed certain +of her own qualities, but exaggerated, made portentous, brilliant, +mysterious, by something in his temperament which had been left out of +hers, something perhaps racial which must be for ever denied to her. + +Each day Hamza, the praying donkey-boy, awaited her at some point fixed +beforehand on the western side of the river, and Ibrahim escorted her +there in the felucca, smiling gently like an altruistic child, and +holding a rose between his teeth. + +Far up the river the _Loulia_ was moored, between Baroudi's +orange-gardens and Armant, and each day he dropped down the Nile in his +white boat to meet the European woman, bringing only one attendant with +him, a huge Nubian called Aiyoub. The tourists who come to Luxor seldom +go far from certain fixed points. Their days are spent either floating +upon the river within sight of the village and of Thebes, among the +temples and tombs on the western bank, or at Karnak, the temple of +Luxor, in the antiquity shops, or in the shade of the palm-groves +immediately around the brown houses of Karnak and the minarets of +Luxor. Go to the north beyond Kurna, to the south beyond Madinat-Habu, +or to the east to the edge of the mountains that fringe the Arabian +desert, and a man is beyond their ken and the clamour of their gossip. +Baroudi and Mrs. Armine met in the territory to the south, once again +among the mountains, then in the plain, presently under the flickering +shade of orange-trees neatly planted in serried rows and accurately +espaced. + +When she started in the morning from the river-bank below the garden, +Mrs. Armine did not ask where she was going of Ibrahim; when she got +upon her donkey did not put any question to Hamza. She just gave herself +without a word into the hands of these two, let them take her, as on +that first day of her freedom, where they had been told, where they had +been paid to take her. As on that first day of her freedom! Soon she was +to ask herself whether part of the creed of Islam was not true for those +beyond its borders, whether, till the sounding of the trumpet by the +angel Asrafil, each living being was not confined in the prison of the +fate predestined for it. But, able to be short-sighted sometimes, +although already in the dark moments of the night far-sighted and +afraid, she had now often the sensation of an untrammelled liberty, +realizing the spaces that lay between her and the Fayyum, seeing no +longer the eyes that asked gifts of her, hearing no longer the voice +that pleaded for graces in her, that she could never make, could never +display, though she might pretend to display them. + +And so she sometimes hugged to her breast the spectre of perfect liberty +in the radiant, unclouded mornings when Ibrahim came to tell her it was +time to start, and she heard the low chaunt of the boatmen in the +felucca. If her fate were being bound about her neck, there were moments +when she did not fully realize it, when she was informed by a light and +a heady sensation of strength and of youth, when she thought of the +woman who had sat one day in Meyer Isaacson's consulting-room as of a +weary stranger with whom she had no more to do. + +But though Mrs. Armine had moments of exultation in these days, which +she often told herself were her days of liberty, she had also many +moments of apprehension, of depression, of wonder about the future, +moments that were more frequent as she began more fully to realize the +truth of her nature now fiercely revealing itself. + +She had never supposed that within her there still remained so strong a +capacity for feeling. She had never supposed it possible that she could +really care for a man again--care, that is, with ardour, with the force +that brings in its train uneasiness and the cruel desire to monopolize, +to assert oneself, to take possession, not because of feminine vanity or +feminine greed, but because of something lodged far deeper among the +very springs of the temperament. She had never imagined that, at this +probably midmost epoch of her life, there could be within her such a +resurrection as that which soon she began to be anxiously aware of. The +weariness, the almost stagnant calm that had, not seldom, beset +her--they sank down suddenly like things falling into a measureless +gulf. Body and mind bristled with an alertness that was not free from +fever. + +She said to herself sometimes, trying to play false even with herself, +that the blame, or at least the responsibility, for this change must be +laid on the shoulders of Egypt. + +And then she looked, perhaps, at the mighty shoulders of Baroudi. And he +saw the look, and understood her better than she just then chose to say +to herself that she understood herself. + +And yet for many years she had not been a woman who had tried to play +tricks with her own soul. This man was to have an effect not only upon +the physical part of her, but also upon that in her which would not +respond to tender attempts at influencing it towards goodness or any +lofty morality, but which existed, a vital spark, incorporeal, the +strange and wonderful thing in the cage of her ardent flesh. + +And Mahmoud Baroudi? Was there any drama being acted behind the strong, +but enigmatic, exterior which he offered to the examination of the world +and of this woman? + +Mrs. Armine sometimes wondered, and could not determine. She knew really +little of him, for though he seemed often to be very carelessly +displaying himself exactly as he was, at the close of each interview she +went back to the villa with a mind not yet emptied of questions. She was +often strangely at ease with him because he did not ask from her that +which she could not give, and therefore she could be herself when with +him. But the Eastern man does not pour confidences into the ear of the +Western woman, nor are the workings of his mind like the workings of the +mind of a Western man. Never till now had Mrs. Armine known a secret +intimacy, or any intimacy, like this, procured by bribery, and surely +hastening to a swift and decisive ending. + +Upon the _Hohenzollern_ Baroudi must have laid his plans to see her as +he was seeing her now. He did not tell her so, but she knew it. Had she +not known it upon ship-board? In their exchange of glances how much had +been said and answered? + +Despite her life of knowledge, she said to herself now that she did not +know. And there was much in Baroudi's mind, even in connection with +herself, that she could not possibly know. + +Something about him, nevertheless, she was able to find out. + +Baroudi's father was a rich Turco-Egyptian. His mother had been a +beautiful Greek girl, who had embraced Islam when his father fell in +love with her and proposed to marry her. She assumed the burko, and +vanished from the world into the harim. And in the harim she had +eventually died, leaving this only son behind her. + +The Turco-Egyptians are as a rule more virile, more active, more +dominant, and perhaps more greedy than are the pure-bred Egyptians. In +the days before the English protectorate they held many important +positions among the ruling classes of Egypt. They lined their pockets +well, plundering those in their power with the ruthlessness +characteristic of the Oriental character. The English came and put a +stop to their nefarious money-making. And even to-day love of the +Englishman is far less common than hatred in the heart of a +Turco-Egyptian. In the Turco-Egyptian nature there is, nevertheless, not +seldom something that is more nearly akin to the typical Englishman's +nature than could be found in the pure-bred Egyptian. And possibly +because he sometimes sees in the Englishman what--but for certain +Oriental characteristics that hold him back--he might almost become +himself, the Turco-Egyptian often nourishes a peculiar venom against +him. Men may hate because of ignorance, but they may hate also because +of understanding. + +Baroudi had been brought up in an atmosphere of Anglophobia. His father, +though very rich, had lost place and power through the English. He had +once had the upper hand with many of his countrymen. He had the upper +hand no longer, would never have it again. The opportunity to plunder +had been quietly taken from him by the men who wore the helmet instead +of the tarbush, and who, while acknowledging that there is no god but +God, deny that Mohammed was the Prophet of God. He hated the English, +and he taught his half-Greek son to hate them, but never noisily or +ostentatiously. And Baroudi learnt the lesson of his father quickly and +very thoroughly. He grew up hating the English, and yet, paradoxically, +developing a nature in which were certain characteristics, certain +aptitudes, certain affections shared by the English. + +He was no lethargic Eastern, unpractical, though deviously subtle, +taking no thought for the morrow, uselessly imaginative, submissive, +ready to cringe genuinely to authority, then turn and kick the man below +him. He was no stagnant pool with only the iridescent lights of +corruption upon it. Almost in the English sense he was thoroughly manly. +He had the true instinct for sport, the true ability of the thorough +sportsman. He was active. He had within him the faculty to command, to +administrate, to organize. He had, like the Englishman, the assiduity +that brings a work undertaken to a successful close. He had will as well +as cunning, persistence as well as penetration. From his father he had +inherited instincts of a conquering race--therefore akin to English +instincts; from his mother, who had sprung from the lower classes, that +extraordinary acquisitive faculty, that almost limitless energy, +regardless of hardship, in the pursuit of gain which is characteristic +of the modern Greek in Egypt. + +But he had also within him a secret fanaticism that was very old, a +fatalism, obscure, and cruel, and strange, a lack of scruple that would +have revolted almost any Englishman who could have understood it, an +occasional childishness, rather Egyptian than Turco-Egyptian, and a +quick and instinctive subtlety that came from no sunless land. + +He prayed, and was a sensualist. He fasted, and loved luxury. He could +control his appetites, and fling self-control to the winds. But in all +that he did and left undone there was the diligent spirit at work of the +man who can persevere, in renunciation even as in pursuit. And that +presence of the diligent spirit made him a strong man. + +That he was a strong man, with a strength not merely physical, Mrs. +Armine swiftly realized. He told her of his father and mother, but he +did not tell her of the atmosphere in which he had been brought up. He +told her of his father's large fortune and wide lands, of his own +schemes, what they had brought him, what they would probably bring him +in the future; of certain marvellous _coups_ which he had made by +selling bits of land he had possessed in the environs of Cairo when the +building craze was at its height during the "boom" of 1906. But he did +not tell her of a governing factor in his life--his secret hatred of the +English, originally implanted in him by his father, and nourished by +certain incidents that had occurred in his own experience. He did not +tell her, in more ample detail, what he had already hinted at on the +evening when Nigel had brought him to the villa, how certain Egyptians +love to gratify not merely their vanity and their sensuality, but also +their secret loathing of their masters, by betraying those masters in +the most cruel way when the opportunity is offered to them. He did not +tell her that since he had been almost a boy--quite a boy according to +English ideas--he, like a good many of his smart, semi-cultured, +self-possessed, and physically attractive young contemporaries, had +gloried in his triumphs among the Occidental women who come in crowds to +spend the winters in Cairo and upon the Nile, had gloried still more in +the thought that with every triumph he struck a blow at the Western man +who thought him a child, unfit to rule, who ruled him for his own +benefit, and who very quietly despised him. + +Perhaps he feared lest Mrs. Armine might guess at a bitter truth of his +nature, and shrink from him, despite the powerful attraction he +possessed for her, despite her own freedom from scruple, her own ironic +and even cruel outlook upon the average man. + +In any case he was silent, and she almost forgot the shadow of his +truth, which had risen out of the depths and stood before her on the +terraces of the Villa Androud. Had she remembered it now, it might have +rendered her uneasy, but it could not have recalled her from the path +down which she was just beginning to go. For her life had blunted her, +had coarsened her nature. She had followed too many ignoble impulses, +has succumbed too often to whim, to be the happy slave of delicacy, or +to allow any sense of patriotism to keep her hand in virtue's. + +She told herself that when Baroudi's eyes had spoken to her on the +_Hohenzollern_ they had spoken in reply to the summons of her beauty, +and for no other reason. What else could such a woman think? And yet +there were moments when feminine intuition sought for another reason, +and, not finding it, went hungry. + +Baroudi had no need to seek for more reasons in her than jumped to his +eyes. Ever since he had been sixteen he had been accustomed to the +effect that his assurance, combined with his remarkable physique, had +upon Western women. + +And so each day Ibrahim and Hamza brought this Western woman to the +place he had appointed, and always he was there before her. + +Baroudi loved secrecy, and Mrs. Armine had nothing to fear at present +from indiscretion of his. And she had no fear of that kind in connection +with him. + +But there were envious eyes in the villa--eyes which watched her go each +morning, which greeted her on her return at sundown with a searching +light of curiosity. For years she had not been obliged to care what her +maid thought about her. But now she had to care. Obligations swarm in +the wake of marriage. Marie knew nothing, had really no special reason +to suspect anything, but, because of her mistress's personality, +suspected all that a sharp French girl with a knowledge of Paris can +suspect. And while Mrs. Armine trusted in the wickedness of Ibrahim and +Hamza, she did not trust in the wickedness of Marie. + +The _Loulia_ had vanished from Luxor with its master. Mrs. Armine, left +alone for a little while, naturally spent her time, like all other +travellers upon the Nile, in sightseeing. She lunched out, as almost +every one else did. There was no cause for Marie to be suspicious. + +Yes, there was a cause--what Mrs. Armine was, and was actually doing. +Truth often manifests itself, how no one can say, not even she who sees +it. Mrs. Armine knew this at evening when she saw her maid's eyes, and +she wished she had brought with her an unintelligent English maid. + +And then, from the Fayyum, a shadow fell over her--the shadow of her +husband. + +Eight days after her meeting with Baroudi among the flame-coloured rocks +she was taken by Ibrahim and Hamza to the orange-gardens up the river +which Baroudi had mentioned to Nigel. They lay on the western bank of +the Nile, between Luxor and Armant, and at a considerable distance from +Luxor. But it chanced that the wind was fair, and blew with an unusual +briskness from the north. The sailors set the great lateen sails of the +felucca, which bellied out like things leaping into life. The +greenish-brown water curled and whispered about the prow, and the +minarets of Luxor seemed to retreat swiftly from Mrs. Armine's eyes, as +if hastening from her with the desire to be lost among the palm-trees. +As the boat drew on and on, and reach after reach of the river was left +behind, she began to wonder about this expedition. + +"Where are we going?" she asked of Ibrahim. + +"To a noo place," he answered, composedly. "To a very pretty place, a +very nice place." + +"We must not go too far," she said, rather doubtfully. "I must not be +very late in getting back." + +She was thinking at the moment angrily of Marie. If only Marie were not +in the Villa Androud! She had no fear of the Nubian servants. They were +all devoted to her. Already she had begun to consider them as her--not +Nigel's--black slaves. But that horrid little intelligent, untrustworthy +French girl-- + +"I have tell the French mees we are goin' to see a temple in the +mountains--a temple that is wonderful indeed, all full of Rameses. I +have tell her we may be late." + +Mrs. Armine looked sharply into the boy's gentle, shining eyes. + +"Yes; but we must be back in good time," she said. + +And her whole nature, accustomed to the liberty that lies outside the +pale, chafed against this small obligation. Suddenly she came to a +resolve. She would get rid of Marie--send her back to Europe. How was +she to manage without a maid? She could not imagine, and at this moment +she did not care. She would get rid of Marie and--Suddenly a smile came +to her lips. + +"Why do you larf?" asked Ibrahim. + +"Because it is so fine, because I'm happy," she said. + +Really she had smiled at the thought of her explanation to Nigel: "I +don't want a maid here. I want to learn to be simple, to do things for +myself. And how could I take her to the Fayyum?" + +Nigel would be delighted. + +And the Fayyum without a maid? But she turned her mind resolutely away +from that thought. She would live for the day--this day on the Nile. She +leaned over the gunwale of the boat, and she gazed towards the south +across the great flood that was shining in the gold of the sunshine. And +as she gazed the boat went about, and presently drew in towards the +shore. And upon the top of a high brown bank, where naked brown men were +bending and singing by a shaduf, she saw the long ears of a waiting +donkey, and then a straight white robe, and a silhouette like a +silhouette of bronze, and a wand pointing towards the sun. + +Hamza was waiting for her, was waiting--like a Fate. + + + + +XIX + + +Mrs. Armine rode slowly along the river-bank. Hamza did not turn the +head of the donkey towards the Libyan mountains. The tombs and the +temples of Thebes were far away. She wondered where she was being taken, +but she did not ask again. She enjoyed this new sensation of being +governed from a distance, and she remembered her effort of the +imagination when she was shut up in the scented darkness of the +_Loulia_. She had imagined herself a slave, as Eastern wives are slaves. +Now she glanced at Ibrahim and Hamza, and she thought of the eunuchs who +often accompany Eastern women of the highest rank when they go out +veiled into the world. And she touched her floating veil and smiled, as +she played with her vagrant thoughts. + +This Egyptian life was sharp with the spice of novelty. + +Before her, at a short distance, she saw a great green dusk of trees +spreading from the river-bank inland, sharply defined, with no ragged +edges--a dusk that had been planned by man, not left to Nature's +dealings. This was not a feathery dusk of palm-trees. She looked +steadily, and knew. + +"Mahmoud Baroudi's orange-gardens!" she said to Ibrahim. + +"Suttinly!" he replied. + +He looked towards them, and added, after a pause: + +"They are most beautiful, indeed." + +Then he spoke quickly in Arabic to Hamza. Hamza replied with volubility. +When he talked with his own people he seemed to become another being. +His almost cruel calm of a bronze vanished. His face lit up with +expression. A various life broke from him, like a stream suddenly +released. But if Mrs. Armine spoke to him, instantly his rigid calm +returned. He answered "Yes," and his almond-shaped eyes became +impenetrable. + +"What are they really?" she thought now, as she heard them talking. + +She could not tell, but at least there was in this air a scent of +spices, a sharp and aromatic savour. And she had been--perhaps would be +again--a reckless woman. She loved the aromatic savour. It made her feel +as if, despite her many experiences, she had lived till now perpetually +in a groove; as if she had known far less of life than she had hitherto +supposed. + +They gained the edge of the orange-grove, passed between it and the +Nile, and came presently to a broad earth-track, which led to the right. +Along this they went, and reached a house that stood in the very midst +of the grove, in a delicious solitude, a very delicate calm. From about +it on every hand stretched away the precisely ordered rows of small, +umbrageous, already fruit-bearing trees, not tall, with narrow stems, +forked branches, shining leaves, among which the round balls, some +green, some in the way of becoming gold, a few already gold, hung in +masses that looked artificial because so curiously decorative. The +breeze that had filled the sails of the felucca had either died down or +was the possession of the river. For here stillness reigned. In a warm +silence the fruit was ripening to bring gold to the pockets of Baroudi. +The wrinkled earth beneath the trees was a dark grey in the shade, a +warmer hue, in which pale brown and an earthy yellow were mingled, +where the sunlight lay upon it. + +Mrs. Armine got down before the house, which was painted a very faint +pink, through which white seemed trying to break. It had only one +storey. A door of palm-wood in the facade was approached by two short +flights of steps, descending on the right and left of a small terrace. +At this door Baroudi now appeared, dressed in a suit of flannel, wearing +the tarbush, and holding in his hand a great palm-leaf fan. Hamza led +away the donkey, going round to the back of the house. Ibrahim followed +him. Mrs. Armine went slowly up the steps and joined Baroudi on the +terrace. + +He did not speak, and she stood by his side in silence for a moment, +looking into the orange-grove. The world seemed planted with the +beautiful little trees, the almost meretricious, carefully nurtured, and +pampered belles of their tribe. And their aspect of artificiality, +completely--indeed, quite wonderfully--effective, gave a thrill of +pleasure to something within her. They were like trees that were +perfectly dressed. Since the day when she first met Baroudi in the +mountains she had resumed her practice of making up her face. Marie +might be wrong, although Baroudi was not a Frenchman. Today Mrs. Armine +was very glad that she had not trusted completely to Nature. In the +midst of these orange trees she felt in place, and now she lifted her +veil and she spoke to Baroudi. + +"What do you call this? Has it a name?" + +"It is the Villa Nuit d'Or. I use the word 'villa' in the Italian +sense." + +"Oh, of course. Night of gold. Why night?" + +"The trees make a sort of darkness round the house." + +"The gold I understand." + +"Yes, you understand gold." + +He stared at her and smiled. + +"You understand it as well as I do, but perhaps in a different way," he +said. + +"I suppose we understand most things in different ways." + +They spoke in French. They always spoke French together now. And Mrs. +Armine preferred this. Somehow she did not care so much for this man +translated into English. She wished she could communicate with him in +Arabic, but she was too lazy to try to learn. + +"Don't you think so?" she added. + +"I think my way of understanding you is better than Mr. Armeen's way," +he answered, calmly. + +He lit a cigarette. + +"What is your way of understanding me, I do not know," he added. + +"Do I understand you at all?" she said. "Do you wish me to understand +you?" + +Suddenly she seemed to be confronted by the rock, and a sharp irritation +invaded her. It was followed by a feeling colder and very determined. +The long day was before her. She was in a very perfect isolation with +this man. She was a woman who had for years made it her business to +understand men. By understanding them--for what is beauty without any +handmaid of brains?--she had gained fortunes, and squandered them. By +understanding them, when a critical moment had come in her life, she had +secured for herself a husband. It was absurd that a man, who was at +least half child--she thought of the cuckoo-clocks, the gilded +dancing-ball--should baffle her. If only she called upon her powers, she +must be able to turn him inside out like one of her long gloves. She +would do it to-day. And before he had replied to her question she had +left it. + +"Who cares for such things on the Nile?" she said. + +She laughed. + +"At least, what Western woman can care? I do not. I am too drunk with +your sun." + +She sent him a look. + +"Is it to be in--or out?" she asked. "The house or the orange-gardens?" + +"Which you wish." + +But his movement was outwards, and she seconded it with hers. + +As they went down the steps the loud voice of a shaduf man came to them +from some distant place by the Nile, reminding her of the great river +which seemed ever to be flowing through her Egyptian life, reminding her +of the narrowness of Upper Egypt, a corridor between the mountains of +Libya and of the Arabian desert. She stood still at the bottom of the +steps to listen. There was a pause. Then the fierce voice was lifted +again, came to them violently through the ordered alleys of lovely +little trees. The first time she had ever seen the man with whom she had +been divorced was at the opera in London. She remembered now that the +opera on that night of fate had been "Aida," with its cries of the East, +with its scenes beside the Nile. And for a moment it seemed to her that +the hidden Egyptian who was working the shaduf was calling to them from +a stage, that this garden of oranges was only a wonderful _decor_. But +the illusion was too perfect for the stage. Reality broke in with its +rough, tremendous touch that cannot be gainsaid, and she walked on in +something that had a strangeness of truth--that naked wonder, and +sometimes terror--more strange than that to be found in the most +compelling art. + +And yet she was walking in the Villa Nuit d'Or, a name evidently given +to his property by the child of the gilded ball, a name that might be in +place, surely, on the most stagey stage. She knew that, felt it, smiled +at it--and yet mentally caressed the name, caressed the thing in Baroudi +which had sought and found it appropriate. + +"What hundreds and hundreds of orange-trees! We are losing ourselves in +them," she said. + +The little house was lost to sight in the trees. + +"Where are we going?" she added. + +"Wait a moment and you will see." + +He walked on slowly, with his easy, determined gait, which, in its +lightness, denoted a strength that had been trained. + +"Now to the right." + +He was walking on her left. She obeyed his direction, and, turning +towards the Nile, saw before her a high arbour made of bamboo and +encircled by a hedge of wild geranium. Its opening was towards the Nile, +and when she entered it she perceived, far off, at the end of a long +alley of orange-trees, the uneven line of the bank. Just where she saw +it the ground had crumbled, the line wavered, and was depressed, and +though the water was not visible the high lateen sails of the native +boats, going southward in the sun, showed themselves to her strangely +behind the fretwork of the leaves. At her approach a hoopoo rose and +flew away above the trees. Somewhere a lark was singing. + +In the arbour was spread an exquisite prayer-rug, and for her there was +a low chair, with a cushion before it for her feet. On a table was +Turkish coffee. In silver boxes were cigarettes, matches, soft +sweetmeats shrouded in powdered sugar, through which they showed +rose-colour, amber, and emerald green. At the edge of the table, close +to the place where the chair was set, there was a pretty case of gilded +silver, the top of which was made of looking-glass. She took it up at +once. + +"What is in this?" she said. + +He opened the case, and showed her gravely a powder-puff, powder, kohl, +with a tiny blunt instrument of ivory used in Egypt for its appliance, a +glass bottle of rose-water, paste of henna, of smoke-black with oil and +quick-lime, and other preparations commonly used in the East for the +decoration of women. She examined them curiously and minutely, then +looked up at him and smiled, thinking of Nigel's gentle but ardent +protest. Yes, she could be strangely at home with Baroudi. But--now to +turn inside out that long glove. + +She sat down and put her feet on the cushion. Baroudi was instantly +cross-legged on the rug. Dressed as he was, in European clothes, he +ought to have looked awkward, even ridiculous. She said so to herself as +she gazed down on him; and she knew that he was in the perfectly right +posture, comfortable, at his ease, even--somehow--graceful. And, as she +knew it, she felt the mystery of his body of the East as sometimes she +had felt the mystery of his mind. + +"Will you take coffee after your ride?" he said. + +"Yes. Don't get up. I will pour it out, and give you yours." + +She did so, with the smiling grace that had affected Nigel, had even +affected Meyer Isaacson. She put up her veil, lifted the gilded case, +looked at herself in the mirror steadily, critically, took the +powder-puff and deftly used it. She knew instinctively that Baroudi +liked to see her do this. When she was satisfied with her appearance she +put the case down. + +"It is charming," she said, touching it as it lay near her cup. + +"It is for you." + +"I will take it away this evening." + +She wished there was a big diamond, or a big emerald, set in it +somewhere. She had had to sell most of her finest jewels when the bad +time had come in England. + +"I must have a cigarette." + +The coffee, the cigarette--they were both delicious. The warmth of the +atmosphere was like satin about her body. She heard a little soft sound. +An orange had dropped from a branch into the scarlet tangle of the +geraniums. + +"Why don't you talk to me?" she said to Baroudi. + +But she said it with a lazy indifference. Was her purpose beginning to +weaken in this morning made for dreaming, in this luxury of isolation +with the silent man who always watched her? + +"Why should I talk to you? I am not like those who make a noise always +whether they have words within them that need to be spoken or not. What +do you wish me to say to you?" he answered. + +"Well--" + +She took up the palm-leaf fan which he had laid upon the table. + +"Let me see!" + +How should she get at him? What method was the best? Somehow she did not +feel inclined to be subtle with him. As she had powdered her face before +him so she could calmly have applied the kohl to her eyelids, and so +she could now be crude in speech with him. What a rest, what an almost +sensuous joy that was! And she had only just realized it, suddenly, very +thoroughly. + +"What are you like?" she said. "I want to know." + +She moved the fan gently, very languidly, to and fro. + +"But you can tell me, because you can see me all the time, and I cannot +see myself unless I take the glass," he said. + +"Not outside, Baroudi, inside." + +She spoke rather as if to a child. + +"The man who shows all that is in him to a woman is not a clever man." + +"But clever men often do that, without knowing they are doing it." + +"You are thinking of your Englishmen," he said, but apparently without +sarcasm. + +She remembered their first conversation alone. + +"The fine fellers--the rulers!" she said. + +He did not answer her smile. + +"Your Englishmen show what they are. They do not care to hide anything. +If any one does not like all they are, so much the worse for him. Let +him have a kick and no piastre. And to the women they are the same--no! +that is not true." + +He checked himself. + +"No; to the men they are men who are ready to kick, but to the women +they are boys. A woman takes a boy by the ear"--he put his left hand +over his head and took hold of his right ear by the top--"so, and leads +him where she pleases. So the woman leads the Englishman. But we are not +like that." + +She gazed at the brown hand that held the ear. How unnatural that action +had seemed to her! Yet to him it was perfectly natural. Surely in +everything he was the opposite of all that she was accustomed to. He +took his hand away from his ear. + +"How much have you been out of Egypt?" she asked him. + +"Not very much. I have been three times to Naples in the hot weather. My +father had a villa at Posilipo. I have been with my father to Vichy. I +have been four times to Paris. I have been to Constantinople, and I have +travelled in Syria." + +"Did you go to Palestine?" + +"Jerusalem--no. That is for Copts!" + +He spoke with disdain. Then he added, with a sort of calm pride and a +certain accession of dignity: + +"I have been, of course, to Mecca." + +"The real man--is he to be found in his religion?" + +The thought came to her, and again she--she of all women! How strange +that was!--felt the fascination of his faith. + +"To Mecca!" she said. + +Men passed through deserts to reach the holy places. Nigel one evening +had told her something of that journey, and she had felt rather bored. +Now she looked at a pilgrim who had gone with the Sacred Carpet, and she +was bored no longer. + +"Hamza--is he your servant?" she asked, with an apparent irrelevance, +that was not really irrelevance. + +"He is a donkey-boy at Luxor." + +"Yes. He used not to be my donkey-boy. He has only been my donkey-boy +since--since my husband has gone. They say in Luxor he is really a +dervish." + +"They say many things in Luxor." + +"They call him the praying donkey-boy. Has he too been to Mecca?" + +His face slightly changed. The eyes narrowed, the sloping brows came +down. But after a short pause he answered: + +"He went to Mecca with me. I paid for him to go." + +She did not know much of Mohammedans, but she knew enough to be aware +that Hamza was not likely to forget that benefit. And Baroudi had chosen +Hamza to be her donkey-boy. She felt as if the hands of Islam were laid +upon her. + +"Hamza must be very grateful to you!" she said, slowly. + +Baroudi made no reply. She looked away over the wild geraniums, down the +alley between the trees to the hollow in the river-bank, and she saw a +lateen sail glide by, and vanish behind the trees, going towards the +south. In a moment another came, then a third, a fourth. The fourth was +orange-coloured. For an instant she followed its course beyond the +leaves of the orange-trees. How many boats were going southwards! + +"All the boats are going southwards to-day," she said. + +"The breeze is from the north," he answered, prosaically. + +"I want to go further up the Nile." + +"If you go, you should take a dahabeeyah." + +"Like the _Loulia_. But I am sure there is not a second _Loulia_ on the +Nile." + +"Do you think you would like to live for a time upon my _Loulia_?" + +She nodded, without speaking. + +More lateen sails went by, like wings. The effect of them was bizarre, +seen thus from a distance and without the bodies to which they were +attached. They became mysterious, and Mrs. Armine was conscious of their +mystery. With Baroudi she felt strangeness, mystery, romance, things she +had either as a rule ignored or openly jeered at during many years of +her life. Did she feel them because he did? The question could not be +answered till she knew more of what he felt. + +"Perhaps it will be so. Perhaps you will live upon the _Loulia_," he +said. + +"How could I? And when?" + +"We do in our lives many things we have said to ourselves we never shall +do. And we often do them just at the times when we have thought they +will be impossible to do." + +"But you make plans beforehand." + +"Do I?" + +"Yes. Have you made a plan about the _Loulia_?" + +She felt now that he had, and she felt that, like a fly in a web, she +was enmeshed in his plan. + +Another orange-coloured sail! Would she ever sail to the south in the +_Loulia_? + +"Will you not taste this jelly made of rose-leaves?" + +Without touching the ground with his hands, he rose to his feet and +stood by the table. + +"Yes. Give me a little, but only a little." + +He drew from one of his pockets a small silver knife, and, with a gentle +but strong precision, thrust it into the rose-coloured sweetmeat and +carefully detached a piece. Then he took the piece in his brown fingers +and handed it to Mrs. Armine--who had been watching him with a deep +attention, the attention a woman gives only to all the actions, however +slight, of a man whose body makes a tremendous appeal to hers. She took +it from him and put it into her mouth. + +As she ate it, she shut her eyes. + +"And now tell me--have you made a plan about the _Loulia_?" she said. + +His face, as he looked at her, was a refusal to reply, and so it was not +a denial. + +"Live for the day as it comes," he said, "and do not think about +to-morrow." + +"That is my philosophy. But when you are thinking about to-morrow?" + +Again she thought of Hamza, and she seemed to see those two, Baroudi and +Hamza, starting together on the great pilgrimage. From it, perhaps made +more believing or more fanatical, they had returned--to step into her +life. + +"Do you know," she said, "that either you, or something in Egypt, +is--is--" + +"What?" he asked, with apparent indifference. + +"Is having an absurd effect upon me." + +She laughed, with difficulty, frowned, sighed, while he steadily watched +her. At that moment something within her was struggling, like a little, +anxious, active creature, striving fiercely, minute though it was, to +escape out of a trap. It seemed to her that it was the introduction of +Hamza into her life by Baroudi that was furtively distressing her. + +"I always do live for the day as it comes," she continued. "In English +there's a saying, 'Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow--'" + +"To-morrow?" + +"'To-morrow we die.'" + +"Are you frightened of death?" he said. + +There was an open contempt in his voice. + +"You aren't?" + +A light that she had never seen in them before shone in his eyes. Only +from the torches of fatalism does such a light sometimes beacon out, +showing an edge of the soul. It was gone almost before she had time to +see it. + +"Among men I may talk of such things," he said, "but not with women. Do +you like the leaves of the roses?" + +He held his knife ready above the sweetmeat. + +"No; I don't want any more. I don't like it very much. The taste of it +is rather sickly. Sit down, Baroudi." + +She made a gesture towards the floor. He obeyed it, and squatted down. +She had meant to "get at" this man. Well, she had accidentally got at +something in him. He was apparently of the type of those Moslems who are +ready to rush upon cold steel in order to attain a sensual Paradise. + +Her languor, her dreaming mood in the bright silence of this garden of +oranges on the edge of the Nile--they were leaving her now. The shaduf +man cried again, and again she remembered a night of her youth, again +she remembered "Aida," and the uprising of her nature. She had been +punished for that uprising--she did not believe by a God, who educates, +but by the world, which despises. Could she be punished again? It was +strange that though for years she had defied the world's opinion, since +she had married again she had again begun, almost without being aware of +it, to tend secretly towards desire of conciliating it. Perhaps that was +ungovernable tradition returning to its work within her. To-day she +felt, in her middle life, something of what she had felt then in her +youth. When she had met for the first time at the opera the man for whom +afterwards she had ruined herself, his fierce attraction had fallen upon +her like a great blow struck by a determined hand. It had not stunned +her to stupidity; it had roused her to feverish life. Now, after years, +she was struck another blow, and again the feverish life leaped up +within her. But between the two blows what great stretches of +experience, and all the lost good opinion of the world! In the deep +silence of the orange-garden just then premonition whispered to her. She +longed for the renewed cry of the fellah to drown that sinister voice, +but when it came, distant, yet loud, down the alley between the trees, +it seemed to her like premonition's voice, suddenly raised in menace +against her. And she seemed to hear behind it, and very far away, the +world which had been her world once more crying shame upon her. Then for +a moment she was afraid of herself, as if she stood away from her own +evil, and looked at it, and saw, with a wonder mingled with horror, how +capable it was. + +Would she again set out to earn a punishment? + +But how could she be punished again? The world had surely done its +worst, and so lost its power over her. The arm that had wielded the lash +had wielded it surely to the limit of strength. There could be nothing +more to be afraid of. + +And then--Nigel stood before the eyes of her mind. + +In the exquisite peace of this garden at the edge of the Nile a storm +was surging up within her. And Baroudi sat there at her feet, impassive, +immobile, with his still, luminous eyes always steadily regarding her. + +"My husband will soon be coming back!" she said, abruptly. + +"And I shall soon be going up the river to Armant, and from Armant to +Esneh, and from Esneh to Kom Ombos and Aswan." + +She felt as if she heard life escaping from her into the +regions of the south, and a coldness of dread encompassed her. + +"There is a girl at Aswan who is like the full moon," murmured Baroudi. + +She realized his absolute liberty, and a heat as of fire swept over the +cold. But she only said, with a smile: + +"Why don't you sail for Aswan to-night?" + +"There is time," he answered. "She will not leave Aswan until I choose +for her to go." + +"And are there full moons at Armant, and Esneh, and Kom Ombos?" + +She seemed to be lightly laughing at him. + +"At Esneh--no; at Kom Ombos--no." + +"And Armant?" + +A sharpness had crept into her lazy voice. + +"There are French at Armant, and where the French come the little women +come." + +She remembered the pretty little rooms on the _Loulia_. He possessed a +floating house--a floating freedom. At that moment she hated the +dahabeeyah. She wished it would strike on a rock in the Nile and go to +pieces. But he would be floating up the river into the golden south, +while she travelled northwards to a tent in the Fayyum! She could hardly +keep her body still in her chair. She picked up one of the silver boxes, +and tightened her fingers round it. + +"Will you take a little more of the rose-leaf jelly?" he asked. + +"No, no." + +She dropped the box. It made a dry sound as it struck the table. + +"I must stay at Armant some days. I have to look after my sugar +interests there." + +"Oh--sugar!" she exclaimed. "My husband may think you do nothing but +look after your affairs, but you mustn't suppose a woman--" + +"A woman--what?" + +"I knew from the first you loved pleasure." + +She took up the fan again. + +"From the first? When was that?" + +"On the _Hohenzollern_, of course." + +"And I--I knew--I knew--" + +He paused, smiling at her. + +"What did you know?" + +"Oh, I can understand something of women--when they permit me. And on +the _Hohenzollern_ you permitted me. Did you not?" + +"I never spoke to you alone." + +"It was not necessary. It was not at all necessary." + +"Of course, I know that." + +She was burning--her whole body was burning--with retrospective +jealousy, and as she looked at him the flame seemed to be fanned, to +give out more heat, to scorch her, sear her, more terribly. A man like +this, an Eastern, utterly untrammelled, with no public opinion--and at +this moment England, in her thought of it, seemed full of public +opinion; Puritan England--to condemn him or restrain him, in this +climate what must his life have been? And what would his life be? +Something in her shrieked out against his freedom. She felt within her a +pain that was almost intolerable; the pain of a no longer young, but +forcible, woman, who was still brimful of life, and who was fiercely and +physically jealous of a young man over whom she had no rights at all. +Ah, if only she were twenty years younger! But--even now! She leaned her +arms carelessly on the table, and managed to glance into the lid of the +_boite de beaute_ which he had given her. The expression in the eyes +that looked into hers from the lid startled her. Where was her +experience? She was ashamed of herself. Crudity was all very well with +this man, but--there were limits. She must not pass them without meaning +to do so, without knowing she was doing so. And she had not lived her +life since her divorce without discovering that the greatest _faux pas_ +a jealous woman can take is to show her jealousy. Husbands of other +women had proved that to her up to the hilt, when she had been their +refuge. + +"Of course! You know much of men." + +He spoke with a quiet assurance as of one in complete possession of her +past. For the first time the question, "Has he heard of the famous Mrs. +Chepstow? Does he--_know_?" flashed through her mind. It was possible. +For he had been in Europe, to Paris. And he could read English, and +perhaps had read many English papers. + +"Did you ever hear of some one called 'Bella Donna'?" she said, slowly. + +Her voice sounded careless, but her eyes were watching him closely. + +"Bella Donna! But any beautiful woman may be that." + +"Did you ever hear of Mrs. Chepstow?" + +"No." + +He stared at her, then added: + +"Who is it. Does she come to Cairo in the winter?" + +She felt certain he had not heard, and was not sure that she was glad. +Her sort of fame might perhaps have attracted him. She wondered and +longed to know. She longed to ask him many questions about his thoughts +of women. But of course he would not tell her the truth. And men hate to +be questioned by women. + +"Does she come to Cairo?" he repeated. + +"She was there once." + +"You are Bella Donna," he said. + +"You had to say that." + +"Yes, but it is true. You are Bella Donna, but you are not donna +onesta." + +She did not resent the remark, which was made with an almost naive +gravity and directness. She was quite sure that Baroudi would never +appreciate a woman because she was honest. Again she longed to hint at +her notoriety, at the evil reputation she had acquired, which yet was a +sort of fame. + +"In--in Europe they often call me Bella Donna," she said. + +"In Europe?" + +"In England--London." + +"They are right. I shall call you Bella Donna here, beside the Nile." + +He said it negligently, but something in her rejoiced. Nevertheless, she +said, she could not help saying: + +"And the full moon?" + +"What about her?" + +"Is she Bella Donna?" + +He half closed his eyes and looked down. + +"I don't ask you if she is _donna onesta_." + +He replied: "She is sixteen, and she is a dancing-girl." + +"I understand," she said, with an effort. + +She shut her lips tightly and was silent, thinking of Nigel's return, of +her departure with him to the Fayyum, while this man, on his luxurious +floating home, went on towards the south. She had resolved to live for +the day. But when does any jealous woman live for the day? Jealousy +hurls itself into the past and into the future, demanding of the one +what was and of the other what will be. And--the canvas of a tent would +enfold her, would make her prison walls! Why, why had she tied herself? +A month ago, and she was utterly free. She could have gone to the south +on the _Loulia_. Her whole body tingled, revolting against the yoke with +which her will had burdened it. But when she spoke again her voice was +lazy and calm? + +"I suppose you won't stay on the Nile for ever?" + +Again her fingers closed mechanically on one of the boxes. + +"But no! I shall have to go back to Assiut, and then to Cairo and +Alexandria, the Delta, too." + +"And the Fayyum? Haven't you property there? Isn't it one of the richest +districts in Egypt?" + +He looked at her and smiled, slightly pouting his thick lips. + +"Even if I could go to the Fayyum, I don't think it would be much good," +he answered. + +He had no scruple in stripping her bare of subterfuge. + +"I meant that your advice on Egyptian agriculture might be valuable to +my husband," she retorted, with composure. + +Something in his glance, in his tone, seemed suddenly to brace her, to +restore her. + +"Ah! that is true. Mr. Armeen would take my advice. In some ways he is +not so very English." + +"Then it would be kind to come to the Fayyum and to give him the benefit +of your advice." + +He leaned towards her, and said: + +"Bella Donna is not so very subtle!" + +"You think subtlety so necessary?" she asked, with a light tinge of +irony. "I really don't see why." + +His eyes narrowed till they were only slits through which gleamed a +yellowish light. + +"When is your French maid going?" he asked. + +She moved, and sat looking at him for a minute without replying. Had he +read her thought of the morning? + +"My maid!" she said at length. "What do you mean? Why should she go?" + +"When is she going?" he repeated. + +The brigand had suddenly reappeared in him. + +"What an absurd idea! I can't possibly get on without a maid." + +She still acted a careless surprise. An obscure voice within her--a +voice that she scarcely recognized, whispered to her, "Resist!" + +"When is she going?" he said once more, as if he had not heard her. + +The man who was working by the shaduf cried out no more. No more did +Mrs. Armine see, at the end of the long and narrow alley, behind the +fretwork of shining, pointed leaves, the lateen sails go by. And the +withdrawal of the crying voices and of the gliding sails seemed to leave +this orange-garden at the very end of the world. The golden peace of the +noon wrapped it as in a garment, the hem of which was wrought in +geranium-red, in shining green, and in yellow turning to gold. But in +this peace she was conscious of the need to struggle if she would dwell +in safety. Soft seemed this garment that was falling gently about her. +But was it not really deadly as a shirt of Nessus, the poison of which +would penetrate her limbs, would creep into her very soul? + +It was, perhaps, a little thing, this question of the going, or not, of +her maid, but she felt that if she resisted his will in this matter she +would win a decisive battle, obtain security from a danger impending, +whereas if she yielded in this she would be yielding the whole of her +will to his. + +"I won't yield!" she said to herself. + +And then she looked at the brigand beside her, and something within her, +that seemed to be the core of her womanhood, longed intensely to yield. + +She had wished to get rid of Marie. Quite without prompting she had +decided that very morning to send Marie away. Then how unreasonable it +would be to refuse to do it just because he, too, wished the girl to go! + +"Why do you want her to go?" she asked slowly, with her eyes upon him. +"How can it matter to you whether my maid goes or stays?" + +He only looked at her, opened his eyes widely, and laughed. He took +another cigarette, lit it, and laughed again quietly, but with surely a +real enjoyment of her pretence of ignorance, of her transparent +hypocrisy. Nevertheless, she persisted. + +"I can't see what such a thing can possibly have to do with you, or why +it should interest you at all." + +"I will find you a better maid." + +"Hamza--perhaps?" she said. + +"And why not Hamza?" + +He looked at her, and was silent. And again she felt a sensation of +fear. There was something deadly about the praying donkey-boy. + +"When is that girl going?" + +Mrs. Armine opened her lips to say, "She is not going at all." They +said: + +"I intend to get rid of her within the next few days. I always intended +to get rid of her." + +"Yes?" + +"She isn't really a good maid. She doesn't understand my ways." + +"Or she understands them too well," said Baroudi calmly, "When she is +gone, I shall burn the alum upon the coals and give it to be eaten by a +dog that is black. That girl has the evil eye." + + + + +XX + + +In the lodge in the garden of oranges, when the noon-tide was past and +the land lay in the very centre of the gaze of the sun, Baroudi offered +to Mrs. Armine an Egyptian dinner, or El-Ghada, served on a round tray +of shining gold, which was set upon a low stool cased with +tortoise-shell and ornamented with many small squares of +mother-of-pearl. When she and Baroudi came into the room where they were +to eat, the tray was already in its place, set out with white silk +napkins, with rounds of yellow bread, and with limes cut into slices. +The walls were hung with silks of shimmering green, and dull gold, and +deep and sultry red. Upon the floor were strewn some more of the +marvellous rugs, of which Baroudi seemed to have an unlimited supply. +Round the room was the usual deep divan. Incense burned in a corner. +Through a large window space, from which the hanging shutters were +partially pushed back, Mrs. Armine saw a vista of motionless +orange-trees. + +She sat down on a pile of silken cushions which had been laid for her on +the rugs. As she arranged her skirt and settled herself, from an earthen +drum just outside the house and an arghool there came a crude sound of +native music, to which almost immediately added itself a high and +quavering voice, singing: + +"_Doos ya' lellee! Doos ya' lellee!_" + +At the same moment Aiyoub came into the room, without noise, and handed +to Baroudi, who was sitting opposite to Mrs. Armine, with his left knee +touching the rug and his right knee raised with his napkin laid over it, +a basin of hammered brass with a cover, and a brass jug. Baroudi held +forth his hands, and Aiyoub poured water upon them, which disappeared +into the basin through holes pierced in the cover. Then, making a cup of +his hands turned upwards, Baroudi received more water into it, conveyed +it to his mouth, rinsed his mouth elaborately, and spat out the water +upon the cover of the basin. Aiyoub carried away the basin and jug, +Baroudi dried his hands on his napkin, and then muttered a word. It was +"Bi-smi-llah!" but Mrs. Armine did not know that. She sat quite still, +for a moment unseen, unthought of; she listened to the quavering voice, +to the beaten drum and arghool, she smelt the incense, and she felt like +one at a doorway peering in at an unknown world. + +Almost immediately Aiyoub came back, and they began the meal, which was +perpetually accompanied by the music. Aiyoub offered a red soup, a +Kaw-ur-meh--meat stewed in a rich gravy with little onions--leaves of +the vine containing a delicious sort of forcemeat, cucumbers in milk, +some small birds pierced with silver skewers, spinach, and fried wheat +flour mingled with honey. She was given a knife and fork and a spoon, +all made of silver, and the plates were of silver, which did not +harmonize well with the golden tray. Baroudi used only his fingers and +pieces of bread in eating. + +Mrs. Armine was hungry, and ate heartily. She knew nothing about Eastern +cooking, but she was a gourmet, and realized that Baroudi's cook was an +accomplished artist in his own line. During the meal she was offered +nothing to drink, but directly it was over Aiyoub brought to her a +beautiful cup of gold or gilded silver--she did not know which--and +poured into it with ceremonial solemnity a small quantity of some +liquid. + +"What is it?" she asked Baroudi. + +"Drink!" he replied. + +She lifted the cup to her lips and drank a draught of water. + +"Oh!" she said, with an intonation of surprised disappointment. + +"_Lish rub el Moyeh en Nil awadeh!_" he said. + +"What does that mean?" + +"'Who drinks Nile water must return.'" + +She smiled, lifted the cup again to her lips, and drank the last drop of +water. + +"Nile water! I understand." + +"And now you will have some sherbet." + +He spoke to Aiyoub in Arabic. Aiyoub took away the cup, brought a tall, +delicate glass, and having thrown over his right arm an elaborately +embroidered napkin, poured into it from a narrow vase of china a liquid +the colour of which was a soft and velvety green. + +"Is this really sherbet?" Mrs. Armine asked. + +"Sherbet made of violets." + +"How is it made?" + +By crushing the flowers of violets, making them into a preserve with +sugar, and boiling them for a long time. + +Aiyoub stayed by her while she drank, and when she had finished he +offered her the embroidered napkin. She touched it with her lips. + +"Do you like it?" + +"It is very strange. But everything here is strange." + +Aiyoub brought once more to his master the basin with the cover and the +jug, and Baroudi washed his hands and rinsed his mouth as at the +beginning of the meal. After this ceremony he again muttered a word or +words, rose to his feet, took Mrs. Armine's left hand with his right, +and led her to the divan. Aiyoub brought coffee, lifted the golden tray +from its stool, set the coffee on a smaller tray upon the stool close to +the divan, and went out, carrying the golden tray very carefully. As he +vanished, the music outside ceased with an abruptness, a lack of +finality, that were startling to an European. The almost thrilling +silence that succeeded was broken by a bird singing somewhere among the +orange-trees. It was answered by another bird. + +"They are singing the praises of God," said Baroudi, in a deep and slow +voice, and as if he were speaking to himself. + +"Those birds!" + +She gazed at him in wonder. He looked at her with sombre eyes. + +"You do not know these things." + +Suddenly she felt like an ignorant and stupid child, like one unworthy +of knowledge. + +He sipped his coffee. He was now sitting in European fashion beside her +on the divan, and his posture made it more difficult for her to accept +his strange mentality; for he looked like a tremendously robust, yet +very lithe and extremely handsome and determined young man, who might +belong to a race of Southern Europe. Even with the tarbush upon his head +his appearance was not unmistakably Eastern. + +And this man, evidently quite seriously, talked to her about the birds +singing to each other the praises of God. + +"You ought to be differently dressed," she said. + +"How?" + +"In Egyptian clothes, not English flannels." + +"Some day you shall see me like that," he said, reassuringly. "I often +wear the kuftan at night upon the _Loulia_." + +"At night upon the _Loulia_! Then how on earth can I see you in it?" + +She spoke with a sudden sharp irritation. To-day her marriage with Nigel +seemed to her like a sword suspended above her, which would presently +descend upon her, striking her to earth with all her capacity for +happiness unused. + +"You will see me with the drawers of linen, the sudeyree, the kuftan, +the gibbeh--or, as says my father, jubbeh--and the turban on my head. +Only you must wait a little. But women do not like to wait for a +pleasure. They are always in a hurry." + +The cool egoism with which he accepted and commented on her admiration +roused in her, not anger, but a sort of almost wondering respect. It +seemed part of his strength. He lifted his eyebrows, threw back his +head, showing his magnificent throat, and with the gesture that she had +noticed in the garden of the Villa Androud thrust two fingers inside +his low, soft collar, and kept them there while he added: + +"They are like children, and must be treated as children. But they can +be very clever, too, when they want to trick. I know that. They can be +as cunning as foxes, and as light-footed and swift as gazelles. But all +that they do and all that they are is just for men. Women are made for +men, and they know it so well that it is only about men that they think. +I tell you that." + +"No doubt it is true," she said, smilingly accepting his assertions. + +"Women will run even after the Chinese shadow of a man if they are not +shut close behind the grilles." + +Mrs. Armine laughed outright. + +"And so you Easterns generally keep them there." + +"Well, and are we not wise? Are we not much wiser than the Mr. Armeens +of Europe?" + +His unexpected introduction of Nigel's name gave her a little shock, and +the bad taste of it for an instant distressed even her tarnished +breeding. But the sensation vanished directly as she remembered his +Eastern birth. + +"And you?" she said. "Would you never trust a woman?" + +"Never," he calmly returned. "All women are alike. If they see the +Chinese shadow, they must run after it. They cannot help themselves." + +"You seem to forget that men are for ever running after the Chinese +shadows of women," she retorted. + +"She thought of her own life, of how she had been worshipped and +pursued, not _pour le bon motif_, but still--" + +She would like him to know about all that. + +"Men do that to please women, as to please a child you give it a sand +lizard tied to a string. Put the string into its hand and the child is +happy. So it is with a woman. Only she wants not the string, but the +edge of a kuftan." + +It seemed to Mrs. Armine, as she listened to Baroudi, that she was +permanently deposed from the place she had for long been accustomed to +occupy. He tacitly demanded and accepted her admiration instead of +giving her his. And yet--he had serenaded her on the Nile that first +evening of her coming. He had bought Hamza and Ibrahim. He had desired +and tried to effect the swift departure of Nigel. He had decreed that +Marie must go. And the Nile water--with how much intention he had given +it her to drink! And he had plans for the future. They seemed gathering +about her silently, softly, like clouds changing the aspect of her +world. + +She had not turned that glove inside out yet. + +She felt that she must alter her tactics, assert herself more strongly, +escape from the modest position he seemed to be deliberately placing her +in. Where was her pride, even of a courtesan? + +She lifted her coffee-cup, emptied it, put it down, and began to pull on +one of her long white gloves. Baroudi went on calmly smoking. She picked +up the second glove. He sharply clapped his hands. Aiyoub entered, +Baroudi spoke to him in Nubian, and he swiftly disappeared. Mrs. Armine +pulled on the second glove. + +"Now I must go home," she said. + +She moved to get up, but her movement was arrested by the furtive +entrance of a thin man clad in what looked to her like a bit of sacking, +with naked arms, chest, legs, and feet, and a narrow, pointed head, +completely shaved in front and garnished at the back with a mane of +greasy black hair, which fell down upon his shoulders. In his hand, +which was almost black, he held a short stick of palm-wood, and with an +air of extravagant mystery, mingled with cunning, he crept round the +room close to the walls, alternately whistling and clucking, bending his +head, as if peering at the floor, then lifting it to gaze up at the +ceiling. He had shot a keen glance at Mrs. Armine as he came in, but he +seemed at once to forget her, and to be wholly intent upon his +inexplicable occupation. + +After moving several times in this manner round the room, he stopped +short, almost like a dog pointing, then drew from inside his coarse +garment a wrinkled receptacle of discoloured leather with a +widely-opened mouth, cried out some words in a loud, fierce voice, +leaped upwards, and succeeded in striking the ceiling with his stick. + +A long serpent fell down into the bag. + +Mrs. Armine uttered a cry of surprise, but not of alarm. She was not +afraid of snakes. The darweesh went creeping about as before, presently +called out some more words, and struck at the wall. A second serpent +fell into the bag, or seemed to fall into it, from some concealed place +among the silken draperies. Again he crept about, called, struck, and +received another reptile. Then a little dark-eyed boy ran in, salaaming, +and the darweesh and the boy, to the accompaniment of wild music played +outside, went through a performance of snake-charming and jugglery +familiar enough in the East, yet, it seems, eternally interesting to +Easterns, and fascinating to many travellers. When it was over the +little boy salaamed and ran out, but the music, which was whining and +intense, still went on, and the darweesh advanced, holding his bag of +snakes, and stood still before Mrs. Armine. For the first time he fixed +his cunning and ferocious eyes, which were suffused with blood, steadily +upon her, as if he desired to hypnotize her, or to inspire her with +deadly fear. She returned his gaze steadily and calmly, and held out her +hand towards the bag, indicating by a gesture that she wished to handle +the serpents. The darweesh, still staring at her, and very slowly, put +the bag close to her, holding it under her breast. A curious musty +smell, like the scent of something terribly old, came to her nostrils. +She hesitated for a moment, then deliberately pulled off her gloves, put +them on the divan, stood up, and plunged her right hand into the bag, at +the same time shutting her eyes. She shut them to enjoy with the utmost +keenness a sensation entirely new. + +Her hand encountered a dry and writhing life, closed upon it firmly but +gently, drew it out and towards her. Then she opened her eyes, and saw +that she had taken from the dark a serpent that was black with markings +of a dull orange colour. It twisted itself in her hand, as if trying to +escape, but as she held it firmly it presently became quieter, lifted +itself, reared up its flat head, and seemed to regard her with its +feverish and guilty eyes, which were like the eyes of something +consciously criminal that must always be unrepentant. She looked at +those eyes, and she felt a strong sympathy for the creature, and no +sense of fear at all. Slowly she brought it nearer to her, nearer, +nearer, till it wavered out from her hand and attained her body. + +The darweesh always stood before her, but the expression in his eyes had +changed, was no longer hypnotic and terrible, but rather deeply +observant. Baroudi sat quite still upon the divan. He looked from Mrs. +Armine to the serpent, then looked again at her. And she, feeling these +two men absolutely concentrated upon her, was happy and at ease. Swiftly +the serpent wound itself about her, and, clinging to her waist, thrust +forth the upper part of its body towards the darweesh, shooting out its +ribbon of a tongue, which quivered like something frail in a draught of +wind. It lowered and raised itself several times, rhythmically, as if in +an effort to obey the whining music and to indulge in a dancing +movement. Then, as a long shrill note was held, it again reared itself +up, till its head was level with Mrs. Armine's ear, and remained there +quivering, and turning itself slowly from side to side with a +flexibility that was abominable and sickening. The music ceased. There +was a moment's pause. Then, with a fierce movement that seemed +expressive of a jealousy which could no longer be contained, the +darweesh seized the snake about two inches below its head, and tore it +away from Mrs. Armine. The terrible look had returned to his face with +an added fire that beaconed a revengeful intention. Pressing his thumb +hard upon the reptile's back, he seemed to fall into a frenzy. He +several times growled on a deep note, bowed back and forth, tossing his +mane of greasy hair over his face and away from it, depressed his body, +then violently drew it up to its full height, while his bare feet +executed a sort of crude dance. Then, wrought up apparently to a pitch +of fanatical fury, he bent his head, opened his mouth, from which came +beads of foam, and bit off the serpent's head. Casting away its body, +which still seemed writhing with life, he made a sound of munching, +working his jaws extravagantly, shot forth his head towards Mrs. Armine, +gaped to show her his mouth was empty, lifted his bag from the floor and +rushed noiselessly from the room. She stood looking at the headless body +of the reptile which lay on the rug at her feet. + +"Take it away!" she said to Baroudi. + +He picked it up, went to the window, and threw it out into the +orange-garden. Then he came back and stood beside her. + +"Horrible brute!" she said. + +She spoke angrily. When the darweesh had attacked the serpent she had +felt herself attacked, and the killing of it had seemed to her an +outrage committed upon herself. Even now that he was gone and the +headless body was flung away, she could not rid herself of this +sensation. She was full of an intimate sense of fury that longed to be +assuaged. + +"How could you let the brute do that?" she exclaimed, turning upon +Baroudi. "How could you sit there and allow such a hateful thing?" + +"But he came here to do it. He is one of the Saadeeyeh." + +"He was going to do it even if I hadn't taken the serpent?" + +"Of course." + +"I don't believe that. He did it because he was angry with the serpent +for not hurting me, for letting me take it." + +"As you please," he said. "What does it matter?" + +She glanced at him, and sat down. The expression in his eyes soothed +her, the new look that she could read. Had it been called up by her +courage with the serpent? She wondered if, by her impulsive action, she +had grasped something in him which till now had seemed to elude her. +Nevertheless, although her mood was changing, the sense of personal +outrage had not completely died out of her. + +"There really are other serpent eaters?" she asked. + +"Of course. Saadees." + +"And that man is one? But he hated my taking the serpent." + +"But I did not hate it." + +"No." + +More strongly she felt that she had grasped something in him which had +eluded her till now. + +"Sit there for a minute quietly," he said, with a gentleness that, +though far less boyish, recalled to her mind the smiling gentleness of +Ibrahim. "And I will give you a new pleasure, and all your anger will go +from you as the waves go from the Nile when the breeze has died away." + +"What is it?" + +His eyes were full of a sort of happy cunning like a child's. + +"Sit there and you will know." + +He went out of the room, and came back in a moment carrying a good-sized +box carefully wrapped in silver paper. She began to think that he was +going to give her another present, perhaps some wonderful jewel. But he +undid the silver paper cautiously, opened a red-leather case, and +displayed a musical box. After placing it tenderly upon the +coffee-table, he bent down and set it going. There was a click, a slight +buzzing, and then upon Mrs. Armine's enraptured ears there fell the +strains of an old air from a forgotten opera of Auber's, "Come o'er the +Moonlit Sea!" + +The change from the Saadee's atmosphere of savage fanaticism to this +mild and tinkling insipidity threw Mrs. Armine's nerves off their +balance. + +"Oh, Baroudi!" she said. + +Her lips began to tremble. She turned away her head. The effort not to +betray her almost hysterical amusement, which was combined with an +intense desire to pet this great, robust child, almost suffocated her. +There was a click. The music stopped. + +"Wait a moment!" she heard him say. + +And his voice sounded grave, like an intensely appreciative child's. + +Click! "Parigi, O Cara!" + +Mrs. Armine governed herself, drew breath, and once more turned towards +Baroudi. On his strong, bold face there was the delighted expression of +a boy. She looked, looked at him, and all her half-tender amusement died +away, and again, as in the Villa Androud, she was encompassed by fear. +The immense contrasts in this man, combined with his superb physique, +made him to her irresistibly fascinating. In him there was a complete +novelty to appeal to her jaded appetites, rendered capricious and uneasy +by years of so-called pleasure. A few minutes ago, when he had spoken of +death, he had been a mysterious and cruel fatalist. Now he was a +deliciously absurd child, but a child with the frame of a splendid man. + +The musical box clicked. "Salve Dimora." + +"Do you feel better?" he asked her. + +She nodded. + +"I bought it in Naples." + +He lifted the box in his strong brown hands, and held it nearer to her. +Nothing in his face betrayed any suspicion that she could be amused in +an ironical sense. It was obvious that he supposed her to be as happily +impressed as he was. + +"You hear it better now." + +She nodded again. Then: + +"Hold it close to my ear," she said, in a whisper, keeping her eyes upon +him. + +He obeyed. Once his hand touched her ear, and she felt its warm dryness, +and she sighed. + +"Salve Dimora" ceased. + +"Another!" she said. + +And she said, "Another!" and "Another!" until the box's repertoire was +finished, and then she made him turn on once more, "Come o'er the +Moonlit Sea!" + +Her gloves lay on the divan beside her, and she did not draw them on +again. She did not even pick them up till the heat of the sun's rays was +declining, and the musical box had long been silent. + +"I must go," she said at last. + +She put her hands up to her disordered hair. + +"Indeed I must." + +She looked at her watch and started up. + +"It's horribly late. Where is Ibrahim?" + +Ibrahim's smiling face was seen at the window. + +"The donkey, Ibrahim! I want the donkey at once!" + +"All what you want you must have." + +He nodded his head, as if agreeing passively with himself, and looked on +the ground. + +"Hamza he ready. Hamza very good donkey-boy." + +"That's right. I am coming," she said. + +Ibrahim saluted, still smiling, and disappeared. Mrs. Armine walked to +the window and looked out. + +It was already the time of sunset, and the unearthly radiance of the +magical hour in this land of atmospheric magic began to fall upon the +little isolated house, upon the great garden of oranges by which it was +encircled. The dry earth of the alleys glowed gently; the narrow trunks +of the trees became delicately mysterious; the leaves and the treasure +they guarded seemed, in their perfect stillness, to be full of secret +promises. Still the birds that dwelled among them were singing to each +other softly the praises of God. + +Mrs. Armine looked out, listened to the birds, while the sun went down +in the west she could not see. And now Magrib was over, and the first +time of the Moslem's prayer was come. + +She wished she need not go, wished it so keenly, so fiercely, that she +was startled by her own desire almost as if it had been a spectre rising +suddenly to confront her. She longed to remain in this lodge in the +wilderness, to be overtaken by the night of the African stars in the +Villa of the Night of Gold. Now she heard again the far-away voice of +the fellah by the shaduf, warning her surely to go. Or was it not, +perhaps, telling her to stay? It was strange how that old, dead passion, +which had metamorphosed her life, returned to her mind in this land. In +its shackles at first she had struggled. But at last she had abandoned +herself, she had become its prisoner. She had become its slave. Then she +was young. She was able to realize how far more terrible must be the +fate of such a slave who is young no longer. Again the fellah cried to +her from the Nile, and now it seemed to her that his voice was certainly +warning her that she must withdraw herself, while yet there was time, +from the hands of El-Islam--while yet there was time! + +She had been so concentrated upon herself and her own fears and desires +that, though part of her had been surely thinking of Baroudi, part of +her had forgotten his existence near her. As a factor in her life she +had been, perhaps, considering him, but not as a man in the room behind +her. The outside world, with its garden of dreaming trees, its gleaming +and dying lights, its voices of birds, and more distant voice from the +Nile, had subtly possessed her, though it had not given her peace. For +when passion, even of no high and ideal kind, begins to stir in a +nature, it rouses not only the bodily powers, but powers more strange +and remote--powers perhaps seldom used, or for long quite disregarded; +faculties connected with beauty that is not of man; with odours, with +lights, and with voices that have no yearning for man, but that man +takes to his inner sanctuary, as his special possession, in those +moments when he is most completely alive. + +But now into this outer world came an intruder to break a spell, yet to +heighten for the watcher at the window fascination and terror. As the +fellah's voice died away, and Mrs. Armine moved, with an intention +surely of flight from dangerous and inexorable hands, Hamza appeared at +a short distance from her among the orange-trees. He spread a garment +upon the earth, folded his hands before him, then placed them upon his +thighs, inclined himself, and prayed. And as he made his first +inclination of humble worship in the little room behind her Mrs. Armine +heard a low murmuring, almost like the sound of bees in sultry weather. +She turned, and saw Baroudi praying, on a prayer-rug with a niche woven +in it, which was duly set towards Mecca. + +She, the unbeliever, was encompassed by prayer. And something within her +told her that the moment for flight already lay behind her, that she had +let it go by unheeded, that the hands which already had touched her +would not relax their grasp until--what? + +She did not answer that question. + +But when the fellah cried out once more in the distance, it seemed to +her that she heard a savage triumph in his voice. + + + + +XXI + + +A week later Mrs. Armine received a telegram from Cairo: + +"Starting to-night, arrive to-morrow morning. Love--Nigel." + +She had been expecting such a message; she had known that it must come; +yet when Hassan brought it into the garden, where she was sitting at the +moment, she felt as if she had been struck. Hassan waited calmly beside +her till, with an almost violent gesture, she showed him there was no +answer. When he had gone she sat for a moment with the telegram on her +knees; then she cried out for Ibrahim. He heard her voice, and came, +with his sauntering gait, moving slowly among the rose-trees. + +"I've a telegram from Cairo," she said. + +She took up the paper and showed it to him. + +"My lord Arminigel--he is comin' back?" + +"Yes." + +"That is very good noos, very nice noos indeed," said Ibrahim, with an +air of sleepy satisfaction. + +"He starts to-night, and will be here with the express to-morrow +morning." + +"This is a most bootiful business!" said Ibrahim, blandly. "My lord he +has been away so long he will be glad to see us again." + +She looked at him, but he did not look at her. Turning a flower in his +white teeth, he was gazing towards the river, with an unruffled +composure which she felt almost as a rebuke. But why should it matter to +him? Baroudi had paid him. Nigel paid him. He had no reason to be upset. + +"When he comes," she said, "he will take me away to the Fayyum." + +"Yes. The Fayyum is very nice place, very good place indeed. There is +everythin' there; there is jackal, pidgin, duck, lots and lots of +sugar-cane; there is water, there is palm-trees; there is everythin' +what any one him want." + +"Ah!" she said. + +She got up, with a nervously violent movement. + +"What's the good of all that to you?" she said. "You're not going with +us to the Fayyum, I suppose." + +He said nothing. + +"Are you?" she exclaimed. + +"Suttinly." + +"You are coming. How do you know? Has Mr. Armine told you?" + +"My lord, he tell me nothin', but I comin' with you, and Hamza him +comin' too." + +"Hamza is coming?" + +"Suttinly." + +She was conscious of a sensation of relief that was yet mingled with a +faint feeling of dread. + +"Why--why should Hamza come with us?" she asked. + +"To be your donkey-boy. Hamza he very good donkey-boy." + +"I don't know--I am not sure whether I shall want Hamza in the Fayyum." + +Ibrahim looked at her with a smiling face. + +"In the Fayyum you will never find good donkey-boy, my lady, but you +will do always what you like. If you not like to take Hamza, Hamza very +sad, very cryin' indeed, but Hamza he stay here. You do always what you +think." + +When he had finished speaking, she knew that Hamza would accompany +them; she knew that Baroudi had ordered that Hamza was to come. + +"We will see later on," she said, as if she had a will in this matter. + +She looked at her watch. + +"It's time to start." + +"The felucca him ready," remarked Ibrahim. "This night the _Loulia_ +sailin'; this night the _Loulia_ he go to Armant." + +Mrs. Armine frowned. Armant--Esneh--Kom Ombos--and then Aswan! The +arbitrariness of her nature was going to be scourged with scorpions by +fate, it seemed. How was she to endure that scourging? But--there was +to-day. When was she going to learn really to live for the day? What a +fool she was! Still frowning, and without saying another word, she went +upstairs quickly to dress. + +It was past midnight when she returned to the villa. There was no moon; +wind was blowing fiercely, lashing the Nile into waves that were edged +with foam, and whirling grains of sand stripped away from the desert +over the prairies and gardens of Luxor. The stars were blotted out, and +the night was cold and intensely dark. She held on tightly to Ibrahim's +arm as she struggled up the bank from the river, and almost felt her way +to the house, from which only two lights gleamed faintly. The French +windows of the drawing-room were locked, and they went round the house +to the front door. As Ibrahim put up his hand to ring the bell, a sudden +fear came to Mrs. Armine. Suppose Nigel had started earlier from Cairo +than he had intended? Suppose he had returned and was then in the house? +She caught Ibrahim's hand. He said something which was carried away and +lost to her in the wind. She dropped his hand; he rang, and in a moment +the door was opened by Hassan. + +"Ask him if--if anything has happened, if there is any message, anything +for me!" she said to Ibrahim directly she was in the house. + +Ibrahim spoke to Hassan in Arabic. + +"My lady, he says there is nothin'." + +"Very well. I'll go to bed. Good night, Ibrahim." + +And she went upstairs. + +When she was in her bedroom she shut the door and sat down just as she +was, with a veil over her face, the collar of her dust-coat turned up, +her shining hair dishevelled by the angry hands of the gale. A lamp was +burning on the dressing-table, upon which, very oddly arranged, stood a +number of silver things, brushes, bottles, boxes, which were usually in +the dressing-room. They were set out in a sort of elaborate and very +fantastic pattern, which recalled to her sharply a fact. She had no +longer a maid. She had got rid of Marie, who had left Luxor on the +previous day, neither tearful nor, apparently, angry, but looking sharp, +greedy, and half-admiringly inquisitive to the very last. Mrs. Armine +had come to her two days before holding an open letter from Nigel, and +had announced to her his decision that a lady's maid in the Fayyum would +be an impossibility, and that Marie would have to be left behind, for +the time, at Luxor. And then had followed a little scene admirably +played by the two women; Mrs. Armine deploring the apparent necessity of +their separation, but without undue feeling or any exaggeration; Marie +regretting "monsieur's" determination to carry "une dame si delicate, si +fine" into "un monde si terrible, si sauvage," but at the same time +indicating, with a sly intention and the most admirably submissive +_nuances_, the impossibility of her keeping house in the villa alone +with a group of Nubians. Both women had really enjoyed themselves, as +talent must when exercising itself with perfect adroitness. Mrs. Armine +had regretted Marie's decision, while at the same time applauding her +maidenly _delicatesse_, and had presently, by chance, discovered that +several charming purchases from Paris were no good to her, that two or +three remarkably attractive gowns made her look "like nothing at all," +and that, as she was going to the Fayyum, she "couldn't be bothered +with" some hats that were, as Marie had often said, _"plus chic que le +diable_!" Then a wonderful "character" had been written out, signed, and +had changed hands, with an exceedingly generous cheque. Certain +carelessly delivered promises had been made which Marie knew would be +kept. She had given a permanent address in France, and the curtain had +slowly fallen. Ah, the pity of it that there had been no audience! But +talent, like genius, should be its own consolation and reward. + +So now Hassan arranged Mrs. Armine's "things." She was thankful that +Marie had gone, yet she felt utterly lost without a maid. Never, since +she was a young girl, had she been accustomed to do anything for herself +that a good maid could do for her. And there was not a woman-servant in +the house. She was tired, she was terribly strung up; her nerves were +all on edge; her heart was aflame with a jealousy which, she knew too +well, was destined to be fanned and not to be assuaged in the days that +lay before her. And she felt profoundly depressed. It was awful to come +home in such a condition in the dead of the night, and to be deprived of +all one's comforts. When she saw those silver things all laid out +wrongly, the brushes pointing this way and that, the combs fixed in them +with the teeth upwards, the bottles of perfume laid on their sides +instead of standing erect, the powder-boxes upside down, she felt ready +to cry her eyes out. And no one to take away her hat, to loosen and +brush her hair, to get her out of her gown, to unlace her shoes! And +Nigel at nine o'clock to-morrow! + +The wind roared outside. One of the hanging wooden shutters that +protected the windows had got loose, and was now, at short intervals, +striking against the wall with a violent sound that suggested to her a +malefactor trying to break in. She knew what caused the reiterated +noise; she knew she could probably stop it by opening the window for a +moment and putting out her hand. And yet she felt afraid to do this, +afraid to put out her hand into the windy darkness, lest it should be +grasped by another hand. She was full of nervous fears. + +As she sat there, she could scarcely believe she was in Egypt. The +roaring of the wind suggested some bleak and Northern clime. The shutter +crashed against the wall. At last she could bear the noise no longer, +and she got up, went out on to the landing, and called out: "Ibrahim!" + +There was no answer. The lights were out. She felt afraid of the yawning +darkness. + +"Ibrahim! Ibrahim!" she cried. + +She heard the sough of drapery, and a soft and striding step. Somebody +was coming quickly. She drew back into her room, and Ibrahim appeared. + +"My lady, what you want?" + +She pointed to the window. + +"The shutter--it's got loose. Can you fasten it? It's making such an +awful noise. I shan't be able to sleep all night." + +He opened the window. The wind rushed in. The lamp flared up and went +out. + +For two or three minutes Mrs. Armine heard nothing but the noise of the +wind, which seemed to have taken entire possession of the chamber, and +she felt as if she were its prey and the prey of the darkness. Something +that was like hysteria seized upon her, a desperate terror of fate and +the unknown. In the wind and in the darkness she had a grievous +sensation of helplessness and of doom, of being lost for ever to +happiness and light. And when the wind was shut out, when a match +grated, a little glow leaped up, and Ibrahim, looking strangely tall and +vast in the black woollen abayeh which he had put on as a protection +against the cold, was partially revealed, she sprang towards him with a +feeling of unutterable relief. + +"Oh, Ibrahim, what an awful night! I'm afraid of it!" she said. + +Deftly he lit the lamp; then he turned to her and stared. + +"My lady, you are all white, like the lotus what Rameses him carry." + +She had laid her hand on his arm. Now she let it drop, sat down on the +sofa, unpinned her hat and veil, and threw them down on the floor. + +"It's the storm. I hate the sound of wind at night." + +"The ginnee him ride in the wind," said Ibrahim, very seriously. + +"The ginnee! What is that?" + +"Bad spirit. Him come to do harm. Him bin in the room to-night." + +They looked at each other in silence. Then Mrs. Armine said: + +"Is the shutter quite safe now?" + +"Suttinly." + +"Then good night, Ibrahim." + +"Good night, my lady." + +He went over to the door. + +"Suttinly the ginnee him bin in the room to-night," he said, solemnly. + +She tried to smile at this absurdity, but her lips refused to obey her +will. + +"Who should he come for?" she asked. + +"I dunno. P'raps he come to meet my Lord Arminigel. It is bad night +to-night. Mohammed him die to-night. Him die on the night from Sunday +Monday." + +He drooped morosely and went out, softly closing the door behind him. + +As soon as he had gone Mrs. Armine undressed, leaving her clothes +scattered pell-mell all over the room, and got into her bed. She kept +the lamp burning. She was afraid of the dark, and she knew she would not +sleep. Although she laughed at Egyptian superstition, as she glanced +about the room she was half unconsciously looking for the shadowy form +of a ginnee. All night the wind roared, and all night she lay awake, +wondering, fearing, planning, imagining, in terror of the future, yet +calling upon her adroitness, her strong fund of resolution, to shape it +as she willed. + +And she would have helpers--Baroudi, Ibrahim, Hamza. + +When at dawn the wind died down, and at last slumber, like a soft wave, +came stealing over her, the last thing she saw with her imagination was +Hamza, straight, enigmatic, grave, holding an upright wand in his hand. + +Or was it the ginnee, who had come in out of the night to meet "my lord +Arminigel"? + + * * * * * + +What was that? Was it the ginnee moving, speaking? + +Was it--? There had surely been a movement in the room, a sound. She +opened her eyes, and saw sunshine and some one by the bed. + +"Ruby!" + +She blinked, stared, lying perfectly still. + +"Ruby!" + +She felt a hand on one of her hands. The touch finally recalled her from +sleep, and she knew the morning and Nigel. He stood beside the bed in +loose travelling clothes, dusty, with short, untidy hair, and a radiant +brown face, looking down on her, holding her hand. + +"Did I frighten you? I didn't mean to. But I thought you must be awake +by now." + +There was no sound of reproach in his voice, but there was perhaps just +a touch of disappointment. She sat up, leaning against the big pillow. + +"And I meant to be at the station to meet you!" she said. + +He sat down close to the bed, still keeping his hand on hers. + +"You did?" + +"Of course. It's this horrid habit I've got into of lying awake at night +and sleeping in the morning. And there was such a storm last night." + +"I know. The ginnee were abroad." + +He spoke laughingly, but she said: + +"How did you know that?" + +"How? Why, in Egypt--but what do you mean?" + +But she had recovered herself, was now fully awake, fully herself, +entirely freed from the thrall of the night. + +"How well you look!" she said. + +"Work!" he replied. "Sun--life under the tent! It's glorious! How I want +you to love it! But, I say, shan't we have some tea together? And then +I'll jump into a bath. It's too cold for the Nile this morning. And I'm +all full of dust. I'll ring for Marie." + +He moved, but she caught his hand. + +"Nigel!" + +"Yes?" + +"Don't ring for Marie." + +"Why not?" + +"It wouldn't be any use." + +"What--is she ill!" + +"She's gone." + +"Gone!" + +He looked at the confusion of the room, at the clothes strewn on the +furniture and the floor. + +"Now I understand all that," he said. "But what was the matter? Did she +steal something, or--perhaps I ought to have had another woman in the +house." + +"No, no; it wasn't that. I sent her away quite amicably; because I +thought she'd be in our way in the Fayyum. What could we do with her in +a tent?" + +"You're going to manage without a maid?" + +A radiant look of pleasure came into his face. + +"You're a trump!" he said. + +He bent down, put his hands gently on her shoulders, and gave her a long +kiss. + +"And this is how you're managing!" he added, lifting himself up, and +speaking with a sort of tender humour as again he looked at the room. "I +must learn to maid you." + +And he went about rather clumsily getting the things together, picking +them up by the wrong end, and laying them in a heap on the sofa. + +"Ill do better another time," he said, when he had finished, rather +ruefully surveying his handiwork. "And now I'll call Hassan and get tea, +and while we're having it I'll tell you about our camp in the Fayyum. To +think of your giving up your maid!" + +He kissed her again, with a lingering tenderness, and went out. + +As soon as he was gone she got up. She had to search for a wrapper. She +did not know where any of her things were. How maddening it was to be +without a maid! More than once, now that Nigel was back and she could +not go to Baroudi, she almost wished that she had kept Marie. Would it +have been very unwise to keep her? She pulled out drawer after drawer. +She was quite hot and tired before she had found what she wanted. What +would life be like in a tent? She almost sickened at the thought of all +that was before her. Ah! here was the wrapper at last. She tore it out +from where it was lying with reckless violence, and put it on anyhow; +then suddenly her real nature, the continuous part of her, asserted +itself. She went to the mirror and adjusted it very carefully, very +deftly. Then she twisted up her hair simply, and considered herself for +a moment. + +Had the new truth stamped itself yet upon her face, her body? + +She saw before her a woman strongly, strikingly alive, thrilling with +life. The eyes, released from sleep, were ardent, were full of the +promises of passion; the lips were fresh, surely, and humid; the figure +was alluring and splendid; the wonderful line of the neck had kept all +its beauty. She had grown younger in Egypt, and she knew very well why. +For her the new truth was clearly stamped, but not for Nigel. He would +read it wrongly; he would take it for himself, as so many deceived men +from the beginning of time have taken the truths of women, thinking "All +this is for me." She looked long at herself, and she rejoiced in the +vital change that had come over her, and, rejoicing, she came to the +resolve of a vain woman. She must exert all her will to keep with her +this Indian summer. She must school her nature, govern her passions, +drill her mind to accept with serenity what was to come--dulness, delay, +the long fatigues of playing a part, the ennui of tent life, of this +_solitude a deux_ in the Fayyum. She must not permit this opulence of +beauty to be tarnished by the ravages of jealousy; for jealousy often +destroys the beauty of women, turns them into haggard witches. But she +would not succumb; for, in her creed beauty was everything to a woman, +and the woman who had lost her beauty had ceased to count, was scarcely +any more to be numbered among the living. This sight and appreciation +of herself suddenly seemed to arm her at all points. Her depression, +which had peopled the night with horrors and the morning with +apprehensions, departed from her. She was able to believe that the +future held golden things, because she was able to believe in her own +still immense attraction. + +That day she contented Nigel, she fascinated him, she charmed him with +her flow of animal spirits. He could deny her nothing. And when, +laughingly, she begged him, as she had dispensed with a maid, to let her +have her own special donkey-boy and donkey in the Fayyum, he was ready +to acquiesce. + +"We'll take Mohammed, of course, if you wish," he said, heartily, +"though there are lots of donkey-boys to be got where we are going." + +"I've given up Mohammed," she said. + +He looked surprised. + +"Have you? What's he done?" + +"Nothing specially. But I prefer Hamza." + +"The praying donkey-boy!" + +"Yes." + +She paused; then, looking away from him, she said slowly: + +"There's something strange to me and interesting about him. I think it +comes, perhaps, from his intense belief in his religion, his intense +devotion to the Moslem's faith. I--I can't help admiring that, and I +should like to take Hamza with us. He's so different from all the +others." + +Then, with a changed and lighter tone, she added: + +"Besides, his donkey is the best on the river. It comes from Syria, and +is a perfect marvel. Give me Hamza, his donkey, and Ibrahim as my suite, +and you shall never hear a complaint from me, I promise you." + +"Of course you shall have them," he said. "I like the man to whom his +beliefs mean something, even if they're not mine and could never be +mine." + +So the fate of Hamza and Ibrahim was very easily settled. + +But when Nigel called Ibrahim, and told him that he had decided on +taking him and Hamza to the Fayyum, and that he was to tell Hamza at +once, Ibrahim looked a little doubtful. + +"All what my gentleman want I do," he said. "But Hamza do much business +in Luxor; I dunno if him come to the Fayyum." + +He glanced deprecatingly at Mrs. Armine. + +"I very glad to come, but about Hamza I dunno." + +He spoke with such apparent sincerity that she was almost deceived, and +thought that perhaps some difficulty had really arisen. + +"Offer him his own terms," exclaimed Nigel, "and I'll bet he'll be glad +to come." + +"I go to see, my gentleman." + +"You shall have him, Ruby, whatever his price," said Nigel. + +Ibrahim, with great difficulty, he said, made a bargain with Hamza, and +on the following day the Villa Androud was left in Hassan's charge, and +the Armines went north by the evening express to Cairo, where they were +to stay two days and nights, in order that Mrs. Armine might see the +Pyramids and the Sphinx. Nigel had already taken rooms at the Mena +House, with a terrace exactly opposite to the Great Pyramid, and giving +on to the sand of the desert. + +They breakfasted at Shepheard's, then hired a victoria to drive up +Ismail's road under the meeting lebbek-trees. Nigel was in glorious +spirits. It seemed to him that morning as if his life were culminating, +as if he were destined to a joy of which he was scarcely worthy. An +unworldly man, and never specially fond of society or anxious about its +edicts and its opinions, he did not suffer, as many men might have done, +under his knowledge of its surprised pity for him, or even contempt. But +in his secret heart he was glad that he was cut out of the succession to +his family's title and the estates. Had he succeeded to them, his +position would at once have become more difficult, his situation with +Ruby far more complicated. As things were, they two were free as the +wind. His soul leaped up to their freedom. + +"I feel like a nomad to-day!" he exclaimed. "By Jove, though! isn't the +wind cold? It always blows in the winter over these flats. Wrap yourself +well up, darling." + +He put up his hand to draw the furs more closely round her. When with +her now he so easily felt protective that he was perpetually doing +little things for her, and he did them with a gentleness of touch that, +coming from a man of his healthy strength and vigour, revealed the +progress made by the inner man in absence. + +"I must be your maid," he added. + +"But you'll be working and shooting," she said, speaking out of the +depths of her furs in a low voice. + +Her face was shrouded in a veil which seemed to muffle her words, and he +only just heard them. + +"You come first. I am going to look after you before anything else," he +said. + +She pulled up her veil till her lips were free of it. + +"But I want your work to come first," she said, speaking with more +energy. "I hate the woman who marries a man because she admires his +character, and who then seeks by every means to change it, to reduce him +from a real man to--well, to a sort of male lady's maid. No, Nigel; +stick to your work, and I'll manage all right." + +She felt just then that she could not endure it if he were always intent +on her in the Fayyum. And yet she wished him to be her slave, and she +always wished to be adored by men. But now there was something within +her which might, perhaps, in the fulness of time even get the upper hand +of her vanity. + +"We'll see," he answered. "It'll be all right about the work, Ruby. You +see the Pyramids well now." + +She looked across the flats to those great tombs which draw the world to +their feet. + +"I wish it wasn't so horribly cold," she said. + +And Baroudi was away in the gold of the south, and perhaps with the +"Full Moon." + +"It won't be half so bad when we get to Mena House. There's always a +wind on this road in winter." + +"And in the Fayyum? Will it be cold there?" + +"No, not like this. Only at nights it gets cold sometimes, and there's +often a thick mist." + +"A thick mist!" + +"But we shall be warm and cosy in our tent, and we shall know nothing +about it." + +And the _Loulia_ was floating up the Nile into the heart of the gold! +Her heart sank. But then she remembered her resolution in the villa. And +her vanity, and that which a moment ago had seemed to be fighting +against it, clasped hands in resistant friendship. + +The victoria rolled smoothly; the horses trotted fast in the brisk air; +the line of the desert, pale and vague in the windy morning, grew more +distinct, more full of summons; the orifice that was the end of the +avenue gaped like a mouth that opens more widely. A line of donkeys +appeared, with here and there a white camel with tasselled trappings, +surrounded by groups of shouting Egyptians, who stared at the carriage +with avaricious eyes. "Ah--ah!" shouted the coachman. The horses broke +into a gallop, turned into a garden on the right, and drew up before the +Mena House. + +A minute later Mrs. Armine was standing on a terrace that ended in a sea +of pale yellow sand. Nigel followed her, but only after some minutes. + +"You seem to know everybody here," she said to him, in a slightly +constrained voice, as he came to stand beside her. + +"Well, there are several fellows from Cairo come here to spend Sunday." + +"With their wives apparently." + +"Yes, some of them. Of course last winter I got to know a good many +people. It's much warmer here. We get all the sun, and there's much less +wind. And isn't the Great Pyramid grand?" + +He took her gently by the arm. + +"The Sphinx is beyond. I want you to see that for the first time just +before nightfall, Ruby." + +"Whatever you like," she said. + +Her voice still sounded constrained. On the veranda and in the hall of +the hotel she had had to run the gauntlet, and now that she was married +again, and had abandoned the defiant life which she had led for so many +years, somehow she had become less careless of opinion, of the hostility +of women, than she had formerly been. She wished to be accepted again. +As Lady Harwich she could have forced people to accept her. + +As she looked at the Great Pyramid, she was saying that to herself, and +Nigel's words about the Sphinx fell upon inattentive ears. Although he +did not know it, in bringing her to Mena House just at this moment he +had taken a step that was unwise. But he was walking in the dark. + +At lunch in the great Arabic hall officers from the garrisons of Cairo +and Abbassieh, and their womenkind, were in great force. Acquaintances +of Nigel's sat at little tables to the right and left of them. In other +parts of the room were scattered various well-known English people, who +stared at Mrs. Armine when they chose to imagine she did not see them. +Not far off Lord and Lady Hayman and the Murchisons reappeared. + +A more effective irritant to Mrs. Armine's temper and nerves at this +moment than this collection of people afforded could scarcely have been +devised by her most subtle enemy. But not by a glance or movement did +she betray the fact. She had had time to recover herself, to regain +perfect outward self-control. But within her a storm was raging. Into +the chamber of her soul, borne upon the wings of the wind, were flocking +the ginnees out of the dense darkness of night. And when the twilight +came, throwing its pale mystery over the desert, and the wonders the +desert kept, they had taken possession of her spirit. + +The travellers who, during the day, had peopled the waste about the +Pyramids had gone back to Cairo by tram and carriage, or were at tea in +the hotel, when the Armines, mounted on donkeys, rode through the +twilight towards the Sphinx. They approached it from behind. The wind +had quite gone down, and though the evening was not warm, the sharpness +of the morning had given place to a more gentle briskness that was in +place among the sands. Far off, across the plains and the Nile, the +lights of Cairo gleamed against the ridges of the Mokattam. Through the +empty silence of this now deserted desert they rode in silence, till +before them, above the grey waste of the sand, a protuberance arose. + +"Do you see that, Ruby?" Nigel said, pulling at his donkey's rein. + +"That thing like a gigantic mushroom? Yes. What is it?" + +"The Sphinx." + +"That!" she exclaimed. + +"Yes, but only the back of its head. All the body is concealed. Wait +till you've ridden round it and seen it from the front." + +She said nothing, and they rode on till they came to the edge of the +deep basin in which the sacred monster lies with the sand and its +ceaseless fame about it, till they had skirted the basin's rim, and +faced it full on the farther bank. There they dismounted, and Nigel +ordered their donkey-boys to lead the beasts away till they were out of +earshot. The dry sound of their tripping feet, over the stones and hard +earth which edged the sand near by, soon died down into the twilight, +and the Armines were left alone. + +Although the light of day was rapidly failing, it had not entirely gone; +day and night joined hands in a twilight mystery which seemed not only +to fall from the sky, so soon to be peopled with stars, but also to rise +from the pallor of the sands, and to float about the Sphinx. In the +distance the Great Pyramid was black against the void. + +Mrs. Armine at first stood perfectly still looking at the monster. Then +she made Nigel a sign to spread her dust-cloak upon the ridge of the +sand, and she sat down on it, and looked again. She did not speak. The +pallor of the twilight began to grow dusky, as if into its yellow grey +and grey white, from some invisible source a shadowy black was +filtering. A cool air stirred, coming from far away where the sands +stretch out towards the Gold Coast. It failed, then came again, with a +slightly greater force, a more definite intention. + +Nigel was standing, but presently, as Ruby did not move, he sat down +beside her, and clasped his brown hands round his knees so tightly that +they went white at the knuckles. He stole a glance at her, and thought +that her face looked strangely fixed and stern, almost cruel in its +repose, and he turned his eyes once more towards the Sphinx. + +And then he forgot Ruby, he forgot Egypt, he forgot everything except +that greatest creation which man has ever accomplished; that creation +which by its inexorable calm and prodigious power rouses in some hearts +terror and sets peace in some, stirs some natures to aspiration, and +crushes others to the ground with an overwhelming sense of their +impotence, their smallness, their fugitive existence, and their dark and +mysterious fate. + +Upon Mrs. Armine the effect of the Sphinx, whatever it might have been +at a less critical moment in her life, at this moment was cruel. The +storm had broken upon her and she faced the uttermost calm. She was the +prey of conflicting forces, wild beasts of which herself was the cage. +And she was confronted by the beast of the living rock which, in its +almost ironic composure, its power purged of passion, did it deign to be +aware of her she felt could only, with a strange stillness, mock her. +She was a believer only in the little life, and here lay the conception +of Eternity, struck out of the stone of the waste by man, to say to her +with its motionless lips, "Thou fool!" And as she had within her +resolution, will, and an unsleeping vanity, this power which confronted +her not only dimly distressed, but angered her. She felt angry with +Nigel. She forgot, or chose not to remember, that the Sphinx was the +wonder of the world, and she said to herself that she knew very well why +Nigel had brought her by night to see it. He had brought her to be +chastened, he had brought her to be rebuked. In the heat of her nervous +fancy it almost seemed to her for a moment as if he had divined +something of the truth that was in her, truth that struck hard at him, +and his hopes of happiness, and all his moral designs, and as if he had +brought her to be punished by the Sphinx. In the grasp of the monster +she writhed, and she hated herself for writhing. Once in her presence +Baroudi had sneered at the Sphinx. Now she remembered his very words: +"We Egyptians, we have other things to do than to go and stare at the +Sphinx. We prefer to enjoy our lives while we can, and not to trouble +about it." She remembered the shrug of his mighty shoulders that had +accompanied the words. Almost she could see them and their disdainful +movement before her. Yes, the Sphinx was fading away in the night, and +Baroudi was there in front of her. His strong outline blotted out from +her the outline of the Sphinx. The evening star came out, and the breeze +arose again from its distant place in the sands, and whispered round the +Sphinx. + +She shivered, and got up. + +"Let us go; I want to go," she said. + +"Isn't it wonderful, Ruby?" + +"Yes. Where are the Arabs?" + +She could no longer quite conceal her secret agitation, but Nigel +attributed it to a wrong cause, and respected it. The Sphinx always +stirred powerfully the spiritual part of him, made him feel in every +fibre of his being that man is created not for time, but for Eternity. +He believed that it had produced a similar effect in Ruby. That this +effect should distress her did not surprise him, but roused in his heart +a great tenderness towards her, not unlike the tenderness of a parent +who sees the tears of a child flow after a punishment the justice of +which is realized. The Sphinx had made her understand intensely the +hatefulness of certain things. + +When he had helped her on to her donkey he kept his arm about her. + +"Do you realize what it has been to me to see the Sphinx with you?" he +whispered. + +The night had fallen. In the darkness they went away across the desert. + +And the Sphinx lay looking towards the East, where the lights of Cairo +shone across the flats under the ridges of the Mokattam. + + + + +XXII + + +The Fayyum is a great and superb oasis situated upon a plateau of the +desert of Libya, wonderfully fertile, rich, and bland, with a splendid +climate, and springs of sweet waters which, carefully directed into a +network of channels, spreading like wrinkles over the face of the land, +carry life and a smiling of joy through the crowding palms, the olive +and fruit trees, the corn and the brakes of the sugar-cane. The +Egyptians often call it "the country of the roses," and they say that +everything grows there. The fellah thinks of it as of a Paradise where +man can only be happy. Every Egyptian who has ever set the butt end of a +gun against his shoulder sighs to be among its multitudinous game. The +fisherman longs to let down his net into the depths of its sacred lake. +The land-owner would rather have a few acres between Sennoures and Beni +Suwef than many in the other parts of Egypt. The man who is amorous +yearns after the legendary beauty of its unveiled women, with their +delicately tattooed chins, their huge eyes, and their slim and sinuous +bodies. And scarcely is there upon the Nile a brown boy whose face will +not gleam and grow expressive with desire at the sound of the words +"El-Fayyum." + +It is a land of Goshen, a land flowing with milk and honey, a land of +the heart's desire, this green tract of sweet and gracious fertility to +which the Bahr-Yusuf is kind. + +But to Mrs. Armine it was from the very first a hateful land. + +Their camp was pitched on a piece of brown waste ground, close to a +runlet of water, near a palm-grove that shut out from them the native +houses of the great village or country town of Sennoures. The land which +Nigel's fellahin were reclaiming and had reclaimed--for much of it was +already green with luxuriant crops--was farther away, where the oasis +runs flush with the pale yellow, or honey-coloured, or sometimes +spectral grey sands of the desert of Libya. But Nigel, when he first +came to the Fayyum, had first gone into camp among the palms of +Sennoures, and there had heard the Egyptian Pan in the night; and he +wanted to renew certain impressions, to feel them decked out, as it +were, with novel graces now that he was no longer lonely; so he had +ordered the camp to be pitched by the little stream that he knew, in +order to savour fully the great change in his life. + +The railway from Cairo goes to Sennoures, so they came by train, and +arrived rather late in the afternoon. Three days later the Sacred Carpet +was to depart from Cairo on its journey to Mecca, and at +Madinat-al-Fayyum, and at other stations along the route, there were +throngs of natives assembled to bid farewell to the pilgrims who were +departing to accompany it and to worship at the Holy Places. Small and +cheap flags of red edged with a crude yellow fluttered over the doors or +beneath the hanging shutters of many dwellings, and the mild and limpid +atmosphere was full of the chanting of the songs of pilgrimage in high +and nasal voices. Once at a roadside station there was for some +unexplained reason a long delay, during which Mrs. Armine sat at the +window and looked out upon the crowd, while Nigel got down to stretch +his legs and see the people at closer quarters. Loud and almost angry +hymns rose up not only from some of the starting pilgrims, but also from +many envious ones who would never be "hajjee." Presently, just before +the carriage door, a strange little group was formed; a broad, sturdy +man with a brutal, almost white-skinned face garnished with a bristling +black beard but no moustache, who wore the green turban, an elderly man +with staring, sightless eyes, carrying a long staff, and three heavily +veiled women, in thin robes partially covered with black, loose-sleeved +cloaks, whose eyelids were thickly adorned with kohl, whose hands were +dyed a deep orange-colour with the henna, and who rattled and clinked as +they moved and the barbaric ornaments of silver and gold which circled +their arms and ankles shifted upon their small-boned limbs. The blind +man was singing loudly. The women, staring vacantly, held the corners of +their cloaks mechanically to their already covered faces. The man with +the bristling beard talked violently with friends, and occasionally, +interrupting himself abruptly, joined almost furiously in the blind +man's hymn. On the platform lay a few bundles wrapped in gaudy cloths +and handkerchiefs. From outside the station came the perpetual +twittering of women. + +As Mrs. Armine looked at these people Nigel came up. + +"They are going to Mecca," he said. "You see those bundles? The poor +things will be away for months, and that is all they are taking." + +The blind man shouted his hymn. Fixing his small and vicious eyes upon +Mrs. Armine, the man with the beard joined in. A horn sounded. Nigel got +into the carriage, and the train moved slowly out of the station. Mrs. +Armine stared at the man with the beard, who kept his eyes upon her, +always roaring his hymn, until he was out of sight. His expression was +actively wicked. Yet he was starting at great expense with infinite +hardships before him, to visit and pray at the Holy Places. She +remembered how Baroudi had stared at her while he sang. + +"What strange people they are!" said Nigel. + +"Yes, they are very strange." + +"One can never really know them. There is an eternal barrier between us, +the great stone wall of their faith. To-day all the world seems going on +pilgrimage. We too, Ruby!" + +Even at Sennoures, when they got down, the station was crowded, and the +air was alive with hymns. Ibrahim met them, and Hamza was outside the +fence with the donkey for Mrs. Armine. He was joining in the singing, +and his long eyes held a flame. But when he saw Mrs. Armine, his voice +ceased, and he looked at her in silence. As she greeted him, she felt an +odd mingled sensation of fear and of relief. He was a link between her +and Baroudi, yet he looked a fatal figure, and she could never rid +herself of the idea that some harm, or threatening of great danger, +would come to her through him. + +As they left the station and rode towards the palm-trees, the noise of +the hymns grew less, but even when they came in sight of the tents the +voices of the pilgrims were still faintly audible, stealing among the +wrinkled trunks, through the rich, rankly growing herbage, over the +running waters, to make a faint music of religion about their nomad's +home. + +But after sunset the voices died away. The train had carried the +pilgrims towards Cairo, and, trooping among the palm-trees, or along the +alleys of Sennoures, the crowd dispersed to their homes. + +And a silence fell over this opulent land, which already Mrs. Armine +hated. + +She hated it as a woman hates the place which in her life is substituted +for the place where is the man who has grasped her and holds her fast, +whatever the dividing distance between them. + +That night, as she sat in the tent, she saw before her the orange garden +that bordered the Nile, the wild geraniums making a hedge about the +pavilion of bamboo, she heard the loud voice of the fellah by the +shaduf. Was it raised in protest or warning? Did she care? Could she +care? Could any voice stop her from following the voice that called her +on? And what was it in Baroudi that made his summons to her so intense, +so arbitrary? What was it in him that governed her so completely? Now +that he was far away she could ask herself a question that she could not +ask when she was near him. + +He was splendid in physique, but so were other men whom she had known +and ruled, not been ruled by. He was bold, perhaps indifferent at +bottom, though sometimes, in certain moments, on the surface far from +indifferent. Others had been like that, and she had not loved them. He +was intensely passionate. (But Nigel was passionate, though he kept a +strong hand upon the straining life of his nature.) He was very strange. + +He was very strange. She understood and could not understand him. He was +very strange, and full of secret violence in which religion and vice +went hand in hand. And his religion was not canting, nor was his vice +ashamed. The one was as bold and as determined as the other. She seemed +to grasp him, and did not grasp him. Such a failure piques a woman, and +out of feminine pique often rises feminine passion. He was intent upon +her. Yet part of him escaped her. Did he love her? She did not know. She +knew he drove her perpetually on towards greater desire of him. Yet even +that driving action might not be deliberate on his part. He seemed too +careless to plot, and yet she knew that he plotted. Was he now at Aswan +with some dancing-girl of his own people? Not one word had she heard of +him since the day which had preceded the night of the storm when the +ginnee had come in the wind. Abruptly he had gone out of her life. At +their last meeting he had said nothing about any further intercourse. +Yet she knew that he meant to meet her again, that he meant--what? His +deep silence did not tell her. She could only wonder and suspect, and +govern herself to preserve the bloom of her beauty, and, looking at +Ibrahim and Hamza, trust to his intriguing cleverness to "manage things +somehow." Yet how could they be managed? She looked at the future and +felt hopeless. What was to come? She knew that even if, driven by +passion, she were ready to take some mad, decisive step, Baroudi would +not permit her to take it. He had never told her so, but instinctively +she knew it. If he meant anything, it was something quite different from +that. He must mean something, he must mean much; or why was Hamza out +here in the green depths of the Fayyum? + +Nigel had gone to Sennoures to order provisions, leaving her to rest +after the journey from Cairo. She got up from the sofa in the +sitting-room tent, which was comfortable in a very simple way but not at +all luxurious, went to the opening, and looked out. + +Night had fallen, the stars were out, and a small moon, round which was +a luminous ring of vapour, lit up the sky, which was partially veiled by +thin wreaths of cloud. The densely growing palms looked like dark wands +tufted with enormous bunches of feathers. Among them she saw a light. It +came from a tent pitched at some distance, and occupied by a middle-aged +German lady who was travelling with a handsome young Arab. They had +passed on the road close by the camp when the Armines were having tea, +and Nigel had asked Ibrahim about them. Mrs. Armine remembered the look +on his face when, having heard their history, he had said to her, "Those +are the women who ruin the Europeans' prestige out here." She had +answered, "_That_ is a thing I could never understand!" and had begun to +talk of other matters, but she had not forgotten his look. If--certain +things--she might be afraid of Nigel. + +Dogs barked in the distance. She heard a faint noise from the runlet of +water in front of the camp. From the heavily-cumbered ground, smothered +with growing things except just where the tents were pitched, rose a +smell that seemed to her autumnal. Along the narrow road that led +between the palms and the crops to the town, came two of their men +leading in riding camels. A moment later a bitter snarling rose up, +mingling with the barking of the dogs and the sound of the water. The +camels were being picketed for the night's repose. The atmosphere was +not actually cold, but there was no golden warmth in the air, and the +wonderful and exquisitely clean dryness of Upper Egypt was replaced by a +sort of rich humidity, now that the sun was gone. The vapour around the +moon, the smell of the earth, the distant sound of the dogs and the +near sound of the water, the feeling of dew which hung wetly about her, +and the gleam of the light from that tent distant among the palm-trees, +made Mrs. Armine feel almost unbearably depressed. She longed with all +her soul to be back at Luxor. And it seemed to her incredible that any +one could be happy here. Yet Nigel was perfectly happy and every +Egyptian longed to be in the Fayyum. + +The sound of the name seemed to her desolate and sad. + +But Baroudi meant something. Even now she saw Hamza, straight as a reed, +coming down the shadowy track from the town. She must make Nigel +happy--and wait. She must make Nigel very happy, lest she should fall +below Baroudi's estimate of her, lest she should prove herself less +clever, less subtle, than she felt him to be. + +Hamza's shadowy figure crossed a little bridge of palm-wood that spanned +the runlet of water, turned and came over the waste ground noiselessly +into the camp. He was walking with naked feet. He came to the men's +tent, where, in a row, with their faces towards the tent door, the +camels were lying, eating barley that had been spread out for them on +bits of sacking. When he reached it he stood still. He was shrouded in a +black abayeh. + +"Hamza!" + +Mrs. Armine had called to him softly from the tent-door. + +"Hamza!" + +He flitted across the open space that divided the tents, and stood +beside her. + +She had never had any conversation with Hamza. She had never heard him +say any English word yet but "yes." But to-night she had an uneasy +longing to get upon terms with him. For he was Baroudi's emissary in the +camp of the Fayyum. + +"Are you glad to be in my service, Hamza?" she said. "Are you glad to +come with us to the Fayyum?" + +"Yes," he said. + +She hesitated. There was always something in his appearance, in his +manner, which seemed to fend her off from him. She always felt as if +with his mind and soul he was pushing her away. At last she said: + +"Do you like me, Hamza?" + +"Yes," he replied. + +"You have been to Mecca, haven't you, with Mahmoud Baroudi?" + +"Yes." + +He muttered the word this time. His hands had been hanging at his sides, +concealed in his loose sleeves, but now they were moved, and one went +quickly up to his breast, and stayed there. + +"What are you doing?" Mrs. Armine said, with a sudden sharpness; and, +moved by an impulse she could not have explained, she seized the hand at +his heart, and pulled it towards her. By the light of the young moon she +saw that it was grasping tightly a sort of tassel made of cowries which +hung round his neck by a string. He covered the shells with his fingers, +and showed his teeth. She let his hand go. + +"What is it?" she asked. + +"Yes," he answered. + +She turned and went into the tent, and he flitted away like a shadow. + +That night, when Nigel came in from Sennoures, she said to him: + +"What is the meaning of those tassels made of shells that Egyptians +sometimes wear round their necks?" + +"What sort of shells?" he asked. + +"Cowries." + +"Cowries--oh, they're supposed to be a charm against the evil eye and +bad spirits. Where have you seen one?" + +"On a donkey-boy up the Nile, at Luxor." + +She changed the conversation. + +They were sitting at dinner on either side of a folding table that +rested on iron legs. Beneath their feet was a gaudy carpet, very thick +and of a woolly texture, and so large that it completely concealed the +hard earth within the circle of the canvas, which had a lining of deep +red, covered with an elaborate pattern in black, white, yellow, blue, +and green. The tent was lit up by an oil-lamp, round which several night +moths revolved, occasionally striking against the globe of glass. The +tent-door was open, and just outside stood Ibrahim, with his head and +face wrapped up in a shawl with flowing fringes, to see that the native +waiter did his duty properly. Through the opening came the faint sound +of running water and the distant noise of the persistent barking of +dogs. The opulent smell of the rich and humid land penetrated into the +tent and mingled with the smell from the dishes. + +Nigel's face was radiant. They had got right away from modern +civilization into the wilds, and, manlike, he felt perfectly happy. He +looked at Ruby, seeking a reflection of his joy, yet a little doubtful, +too, realizing that this was an experiment for her, while to him it was +an old story to which she was supplying the beautiful interest of love. +She answered his look with one that set his mind at rest, which thrilled +him, yet which only drew from him the prosaic remark: + +"The cook isn't so bad, is he, Ruby?" + +"Excellent," she said. "I don't know when I've had such a capital +dinner. How can he do it all in a tent?" + +She moved her chair. + +"This table's a little bit low," she said. "But I've no business to be +so tall. In camp one ought to be the regulation size." + +"Have you been uncomfortable?" he exclaimed, anxiously. + +"No, no--not really. It doesn't matter." + +"I'll have it altered, made higher somehow, to-morrow. We must have +everything right, as we're going to live in camp for some time." + +She got up. + +"I won't take coffee to-night," she said. "It would be too horrid to +sleep badly in a tent." + +"You'll see, you'll sleep splendidly out here. Every one does in camp. +One is always in the air, and one gets thoroughly done by the evening." + +"Yes, but I shan't be working so hard as you do." + +She went to the tent-door. + +"How long shall we be in the Fayyum?" she asked, carelessly. "How long +were you in it last year?" + +"Off and on for nearly six months." + +She said nothing. He struck a match and lit a cigar. + +"But of course now it's different," he said. "If you like it, we can +stay on, and if you don't we can go back presently to the villa." + +"And your work?" + +"I ought to be here, so I hope you will like it, Ruby." + +He joined her at the tent-door. + +"But this winter I mean to live for you, and to try to make you happy. +We'll just see how you like being here. Do you think you will like it? +Do you feel, as I do, the joy of being in such perfect freedom?" + +He put his arm inside hers. + +"It's a tremendous change for you, but is it a happy change?" he asked. + +"It's wonderful here," she answered; "but it's so strange that I shall +have to get accustomed to it." + +As she spoke, she was longing, till her soul seemed to ache, to take the +early morning train to Cairo. Accustomed for years to have all her +caprices obeyed, all her whims indulged by men, she did not know how she +was going to endure this situation, which a passionate love alone could +have made tolerable. And the man by her side had that passionate love +which made the dreary Fayyum his Heaven. She could almost have struck +him because he was so happy. + +"There's one thing I must say I should love to do before we go away from +Egypt," she said, slowly. + +She seemed to be led or even forced to say it. + +"What's that?" + +"I should love to go up the Nile on a dahabeeyah." + +"Then you shall. When we leave here and pass through Cairo, I'll pick +out a boat, and we'll send it up to Luxor, go on board there, and then +sail for Assouan. But you mustn't think we shall get a _Loulia_." + +He laughed. + +"Millionaires like Baroudi don't hire out their boats," he added. "And +if they did, I couldn't pay their price while Etchingham's so badly +let." + +Her forehead was wrinkled by a frown. She hated to hear a man who loved +her speak of his poverty. It had become a habit of her mind to think +that no man had a right to love her unless he could give her exactly +what she wanted. + +"Shall we go out, Ruby?" + +"Very well." + +They stepped out on to the waste ground. His hand was still on her arm, +and he led her down to the stream. The young moon was already setting. +The starry sky was flecked here and there with gossamer veils of cloud. +A heavy dew was falling upon the dense growths of the oasis, and in the +distance of the palm-grove, where gleamed the lamp from the tent of the +German lady and the young Arab, a faint and pearly mist was rising. +Nigel drew in his breath, then let it out. It went in vapour from his +lips. + +"We've left the dryness of Upper Egypt," he said. "This is the country +of fertility, the country where things grow. The dews at night are +splendid. But wait a moment. I'll get you a cloak. I'm your maid, +remember." + +He fetched a cloak and wrapped it round her. + +"I suppose the _Loulia_ is far up the river," he said. "Perhaps at +Assouan. I wonder if we shall see Baroudi some day again. I think he's a +good sort of fellow; but after all, one can never get really quite in +touch with an Eastern. I used to think one could. I used to swear it, +but--" + +He shook his head and puffed at his cigar. Quite unconsciously he had +taken the husband's tone. There was something in the very timbre of his +voice which seemed to assume Ruby's agreement. She longed to startle +him, to say she was far more in touch with an Eastern than she could +ever be with him, but she thought of the dahabeeyah, the Nile, the +getting away from here. + +"To tell the truth," she said, "I have always felt that. There is an +impassable barrier between East and West." + +She looked at the distant light among the palm-trees. Then, with +contempt, she added: + +"Those who try to overleap it must be mad, or worse." + +Nigel's face grew stern. + +"Yes," he said. "I loathe condemnation. But there are some things which +really are unforgivable." + +He swung out his arm towards the light. + +"And that is one of them. I hate to see that light so near us. It is the +only blot on perfection." + +"Don't look at it," she murmured. + +His unusual expression of vigorous, sane disgust, and almost of +indignation, partly fascinated and partly alarmed her. + +"Don't think of it. It has nothing to do with us. Hark! What's that?" + +A clear note, like the note of a little flute, sounded from the farther +side of the stream, was reiterated many times. Nigel's face relaxed. The +sternness vanished from it, and was replaced by an ardent expression +that made it look almost like the face of a romantic boy. + +"It's--it's the Egyptian Pan by the water," he whispered. + +His arm stole round her waist. + +"Come a little nearer--gently. That's it! Now listen!" + +The little, clear, frail sound was repeated again and again. + +The young moon went down behind the palm-trees. Its departure, making +the night more dark, made the distant light in the grove seem more +clear, more definite, more brilliant. + +It drew the eyes, it held the eyes of Bella Donna as the Egyptian Pan +piped on. + + + + +XXIII + + +Mrs. Armine summoned all her courage, all her patience, all her force of +will, and began resolutely, as she mentally put it, to earn her +departure from the land which she hated more bitterly day by day. The +situation she was in, so different from any that she had previously +known, roused within her a sort of nervous desperation, and this +desperation armed her and made her dangerous. And because she was +dangerous, she seemed often innocently happy, and sometimes ardently +happy; she seemed to have cast away from her any lingering remnants of +the manner of a great courtesan which had formerly clung about her. +Nigel would have denied that there had been such remnants; nevertheless, +he felt and rejoiced in the change that came. He said to himself that he +was justified of his loving experiment. He had restored to Ruby her +self-respect, her peace of mind and body, and in doing so he had won for +himself a joy that he had not known till now. + +In that joy his nature expanded, his energies leaped up, his mind +kindled, his heart glowed and burned. He felt himself twice the man that +he had formerly been. He flung himself into his work with almost a +giant's strength, into his pleasure, riding, shooting, fishing, with the +enthusiasm of a boy for the first time freed from tutelage. + +Mrs. Armine was rewarded for her effort of cunning by the happiness of +her husband, and by his gratitude and devotion to her. For she was +clever enough to put him into the place the world thought she ought to +occupy, into the humble seat of the grateful. She succeeded very soon in +infecting his mind with the idea that it was good of her to have married +him, that she had given up not a little in doing so. She never made a +complaint, but very often she indicated, as if by accident, that for the +sake of the upward progress she was enduring a certain amount of +definite hardship cheerfully. There was scarcely a day, for instance, +when she did not contrive to recall to his mind the fact that, for his +sake, she was doing without a maid for the first time in her life. Yet +she never said, "I wish I had kept Marie." Her method was, "How thankful +I am we decided to get rid of Marie, Nigel! She would have been wretched +here. The life would have killed her, though I manage to stand it so +splendidly. But servants never will put up with a little discomfort. And +it's so good of you not to mind my looking anyhow, and always wearing +the same old rag." Such things were said with a resolutely cheerful +voice which announced a moral effort. + +As they sat at dinner, she would say, perhaps: "Isn't it extraordinary, +Nigel, how soon one gets not to care what one is eating, so long as one +can satisfy one's hunger? I remember the time when, for a woman, I was +almost an epicure, and now I can swallow Mohammed's dinners with +positive relish. Do give me another help of that extraordinary muddle he +calls a stew." + +And in bed that night, or over a last solitary pipe outside the tent, +Nigel would be thinking, "By Jove, Ruby is a trump to put up with +Mohammed's messes after the food she's always been accustomed to!" +Whereas, before, he had been congratulating himself on having engaged at +a high rate the greatest treasure of a camp cook that could be found in +the whole of Egypt. + +Perpetually, in a hundred ways, she brought to his memory the +extravagant luxury in which for so many years she had lived. Yet she +never seemed to be regretting, but always to be congratulating herself +on the fact, that she had abandoned it for a different, more Spartan way +of life. Often, in fact generally, she talked as if they were poor +people, as if she had married a quite poor man. + +"I can't let you be reckless," she would say, when perhaps he suggested +something that would put them to extra expense. "It isn't as if we were +rich. I love spending money, but I should hate to run you into debt." + +And if Nigel began to explain that he could perfectly well afford +whatever it was, she would gently, and gaily too, ignore or sweep away +his remarks with a "You forget how different your position is now that +your brother's got an heir." Once, however, he persisted, and made a +sort of statement of his affairs to her, his object being to prove to +her that they had "plenty to go on with." The result was scarcely what +he had anticipated. For a moment she seemed to be struck dumb with a +strong surprise. Then, apparently recovering herself, she said +decisively, "If that is all we've got, I am perfectly right to be +parsimonious. And besides, it's an excellent thing for me to have to +think about money. I've always been accustomed to spend far too much. +I've lived much too extravagantly, too brilliantly, all my life. A +change to simplicity and occasional self-denial will do me all the good +in the world, whether I like it at first or not." + +And she smothered a sigh, and smiled at him with a sort of gentle +determination. But she never overacted her part, she never underlined +anything. Directly she saw that she had gained her end, had "got home," +she passed on to a different topic. Never did she persistently play the +martyr. She knew how soon a man secretly gets sick of the martyr-wife. +But, in one way or another, she kept Nigel simmering in appreciation of +her. + +And in contenting his soul she did not forget to content him in other +ways; she never allowed him to lose sight of the fact that she was still +a beautiful and voluptuous woman, and that she belonged wholly to him. +And so gradually she woke up in him the peculiar and terrible need of +her that a certain type of woman can wake in a certain type of man. She +taught him to be grateful to her for a double joy: the moral joy of the +high-minded man who has, or who thinks he has, through a woman in some +degree fulfilled his ideal of conduct, and the physical joy of the +completely natural and vigorous man who legitimately links with his +moral satisfaction a satisfaction wholly different. To both spirit and +body she held the torch, and each was warmed by the glow, and made +cheerful and glad by the light. + +Nigel had cared for her in England, had loved her in the Villa Androud; +but that care, that love, were as nothing to the feeling for her that +sprang up in him in the midst of the springing green things that made a +Paradise of the Fayyum. He was a man who got very near to Nature, whose +heart beat very near to Nature's generous heart, and often, when he +stood shoulder-high in a silver-green sea of sugar-cane, or looked up to +the tufted palms that made a murmuring over his head, or listened to the +rustle of corn in the sunshine, or to the swish of the heavily-podded +doura in the light wind that came in from the desert, he would compare +his growing love for Ruby to the growing of Nature's children in this +beneficent clime. And the luxuriant richness of the green world round +about him seemed to have its counterpart within him. + +But there was the desert, too, always near to remind him of the arid +wastes of the world--of the arid wastes that needed reclaiming in +humanity, in himself. + +And in his great joy he never lost one of his most beautiful natural +graces, the grace of an unostentatious humility. + +The racial reticence of the Englishman about the things he cares for +most kept him from telling his wife of what was happening in his mind +and heart, despite his apparent frankness, which often seemed that of a +boy; and some of it she was too devoid of all spirituality, all moral +enthusiasm, to divine. But she summed him up pretty accurately, knew as +a rule pretty thoroughly "where she was with him"; and though she +sometimes wondered how things could be as they were in him, or in any +one, still she knew that so they were. + +She acted her part well, though day by day, in the acting of it, her +nervous desperation increased; but when, now and then, her self-control +was for a moment shaken, she succeeded in leading Nigel to attribute any +momentary sharpness, cynicism, or even bitterness, to some failure in +himself which had awakened the doubts of the woman long trampled on. +Subtly she recalled to him the night after the scene in the garden of +the Villa Androud; she reminded him--without words--of the words she +had spoken then. He seemed to hear her saying: "After this morning you +will have to prove your belief in me to me, thoroughly prove it, or else +I shall not believe it. It will take a little time to make me feel quite +safe with you, as one can only feel when the little bit of sincerity in +one is believed in and trusted." And he remembered the resolve he had +taken on that night of crisis, to restore this woman's confidence in +goodness by having a firm faith in the goodness existing in her. And he +condemned himself and braced himself for new efforts. Those efforts were +not difficult for him to make now that he had Ruby all to himself, now +that he saw her utterly divorced from her old life and companions, now +that he held her in the breast of Nature, now that he knew--as how could +he not know?--that she was living virtuously, sanely, simply, and, as he +thought, splendidly and happily, despite the lingering backward glances +she sometimes cast at the old luxury foregone. It is very difficult for +the human being who finds perfect happiness in a life to realize that +such a life to another may be a torment. + +And Ruby made few mistakes. When she was with her husband, her now +unpainted face was serene. She worked bravely to earn her release from a +life that was unsuited to her whole temperament, and that was utterly +odious to her. + +But had not Hamza and Ibrahim been in the camp with her, she often said +to herself that she could not have endured this period. That they were +there meant that she was not forgotten, that while she was being +patient, in a distant place, somewhere upon the great river, in the +golden climate of Upper Egypt, some one else was being patient too. + +Surely it meant, it must mean, that! + +But she was haunted by a jealousy that, instead of being diminished by +time and absence, increased with each passing day, even waking up in her +a vital force of imagination she had not suspected she possessed. She +knew men as a race _au fond_--knew their fickleness, swift +forgetfulness, readiness to be content with the second best, so +different from the far greater Epicureanism of women; knew their uneasy +appetites, their lack of self-restraint; and, adding to this sum of +knowledge her personal knowledge of Baroudi as a young, strong, and +untrammelled man of the East, she was confronted with visions which +tortured her cruelly. There were times when her mind ran riot, throwing +him among all the sensual pleasures which he loved. And then she was +more than heart-sick; she was actually body-sick. She felt ill; she felt +that she ached with jealousy, as another may ache with some physical +disease. She had a longing to perform some frantic physical act. + +And then she remembered her beauty, and that, at all costs, she must +preserve it as long as possible, and she secretly cursed the unbridled +nature within her. But the climate of the Fayyum was very kind to her, +and this life in the open, in the unvitiated air that blew through the +palms from the virgin deserts of Libya, gave to her health such as she +had never known till now, despite her mental torture. And that +body-sickness which came from her jealousy was like a fit which seized +her and passed away. + +Egypt brought back her youth, or, at the least, prolonged and increased +steadily the shining and warmth of her Indian summer. And with that +shining and warmth the desire to live fully, to use her present powers +in the way that would bring her happiness, grew perpetually in strength +and ardour. She longed for the man who suited her, and for the _luxe_ +that he could give her. With her genuine physical passion for Baroudi +there woke the ugly greed that was an essential part of her nature, the +greed of the true materialist who cares nothing for a simplicity that +has not cost the eyes out of somebody's head. She was a woman who loved +to know that some one was ruining himself for her. She took an almost +physical pleasure in the spending of money. And often her mind echoed +the words of Hassan, when he looked across the Nile to the tapering mast +of the _Loulia_ and murmured, "Mahmoud Baroudi is rich! Mahmoud Baroudi +is rich!" And she yearned to go, not only to Baroudi, but to his gold, +and she remembered her fancy when she sat by the Nile, that the +gleaming gold on the water was showered towards her by him to comfort +her in her solitude. + +At last a crisis came. + +After staying for a short time at Sennoures, the camp had been moved +from the village to the outskirts of the oasis, so that Nigel might be +close to his land. Here the rich fertility, the green abundance of +growing things, trailed away into the aridity of the desert, and at +night, from the door of the tent, Mrs. Armine could look out upon the +pale and vague desolation of the illimitable sands stretching away into +the illimitable darkness. Just at first the vision fascinated her, and +she lent an ear to the call of the East, but very soon she was +distressed by the sight of the still and unpeopled country, which +suggested to her the nameless solitudes into which many women are driven +out when the time of their triumph is over. She did not speak of this to +Nigel, but, pretending that the wind at night from the desert chilled +her even between the canvas walls of the tent, she had the tent turned +round with its orifice towards the oasis. And she strove to ignore the +desert. + +Nevertheless, despite what was indeed almost a horror of its spaces, she +now found that she felt more strongly their fascination, which seemed +calling her, but to danger or sorrow rather than to any pleasure or +permanent satisfaction. She often felt an uneasy desire to be more +intimate with the thing which she feared, and which woke up in her a +prophetic dread of the future when the Indian summer would have faded +for ever. And when one day Nigel suggested that he should take two or +three days' holiday, and that they should remove the camp into the wilds +at the north-eastern end of the sacred lake of Kurun, where Ibrahim and +Hamza said he could get some first-rate duck-shooting, and Ruby could +come to close quarters with the reality of the Libyan desert, she +assented almost eagerly. Any movement, any change, was welcome to her; +and--she had to be more intimate with the thing which she feared. + +So one morning the riding camels kneeled down, the tents collapsed, were +rolled up and sent forward, and they started to go still farther into +the wilds. + +They made a detour in the oasis to give their Bedouins time to pitch +their camp in the sands, and Ibrahim an hour or two to prepare +everything for their arrival. It was already afternoon when they were on +the track that leads to the lake, leaving the groves of palms behind +them and the low houses of the fellahin, moving slowly towards the +sand-hills that appeared far off, where huddled the patched and +discoloured tents of the gipsies and the almost naked fishermen who are +the only dwellers in this strange and blanched desolation, where the +sands and the salty waters meet in a wilderness of tamarisk bushes. + +It was a grey and windless day, and the sky looked much lower than it +usually does in Egypt. The atmosphere was sad. Clouds of wild pigeons +flew up to right and left of them, circling over the now diminishing +crops and the little runlets of water that soon would die away where +sterility's empire began. In low, yet penetrating, voices the camel men +sang the songs of the sands, as they ran on, treading softly with naked +feet. Hamza, who accompanied the little caravan with his donkey in case +Mrs. Armine grew tired of her camel, holding his hieratic wand, kept +always softly and unweariedly behind them. + +And thus, always accompanied by the hum and the twittering of a +melancholy music, they went on towards the lake. + +Upon Nigel's beast were slung his guns. He was eagerly looking forward +to his holiday. He had been toiling really hard with his fellahin, often +almost up to his knees in mud and water, driving the sand-plough, +working the small and primitive engines, digging, planting, even +following the hand-plough drawn by a camel yoked to a donkey. He was in +grand condition, hard as nails, burnt by the sun, joyful with the almost +careless joy that is born of a health made perfect by labour. The +desolation before them to him seemed a land of promise, for he was +entering it with Ruby, and in it there were thousands of wild duck, and +jackals that slunk out by night among the stunted tamarisk bushes. + +"We seem to be going to the end of the world," she said. + +She was swaying gently to and fro with the movement of her camel, which +had just turned to the right, after following for an immense time a +straight track that was cut through the crops, and that never deviated +to right or left. Now sand appeared. On their left, and parallel to +them, crept a sluggish stream of water between uneven banks of sand. And +the track was up and down, and here and there showed humps, and deep +ruts, and sometimes holes. The crops began to be sparser; no more houses +or huts were visible; but far away in the white and wintry distance, +looking almost like discolourations upon a sheet, were scattered low +brown and black tents, which seemed to be crouching on the desolate +ground. + +"Does any one live out here beyond us?" she added. "Are those things +really tents?" + +"Yes, Ruby." + +"It seems incredible that any human beings should deliberately choose to +live here." + +"You haven't ever felt the call of the wild?" he asked. + +She looked at him, and said, quickly: + +"Oh, yes. But it's different for us. We come here to get a new +experience, to have a thorough change, and we can get away whenever we +like. But just imagine choosing to live here permanently!" + +"I'd rather live here than in almost any town." + +He was silent for a moment, and his face lost its joyous expression and +became almost eagerly anxious. Then he said: + +"Ruby, do you hate all this?" + +"Hate it! No, it's a novelty; it's strange; it excites me, interests +me." + +"You are sure?" + +He had suddenly thought of her sitting-room in the Savoy. Into what a +violently different life he had conveyed her!--into a life that he +loved, and that was well fitted for a man to live. He loved such a life, +but perhaps he had been, was being selfish. He tried to read her face, +and was suddenly full of doubts and fears. + +"I like roughing it, of course," he added. "But, I say, you mustn't give +in to what I like if it doesn't suit you. We men are infernally +selfish." + +She saw her opportunity. + +"Don't you know yet that women find most of their happiness in pleasing +the men they love?" she said. + +"But I want to please you." + +"So you shall presently." + +"How?" + +"By taking me up the Nile." + +She had sown in his mind the belief that she was living for him +unselfishly. He resolved to pay her with a sterling coin of +unselfishness. Never mind the work! In this first year he must think +always first of her, must dedicate himself to her. And in making her +life to flower was he not reclaiming the desert? + +"I will take you up the Nile," he said. "Always be frank with me, Ruby. +If--if things that suit me don't suit you, tell me so straight out. I +think the one thing that binds two people together with hoops of steel +is absolute sincerity. Even if it hurts, it's a saviour." + +"Yes, but I am absolutely sincere when I say that I love to live in your +life." + +She could afford to say that now, and despite the increasing desolation +around them her heart leaped at a prospect of release, for she knew how +his mind was working, and she heard the murmur of Nile water round the +prow of a dahabeeyah. + +That night they camped in an amazing desolation. + +The great lake of Kurun, which looks like an inland sea, and which is +salt almost as the sea, is embraced at its northern end by another sea +of sand. The vast slopes of the desert of Libya reach down to its +waveless waters. The desolation of the desert is linked with the +desolation of this unmurmuring sea, the deep silence of the wastes with +the deep silence of the waters. + +Never before had Mrs. Armine known such a desolation, never had she +imagined such a silence as that which lay around their camp, which +brooded over this desert, which brooded over the greenish grey waters of +this vast lake which was like a sea. + +She spoke, and her voice seemed to be taken at once as its prey by the +silence. Even her thought seemed to be seized by it, and to be conveyed +away from her like a living thing whose destiny it was to be slain. She +felt paltry, helpless, unmeaning, in the midst of this arid breast of +Nature, which was pale as the leper is pale. She felt chilled, even +almost sexless, as if all her powers, all her passions and her desires, +had been grasped by the silence, as if they were soon to be taken for +ever from her. Never before had anything that was neither human nor +connected in any way with humanity's efforts and wishes made such a +terrific impression upon her. + +She hid this impression from Nigel. + +The long camel-ride had slightly fatigued her, despite the great +strength of body which she had been given by Egypt. She busied herself +in the usual way of a woman arrived from a journey, changed her gown, +bathed in a collapsible bath made of India rubber, put eau de Cologne on +her forehead, arranged her hair before a mirror pinned to the sloping +canvas. But all the time that she did these things she was listening to +the enormous silence, was feeling it like a weight, was shrinking, or +trying to shrink away from its outstretched, determined arms. From +without came sometimes sounds of voices that presented themselves to her +ears as shadows, skeletons, spectres, present themselves to the eyes. +Was that really Ibrahim? Was that Nigel speaking, laughing? And that +long stream of words, did it flow from Hamza's throat? Or were those +shadows outside, with voices of shadows, trying to hold intercourse with +shadows? Presently tea was ready, and she came out into the waste. + +They were at a considerable distance from the lake, looking down on it +from the slight elevation of a gigantic slope of sand, which rose +gradually behind them till in the distance it seemed to touch the +stooping grey of the low horizon. Everywhere white and yellowish white +melted into grey and greenish grey. The only vegetation was a great maze +of tamarisk bushes, which stretched from the flat sand-plain on their +left to the verge of the lake, and far out into the water, making a +refuge and a shelter for the thousands upon thousands of wild duck that +peopled the watery waste. Now, unafraid, they were floating in the open, +casting great clouds of velvety black upon the still surface of the +lake, which, owing to some atmospheric effect, looked as if it sloped +upward like the sands till it met the stooping sky. Very far off, almost +visionary, like blacknesses held partly by the water, and partly by the +vapours that muffled the sky, were two or three of the clumsy boats of +the wild, almost savage natives who live on the fish of the lake. Almost +imperceptibly they moved about their eerie business. + +"Just look at the duck, Ruby!" said Nigel, as she came out. "What a +place for sport!" + +For once their usual roles were reversed; he was practical, while she +was imaginative, or at least strongly affected by her imagination. He +had been looking to his guns, making arrangements with a huge and nearly +black dweller of the tents to show him the best sport possible for a +fixed sum of money. + +"But it's the devil to get within range of them," he added. "I shall +have to do as the natives do, I expect." + +"What's that?" she asked, with an effort. + +"Strip, and wade in up to my neck, carrying my gun over my head, and +then keep perfectly still till some of them come within range." + +He laughed with joyous anticipation. + +"I've told Ibrahim he must have a roaring big fire for me when I get +back." + +"Are you going to-day?" + +"Yes, I think I'll have just an hour. D'you feel up to riding the +donkey to the water's edge, and coming out on the lake with me?" + +She hesitated. In this waste and in this silence she felt almost +incapable of a decision. Then she said: + +"No, I think I've had enough for to-day. You must bring me back a duck +for dinner." + +"I swear I will." + +He gripped her hands when he went. He was full of the irrepressible joy +of the sportsman starting out for his pleasure. + +"What will you do till I come back?" + +"Rest. Perhaps I shall read, and I'll talk to Ibrahim. He always amuses +me." + +"Good. I'm going to ride the donkey and take Hamza." + +Just as he was mounting, he turned round, and said: + +"Ruby, I'm having my time now. You shall have yours. You shall have the +best dahabeeyah to be got on the Nile, the _Loulia_, if Baroudi will +hire it out to us." + +"Oh, the _Loulia_ would cost us too much," she said, "even if it could +be hired." + +"We'll get a good one, anyhow, and you shall see every temple--go up to +Halfa, if you want to. And now pray for duck with all your might." + +He rode away down the sand slope towards the lake, and presently, with +Hamza and the native guide, was but a moving speck in the pallid +distance. + +Mrs. Armine watched them from a folding chair, which she made Ibrahim +carry out into the sand some hundreds of yards from the camp. + +"Leave me here for a little while, Ibrahim," she said. + +He obeyed her, and strolled quietly away, then presently squatted down +to keep guard. + +At first Mrs. Armine scarcely thought at all. She stared at the sand +slopes, at the sand plains, at the sand banks, at the wilderness of +tamarisk, at the grey waters spotted with duck, at the little moving +black things that, like insects, crept towards them. And she felt +like--what? Like a nothing. For what seemed a very long time she felt +like that. And then, gradually, very gradually, her self began to wake, +began to release itself from the spell of place, and to struggle +forward, as it were, out of the shattering grip of the silence. And she +burned with indignation in the chill air of the desert. + +Why had she let herself be brought, even to spend only three or four +days, to such a place as this? Had she ever had even a momentary desire +to see more solitary places than the place from which they had come? +Where was Baroudi at this moment? What was he feeling, doing, thinking? +She fastened her mind fiercely upon the thought of him, and she saw +herself in exile. Always, until now, she had felt the conviction that +Baroudi had some plan in connection with her, and that quiescence on her +part was necessary to its ultimate fulfilment. She had felt that she was +in the web of his plan, that she had to wait, that something devised by +him would presently happen--she did not know what--and that their +intercourse would be resumed. + +Now, influenced by the desolation towards utter doubt and almost frantic +depression, as she came back to her full life, which had surely been for +a while in suspense, she asked herself whether she had not been grossly +mistaken. Baroudi had never told her anything about the future, had +never given her any hint as to what his meaning was. Was that because he +had had no meaning? Had she been the victim of her own desires? Had +Baroudi had enough of her and done with her? Something, that was +compounded of something else as well as of vanity, seemed still to be +telling her that it was not so. But to-day, in this terrible greyness, +this melancholy, this chilly pallor, she could not trust it. She turned. + +"Ibrahim! Ibrahim!" she cried out. + +He rose from the sands and sauntered towards her. He came and stood +silently beside her. + +"Ibrahim," she began. + +She looked at him, and was silent. Then she called on her resolute self, +on the self that had been hardened, coarsened, by the life which she had +led. + +"Ibrahim, do you know where Baroudi is--what he has been doing all this +time?" she asked. + +"What he has bin doin' I dunno, my lady. Baroudi he doos very many +things." + +"I want to know what he has been doing. I must, I will know." + +The spell of place, the spell of the great and frigid silence, was +suddenly and completely broken. Mrs. Armine stood up in the sand. She +was losing her self-control. She looked at the dreary prospect before +her, growing sadder as evening drew on; she thought of Nigel perfectly +happy, she even saw him down there a black speck in the immensity, +creeping onward towards his pleasure, and a fury that was vindictive +possessed her. It seemed to her absolutely monstrous that such a woman +as she was should be in such a place, in such a situation, waiting in +the sand alone, deserted, with nothing to do, no one to speak to, no +prospect of pleasure, no prospect of anything. A loud voice within her +seemed suddenly to cry, to shriek, "I won't stand this. I won't stand +it." + +"I'm sick of the Fayyum," she said fiercely, "utterly sick of it. I want +to go back to the Nile. Do you know where Baroudi is? Is he on the Nile? +I hate, I loathe this place." + +"My lady," said Ibrahim, very gently, "there is good jackal-shootin' +here." + +"Jackal-shooting, duck-shooting--so you think of nothing but your +master's pleasure!" she said, indignantly. "Do you suppose I'm going to +sit still here in the sand for days, and do nothing, and see nobody, +while--while--" + +She stopped. She could not go on. The fierceness of her anger almost +choked her. If Nigel had been beside her at that moment, she would have +been capable of showing even to him something of her truth. Ibrahim's +voice again broke gently in upon her passion. + +"My lady, for jackal-shootin' you have to go out at night. You have to +go down there when it is dark, and stay there for a long while, till the +jackal him come. You tie a goat; the jackal him smell the goat and +presently him comin'." + +She stared at him almost blankly. What had all this rhodomontade to do +with her? Ibrahim met her eyes. + +"All this very interestin' for my Lord Arminigel," said Ibrahim, softly. + +Mrs. Armine said nothing, but she went on staring at Ibrahim. + +"P'r'aps my gentleman go out to-night. If he go, you take a little walk +with Ibrahim." + +He turned, and pointed behind her, to the distance where the rising +sand-hill seemed to touch the stooping sky. + +"You take a little walk up there." + +Still she said nothing. She asked nothing. She had no need to ask. All +the desolation about her seemed suddenly to blossom like the rose. +Instead of the end of the world, this place seemed to be the core, the +warm heart of the world. + +When at last she spoke, she said quietly: + +"Your master will go jackal-shooting to-night." + +Ibrahim nodded his head. + +"I dessay," he pensively replied. + +The soft crack of a duck-gun came to their ears from far off among the +tamarisk bushes beside the green-grey waters. + +"I dessay my Lord Arminigel him goin' after the jackal to-night." + + + + +XXIV + + +The dinner in camp that night was quite a joyous festival. Nigel brought +back two duck, Ibrahim made a fine fire of brushwood to warm the eager +sportsman, and Ruby was in amazing spirits. She played to perfection the +part of ardent housewife. She came and went in the sand, presiding over +everything. She even penetrated into the cook's tent with Ibrahim to +give Mohammed some hints as to the preparation of the duck. + +"This is your holiday," she said to Nigel. "I want it to be a happy one. +You must make the most of it, and go out shooting all the time. They say +there's any amount of jackals down there in the tamarisk bushes. Are you +going to have a shot at them to-night?" + +Nigel stretched out his legs, with a long sigh of satisfaction. + +"I don't know, Ruby. I should like to, but it's so jolly and cosy here." + +He looked towards the fire, then back at her. + +"I'm not sure that I'll go out again," he said. + +"I dare say you're tired." + +"No, that's not it. The truth is that I'm tremendously happy in camp +with you. And I love to think of the desolation all round us, and that +there isn't a soul about, except a few gipsies down there, and a few +wild, half-naked fishermen. We've brought our own oasis with us into the +Libyan Desert. And I think to-night I'll be a wise man and stick to the +oasis." + +She smiled at him. + +"Then do!" + +In the midst of her smile she yawned. + +"I shall go to bed directly," she said. + +She seemed to suppress another yawn. + +"You mean to go to bed early?" he asked. + +"Almost directly. Do you mind? I'm dog tired with the long camel ride, +and I shall sleep like twenty tops." + +She put her hand on his shoulder. Her whole face was looking sleepy. + +"You old wretch," she said. "What do you mean by looking so horribly +wide awake?" + +He put his hand over hers, and laughed. + +"I seem to be made of iron in this glorious country. I'm not a bit +sleepy." + +She stifled another yawn. + +"Then I'll"--she put up her hand to her mouth--"I'll sit up a little to +keep you company." + +"Indeed, you shan't. You shall go straight to bed, and when you're +safely tucked up I think perhaps I will just go down and have a look for +the jackals. If you're going to sleep, I might as well--" + +He drew down her face to his and gave her a long kiss. + +"I'll put you to bed first, and when you're quite safe and warm and +cosy, I'll make a start." + +She returned his kiss. + +"No, I'll see you off." + +"But why?" + +"Because I love to see you starting off in the night to the thing that +gives you pleasure. That's my pleasure. Not always, because I'm too +selfish. On the Nile you'll have to attend to me, to do everything I +want. But just for these few days I'm going to be like an Eastern woman, +at the beck of my lord and master. So I must see you start, and +then--oh, how I shall sleep!" + +He got up. + +"P'r'aps I'll be out till morning. I wonder if Hamdi's got a goat." + +He went away for his gun. In a very few minutes he left the camp, gaily +calling to her, "Sleep well, Ruby! You look like a sorceress standing +there all lit up by the fire. The flames are flickering over you. Good +night--good night!" + +His steps died away in the sands, his voice died away in the darkness. + +She waited, standing perfectly still by the fire, for a long time. Her +soul seemed running, rushing over the sands towards the ridge that met +the sky, but her will kept her body standing beside the flames, until at +last the sportsmen were surely far enough away. + +"Ibrahim!" + +"My lady?" + +"How are we going?" + +She was whispering to him beside the fire. + +"Does it matter the camel-men knowing? Are they to know? Am I to ride or +walk?" + +"You leave everythin' to Ibrahim. You go in your tent, and presently I +come." + +She went at once into the tent, and sat down on a folding chair. A +little round iron table stood before it. She leaned her arms on the +table and laid her face against the back of her hand. Her cheek was +burning. She sprang up, went to her dressing-case, unlocked it, drew out +the _boite de beaute_ which Baroudi had given her in the orange-garden, +and quickly made her face up, standing before the glass that was pinned +to the canvas. Then she put on a short fur coat. The wind would be cold +in the sands. She wondered how far they had to go. + +And if Nigel should unexpectedly return, as nearly all husbands did on +such occasions? + +She could not bother about that. She felt too desperate to care; she +felt in the grasp of fate. If the fate was to be untoward, so much the +worse for her--and for Nigel. She meant to go beyond that ridge of the +sand. That was all she knew. Quickly she buttoned the fur coat and put +on a hat and gloves. + +"Now we goin' to start." + +Ibrahim put his muffled head in at the door of the tent. + +"Walking?" she asked. + +"We goin' to start walkin'." + +When she came out, she found that the brushwood fire had been pulled to +pieces. + +"Down there they not see nothin'," said Ibrahim, pointing towards the +darkness before them. + +"And the men? Does it matter about the men?" she asked perfunctorily. +She did not feel that she really cared. + +"All the men sleepin', except Hamza. Him watchin'." + +The tents of the men were at some distance. She looked, and saw no +movement, no figures except the faint and grotesque silhouettes of the +hobbled camels. + +"I say that I follow my Lord Arminigel." + +They started into the desert. As they left the camp, Mrs. Armine saw +Hamza behind her tent, patrolling with a matchlock over his shoulder. + +The night was dark and starless; the breeze, though slight and wavering +over the sands, was penetrating and cold. The feet of Mrs. Armine sank +down at each step into the deep and yielding sands as she went on into +the blackness of the immeasurable desert. And as she gazed before her at +the hollow blackness and felt the immensity of the unpeopled spaces, it +seemed to her that Ibrahim was leading her into some crazy adventure, +that they were going only towards the winds, the desolate sands, and the +darkness that might be felt. He did not speak to her, nor she to him, +till she heard, apparently near them the angry snarl of a camel. Then +she stopped. + +"Did you hear that? There's some one near us," she said. + +"My lady come on! That is a very good dromedary for us." + +"Ah!" she said. + +She hastened forward again. In two or three seconds the camel snarled +furiously again. + +"The Bedouin he make him do that to tell us where he is," said Ibrahim. + +He cried out some words in Arabic. A violent guttural voice replied out +of the darkness. In a moment, under the lee of a sand dune, they came +upon two muffled figures holding two camels, which were lying down. Upon +one there was a sort of palanquin, in which Mrs. Armine took her seat, +with a Bedouin sitting in front. A stick was plied. The beast protested, +filling the hollow of the night with a complaint that at last became +almost leonine; then suddenly rose up, was silent, and started off at a +striding trot. + +Mrs. Armine could not measure either the time that elapsed or the space +that was covered during that journey. She was filled with a sense of +excitement and adventure that she had never experienced before, and that +made her feel oddly young. The dark desert, swept by the chilling +breeze, became to her suddenly a place of strong hopes and of desires +leaping towards fulfilment. She was warmed through and through by +expectation, as she had not been warmed by the great camp fire that had +been kindled to greet Nigel. And when at last in the distance there +shone out a light, like an earth-bound star, to her all the desert +seemed glowing with an almost exultant radiance. + +But the light was surely far away, for though the dromedary swung on +over the desert, it did not seem to her to grow clearer or brighter, but +like a distant eye it regarded her with an almost cruel steadiness, as +if it calmly read her soul. + +And she thought of Baroudi's eyes, and looking again at the yellow +light, she felt as if he were watching her calmly from some fastness of +the sands to which she could not draw near. + +In the desert it is difficult to measure distances. Just as Mrs. Armine +was thinking that she could never gain that light, it broadened, broke +up into forms, the forms of leaping flames blown this way and that by +the stealthy wind of the waste, became abruptly a fire revealing vague +silhouettes of camels, of crouching men, of tents, of guard dogs, of +hobbled horses. She was in the midst of a camp pitched far out in a +lonely place of the sands within sight of no oasis. + +The dromedary knelt. She was on her feet with Ibrahim standing beside +her. + +For a moment she felt dazed. She stood still, consciously pressing her +feet down against the sand which glowed in the light from the flames. +She saw eyes--the marvellous, birdlike eyes of Bedouins--steadily +regarding her beneath the darkness of peaked hoods. She heard the +crackle of flames in the windy silence, a soft grating sound that came +from the jaws of feeding camels. Dogs snuffed about her ankles. + +"My lady, you comin' with me!" + +Mechanically she followed Ibrahim away from the fire, across a strip of +sand to a large tent that stood apart. As she drew near to it her heart +began to beat violently and irregularly, and she felt almost like a +girl. For years she had not felt so young as she felt to-night. In this +dark desert, among these men of Africa, all her worldly knowledge, all +her experience of men in civilized countries seemed of no use to her. +It was as if she shed it, cast it as a snake casts its skin, and stood +there in a new ignorance that was akin to the wondering ignorance of +youth. The canvas flap that was the door of the tent was fastened down. +Ibrahim went up to it and called out something. For a moment there was +no answer. During that moment Mrs. Armine had time to notice a second +smaller tent standing, with Baroudi's, apart from all the others. And +she fancied, but was not certain, that as for an instant the breeze died +down, she heard within it a thin sound like the plucked strings of some +instrument of music. Then the canvas of the big tent was lifted, light +shone out from within, and she saw the strong outline of a man. He +looked into the night, drew back, and she entered quickly and stood +before Baroudi. Then the canvas fell down behind her, shutting out the +night and the desert. + +Baroudi was dressed in Arab costume. His head was covered with a white +turban spangled with gold, his face was framed in snowy white, and his +great neck was hidden by drapery. He wore a kuftan of striped and +flowered silk with long sleeves, fastened round his waist with lengths +of muslin. Over this was a robe of scarlet cloth. His legs were bare of +socks, and on his feet were native slippers of scarlet morocco leather. +In his left hand he held an immensely long pipe with an ivory +mouthpiece. + +Mrs. Armine looked from him to his tent, to the thick, bright-coloured +silks which entirely concealed the canvas walls, to the magnificent +carpets which blotted out the desert sands, to the great hanging lamp of +silver, which was fastened by a silver chain to the peaked roof, to the +masses of silk cushions of various hues that were strewn about the +floor. Once again her nostrils drew in the faint but heavy perfume which +she always associated with Baroudi, and now with the whole of the East, +and with all Eastern things. + +That racing dromedary had surely carried her through the night from one +world to another. Suddenly she felt tired; she felt that she longed to +lie down upon those great silk cushions, between those coloured walls +of silk that shut out the windy darkness and the sad spaces of the +sands, and to stay there for a long time. The courtesan's lazy, +luxurious instinct drowsed within her soul, and her whole body responded +to this perfumed warmth, to this atmosphere of riches created by the man +before her in the core of desolation. + +She sighed, and looked at his eyes. + +"And how is Mr. Armeen?" he said, with the faintly ironic inflection +which she had noticed in their first interview alone. "Has he gone out +after the jackal?" + +What his intention was she did not know, but he could not have said +anything to her at that moment that would have struck more rudely upon +her sensuous pleasure in the change one step had brought her. His words +instantly put before her the necessity for going presently, very soon, +back to the camp and Nigel, and they woke up in her the secret woman, +the woman who still retained the instincts of a lady. This lady +realized, almost as Eve realized her nakedness, the humiliation of that +rush through the night from one camp to another, the humiliation that +lay in the fact that it was she who sought the man, that he had her +brought to him, did not trouble to come to her. She reddened beneath the +paint on her face, turned swiftly round, bent down, and tried to undo +the canvas flap of the tent. Her intention was to go out, to call +Ibrahim, to leave the camp at once. But her hands trembled and she could +not undo the canvas. Still bending, she struggled with it. She heard no +movement behind her. Was Baroudi calmly waiting for her to go? Some one +must have pegged the flap down after she had come in. She would have to +kneel down on the carpet to get at the fastenings. It seemed to her, in +her nervous anger and excitement, that to kneel in that tent would be a +physical sign of humiliation; nevertheless, after an instant of +hesitation, she sank to the ground and pushed her hands forcibly under +the canvas, feeling almost frantically for the ropes. She grasped +something, a rope, a peg--she did not know what--and pulled and tore at +it with all her force. + +Just then the night wind, which blew waywardly over the sands, now +rising in a gust that was almost fierce, now dying away into a calm that +was almost complete, failed suddenly, and she heard a frail sound which, +by its very frailty, engaged all her attention. It was a reiteration of +the sound which she thought she had heard as she waited outside the +tent, and this time she was no longer in doubt. It was the cry of an +instrument of music, a stringed instrument of some kind, plucked by +demure fingers. The cry was repeated. A whimsical Eastern melody, very +delicate and pathetic, crept to her from without. + +It suggested to her--women. + +Her hands became inert, and her fingers dropped from the tent-pegs. She +thought of the other tent, of the smaller tent she had seen, standing +apart near Baroudi's. Who was living in that tent? + +The melody went on, running a wayward course. It might almost be a +bird's song softly trilled in some desolate place of the sands, but-- + +It died away into the night, and the night wind rose again. + +Mrs. Armine got up from her knees. Her hands were trembling no longer. +She no longer wished to go. + +"Arrange some of those cushions for me, Baroudi," she said. "I am tired +after my ride." + +He had not moved from where he had been standing when she came in, but +she noticed that his long pipe had dropped from his hand and was lying +on the carpet. + +"Where shall I put them?" he asked, gravely. + +She pointed to the side of the tent which was nearest to the smaller +tent. + +"Against the silk, two or three cushions. Then I can lean back. That +will do." + +She unbuttoned her fur jacket. + +"Help me!" she said. + +He drew it gently off. She sat down, and pulled off her gloves. She +arranged the cushions with care behind her back. Her manner was that of +a woman who meant to stay where she was for a long time. She was +listening intently to hear the music again, but her face did not show +that she was making any effort. Her self was restored to her, and her +self was a woman who in a certain world, a world where women crudely, +and sometimes quite openly, battle with other women for men, had for a +long time resolutely, successfully, even cruelly, held her own. + +Baroudi watched her with serious eyes. He picked up his pipe and let +himself down on his haunches close to where she was leaning against her +cushions. The night wind blew more strongly. There was no sound from the +other tent. When Mrs. Armine knew that the wind must drown that strange, +frail music, even if the hidden player still carelessly made it, she +said, with a sort of brutality: + +"And if my husband comes back to camp before my return there?" + +"He will not." + +"We can't know." + +"The dromedary will take you there in fifteen minutes." + +"He may be there now. If he is there?" + +"Do you wish him to be there?" + +He had penetrated her thought, gone down to her desire. That sound of +music, that little cry of some desert lute plucked by demure fingers, +perhaps stained with the henna, the colour of joy, had rendered her +reckless. At that moment she longed for a crisis. And yet, at his +question, something within her recoiled. Could she be afraid of Nigel? +Could she cower before his goodness when it realized her evil? Marriage +had surely subtly changed her, giving back to her desires, prejudices, +even pruderies of feeling that she had thought she had got rid of for +ever long ago. Some spectral instincts of the "straight" woman still +feebly strove, it seemed, to lift their bowed heads within her. + +"Things can't go on like this," she said. "I don't know what I wish. But +I am not going to allow myself to be treated as you think you can treat +me. Do you know that in Europe men have ruined themselves for +me--ruined themselves?" + +"You liked that!" he intercepted, with a smile of understanding. "You +liked that very much. But I should never do that." + +He shook his head. + +"I would give you many things, but I am not one of those what the +Englishman calls 'dam fools.'" + +The practical side of his character, thus suddenly displayed, was like a +cool hand laid upon her. It was like a medicine to her fever. It seemed +for a moment to dominate a raging disease--the disease of her desire for +him--which created, to be its perpetual companion, a furious jealousy +involving her whole body, her whole spirit. + +"Because you don't care for me," she said, after a moment of hesitation, +and again running, almost in despite of herself, to meet her +humiliation. "Every man who cares for a woman can be a fool for her, +even an Eastern man." + +"Why do I come here," he said, "two days through the desert from the +Sphinx?" + +"It amuses you to pursue an Englishwoman. You are cruel, and it amuses +you." + +Her cruelty to Nigel understood Baroudi's cruelty to her quite clearly +at that moment, and she came very near to a knowledge of the law of +compensation. + +His eyes narrowed. + +"Would you rather I did not pursue you?" + +She was silent. + +"Would you rather be left quietly to your life with Mr. Armeen?" + +"Oh, I'm sick of my life with him!" she cried out, desperately. "It +would be better if he were in camp tonight when I got back there; it +would be much better!" + +"And if he were in camp--would you tell him?" + +Contempt crawled in his voice. + +"You are not like one of our women," he said. "They know how to do what +they want even behind the shutters of their husbands' houses. They are +clever women when they walk in the ways of love." + +[Illustration] + +He had made her feel like a child. He had struck hard upon her pride of +a successful demi-mondaine. + +"Of course I shouldn't tell him!" she said. "But perhaps it would be +better if I did. For I'm tired of my life." + +Again the horrible melancholy which so often comes to women of her type +and age, and of which she was so almost angrily afraid, flowed over her. +She must live as she wished to live in these few remaining years. She +must break out of prison quickly, or, when she did break out, there +would be no freedom that she could enjoy. She had so little time to +lose. She could tell nothing to Baroudi of all this, but perhaps she +could make him feel the force of her desire in such a way that an equal +force of answering desire would wake in him. Perhaps she had never +really exerted herself enough to put forth, when with him, all the +powers of her fascination, long tempered and tried in the blazing +furnaces of life. + +The gusty wind died down across the sands, and again she heard the frail +sound of the desert lute. It wavered into her ears, like something +supple, yielding, insinuating. + +There was a woman in that tent. + +And she, Bella Donna, must go back to camp almost directly, and leave +Baroudi with that woman! She was being chastised with scorpions +to-night. + +"Why did you come to this place?" she said. + +"To be with you for an hour." + +The irony, the gravity, that seemed almost cold in its calm, died out of +his eyes, and was replaced by a shining that changed his whole aspect. + +There was the divine madness in him too, then. Or was it only the +madness that is not divine? She did not ask or care to know. + +The night wind rose again, drowning the little notes of the desert lute. + + * * * * * + +That night, without being aware of it, Mrs. Armine crossed a Rubicon. +She crossed it when she came out of the big tent into the sands to go +back to the camp by the lake. While she had been with Baroudi the sky +had partially cleared. Above the tents and the blazing fire some stars +shone out benignly. A stillness and a pellucid clearness that were full +of remote romance were making the vast desert their sacred possession. +The aspect of the camp had changed. It was no longer a lurid and +mysterious assemblage of men, animals, and tents, half revealed in the +light of blown flames, half concealed by the black mantle of night, but +a tranquil and restful picture of comfort and of repose, full of the +quiet detail of feeding beasts, and men smoking, sleeping, or huddling +together to tell the everlasting stories and play the games of draughts +that the Arabs love so well. + +But blackness and gusty storm were within her, and made the vision of +this desert place, governed by the huge calm of the immersing night in +this deep hour of rest, almost stupefying by its contrast with herself. + +Baroudi had gone out first to speak with Ibrahim. She saw him, made +unusually large and imposing by the ample robes he wore, the innumerable +folds of muslin round his head, stride slowly across the sand and mingle +with his attendants, who all rose up as he joined them. For a moment she +stood quite still just beyond the shadow of the tent. + +The exquisitely cool air touched her, to make her know that she was on +fire. The exquisite clearness fell around her, to make her realize the +misty confusion of her soul. She trembled as she stood there. Not only +her body, but her whole nature was quivering. + +And then she heard again the player upon the lute, and she saw a faint +ray of light upon the sand by the tent she had not entered. She buttoned +her fur jacket, twisted her gloves in her hands, and looked towards the +ray. There was a hard throbbing in her temples, and just beneath her +shoulders there came a sudden shock of cold, that was like the cold of +menthol. She looked again at the camp fire; then she stole over the +sand, set her feet on the ray, and waited. + +For the first time she realized that she was afraid of Baroudi, that she +would shrink from offending him almost as a dog shrinks from offending +its master. But would it anger him if she saw the lute-player? He had +not taken the trouble to silence that music. He treated women _de haut +en bas_. That was part of his fascination for them--at any rate, for +her. What would he care if she knew he had a woman with him in the camp, +if she saw the woman? + +And even if he were angry? She thought of his anger, and knew that at +this moment she would risk it--she would risk anything--to see the woman +in that tent. Thinking with great rapidity in her nervous excitement and +bitter jealousy, become tenfold more bitter now that the moment had +arrived for her departure, she imagined what the woman must be: probably +some exquisite, fair Circassian, young, very young, fifteen or sixteen +years old, or perhaps a maiden from the Fayyum, the region of lovely +dark maidens with broad brows, oval faces, and long and melting black +eyes. Her fancy drew and painted marvellous girls in the night. Then, as +a louder note, almost like a sigh, came from the tent, she moved +forward, lifted the canvas, and looked in. + +The interior was unlike the interior of Baroudi's tent. Here nothing was +beautiful, though nearly everything was gaudy. The canvas was covered +with coarse striped stuff, bright red and yellow, with alternate red and +yellow rosettes all round the edge near the sand, which was strewn with +bits of carpet on which enormous flowers seemed to be writhing in a +wilderness of crude green and yellow leaves. Fastened to the walls, in +tarnished frames, were many little pictures--oleographs of the most +blatant type, chalk drawings of personages such as might people an ugly +dream; men in uniforms with red noses and bulbous cheeks; dogs, cats, +and sand-lizards, and coloured plates cut out of picture papers. Mingled +with these were several objects that Mrs. Armine guessed to be charms, a +mus-haf, or copy of the Koran, enclosed in a silver case which hung from +a string of yellow silk; one or two small scrolls and bits of paper +covered with Arab writing; two tooth-sticks in a wooden tube, open at +one end; a child's shoe tied with string, to which were attached bits of +coral and withered flowers; several tassels of shells mingled with +bright blue and white beads; a glass bottle of blessed storax; and a +quantity of Fatma hands, some very large and made of silver gilt, set +with stones and lumps of a red material that looked like sealing-wax, +others of silver and brass, small and practically worthless. There was +also the foot of some small animal set in a battered silver holder. On a +deal table stood a smoking oil lamp of mean design and cheap material. +Underneath it was a large wooden chest or coffer, studded with huge +brass nails, clamped with brass, and painted a brilliant green. Near it, +touching the canvas wall, was a mattress covered with gaudy rugs that +served as a bed. + +In the tent there were two people. Although the thin sound of the music +had suggested a woman to Mrs. Armine, the player was not a woman, but a +tall and large young man, dressed in a bright yellow jacket cut like a +"Zouave," wide drawers of white linen, yellow slippers, and the tarbush. +Round his waist there was a girdle, made of a long and narrow red and +yellow shawl with fringes and tassels. He was squatting cross-legged on +the hideous carpet, holding in his large, pale hands, artificially +marked with blue spots and tinted at the nails with the henna, a strange +little instrument of sand-tortoise, goat-skin, wood, and catgut, with +four strings from which he was drawing the plaintive and wavering tune. +He wore a moustache and a small, blue-black beard. His eyes were half +shut, his head drooped to one side, his mouth was partly open, and the +expression upon his face was one of weak and sickly contentment. Now and +then he sang a few notes in a withdrawn and unnatural voice, slightly +shook his large and flaccid body, and allowed his head to tremble almost +as if he were seized with palsy. Despite his breadth, his large limbs, +and his beard, there was about his whole person an indescribable +effeminacy, which seemed heightened, rather than diminished, by his bulk +and his virile contours. A little way from him on the mattress a girl +was sitting straight up, like an idol, with her legs and feet tucked +away and completely concealed by her draperies. + +Mrs. Armine looked from the man to her with the almost ferocious +eagerness of the bitterly jealous woman. For she guessed at once that +the man was no lover of this girl, but merely an attendant, perhaps a +eunuch, who ministered to her pleasure. This was Baroudi's woman, who +would stay here in the tent beside him, while she, the fettered, +European woman, would ride back in the night to Kurun. Yet could this be +Baroudi's woman, this painted, jewelled, bedizened creature, almost +macawlike in her bright-coloured finery, who remained quite still upon +her rugs--like the macaw upon its perch--indifferent, somnolent surely, +or perhaps steadily, enigmatically watchful, with a cigarette between +her painted lips, above the chin, on which was tattooed a pattern +resembling a little, indigo-coloured beard or "imperial"? Could he be +attracted by this face, which, though it seemed young under its thick +vesture of paint and collyrium, would surely not be thought pretty by +any man who was familiar with the beauties of Europe and America, this +face with its heavy features, its sultry, sullen eyes, its plump cheeks, +and sensual lips? + +Yes, he could. As she looked, with the horrible intuition of a +feverishly strung up and excited woman Mrs. Armine felt the fascination +such a creature held to tug at a man like Baroudi. Here was surely no +mind, but only a body containing the will, inherited from how many +Ghawazee ancestors, to be the plaything of man; a well-made body, yes, +even beautifully made, with no heaviness such as showed in the face, a +body that could move lightly, take supple attitudes, dance, posture, +bend, or sit up straight, as now, with the perfect rigidity of an idol; +a body that could wear rightly cascades of wonderfully tinted draperies, +and spangled, vaporous tissues, and barbaric jewels, that do not shine +brightly as if reflecting the modern, restless spirit, but that are +somnolent and heavy and deep, like the eyes of the Eastern women of +pleasure. + +The player upon the desert lute had not seen that some one stood in the +tent door. With half-shut eyes he continued playing and singing, lost in +a sickly ecstasy. The woman on the gaudy rug sat quite still and stared +at Mrs. Armine. She showed no surprise, no anger, no curiosity. Her +expression did not change. Her motionless, painted mouth was set like a +mouth carved in some hard material. Only her bosom stirred with a +regular movement beneath her coloured tissues, her jewels and strings of +coins. + +Mrs. Armine stepped into the tent and dropped the flap behind her. She +did not know what she was going to do, but she was filled with a bitter +curiosity that she could not resist, with an intense desire to force her +way into this woman's life, a life so strangely different from her own, +yet linked with it by Baroudi. She hated this woman, yet with her hatred +was mingled a subtle admiration, a desire to touch this painted toy that +gave him pleasure, a longing to prove its attraction, to plumb the depth +of its fascination, to learn from it a lesson in the strange lore of the +East. She came close up to the woman and stood beside her. + +Instantly one of the painted hands went up to her jacket, and gently, +very delicately, touched its fur. Then the other hand followed, and the +jacket was felt with wondering fingers, was stroked softly, first +downwards, then upwards, while the dark and heavy eyes solemnly noted +the thin shine of the shifting skin. The curiosity of Mrs. Armine was +met by another but childlike curiosity, and suddenly, out of the cloud +of mystery broke a ray of light that was naive. + +This naivete confused Mrs. Armine. For a moment it seemed to be pushing +away her anger, to be drawing the sting from her curiosity. But then the +childishness of this strange rival stirred up in her a more acrid +bitterness than she had known till now. And the wondering touch became +intolerable to her. Why should such a creature be perfectly happy, while +she with her knowledge, her experience, her tempered and perfected +powers, lived in a turmoil of misery? She looked down into the +Ghawazee's eyes, and suddenly the painted hands dropped from the fur, +and she was confronted by a woman who was no longer naive, who +understood her, and whom she could understand. + +The voice of the lute-player died away, the thin cry of the strings +failed. He had seen. He rose to his feet, and said something in a +language Mrs. Armine could not understand. The girl replied in a voice +that sounded ironic, and suddenly began to laugh. At the same moment +Baroudi came into the tent. The girl called out to him, pointed at Mrs. +Armine, and went on laughing. He smiled at her, and answered. + +"What are you saying to her?" said Mrs. Armine, fiercely. "How dare you +speak to her about me? How dare you discuss me with her?" + +"P'f! She is a child. She knows nothing. The camel is ready." + +The girl spoke to him again with great rapidity, and an air of +half-impudent familiarity that sickened Mrs. Armine. Something seemed to +have roused within her a sense of boisterous humour. She gesticulated +with her painted hands, and rocked on her mattress with an abandon +almost negroid. Holding his lute in one pale hand, and stroking his +blue-black beard with the other, her huge and flaccid attendant looked +calmly on without smiling. + +Mrs. Armine turned and went quickly out of the tent. Baroudi spoke again +to the girl, joined in her merriment, then followed Mrs. Armine. She +turned upon him and took hold of his cloak with both her hands, and her +hands were trembling violently. + +"How dared you bring me here?" she said. "How dared you?" + +"I wanted you. You know it." + +"That's not true." + +"It is true." + +"It is not true. How could you want me when you had that dancing-girl +with you?" + +He shrugged his shoulders, almost like one of the Frenchmen whom he had +met ever since he was a child. + +"You do not understand the men of the East, or you forget that I am an +Oriental," he said. + +A sudden idea struck her. + +"Perhaps you are married, too?" she exclaimed. + +"Of course I am married!" + +His eyes narrowed, and his face began to look hard and repellent. + +"It is not in our habits to discuss these things," he said. + +She felt afraid of his anger. + +"I didn't mean--" + +She dropped her hands from his cloak. + +"But haven't I a right?" she began. + +She stopped. What was the use of making any claim upon such a man? What +was the use of wasting upon him any feeling either of desire or of +anger? What was the use? And yet she could not go without some +understanding. She could not ride back into the camp by the lake and +settle down to virtue, to domesticity with Nigel. Her whole nature cried +out for this man imperiously. His strangeness lured her. His splendid +physique appealed to her with a power she could not resist. He dominated +her by his indifference as well as by his passion. He fascinated her by +his wealth, and by his almost Jewish faculty of acquiring. His irony +whipped her, his contempt of morality answered to her contempt. His +complete knowledge of what she was warmed, soothed, reposed her. + +But the thought of his infidelity to her as soon as she was away from +him roused in her a sort of madness. + +"How am I to see you again?" she said. + +And all that she felt for him went naked in her voice. + +"How am I to see you again?" + +He stood and looked at her. + +"And what is to happen to me if he has found out that I have been away +from the camp?" + +"Hamza will make an explanation." + +"And if he doesn't believe the explanation?" + +"You will make one. You will never tell him the truth." + +It was a cold command laid like a yoke upon her. + +"He can never know I have been here. To-night, directly you are gone, I +strike my tents and go back to Cairo. I do not choose to have any bad +affairs with the English so long as the English rule in Egypt. I am well +looked upon by the English, and so it must continue. Otherwise my +affairs might suffer. And that I will not have. Do you understand?" + +She looked at him, and said nothing. + +"We have to do what we want in the world without losing anything by it. +Thus it has always been with me in my life." + +She thought of all she had lost long ago by doing the thing she desired, +and again she felt herself inferior to him. + +"And this, too, we shall do without losing anything by it," he said. + +"This? What?" + +"Go back to Kurun. Tell me. Will you not presently need to have a +dahabeeyah?" + +"And if we do?" + +"You shall have the _Loulia_." + +"You mean to come with us?" + +"Are you a child? I shall let it to your husband at a price that will +suit his purse, so that you may be housed as you ought to be. I shall +let it with my crew, my servants, my cook. Then you must take your +husband away with you quietly up the Nile." + +Again Mrs. Armine was conscious of a shock of cold. + +"Quietly up the Nile?" she repeated. + +"Yes." + +"What is the use of that?" + +"Perhaps he will like the Nile so much that he will not come back." + +He looked into her eyes. She heard the snarl of a camel. + +"Your camel is ready," he said. + +They walked towards the fire where Ibrahim was awaiting them. Before +Mrs. Armine had settled herself in the palanquin Baroudi moved away +without another word, and as the camel rose, complaining in the night, +she saw him lift the canvas of the Ghawazee's tent and disappear within +it. + +When she reached the camp by the lake, Nigel had not returned. She +undressed quickly, got into bed, and lay there shivering, though heavy +blankets covered her. + +Just at dawn Nigel came back. + +Then she shut her eyes and pretended to sleep. + +Always she was shivering. + + + + +XXV + + +"Ruby," Nigel said, as he stood with her on the deck of the _Loulia_ and +looked up at the Arabic letters of gold inscribed above the doorway +through which they were going to pass, "what is the exact meaning of +those words? Baroudi told us that day at Luxor, but I've forgotten. It +was some lesson of fate, something from the Koran. D'you remember?" + +She turned up her veil over the brim of her burnt-straw hat. "Let me +see!" she said. + +She seemed to make an effort of memory, and lines came on her generally +smooth forehead. + +"I fancy it was 'The fate of every man have we bound about his neck,' or +something very like that." + +"Yes, that was it. We discussed it, and I said I wasn't a fatalist." + +"Did you? Come along. Let's explore." + +"Our floating home--yes." + +He took hold of her arm. + +"If my fate is bound about my neck, it's a happy fate," he said--"a fate +I can wear as a jewel instead of bearing as a burden." + +They went down the steps together, and vanished through the doorway into +the shadows beyond. + +The _Loulia_ was moored at Keneh, not far from the temple of Denderah. +She had been sent up the river from Assiout, where Baroudi had left her +when he had finished his business affairs and was ready to start for +Cairo. It was Nigel's wish that he and his wife should join her there. + +"Denderah was the first temple you and I saw together," he said. "Let's +see it more at our leisure. And let us ask Aphrodite to bless our +voyage." + +"Hathor! What, are you turning pagan?" she said. + +He laughed as he looked into her blue eyes. + +"Scarcely; but she was the Egyptian Goddess of Beauty, and I don't think +she could deny her blessing to you." + +Then she was looking radiant! + +That cold which had made her shudder in the night by the sacred lake had +been left in the desolation of Libya. Surely, it could never come to her +here in the golden warmth of Upper Egypt. She said to herself that she +would not shudder again now that she had escaped from that blanched end +of the world where desperation had seized her. + +The day of departure for the Nile journey had come, and Nigel and she +set foot upon the _Loulia_ for the first time as proprietors. + +They passed the doors of the servants' cabins, and came into their own +quarters. Ibrahim followed softly behind with a smiling face, and Hamza, +standing still in the sunshine beneath the golden letters, looked after +them imperturbably. + +Baroudi's "den" had been swept and garnished. Flowers and small branches +of mimosa decorated it, as if this day were festal. The writing-table, +which had been loaded with papers, was now neat and almost bare. But +all, or nearly all, Baroudi's books were still in their places. The +marvellous prayer rugs strewed the floor. Ibrahim had set sticks of +incense burning in silver holders. Upon the dining-room table, beyond +the screen of mashrebeeyah work, still stood the tawdry Japanese vase. +And the absurd cuckoo clock uttered its foolish sound to greet them. + +"The eastern house!" said Nigel. "You little thought you would ever be +mistress of it, did you, Ruby? How wonderful these prayer rugs are! But +we must get rid of that vase." + +"Why?" she said hastily, almost sharply. + +He looked at her in surprise. + +"You don't mean to say you like it? Besides, it doesn't belong to the +room. It's a false note." + +"Of course. But it appeals to my sense of humour--like that ridiculous +cuckoo clock. Don't let's change anything. The incongruities are too +delicious." + +"You are a regular baby!" he said. "All right. Shall we make Baroudi's +'den' your boudoir?" + +She nodded, smiling. + +"And you shall use it whenever you like. And now for the bedrooms!" + +"More incongruities," he said. "But never mind. They looked delightfully +clean and cosy." + +"Clean and cosy!" she repeated, with a sort of light irony in her +beautiful voice. "Is that all?" + +"Well, I mean--" + +"I know. Come along." + +They opened the doors and looked into each gay and luxurious little +room. And as Mrs. Armine went from one to another, she was aware of the +soft and warm sensation that steals over a woman returning to the +atmosphere which thoroughly suits her, and from which she has long been +exiled. Here she could be in her element, for here money had been +lavishly spent to create something unique. She felt certain that no +dahabeeyah on the Nile was so perfect as the _Loulia_. Every traveller +upon the river would be obliged to envy her. For a moment she secretly +revelled in that thought; then she remembered something; her face +clouded, her lips tightened, and she strove to chase from her mind that +desire to be envied by other women. + +Nigel and she must avoid the crowds that gather on the Nile in the +spring. They must tie up in the unfrequented places. Had she not +reiterated to him her wish to "get away from people," to see only the +native life on the river? Those "other women" must wait to be envious, +and she, too, must wait. She stifled an impatient sigh, and opened +another door. After one swift glance within, she said: + +"I will have this cabin, Nigel." + +"All right, darling. Anything you like. But let's have a look." + +For a moment she did not move. + +"Don't be selfish, Ruby!" + +She felt fingers touching her waist at the back, gripping her with a +sort of tender strongness; and she closed her eyes, and tried to force +herself to believe they were Baroudi's fingers of iron. + +"Or I shall pick you up and lift you out of the way." + +When Nigel spoke again, she opened her eyes. It was no use. She was not +to have that illusion. She set her teeth and put her hands behind her, +feeling for his fingers. Their hands met, clasped. She fell back, and +let him look in. + +"Why, this must be Baroudi's cabin!" he said. + +"I dare say. But what I want it for is the size. Don't you see, it's +double the size of the others," she said, carelessly. + +"So it is. But they are ever so much gayer. This is quite Oriental, and +the bed's awfully low." + +He bent down and felt it. + +"It's a good one, though. Trust Baroudi for that. Well, dear, take it; +I'll turn in next door. We can easily talk through the partition"--he +paused, then added in a lower voice--"when we are not together. Now +there's the other sitting-room to see and then shall we be off to +Denderah with Hamza, while Ibrahim sees to the arrangement of +everything?" + +"Yes. Or--shall we leave the other room till we come back, till it's +getting twilight? I don't think I want to see quite everything just at +once." + +"You're becoming a regular child, saving up your pleasure. Then we'll +start for Denderah now." + +"Yes." + +She drew her veil over her face rather quickly, and walked down the +passage, through the arch in the screen, and out to the brilliant +sunshine that flooded the sailors' deck. For though the Nubians had +spread an awning over their heads, they had not let down canvas as yet +to meet the white and gold of the bulwarks forward. And there was a +strong sparkle of light about them. In the midst of that sparkle Hamza +stood, a little away from the crew, who were tall, stalwart, black men, +evidently picked men, for not one was mean or ugly, not one lacked an +eye or was pitted with smallpox. + +As Mrs. Armine came up the three steps from the cabins, walking rather +hurriedly, as if in haste to get to the sunshine, Hamza sent her a +steady look that was like a quiet but determined rebuke. His eyes seemed +to say to her, "Why do you rush out of the shadows like this?" And she +felt as if they were adding, "You who must learn to love the shadows." +His look affected her nerves, even affected her limbs. At the top of the +steps she stood still, then looked round, with a slight gesture as if +she would return. + +"What is it, Ruby?" asked Nigel. "Have you forgotten anything?" + +"No, no. Is it this side? Or must we have the felucca? I forget." + +"It's this side. The _Loulia_ is tied up here on purpose. The donkeys, +Hamza!" + +He spoke kindly, but in the authoritative voice of the young Englishman +addressing a native. Without changing his expression, Hamza went softly +and swiftly over the gangway to the shore, climbed the steep brown bank, +and was gone--a flash of white through the gold. + +"He's a useful fellow, that!" said Nigel. "And now, Ruby, to seek the +blessing of the Egyptian Aphrodite. It will be easily won, for Aphrodite +could never turn her face from you." + +As their tripping donkeys drew near to that lonely temple, where a sad +Hathor gazes in loneliness upon the courts that are no longer thronged +with worshippers, Mrs. Armine fell into silence. The disagreeable +impression she had received here on her first visit was returning. But +on her first visit she had been tired, worn with travel. Now she was +strong, in remarkable health. She would not be the victim of her nerves. +Nevertheless, as the donkeys covered the rough ground, as she saw the +pale facade of the temple confronting her in the pale sands, backed by +the almost purple sky, she remembered the carven face of the goddess, +and a fear that was superstitious stirred in her heart. Why had Nigel +suggested that they should seek the blessing of this tragic Aphrodite? +No blessing, surely, could emanate from this dark dwelling in the sands, +from this goddess long outraged by desertion. + +They dismounted, and went into the temple. No one was there except the +chocolate-coloured guardian, who greeted them with a smile of welcome +that showed his broken teeth. + +"May your day be happy!" he said to them in Arabic. + +"He ought to say, 'May all your days on the Nile be happy,' Ruby," said +Nigel. + +"He only wants the day on which we pay him to be happy. On any other day +we might die like dogs, and he wouldn't care." + +She stood still in the first court, and looked up at the face of Hathor, +which seemed to regard the distant spaces with an eternal sorrow. + +"I think you count too much on happiness, Nigel," she added. She felt +almost impelled by the face to say it. "I believe it's a mistake to +count upon things," she added. + +"You think it's a mistake to look forward, as I am doing, to our Nile +journey?" + +"Perhaps." + +She walked on slowly into the lofty dimness of the temple. + +"One never knows what is going to happen," she added. And there was +almost a grimness in her voice. + +"And it all passes away so fast, whatever it is," he said. "But that is +no reason why we should not take our happiness and enjoy it to the +utmost. Why do you try to damp my enthusiasm to-day?" + +"I don't try. But it is dangerous to be too sure of happiness +beforehand." + +She was speaking superstitiously, and she was really speaking to +herself. At first she had been thinking of, speaking to, him as if for +his own good, moved by a sort of dim pity that surely belonged rather to +the girl she had been than to the woman she actually was. Now the +darkness of this lonely temple and the knowledge that it was +Aphrodite's--she thought always of Hathor as Aphrodite--preyed again +upon her spirit as when she first came to it. She felt the dreadful +brevity of a woman's, of any woman's triumph over the world of men. She +felt the ghastly shortness of the life of physical beauty. She seemed to +hear the sound of the movement of Time rushing away, to see the darkness +of the End closing about her, as now the dimness of this desolate shrine +of beauty and love grew deeper round her. + +Far up, near the forbidding gloom of the mighty roof, there rose a +fiercely petulant sound, a chorus of angry cries. Large shadows with +beating wings came and went rapidly through the forest of heavy columns. +The monstrous bats of Hathor were disturbed in their brooding reveries. +A heavy smell, like the odour of a long-decaying past, lifted itself, as +if with a slow, determined effort, to Mrs. Armine's nostrils. And ever +the light of day failed slowly as she and Nigel went onward, drawn in +despite of themselves by the power of the darkness, and by the +mysterious perfumes that swept up from the breast of death. + +At last they came into the sanctuary, the "Holy of Holies" of Denderah, +where once were treasured images of the gods of Egypt, where only the +King or his high priest might venture to come, at the fete of the New +Year. They stood in its darkness, this woman who was longing to return +to the unbridled life of her sensual and disordered past, and this man +who, quite without vanity, believed that he had been permitted to redeem +her from it. + +The guardian of the temple, who had followed them softly, now lit a +ribbon of magnesium, and there sprang into a vague and momentary life +reliefs of the King performing ceremonies and accomplishing sacrifices. +Then the darkness closed again. And the fragmentary and short vision +seemed to Mrs. Armine like the vision of her little life as a beautiful +woman, and the coming of the darkness to blot it out like the coming of +the darkness of death to cover her for ever with its impenetrable +mantle. + +What she had told Meyer Isaacson in his consulting-room was true. When +she thought sincerely, she believed in no future life. She could not +conceive of a spirit life. Nor could she conceive of the skeletons of +the dead in some strange resurrection being reclothed with the flesh +which she adored, being inhabited again by the vitality which makes +skeleton and flesh living man or woman. This life was all to her. And +when the light in which it existed and was perceived died away and was +consumed, she believed that the vision could never reappear. + +Now, in this once so sacred place, she seemed for a moment to plunge +into the depths of herself, to penetrate into the inmost recesses of her +nature. In London, before Nigel came into her life, had she not been +like Hathor in her temple, hearing the sound of the departing feet of +those who had been her worshippers? And with Nigel had come a wild hope +of worldly eminence, of great riches, of a triumph over enemies. And +that hope had faded abruptly. Yet through her association with Nigel she +had come to another hope. And this hope must be fulfilled, before the +inevitable darkness that would fall about her beauty. Nigel would never +be the means to the end she had originally had in view. Yet his destiny +was to serve her. He had his destiny, and she hers. And hers was not a +great worldly position, or any ultimate respectability. She could not +have the first, and so she would not have the second. Perhaps she was +born for other things--born to be a votary of Venus, but not to content +any man as his lawful wife. The very word "lawful" sent a chill through +her blood now. She was meant for lawlessness, it seemed. Then she would +fulfil her destiny, without pity, without fear, but not without +discretion. And her destiny was to emerge from the trap in which she was +confined. So she believed. + +Yet would she emerge? In the darkness of Hathor's sanctuary, haunted by +the face of the goddess and by the sad thoughts of deserted womanhood +which it suggested to her self-centred mind, she resolved that she would +emerge, that nothing should stop her, that she would crush down any +weakening sentiments and thoughts if they came to heart or mind. Egypt, +in which one desire had been rendered useless and finally killed in her, +had given to her another, had brought to her a last chance--she seemed +to know it was that--of happiness, of ugly yet intense joy. In Egypt she +had blossomed, fading woman though she had been. She had renewed her +powers of physical fascination. Then she must emerge from the trap and +go to fulfil her destiny. She would do so. Silently, and as if making +the vow to the Egyptian Aphrodite in the darkness of her temple, she +swore to do so. Nigel had brought her there--had he not?--that Hathor +might bless her voyage. Moved by a fierce impulse, and casting away +pity, doubt, fear, everything but flamelike desire, she called upon +Hathor to bless her voyage--not their voyage, but only hers. She called +upon the goddess of beauty, the pagan goddess of the love that was not +spiritual. + +And she almost felt as if she was answered. + +Yet only the enormous bats cried fiercely to her from far up in the +dimness. She only heard their voices and the beating of their wings. + +"Let's go, Ruby. I don't know why, but to-day I hate this place." + +She started at the sound of his voice close to her. But she controlled +herself immediately, and replied, quietly: + +"Yes, let us go. We are only disturbing the bats." + +As they went out, she looked up to the column from which Hathor gazed as +if seeking for her worshippers, and she whispered adieu to the goddess. + +As soon as they were on board of the _Loulia_ Nigel gave the order to +cast off. He seemed unusually restless, and in a hurry to be _en route_. +With eagerness he spoke to the impassive Reis, whose handsome head was +swathed in a shawl, and who listened imperturbably. He went about on the +sailors' deck watching the preparations, seeing the ropes hauled in, the +huge poles brought out to fend them from off the bank, the gigantic sail +unfurled to catch the evening breeze, which was blowing from the north, +and which would take them up against the strong set of the current. And +when the water curled and eddied about the _Loulia's_ prow, and the +shores seemed slipping away and falling back into the primrose light of +the north, and into the great dahabeeyah there came that mysterious +feeling of life which thrills through the moving vessel, he flung up his +arms, and uttered an exclamation that was like a mingled sigh and +half-suppressed shout. Then he laughed at himself, and turned to look +for Ruby. + +She was alone on the upper deck, standing among some big palms in pots, +with her hands on the rail, and gazing towards him. She had taken off +her hat and veil, and the breeze stirred, and the gold of the departing +sun lit up the strands of her curiously pale yet shining hair. He sprang +up the companion to stand beside her. + +"We're off!" he said. + +"How glad you seem! You called me a child. But you're like a mad +boy--mad to be moving. One would think you had--No, that wouldn't be +like a boy." + +"What do you mean?" + +"I was going to say one would think you had an enemy in Keneh and were +escaping from him." + +"Him! Her, you should say." + +"Her?" + +"Hathor. That temple of Denderah seemed haunted to-day." + +He pulled off his hat to let the breeze get at his hair, too. + +"When we were standing in the sanctuary I seemed to be smelling death +and corruption. Ugh!" + +His face changed at the memory. + +"And the cries of those bats! They sounded like menacing spirits. I was +a fool to go to such a place to ask a blessing on our voyage. My attempt +at paganism was punished, and no wonder, Ruby. For I don't think I'm +really a bit of a pagan; I don't think I see much joy in the pagan life, +that is so much cracked up by some people. I don't see how the short +life and the merry one can ever be really merry at all. How can a man be +merry with a darkness always in front of him?" + +"What darkness?" + +"Death--without immortality." + +She said nothing for a moment. Then she asked him: + +"Do you look upon death merely as a door into another life?" + +"I believe it is. Don't you?" + +"Yes. Then you don't dread death?" + +"Don't I--now? It would be leaving so much now. And besides, I love this +life; I revel in it. Who wouldn't, with health like mine? Feel that +arm!" + +She did not move. He took her hand and pressed her fingers against his +muscles. + +"It's like iron," she said, taking away her hand. "But muscle and health +are not exactly the same thing, are they?" + +"No; of course not. But did you ever see a man look more perfectly well +than I do?" + +As he stood beside her, radiant now, upright, with the breeze ruffling +his short, fair hair, his enthusiastic blue eyes shining with happiness, +he did look like a young god of health and years younger than his age. + +"Oh, you look all right," she said; "just like lots of other men who go +in for sport and keep themselves fit." + +He laughed. + +"You won't pay me the compliment I want. Look at those barges loaded +with pottery! All those thousands of little vases--_koulal_, as the +natives call them--are made in Keneh. I've seen the men doing it--boys +too--the wet clay spinning round the brown finger that makes the +orifice. How good it is to see the life of the river! There's always +something new, always something interesting, humanity at work in the +sunshine and the open air. Who wouldn't be a fellah rather than a toiler +in any English town? Here are the shadufs! All the way up the Nile we +shall see them, and we shall hear the old shaduf songs, that sound as if +they came down from the days when they cut the Sphinx out of the living +rock, and we shall hear the drowsy song of the water-wheels, as the +sleepy oxen go round and round in the sunshine; and we shall see the +women coming in lines from the inland villages with the water-jars +poised on their heads. If only we were back in the days when there were +no steamers and the Nile must have been like a perpetual dream! But +never mind. At least we refused Baroudi's steam-tug. So we shall just go +up with the wind, or be poled up when there is none, if we aren't tied +up under the bank. That's the only way to travel on the Nile, but of +course Baroudi uses it, as one uses the railway, to go to business." + +He stopped, as if his mind had taken a turn towards some other line of +thought; then he said: + +"Isn't it odd that you and I should be established in Baroudi's boat, +when we've never seen him again since the day we had tea on it? I almost +thought--" + +"What?" + +"I almost thought perhaps he'd run up by train to give us a sort of +send-off." + +"Why should he?" + +"Of course it wasn't necessary. Still, it would have been an act of +pretty politeness to you." + +"Oh, I think the less pretty politeness European women have from these +Orientals the better!" she said, almost with a sneer. + +"You're thinking of that horrible German woman in the Fayyum. But +Baroudi's very well looked on by the English in Egypt. I found that out +in Cairo, when I left you to go to the Fayyum. He's quite a _persona +grata_ for an Egyptian. Everybody seems ready to do him a good turn. +That's partly why he's been so successful in all he's undertaken." + +"I dare say he's not bad in his way, but as long as we've got his lovely +boat I can do quite well without him" she said, smiling. "Where are we +going to tie up tonight, and when?" + +"When it gets dark. The Reis knows where. Isn't it glorious to be quite +free and independent? We can stop wherever we like, in the lonely +places, where there'll be no tourists to bother us." + +"Yes," she said, echoing his enthusiasm, while she looked at him with +smiling eyes. "Let's avoid the tourists and stop in the lonely places. +Well, I'm going down now." + +"Why? What are you going to do? The sun will soon be setting. We ought +to see the first afterglow from the _Loulia_ together." + +"Call me, then, when it comes. But I'm going to take a lesson in +coffee-making as they do it out here. It will amuse me to make our +coffee after lunch. Besides, it will be something to do. And I want to +take an interest in everything, in all the trifles of this odd new +life." + +He put his arm around her shoulder. + +"Splendid!" he said. + +His hand tightened upon her. + +"But you must come for the afterglow." + +"Call me, and I'll come." + +As she went down the companion, he leaned over the rail and asked her: + +"Who's going to give you your lesson in coffee-making?" + +"Hamza," she answered. + +And she disappeared. + + + + +XXVI + + +"All the way up the Nile we shall hear the old shaduf songs," Nigel had +said, when the _Loulia_ set sail from Keneh. + +As Mrs. Armine went down to meet Hamza, she was aware of the loud voices +of the shaduf men. They came from both banks of the Nile--powerfully +from the eastern, faintly from the western bank soon to be drowned in +the showers of gold from the sinking sun. Yet she could hear that even +those distant voices were calling loudly, that in their faintness there +was violence. And she thought of the fellah's voice that cried to her in +the orange-garden, and how for a moment she had thought of flight before +she had found herself in a prison of prayer. Now she was in another +prison. But even then the inexorable hands had closed upon her, and the +final cry of the fellah had thrilled with a savage triumph. She had +remembered "Aida" that day. She remembered it again now. Then, in her +youth, she had believed that the passion which had wrecked her was the +passion of her life, a madness of the senses, a delirium of the body +which could never be repeated in later years for another object. How +little she had known herself or life! How little she had known the cruel +forces of mature age. That passion of her girlhood seemed to her like an +anaemic shadow of the wolfish truth that was alive in her now. In those +days the power to feel, the power to crave, to shudder with jealousy, to +go almost mad in the face of a menacing imagination, was not full-grown. +Now it was full-grown, and it was a giant. Yet in those days she had +allowed the shadow to ruin her. In these she meant to be more wary. But +now she was tortured by a nature that she feared. + +The die was cast. She had no more thought of escape or of resistance. +The supreme selfishness of the materialist, which is like no other +selfishness, was fully alive within her. Believing not at all in any +future for her soul, she desired present joy for her clamorous body as +no one not a materialist could ever desire. If she failed in having what +she longed for now, while she still retained the glow of her Indian +summer, she believed she would have nothing more at all, that all would +be finally over for her, that the black gulf would gape for her and that +she would vanish into it for ever. She was a desperate woman, beneath +her mask of smiling calm, when the _Loulia_ set sail and glided into the +path of the golden evening. + +Nevertheless, directly she had descended the shallow steps, and come +into the luxurious cabin that was to be her boudoir, she was conscious +of a feeling of relief that was almost joy. The comfort, the perfect +arrangements of the _Loulia_ gave her courage. She was able to look +forward. The soul of her purred with a sensual satisfaction. She went on +down the passage to the room of the fountain and of the gilded ball. But +today the fountain was not playing, and the little ball floated upon the +water in the marble basin like a thing that had lost its life. She felt +a slight shock of disappointment. Then she remembered that they were +moving. Probably the fountain only played when the dahabeeyah was at +rest. The grotesque monster, like a dragon with a dog's head, which she +had seen on her first visit, looked down on her from its bracket. And +she felt as if it welcomed her. The mashrebeeyeh lattices were closed +over the windows, but the sliding doors that gave on to the balcony were +pushed back, and let in the light of evening, and a sound of water, and +of voices along the Nile. She sat down on the divan, and almost +immediately Hamza came in. + +"You are going to show me how to make Turkish coffee, Hamza?" she said, +in her lazy and careless voice. + +"Yes," he replied. + +"Where shall we do it?" + +He pointed towards the raised balcony in the stern. + +"Out there!" she said. + +She seemed disappointed, but she got up slowly and followed him out. The +awning was spread so that the upper deck was not visible. When she saw +that, the cloud passed away from her face, and as she sat down to +receive her lesson, there was a bright and hard eagerness and attention +in her eyes and about her lips. + +Hamza had already brought a brazier with iron legs, which was protected +from the wind by a screen of canvas. On the polished wood close to it +there were a shining saucepan containing water, a brass bowl of freshly +roasted and pounded coffee, two small open coffee-pots with handles that +stuck straight out, two coffee-cups, a tiny bowl of powdered sugar, and +some paper parcels which held sticks of mastic, ambergris, and seed of +cardamom. As soon as Mrs. Armine was seated by the brazier Hamza, whose +face looked as if he were quite alone, with slow and almost dainty +delicacy and precision proceeded with his task. Squatting down upon his +haunches, with his thin brown legs well under his reed-like body, he +poured the water from the saucepan into one of the copper pots, set the +pot on the brazier, and seemed to sink into a reverie, with his +enigmatic eyes, that took all and gave nothing, fixed on the burning +coals. Mrs. Armine was motionless, watching him, but he never looked at +her. There was something animal in his abstraction. Presently there came +from the pot a murmur. Instantly Hamza stretched out his hand, took the +pot from the brazier and the bowl of coffee from the ground, let some of +the coffee slip into the water, stirred it with a silver spoon which he +produced from a carefully folded square of linen, and set the pot once +more on the brazier. Then he unfolded the paper which held the +ambergris, put a carat weight of it into the second pot and set that, +too, on the brazier. The coffee began to simmer. He lit a stick of +mastic, fumigated with its smoke the two little coffee-cups, took the +coffee-pot, and gently poured the fragrant coffee into the pot +containing the melted ambergris, let it simmer for a moment there, +poured it out into the coffee-cups, creaming and now sending forth with +its own warm perfume the enticing perfume of ambergris, added a dash of +the cardamom seed, and then, at last, looked towards Mrs. Armine. + +"It's ready? Then--then shall I put the sugar in?" she said. + +"Yes," said Hamza, looking steadily at her. + +She stretched out her hand, but not to the sugar bowl. Just as she did +so a voice from over their heads called out: + +"Ruby! Ruby!" + +"Come down here!" she called, in answer. + +"But I want you to come up and see the sunset and the afterglow with +me." + +"Come down here first," she called. + +"Right!" + +The coffee-making was finished. Hamza got up from his haunches, lifted +up the brazier, and went softly away, carrying it with a nonchalant ease +almost as if it were a cardboard counterfeit weighing nothing. + +In a moment Nigel came into the dim room of the fountain. + +"Where are you? Oh, there! We mustn't miss our first sunset." + +"Coffee!" she said, smiling. + +He came out on to the balcony, and she gave him one of the little cups. + +"Did you make it yourself?" + +"No. But I will to-morrow. Hamza has been showing me how to." + +He took the cup. + +"It smells delicious, as enticing as perfumes from Paradise. I think you +must have made it." + +"Drink it, and believe so--you absurd person!" she said, gently. + +He sipped, and she did likewise. + +"It's perfect, simply perfect. But what has been put into it to give it +this peculiar, delicious flavour, Ruby?" + +"Ah, that's my secret." + +She sipped from her little cup. + +"It is extraordinarily good," she said. + +She pointed to the small paper packets, which Hamza had not yet carried +off. + +"The preparation is almost like some sacred rite," she said. "We put in +a little something from this packet, and a little something from that. +And we smoke the cups with one of those burning sticks of mastic. And +then, at the very end, when the coffee is frothing and creaming, we dust +it with sugar. This is the result." + +"Simply perfect." + +He put his cup down empty. + +"Look at that light!" he said, pointing over the rail to the yellow +water which they were leaving behind them. "Have you finished?" + +"Quite." + +"Then let's go on deck--coffee-maker." + +They were quite alone. He put his arm around her as she stood up. + +"Everything you give me seems to me different from other things," he +said--"different, and so much better." + +"Your imagination is kind to me--too kind. You are foolish about me." + +"Am I?" + +He looked into her eyes, and his kind and enthusiastic eyes became +almost piercing for an instant. + +"And you, Ruby?" + +"I?" + +"Could you ever be foolish about me?" + +For a moment his joy seemed to be clouded by a faint and creeping doubt, +as if he were mentally comparing her condition of heart with his, and as +if the comparison were beginning--only just beginning--dimly to distress +him. She knew just how he was feeling, and she leaned against him, +making her body feel weak. + +"I don't want to," she said. + +"Why not?" + +Already the cloud was evaporating. + +"I don't want to suffer. I want to be happy now in the short time I have +left for happiness." + +"Why do you say 'the short time'?" + +"I'm not young any more. And I've suffered enough in my life." + +"But through me! How could you suffer? Don't you trust me completely +even yet?" + +"It isn't that. But--it's dangerous for a woman to be foolish about any +man. It's a folly to care too much." + +She spoke with a sincerity there was no mistaking, for she was thinking +about Baroudi. + +"Only sometimes. Only when one cares for the weak, or the insincere. +We--needn't count the cost, and hesitate." + +She let him close her lips, which were opening for a reply, and while he +kissed her she listened to the voices of the shaduf men ever calling on +the banks of the river. + +When they were on the upper deck those voices seemed to her louder. That +evening it was a sunset of sheer gold. The cloudless sky--so it +seemed--would brook no other colour; the hills would receive no gift +that was not a gift of gold. A pageant of gold that was almost barbaric +was offered to Mrs. Armine. Out of the gold the voices cried from banks +that were turning black. Always, in Egypt, the gold turns the barques on +the Nile, its banks, the palm-trees that sometimes crown them, the +houses of the native villages, black. And so it was that evening, but +Nigel only saw and thought of the gold. + +"At last we are sailing into the gold," he said. "This makes me think of +a picture that I love." + +"What picture?" + +"A picture by Watts, called 'Progress.' In it there is a wonderful glow. +I remember I spoke of it to Meyer Isaacson on the evening when I +introduced him to you." + +She had been leaning over the rail on the starboard side of the boat. +Now she lifted her arms, stood straight up, then sat down in a beehive +chair, and leaned back against the basket-work, which creaked as if +protesting. + +"To Meyer Isaacson!" she said. "What did you say about it?" + +He turned, set his back against the rail, and looked at her in her +hooded shelter. + +"We spoke of progress. The picture's an allegory, of course, an +allegory of the spiritual progress of the world, and of each one of us. +I remember telling Isaacson how firmly I believed in the triumph of good +in the world and the individual." + +"And what did he say?" + +"Isaacson? I don't know that he quite took my view." + +"He's a tiny bit of a suspicious man, I think." + +"Perhaps he wants more solid proof--proof you could point to and say, +'Look there! I rely on that!' than I should." + +"He's ever so much more _terre a terre_ than you are." + +"Oh, Ruby, I don't know that!" + +"Yes, he is. He's a delightfully clever and a very interesting man, but, +though he mayn't think it he's _terre a terre_. He sees with +extraordinary clearness, but only a very little way, and he would never +believe anything important existed beyond the range of his vision. You +are not like that!" + +"He's a thousand times cleverer than I am." + +"Yes, he's so clever that he's distrustful. Now, for instance, he'd +never believe in a woman like me." + +"Oh--" he began, in a tone of energetic protest. + +"No, he wouldn't," she interrupted, quietly. "To the end of time he +would judge me by the past. He would label me 'woman to beware of' and +my most innocent actions, my most impulsive attempts to show forth my +true and better self he would entirely misinterpret, brilliant man +though he is. Nigel, believe me, we women know!" + +"But, then, surely you must dislike Isaacson very much!" + +"On the contrary, I like him." + +"I can't understand that." + +"I don't require of him any of the splendid things that--well, that I do +require of you, because I could never care for him. If he were to play +me false, even if he were to hate me a thousand times more than he does, +it wouldn't upset me, because I could never care for him." + +"You think Isaacson hates you!" he exclaimed. + +He had forgotten the gold of the sunset, the liquid gold of the river. +He saw only her, thought only of what she was saying, thinking. + +"Nigel, tell me the truth. Do you think he likes me?" + +He looked down. + +"He doesn't know you. If he did--" + +"If he did, it would make not a bit of difference." + +"I think it would; all the difference." + +She smilingly shook her head. + +"I should always wear my label, 'woman to beware of.' But what does it +matter? I'm not married to him. If I were, ah, then I should be the most +miserable woman on earth--now!" + +He sat down close to her in another beehive chair. + +"Ruby, why did you say 'now' like that?" + +"Oh," she spoke in a tone of lightness that sounded assumed, "because +now I've lived in an atmosphere not of mistrust. And it's spoilt me +completely." + +He felt within him a glow strong and golden as the glow of the sunset. +At last she had forgotten their painful scene in the garden. He had +fought for and had won her soul's forgetfulness. + +"I'm glad," he said, with the Englishman's almost blunt simplicity--"I'm +glad. I wish Isaacson knew." + +She felt as if she frowned, but not a wrinkle came on her forehead. + +"I didn't tell you," he added, "but I wrote to Isaacson the other day." + +"Did you?" + +Her hands met in her lap, and her fingers clasped. + +"Yes, I sent him quite a good letter. I told him we were going up the +Nile in Baroudi's boat, and how splendid you were looking, and how +immensely happy we were. I told him we were going to cut all the +travellers, and just live for our two selves in the quiet places where +there are no steamers and no other dahabeeyahs. And I told him how +magnificently well I was." + +"Oh, treating him as the great Doctor, I suppose!" + +She unclasped her hands, and took hold of the rudimentary arms of her +chair. + +"No. But I felt expansive--riotously well--when I was writing, and I +just stuck it down with all the rest." + +"And the rest?" + +She leaned forward a little, as if she wanted to see the sunset better, +but soon she looked at him. + +"Oh, I let him understand just how it is between you and me. And I told +him about the dahabeeyah, what a marvel it is, and about Baroudi, and +how Ibrahim put Baroudi up to the idea of letting it to us." + +"I see." + +"How these chairs creak!" he said. "Yours is making a regular row." + +She got up. + +"You aren't going down again?" + +"No. Let us walk about." + +"All right." + +He joined her and they began slowly to pace up and down, while the gold +grew fainter in the sky, fainter upon the river. She kept silence, and +perhaps communicated her wish for silence to him, for he did not speak +until the sunset had faded away, and the world of water, green flats, +desert, and arid hills grew pale in the pause before the afterglow. Then +at last he said: + +"What is it, Ruby? What are you thinking about so seriously?" + +"I don't know." + +She looked at him, and seemed to take a resolve. + +"Yes, I do." + +"Have I said something that has vexed you? Are you vexed at my writing +to Isaacson to tell him about our happiness?" + +"Not vexed, no. But somehow it seems to take off the edge of it a +little. But men don't understand such things, so it's no use talking of +it." + +"But I want to understand everything. You see, Isaacson is my friend. +Isn't it natural that I should let him know of my happiness?" + +"Oh, yes, I suppose so. Never mind. What does it matter?" + +"You dislike my having written to him?" + +"I'm a fool, Nigel--that's the truth. I'm afraid of everything and +everybody." + +"Afraid! You're surely not afraid of Isaacson?" + +"I tell you I'm afraid of everybody." + +She stopped by the rail, and looked towards the west. + +"To me happiness seems such a brittle thing that any one might break it. +And men--forgive me!--men generally have such clumsy hands." + +He leaned on the rail beside her, turning himself towards her. + +"You don't mean to say that you think Isaacson could ever break our +happiness, even if he wished to?" + +"Why not?" + +"Don't you understand me at all?" + +There was in his voice a tremor of deep feeling. + +"Do you think," he went on, "that a man who is worth anything at all +would allow even his dearest friend to come between him and the woman +whom he loved and who was his? Do you think that I would allow any one, +woman or man, to come between me and you?" + +"Are you sure you wouldn't?" + +"What a tragedy it must be to be so distrustful of love as you are!" he +said, almost with violence. + +"You haven't lived my life." + +She, too, spoke almost with violence, and there was violence in her +eyes. + +"You haven't lived for years in the midst of condemnation. Your friend, +Doctor Isaacson, secretly condemns me. I know it. And so I'm afraid of +him. I don't pretend to have any real reason--any reason that would +commend itself to a man. Women don't need such reasons for their fears." + +"And yet you say that you like Isaacson!" + +"So I do, in a way. At least, I thought I did, till you told me you'd +written to him to tell him about us and our life on the Nile." + +He could not help smiling. + +"Oh!" he said, moving nearer to her. "I shall never understand women. +What a reason for dislike of a man hundreds of miles away from us!" + +"Hundreds of miles--yes! And if your letter brought him to us! Suppose +he took it into his head to run out and see for himself if what you +wrote was true?" + +"Ruby! How wild you are in your suppositions!" + +"They're not so wild as you think. Doctor Isaacson is just the man to do +such a thing." + +"Well, even if he did--?" + +"Do you want him to?" she interrupted. + +He hesitated. + +"You do want him to." + +She said it bitterly. + +"And I thought I was enough!" she exclaimed. + +"It isn't that, Ruby--it isn't that at all. But I confess that I should +like Isaacson to see for himself how happy we are together." + +"Did you say that in your letter?" + +"No, not a word of it. But I did think it when I was writing. Wasn't it +a natural thought? Isaacson was almost my confidant--not quite, for +nobody was quite--about my feelings and intentions towards you before +our marriage." + +"And if he could have prevented the marriage, he would have prevented +it." + +"And because of that, if it's true, you wouldn't like him to see us +happy together?" + +"I don't want him here. I don't want any one. I feel as if he might try +to separate us, even now." + +"He might try till the Day of Judgment without succeeding. But you are +not quite fair to him." + +"And he would never be fair to me. There's the after-glow coming at +last." + +They watched it in silence giving magic to the western hills and to the +cloudless sky in the west. It was suggestive of peace and of remoteness, +suggestive of things clarified, purged, made very wonderfully pure, but +not coldly pure. When it died away into the breast of the softly +advancing night, Nigel felt as if it had purged him of all confusion of +thought and feeling, as if it had set him quite straight with himself. + +"That makes me feel as if I understood everything just for a moment," he +said. "Ruby, don't let us get into any difficulties, make any +difficulties for ourselves out here. We are having such a chance for +peace, aren't we? We should be worse than mad if we didn't take it, I +think. But we will take it. I understand that your life has made you +suspicious of people. I believe I understand your fears a little, too. +But they are groundless as far as I am concerned. Nobody on earth could +ever come between you and me. Only one person could ever break our +union." + +"Who?" + +"Yourself. Hark! the sailors are singing. I expect we are going to tie +up." + +That night, as Mrs. Armine lay awake in the cabin which was Baroudi's, +and which, in contrast to all the other bedrooms on the _Loulia_, was +sombre in its colouring and distinctively Oriental, she thought of the +conversation of the afternoon, and realized that she must keep a tighter +hold over her nerves, put a stronger guard upon her temper. Without +really intending to, she had let herself run loose, she had lost part of +her self-control. Not all, for as usual when she told some truth, she +had made it serve her very much as a lie might have served her. But by +speaking as she had about Meyer Isaacson she had made herself fully +realize something--that she was afraid of him, or that in the future she +might become afraid of him. Why had Nigel written just now? Why had he +drawn Isaacson's attention to them and their lives just now? It was +almost as if--and then she pulled herself up sharply. She was not going +to be a superstitious fool. It was, of course, perfectly natural for +Nigel to write to his friend. Nevertheless, she wished ardently that +Isaacson was not his friend, that those keen doctor's eyes, which seemed +to sum up the bodily and mental states of woman or man with one bright +and steady glance, had never looked upon her. + +And most of all she wished that they might never look upon her again. + + + + +XXVII + + +In the house in Cleveland Square, on a morning in late January, Meyer +Isaacson read Nigel's letter. + + "Villa Androud, + + "Luxor, Upper Egypt, Jan. 21st. + + "Dear Isaacson, + + "Here at last is a letter, the first I've sat down to write to you + since the note telling you of my marriage. I had your kind letter + in answer, and showed it to Ruby, who was as pleased with it as I + was. She liked you from the first, and I think has always wished to + know you better since you went to cheer her up in her London + solitude. Some day I suppose she will have the chance, but now we + are on the eve of cutting ourselves off from every one and giving + ourselves up to the Nile. You are surprised, perhaps? You thought I + should be hard at it in the Fayyum, looking after my brown fellows? + Well, I'm as keen as ever on the work there, and if you could have + seen me not many days ago, nearly up to my knees in mud, and as + oily and black as a stoker, you'd know it. My wife was in the + Fayyum with me, and has been roughing it like a regular Spartan. + She packed off her French maid so as to be quite free, and has been + living under the tent, riding camels, feeding anyhow, and, in + short, getting a real taste of the nomad's life in the wilds. She + cottoned to it like anything, although no doubt she missed her + comforts now and then. But she never complained, she's looking + simply splendid--years younger than she did when you saw her in + London--and won't hear of having another maid, though now she might + quite well get one. For I felt I oughtn't to keep her too long in + the wilds just at first, although she was quite willing to stay, + and didn't want to take me away from my work. I knew she was + naturally anxious to see something of the wonders of Egypt, and the + end of it was that we decided to take a dahabeeyah trip on the + Nile, and are on the eve of starting. You should see our boat, the + _Loulia_! she's a perfect beauty, and, apart from a few absurd + details which I haven't the time to describe, would delight you. + The bedrooms are Paris, but the sitting-rooms are like rooms in an + Eastern house. You'll say Paris and the East don't go together. + Granted! But it's very jolly to be romantic by day and soused in + modern comfort at night. Now isn't it? Especially after the Fayyum. + And we've actually got a fountain on board, to say nothing of + prayer rugs by the dozen which beat any I've seen in the bazaars of + Cairo. For we haven't hired from Cook, but from an Egyptian + millionaire of Alexandria called Mahmoud Baroudi, whom we met + coming out, and who happened to want a tenant for his boat just in + the nick of time. It isn't my money he needs, though I'm paying him + what I should pay Cook for a first-rate boat, but he doesn't like + leaving his crew and servants with nothing to do. He says they get + into mischief. He was looking out for a rich American--like nearly + every one out here--when he happened to hear from one of our + fellows, a first-rate chap called Ibrahim, that we wanted a good + boat, and so the bargain was made. Our plans are pretty vague. We + want to get right away from trippers, and just be together in all + the delicious out-of-the-way places on the river; see the temples + and tombs quietly, enter into the life of the natives--in fact, + steep ourselves to the lips in Nile water. I can't tell you how we + are both looking forward to it. Isaacson, we're happy! Out here in + this climate, this air, this clearness--like radiant sincerity it + is, I often think--it's difficult not to be happy; but I think + we're happier even than most people out here--at any rate I'm sure + I am--I'll dare to say than any one else out here. And I'll say it + with audacity and without superstitious fears of the future. The + sun's streaming in over me as I write; I hear the voices of the + watermen singing; I see my wife in the garden walking to the river + bank, and I've got this trip before me. And--just remembered + it!--I'm superbly well. Never in my life have I been in such + splendid health. They say a perfectly healthy man should be + unconscious of his body. Well, when I get up in the morning, all I + know is that I say to myself, 'You're in grand condition, old + chap!' And I think that consciousness means more than any + unconsciousness. Don't you? I've no use for all your knowledge, + your skill, out here--no use at all. Are there really people being + ill in London? Are your consulting-rooms crowded? I can't believe + it, any more than I can believe in the darkness of London days. + What a selfish brute I am! You're hating me, aren't you? But it's + so good to be happy. When I'm happy, I always feel that I'm + fulfilling the law. If you want to fulfil the law better, come to + Egypt. But you ought to bring _the_ woman with you into the + sunshine. I can't say any more; I needn't say any more. Now, you + understand that it's all right. Do you remember our walk home from + the concert that night, and how I said, 'I want to get into the + light, the real light'? Well, I'm in it, and how I wish that you + and every one else could be in it too! Forgive my egoism. Write to + me at this address when you have time. Come to the Nile when next + you take a holiday, and, with many messages from us both, + + "Believe us + + "Your friends, + "N. A. and R. A. + + "I sign for her. She's still in the garden, where I'm just going." + +A letter of success. A letter subtly breathing out from every line the +message, "You were wrong." A letter of triumph, devoid of the cruelty +that triumph often holds. A letter, surely, for a true friend to rejoice +in? + +Meyer Isaacson held it for a long while in his hands, forgetful of the +tea that was standing at his elbow. + +The day was dark and grim, a still, not very cold, but hopeless day of +the dawning year. And he, was he not holding sunshine? The strange +thing was that it did not warm him, that it seemed rather to add a +shadow to London's dimness. + +Mrs. Armine without a maid! He scarcely knew why, but that very small +event, the dismissal of a maid, seemed almost to bristle up at him out +of his friend's letter. He knew smart women well, and he knew that the +average smart woman would rather do without the hope of Heaven than do +without her maid. Mrs. Armine must have changed indeed since she was +Mrs. Chepstow. Could she have changed so much? Do people of mature age +change radically when an enthusiastic influence is brought to bear upon +them? + +All day long Isaacson was pondering that question. + +Nigel was knocking at a door. Had it opened to him? Would it ever open? +He thought it would. Probably he thought it had. + +He and his wife were going away to be together "in all the delicious +out-of-the-way places on the Nile," and they were "happier than most +people"--even than most people in the region of gold. + +And yet two sons had been born to Lord Harwich, and Nigel had been cut +out of the succession! + +When he had read that news, Isaacson had wondered what effect it would +have in the _menage_ on the Nile--how the greedy woman would bear it. + +Apparently she had borne it well. Nigel did not even mention it. + +And the departure of that maid! Mrs. Armine without a maid! Again that +night as Isaacson sat alone reading Nigel's letter that apparently +unimportant fact seemed to bristle up from the paper and confront him. +What was the meaning of that strange renunciation? What had prompted it? +"She packed off her French maid so as to be quite free." Free for what? + +The doctor lit a cigar, and leaned back in a deep arm-hair. And he began +to study that cheery letter almost as a detective studies the plan of a +house in which a crime has been committed. When his cigar was smoked +out, he laid the letter aside, but he still refrained for a while from +going to bed. His mind was far away on the Nile. Never had he seen the +Nile. Should he go to see it, soon, this year, this spring? He +remembered a morning's ride, when the air of London was languorous, had +seemed for a moment almost exotic. That air had made him wish to go +away, far away, to the land where he would be really at home, where he +would be in "his own place." And then he had imagined a distant country +where all romances unwind their shining coils. And he had longed for +events, tragic, tremendous, horrible, even, if only they were unusual. +He had longed for an incentive which would call his secret powers into +supreme activity. + +Should he go to the Nile very soon--this spring? + +He looked again at the letter. He read again those apparently +insignificant words: + +"She packed off her French maid, so as to be quite free." + + + + +XXVIII + + +The next day was Sunday. Meyer Isaacson had no patients and no +engagements. He had deliberately kept the day free, in order that he +might study, and answer a quantity of letters. He was paying the penalty +of his great success, and was one of the hardest worked men in London. +At the beginning of the New Year he had even broken through his hitherto +inflexible rule, and now he frequently saw patients up till half-past +seven o'clock. He dined out much less than in former days, and was +seldom seen at concerts and the play. Success, like a monster, had +gripped him, was banishing pleasure from his life. He worked harder and +harder, gained ever more and more money, rose perpetually nearer to the +top of his ambition. Not long ago royalty had called him in for the +first time, and been pleased to approve both of him personally and of +his professional services. The future, no doubt, held a title for him. +All the ultra-fashionable world thronged to consult him. Even since the +Armines' departure he had gone up several rungs of the ladder. His +strong desire to "arrive"--and arrival in his mind meant far more than +it does in the minds of most men--and his acute pleasure in adding +perpetually to his fortune, drove him incessantly onward. In his few +free hours he was slowly and laboriously writing a work on poisons, the +work for which he had been preparing in Italy during his last holiday. +On this Sunday he meant to devote some hours to it. But first he would +"get through" his letters. + +After a hasty breakfast, he shut himself up in his study. London seemed +strangely quiet. Even here within four walls, and without looking at the +outside world, one felt that it was Sunday; one felt also that almost +everybody was out of town. A pall of grey brooded over the city. +Isaacson turned on the electric light, stood for a moment in front of +the fire, then went over to his writing-table. The letters he intended +to answer were arranged in a pile on the right hand side of his +blotting-pad. Many of them--most of them--were from people who desired +to consult him, or from patients about their cases. These letters meant +money. Numbers of them he could answer with a printed card to which he +would only have to add a date and a name. Monotonous work, but swiftly +done, a filling up of many of the hours of his life which were near at +hand. + +He sat down, took a packet of his printed engagement forms, and a pen, +put them before him, then opened one of the letters: + + "4, Manton Street, Mayfair, Jan. 2. + + "Dear Doctor Isaacson: + + "My health," etc., etc. + +He opened another: + + "200, Park Lane, Jan. ---- + + "Dear Doctor Isaacson: + + "I don't know what is the matter with me, but--" etc., etc. + +He took up a third: + + 1x, Berkeley Square, Jan. ---- + + Dear Doctor Isaacson: + + "That strange feeling in my head has returned, and I should like to + see you about it," etc., etc. + +Usually he answered such letters with energy, and certainly without any +disgust. They were the letters he wanted. He could scarcely have too +many of them. But to-day a weariness overtook him; almost more than a +weariness, a sort of sick irritation against the life that he had chosen +and that he was making a marvellous success of. Illness, always illness! +Pale faces, disordered nerves, dyspepsia, melancholia, anaemia, all the +troop of ills that afflict humanity, marching for ever into his room! +What company for a man to keep! What company! Suddenly he pushed away +the printed forms, put down his pen, and got up. + +He knew quite well what was troubling him. It was the letter he had had +from the Nile. At first it had disturbed him in one way. Now it was +disturbing him in another. It was a call to him from a land which he +knew he must love, a call to him from his own place. For his ancestors +had been Jews of the East, and some of them had been settled in Cairo. +It was a call from the shining land. He remembered how one night, when +Nigel and he were talking about Egypt, Nigel had said: "You ought to go +there. You'd be in your right place there." + +If he did go there! If he went soon, very soon--this spring! + +But how could he take a holiday in the spring, just when everybody was +coming to town? Then he told himself that he was saying nonsense to +himself. People went abroad in the spring, to India, Sicily, the +Riviera, the Nile. Ah, he was back again on the Nile! But so many people +did not go abroad. It would be madness for a fashionable doctor to be +away just when the season was coming on. Well, but he might run out for +a very short time--for a couple of weeks, something like that. Two +nights from London to Naples; two nights at sea in one of the new, swift +boats, the _Heliopolis_, perhaps; a few hours in the train, and he would +be at Cairo. Five nights' travelling would bring him to the first +cataract. And he would be in the real light. + +He stared at the electric bulbs that gleamed on either side of the +mantelpiece. Then he glanced towards the windows, oblongs of dingy grey +looking upon fog and daylight darkness. + +That would be good, to be in the real light! + +Nigel's letter lay somewhere under the letters from patients. The Doctor +went back to his table, searched for it, and found it. Then he came back +to the fire, and studied the letter carefully again. + +"Do you remember our walk home from the concert that night, and how I +said, 'I want to get into the light, the real light'? Well, I'm in it, +and how I wish that you and every one else could be in it too!... Come +to the Nile when next you take a holiday." + +It was almost an invitation to go; not quite an invitation, but almost. +Isaacson seemed to divine that the man who wrote wished his friend to +come out and see his happiness, but that he did not quite dare to ask +him to come out; seemed to divine a hostile influence that kept the pen +in check. + +"I wonder if she knows of this letter?" + +That question came into Isaacson's mind. The last words of the letter +almost implied that she knew. Nigel had meant to tell her of it, had +doubtless told her of it on the day when he wrote it. If Isaacson went +to the Nile, there was one person on the river who would not welcome +him. He knew that well. And Nigel, of course, did not really want him. +Happy people do not really want friends outside to come into the magic +circle and share their happiness. They may say they do, out of +good-will. Even for a moment, moved by an enthusiastic impulse, they may +think that they do. But true happiness is exquisitely exclusive in its +desires. + +"Armine would like me just to see it's all right, and then, when I've +seen, he would like to kick me out." + +That was how Isaacson summed up eventually Nigel's exact feeling towards +him at this moment. It was hardly worth while undertaking the journey +from England to gratify such a desire of the happy egoist. Better put +the idea away. It was impracticable, and-- + +"Besides, it's quite out of the question!" + +The Doctor returned to his table, and began resolutely to write answers +to his letters, and to fix appointments. He went on writing until every +letter was answered--every letter but Nigel Armine's. + +And then again the strong desire came upon him to answer it in person, +one morning to appear on the riverbank where the--what was the +name?--the _Loulia_ was tied up, to walk on deck, and say, "I +congratulate you on your happiness." + +How amazed his friend would be! And his enemy--what would her face be +like? + +Isaacson always thought of Mrs. Armine as his enemy. She had come into +his life as a spy. He felt as if from the first moment when she had seen +him she had hated him. She had got the better of him, and she knew it. +Possibly now, because of that knowledge, she would like him better. She +had won out. Or had she, now that Lord Harwich had an heir? + +As he sat there with Nigel's letter before him, a keen, an almost +intense curiosity was alive in Meyer Isaacson. It was not vulgar, but +the natural curiosity of the psychologist about strange human things. +Since the Armines had left London and he had known of their marriage, +Isaacson had thought of them often, but a little vaguely, as of people +who had quite gone out of his life for a time. He had to concentrate on +his own affairs. But now, with this letter, despite the great distance +between the Armines and himself, they seemed to be quite near him. All +his recollection of his connection with them started up in his mind, +vivid and almost fierce. Especially he remembered the clever woman, the +turn of her beautiful head, the look in the eyes contradicting the +lovely line of the profile, the irony of her smile, the attractive +intonations of her lazy voice. He remembered his two visits to her, how +she had secretly defied him. He recalled exactly her appearance when he +had bade her good-bye for the last time, eight days before she had been +married to Nigel. She had stood by the hearth, in a rose-coloured gown, +with smoke-wreaths curling round her. And she had looked quite lovely in +her secret triumph. But as he went out, he had noticed the tiny wrinkles +near her eyes, the slight hardness about her cheek-bones, the cynical +droop at the corners of her mouth. + +And he had remembered these things when he learnt of the marriage, and +he had foreseen disaster. + +He smoothed out Nigel's letter, and he took up his pen to answer it. +Since he could not answer it in person, he must despatch the substitute. +But now the dreary quiet of the London Sunday distressed him as if it +were noise. He found himself listening to it with a sort of anxiety; he +felt as if he must struggle against it before he could write sincerely +to Nigel. There was something paralyzing in this dark and foggy peace. + +Why was he heaping up money, grasping at fame, dedicating himself to +imprisonment within the limits of this house, within this sunless town? +Why was he starving his love of beauty, his natural love of adventure, +his quick feeling for romance? Or was it quick any longer? Things not +encouraged die sometimes. Certainly, he was starving deliberately much +of himself. + +Again came the desire to let, for once, a strong impulse have its way, +to forget, for once, that he was a man under strict discipline--the +discipline of his own cruel will--or to remember and mutiny. For a +moment his thoughts were almost like a schoolboy's. The fun of it! The +fun of rapid packing, of saying to Henry (unboundedly amazed), "Call me +a four-wheeler!" of the drive to Charing Cross, of the registering of +the luggage, of the rapid flight through the wintry landscape till the +grey sea beat up almost against the line, of the-- + +And presently Naples! A blue sea, the mountains of Crete, the iron +ridges of Zante, and at last a laughing harbour, boats with bellying +lateen sails manned by dark men in turbans, white houses, flat roofs, +palm-trees! + +It would be good! It would be splendid! + +If he answered Nigel's letter, he would not yield to his impulse. And if +he did not answer it--? + +After long hesitation, he put the letter aside, he got out of a drawer +his pile of manuscript paper, and he set himself to work. And presently +he forgot that it was Sunday in London; he forgot everything except what +he was doing. But in the evening, when he was dining alone, the longing +to be off returned, and though he said to himself that he would not +yield to it, he did not answer Nigel's letter. Absurdly, he felt that by +not answering it he left the door open to this possible pleasure. + +He never answered that letter. Day after day went by. He worked with +unflagging energy. He seemed as attentive to, as deeply interested in, +his patients as usual. But all the time that he sat in his +consulting-room, that he listened to accounts of symptoms, that he gave +advice and wrote out prescriptions, he was secretly playing with the +idea that perhaps this spring he would take a holiday in Egypt. He had +an ardent, though generally carefully controlled imagination. Just now +he gave it the reins. In the darkest days he saw himself in sunlight. +When he looked at the bare trees in the parks, they changed in a moment +to opulent palms. He heard a soft wind stirring their mighty leaves. It +spoke to him of the desert. Never before had he gained such definite +pleasure from his imagination. Had he become a child again? It almost +seemed so. If his patients only knew the present truths of the man whom +they begged to lead them to health! If they only knew his wanderings +while they were unfolding their tales of wonder and woe! But his face +told nothing. It did not cry to them, "I am in Egypt!" And so they were +never perturbed. + +February slipped away. + +If he really meant to go to the Nile, he must not delay his departure. +Did he mean to go? So long now had he played with the delightful +imagination of a voyage to the sun that he began to say to himself that +he had had his pleasure and must rest satisfied. He even told himself +the commonplace lie that the thought of a thing is more satisfactory +than the thing itself could ever be, and that to him the real Egypt +would prove a disappointment after the imagined Egypt of his winter +dreams. And he decided that he would not go, that he had never intended +to go. + +On the day when he took this decision, he got a letter from a patient +whom he had sent to winter on the Nile. She wrote from Luxor many +details of her condition, which he read slowly and with care. Towards +the end of the letter, perhaps made frolicsome by confession, she broke +into gossip, related several little scandals of various hotels, and +concluded with this paragraph: + +"Quite an excitement has been caused here by the arrival of a marvellous +dahabeeyah called the _Loulia_. She is the most lovely boat on the Nile, +I am told, and every one is longing to go over her. But there is no +chance for any of us. In the first place the _Loulia_ is tied up at the +western bank, on the Theban side of the river, and, in the second place, +she belongs for the season to the Nigel Armines. And, as of course you +remember, Mrs. Nigel Armine was Mrs. Chepstow, and _utterly impossible_. +Now she is married again she may think she will be received, but she +never will be. Of course, if she could have had the luck one day to +become Lady Harwich, it might have become possible. A great position +like that naturally makes people think differently. And, after all, the +woman is married now. But no use talking about it! The twins have +effectually knocked that possibility on the head. They say she nearly +went mad with fury when she heard the news. It seems he had never given +her a hint before the wedding. Wise man! He evidently knew his Mrs. +Chepstow. Nevertheless, to give the devil her due, I hear she seems +quite wrapped up in her husband. I saw him for a minute the other day, +when I was crossing to go to the tombs of the Kings. He was looking +awfully ill, I thought, such an extraordinary colour! I didn't see her, +but they say she looks younger than ever, and much more beautiful than +when she was in London. Marriage evidently suits her, though it doesn't +seem to suit him," etc., etc. + +This letter arrived by an evening post, and Isaacson read it after his +day's work was done. When he had finished it, he took out from a drawer +Nigel's letter to him, which he had kept, and compared the two. It was +not necessary to do this, for Nigel's words were in his memory. Isaacson +could not have said exactly why he did it. The sight of the two letters +side by side made a strongly disagreeable impression upon him, and +perhaps, in comparing them thus, he had almost unconsciously been +seeking such an impression. + +"Never in my life have I been in such splendid health." + +"He was looking awfully ill--such an extraordinary colour!" + +What had happened between the writing of the first letter and the +writing of the last? What had produced this change? + +After a few minutes, Isaacson put both the letters away and softly shut +the drawer of the writing-table. He had dined. The night was his. He had +his nargeeleh brought, and told Henry that he was not to be disturbed. + +Not since that night of autumn when Nigel had said of Mrs. Chepstow, +"She talks of coming to Egypt for the winter," had Isaacson taken the +long and snake-like pipe-stem into his hand. Only when his mind was +specially alive, almost excitedly alive, and when he wished to push that +vitality to its limit, did he instinctively turn to the nargeeleh. Then +his fingers and his lips needed it. His eyes needed it, too. Some breath +of the East ran through him, stirring inherited instincts, inherited +needs, to life. Now he turned out all the electric lights, he sat down +in the dim glow from the fire, and he took once again, eagerly, between +his thin fingers the snake-like stem of the nargeeleh. The water bubbled +in the cocoanut. He filled his lungs with the delicious tumbak, he let +it out in clouds through his nostrils. + +London slept, and he sat there still. In his shining eyes the intense +life of his mind was revealed. But there was no one to mark it, no one +with him to love or to fear it. + +At last, in the very deep of the night, he got up from his chair. He sat +down at his writing-table. And he worked till the morning came, writing +letters to patients whose names he looked out in his book of +appointments, and whose addresses he turned up in the Red Book, or found +in letters which he had kept by him, going through accounts, studying +his bank-book, writing to his banker and his stockbroker, to hospitals +with which he was connected, to societies for which he sometimes +delivered addresses; doing a multitude of things which might +surely--might they not?--have waited till day. And when at length there +was a movement in the house which told of the servants awakening, he +pushed the bell with a long finger. + +Presently Henry came, trying to hide a look of amazement. + +"Directly Cook's office in Piccadilly opens I shall want this letter +taken there. The messenger must wait for an answer." + +He held out a letter. + +"Yes, sir." + +"All these are for the post." + +"Yes, sir." + +"You might order Arthur to get ready my bath." + +"Yes, sir." + +The doctor stood up. + +"I shall see patients to-day. To-morrow, or the next day, at latest, I +shall leave London. I'm going to Egypt for a few weeks." + +There was a pause. Then Henry uttered his formula. + +"Yes, sir," he murmured. + +He turned and went slowly out. + +His sloping shoulders looked as if the Heavens had fallen--on them. + + + + +XXIX + + +Isaacson refused to get into the omnibus at the station in Cairo, and +drove to Shepheard's Hotel in a victoria, drawn by a pair of lean grey +horses with long manes and tails. The coachman was an Arab much pitted +with smallpox, who wore the tarbush with European clothes. It was about +three o'clock in the afternoon, and the streets of the enticing and +confusing city were crowded. Isaacson sat up very straight and looked +about him with eager eyes. He felt keenly excited. This was his very +first taste of Eastern life. Never before had he set foot in his "own +place." Already, despite the zest shed through him by novelty, he had an +odd, happy feeling of being at home. He saw here and there houses with +white facades, before which palm-trees were waving. And in those houses +he knew he could be very much at ease. The courtyards, the steps, the +tiles, a fountain, small rugs, a divan, a carved dark door, a great +screen of wood hiding an inner apartment--could he not see within? He +had never entered that house there on the left, and yet he knew it. And +this throng of Eastern men, with dark, keen, shining eyes, with heavy, +slumbrous eyes, with eyes glittering with the yellow fires of greed; +this throng, yellow-skinned, brown-skinned, black-skinned, with thin, +expressive hands, with henna-tinted nails, with narrow, cunning wrists; +this throng that talked volubly, that gesticulated, that gazed, +observing without self-consciousness, summing up without pity, whose +eyes took all and gave nothing--if he stepped out of the carriage, if he +forsook the borrowed comforts and the borrowed delights of Europe, if he +hid himself in this throng, would he not find himself for the first +time? + +He was sorry when the carriage drew up before the great terrace of the +hotel. But he had not lost touch with the pageant. He realized that, +almost with a sensation of exultation, when he came down from his room +between four and five o'clock, and took a seat by the railing. + +"Tea, sir?" + +He nodded to the German waiter. Somewhere a band was playing melodies of +Europe. That night he would seek in the native quarter the whining and +syncopated tunes of the East. + +The tea was brought, and an Arab approached with papers: the "_Sphinx_," +a French paper published in Cairo, and London papers, the "_Times_," the +"_Morning Post_." Isaacson bought two or three, vaguely. It was but +rarely he felt vague, but now, as he sipped his tea, his excitement was +linked with something else, that seemed misty and nebulous, yet not free +from a sort of enchantment. By the railing, before and beneath him, a +world of many of his dreams--his nargeeleh dreams--flowed by. The +abruptness of his decision to come--that made half the enchantment of +his coming, made a wonder of his arrival. The boy in him was alive +to-day, but with the boy there stood the dreamer. + +The terrace, of course, was crowded. People of many nations sat behind +and on each side of Meyer Isaacson, walked up and down the broad flight +of steps that connected the terrace with the pavement, stared, +gesticulated, gossiped. There was a clatter of china. Girls in long +veils munched cakes, and, more delicately, ate ices tinted pink, pale +green, and almond colour. Elderly ladies sat low in basket chairs, +almost dehumanized by sight-seeing. Antiquarians argued and protested, +shaking their forefingers, browned by the sun that shines in the desert. +American business men, on holiday, smoked large cigars, and invited +friends from New York, Boston, Washington to dinner. European boys, +smartly dressed, full of life and gaiety, went eagerly up and down +excitedly retailing experiences. And perpetually carriages drove up, set +down, and departed, while a lean, beautifully clad Arab with grey hair +noted hours, prices, numbers, in a mysterious book. + +But Meyer Isaacson all the time was watching the Easterns who passed and +repassed in the noisy street. He had not even glanced keenly once at the +crowd of travellers to see if there were any whom he knew, patients, +friends, enemies. His usual sharp consciousness of those about him was +for once completely in abeyance. + +Presently, however, his attention was transferred from the street to the +terrace, carried thither, so it seemed to him, by a man who moved from +the one to the other. There passed in front of him slowly one of the +most perfectly built mail phaetons he had ever seen. It was very high +and large, but looked elegantly light, and it was drawn by a pair of +superb Russian horses, jet-black, full of fiery spirit, matched to a +hair, and with such grand action that it was an aesthetic pleasure to +look upon them moving. + +Sitting alone in the front of the phaeton was the man who, almost +immediately, was to draw Isaacson's attention to the terrace. He was +Mahmoud Baroudi. He was dressed in a light grey suit, and wore the +tarbush. Behind him sat a very smart little English groom, dressed in +livery, with a shining top-hat, breeches, and top-boots. The phaeton was +black with scarlet wheels. The silver on the harness glittered with +polish; the chains which fastened the horses to the scarlet pole gleamed +brilliantly in the sunshine. But it was Baroudi, his extraordinary +physique, his striking, nonchalant face, and his first-rate driving, +which attracted all eyes, which held Isaacson's eyes. He pulled up his +horses in front of the steps. The groom was down in a moment. Baroudi +gave him the reins, got out, and walked up to the terrace. He stood for +a moment, looking calmly round; then brought his right hand to his +tarbush as he saw a party of French friends, which he immediately +joined. They welcomed him with obvious delight. Two of them, perfectly +dressed Parisian women, made room for him between them. As he sat down, +smiling, Isaacson noticed his slanting eyebrows and his magnificent +throat, which looked as strong as the throat of a bull. + +"My dear Isaacson! Is it possible? I should almost as soon have expected +to meet the Sphinx in Cleveland Square!" + +A tall man, not much over thirty, with light, imaginative, yet +penetrating eyes, stood before him, and with a "May I?" sat down beside +him, after cordially grasping his hand. + +"Starnworth, you're one of the few men--I might say almost the only +man--I'm glad to meet at this moment. Where have you just come from, or +where are you just going? I can't believe you are going to stay in +Cairo." + +"No. I've been in Syria, just arrived from Damascus. I've been with a +caravan--yes, I'll have some tea. I'm going to start to-morrow or next +day from Mena House for another little desert trip." + +"Little! How many days?" + +"Oh, I don't know," said the newcomer, negligently. "Three weeks out and +three weeks back, I believe--something like that--to visit an oasis +where there are some extraordinary ruins. But why are you here? What +induced you to leave your innumerable patients?" + +After a very slight hesitation Isaacson answered: + +"A whim." + +"The deuce! Can doctors who are the rage permit themselves to be +governed by whims?" + +This man, Basil Starnworth, was an English nomad who for years had +steeped himself in the golden East, who spoke Arabic and innumerable +Eastern dialects, who was more at home with Bedouins than with his own +brothers, and who was a mine of knowledge about the natives of Syria, of +Egypt, and the whole of Northern Africa--about their passions, their +customs, their superstitions, and all their ways of life. Isaacson had +cured him of a malarial fever contracted on one of his journeys. That +night they dined together, and after dinner Starnworth took Isaacson to +see some of the native quarters of the town. + +It was towards eleven o'clock when Isaacson found himself sitting in a +small, rude cafe that was hidden in the very bowels of Cairo. Through +winding alleys they had reached it--alleys full of painted ladies, +alleys gleaming with the lights shed from solitary candles set within +entries tinted mauve, and blue, and scarlet, or placed half-way up +narrow flights of whitewashed stairs. And in these winding alleys, +mingled with human cries, and laughter, and murmured invitations, and +barterings, and refusals, there had been music that seemed to wind on +and on in ribands of sound--music that was hoarse and shrill and weary, +that was piercing, yet at the same time furtive--music that was +provocative, and yet that was often sad, with a strange sadness of the +desert and of desire among the sands. Even now, in the maze around this +cafe, there was another maze of sound, the tripping notes of Eastern +dance tunes, the wail of the African hautboy, the twitter of little +flutes that set the pace for the pale Circassians, the dull murmur of +daraboukkehs. + +An old Arab who was "hajjee" brought them coffee, straight from the +glowing embers. Starnworth took from his pocket a little box of tobacco +and cigarette-papers, and deftly rolled two cigarettes. There were but +few people in the cafe, and they were Easterns--two Egyptians, a negro, +and three soldiers from the Soudan, black, thin almost as snakes, with +skins so dry that they looked like the skins of some reptiles of the +sands. And these Easterns were almost motionless, and seemed to be sunk +in dreams. + +"Why did you bring me here?" asked Isaacson. + +"It bores you?" + +"No. But I want to know why you chose this cafe out of all the cafes of +Cairo." + +"It's a very old and, among Easterns, very famous resort of smokers of +hashish. You notice the blackened walls, the want of light. The hashish +smoker does not desire any luxury or brightness. He wants his dream, and +he gets it here. You would scarcely suppose it, but there are rich +Egyptians of the upper classes, men who are seen at official receptions, +who go to the great balls at the smart hotels, and who slink in here +secretly night after night, mingle with the lowest riff-raff, to have +their dream beneath this blackened roof. There is one coming in now." + +As he spoke, Mahmoud Baroudi appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in +native costume--very poorly dressed; wore a dingy turban, and a long +gibbeh of discoloured cloth. With the usual salaam, muttered in his +throat, he went into the farthest and darkest corner of the cafe and +squatted down on the floor. The old Arab carried to him in a moment a +gozeh, a pipe resembling a nargeeleh, but without the snake-like handle. +Baroudi took it for a moment, inhaled the smoke of the hashish, and +poured it out from his mouth and nostrils. + +"He looks like a poor Egyptian," said Isaacson, almost in a whisper. + +"He is a millionaire. By the way, didn't you see him this afternoon?" + +"Where?" + +"At Shepheard's. He drove up just before I saw you in a phaeton." + +"The man with the Russian horses! Surely, it's impossible!" + +"This afternoon he was the cosmopolitan millionaire. To-night he sinks +down into his native East." + +"Who is he?" + +"Mahmoud Baroudi." + +"Mahmoud Baroudi!" repeated Isaacson, slowly and softly. + +An old man who had crept in began to sing in a high and quavering voice +a song of the smokers of hashish, accompanying himself upon an +instrument of tortoise and goat-skin. A youth in skirts began to posture +and dance an unfinished dance of the dreamer who has been led by hashish +into a world that is sweet and vague. + +"I'll tell you about him later," whispered Starnworth. + +That night they sat up in the hotel till the third time of the Moslem's +prayer was near at hand. Starnworth, pleased to have an auditor who was +much more than merely sympathetic, who understood his Eastern lore as if +with a mind of the East, poured forth his curious knowledge. And +Isaacson gripped it as only the Jew can grip. He listened and listened, +saying little, until Starnworth began to speak of the strange +immutability that is apparent in Islam, and of how the East must ever, +despite the most powerful outside influences, remain utterly the East. + +"Or so it seems up to now," he said. + +He illustrated and emphasized his contention by a number of striking +examples. He spoke of Arabs, of Egyptians he had known intimately, whom +he had seen subjected to every kind of European influence, whom he had +even seen apparently "Europeanized," as he put it, but who, when the +moment came, had shown themselves "native" to the core. + +"And it is even so when there is mingled blood," he said. "For instance, +that man you saw to-night smoking hashish, wrapped up in that dirty old +gibbeh, had a Greek mother, and may have--no doubt has--some aptitudes, +some characteristics that are Greek, but they are dominated, almost +swallowed up by the East that is in him." + +"Do you know him?" + +"I have never spoken to him, but I have heard a great deal about +him--from Egyptians, mind you, as well as Europeans. With the English, +and foreigners generally, he is an immense success. He is a very clever +man, and has excellent qualities, I believe. But he is of the East. He +is capable of giving one--who does not know very much--the most profound +surprises. To ordinary eyes he shows nothing, nothing of what he is. He +seems calm, dominating, practical, even cold and businesslike, full +always of the most complete self-possession, calculating, but generous, +and kind, charming, polished, suave and indifferent, with a sort of +tremendously masculine indifference. I have often seen him in society. +Even to me he has given that type of impression." + +"And what is the real man?" + +"Red-hot under the crust, a tremendous hater and a simply tremendous +lover. But he hates with his soul and he loves with his body--they say. +They say he's the slave of his soul in hatred, the slave of his body in +love. He's committed crimes for women, if I ever get truth from my +native friends. And I believe I am one of the few Europeans who can get +a good deal of truth from the natives." + +"Crimes, you say?" + +"Yes," returned Starnworth, with his odd, negligent manner, which +suggested a man who would undertake a desert journey full of tremendous +hardships clad in a dressing-gown and slippers. + +"But not for his own women, not for the beauties of the East. Baroudi is +one of the many Egyptians who go mad over the women of Europe and of the +New World, who go mad over their fairness of skin, their delicate +colouring and shining hair. There was a dancer at the opera house here +one season--a Dane she was, all fairness, the Northern sunbeam type--" + +"I know." + +"He spent thousands upon her. Gave her a yacht, took her off in it to +the Greek islands and Naples. Presently she wanted to marry." + +"Him?" + +"A merchant of Copenhagen, a very rich man. Baroudi was charming about +it. The merchant came out to Cairo during the dancer's second season at +the opera. Baroudi entertained him, became his friend, talked business, +impressed the Dane immensely with his practical qualities, put him up to +some splendid 'specs.' Result--the Dane was ruined, and went back to +Copenhagen minus his fortune and--naturally--minus his lady-love." + +"And what became of her?" + +"I forget. Don't think I ever knew. She vanished from the opera house. +But the best of it is that the Dane to this day swears by Baroudi, and +thinks it was his own folly that did for him. There are much worse +things than that, though. Baroudi's a man who would stick at absolutely +nothing once he got the madness for a woman into his body. For +instance--" + +He told stories of Baroudi, stories which the Europeans of Egypt knew +nothing of, but which some Egyptians knew and smiled at; one or two of +them sounded very ugly to European ears. + +"He's a Turco-Egyptian, you know," Starnworth said, presently, "and has +the cunning that comes from the Bosphorus grafted on to the cunning that +flourishes beneath the indifference of the Sphinx. We should call him a +rank bad lot"--the dressing-gown and slippers manner was very much in +evidence just here--"but the Turco-Egyptian has a different code from +ours. I must say I admire the man. He's got so much grit in him. Worker, +lover, hater--there's grit and go in each. Whichever bobs up, bobs up to +win right out. But it's the madness for women that really rules the +fellow's life, according to Egyptians who are near him and who know him +well. And that's so with far more men of Eastern blood than you would +suppose, unless you'd lived among them and knew them as I do. Arabs will +literally run crazy for a fair face. So will Egyptians. And once they +are dominated, they are dominated to an extent an Englishman would +scarcely be able to understand. I knew an Arab of the Sahara who broke +down the palm-wood door of an auberge at El-Kelf and cut the throat of +the Frenchwoman who kept it, cut it while she was screaming her soul +out--and only to get the few francs in the till to send to a girl in +Paris he'd met at the great Exhibition. And the old Frenchwoman had +befriended that man for over sixteen years, had almost brought him up +from a boy, had written his letters for him to the tourists and +sportsmen whose guide he was. Mahmoud Baroudi would do as much for a +woman, once he'd got the madness for her into his body, but he'd do it +in a more brainy way." + +Starnworth talked on and on. The time of the third prayer was at hand +when at last he said good-night. Turning at the door, just as he was +going out, he looked at Isaacson with his light and imaginative eyes. + +"A different code from ours, you see!" he murmured. + +He went out and gently shut the door. + +Although it was so late and Isaacson had that day arrived from a +journey, he felt strongly alive, and as if no power to sleep were in +him. Of course, he must go to bed, nevertheless. Slowly he began to +undress, slowly and reluctantly. + +And he was in Cairo, actually in Cairo! All around him in the night was +Cairo, with its houses full of Egyptians sleeping, with its harims, with +its mosques! Not far away was the Sphinx looking east in the sand! + +He pottered about his room. He did things very slowly. Eastern life, as +it had flowed from the lips of Starnworth, went before his imagination +like a great and strange procession. And in this procession Mahmoud +Baroudi drove Russian horses, and walked, almost like a mendicant, in a +discoloured gibbeh. And then the procession stopped, and Isaacson saw +the dingy cafe in the entrails of Cairo, and Mahmoud Baroudi crouched +upon the floor drawing the smoke of the hashish into his nostrils. + +At last Isaacson was in pajamas and ready for bed. But still his mind +was terribly wide awake. The papers he had bought in the afternoon were +lying upon his table. Should he read a little to compose his mind? He +took up a paper--the _Morning Post_--opened it, and glanced casually +over the middle page. + +"Sudden death of the Earl of Harwich." + +So Nigel's brother was gone, and, but for the twin boys so recently +arrived, Mrs. Armine would at this moment be Countess of Harwich! + +Isaacson read the paragraph quickly; then he put the paper down and +opened his window. He wanted to think in the air. As he leaned out to +the silent city, faintly, as if from very far off, he heard a cry that +thrilled through his blood and set his pulses beating. + +From a minaret a mueddin was calling the faithful to prayer, at "fegr," +when the sun pushes the first ray of steel-coloured light, like the +blade of a distant lance, into the breast of the East. + +"Al-la-hu-akbar! Al-la-hu-ak-bar!" + + + + +XXX + + +Isaacson had come out to Egypt with no settled plan. The only thing he +knew was that he meant to see Nigel Armine. He had not cabled or written +to let Nigel know he was coming, and now that he was in Cairo he did not +attempt to communicate with the _Loulia_. He would go up the Nile. He +would find the marvellous boat. And one day he would stand upon a brown +bank above her, he would see his friend on the deck, would hail him, +would cross the gangway and walk on board. Nigel would be amazed. + +And Mrs. Armine? + +Many times on shipboard Isaacson had wondered what look he would +surprise in the eyes of Bella Donna when he held out his hand to her. +Those eyes had already defied him. They had laughed at him ironically. +Once they had almost seemed to menace him. What greeting would they give +him in Egypt? + +That the death of Lord Harwich would recall Nigel to England he scarcely +supposed. The death had been sudden. It would be impossible for Nigel to +arrive for the funeral. And Isaacson knew what had been the Harwich view +of the connection with Mrs. Chepstow, what Lady Harwich had thought and +said of it. Zoe Harwich was very outspoken. It was improbable that +Nigel's trip on the Nile would be brought to an end by his brother's +death. Still, it was not impossible. Isaacson realized that, and on the +following day, meeting a London acquaintance in the hotel, a man who +knew everything about everybody, he spoke of the death casually, and +wondered whether Armine would be leaving the Nile for England. + +"Not he! Too seedy!" was the reply. + +Isaacson remembered the letter he had had in London from his patient at +Luxor. + +"What's the matter?" he asked. + +"Sunstroke, they say. He went out at midday without a hat--just the sort +of thing Armine would do--went out diggin' for antiquities, and got a +touch of the sun. I don't think it's serious. But there's no doubt he's +damned seedy." + +"D'you know where the boat is--the _Loulia_?" + +"Somewhere between Luxor and Assouan, I believe. Armine and his wife are +perfect turtle-doves, you know, always keep to themselves and get right +away from the crowd. One never sees 'em, except by chance. She's playin' +the model wife. Wonder how long it'll last!" + +In his laugh there was a sound of cynical incredulity. When he had +strolled away, Isaacson went round to Cook's office, and took a sleeping +compartment in the express train that started for Luxor that evening. He +would see the further wonders of Cairo, the Pyramids, the Sphinx, +Sakkara--later, when he came down the Nile, if he had time; if not, he +would not see them at all. He had not travelled from England to see +sights. That was the truth. He knew it now, despite the longing that +Cairo, the real Cairo of the strange, dimly-lit and brightly-tinted +interiors, of the shrill and weary music, of the painted girls and the +hashish smokers, and of that voice which cried aloud in the mystic hour +the acclamation of the Creator--had waked in his Eastern nature to sink +into the life which his ancestors knew--the life of the Eastern Jews. He +knew what his real purpose had been. + +Yet he left Cairo with regret. Starnworth had asked him to come on that +six weeks' desert journey. He longed to do that, too. With this +cessation of work, this abrupt and complete change of life, had come an +almost wild desire for liberty, for adventure. This persistent worker +woke to the great, stretching life outside--outside of his +consulting-room, of the grey sea that ringed the powerful Island, +outside of Europe, a little weary, a little over-civilized. And a voice +that seemed to come from the centre of his soul clamoured for wild +empires, for freedoms unutterable. It was as if the walls of his +consulting-room fell with a noise of the walls of Jericho. And he looked +out upon what he needed, what he had always needed, sub-consciously. But +he could not take it yet. + +In the train he slept but little. Early in the morning he was up and +dressed. From his window he saw the sunrise, and, for the first time was +moved by the hard wonder of barren hills in an Eastern land. Those hills +on the left bank of the river, glowing with delicate colours, hills with +dimples that looked like dimples in iron, with outlines that were cruel +and yet romantic, stirred his imagination and made him again regret his +life. Why had he never been here before? Why had he grown to middle age +encompassed by restrictions? A man like Starnworth had a truer +conception of life than he. Even now, at this moment, he was not running +quite free. And then he thought of the _Loulia_. Was he not really a man +in pursuit? Suppose he gave up this pursuit. No one constrained him to +it. He was here with plenty of money, entirely independent. If he chose +to hire a caravan, to start away for the Gold Coast, there was no one to +say him nay. He could go, if he would, forgetting that in the world +there were men who were sick, forgetting everything except that he was +in liberty and in a land where he was at home. + +And then he asked himself whether he would have the power to forget that +in the world there were men who were sick. And he remembered the words +in a letter and other spoken words of an acquaintance in an hotel--and +he was not sure. + +The Armines, when they arrived at Luxor, had walked to their villa. When +Isaacson arrived he refused all frantic offers of conveyance, and set +out to walk to his hotel. It was the height of the tourist season, and +Luxor was a centre for travellers. They swarmed, even at this early +hour, in the little town. When Isaacson reached the bank of the Nile he +saw a floating wharf with a big steamer moored against it, on which +Cook's tourists were promenading, breakfasting, leaning over the rail, +calling to and bargaining with smiling brown people on the shore. Beyond +were a smaller mail steamer and a long line of dahabeeyahs flying the +Union Jack, the Stars and Stripes, flags of France, Spain, and other +countries. Donkeys cantered by, bearing agitated or exultant +sight-seers, and pursued by shouting donkey-boys. Against the western +shore, flat and sandy, and melting into the green of crops which, in +their turn, melted into the sterility that holds the ruins of Thebes, +lay more dahabeeyahs, the high, tapering masts of which cut sharply the +crude, unclouded blue of a sky which announced a radiant day. Already, +at a little after nine, the heat was very great. Isaacson revelled in +it. But he longed to take a seven-thonged whip and drive out the happy +travellers. He longed to be alone with the brown children of the Nile. + +On the terrace of the Winter Palace Hotel he saw at once people whom he +knew. Within the bay of sand formed by its crescent stood or strolled +throngs of dragomans, and as he approached, one of them, who looked +compact of cunning and guile, detached himself from a group, came up to +him, saluted, and said: + +"Good-morning, sir. You want a dahabeeyah? I get you a very good +dahabeeyah. You go on board to-day--not stay at the hotel. One night you +sleep. When morning-time come, we go away from all these noisy peoples, +we go 'mong the Egyptian peoples. Heeyah"--he threw out a brown hand +with fingers curling backward--"heeyah peoples very vulgar, make much +noise. You not at all happy heeyah, my nice gentleman!" + +The rascal had read his thought. + +"What's your name?" + +"Hassan ben Achmed." + +"I'll see you later." + +Isaacson went up the steps and into the great hotel. + +When he had had a bath and made his toilet, he came out into the sun. +For a moment he stood upon the terrace rejoicing, soul and body, in the +radiance. Then he looked down, and saw the long white teeth of Hassan +displayed in a smile of temptation and understanding. Beyond those teeth +was the river, to which Hassan was inviting him in silence. He looked at +the tapering masts, and--he hesitated. Hassan showed more teeth. + +At this moment the lady patient who had written to Isaacson from the +Nile and mentioned Nigel came up with exclamations of wonder and +delight, to engage all his attention. For nearly an hour he strolled +from end to end of the crescent and talked with her. When at last she +slowly vanished in the direction of the temple of Luxor, accompanied by +a villainous-looking dragoman who was "the most intelligent, +simple-minded old dear" in Upper Egypt, Isaacson, with decision, +descended the steps and stood on the sand by Hassan. + +"Where's that dahabeeyah you spoke about?" he said. "I'll go and have a +look at her." + +That evening, just before sunset he went on board the _Fatma_ as +proprietor. + +He had been bargaining steadily for some hours, and felt weary, though +triumphant, as he stood upon the upper deck, with Hassan in attendance, +while the crew poled off from the bank into the golden river. Despite +the earnest solicitations of the lady patient and various acquaintances +staying in Luxor, he had given the order to remove to the western bank +of the Nile. There he could be at peace. + +Friends of his cried out adieux from the road in front of the shops and +the great hotel. Unknown donkey-boys saluted. Tourists stood at gaze. He +answered and looked back. But already a new feeling was stealing over +him; already he was forgetting the turmoil of Luxor. The Reis stood on +the raised platform in the stern, still as a figure of bronze, with the +gigantic helm in his hand. The huge sail hung limp from the mast. Then +there came a puff of wind. Slowly the shore receded. Slowly the _Fatma_ +crept over the wrinkled gold of the river towards the unwrinkled gold of +the west. And Isaacson stood there, alone among his Egyptians, and saw +his first sunset on the Nile. Over the gold from Thebes came boats going +to the place he had left. And the boatmen sang the deep and drowsy chant +that set the time for the oars. Mrs. Armine had often heard it. Now +Isaacson heard it, and he thought of the beating pulse in a certain +symphony to which he had listened with Nigel, and of the beating pulse +of life; and he thought, too, of the destinies of men that often seem so +fatal. And he sank down in the magical wonder of this old and golden +world. + +"Don't tie up near any other dahabeeyah." + +"No, gentlemans," said Hassan. + +Again the crew got out their poles. Two men stripped, went overboard +with a rope, and, running along the shore, towed the _Fatma_ up stream +against the tide till she came to a lonely place where two men were +vehemently working a shaduf. There they tied up for the night. + +The gold was fading. Less brilliant, but deeper now, was the dream of +river and shore, of the groves of palms and the mountains. Here and +there, far off, a window, touched by a dying ray of light, glittered out +of the softened dusk. Isaacson leaned over the rail. This evening, after +his long months of perpetual work in a house in London, deprived of all +real light, he felt like a man taken by the hand and led into Heaven. +Behind him the naked fellahin, unmindful of his presence, cried aloud in +the fading gold. + +For a long while he stood there without moving. His eyes were attracted, +were held, by a white house across the water. It stood alone, and the +river flowed in a delicate curve before it by a low tangle of trees or +bushes. The windows of this house gleamed fiercely as restless jewels. +At last he lifted himself up from the rail. + +"Who lives in that house?" he asked of Hassan. + +"An English lord, sah. My Lord Arminigel." + +"What house is it? What's the name?" + +"The Villa Androud, my kind gentlemans." + +"The Villa Androud!" + +So that was where Armine had gone for his honeymoon with Bella Donna! +The windows glittered like the jewels many men had given to her. + +Night fell. The song of the fellahin failed. The stars came out. Just +where the _Loulia_ had lain the _Fatma_ lay. And under the stars, on +deck, Isaacson dined alone. To-morrow at dawn he would start on his +voyage up river. He would follow where the _Loulia_ had gone. When +dinner was finished, he sent Hassan away, and strolled about on the deck +smoking his cigar. Through the tender darkness of the exquisite night +the lights of Luxor shone, and from somewhere below them came a faint +but barbaric sound of native music. + +To-morrow he would follow where the _Loulia_ had gone. + +The lady patient that morning had been very communicative. One of her +chief joys in life was gossip. Her joy in gossip was second only to her +joy in poor health. And she had told her beloved doctor "all the news." +The news of the Armine _menage_ was that Nigel Armine had got sunstroke +in Thebes and been "too ill for words," and that the _Loulia_, after a +short stay near Luxor, had gone on up the Nile, and was now supposed to +be not far from the temple of Edfou. Not a soul had been able to explore +the marvellous boat. Only a young American doctor, very susceptible +indeed to female charm, had been permitted to set foot on her decks. He +had diagnosed "sunstroke," had prescribed for Nigel Armine, and had come +away "positively raving" about Mrs. Armine--"silly fellow." Isaacson +would have liked a word with him, but he had gone to Assouan. + +On the lower deck the boatmen began to sing. + +Isaacson paced to and fro. The gentle and monotonous exercise, now +accompanied by monotonous though ungentle music, seemed to assist the +movement of his thought. When he left the garrulous lady patient, he +might have gone to the post-office and telegraphed to the _Loulia_. It +was possible to telegraph to Edfou. Since he intended to leave Luxor and +sail up the Nile, surely the natural thing to do was to let his friend +know of his coming. Why had he not done the natural thing? Some instinct +had advised him against the completely straightforward action. If Nigel +had been alone on the _Loulia_ the telegram would have been sent. That +Isaacson knew. But Nigel was not alone. A spy was with him, she who had +come to spy out the land when she had come to Cleveland Square. Perhaps +it was very absurd, but the remembrance of Bella Donna prevented +Isaacson now from announcing his presence on the Nile. He was resolved +to come to her as she had once come to him. She had appeared in +Cleveland Square carrying her secret reason with her. He would appear in +the shadow of the temple of Horus. And his secret reason? Perhaps he had +none. He was a man who was often led by instinct. + +And he trusted very much in his instinctive mistrust of Bella Donna. + +The _Fatma_ was no marvellous boat like the _Loulia_. She was small, +poorly furnished, devoid of luxury, and not even very comfortable! That +night Isaacson lay on a mattress so thin that he felt the board beneath +it. The water gurgled close to him against the vessel's side. It seemed +to have several voices, which were holding secret converse together in +the great stillness of the night. For long he lay awake in the +darkness. How different this darkness seemed from that other darkness of +London! He thought of the great temples so near him, of the tombs of the +Kings, of all those wonders to see which men travelled from the ends of +the earth. And he was sailing at dawn, he who had seen nothing! It +seemed a mad thing to do. His friends had been openly amazed when he had +been forced to tell them of his immediate departure. And he wanted, he +longed, to see the wonders that were so near him in the night; Karnak +with its pylons, its halls, its statues; the Colossi sitting side by +side in their plain, with the springing crops about their feet; the +fallen King in the Ramesseum, and that sad King who gazes for ever into +the void beneath the mountain. + +He longed to see these things, and many others that were near him in the +night. + +But he longed still more to look for a moment into the eyes of a woman, +to take the hand and gaze at the face of a man. And he was glad when, at +dawn, he heard the movement of naked feet and the murmur of voices above +his head, when, presently, the dahabeeyah shivered and swayed, and the +Nile water spoke in a new and more ardent way as it held her in its +embrace. + +He was glad, for he knew he was going towards Edfou. + + + + +XXXI + + +Upon a hard and habitual worker an unexpected holiday sometimes has a +weakening rather than a strengthening effect, in the first days of it. +Later may come from it vitality and a renewal of energy. Just at first +there steals over the worker a curious lassitude. Parts of him seem to +lie down and sleep. Other parts of him are dreaming. + +So it was now with Meyer Isaacson. + +He got up from his Spartan bed feeling alert and animated. He went up on +deck full of curiosity and expectation. But as the day wore on, the long +day of golden sunshine, the dream of the Nile took him slowly, quietly, +to its breast. Strange were the empty hours to this man whose hours +were generally so full. And the solitude was strange. For he sent Hassan +away, and sat alone on the upper deck--alone save for the Reis, who, +like a statue, stood behind him holding the mighty helm. + +The _Fatma_ travelled slowly, crept upon the greenish-brown water almost +with the deliberation of some monstrous water-insect. For she journeyed +against the tide, and as yet there was little wind, though what there +was blew from the north. The crew had to work hard in the burning +sun-rays, going naked upon the bank and straining at the tow-rope. +Isaacson sat in a folding chair and watched their toil. For years he had +not known the sensation of watching in absolute idleness the strenuous +exertion of others. Those exertions emphasized his inertia, in which +presently the mind began to take part with the body. The Nile is +exquisitely monotonous. He was coming under its spell. Far off and near, +from the western and eastern banks of the river, he heard almost +perpetually the creaking song of the sakeeyas, the water-wheels turned +by oxen. They made the leit motiv of this wonderful, idle life. Antique +and drowsy, with a plaintive drowsiness, was their continual music, +which very gradually takes possession of the lonely voyager's soul. The +shaduf men, in their long lines leading the eyes towards the south, sang +to the almost brazen sky. And heat reigned over all. + +Was this pursuit? Where was the _Loulia?_ To what secret place had she +crept against the repelling tide? It began to seem to Isaacson that he +scarcely cared to know. He was forgetting his reason for coming to +Egypt. He was forgetting his friend, his enemy; he was forgetting +everything. The heat increased. The puffs of wind died down. Towards +noon the Reis tied up, that the sweating crew might rest. + +A table was laid on deck, and Isaacson lunched under an awning. When he +had finished and the Egyptian waiter had cleared away, Hassan came to +stand beside his master and entertain him with conversation. + +"Are there many orange plantations on the Nile?" asked Isaacson, +presently, looking towards the bank, which was broken just here and +showed a vista of trees. + +Hassan spoke of Mahmoud Baroudi. Once again Isaacson heard of him, and +now of his almost legendary wealth. Then came a flood of gossip in +pigeon-English. Hamza was presently mentioned, and Isaacson learnt of +Hamza's pilgrimage to Mecca with Mahmoud Baroudi, and of his present +service with "my Lord Arminigel" upon the _Loulia_. Isaacson did not say +that he knew "my Lord." He kept his counsel, and he listened, till at +last Hassan's volubility seemed exhausted. The crew were sleeping now. +There was no prospect of immediate departure, and, to create a +diversion, Hassan suggested a walk through the orange gardens to the +house they guarded closely. + +Lazily Isaacson agreed. He and the guide crossed the gangway, and soon +disappeared into the Villa of the Night of Gold. + +When the heat grew less, as the day was declining, once more the _Fatma_ +crept slowly on her way. She drew ever towards the south with the +deliberation of a water-insect which yet had a purpose that kept it on +its journey. + +She rounded a bend of the Nile. She disappeared. + +And all along the Nile the sakeeyahs lifted up their old and melancholy +song. And the lines of bending and calling brown men led the eyes +towards the south. + + + + +XXXII + + +On a morning at ten o'clock the _Fatma_ arrived opposite to Edfou, and +Hassan came to tell his master. The _Loulia_ had not been sighted. Now +and then on the gleaming river dahabeeyahs had passed, floating almost +broadside and carried quickly by the tide. Now and then a steamer had +churned the Nile water into foam, and vanished, leaving streaks of white +in its wake. And the dream had returned, the dream that was cradled in +gold, and that was musical with voices of brown men and sakeeyas, and +that was shaded sometimes by palm-trees and watched sometimes by stars. +But no dahabeeyah had been overtaken. The _Fatma_ travelled slowly, +often in an almost breathless calm. And Isaacson, if he had ever wished, +no longer wished her to hasten. Upon his sensitive and strongly +responsive temperament the Nile had laid a spell. Never before had he +been so intimately affected by an environment. Egypt laid upon him +hypnotic hands. Without resistance he endured their gentle pressure; +without resistance he yielded himself to the will that flowed +mysteriously from them upon his spirit. And the will whispered to him to +relax his mind, as in London each day for a fixed period he relaxed his +muscles--whispered to him to be energetic, determined, acquisitive no +more, but to be very passive and to dream. + +He did not land to visit Esneh. He would have nothing to do with El-Kab. +Hassan was surprised, inclined to be argumentative, but bowed to the +will of the dreamer. Nevertheless, when at last Edfou was reached, he +made one more effort to rouse the spirit of the sight-seer in his +strangely inert protector; and this time, almost to his surprise, +Isaacson responded. He had an intense love of purity and of form in art, +and even in his dream he felt that he could not miss the temple of Horus +at Edfou. But he forbade Hassan to accompany him on his visit. He was +determined to go alone, regardless of the etiquette of the Nile. He took +his sun-umbrella, slipped his guide-book into his pocket, and slowly, +almost reluctantly, left the _Fatma_. At the top of the bank a donkey +was waiting. Before he mounted it he stood for a moment to look about +him. His eyes travelled up-stream, and at a long distance off, rising +into the radiant atmosphere and relieved against the piercing blue, he +saw the tapering mast of a dahabeeyah. No sail was set on it. The +dahabeeyah was either becalmed or tied up. He wondered if it were the +_Loulia_, and something of his usual alertness returned to him. For a +moment he thought of calling up the snarling and indignant Hassan, whose +piercing eyes might perhaps discern the dahabeeyah's identity even from +this distance. Or he might go back to his boat, and tell the men to get +out their poles again and work her up the river till he could see for +himself. Then, in the golden warmth, the dream settled down once more +about him and upon him. Why hurry? Why be disturbed? The alertness +seemed to fade, to dissolve in his mind. He turned his eyes away from +the distant mast, he got upon the donkey, and was taken gently to the +temple. + +No tourists were there. He sent the donkey-boy away, saying he would +walk back to the river. He knew the consciousness that some one was +waiting for him to go would take the edge off his pleasure. And he +realized at once that he was on the threshold of one of the most intense +pleasures of his life. Allured by a gift of money, the native guardian +consented to desert him instead of dogging his steps. For the first time +he stood in an Egyptian temple. + +He remained for some time in the outer court, where the golden sunshine +fell, attracted by the sacred darkness that seemed silently to be +calling him, but pausing to savour his pleasure. Before him was a vista +of empty golden hours. What need had he to hurry? Slowly he approached +the hypostyle hall. All about him in the sunshine swarms of birds flew. +Their vivacious chirping fell upon ears that were almost deaf. For +already the great silence of the darkness beyond was flowing out to +Isaacson, was encompassing him about. He reached the threshold and +looked back. Through the high and narrow doorway between the towers he +caught a glimpse of the native village, and his eyes rested for a moment +upon the cupolas of a mosque. Behind him was a place of prayer. Before +him was another place, which surely held in its arms of stone all the +mystical aspirations, all the unuttered longings, all the starry desires +and humble but passionate worship of the men who had passed away from +this land of the sun, leaving part of their truth behind them to move +through the ages of the souls of men. + +He turned at last, and slowly, almost with precaution, he moved from the +sunlight into the darkness. + +And darkness led to deeper darkness. Never before in any building had +Isaacson felt the call to advance so strongly as he felt it now. And yet +he lingered. He was forced to linger by the perfect beauty of form which +met him in this temple. Never before had any creation of man so +absolutely satisfied all the secret demands of his brain and of his +soul. He was inundated with a peace that praised, with a calm that loved +and adored. This temple built for adoration created within him the need +to adore. The perfection of its form was like a perfect prayer offered +spontaneously to Him who created in man the power to create. + +But though he lingered, and though he was strangely at peace, the +darkness called him onward, as the desert calls the nomad who is +travelling in it alone. + +He was drawn by the innermost darkness of the sanctuary, the core of +this house divine of the Hidden One. And he went on between the columns, +and up the delicate stone approaches; and though he was always drawing +near to a deeper darkness, and natural man is repelled by darkness +rather than enticed by it, he felt as if he were approaching something +very beautiful, something even divine, something for which, all +unconsciously, he had long been waiting and softly hoping. For the spell +of the dead architect was upon him, and the Holy of Holies lay +beyond--that chamber with narrow walls and blue roof, which contains an +altar and shrine of granite, where once no doubt stood the statue of +Horus, the God of the Sun. + +Isaacson expected to find in this sanctuary the representation of the +Being to whom this noble house had been raised. It seemed to him that in +this last mystery of beauty and darkness the God Himself must dwell. And +he came into it softly, with calm but watchful eyes. + +By the shrine, just before it, there stood a white figure. As Isaacson +entered it moved, as if disturbed or even startled. A dress rustled. + +Isaacson drew back. A chill ran through his nerves. He had been so deep +in contemplation, his mind had been drawn away so far from the modern +world, that this apparition of a woman, doubtless like himself a +tourist, gave him one of the most unpleasant shocks he had ever endured. +And in a moment he felt as if his sudden appearance had given an equally +disagreeable shock to the woman. Looking in the darkness unnaturally +tall, she stood quite still for an instant after her first abrupt +movement, then, with an air of decision that was forcible, she came +towards him. + +Her gait seemed oddly familiar to Isaacson. Directly she stirred he was +once more in complete command of his brain. The chill died away from his +nerves. The normal man in him started up, alert, composed, enquiring. + +The woman came up to him where he stood at the entrance to the +sanctuary. Her eyes looked keenly into his eyes, as she was about to +pass him. Then she did not pass him. She did not draw back. She just +stood where she was and looked at him, looked at him as if she saw what +her mind told her, told her loudly, fiercely, she could not be seeing, +was not seeing. After an instant of this contemplation she shut her +eyes. + +"Mrs. Armine!" said Meyer Isaacson. + +When he spoke, Mrs. Armine opened her eyes. + +"Mrs. Armine!" he repeated. + +He took off his hat and held out his hand. + +"Then it was the _Loulia_ I saw!" he said. + +She gave him her hand and drew it away. + +"You are in Egypt!" she said. + +Although in the darkness her walk had been familiar to him, had prepared +him for the coming up to him of Bella Donna, her voice now seemed +utterly unfamiliar. It was ugly and grating. He remembered that in +London he had thought her voice one of her greatest charms, one of her +most perfectly tempered weapons. Had he been mistaken? Had he never +heard it aright? Or had he not heard it aright now? + +"What are you doing in Egypt?" she said. + +Her voice was ugly, almost hideous. But now he realized that its timbre +was completely changed by some emotion which had for the moment entire +possession of her. + +"What are you doing in Egypt?" she repeated. + +Isaacson cleared his throat. Afterwards he knew that he had done this +because of the horrible hoarseness of Mrs. Armine's voice. + +"I was feeling overworked, run down. I thought I would take a holiday." + +She was silent for a minute. Then she said: + +"Did you let my husband know you were coming? Does he know you are in +Egypt?" + +In saying this her voice became more ugly, less like hers, as if the +emotion that governed her just then made a crescendo, became more vital +and more complex. + +"No. I left England unexpectedly. A sudden impulse!" + +He was speaking almost apologetically, without meaning to do so. He +realized this, and pulled himself up sharply. + +"I told no one of my plans. I thought I would give Nigel a surprise." + +He said it coolly, with quite a different manner. + +"Nigel!" she said. + +Isaacson was aware when she spoke that he had called his friend by his +Christian name for the first time. + +"I thought I would give you and your husband a surprise. I hope you +forgive me?" + +After what seemed to him an immensely long time she answered: + +"What is there to forgive? Everybody comes to the Nile. One is never +astonished to see any one turn up." + +Her voice this time was no longer ugly. It began to have some of the +warm and the lazy charm that he had found in it when he met her in +London. But the charm sounded deliberate, as if it was thrust into the +voice by a strong effort of her will. + +"I use the word 'see,'" she added. "But really here one can't see any +one or anything properly. Let us go out." + +And she passed out of the sanctuary into the dim but less dark hall that +lay beyond. Isaacson followed her. + +In the slightly stronger light he looked at her swiftly. Already she was +putting up her hands to a big white veil, which she had pushed up over +her large white hat. Before it fell, obscuring, though not concealing +her, he had seen that her face was not made up and that it was deadly +pale. But that pallor might be natural. Always in London he had seen her +made up, and always made up white. Possibly her face, when unpowdered, +unpainted, was white, too. + +In the hall she stood still once more. + +"You are an extraordinary person, Doctor Isaacson," she said. "Do you +know it? I don't think any one else would come out suddenly like this to +a place where he had a friend, without letting the friend know. Really, +if it were not you, one might think it quite oddly surreptitious." + +She finished with a little laugh. + +"I think Nigel will be very much surprised," she added. + +"I hope you don't mean unpleasantly surprised? As I told you, I +intended--" + +"Oh, yes, I know all that," she interrupted. "But surely, it +seems--well, almost a little bit unfriendly to be on the Nile and never +to let him know. And I suppose--how long have you been in Egypt?" + +"Oh, a very short time. You must not think I've delayed. On the +contrary--" + +"If you had delayed, it would have been quite reasonable. You have never +seen Egypt before, have you?" + +"Never." + +"How long were you at Luxor?" + +"One night, on the boat opposite to Luxor." + +"Then what did you see?" + +"Nothing at all." + +She put up one hand and pulled gently at her veil. + +"I thought I would do all the sight-seeing as I came down the river." + +"Most people do it coming up. And I find you in a temple." + +"It is the first I have entered. I couldn't pass Edfou." + +"Why?" + +"Perhaps because I felt that I should meet you in it." + +He spoke now with the lightness of an agreeable man of the world paying +a compliment to a pretty woman. + +"My good angel perhaps guided me into the Holy of Holies because you +were--shall I say dreaming in it?" + +She moved and walked on. + +"Were you long in Cairo?" she said. + +"One night." + +She stopped again. + +"What an extraordinary rush!" she said. + +"Yes, I've come along quickly." + +"I suppose you've only a very limited time to do it all in? You're only +taking a week or two?" + +She turned her head towards him, and it seemed to him that her eyes were +glittering with a strange excitement, a strange eagerness under her +veil. + +"I don't know," said Isaacson, carelessly. "I may stay on if I like it. +The fact is, Mrs. Armine, that having at last taken the plunge and +deserted my patients, I'm enjoying myself amazingly. You've no idea +how--" + +"Your patients," she interrupted him again, "what will they do? Why, +surely your whole practice will go to pieces!" + +"It's very kind of you to trouble about that." + +"Oh, I'm not troubling; I'm only wondering. I don't know you very well, +but I confess I thought I had summed you up." + +"Yes, and--?" + +"And I thought you were a man of intense ambition, and a man who would +rise to the very top of the tree." + +"And now?" + +"Well, this is hardly the way to do it. I'm--I'm quite sorry." + +She said it very naturally. If his appearance had startled her very +much--and that it had startled her almost terribly he felt certain--she +was now recovering her equanimity. Her self-possession was returning. + +"Women are very absurd," she continued. "They always admire the man who +gets on, who forces his way to the front of the crowd." + +Walking onward slowly side by side they came into the great outer court. +Isaacson had forgotten the wonderful temple. This woman had the power to +grasp the whole of his attention, to fix it upon herself. + +"Shall we sit down for a minute?" she said. "I'm quite tired with +walking about." + +She sauntered to a big block of stone on which a shadow fell, sat down +carelessly, and put up a white and green sun-umbrella. For the first +time since they had met Isaacson, remembering the death of Lord Harwich, +wondered at her costume. + +"Ah," she said, "you've heard, of course!" + +He was startled by her sudden comprehension of his thought. + +"Heard! what, Mrs. Armine?" + +"About my brother-in-law's sudden death." + +"I saw it in the paper." + +"Well, I don't happen to have any thin mourning with me." + +Her voice had changed again. When she said that it was as hard as a +stone. + +Isaacson sat down near her. His block of stone was in the sunshine. + +"Besides what does it matter here? And I never even knew Harwich, except +by sight." + +Isaacson said nothing, and after a pause she added: + +"So I can't be very sorry. But Nigel's been very much upset by it." + +"Has he?" + +"Terribly. I dare say you know how sensitive he is?" + +"Yes." + +"He couldn't go back for the funeral. It was too far. He wouldn't have +been in time." + +"That was why he didn't go?" + +Again he saw the eyes looking keenly at him from under the veil. + +"It would have been absolutely no use. Lady Harwich cabled to say so." + +"I see." + +"She has always been against Nigel since he married me. You know what +women are!" + +He nodded. + +"But the whole thing has upset Nigel dreadfully. That's why we are up +here. He wanted to get away, out of reach of everybody, and just to be +alone with me. He hasn't even come out with me this morning. He +preferred to stay on the boat. He won't see a soul for two or three +weeks, poor fellow! It's quite knocked him up, coming so suddenly." + +"I'm sorry." + +She turned her head towards him. She was holding the sun-umbrella very +low down. + +"How long were you at Luxor?" she asked, carelessly. "I forget. And +weren't you in a hotel? Did you go straight on board your boat?" + +"I went to the Winter Palace for a few hours." + +"Did you? And hated the crowd, I suppose?" + +"I didn't exactly love it." + +"You can imagine poor Nigel's horror of it under the circumstances. And +then, you know, he hasn't been very well lately. Nothing of any +importance--nothing in your line--but he got a touch of the sun. And +that, combined with this death, has made him shrink from everybody. I +shall try to persuade him, though, to see you later on, in two or three +weeks perhaps, when you're dropping down the Nile. You'll stay at the +First Cataract, of course?" + +"Probably." + +"That'll be it, then. As you come down. You can easily find us. Our boat +is called the _Loulia_." + +"And so your husband's had a touch of the sun?" + +"Yes; digging at Luxor. Of course, I got in a doctor at once, a charming +man--Doctor Baring Hartley. Very clever--a specialist from Boston. He +has the case in charge." + +"Oh, you've got him on board?" + +"No. Nigel wouldn't have any one. But he has the case in charge, and has +gone up to Assouan to meet us there. Shall you run up to Khartoum?" + +"I may." + +"All these things are done so easily now." + +"Yes." + +"The railway has made everything so simple." + +"Yes." + +"I'd give worlds to go to Khartoum. People say it's much more +interesting than anything up to the First Cataract." + +"Then why not go there?" + +"Perhaps we may. But not just yet. Nigel isn't in the mood for anything +of that kind. Besides, wouldn't it look almost indecent? Travelling for +pleasure, sight-seeing, so soon afterwards? It's a little dull for me, +of course, but I think Nigel's quite right to lie low and see no one +just for two or three weeks." + +"May I light a cigar?" + +"Of course." + +Rather slowly Meyer Isaacson drew out his cigar-case, extracted a large +cigar, struck a match, and lit it. His preoccupation with what he was +doing, which seemed perfectly natural, saved him from the necessity of +talking for a minute. When the cigar drew thoroughly, he spoke again. + +"You don't think"--he spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if he were too +content to care much either way about anything under heaven or +earth--"you don't think your husband would wish to see me, as we are so +very near? We've known each other pretty well. And just now you seemed +to fancy he might almost be vexed at my coming out to Egypt without +letting him know." + +"That's just it," she said, with an answering laziness and indifference. +"If he had been expecting you, possibly it mightn't hurt him in the +least to see you. But Doctor Baring Hartley specially enjoined on me to +keep him quite quiet--at any rate till we got to Assouan. Any shock, +even one of pleasure, must be avoided." + +"Really? I'm afraid from that that he must really be pretty bad." + +"Oh, no, he isn't. He looks worse than he is. It's given him a bad +colour, rather, and he gets easily tired. But he was ever so much worse +a week ago. He's picking up now every day." + +"That's good." + +"He would go out digging at Thebes in the very heat of the day. I begged +him not to, but Nigel is a little bit wilful. The result is I've had to +nurse him." + +"It's spoilt your trip, I'm afraid." + +"Oh, as long as I get him well quickly, that doesn't matter." + +"It will seem quite odd to pass by him without giving him a call," said +Isaacson, retaining his casual manner and lazy, indifferent demeanour. +"For I suppose I shall pass. You're not going up immediately?" + +"We may. I don't know at all. If he wishes to go, we shall go. I shall +do just what he wants." + +"If you start off, then I shall be in your wake." + +"Yes." + +She moved her umbrella slightly to and fro. + +"I do wish you could pay Nigel a visit," she said. Then, in a very frank +and almost cordial voice, she added, "Look here, Doctor Isaacson, let's +make a bargain. I'll go back to the dahabeeyah and see how he is, how +he's feeling--sound him, in fact. If I think it's all right, I'll send +you a note to come on board. If he's very down, or disinclined for +company--even yours--I'll ask you to give up the idea and just to put +off your visit for a few days, and come to see us at Assouan. After all, +Nigel may wish to see you, and it might even do him good. I'm perhaps +over-anxious to obey doctor's orders, inclined to be too careful. Shall +we leave it like that?" + +"Thank you very much." + +She got up, and so did he. + +"Of course," she said, "if I do have to say no after all--I don't think +I shall--but if I do, I know you'll understand, and pass us without +disturbing my husband. As a doctor, you won't misunderstand me." + +"Certainly not." + +She pulled at her veil again. + +"Well, then--" She held out her hand. + +"Oh, but I'll go with you to your donkey," he said. "I suppose you came +on a donkey? Or was it in a boat?" + +"No; I rode." + +"Then let me look for your donkey-boy." + +"He went to see friends in the village, but no doubt he's come back. +I'll find him easily." + +But he insisted on accompanying her. They came out of the first court, +through the narrow and lofty portal upon which traces of the exquisite +blue-green, the "love colour," still linger. This colour makes an effect +that is akin to the effect that would be made by a thin but intense cry +of joy rising up in a sombre temple. Isaacson looked up at it. He +thought it suggested woman as she ought to be in the life of a +man--something exquisite, delicate, ethereal, touchingly fascinating, +protected and held by strength. He was still thinking of the love +colour, and of his companion when Hamza stood before them, still, calm, +changeless as a bronze in the brilliant light of the morning. One of his +thin and delicate hands was laid on the red bridle of a magnificent +donkey. He looked upon them with his wonderfully expressive Eastern +eyes, which yet kept all his secrets. + +"What a marvellous type!" Isaacson said, in French, to Mrs. Armine. + +"Hamza--yes." + +"His name is Hamza?" + +She nodded. + +"He comes from Luxor. Good-bye again. And I'll send you the note some +time this morning, or in the early afternoon." + +With a quick easy movement, like that of a young woman, she was in the +saddle, helped by the hand of Hamza. + +Isaacson heard her sigh as she rode away. + + + + +XXXIII + + +Isaacson walked back alone into the temple. But the spell of the Nile +was broken. He had been rudely awaked from his dream, and so thoroughly +awaked that his dream was already as if it had never been. He was once +more the man he normally was in London--a man intensely, Jewishly alert, +a man with a doctor's mind. In every great physician there is hidden a +great detective. It was a detective who now walked alone in the temple +of Edfou, who penetrated presently once more to the sombre sanctuary, +and who stayed there for a long time, standing before the granite shrine +of the God, listening mentally in the absolute silence to the sound of +an ugly voice. + +When the heat of noon approached, Isaacson went back to the _Fatma_. He +did not know at all how long a time had passed since Mrs. Armine had +left him, and when he came on board, he enquired of Hassan whether any +message had come for him, any note from the dahabeeyah that lay over +there to the south of them, drowned in the quivering gold. + +"No, my nice gentlemans," was the reply, accompanied by a glance of +intense curiosity. + +Questions immediately followed. + +"That boat is the _Loulia_," said Isaacson, impatiently, pointing up +river. + +"Of course, I know that, my gentlemans." + +Hassan's voice sounded full of an almost contemptuous pity. + +"Well, I know the people on board of her. They--one of them is a friend +of mine. That'll do. You can go to the lower deck." + +Isaacson began to pace up and down. He pushed back the deck chairs to +the rail in order to have more room for movement. Although the heat was +becoming intense, and despite the marvellous dryness of the atmosphere, +perspiration broke out on his forehead and cheeks, he could not cease +from walking. Once he thought with amazement of his long and almost +complete inertia since he had left Luxor. How could he have remained +sunk in a chair for hours and hours, staring at the moving water and at +the monotonous banks of the Nile? Close to the _Fatma_ two shaduf men +were singing and bending, singing and bending. And had the shaduf songs +lulled him? Had they pushed him towards his dream? Now, as he listened +to the brown men singing, he heard nothing but violence in their voices. +And in their rhythmical movements only violence was expressed to him. +When lunch came, he ate it hastily, without noticing what he was eating. +Soon after he had finished, coffee was brought, not by the waiter, but +by Hassan, who could no longer suppress another demonstration of +curiosity. + +"No message him comin', my nice gentlemans." + +He stood gazing at his master. + +"No?" said Isaacson, with a forced carelessness. + +"All the men bin sleepin', the Reis him ready to start. We stop by the +_Loulia_, and we take the message ourselfs." + +"No. I'm not going to start at present. It's too hot." + +Hassan showed his long teeth, which looked like the teeth of an animal. +Isaacson knew a protest was coming. + +"I'll give the order when I'm ready to start. Go below to my cabin--in +the chair by the bed there's a field-glass"--he imitated the action of +lifting up to the eyes, and looking through, a glass--"just bring it up +to me, will you?" + +Hassan vanished, and returned with the glass. + +"That'll do." + +Hassan waited. + +"You can go now." + +Slowly Hassan went. Not only his face but his whole body looked the prey +of an almost venomous sulkiness. Isaacson picked up the glass, put it to +his eyes, and stared up river. He saw faintly a blurred vision. Hassan +had altered the focus. The sudden gust of irritation which shook +Isaacson revealed him to himself. As his fingers quickly readjusted the +glass to suit his eyesight, he stood astonished at the impetuosity of +his mind. But in a moment the astonishment was gone. He was but a +gazer, entirely concentrated in watchfulness, sunk as it were in +searching. + +The glass was a very powerful one, and of course Isaacson knew it; +nevertheless, he was surprised by the apparent nearness of the _Loulia_ +as he looked. He could appreciate the beauty of her lines, distinguish +her colour, the milky white picked out with gold. He could see two flags +flying, one at her mast-head, one in the stern of her; the awning that +concealed the upper deck. Yes, he could see all that. + +He slightly lowered the glass. Now he was looking straight at the +balcony that bayed out from the chamber of the faskeeyeh. There was an +awning above it, but the sides were not closed in. As he looked, he saw +a figure, like a doll, moving upon the balcony close to the rail. Was it +Mrs. Armine? Was it his friend, the man who was sick? He gazed with such +intensity that he felt as if he were making a severe physical effort. +His eyes began to ache. His eyelids tickled. He rubbed his eyes, +blinked, put up the glasses, and looked again. + +This time he saw a small boat detach itself from the side of the +_Loulia_, creep upon the river almost imperceptibly. The doll was still +moving by the rail. Then, as the boat dropped down the river, coming +towards Isaacson, it ceased to move. + +Isaacson laid down the glass. As he did so, he saw the crafty eyes of +Hassan watching him from the lower deck. He longed to give Hassan a +knock-down blow, but he pretended not to have seen him. + +He sat down on a deck-chair, out of range of Hassan's eyes, and waited +for the coming of the messenger of Bella Donna. + +Although his detective's mind had told him what the message must be, +something within him, some other part of him, strove to contradict the +foreknowledge of the detective, to protest that till the message was +actually in his hands he could know nothing about it. This protesting +something was that part of a man which is driven into activity by his +secret and strong desire, a desire which his instinct for the naked +truth of things may declare to be vain, but which, nevertheless, will +not consent to lie idle. + +He secretly longed for the message to be what he secretly knew it would +not be. + +At last he heard the plash of oars quite near to the _Fatma_ and deep +voices of men chanting, almost muttering, a monotonous song that set the +time for the oars. And although it rose up to him out of a golden world, +it was like a chant of doom. + +He did not move, he did not look over the side. The chant died away, the +plash of the oars was hushed. There was a slight impact. Then guttural +voices spoke together. + +A minute later Hassan came up the companion, carrying a letter in his +curling dark fingers. + +"The message him comin', him heeyah!" + +Isaacson took the letter. + +"You needn't stay." + +Hassan did not move. + +"I waitin' for--" + +"Go away!" + +Isaacson had never before spoken so roughly, so almost ferociously to a +dependant. When Hassan had gone, ferociously Isaacson opened the letter. +It was not very long, and his eyes seized every word of it almost at a +glance--seized every word and conveyed to his brain the knowledge, +undesired by him, that the detective had been right. + + "Loulia, Nile, Wednesday. + + "Dear Doctor, + + "I find it is better not. When I came on board again I found Nigel + reading over one of the notices of Harwich's death. I had begged + him to put them away, and not to brood over the inevitable. (We + only got the papers giving an account of Harwich yesterday.) But + being so seedy, poor boy, I suppose he naturally turns to things + that deepen depression. I ought not to have left him. But he + insisted on my taking a ride and visiting the temple, which I had + never been in before. I persuaded him to put away the papers, and + am devoting myself to cheering him up. We play cards together, and + I make music, and I read aloud to him. The great thing is--now that + he has taken a decided turn for the better--not to excite him in + any way. Now you, dear doctor--you mustn't mind my saying it--are + rather exciting. You have so much mentality yourself that you stir + up one's mind. I have always noticed that. Fond as he is of you, + just at this moment I fear you would exhaust Nigel. He gets hot and + excited so easily since the sunstroke. So _please pass us by + without a call_, and do be kind and wait for us at Assouan. In a + very few days we shall be able to receive you, and then, when he is + a little stronger, you can be of the greatest help to Nigel. Not as + a doctor--you see we have one, and mustn't leave him; _medical + etiquette_, you know!--but as a friend. It is so delightful to feel + you will be at Assouan. If you are the least anxious about your + friend, when you get to Assouan ask for Doctor Baring Hartley, if + you like, Cataract Hotel. He will set your mind at rest, as he has + set mine. It is only a question of keeping very quiet and getting + up strength. + + "Sincerely yours, + + "Ruby Armine. + + "P.S. Don't let your men make too much noise when passing us. Nigel + sleeps at odd times. Perhaps wiser to pole up along the opposite + bank." + + * * * * * + +Yes, the detective had been right--of course. + +Isaacson read the letter again, and this time slowly. The handwriting +was large, clear, and determined, but here and there it seemed to waver, +a word turned down. He fancied he detected signs of-- + +He read the postscript four times. If the handwriting had ever wavered, +it had recovered itself in the postscript. As he gazed at it, he felt as +if he were looking at a proclamation. + +He heard a sound, almost as if a soft-footed animal were padding towards +him. + +"My gentlemans, the Noobian peoples waitin' for what you say to the nice +lady." + +Isaacson got up and looked over the rail. + +Below lay a white felucca containing two sailors, splendidly handsome +black men, who were squatting on their haunches and smoking cigarettes. +In the stern of the boat, behind a comfortable seat with a back, was +Hamza, praying. As Isaacson looked down, the sailors saluted. But Hamza +did not see him. Hamza bowed down his forehead to the wood, raised +himself up, holding his hands to his legs, and prostrated himself again. +For a moment Isaacson watched him, absorbed. + +"Hamza very good donkey-boy, always prayin'." + +It was Hassan's eternal voice. Isaacson jerked himself up from the rail. + +"Ask if the lady expected an answer," he said. "They don't speak +English, I suppose?" + +"No, my gentlemans." + +He spoke in Arabic. A sailor replied. Hamza always prayed. + +"The lady him say p'raps you writin' somethin'." + +"Very well." + +Isaacson sat down, took a pen and paper. But what should be his answer? +He read Mrs. Armine's letter again. She was Nigel's wife, mistress of +Nigel's dahabeeyah. It was impossible, therefore, for him to insist on +going on board, not merely without an invitation, but having been +requested not to come. And yet, had she told Nigel his friend was in +Egypt? Apparently not. She did not say she had or she had not. But the +detective felt certain she had held her peace. Well, the sailors were +waiting, and even that bronze Hamza could not pray for ever. + +Isaacson dipped the pen in the ink, and wrote. + +"That's for the lady," he said, giving the note to Hassan. + +As Hassan went down the stairs, holding up his djelabieh, Isaacson got +up and looked once more over the rail. His eyes met the eyes of Hamza. +But Hamza did not salute him. Isaacson was not even certain that Hamza +saw him. The sailors threw away the ends of their cigarettes. They bent +to the oars. The boat shot out into the gold. And once more Isaacson +heard the murmuring chant that suggested doom. It diminished, it +dwindled, it died utterly away. And always he leant upon the rail, and +he watched the creeping felucca, and he wished that he were in it, going +to see his friend. + +What was he going to do? + +Again he began to pace the deck. It was not very far to Assouan--Gebel +Silsile, Kom Ombos, then Assouan. It was some hundred and ten +kilometres. The steamers did it in thirteen hours. But the _Fatma_, +going always against the stream, would take a much longer time. At +Assouan he could seek out this man, Baring Hartley. + +But she had suggested that! + +How entirely he distrusted this woman! + +Mrs. Armine and he were linked by their dislike. He had known they might +be when he met her in London. To-day he knew that they were. It seemed +to him that he read her with an ease and a certainty that were not +natural. And he knew that with equal ease and certainty she read him. +Their dislike was as a sheet of flawless glass through which each looked +upon the other. + +He picked up the field-glass again, and held it to his eyes. + +The felucca was close to the _Loulia_ now. And the doll upon the balcony +was once more moving by the rail. + +He was certain this doll was Mrs. Armine, and that she was restless for +his answer. + +The tiny boat joined the dahabeeyah, seemed to become one with it. The +doll moved and disappeared. Isaacson put down the glass. + +In his note to Mrs. Armine, the note she was reading at that moment, he +had politely accepted her decision, and written that he would look out +for them at Assouan. He had written nothing about Doctor Hartley, +nothing in answer to her postscript. His note had been shorter than +hers, rather careless and perfunctory. He had intended, when he was +writing it, to convey to her the impression that the whole matter was a +trifle and that he took it lightly. But he, too, had put his postscript. +And this was it: + +"P.S. I look forward to a real acquaintance with you at Assouan." + +And now, if he gave the word to the Reis to untie, to pole off, to get +out the huge oars, and to cross to the western bank of the river! Soon +they would be level with the _Loulia_. A little later the _Loulia_ would +lie behind them. A little later still, and she would be out of their +sight. + +"God knows when they'll be at Assouan!" + +Isaacson found himself saying that. And he felt as if, as soon as the +_Fatma_ rounded the bend of the Nile and crept out of sight on her slow +way southwards, the _Loulia_ would untie and drop down towards the +north. He felt it? He knew it as if he had seen it happen. + +"Hassan!" + +When Hassan answered, Isaacson bade him tell the Reis that he and his +men could rest all the afternoon. + +"I'm going to Edfou again. I shall probably spend some hours in the +temple." + +"Him very fine temple." + +"Yes. I shall go alone and on foot." + +A few minutes later he set out. He gained the temple, and stayed in it a +long time. When he returned to the _Fatma_, the afternoon was waning. In +the ethereal distance the _Loulia_ still lay motionless. + +"We goin' now?" asked Hassan. + +Isaacson shook his head. + +"We goin' to-night?" + +"I'll tell you when I want to go. You needn't keep asking me questions." + +The dragoman was getting terribly on Isaacson's nerves. For a moment +Isaacson thought of dismissing him there and then, paying him handsomely +and sending him ashore now, on the instant. The impulse was strong, but +he resisted it. The fellow might possibly be useful. Isaacson looked at +him meditatively and searchingly. + +"What can I doin' for my gentlemans?" + +"Nothing, except hold your tongue." + +Hassan retired indignantly. + +While he had looked at Hassan, Isaacson had considered a proposition and +rejected it. He had thought of sending the dragoman with a note to the +_Loulia_. It would be simple enough to invent an excuse for the note. +Hassan might see Nigel--would see Nigel, if a hint were given him to do +so. But he would no doubt also see Mrs. Armine; and--if Isaacson's +instinct were not utterly astray in a wilderness of absurdity and +error--she would make more use of Hassan than he ever could. The +dragoman's face bore the sign-manual of treachery stamped upon it. And +Mrs. Armine would be more clever in using treachery than Isaacson. He +appreciated her talent at its full value. + +While he had been in the temple of Edfou he had come to a conclusion +with himself. Entirely alone in the semi-darkness of the most perfect +building, and the most perfectly calm building, that he had ever +entered, he had known his own calm and what his instinct told him in it. +Had he not spent those hours in Edfou, possibly he might have denied the +insistent voice of his instinct. Now he would heed that voice, certain +that it was no unreasonable ear that was listening. + +He saw the tapering mast of the _Loulia_ against the thin, magical gold +of the sky at sunset. He saw it against the even more magical primrose, +pale green, soft red, of the after-glow. He saw it black as ink in the +livid spasm of light that the falling night struck away from the river, +the land, the sky. And then he saw it no more. + +His sailors began to sing a song of the Nile, sitting in a circle around +a bowl that had been passed from hand to hand. He dined quickly. + +Hassan came to ask if he might go ashore. He had friends in the native +village, and wished to see them. Isaacson told him to go. A minute +later, with a swish of skirts, the tall figure vanished over the gangway +and up the bank. + +The sailors went on singing, throwing back their heads, swaying them, +rocking gently to and fro and from side to side. They were happy and +intent. + +Isaacson let five minutes go by; then he followed Hassan's example. He +crossed the gangway, climbed the bank, and stood still on the flat +ground which dominated the river. + +The night was warm, almost lusciously warm, and very still. The sky was +absolutely clear, but there was no moon, and the river, the flats, the +two ranges of mountains that keep the Nile, were possessed by a gentle +darkness. As Isaacson stood there, he saw the lights on the _Fatma_ +gleaming, he heard the sad and tempestuous singing of his men, and the +barking of dogs on hidden houses keeping guard against imagined +intruders. When he looked at the lights of the _Fatma_, he realized how +the boat stood to him for home. He felt almost desolate in leaving her +to adventure forth in the night. + +But he turned southwards and looked up-river. Far away--so it seemed, +now the night was come--isolated in the darkness, was a pattern of +lights. And high above them, apparently hung in air, there was a blue +jewel. Isaacson knew it for a lamp fixed against the mast of the +_Loulia_. He put his hand down to his hip-pocket. Yes, his revolver was +safely there. He lit a cigar, then, moved by an after-thought, threw it +away. Its tip hissed as it struck the river. He looked at that blue +jewel, at the diaper of yellow below it, and he set out upon his +nocturnal journey. + +At first he walked very slowly and cautiously. But soon his eyes, which +were exceptionally strong-sighted, became accustomed to the gloom, and +he could see his way without difficulty. Now and then he looked back, +rather as a man going into a tunnel on foot may look back to the orifice +which shows the light of day. He looked back to his home. And each time +it seemed to have receded from him. And at last he felt he was homeless. +Then he looked back no more, but always forward to the pattern of light +that marked where the _Loulia_ lay. And then--why was that?--he felt +more homeless still. Perhaps he was possessed by the consciousness of +moving towards an enemy. Men feel very differently in darkness and in +light. And in darkness their thought of an individual sometimes assumes +strange contours. Now Isaacson's imagination awoke, and led his mind +down paths that were dim and eerie. The blue jewel that hung in air +seemed like the cruel eye of a beautiful woman that was watching him as +he walked. He felt as if Bella Donna had mounted upon a tower to spy out +his progress in the night. With this fancy he played a sort of horrible +game, until deep in his mind a conviction grew that Mrs. Armine had +actually somehow divined his approach. How? Women have the strangest +intuitions. They know things that--to speak by the card--they cannot +know. + +Surely Bella Donna was upon her tower. + +He stopped at the edge of a field of doura. What was the use of going +further? + +He looked to the north, then turned and looked to the south, comparing +the two distances that lay between him and his own boat, between him and +the _Loulia_. His mind had said, "If I'm nearer to the _Fatma_ I'll go +back; if I'm nearer to the _Loulia_ I'll go on." His eyes, keenly +judging the distances, told him he was nearer to the _Loulia_ than to +his own boat. The die was cast. He went on. + +Surely Bella Donna knew it, spied it from her tower. + +Now he heard he knew not where, violent voices of fellahin, of many +fellahin talking, as it seemed, furiously in the darkness. The noise +suggested a crowd roused by some strong emotion. It sounded quite near, +but not close. Isaacson stood still, listened, tried to locate it, but +could not. The voices rose in the night, kept perpetually at a high, +fierce pitch, like voices of men in a frenzy. Then abruptly they failed, +as if the night, wearied with their importunity, had fallen upon the +speakers and choked them. And the silence, broken only by the faint +rustle of the doura, was startling, was almost dreadful. + +Isaacson walked more quickly, fixing his eyes on those lights to the +south. As he drew near to them, he was conscious of a sort of cold +excitement, cold because at its core lay apprehension. When he was very +near to them and could distinguish the solidity of the darkness out of +which they were shining, he walked slowly, and then presently stood +still. And as he stood still the Nubian sailors on the _Loulia_ began to +sing the song about Allah which Mrs. Armine had heard from the garden of +the Villa Androud on her first evening in Upper Egypt. + +First a solo voice, vehement, strange to Western ears, immensely +expressive, like the voice of a mueddin summoning the faithful to +prayer, cried aloud, "Al-lah! Al-lah! Al-lah!" And this voice was +accompanied by a deep and monotonous murmur, and by the ground bass of +the daraboukkeh. Then the chorus of male voices joined in. + +As Isaacson stood a little way off on the lonely bank of the Nile in +this deserted place--for the _Loulia_ was tied up far from any village, +in a desolate reach of the river--he thought that he had never heard +till now any music at the same time so pitiless and so sad, so cruel, +and yet, at moments, so full of a rough and artless yearning. It seemed +heavy with the burthen of fate, of that from which a man cannot escape, +though he strive with all his powers and cry out of the very depths of +his heart. + +Like a great and sombre cloud the East settled down upon Isaacson as he +heard that song of the dark people. And as he stood in the cloud +something within him responded to these voices, responded to the souls +that were behind them. + +Once, one morning in London, besieged by the commonplace, he had longed +for events, tragic, tremendous, horrible even, if only they were +unusual, if only they were such as would lift him into sharp activity. +Had that longing resulted in--now? + +He put out one lean, dark hand, and pulled at the heavily podded head of +a doura plant. And the voices sang on, and on, and on. + +Suddenly, with a sharp and cruel abruptness, they ceased. + +"Al--" and silence! The name of the dark man's God was executed upon +their lips. + +Isaacson let go the podded head of the doura. He waited. Then, as the +deep silence continued, he went on till the outline of the big boat was +distinct before his eyes, till he saw that the blue light was a lamp +fixed against an immense mast that bent over and tapered to a delicate +point. He saw that, and yet he still seemed to see Bella Donna upon her +tower; Bella Donna, the eternal spy, whose beautiful eyes had sought his +secrets between the walls of his consulting-room. + +Very cautiously he went now. He looked warily about him. But he saw no +more upon the bank. It was not high here. Without a long descent he +would be able to see into the chambers of the _Loulia_, unless their +shutters were closed against the night. It was strange to think that he +was close to Nigel, and that Nigel believed him to be in Cleveland +Square, unless Mrs. Armine had been frank. Now he saw something moving +upon the bank, furtively creeping towards the lights, as if irresistibly +attracted, and yet always afraid. It was a wretched pariah dog, +starving, and with its yellow eyes fixed upon the thing that contained +food; a dog such as that which crept near to Mrs. Armine as she sat in +the garden of the villa, while Nigel, above her, watched the stars. As +Isaacson came near to it, it shivered and moved away, but not far. Then +it sat down and shook. Its ribs were like the ribs of a wrecked vessel. + +Isaacson was close to the _Loulia_ now. He could see the balcony in the +stern where the doll had moved by the rail. It was lit by one electric +burner, and was not closed in with canvas, though there was a canvas +roof above it. Beyond it, through two large apertures, Isaacson could +see more light that gleamed in a room. He stood still again. Upon the +balcony he saw a long outline, the outline of a deckchair with a figure +stretched out in it. As he saw this the silence was again broken by +music. From the lighted room came the chilly and modern sound of a +piano. + +Then Bella Donna had come down from her tower! Or had she never been +there? + +Isaacson looked at the long outline, and listened. His mind was full of +that other music, the cry of Mohammedanism in the African night. This +music of Europe seemed out of place, like a nothing masquerading beneath +the stars. But in a moment he listened more closely; he moved a step +nearer. He was searching in his memory, was asking himself what that +music expressed, what it meant to him. No longer was it banal. There was +a sound in it, even played upon a piano, even heard in this night and +this desolate place between two deserts, of the elemental. + +Bella Donna was playing that part of "The Dream of Gerontius" where the +soul of man is dismissed to its Maker. + +"Proficiscere, anima Christiana, de hoc mundo!" (Go forth upon thy +journey, Christian soul! Go from this world!) + +She was playing that, and the stretched figure in the long chair was +listening to it. + +At that moment Isaacson felt glad that he had come to Egypt--glad in a +new way. + +"Go forth ... go from this world!" + +Almost he heard the deep and irreparable voice of the priest, and in the +music there was disintegration. In it the atoms parted. The temple +crumbled to let the inmate come forth. + +Presently the music ceased. The murmur of a voice was audible. Then one +of the oblongs of light beyond the balcony was broken up by a darkness. +And the darkness came out, and bent above the stretched figure in the +chair. An instant later the electric burner that gave light to the +balcony was extinguished. Nigel and his wife were together in the +dimness, with the lighted room beyond them. + +When the light was turned out, the pariah dog got up stealthily and +crept much nearer to the _Loulia_. Its secret movement, observed by +Isaacson, made an unpleasant impression upon him. He drew a parallel +between it and himself, and felt himself to be a pariah, because of what +he was doing. But something within him that was much stronger than his +sense of discretion, and of "the right thing" for a decently bred man to +do, had taken him to this place in the night, kept him there, even +prompted him to imitate the starving dog, and to move nearer to those +two who believed themselves isolated in the dimness. + +He was determined to hear the voice of the stretched figure in the long +chair. + +The light that issued from the room of the faskeeyeh faintly illuminated +part of the balcony. Isaacson heard the murmuring voice of Mrs. Armine +again. Then one of the oblongs was again obscured, and the room was +abruptly plunged in darkness. As Mrs. Armine returned, Isaacson stole +down the shelving bank and took up a position close to the last window +of this room. The crew and the servants were all forward on the lower +deck, which was shut in closely by canvas. On the upper deck of the boat +there was no one. If Mrs. Armine had lingered after putting out the +light, she would perhaps have seen the figure of a man. But she did not +linger. Isaacson had felt that she would not linger. And he was out of +range of the vision of any one on the balcony, although now so close to +it that it was almost as if he stood upon it. The Nile flowed near his +feet with a sucking murmur that was very faint in the night. There was +no other sound to interfere between him and the two voices. + +A dress rustled. He thought of the sanctuary in the temple of Edfou. +Then a faint and strangely toneless voice, that he did not recognize, +said: + +"That's ever so much better. I do hate that strong light." + +"But who is that in the chair, then?" Isaacson asked himself, +astonished. "Have they got some one on board with them?" + +"Electric light tries a great many people." + +Isaacson knew the voice which said that. It was Mrs. Armine's voice, +gentle, melodious, and seductive. And he thought of the hoarse and +hideous sound which that morning he had heard in the temple. + +"Do sit down by me," said the first voice. + +Could it really be Nigel's? This time there was in it a sound that was +faintly familiar to Isaacson--a sound to which he listened almost as a +man may regard a shadow and say to himself, "Is that shadow cast by my +friend?" + +A dress rustled. And the tiny noise was followed by the creak of a +basket chair. + +"Don't you think you're a little better to-night?" said Mrs. Armine. + +The other sighed. + +"No." + +"Doctor Baring Hartley said you would recover rapidly." + +"Ruby, he doesn't understand my case. He can't understand it." + +"But he seemed so certain. And he's got a great reputation in America." + +"But he doesn't understand. To-night I feel--when you were playing +'Gerontius' I felt that--that I must soon go. 'Proficiscere, anima +Christiana, de hoc mundo'--I felt as if somewhere that was being said to +me." + +"Nigel!" + +"It's strange that I, who've always loved the sun, should be knocked +over by the sun, isn't it? Strange that what one loves should destroy +one!" + +"But--but that's not true, Nigel. You are getting better, although you +don't think so." + +"Ruby"--the voice was almost stern, and now it was more like the voice +that Isaacson knew--"Ruby, I'm getting worse. To-day I feel that I'm +going to die." + +"Let me telegraph for Doctor Hartley. At dawn to-morrow I shall send the +boat to Edfou--" + +"If only Isaacson were here!" + +There was a silence. Then Mrs. Armine said: + +"What could Doctor Isaacson do more than has been done?" + +"He's a wonderful man. He sees what others don't see. I feel that he +might find out what's the matter." + +"Find out! But, Nigel, we know it's the sun. You yourself--" + +"Yes, yes!" + +"To-morrow I'll wire for Doctor Hartley to come down at once from +Assouan." + +"It's this awful insomnia that's doing for me. All my life I've slept so +well--till now. And the rheumatic pains; how can the sun--Ruby, +sometimes I think it's nothing to do with the sun." + +"But, then, what can it be? You know you would expose yourself, though I +begged and implored--" + +"But the heat's nothing new to me. For months in the Fayyum I worked in +the full glare of the sun. And it never hurt me." + +"Nigel, it was the sun. One may do a thing ninety-nine times, and the +hundredth time one pays for it." + +A chair creaked. + +"Do you want to turn, Nigel? Wait, I'll help you." + +"Isn't it awful to lose all one's strength like this?" + +"It'll come back. Wait! You're slipping. Let me put my arm behind you." + +"Yes, give me your hand, dearest!" + +After a pause he said: + +"Poor Ruby! What a time for you! You never guessed you'd married a +miserable crock, did you?" + +"I haven't. Any one may get a sunstroke. In two or three weeks you'll be +laughing at all this. Directly it passes you'll forget it." + +"But I have a feeling sometimes that--it's a feeling--of death." + +"When? When?" + +"Last night, in the night. I felt like a man just simply going out." + +"I never ought to have let Doctor Hartley go. But you said you wanted to +be alone with me, didn't you, Nigel?" + +"Yes. I felt somehow that Hartley could be of no use--that no ordinary +man could do anything. I felt as if it were Fate, and as if you and I +must fight it together. I felt as if--perhaps--our love--" + +The voice died away. + +Isaacson clenched his hands, and moved a step backward. The shivering +pariah dog slunk away, fearing a blow. + +"What was that?" Nigel said. + +"Did you hear something?" + +"Yes--a step." + +"Oh, it's one of the men, no doubt. Shall I play to you a little more?" + +"Can you without putting on the light? I'm afraid of the light now +and--and how I used to love it!" + +"I'll manage." + +"But you'll have to take away your hand! Wait a minute. Oh, Ruby, it's +terrible! To-night I feel like a man on the edge of an abyss, and as if, +without a hand, I must fall--I--" + +Isaacson heard a dry, horrid sound, that was checked almost at once. + +"I never--never thought I should come to this, Ruby." + +"Never mind, dearest. Any one--" + +"Yes--yes--I know. But I hate--it isn't like a man to--Go and play to me +again." + +"I won't play 'Gerontius.' It makes you think sad things, dreadful +things." + +"No, play it again. It was on your piano that day I called--in London. I +shall always associate it with you." + +The dress rustled. She was getting up. + +Isaacson hesitated no longer. He went instantly up the bank. When he had +reached the top he stood still for a moment. His breath came quickly. +Below, the piano sounded. Bella Donna had not seen him, had not, without +seeing him, divined his presence. He might go while she played, and she +would never know he had been there eavesdropping in the night. No one +would ever know. And to-morrow, with the sun, he could come back openly, +defying her request. He could come back boldly and ask for his friend. + +"Proficiscere, anima Christiana, de hoc mundo!" + +He would come back and see the face that went with that changed voice, +that voice which he had hardly recognized. + +"Go forth upon thy journey, Christian soul! Go from this world!" + +He moved to go away to those far-off lights which showed where the +_Fatma_ lay, by Edfou. + +"Go forth ... go from this world!" + +Was it the voice of a priest? Or was it the irreparable voice of a +woman? + +Suddenly Isaacson breathed quietly. He unclenched his hands. A wave--it +was like that--a wave of strong self-possession seemed to inundate him. +Now, in the darkness on the bank, a great doctor stood. And this doctor +had nothing to do with the far-off lights by Edfou. His mission lay +elsewhere. + +"Go forth--go forth from this world!" + +He walked along the bank, down the bank to the gangway which connected +the deck of the _Loulia_ forward with the shore. He pushed aside the +dropped canvas, and he stepped upon the deck. A number of dark eyes +gravely regarded him. Then Hamza detached himself from the hooded crowd +and came up to where Isaacson was standing. + +"Give that card to your master, and ask if I can see him." + +"Yes!" said Hamza. + +He went away with the card. There was a pause. + +Then abruptly, the sound of the piano ceased. + + + + +XXXIV + + +After the cessation of the music there was a pause, which seemed to +Isaacson almost interminably prolonged. In it he felt no excitement. In +a man of his type excitement is the child of uncertainty. Now all +uncertainty as to what he meant to do had left him. Calm, decided, +master of himself as when he sat in his consulting-room to receive the +suffering world, he waited quietly for the return of his messenger. The +many dark eyes stared solemnly at him, and he looked back at them, and +he knew that his eyes told them no more than theirs told him. + +When Hamza went with the card, he had shut behind him the door at the +foot of the stairs, which divided the rooms on the _Loulia_ from the +deck. Presently as no one came, Isaacson looked at this door. He saw +above it the Arabic inscription which Baroudi had translated for Mrs. +Armine and he wondered what it meant. His eyes were almost fascinated by +it and he felt it must be significant, that the man he had seen +crouching beneath the black roof of the hashish cafe had set it there to +be the motto of his wonderful boat. But he knew no Arabic, and there was +no one to translate the golden characters. For Ibrahim that night was +unwell, and was sleeping smothered in his haik. + +The white door opened gently, and Hamza reappeared. He made a gesture +which invited Isaacson to come to him. Isaacson felt that he consciously +braced himself, as a strong man braces himself for a conflict. Then he +went over the deck, down the shallow steps, and was led by Hamza into +the first saloon of the _Loulia_, that room which Baroudi had called his +"den," and which Mrs. Armine had taken as her boudoir. It was lit up. +The door on the far side, beyond the dining-room, was shut. And Mrs. +Armine was standing by the writing-table, holding Isaacson's card in her +hand. + +As soon as Isaacson had crossed the threshold, Hamza went out and shut +the door gently. + +Mrs. Armine was dressed in black, and on her cheeks were two patches of +vivid red, of red that was artificial and not well put on. Isaacson +believed that she had rushed from the piano to make up her face when she +had learnt of his coming. She looked towards him with hard +interrogation, at the same time lifting her hand. + +"Hush, please!" she said, in a low voice. "He doesn't know you are here. +He's asleep." + +Her eyes went over his face with a horrible swiftness, and she added, "I +was playing. I have been playing him to sleep." + +As if remembering, she held out her hand to Isaacson. He went over to +her softly and took it. As he did so, she made what seemed an +involuntary and almost violent movement to draw it away, checked +herself, and left her hand in his, setting her lips together. He noticed +that in one of her eyelids a pulse was beating. He held her hand with a +gentle, an almost caressing decision, while he said, imitating her +withdrawn way of speaking: + +"I'm afraid my coming at this hour has surprised you very much. Do +forgive me, but--" + +"What about my note?" she asked. + +"May I sit down? What marvellous rugs! What an extraordinary boat this +is!" + +"Oh, sit--the divan! Yes, the rugs are fine--of course." + +Hastily, and moving without her usual grace, she went to the nearest +divan. He followed her. She sat down, but did not lean back. She had +dropped his card on the floor. + +"You read my note! Well, then--?" + +It seemed to Isaacson that within his companion there was at this moment +a violent mental struggle going on as to what course she should take, +now, immediately; as if something within her was clamouring for +defiance, something else was pleading for diplomacy. He felt that he was +close to an almost red-hot violence, and wondered intensely whether it +was going to have its way. He wondered, but he did not care. For he knew +that nothing his companion did could change his inward decision. And +even in a moment that was like a black thing lit up by tragic fires he +enjoyed his alert mentality, as an athlete enjoys his power to give a +tremendous blow even if he has just seen a sight that has waked in him +horror. + +"Well, then?" she repeated, always speaking in a very low voice, though +not in a whisper. + +A cuckoo clock sounded. She sprang up. + +"That wretched--!" + +She went over to the clock, tore the little door in the front out, +inserted her fingers in the opening. There was a dry sound of tearing +and splintering. She came back with minute drops of blood on her +fingers. + +"It drives Nigel mad!" she said. "It ought to have been stopped long +ago. You got my note, and I your answer." + +"And of course you think that I ought not to have come to-night." + +She looked at him and sat down again. And by the way of her sitting down +he knew that she had come to a decision as to conduct. + +"I suppose you felt uneasy, and thought you would like to enquire a +little more of me. Was that it?" + +"I did feel a little uneasy, I confess." + +"How did you come to-night?" + +"I walked." + +"Walked? Alone?" + +"Quite alone." + +"All that way! I'll send you back in the felucca." + +"Oh, that will be all right." + +"No, no, you shall have the felucca." + +She touched an electric bell. Hamza came. + +"The felucca, Hamza." + +"Yes." + +He went. + +"They'll get it ready." + +She moved some cushions. Isaacson noticed a yellowish tinge about her +temples, just beyond the corners of her eyes above the cheek-bones. Most +of her face was not made up, though there were one or two dabs of powder +as well as the rouge. + +"They'll get it ready in a moment," she repeated. + +She turned towards him, smiling suddenly. + +"And so you felt uneasy, and thought you'd hear a little more, and came +at night so as not to startle or disturb him. That was good of you. The +fact is, I didn't tell him I had met you to-day. I intended to, but when +I got here I gave up the idea." + +"Why was that?" + +"He'd been reading all the notices about Harwich, and they'd utterly +upset him." + +Suddenly she noticed the tiny drops of blood on her fingers. + +"Oh!" she said. + +She put her hand up to the front of her gown, drew out a handkerchief, +and pressed her fingers with it. + +"How stupid of me!" + +Hamza appeared. + +"Ah, the felucca is ready!" said Mrs. Armine. + +Isaacson leaned back quietly, and made himself comfortable on the broad +divan. + +"In a minute, Hamza!" she said. + +Hamza went away. + +"That's a marvellous fellow you've got," said Isaacson. + +Although he spoke almost under his breath, he managed to introduce into +his voice the quiet sound of a man of the world very much at his ease, +and with a pleasant half-hour before him. "I saw him praying this +afternoon." + +"Praying?" + +"Yes, when he brought your note." + +A look of horror crept over her face, and was gone in an instant. + +"Oh, all these people pray." + +She sat more forward on the divan, almost like one about to get up. +Isaacson crossed one leg over the other. + +"What you told me this morning did make me uneasy about your husband," +he said, leaving the Mohammedan world abruptly. + +"Then I must have spoken very carelessly," she said, quickly. + +All the time they were talking, she made perpetual slight movements, and +was never perfectly still. + +"Then you are not at all uneasy about his condition?" + +"I--I didn't say that. Naturally, a wife is a little anxious if her +husband has been ill. But he is so much better than he was that it would +be foolish of me to be upset." + +"I confess this morning you roused my professional anxiety." + +"I really don't see why." + +"Well, you know, we doctors become very alert about signs and symptoms. +And you let drop one or two words which made me fear that possibly your +husband might be worse than you supposed." + +"Doctor Baring Hartley is in charge of the case." + +"Well, but he isn't here!" + +"He's coming here to-morrow." + +"I understood he was waiting for you at Assouan. You'll forgive me for +venturing to intrude into this affair, but as an old friend of your +husband--" + +"Doctor Hartley is at Assouan, but he will come down to-morrow to see +his patient. You don't seem to realize that Assouan is close by, just +round the corner." + +"I know it is only a hundred and ten kilometres away." + +"In a steam launch or by train that's absolutely nothing. He'll be here +to-morrow." + +"Then your husband feels worse?" + +"Not at all." + +"But if you've sent for Doctor Hartley?" + +"I've only done that because instead of going up at once to Assouan, as +we had intended, we've decided to remain here for the present. Nigel +enjoys the quiet, and I dare say it's better for him. You forget he's +just lost his only brother." + +"You mean that I am wanting in delicacy in thrusting myself into your +mutual grief?" + +He spoke very simply, very quietly, but there was a note in his voice of +inflexible determination. + +"I don't wish to say that," she answered. + +And her voice was harder than his. + +"But I'm afraid you think it. I'll be frank with you, Mrs. Armine. Here +is my friend, ill, isolated from medical help--" + +"For the moment only." + +"Isolated for the moment from medical help in a very lonely place--" + +"My dear doctor!" She raised her narrow eyebrows. "To hear you talk, one +would think we were at the end of the world instead of in the very midst +of civilization and people." + +"And here, by chance"--he saw her mouth set itself in a grimness which +made her look suddenly middle-aged--"by chance, am I, an old +acquaintance, a good friend, and, if I may say so of myself, a +well-known medical man. Is it not natural if I come to see how the sick +man is?" + +"Oh, quite; and I've told you how he is." + +"Isn't it natural if I ask to see the sick man himself?" + +Her mouth went suddenly awry. She pressed her hand on a cushion. "No, I +don't think it is when his wife asked you not to come to see him, +because it would upset him, and because he had specially told her that +for two or three weeks he wished to see nobody." + +"Are you quite sure your husband wouldn't wish to see me?" + +"He doesn't wish to see anybody for a few days." + +"Are you quite sure that if he knew I was here he wouldn't wish to see +me?" + +"How on earth can one be quite sure of what other people would think, +or want, if this, or that, or the other?" + +"Then why not find out?" + +"Find out?" + +"By asking. I certainly am not the man to force myself upon a friend +against his will. But I should be very much obliged to you if you would +tell your husband I'm here, and ask him whether he wouldn't like to see +me." + +"You really wish me to wake an invalid up in the dead of night, just as +he's been got off to sleep, in order to receive a visitor! Well, then, I +flatly refuse." + +"Oh, if he is really asleep!" + +"I told you that just before you arrived I had been playing the piano to +him and that he had fallen asleep. I don't think you are very +considerate this evening, Doctor Isaacson." + +She got up. + +"A doctor, I think, ought to know better." + +The little pulse in her eyelid was beating furiously. + +He stood up, too. + +"A doctor," he said, very quietly, "I think does know better than one +who is not a doctor how to treat a sick man. What you said to me in the +temple this morning, and what I heard when I was in Cairo and at Luxor +before I came up the river, has alarmed me about my friend, and I must +request to be allowed to see him." + +"At Cairo and Luxor! What did you hear at Cairo and Luxor?" + +"At Cairo I heard from a man that your husband was too ill to travel, +and therefore certainly could not under any circumstances have gone to +England when he heard of his brother's death. At Luxor from a woman I +heard very much the same story." + +"Of course, and probably with plenty of embroidery and exaggeration." + +"Perhaps. But sunstroke can be a very serious thing." + +"I never heard you were a specialist in sunstroke." + +"And is Doctor Baring Hartley, who is watching this case from Assouan?" + +They looked at each other for a minute in silence. Then she said: + +"Perhaps I've been a little unjust to-night. I've had a good deal of +trouble lately, and it's upset my nerves. I know you care for Nigel, and +I'm grateful to you for your friendly anxiety. But perhaps you don't +realize that you've expressed that anxiety in a way that--well, that has +seemed to reflect upon me, upon my conduct, and any woman, any wife, +would resent that, and resent it keenly." + +"I'm sorry," he said, coldly. "In what way have I reflected upon you?" + +"Your words, your whole manner--they seem to show doubt of my care of +and anxiety about Nigel. I resent that." + +"I'm sorry," he said again, and again with almost icy coldness. + +Her lips trembled. + +"Perhaps, being a man, you don't realize how it hurts a woman who has +been through a nervous strain when some one pushes in from outside and +makes nothing of all she has been doing, tacitly belittles all her care +and devotion and self-sacrifice, and tries, or seems to wish to try, to +thrust himself into her proper place." + +"Oh, Mrs. Armine, you are exaggerating. I wish nothing of that kind. All +I wish is to be allowed to use such medical talent as God has given me +in the service of your husband and my friend." + +Her lips ceased from trembling. "I cannot insult Doctor Baring Hartley +by consenting to bring in another doctor behind his back," she said. And +now her voice was as cold, as hard, as decisive as his own. "I am +astonished that you should be so utterly indifferent to the etiquette of +your own profession," she added. + +"I will make that all right with Doctor Hartley when I get to Assouan." + +"There will be no need for that." + +"Do you mean that you are going to refuse absolutely to allow me to see +your husband?" + +"I do. In any case, you could not see him to-night, as he is asleep--" + +She stopped. Through the silent boat there went the sharp, tingling +noise of an electric bell. + +"As he is asleep." She spoke more quickly and unevenly. "And to-morrow +Doctor Hartley will be here, and I shall go by what he says. If he +wishes a consultation--" + +Again the bell sounded. She frowned. Hamza appeared at the door leading +from the deck. He closed the door behind him, crossed the cabin without +noise, opened the farther door, and vanished, shutting it with a swift +gentleness that seemed almost unnatural. + +"Then it will be a different matter, and I shall be very glad indeed to +have your opinion. I know its value"--she looked towards the door by +which Hamza had gone out--"but I must treat Doctor Hartley with proper +consideration. And now I must say good night." + +Her voice still hurried. Quickly she held out her hand. + +"The felucca will take you home. And to-morrow, as soon as Doctor +Hartley has been here and I have had a talk with him and heard what he +thinks, I'll let you know all about it. It's very good of you to +bother." + +But Isaacson did not take the outstretched hand. + +"Your husband is awake," he said, abruptly. + +Her hand dropped. + +"I think, I'm sure, that if he knew I was here he would be very glad to +see me. I know you'll tell him, and let him decide for himself." + +"But I'm sure he is asleep. I left him asleep." + +"That bell--" + +She smiled. + +"Oh, that wasn't Nigel! That was my French maid. She's very glorified +here. She makes Hamza attend upon her, hand and foot." + +As she spoke, Isaacson remembered the words in Nigel's letter: "She +packed off her French maid so as to be quite free." + +"Oh, your maid!" he said. + +And his voice was colder, firmer. + +"Yes." + +"But surely it may have been your husband who rang?" + +"No, I don't think so. I'm quite sure not. Once Nigel gets off to sleep +he doesn't wake easily." + +"But I thought he suffered from insomnia!" + +Directly he had said the words, Isaacson realized that he had made a +false step. But it was too late to retrieve it. She was upon him +instantly. + +"Why?" she said, sharply. "Why should you think that?" + +"You--" + +"I never said so! I never said a word of it!" + +She remembered the steps Nigel had said he heard when they were together +upon the balcony, and beneath the rouge on her face her cheeks went +grey. + +"I never said a word of it!" she reiterated, with her eyes fastened upon +him. + +"You spoke of having 'got him off to sleep'--of having 'played him to +sleep.' I naturally gathered that he had been sleeping badly, and that +sleep was very important to him. And then the clock!" + +He pointed to the broken toy from Switzerland. + +But the greyness persisted in her face. He knew that his attempted +explanation was useless. He knew that she had realized his overhearing +of her conversation with Nigel. Well, that fact, perhaps, cleared some +ground. But he would not show that he knew. + +"Your vexation about the clock proved that the patient was sleeping +badly and was sensitive to the least noise." + +She opened her lips twice as if to speak, and shut them without saying +anything; then, as if with a fierce effort, and speaking with a voice +that was hoarse and ugly as the voice he had heard in the temple, she +said: + +"It's very late, and I'm really tired out. I can't talk any more. I've +told you that Nigel is asleep and that I decline to wake him for you or +for any one. The doctor who understands his case, and whom he himself +has chosen to be in charge of it, is coming early to-morrow. The felucca +is there"--she put out her hand towards the nearest door--"and will take +you down the river. I must ask you to go. I'm tired." + +She dropped her hand. + +"This boat is my house, Doctor Isaacson, and I must seriously ask you to +leave it." + +"And I must insist, as a doctor, on seeing your husband." + +All pretence was dropped between them. It was a fight. + +"This is great impertinence," she said. "I refuse. I've told you my +reason." + +"I shall stop here till I see your husband," said Isaacson. + +And he sat down again very quietly and deliberately on the divan. + +"And if you like, I'll tell you my reason," he said. + +But she did not ask him what it was. Through the sheet of glass he +looked at her, and it was as if he saw a pursued hare suddenly double. + +"It's too utterly absurd all this argument about nothing," she said, +suddenly smiling, and in her beautiful voice. "Evidently you have been +the victim of some ridiculous stories in Cairo or Luxor. Some kind +people have been talking, as kind people talked in London. And you've +swallowed it all, as you swallowed it all in London. I suppose they said +Nigel was dying and that I was neglecting him, or some rubbish of that +sort. And so you, as a medical Don Quixote, put your lance in rest and +rush to the rescue. But you don't know Nigel if you think he'd thank you +for doing it." + +In the last sentence her voice, though still preserving its almost lazy +beauty, became faintly sinister. + +"Nigel knows me as the world does not," she continued, quietly. "And the +one who treats me wrongly, without the respect due to me as his wife +will find he has lost Nigel as a friend." + +Isaacson felt like a man whose enemy has abruptly unmasked a battery, +and who faces the muzzles of formidable guns. + +"You don't know Nigel." + +She said it softly, almost reflectively, and with a little droop of the +head she emphasized it. + +"You had better do what I ask you to do, Doctor Isaacson. If you wish to +do Nigel good, you had better not try to force yourself in against my +will in the dead of the night, when I'm tired out and have begged you to +go. You had better let me ask Doctor Hartley for a consultation +to-morrow, and tell Nigel, and call you in. That's the best plan--if you +want to be nice to Nigel." + +She sat down again on the divan, at a short distance from him, and close +to the door by which Hamza had gone out. + +"Nigel and I have talked this all over," she said, with a quiet +sweetness. + +"Talked this over?" Isaacson said. + +With his usual quickness of mind he had realized the exact strength of +the strategic position she had so suddenly and unexpectedly taken up. +For the moment he wished to gain time. His former complete decision as +to what he meant to do was slightly weakened by her presentation of +Nigel, the believer. From his knowledge of his friend, he appreciated +her judgment of Nigel at its full value. What she had just said was +true, and the truth bristled like a bayonet-point in the midst of the +lies by which it was surrounded. + +"Talked this over? How can that be?" + +"Very easily. When two people love each other there is nothing they do +not discuss--even their enemies." + +"My dear Mrs. Armine, no melodrama, please!" + +"Melodrama or not, Doctor Isaacson, I promise you it is a fact that my +friends are Nigel's friends, and that my enemies would, at a very few +words from me, find that in Nigel they had an enemy." + +"If you are speaking of me, your husband would never be my enemy." + +"Do you know why he never told you we were going to be married?" + +"It was no business of mine." + +"His instinct informed him that you mistrusted me. Since then a good +deal of time has passed. A man who loves his wife, and has proved her +devotion to him, does not care about those who mistrust and condemn her. +Their mistrust and condemnation reflect upon him, and not only on his +love, but on his pride. I advise you, when you come to Nigel as a +doctor, to come as my friend, otherwise I don't think you'll have an +opportunity of doing him much good." + +The cleverness of Isaacson, that cleverness which came from the Jewish +blood within him, linked hands with the defiant adroitness of this woman +even to-night and in the climax of suspicion. Why, with her powers, had +she made such a tragic mess of her life? Why, with her powers, had she +never been able to run straight along the way that leads to happiness? +Useless questions! Their answer must be sought for far down in the +secret depths of character. And now? + +"If you come to Nigel when I call you in it will be all right, not +otherwise, believe me." + +She sat back on the divan. The greyness had gone out of her face. She +looked now at her ease. Isaacson remembered how this woman had got the +better of him in London, how she had looked as she stood in her room at +the Savoy, when he saw her for the last time before she married his +friend. She had been dressed in rose colour that day. Now she was in +black--for Harwich. It seemed that for evening wear she had brought some +"thin mourning." Did he mean her to get the better of him again? + +"But you will not call me in," he said bluntly. + +"Why not? As a doctor I rather believe in you." + +"Nevertheless, you will not call me in." + +"If Doctor Hartley desires a consultation, I promise you that I will. I +hope you won't make your fee too heavy. You must remember we are almost +poor people now." + +It was very seldom that Isaacson changed colour; but at these words his +dark face slowly reddened. + +"If you suppose that--that I want to make money--" he began. + +"It's always nice, if one takes a holiday, to be able to pay one's +expenses. But I know you won't run Nigel in for too much." + +Isaacson got up. His instinct was to go, to get away at once from this +woman. For a moment he forgot the voice he had heard in the night; he +forgot the words it had said. His egoism and his pride spoke, and told +him to get away. + +She read him. She got up, too, came away from her place near the door, +and said, with a smile: + +"You are going?" + +He looked at her. He saw in her eyes the look he had seen in them when +he had bade her good-bye at the Savoy after his useless embassy. + +"You are going?" + +"Yes," he said. "I am! Going to see your husband!" + +And before she could speak or move, he was at the door through which +Hamza had passed; he had opened it and disappeared, shutting it softly +behind him. + + + + +XXXV + + +With such abrupt and adroit decisiveness had Meyer Isaacson acted, so +swift and cunning had been his physical carrying out of his sudden +resolve--a resolve, perhaps, determined by her frigid malice--that for a +moment Mrs. Armine lost all command of her powers--even, so it seemed, +all command of her thoughts and desires. When the door shut and she was +alone, she stood where she was and at first did not move a finger. She +felt dull, unexcited, almost sleepy, and as one who is dropping off to +sleep sometimes aimlessly reiterates some thought, apparently +unconnected with any other thought, unlinked with any habit of the mind, +she found herself, in imagination, with dull eyes, seeing the Arabic +characters above the doorway of the _Loulia_, dully and silently +repeating the words Baroudi had chosen as the motto of the boat in which +this thing--Isaacson's departure to Nigel--had happened: + +"The fate of every man have we bound about his neck." + +So it was. So it must be. With an odd and almost grotesque physical +response to the meaning which at this moment she but vaguely +apprehended, she let her body go. She shrank a little, drawing her +shoulders forward, like one on whom a burden that is heavy is imposed. +About her neck had been bound this fate. But the movement, slight though +it was, recalled the woman who had defied and had bled the world--had +defied the world of women, and had bled the world of men. And, like a +living thing, there sprang up in her mind the thought: + +"I'm the only woman on board this boat." + +And she squared her shoulders. The numbness passed, or she flung it +angrily from her. And she had the door open and was through the doorway +in an instant, and crying out in the long corridor that led to the room +of the faskeeyeh: + +"Nigel! Nigel! What do you think of my surprise?" + +There were energy and beauty in the cry, and she came into the room with +a sort of soft rush that was intensely feminine. The men were there. +Nigel was sitting up, but leaning against cushions on the divan close to +the upright piano, on which stood the score of "Gerontius." Isaacson was +standing before him, bending, and holding both his hands strongly, in an +attitude that looked almost violent. Behind him, in the Eastern house of +Baroudi the spray of the little fountain aspired, and the tiny gilded +ball rose and fell with an airy and frivolous movement. + +Mrs. Armine was not reasoning as she came in to these two. She was +acting purely on the prompting of an instinct long proved by life. There +was within her no mental debate. She did not know how long she had stood +alone. She did not ask herself whether Meyer Isaacson had had time to +say anything, or, if he had had time, what it was likely that he had +said. She just came in with this soft rush, went to her husband, sat +down touching him, put her hand on his shoulder, with the fingers upon +his neck, and said: + +"What do you think of my surprise? I dared it! Was I wrong? Has it done +you any harm, Nigel?" + +As she spoke she looked at the face of Isaacson and she knew that he had +not spoken. A natural flush came to join the flush of rouge on her +cheeks. + +"Nigel, you've got to forgive me!" she said. + +"Forgive you!" + +The weak voice spoke with a stronger note than it had found on the +balcony. Isaacson let go his friend's hands. He moved. The almost +emotional protectiveness that had seemed mutely to exclaim, "I'll save +you! Here's a hand--here are two strong hands--to save you from the +abyss!" died out of his attitude. He stood up straight. But he kept his +eyes fastened on his friend. Never in his consulting-room had he looked +at any patient as he now looked at Nigel Armine, with such fiercely +searching eyes. His face said to the leaning man before him: "Give up +your secrets. I mean to know them all." + +"Forgive you!" Nigel repeated. + +Feebly he put out one hand and touched his wife. He was looking almost +dazed. + +"And to-night, when I--when I said, 'If only Isaacson were here!' did +you know then?" + +"That he was coming? Yes, I knew. And I nearly had to tell you--so +nearly! But, you see, a woman can keep a secret." + +"How did you know?" + +He looked at Isaacson. But Isaacson let her answer. It was enough for +him that he was with his friend. He did not care about anything else. +And all this time he was at doctor's work. + +"We met this morning in the temple of Edfou, and I told Doctor Isaacson +about your sunstroke, and asked him to come up to-night and see you." + +She lied with the quiet aplomb which Isaacson remembered almost enjoying +in the Savoy Restaurant one night, when they were grouped about a +supper-table. Quietly then she had handed him out the lies which he knew +to be lies. She had made him presents of them, and as he had received +her presents then, he received them now, but a little more +indifferently. For he was deeply attentive to Nigel. + +That colour, that dropped wrist, the cruel emaciation, the tremulous +hands, the pathetic eyes that seemed crying for help--what did they +indicate? And there were other symptoms, even stronger, in Nigel that +already had almost assailed the doctor, as if clamouring for his notice +and striving to tell a story. + +"But why are you here, in Egypt?" asked Nigel. "You didn't come out +because--?" + +"No, no," said Isaacson. + +"But then"--a smile that was rather like tears came into the sick man's +face--"but then perhaps you came to--to see our happiness! You remember +my letter, Ruby?" + +"Yes," she said. + +His hand still lay on hers. + +"Well, since then it's been a bad time for me. But that happiness has +never failed me--never." + +"And it never shall," she said. + +As she spoke she looked up again at Isaacson, and he read a cool menace +in her eyes. Those eyes repeated what her voice had told him on the +other side of that door. They said: "My enemy can never find a friend in +my husband." But now that Isaacson saw these two people together, he +realized the truth of their relations as words could never have made him +realize them. + +There was a little silence, broken only by the tiny whisper of the +faskeeyeh. Then Mrs. Armine said gently: + +"Now, Nigel, you've had your surprise, and you ought to sleep. Doctor +Isaacson's coming back to-morrow to have a consultation with Doctor +Hartley at four o'clock." + +She spoke as if the whole matter were already arranged. + +"Sleep! You know I can't sleep. I never can sleep now." + +"Is the insomnia very bad?" asked Isaacson, quietly. + +"I never can sleep scarcely. The nights are so awful." + +"Yes, Nigel, dearest. But to-night I think you will sleep." + +"Why to-night?" + +"Because of this happy surprise I arranged for you. But I shall be sorry +I arranged it if you get excited. Do you know how late it is? It is past +eleven. You must let Doctor Isaacson go to the felucca. Our bargain was +that to-night he should not attempt to hear all about you or enter into +the case. It would not be fair to Doctor Hartley." + +"Damn Doctor Hartley!" murmured the sick man, almost peevishly. + +"I know. But we must behave nicely to him. Be good now, and go to bed. I +have told Doctor Isaacson a lot, and I know you'll sleep now you can +feel he's near you." + +"I don't want anything more to do with Hartley. He knows nothing. I +won't have him to-morrow." + +He spoke crossly. + +"Nigel!" + +She put her hand upon his. + +"Forgive me, dearest! Oh, what a brute I am!" + +Tears came into his eyes. + +"I martyrize her, I know I do," he said to Isaacson; "but I don't +believe it's my fault. I do feel so awfully ill!" + +His head drooped. Isaacson felt his pulse. Nigel gazed down at the +divan, staring with eyes that had become filmy. Mrs. Armine looked at +Isaacson, and he, with a doctor's memory that was combined with the +memory of a man who had formerly been conquered, compared this poor +pulse that fluttered beneath his sensitive fingers with another pulse +which once he had felt beating strongly--a pulse which had made him +understand the defiance of a life. + +"You had better get to bed," he said to Nigel, letting his wrist go, +and watching it sharply as it dropped to the cushions. "I shall give you +something to make you sleep." + +Mrs. Armine opened her lips, but this time he sent her a look which +caused her to shut them. + +"I don't know whether you are in the habit of taking anything--whether +you are given anything at night. If so, to-night it is to be +discontinued. You are to touch nothing except what I am going to give +you. Directly you are in bed I'll come." + +"But--" Nigel began, "we haven't--" + +"Had any talk. I know. There'll be plenty of time for that. But Mrs. +Armine is quite right. It is late, and you must go at once to bed." + +Nigel made a movement to get up. Mrs. Armine quickly and efficiently +helped him, put her arm around him, supported his arm, led him away into +the narrow corridor from which the bedrooms opened. They disappeared +through a little doorway on the left. + +Then Isaacson sat down and waited, looking at the leaping spray and at +the gilded trifle that was its captive. Presently his eyes travelled +away from that, and examined the room and everything in it. That man +whom he had seen driving the Russian horses, and squatting on the floor +of the hashish cafe, might well be at home here. And he himself--could +not he be at home here, with these marvellous prayer-rugs and +embroideries, into which was surely woven something of the deep and +eternal enigma of the East? But his friend and--that woman? + +Actively, now, he hated Mrs. Armine. He was a man who could hate well. +But he was not going to allow his hatred to run away with him. Once, in +a silent contest between them, he had been worsted by her. In this +second contest he now declined to be worsted. One fall was enough for +this man who was not accustomed to be overthrown. If his temper and his +pride were his enemies, he must hold them in bondage. She had struck at +both audaciously that night. But the blow, instead of driving him away, +had sent him straight to the sick man. That stroke of hers had +miscarried. But Isaacson recognized her power as an opponent. + +A consultation to-morrow at four with this young doctor! So that was +ordained, was it, by Bella Donna? + +His energy of mind soon made him weary of sitting, and he got up and +went towards the balcony which so lately he had been watching from the +bank of the Nile. As he stepped out upon it he saw a white figure by the +rail, and he remembered that Hamza had been with Nigel, and had +disappeared at his approach. He had not given Hamza a thought. The sick +man had claimed all of him. But now, in this pause, he had time to think +of Hamza. + +As he came out upon the balcony the Egyptian turned round to look at +him. + +Hamza was dressed in white, with a white turban. His arms hung at his +sides. His thin hands, the fingers opened, made two dark patches against +his loose and graceful robe. His dark face, seen in the night, and by +the light which came from the room of the faskeeyeh, was like an Eastern +dream. In his eyes lay a still fanaticism. Those eyes drew something in +Isaacson. He felt oddly at home with them, without understanding what +they meant. And he thought of the hashish-smoker, and he thought of the +garden of oranges, surrounding the little secret house, to which the +hashish-smoker sometimes came. These Easterns dwell apart--yes, despite +the coming of the English, the so-called "awakening" of the East--in a +strange and romantic world, an enticing world. Had Bella Donna undergone +its charm? Unconsciously his eyes were asking this question of this +Eastern who had been to Mecca, who prayed--how many times a day!--and +was her personal attendant. But the eyes gave him no answer. He came a +little nearer to Hamza, stood by the rail, and offered him a cigarette. +Hamza accepted it, with a soft salute, and hid it somewhere in his robe. +They remained together in silence. Isaacson was wondering if Hamza spoke +any English. He looked full of secrets, that were still and calm within +him as standing water in a sequestered pool, sheltered by trees in a +windless place. Starnworth, perhaps, would have understood +him--Starnworth who understood at least some of the secrets of the East. +And Isaacson recalled Starnworth's talk in the night, and his parting +words as he went away--"A different code from ours!" + +And the secret of the dahabeeyah, of the beautiful _Loulia_--was it +locked in that breast of the East? + +In the silence Isaacson's mind sought converse with Hamza's, strove to +come into contact with Hamza's mind. But it seemed to him that his mind +was softly repelled. Hamza would not recognize the East that was in +Isaacson, or perhaps he felt the Jew. When the voice of Mrs. Armine was +heard from the threshold of the lighted chamber these two had not spoken +a word. But Isaacson had learnt that in any investigation of the past, +in any effort to make straight certain crooked paths, in any search +after human motives, he would get no help from this mind that was full +of refusal, from this soul that was full of prayer. + +"Doctor Isaacson!" + +A dress rustled. + +"You are out here--with Hamza?" + +She stood in one of the doorways. + +"Will you please come and give my husband the sleeping draught?" + +"Certainly." + +When they were in the room by the fountain she said: + +"Of course, you know, this is all wrong. We're not doing the right thing +by Doctor Hartley at all. But I don't like to thwart Nigel. +Convalescents are always wilful." + +"Convalescents!" he said. + +"Yes, convalescents." + +"You think your husband is convalescent?" + +"Of course he is. You didn't see him in the first days after his +sunstroke." + +"That's true." + +"Please give him the draught, or whatever it is, and then we really must +try and get some rest." + +As she said the last words he noticed in her voice the sound of a woman +who had nearly come to the end of her powers of resistance. + +"It won't take a moment," he said. "Where is he?" + +"I'll show you." + +She went in front of him to a cabin, in which, on a smart bed, Nigel lay +supported by pillows. One candle was burning on a bracket of white wood, +giving a faint light. Mrs. Armine stood by the head of the bed looking +down upon the thin, almost lead-coloured face that was turned towards +her. + +"Now Doctor Isaacson is going to make you sleep." + +"Thank God. The rheumatism's awfully bad to-night." + +"Rheumatism?" said Isaacson. + +Already he had poured some water into a glass, and dropped something +into it. He held the glass towards Nigel, not coming quite near to him. +To take the glass, it was necessary for the sick man to stretch out his +arm. Nigel made a movement to do this; but his arm dropped, and he said, +almost crossly: + +"Do put it nearer." + +Then Isaacson put it to his mouth. + +"Rheumatism?" he repeated, when Nigel had swallowed the draught. + +"Yes. I have it awfully badly, like creatures gnawing me almost." + +He sighed, and lay lower in the bed. + +"I can't understand it. Rheumatism in this perfect climate!" he +murmured. + +Mrs. Armine made an ostentatious movement as if to go away and leave +them together. + +"No, don't go, Ruby," Nigel said. + +He felt for her hand. + +"I want you--you two to be friends," he said. "Real friends. Isaacson, +you don't know what she's been in--in all this bad time. You don't +know." + +His feeble voice broke. + +"I'll be here to-morrow," said Isaacson, after a pause. + +"Yes, come. You must put me--right." + +Mrs. Armine could not accompany Isaacson to the felucca or say a word to +him alone, for Nigel kept, almost clung to, her hand. + +"I must stay with him till he sleeps," she almost whispered as Isaacson +was going. + +She was bending slightly over the bed. Some people might have thought +that she looked like the sick man's guardian angel, but Isaacson felt an +intense reluctance to leave the dahabeeyah that night. + +He looked at Mrs. Armine for a moment, saw that she fully received his +look, and went away, leaving her still in that beautifully protective +attitude. + +He came out on deck. The felucca was waiting. He got into it, and was +rowed out into the river by two sailors. As they rowed they began to +sing. The lights of the _Loulia_ slipped by, yellow light after yellow +light. From above the blue light looked down like a watchful eye. The +darkness of the water, like streaming ebony, took the felucca and the +fateful voices. And the tide gave its help to the oarsmen. The lights +began to dwindle when Isaacson said to the men: + +"Hush!" + +He held up his hand. The Nubians lay on their oars, surprised. The +singing died in their throats. + +Across the water there came a faint but shrill sound of laughter. Some +one was laughing, laughing, laughing, in the night. + +The Nubians stared at each other, the man who was stroke turning his +head towards his companion. + +Faint cries followed the laughter, and then--was it not the sound of a +woman, somewhere sobbing dreadfully? + +Isaacson listened till it died away. + +Then, with a stern, tense face, he nodded to the Nubians. + +They bent again to the oars, and the felucca dropped down the Nile. + + + + +XXXVI + + +When she had sent her note to the _Fatma_, Mrs. Armine had secretly +telegraphed to Doctor Hartley, begging him to come to the _Loulia_ as +quickly as possible. She had implied to Isaacson that he would arrive +about four the next day. Perhaps she had forgotten, or had not known how +the trains ran from Assouan. + +However that was, Doctor Hartley arrived many hours before the time +mentioned by Mrs. Armine for a consultation, and was in full possession +of the case and in command of the patient while Isaacson was still on +the _Fatma_. + +Isaacson had not slept all night. That dream of the Nile into which he +had softly sunk was gone, was as if it never had been. His instinct was +to start for the _Loulia_ at daybreak. But for once he denied this +instinct. Cool reason spoke in the dawn saying, "Festina lente." He +listened. He held himself in check. After his sleepless night, in which +thought had been feverish, he would spend some quiet, lonely hours. +There was, he believed, no special reason, after the glance he had sent +to Mrs. Armine just before he went out of Nigel's cabin, why he should +hurry in the first hour of the new day to the sick man he meant to cure. +Let the sleeping draught do its work, and let the clear morning hours +correct any fever in his own mind. + +And so he rested on deck, while the sun climbed the pellucid sky, and he +watched the men at the shaduf. The sunlight struck the falling water and +made it an instant's marvel. And the marvel recurred, for the toil never +ceased. The naked bodies bent and straightened. The muscles stood out, +then seemed to flow away, like the flowing water, on the arms under the +bronze-coloured skin. And from lungs surely made of brass came forth the +fierce songs that have been thrown back from the Nile's brown banks +perhaps since the Sphinx first set his unworldly eyes towards eternity. + +But though Isaacson deliberately paused to get himself very thoroughly +and calmly in hand, paused to fight with possible prejudice and drive it +out of him, he did not delay till the hour fixed by Mrs. Armine. Soon +after one o'clock in the full heat of the day, he set out in the tiny +tub which was the only felucca on board of the _Fatma_, and he took +Hassan with him. Definitely why he took Hassan, he perhaps could not +have stated. He just thought he would take him, and did. + +Very swiftly he had returned with the tide in the night. Now, in the eye +of day, he must go up river against it. The men toiled hard, lifting +themselves from their seats with each stroke of the oars and bracing +their legs for the strain. But the boat's progress was slow, and +Isaacson sometimes felt as if some human strength were striving +persistently to repel him. He had the sensation of a determined +resistance which must be battled with ruthlessly. And now and then his +own body was tense as he watched his men at their work. But at last they +drew near to the _Loulia_, and his keen, far-seeing eyes searched the +balcony for figures. He saw none. The balcony was untenanted. Now it +seemed to him as if in the fierce heat, upon the unshaded water, the +great boat was asleep, as if there was no life in her anywhere; and this +sensation of the absence of life increased upon him as they came nearer +and nearer. All round the upper deck, except perhaps on the land side of +the boat, which he could not see, canvas was let down. Shutters were +drawn over the windows of the cabins. The doors of the room of the +fountain were open, but the room was full of shadow, which, from his +little boat, the eyes of Isaacson could not penetrate. As they came +alongside no voice greeted them. He began to regret having come in the +hour of the siesta. They glided along past green shutter after green +shutter till they were level with the forward deck. And there, in an +attitude of smiling attention, stood the tall figure of Ibrahim. + +Isaacson felt almost startled to find his approach known, to receive a +graceful greeting. + +He stepped on board followed closely by Hassan. The deck was strewn with +scantily clad men, profoundly sleeping. Isaacson addressed himself in a +low voice to Ibrahim. + +"You understand English?" + +"Yes, my gentleman. You come to meet the good doctor who him curin' my +Lord Arminigel. He bin here very long time." + +"He's here already?" + +Ibrahim smiled reassuringly. + +"Very long time, my gentleman. Him comin' here to live with us till my +lord him well." + +And Ibrahim turned, gathered together his gold-coloured skirts, and +mounted the stairs to the upper deck. Isaacson hesitated for a moment, +then followed him slowly. In that brief moment of hesitation the words +had gone through Isaacson's mind: "I ought to have been here sooner." + +As he mounted and his eyes rose over the level of the top step of the +companion, he was aware of a slight young man, very smartly dressed in +white ducks, a loose silk shirt, a low, soft collar and pale, +rose-coloured tie, a perfectly cut grey jacket with a small blue line in +it, rose-coloured socks, and white buckskin boots, who was lying almost +at full length in a wide deck-chair against cushions, with a panama hat +tilted so far down over his eyes that its brim rested delicately upon +his well-cut, rather impertinent short nose. From his lips curled gently +pale smoke from a cigarette. + +As Isaacson stepped upon the Oriental rugs which covered the deck, this +young man gently pushed up his hat, looked, let his legs quietly down, +and getting on his feet, said: + +"Doctor Isaacson?" + +"Yes," said Isaacson coming up to him. + +The young man held out his hand with a nonchalant gesture. + +"Glad to meet you. I'm Doctor Baring Hartley, in charge of this +sunstroke case aboard here. Came down to-day from Assouan to see how my +patient was getting on. Will you have a cigarette?" + +"Thanks." + +Doctor Isaacson accepted one. + +"Fine air at Assouan! This your first visit to the Nile?" + +The young man spoke with scarcely a trace of American accent. With his +hat set back, he was revealed as brown-faced, slightly freckled, with +very thick, dark hair, that was parted in the middle and waved +naturally, though it looked as if it had been crimped; a small +moustache, rather bristling, because it had been allowed only recently +to grow on a lip that had often been shaved; a round, rather sensual +chin; and large round eyes, in colour a yellow-brown. In these eyes the +character of the man was very clearly displayed. They were handsome, and +not insensitive; but they showed egoism, combined with sensuality. He +looked very young, but was just over thirty. + +"Yes, it's my first visit." + +"Won't you sit down?" + +He spoke with the ease of a host, and sank into his deck chair, laying +his hat down upon his knees and stretching out his legs, from which he +pulled up the white ducks a little way. Isaacson sat down on a smaller +chair, leaned forward, and said, in a very practical, businesslike +voice: + +"No doubt Mr. or Mrs. Armine--or both of them, perhaps, has explained +how I have come into this affair? I'm an old friend of your patient." + +"So I gathered," said Doctor Hartley, in a voice that was remarkably +dry. + +"I knew him long before he was married, very long before he was ever a +sick man, and being out here, and hearing about this sudden and severe +illness, of course I called to see how he was." + +"Very natural." + +"Probably you know my name as a London consulting physician." + +"Decidedly. Your success, of course, is great, Doctor Isaacson. Indeed, +I wonder you are able to take a holiday. I wonder the ladies will let +you go." + +He smiled, and touched his moustache affectionately. + +"Why the ladies, especially?" + +"I understood your practice lay chiefly among the neurotic smart women +of London." + +"No." + +Isaacson's voice echoed the dryness of Doctor Hartley's. + +"I'm sorry." + +"May I ask why?" + +"On the other side of the water we find them--shall I say the best type +of patients?" + +"Ah!" + +Isaacson remembered the sentence of Mrs. Armine which had sent him +straight to the sick man. He seemed to detect her cruel prompting in the +half-evasive yet sufficiently clear words just spoken. + +"Now about Mr. Armine," he said, brushing the topic of himself away. "I +am sure--" + +But Doctor Hartley interrupted with quiet firmness. One quality he +seemed to have in the fullest abundance. He seemed to be largely +self-possessed. + +"It always clears the ground to be frank, I find," he said, smoothing +out some creases in his ducks. "I don't require a consultation, Doctor +Isaacson. I don't consider it a case that needs a consultation at +present. Directly I do, I shall be glad to call you in." + +Isaacson looked down at the rug beneath his chair. + +"You consider Mr. Armine going on satisfactorily?" he asked, looking up. + +"It's a severe case of sunstroke. It will take time and care. I have +decided to stay aboard for a few days to devote myself entirely to it." + +"Very good of you." + +"I have no doubt whatever of very soon pulling my patient round." + +"You don't see any complications in the case?" + +"Complications?" + +The tone was distinctly, almost alertly, hostile. But Isaacson +reiterated coolly: + +"Yes, complications. You are quite satisfied this is a case of +sunstroke?" + +"Quite." + +The word came with a hard stroke, that was like the stroke of finality. + +"Well, I'm not." + +Doctor Hartley stared. + +"I know you have come over with a view to a consultation," he said, +stiffly. "But my patient has not demanded it, and as I think it entirely +unnecessary, you will recognize that we need not pursue this +conversation." + +"You say the patient does not wish for my opinion on the case?" said +Isaacson, allowing traces of surprise to escape him. + +"I do. He is quite satisfied to leave it in my hands. He told me so this +morning when I arrived." + +"I am not reflecting for a moment on your capacity, Doctor Hartley. But, +really, in complex cases, two opinions--" + +"Who says the case is complex?" + +"I do. I was extremely shocked at the appearance of Mr. Armine when I +saw him last night. If you had ever known him in health, you would have +been as shocked as I was. He was one of the most robust, the most +brilliantly healthy, strong-looking men I have even seen." + +As he spoke, Armine seemed to stand before Isaacson as he had been. + +"The change in him, mind and body, is appalling," he concluded. + +And there was in his voice an almost fearful sincerity. + +Doctor Hartley fidgeted. He moved his hat, pulled down his ducks, +dropped his cigarette on the rug, then rather hastily and awkwardly put +it out with his foot. Sitting with his feet no longer cocked up but +planted firmly on the rug, he said: + +"Of course, an attack like this changes a man. What else could you +expect? Really! What else could you expect? I noticed all that! That's +why I am going to stay. Upon my word"--as he spoke he seemed to work +himself into vexation--"upon my word, Doctor Isaacson, to hear you, +anyone would suppose I had been making light of my patient's condition." + +Isaacson was confronted with fluffy indignation. + +"You'll be accusing me of professional incompetence next, I dare say," +continued Doctor Hartley. "I have not told you before, but I'll tell you +now, that I consider it a breach of the etiquette that governs our +profession, your interfering with my patient." + +"How interfering?" + +"I hear you gave him something last night--something to make him sleep." + +"I did." + +"Well, it's had a very bad effect upon him." + +"Is he worse to-day?" + +Isaacson, unknown to himself, said it with an almost fierce emphasis. +Doctor Hartley drew his lips tightly together. + +"This is not a consultation," he said coldly. + +"I ask as a friend of the patient's, not as a doctor." + +"His night was not good." + +He shut his lips tightly again. His face and his whole smartly-dressed +body expressed a rather weak but very lively hostility. + +"He's asleep now," he added. + +"Asleep now?" + +"Yes. He'll sleep for several hours. _I_ have put him to sleep." + +Isaacson's body suddenly felt relaxed, as if all the muscles of it were +loosened. For several hours his friend would sleep. For a moment he +enjoyed a sense of fascinating relief. Then his consciousness of relief, +awoke him to another and fuller consciousness of why this relief had +come to him, of that which had preceded it, and given it its intensity. + +He must take off the gloves. + +"Look here, Doctor Hartley," he said. "I don't want to put you out. I am +really not a vulgar, greedy doctor pushing myself into a case with which +I have no concern, for some self-interested motive. I can assure you +that I have more than enough to do with illness in London and should be +thankful to escape from it here. I want a holiday." + +"Take one, my dear Doctor Isaacson," remarked Doctor Hartley, +imperturbably--"take one, and leave me to work." + +"No. Professional etiquette or no professional etiquette, I can't take +one while my friend is in such a condition of illness. I can't do that." + +"I'm really afraid you'll have to, so far as this case is concerned. I'm +an American, and I'm not going to be pushed away from a thing I've set +my hand to--pushed away discourteously, and against the desires of those +who have called me in. Never in the course of my professional experience +has another physician butted in--yes, that's the expression for it: +butted right in--without 'With' or 'By your leave,' as you have. It's +simply not to be borne. And I'm not the man to bear what's not to be +borne. Really, if one didn't know you to be a doctor, one would almost +take you for a Bowery detective. Straight, now, one would!" + +"Where's Mrs. Armine?" said Isaacson abruptly. "Is she asleep, too?" + +"She is." + +The languid impertinence of the voice goaded Isaacson. Scarcely ever, if +ever, before had he felt such an almost physical longing for violence. +But he did not lose his self-restraint, although he suffered bitterly in +keeping it. + +"Have you any idea how long she is going to sleep?" + +"Some hours." + +"What? Do you mean that you have put her to sleep, too?" + +"I have ventured to do so. Her night had not been good." + +Isaacson remembered the sounds that had come to him over the Nile. + +"You have given her a sleeping draught?" he said. + +"I have." + +"But she was expecting me here. She was expecting me here for a +consultation." + +"I beg your pardon. You were good enough to say you meant to come. Mrs. +Armine has been scrupulously delicate and courteous to me. That I know. +You placed her in a very difficult position. She explained matters when +I arrived." + +She had "explained matters"! Isaacson felt rather as if he were fighting +an enemy who had laid a mine to check or to destroy him, and had then +retreated to a distance. + +"Last night, Doctor Hartley," he said, very quietly and coldly, "Mr. +Armine, in Mrs. Armine's presence, expressed a strong wish to put +himself in my hands. I came here with not the least intention of being +impolite, but since you have chosen to make things difficult for me I +must speak out. Last night Mr. Armine said, 'I don't want anything more +to do with Hartley. He knows nothing. I won't have him to-morrow.' Mrs. +Armine was with us and heard these words." + +A violent flush showed through the brown on the young man's face. His +round eyes stared with an expression of crude amazement that was almost +laughable. + +"He--he said--" he began. Then abruptly, allowing an American drawl to +appear in his voice, he said, "Pardon! But I don't believe it." + +"It's quite true, nevertheless." + +"I don't believe it. That's a fact. I've seen Mr. Armine, and he was +most delighted to welcome me. He put himself entirely in my hands. He +asked me to 'save' him." + +Suddenly Isaacson felt a sickness at his heart. + +"I must see him," he almost muttered. + +"I won't have him disturbed," said Doctor Hartley, with now the +transparently open enmity of a very conceited man who had been insulted. +"As his physician I forbid you to disturb my patient." + +The two men looked at one another in silence. + +"After what occurred last night, and what has occurred here to-day, I +cannot go without seeing either Mr. or Mrs. Armine," Isaacson said at +last. + +Was Nigel's weakness of mind, the sad product of his illness of body, to +fight against his friend, to battle against his one chance of recovery? +That would complicate matters. That--Isaacson clearly recognized +it--would place him at so grave a disadvantage that it might render his +position impossible. What had been the scene last night after he had +left the _Loulia_? How had it affected the sick man? Again he seemed to +hear that dreadful laughter, the cries that had followed upon it! + +"If I am not to see Mr. Armine as a doctor, then I must ask to see him +as a friend." + +"For a day or two I shall not be able to give permission for any one to +see him, except Mrs. Armine and myself, and of course his servant, +Hamza." + +Isaacson sent a sudden, piercing look, a look that was like something +sharp that could cut deep into the soul, to the man who faced him. Just +for a moment a suspicion besieged him, a suspicion hateful and surely +absurd, yet--for are not all things possible in the cruel tangle of +life?--that might be grounded on truth. Before that glance the young +doctor moved, with a start of uneasiness, despite his self-possession. + +"What--what d'you mean?" he almost stammered. "What d'you mean?" He felt +mechanically at his tie. "I don't understand you," he said. Then, +recovering himself, as the strangely fierce expression died away from +the eyes which had learnt what they wanted to know, he added: + +"I certainly shall not give permission for you to see Mr. Armine. You +would disturb and upset him very much. He needs the greatest quiet and +repose. The brain is a fearfully sensitive organ." + +Now, suddenly, Isaacson felt as if he was with an obstinate boy, and any +anger he had felt against his companion evaporated. Indeed, he was +conscious of a strong sensation of pity, mingled with irony. For a +moment he had wronged the young doctor by a doubt, and for that moment +he had a wish to make some amends. The man's unconsciousness of it did +not concern him. It was to himself really that the amends were due. + +"Doctor Hartley," he said almost cordially, "I think we don't quite +understand one another. Perhaps that is my fault. I oughtn't to have +repeated Mr. Armine's words. They were spoken and meant. But a sick man +speaks out of his sickness. We doctors realize that and don't take too +much account of what he says. You are here, I am sure, with no desire +but to cure my poor friend. I am here with the same desire. Why should +we quarrel?" + +"I have no wish whatever to quarrel. But I will not submit to a man +butting in from outside and trying to oust me from a case of which I +have been formally given the control." + +"I don't wish to oust you. I only wish to be allowed to co-operate with +you. I only wish to hear your exact opinion of the case and to be +allowed to form and give you mine. Come, Doctor Hartley, it isn't as if +I were a pushing, unknown man. In London I'm offered far more work than +I can touch. It will do your medical reputation no harm to call me in, +in consultation. Without undue conceit, I hope I can say that. And +if--if you have got hold of the idea that I'm on the Nile to make money, +disabuse your mind of it. This is a case in which a little bit of my own +personal happiness is wrapped up. I've--I've a strong regard for this +sick man. That's the truth of it." + +Doctor Hartley looked at him, looked away, and looked at him again. + +"I don't doubt your friendship for Mr. Armine," he said, at last, laying +a faint stress upon the penultimate word. + +"Will you let me discuss the case amicably with you? No formal +consultation! Just let me hear your views fully, and mention anything +that occurs to me." + +"Occurs? But you haven't examined the patient. You haven't made any +thorough examination, or entered into the circumstances of the case." + +"No. But I've seen the patient." + +"Only for a very few minutes, I understand. How can you have formed a +definite opinion?" + +"I did not say I had. But one or two things struck me." + +Doctor Hartley stared with his handsome, round eyes. + +"For instance, the patient's sallow colour, the patient's rheumatic +pains, the patient's breath, and--did you happen to observe it? But no +doubt you did!--the patient's dropped wrist." + +The young doctor's face had become more serious. He looked much less +conscious of himself at this moment. + +"Dropped wrist!" he said. + +"Yes." + +"Of course! Muscular weakness brought on quite naturally by prolonged +illness. The man has simply been knocked down by this touch of the sun. +Travellers ought to be more careful than they are out here." + +"I suppose you're aware that the patient has already lived and worked in +Egypt for many months at a time. He has land in the Fayyum, and has been +cultivating it himself. He's no novice in Egypt, no untried tourist. +He's soaked in the sun without hurt by the month together." + +"As much as that?" said Hartley. + +"Isn't it rather odd that so early in the year as February he should be +stricken down by the spring sunshine?" + +"It is queer--yes, it is queer," assented the other. + +He crossed one leg over the other and looked abstracted. + +"I suppose Mr. Armine himself thought the illness was brought about by +the sun?" said Isaacson, after a minute. + +"Well--oh, from the first it was an understood thing that he'd got a +touch of the sun. There's no doubt whatever about that. He went out at +noon, and actually dug at Thebes without covering his head. Sheer +madness! People saw him doing it." + +"And it all came on after that?" + +"Yes, the serious symptoms. Of course he wasn't in very good health to +start with." + +"No?" + +"He'd been having dyspepsia. Caught a chill one evening bathing in the +Nile--somewhere off Kous, I believe it was. That rendered him more +susceptible than usual." + +"Naturally. So that he was already unwell before he did that foolish +thing at Thebes?" + +"He was seedy, but not really ill." + +"What a long talk you're having!" said a voice. + +Both men started, and into Doctor Baring Hartley's face there came a +look of painful self-consciousness, as of one unexpectedly detected in +an unpardonable action. He sprang up. + +Mrs. Armine was standing near the top of the companion. + + + + +XXXVII + + +She came towards them. + +"You've made friends without any introduction?" + +She had on a hat and veil, and carried a fan in her hand. + +"How can you be awake and up? But it's impossible, after the veronal I +gave you. And such a night as you had! You mustn't--" + +Doctor Hartley, still looking dreadfully guilty, was beside her. His +solicitude was feverish. + +"Really, I can't permit--" he almost stammered. + +She looked at him. + +"Your voices woke me!" + +He was silent. He stood like a man who had been struck. + +"How d'you do, Doctor Isaacson? Please forgive me for saying it, but, +considering you are two doctors discussing the case of a patient +sleeping immediately beneath you, you are not too careful to moderate +your voices. Another minute and my husband would have been awake. He was +moving and murmuring as it was. As for me--well, you just simply woke +me right up, so I thought I would come and join you, and see whether I +could keep you quiet." + +Her face looked ghastly beneath the veil. Her voice, though she kept it +very low, sounded bitter and harsh with irony, and there was something +almost venomous in her manner. + +"The question is," she added, standing midway between Hartley and +Isaacson, "whether my unfortunate husband is to have a little rest or +not. When we tied up here we really thought we should be at peace, but +it seems we were mistaken. At any rate, I hope the consultation is +nearly done, for my head is simply splitting." + +Doctor Hartley was scarlet. He shot a vicious glance at Isaacson. + +"There has been no consultation, Mrs. Armine," he said. + +His eyes implored her forgiveness. His whole body looked pathetic, +begging, almost like a chastised dog's. + +"No consultation? Then what's the good of all this talky-talky? Have you +waked me up by discussing the weather and the temples? That's really too +bad of you!" + +Her face worked for a second or two. It was easy to see that she was +scarcely mistress of herself. + +"I think I shall pack you both off to see Edfou," she continued, +violently beginning to use her fan. "You can chatter away there and make +friends to your hearts' content, and there'll be only the guardian to +hear you. Then poor Nigel can have his sleep out whatever happens to +me." + +Suddenly she gaped, and put up her fan to her mouth. + +"Ah!" she said. + +The exclamation was like something between a sigh and a sob. Immediately +after she had uttered it she cleared her throat. + +"I told Doctor Isaacson his coming here to-day was absolutely useless," +began Doctor Hartley. "I told him no consultation was required. I begged +him to leave the case in my hands. Over and over again I--" + +"Oh, you don't know Doctor Isaacson if you think that a courteous +request will have any effect upon him. If he wants to be in a thing, he +will be in it, and nothing in heaven or earth will stop him. You forget +his nationality." + +She yawned again, and moved her shoulders. + +"You are wronging me grossly, and you know it!" Isaacson said, in a very +low voice. + +He had laid his hat down on a little straw table. Now he took it up. +What was the good of staying? How could a decent man stay? And yet the +struggle within him was bitter. If he could only have been certain of +this man Hartley, perhaps there would have been no struggle. He might +have gone with an almost quiet heart. Or if he had been certain of +something else, absolutely certain, he might have remained and acted, +completely careless in his defiance of the woman who hated him. But +though his instinct was alive, telling him things, whispering, +whispering all the time; even though his observation had on the previous +night begun to back up his instinct, saying, "Yes, you must be right! +You are right!" yet he actually knew nothing. He knew nothing except +that this young man, between whose hands lay Nigel's life, was under the +spell of Mrs. Armine. + +He took up his hat and held it tightly, crushing the soft brim between +his fingers. Doctor Hartley was looking at him with the undisguised +enmity of the egoist tricked. He had had time to find out that Isaacson +had begun subtly to induce him to do what he had refused to do. If Mrs. +Armine had not appeared unexpectedly, Nigel Armine's case would have +been, perhaps, pretty thoroughly discussed by the two doctors. + +"Pushing trickster!" + +His round eyes said that with all the vindictiveness of injured conceit. + +"You are wronging me!" repeated Isaacson--"wronging me shamefully!" + +Was he going? Yes, he supposed so. Yet he did not go. + +"It's not a question of wronging any one," she said. "Facts are facts." + +Her face was ravaged with physical misery. There was a battle going on +between the sleeping draught she had taken and her will to be sleepless. +She moved her shoulders again, with a sort of shudder, sideways. + +"Nigel doesn't want you," she said. + +"How can you say that? It's not true." + +"It is true. Isn't it, Doctor Hartley? Didn't my husband--" + +She yawned again, and put down her hand on the back of a chair to which +she held tightly. "Didn't he ask you to remain on board and look after +the case?" + +"Certainly!" cried the young man, eagerly drinking in her returning +favour. "Certainly!" + +"Didn't he ask you to 'save him,' as he called it, poor, dear fellow?" + +"That was the very word!" + +"And last night?" said Isaacson, fixing his eyes upon her. + +"Last night you startled him to death, rushing in upon him without +warning or preparation. Wasn't it a cruel, dangerous thing to do in his +condition, Doctor Hartley?" + +"Most cruel! Unpardonably so! If anything had occurred you ought to have +been held responsible, Doctor Isaacson." + +"And then whatever it was you gave him, you forced it on him. And he had +a perfectly terrible night in consequence." + +"Not in consequence of what I gave him!" Isaacson said. + +"It must have been." + +"It was certainly not." + +"He never had such a night before--never, till you interfered with him, +and interrupted Doctor Hartley's treatment." + +"Disgraceful!" exclaimed the young doctor. "I never have heard of such +conduct. If it were ever to be made public, your medical reputation +would be ruined." + +"And I shouldn't mind if it was, over that!" said Isaacson. + +His fingers no longer crushed the brim of his hat, but held it gently. + +"I shouldn't mind if it was. But I think if very great care is not taken +with this case, it will not be my medical reputation that will be ruined +over it." + +As if mechanically Mrs. Armine pulled at the chair which she was +holding. She drew it nearer her, and twisted it a little round. + +"What do you mean?" said Doctor Hartley. + +"Mr. Armine is a well-known man. Almost all the English travellers on +the Nile, and most people of any importance in Cairo, know of his +illness--have heard about his supposed sunstroke." + +"Supposed!" interrupted the young doctor, indignantly. "Supposed!" + +"All these people will know the name of the medical man in charge of the +case--the medical man who declined a consultation." + +"Will know?" said Hartley. + +Under the attack of Isaacson's new manner his self-possession seemed +slightly less assured. + +"I shall be in Assouan and Cairo presently," said Isaacson. + +Mrs. Armine yawned and pulled at the chair. Her face twitched under her +veil. She looked almost terribly alive, as if indeed her mind were in a +state of ferment. Yet there was in her aspect also a sort of +half-submerged sluggishness. Despite her vindictive agitation, her +purposeful venom, she seemed already partially bound by a cloud of +sleep. That she had cast away her power to charm as useless was the +greatest tribute that Isaacson had ever had paid to his seeing eyes. + +"Really! What has that to do with me? Do you suppose I am attending this +case surreptitiously?" said Hartley. + +He forced a laugh. + +"No; but I think it very possible that you may regret ever having had +anything to do with it." + +In spite of himself, the young doctor was impressed by this new manner +of the older man. For a moment he was partially emancipated from Mrs. +Armine. For a moment he was rather the rising, not yet risen, medical +man than the fully risen young man in love with a fascinating woman. +When he chose, Isaacson could hold almost anybody. That was part of the +secret of his success as a doctor. He could make himself "believed in." + +"Some mistakes ring through the world," Isaacson added quietly. "I +should not care to be the doctor who made one of them." + +Mrs. Armine, with a sharp movement, twisted the chair quite round, +pulled at one side of her dress, and sat down. + +"But surely--" Doctor Hartley began. + +"This really is the most endless consultation over a case that ever +was!" said Mrs. Armine. + +She leaned her arms on the arms of the chair and let her hands hang +down. + +"Do, Doctor Hartley, make my husband over to Doctor Isaacson, if you +have lost confidence in yourself. It will be much better. And then, +perhaps, we shall have a little peace." + +Doctor Hartley turned towards her as if pulled by a cord. + +"Oh, but indeed I have not lost confidence. There is, as I have +repeatedly said, nothing complicated--" + +"You are really sure?" said Isaacson. + +He fixed his dark eyes on the young man. Doctor Hartley's uneasiness was +becoming evident. + +"Certainly I am sure--for the present." The last words seemed to present +themselves to him as a sort of life-buoy. He grasped them, clung to +them. "For the present--yes. No doctor, of course, not the cleverest, +can possibly say that no complications ever will arise in regard to a +case. But for the present I am satisfied all is going quite as it should +go." + +But he turned up the tail of his last sentence. By his intonation it +became a question, and showed clearly the state of his mind. + +Isaacson had one great quality, the lack of which in many men leads them +to distresses, sometimes to disasters. He knew when ice would bear, and +directly it would bear, he was content to trust himself on it, but he +did not stamp upon it unnecessarily, to prove it beyond its strength. + +Suddenly he was ready to go, to leave this boat for a time. He had done +as much as he could do for the moment, without making an actual scene. +He had even perhaps done enough. That turned-up tail of a sentence +nearly convinced him that he had done enough. + +"That's well," he said. + +His voice was inexpressive, but his face, turned full to the young +doctor, told a powerful story of terribly serious doubt, the doubt of a +big medical man directed towards a little one. + +"That's well," he quietly repeated. + +"Good-bye, Mrs. Armine," he said. + +She was sunk in her chair. Her arms were still lying along its arms, +with her hands hanging. As Isaacson spoke, from one of these hands her +fan dropped down to the rug. She did not feel after it. + +"Are you really going?" she said. + +A faint smile twisted her mouth. + +"Yes." + +"Good-bye, then!" + +He turned away from her slowly. + +"Well, good-bye, Doctor Hartley," he said. + +All this conversation, since the arrival on deck of Mrs. Armine, had +been carried on with lowered voices. But now Isaacson spoke more softly, +and his eyes for an instant went from Doctor Hartley to the tall figure +sitting low in the chair, and back again to Hartley. + +He did not hold out his hand. His voice was polite, but almost totally +inexpressive. + +Doctor Hartley looked quickly towards the chair too. + +"Good-bye," he said, hesitatingly. + +His youth was very apparent at this moment, pushing up into view through +his indecision. Every scrap of Isaacson's anger against him had now +entirely vanished. + +"Good-bye!" + +Mrs. Armine moved her head slightly, settling it against a large +cushion. She sighed. + +Isaacson walked slowly towards the companion. As the _Loulia_ was a very +large dahabeeyah, the upper deck was long. It was furnished like a +drawing-room, with chairs, tables, and sofas. Isaacson threaded his way +among these cautiously as if mindful of the sick man below. At length he +reached the companion and began to descend. Just as he got to the bottom +a whispering voice behind him said: + +"Doctor Isaacson!" + +He turned. Doctor Hartley was at the top of the steps. + +"One minute! I'll come down!" he said, still whispering. + +He turned back and glanced over his shoulder. Then, putting his two +hands upon the two rails on either side of the steps, he was swiftly and +rather boyishly down, and standing by Isaacson. + +"I--we--I think we may as well have a word together before you go." + +His self-possession was distinctly affected. Anxiety showed itself +nakedly in his yellow-brown eyes, and there were wrinkles in his low +forehead just below the crimpy hair. + +"She's fallen asleep," he added, looking hard at Isaacson. + +"Just as you like," Isaacson said indifferently. + +"I think, after what has passed, it will be better." + +Isaacson glanced round on the stretched-out Nubians, on Ibrahim and +Hassan in a corner, standing respectfully but looking intensely +inquisitive. + +"We'd--we can go in here," said Doctor Hartley. + +He led the way softly down the steps under the Arabic inscription, +and into the first saloon of the _Loulia_. As Isaacson came +into it, instinctively he looked towards the shut door behind +which--somewhere--Nigel was lying, asleep or not asleep. + +"He'll sleep for some hours yet," said Doctor Hartley, seeing the +glance. "Let's sit down here." + +He sat down quickly on the nearest divan, and pulled his fingers +restlessly. + +"I didn't quite understand--that is--I don't know whether I quite +gathered your meaning just now," he began, looking at Isaacson, then +looking down between his feet. + +"My meaning?" + +"Yes, about this case." + +"I thought you considered a consultation unnecessary." + +"A formal consultation--yes. Still, you mustn't think I don't value a +good medical opinion. And of course I know yours is a good one." + +Isaacson said nothing. Not a muscle of his face stirred. + +"The fact is--the fact is that, somehow, you have thoroughly put Mrs. +Armine's back up. She thinks you altogether undervalue her devoted +service." + +"I shouldn't wish to do that." + +"No, I knew! Still--" + +He took out a handkerchief and touched his lips and his forehead with +it. + +"She has been really so wonderful!" he said--"waiting on him hand and +foot, and giving herself no rest night or day." + +"Well, but her maid? Wasn't she able to be of service?" + +"Her maid? What maid?" + +"Her French maid." + +A smile of pity moved the corners of the young man's mouth. + +"She hasn't got one. She sent her away long ago. Merely to please him. +Oh, I assure you it isn't all milk and honey with Mr. Armine." + +Isaacson motioned towards the inner part of the vessel. + +"And she's not come back? The maid's never come back?" + +"Of course not. You do so misunderstand her--Mrs. Armine." + +Isaacson said nothing. He felt that a stroke of insincerity was wanted +here, but something that seemed outside of his will forbade him to give +it. + +"That is what has caused all this," continued Hartley. "I shouldn't +really have objected to a consultation so much, if it had come about +naturally. But no medical man--you spoke very seriously of the case just +now." + +"I think very seriously of it." + +"So do I, of course." + +Doctor Hartley pursed his lips. + +"Of course. I saw from the first it was no trifle." + +Isaacson said nothing. + +"I say, I saw that from the first." + +"I'm not surprised." + +There was a pause in which the elder doctor felt as if he saw the +younger's uneasiness growing. + +"You'll forgive me for saying it, Doctor Isaacson, but--but you don't +understand women," said Hartley, at last. "You don't know how to take +them." + +"Perhaps not," Isaacson said, with an apparent simplicity that sounded +like humility. + +Doctor Hartley looked more at his ease. Some of his cool self-importance +returned. + +"No," he said. "Really! And I must say that--you'll forgive me?" + +"Certainly." + +"--that it has always seemed to me as if, in our walk of life, that was +half the battle." + +"Knowing how to take women?" + +"Exactly." + +"Perhaps you're right." He looked at the young man as if with +admiration. "Yes, I dare say you are right." + +Doctor Hartley brightened. + +"I'm glad you think so. Now, a woman like Mrs. Armine--" + +The mention of the name recalled him to anxiety. "One moment!" he almost +whispered. He went lightly away and in a moment as lightly returned. + +"It's all right! She'll sleep for some hours, probably. Now, a woman +like Mrs. Armine, a beautiful, celebrated woman, wants a certain amount +of humouring. And you don't humour her. See?" + +"I expect you know." + +Isaacson did not tell of that sheet of glass through which Mrs. Armine +and he saw each other too plainly. + +"She's a woman with any amount of heart, any amount. I've proved that." +He paused, looked sentimental, and continued, "Proved it up to the hilt. +But she's a little bit capricious. She wants to be taken the right way. +I can do anything with her." + +He touched his rose-coloured tie, and pulled up one of his rose-coloured +socks. + +"And the husband?" Isaacson asked, with a detached manner. "D'you find +him difficult?" + +"Between ourselves, very!" + +"That's bad." + +"He tries her very much, I'm afraid, though he pretends, of course, to +be devoted to her. And she's simply an angel to him." + +"Hard on her!" + +"I sympathize with her very much. Of course, she's told me nothing. +She's too loyal. But I can read between the lines. Tell me, though. Do +you think him very bad?" + +"Very." + +Isaacson spoke without emotion, as if out of a solely medical mind. + +"You don't--ah--you don't surely think him in any danger?" + +Isaacson slightly shrugged his shoulders. + +"But--h'm--but about the sunstroke! If it isn't sunstroke--?" + +Hartley waited for an interruption. None came. + +"If it isn't sunstroke entirely, the question is, what is it?" + +Isaacson looked at him in silence. + +"Have you formed any definite opinion?" said Hartley, at last bringing +himself to the point. + +"I should have to watch the case, if only for a day or two before giving +any definite opinion." + +"Well, but--informally, what do you think about it? What did you mean +upstairs about unless very great care was taken a--a--medical reputation +might be--er--ruined over it. 'Ruined' is a very strong word, you know." + +The egoist was evidently very much alarmed. + +"And then you said that very possibly I might regret ever having had +anything to do with it. That was another thing." + +Isaacson looked down meditatively. + +"I didn't, and I don't, understand what your meaning could have been." + +"Doctor Hartley, I can't say very much. A doctor of any reputation who +is at all known in the great world has to be guarded. This is not my +case. If it were, things would be different. I may have formed an +opinion or not. In any event, I cannot give it at present. But I am an +older man than you. I have had great experience, and I should be sorry +to see a rising young physician, with probably a big future before him, +get into deep waters." + +"Deep waters?" + +Isaacson nodded gravely. + +"Mrs. Armine may think this illness is owing to a sunstroke. But she may +be wrong. It may be owing to something quite different. I believe it +is." + +"But what? What?" + +"That has to be found out. You are here to find it out." + +"I--I really believe a consultation--" + +He hesitated. + +"But there's her great dislike of you!" he concluded, naively. + +Isaacson got up. + +"If Mr. Armine gets rapidly worse--" + +"Oh, but--" + +"If he dies and it's discovered afterwards that the cause of his illness +had never been found out by his doctor, and that a consultation with a +man--forgive me--as widely known as myself was refused, well, it +wouldn't do you any good, I'm afraid." + +"Good Heavens!" exclaimed the young man, getting up in a flurry. +"But--but--look here, have you any idea what's the matter?" + +"Unless there's a formal consultation, I must decline to say anything on +that point." + +Doctor Hartley dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. + +"I--I do wish you were on better terms with Mrs. Armine," he said. "I +should be delighted to meet you in consultation. It would really be +better, much better." + +"I think it would. It often requires two brains working in accord to +unravel a difficult case." + +"Of course it does! Of course it does!" + +"Well, I'm just down the river. And I may pole up little higher." + +"Of course, if I demand another opinion--" + +"Ah, that's your right." + +"I shall exercise it." + +"Women, even the best of women don't always understand as we do, the +gravity of a situation." + +"Just what I think!" + +"And if--he should get worse--" said Isaacson, gravely, almost solemnly, +and at this moment giving some rein to his real, desperately sincere +feeling. + +"Oh, but--do you think it's likely?" + +Isaacson looked steadily at Hartley. + +"I do--very likely." + +"Whatever she wishes or says, I shall summon you at once. She will be +thankful, perhaps afterwards." + +"Women admire the man who takes a strong line." + +"They do!" + +"And I think that you may be very thankful--afterwards." + +"I'll tell you what, I'm going to call you in, in consultation to-night. +Directly the patient wakes and I've seen him, I shall insist on calling +you in. I won't bear the whole responsibility alone. It isn't fair. And, +as you say, she'll be glad afterwards and admire the strong line I--one +takes." + +They parted very differently from the way in which they had met. + +Did the fate of Nigel depend upon whether the sensual or the ambitious +part of the young American came out "top dog" in the worry that was +impending? Isaacson called it to himself a worry, not a fight. The word +seemed to suit best the nature in which the contest would take place. + +Mrs. Armine's ravaged face would count for something in the struggle. +Isaacson's cleverness was trusting a little to that, with a pitiless +intuition that was almost feminine. + +His eyes had pierced the veil, and had seen that the Indian summer had +suddenly faded. + + + + +XXXVIII + + +Returned to the _Fatma_, Isaacson felt within him a sort of little +collapse, that was like the crumbling of something small. For the moment +he was below his usual standard of power. He was depressed, slightly +overstrung. He was conscious of the acute inner restlessness that comes +from the need to rest, of the painful wakefulness that is the child of a +lack of proper sleep. As soon as he had arrived, he asked for tea. + +"You can bring it," he said to Hassan. + +When Hassan came up with the tea Isaacson gave him a cigarette, and, +instead of getting rid of him, began to talk, or rather to set Hassan +talking. + +"What's the name of the tall boy who met us on the _Loulia_?" + +"Ibrahim, my gentleman." + +Ibrahim--the name that was mentioned in Nigel's letter as that of the +Egyptian who had arranged for the hire by Nigel of the _Loulia_. +Isaacson encouraged Hassan to talk about Ibrahim, while he kept still +and sipped his tea and lemon. + +It seemed that Ibrahim was a great friend of Hassan's; in fact, Hassan's +greatest friend. He and Hassan were like brothers. Also, Hassan loved +Ibrahim as he loved his father, and Ibrahim thought of Hassan with as +much respect and admiration as he dedicated to his own mother. + +Isaacson was impressed. His temples felt as if they were being pinched, +as if somebody was trying gently to squeeze them together. Yet he was +able to listen and to encourage, and to know why he was doing both. + +Hassan flowed on with a native volubility, revealing his own and +Ibrahim's affairs, and presently it appeared that at this moment Ibrahim +was not at all pleased, not at all happy, on board the _Loulia_. Why was +this? Isaacson asked. The reason was that he had been supplanted--he who +had been efficient, devoted, inspired, and capable beyond what could be +looked for from any other Egyptian, or indeed from any other sentient +being. Hassan's hands became tragic and violent as he talked. He showed +his teeth and seemed burning with fury. And who has done this monstrous +thing? Isaacson dropped out the enquiry. Hamza--him who prayed. That was +the answer. And it was through Ibrahim that Hamza had entered the +service of my Lord Arminigel; it was Ibrahim's unexampled generosity and +nobility that had brought Hamza to the chance of this treachery. + +Then Ibrahim had been first in the service of the Armines? + +Very soon Isaacson knew that Mohammed, "the best donkey-boy of Luxor," +had been driven out to make room for Hamza, while "my Lord Arminigel" +had been away in the Fayyum, and that now Hamza had been permitted to +take Ibrahim's place as the personal attendant on my lord. + +"Hamza him wait on my lord, give him his drink, give him his meat, give +him his sick-food"--_i.e._, medicine--'give him everythin'. + +And meanwhile Ibrahim, though always well paid and well treated, had +sunk out of importance, and was become, in the eyes of men, "like one +dog what eat where him can and sleepin' nowheres." + +Who had driven out Mohammed? Isaacson was interested to know that. He +was informed, with the usual variations of the East, that Mrs. Armine +had wanted Hamza. "She likin' him because him always prayin'." The last +sentence seemed to throw doubt upon all that had gone before. But as +Isaacson lay back, having dismissed Hassan, and strove to rest, he +continually saw the beautiful Hamza before him, beautiful because +wonderfully typical, shrouded and drenched in the spirit of the East, a +still fanatic with fatal eyes. + +And Hamza always gave Nigel his "sick-food." + +When Isaacson had spoken to Mrs. Armine of Hamza praying, a strange look +had gone over her face. It was like a look of horror. Isaacson +remembered it very well. Why should she shrink in horror from Hamza's +prayers? + +Isaacson needed repose. But he could not rest yet. To sleep one must +cease from thinking, and one must cease from waiting. + +He considered Doctor Hartley. + +He was accustomed in his consulting-room to read character, temperament, +shrewdly, to probe for more than mere bodily symptoms. Would Doctor +Hartley act out of his fear or out of his subjection to women? In +leaving the _Loulia_ Isaacson had really trusted him to act out of his +fear. But suppose Isaacson had misjudged him! Suppose Mrs. Armine again +used her influence, and Hartley succumbed and obeyed! + +In that case, Isaacson resolved that he must act up to his intuition. If +it were wrong, the consequences to himself would be very +disagreeable--might almost be disastrous. If he were wrong, Mrs. Armine +would certainly take care that he was thoroughly punished. There was in +her an inflexible want of heart and of common humanity that made her +really a dangerous woman, or a potentially dangerous woman. But he must +take the risk. Although a man who went cautiously where his own +interests were concerned, Isaacson was ready to take the risk. He had +not taken it yet, for caution had been at his elbow, telling him to +exhaust all possible means of obtaining what he wanted, and what he +meant to have in a reasonable way and without any scandal. He had borne +with a calculated misunderstanding, with cool impertinence, even with +insult. But one thing he would not bear. He would not bear to be a +second time worsted by Mrs. Armine. He would not bear to be driven away. + +If Hartley was governed by fear, well and good. If not, Isaacson would +stand a scene, provoke a scandal, even defy Nigel for his own sake. +Would that be necessary? + +Well, he would soon know. He would know that night. Hartley had promised +to summon him in consultation that night. + +"Meanwhile I simply must rest." + +He spoke to himself as a doctor. And at last he went below, lay down in +his cabin with the wooden shutters drawn over the windows, and closed +his eyes. He had little hope of sleep. But sleep presently came. When he +woke, he heard voices quite near him. They seemed to come from the +water. He lay still and listened. They were natives' voices talking +violently. He began to get up. As he put his feet to the floor, he heard +a knock. + +"Come in!" he called. + +Hassan put in his head. + +"The gentleman him here!" + +"What gentleman? Not Doctor Hartley?" + +"The sick gentleman." + +Nigel! Was it possible? Isaacson sprang up and hurried on deck. There +was a boat from the _Loulia_ alongside, and on the upper deck was Doctor +Hartley walking restlessly about. He heard Isaacson and turned sharply. + +"You've come to fetch me?" said Isaacson. + +As he came up, he had noticed that already the sun had set. He had slept +for a long time. + +"There's been a--a most unpleasant--a most distressing scene!" Hartley +said. + +"Why, with whom?" + +"With her--Mrs. Armine. What on earth have you done to set her against +you? She--she--really, it amounts to absolute hatred. Have you ever done +her any serious wrong?" + +"Never!" + +"I--I really think she must be hysterical. There's--there's the greatest +change in her." + +He paused. Then, very abruptly, he said: + +"Have you any idea how old she is?" + +"I only know that she isn't thirty-eight," said Isaacson. + +"Isn't thirty-eight!" + +"She is older than that. She once told me so--in an indirect way." + +Hartley looked at him with sudden suspicion. + +"Then you've--you and she have known each other very well?" + +"Never!" + +"Till now I imagined her about thirty, thirty-two perhaps, something +like that." + +"Till now?" + +"Yes. She--to-day she looks suddenly almost like a--well--a middle-aged +woman. I never saw such a change." + +It seemed that the young man was seriously perturbed by the announced +transformation. + +"Sit down, won't you?" said Isaacson. + +"No, thanks. I--" + +He went to the rail. Isaacson followed him. + +"Our talk quite decided me," Hartley said, "to call you in to-night. I +felt it was necessary. I felt I owed it to myself as a--if I may say +so--a rising medical man." + +"I think you did." + +"When she woke I told her so. But I'm sorry to say she didn't take my +view. We had a long talk. It really was most trying, most disagreeable. +But she was not herself. She knew it. She said it was my fault--that I +ought not to have given her that veronal. Certainly she did look awful. +D'you know"--he turned round to Isaacson, and there was in his face an +expression almost of awe--"it was really like seeing a woman become +suddenly old before one's very eyes. And--and I had thought she was +quite--comparatively--young!" + +"And the result of your conversation?" + +"At first things were not so bad. I agreed--I thought it was only +reasonable--to wait till Mr. Armine woke up and to see how he was then. +He slept for some time longer, and we sat there waiting. She--I must +say--she has charm." + +Even in the midst of his anxiety, of his nervous tension, Isaacson could +scarcely help smiling. He could almost see Bella Donna fighting the +young man's dawning resolution with every weapon she had. + +"Indeed she has!" he assented, without a touch of irony. + +"Ah! Any man must feel it. At the same time, really she is a wreck now." + +Isaacson's almost feminine intuition had evidently not betrayed him. +That altered face had had a great deal to do with Doctor Hartley's +definite resolve to have a consultation. + +"Poor woman!" he added. "Upon my soul, I can't help pitying her. She +knows it, too. But I expect they always do." + +"Probably. But you've come then to take me to the _Loulia_?" + +"I told her I really must insist." + +"How did you find the patient when he woke?" + +"Well, I must say I didn't like the look of him at all.'" + +"No? Did he seem worse?" + +"I really--I really hardly know. But I told her he was much worse." + +"Why?" + +"Why? Because I was determined not to go on with the case alone, for +fear something should happen. She denied it. She declared he was much +better--stronger. He agreed with her, I must confess; said he felt more +himself, and all that. But--but she seemed rather putting the words into +his mouth, I fancied. I may have been wrong, but still--the fact is I'm +positively upset by all that's happened." + +He grasped the rail with both hands. Evidently he had only held his own +against Bella Donna at the expense of his nervous system. + +"When we left him, I told her I must get you in. She was furious, said +she wouldn't have you, that you had always been against her, that you +had nearly prevented her marriage with Mr. Armine, that you had maligned +her all over London." + +"Did she say any of this before her husband?" + +"Not all that. No. We were in the first saloon. But I thought the men +would have heard her. She really lost her head. She was distinctly +hysterical. It was a most awkward position for me. But--but I was +resolved to dominate her." + +"And you did?" + +"Well--I--I stuck to my point. I said I must and would have another +opinion." + +"Another?" + +"Yours, of course. There's nobody else to be got at immediately. And +after what you--what we both said and thought this afternoon, I won't +wait till another doctor can be fetched from a distance." + +"Well start at once," said Isaacson, in a practical voice. + +"Yes." + +But the assent was very hesitating, and Hartley made no movement. +Isaacson looked at him with sharply questioning eyes. + +"I--I wish I was out of the case altogether," said the young man, +weakly. "After this afternoon's row I seem to have lost all heart. I +never have had such an unpleasant scene with any woman before. It makes +the position extremely difficult. I don't know how she will receive us; +I really don't. She never agreed to my proposition, and I left her +looking dreadful." + +"Mrs. Armine hates me. It's a pity. But I've got to think of the sick +man. And so have you. Look here, Doctor Hartley, you and I have got over +our little disagreement of this morning, and I hope we can be +colleagues." + +"I wish nothing better indeed," said the young man, earnestly. + +"We'll go back to the _Loulia_. We'll see the patient. We'll have our +consultation. And then if you still wish to get out of the case--" + +"Really, I think I'd much rather. I've got friends waiting for me at +Assouan." + +"And I've got nobody waiting for me. Suppose the patient agrees, and you +continue in the same mind, I'm willing to relieve you of all +responsibility and take the whole thing into my own hands. And if at any +time you come to London--" + +"I may be coming this summer." + +"Then I think I can be of use to you there. Shall we go?" + +This time Doctor Hartley did move. A weight seemed lifted from his +shoulders, and he went, almost with alacrity, towards the boat. + +"After all, you are much my senior," he said, as they were getting in, +"besides being an intimate friend of the patient. I don't think it would +seem unnatural to any one." + +"The most natural thing in the world!" said Isaacson, calmly. "Yes, +Hassan, you can come with us. Come in the other boat. I may want you to +do something for me later on." + +The two doctors did not talk much as they were rowed towards the +_Loulia_. Both were preoccupied. As they drew near to her, however, +Doctor Hartley began to fidget. His bodily restlessness betrayed his +mental uneasiness. + +"I do hope she'll be reasonable," he said at length. + +"I think she will." + +"What makes you?" + +"She's a decidedly clever woman." + +"Clever--oh, yes, she is. She was very well known, wasn't she, once--in +a certain way?" + +"As a beauty--yes." + +Isaacson's tone of voice was scarcely encouraging, and the other +relapsed into silence and continued to fidget. But when they were close +to the _Loulia_, almost under the blue light that shone at her +mast-head, he said, in a low and secretive voice: + +"I think you had better take the lead, as you are my senior. It will +appear more natural." + +"Very well. But I don't want to seem to--" + +"No, no! Don't mind about me! I shall perfectly understand. I have +chosen to call you in. That shows I am not satisfied with the way the +case is going." + +The felucca touched the side of the _Loulia_. Ibrahim appeared. He +smiled when he saw them, smiled still more when he perceived beyond them +the second boat with Hassan. Isaacson stepped on board first. Hartley +followed him without much alacrity. + +"I want to see Mrs. Armine," Isaacson said to Ibrahim. Ibrahim went +towards the steps. + +"Do you happen to know what that Arabic writing means?" Isaacson asked +of Hartley, as they were about to pass under the motto of the _Loulia_. + +"That--yes; I asked. It's from the Koran." + +"Yes?" + +"It means--the fate of every man have we bound about his neck." + +"Ah! Rather fatalistic! Does it appeal to you?" + +"I don't know. I haven't thought about it. I wonder how she'll receive +us!" + +"It will be all right," Isaacson said with cheerful confidence. + +But he was wondering too. + +The first saloon was empty. Ibrahim left them in it, and went through +the doorway beyond to the after part of the vessel. Isaacson sat down on +the divan, but Hartley moved about. His present anxiety was in +proportion to his past admiration of Mrs. Armine. He had adored her +enough once to be very much afraid of her now. + +"I do--I must say I hope she won't make a scene," he said. + +"Oh, no." + +"Yes, but you didn't see her this afternoon." + +"She was upset. Some people can't endure daytime sleep. She's had time +now to recover." + +But Hartley did not seem to be reassured. He kept looking furtively +towards the door by which Ibrahim had vanished. In about five minutes it +was opened again by Ibrahim. He stood aside, slightly bending and +looking on the floor, and Mrs. Armine came in, dressed in a sort of +elaborate tea-gown, grey in colour, with silver embroideries. She was +carefully made up, but not made up pale. Her cheeks were delicately +flushed with colour. Her lips were red. Her shining hair was arranged to +show the beautiful shape of her head as clearly as possible and to leave +her lovely neck quite bare. Everything that could be done to render her +attractive had been very deftly done. Nevertheless, even Isaacson, who +had seen the change in her that afternoon, and had been prepared for +further change in her by Hartley, was surprised by the alteration a few +hours had made in her appearance. + +Middle-age, with its subtle indications of what old age will be, had +laid its hands upon her, had suddenly and firmly grasped her. As before, +since she had been in Egypt, she had appeared to most people very much +younger than she really was, so now she appeared older, decisively +older, than she actually was. When Isaacson had looked at her in his +consulting-room he had thought her not young, nor old, nor definitely +middle-aged. Now he realized exactly what she would be some day as a +painted and powdered old woman, striving by means of clever corsets, a +perfect wig, and an ingenious complexion to simulate that least +artificial of all things, youth. The outlines of the face were sharper, +cruder than before; the nose and chin looked more pointed, the +cheek-bones much more salient. The mouth seemed to have suddenly "given +in" to the thing it had hitherto successfully striven against. And the +eyes burnt with a fire that called the attention to the dark night +slowly but certainly coming to close about this woman, and to withdraw +her beauty into its blackness. + +Isaacson's thought was: "What must be the state of the mind which has +thus suddenly triumphed over a hitherto triumphant body?" And he felt +like a man who looks down into a gulf, and who sees nothing, but hears +movements and murmurs of horror and despair. + +Mrs. Armine came straight to Isaacson. Her eyes, fastened upon him, +seemed to defy him to see the change in her. She smiled and said: + +"So you've come again! It's very good of you. Nigel is awake now." + +She looked towards Doctor Hartley. + +"I hope Doctor Isaacson will be able to reassure you," she said. "You +frightened me this afternoon. I don't think you quite realized what it +is to a woman to have sprung upon her so abruptly such an alarming view +of an invalid's condition." + +"But I didn't at all mean--" began the young doctor in agitation. + +"I don't know what you meant," she interrupted, "but you alarmed me +dreadfully. Well, are you going to see my husband together?" + +"Yes, we must do that," said Isaacson. + +He was slightly surprised by her total lack of all further opposition to +the consultation, although he had almost prophesied it to Hartley. +Perhaps he had prophesied to reassure himself, for now he was conscious +of a certain rather vague sense of doubt and of uneasiness, such as +comes upon a man who, without actually suspecting an ambush, wonders +whether, perhaps, he is near one. + +"I dare say you would rather I was not present at your consultation?" +said Mrs. Armine. + +"It isn't usual for any one to be present except the doctors taking part +in it," said Isaacson. + +"The consultation comes after the visit to the patient," she said; "and +of course I'll leave you alone for that. I should prefer to leave you +alone while you are examining my husband, too, but I'm sorry to say he +insists on my being there." + +Isaacson was no longer in doubt about an ambush. She had prepared one +while she had been left alone with the sick man. Hartley having +unexpectedly escaped from the magic circle of her influence, she had +devoted herself to making it invulnerable about her husband. + +Nevertheless, he meant to break in at whatever cost. + +"We don't want to oppose or irritate the patient, I'm sure," he said. + +He looked towards Doctor Hartley. + +"No, no, certainly not!" the young man assented, hastily. + +"Very well, then!" said Mrs. Armine. + +Her brows went down and her mouth contracted for an instant. Then she +moistened her painted lips with the tip of her tongue and turned towards +the door. + +"I'll go first to tell him you are coming," she said. + +She went out into the passage. + + + + +XXXIX + + +Isaacson glanced at Doctor Hartley before he followed her. + +"I--doesn't she look strange? Did you ever see such an alteration?" +almost whispered the young man. + +Isaacson did not answer, but stepped into the passage. + +Mrs. Armine was a little way down it, walking on rather quickly. +Suddenly she looked round. Light shone upon her from above, and showed +her tense and worn face, her features oddly sharpened and pointed, +wrinkles clustering about the corners of her eyes. She seemed, under the +low roof, unnaturally tall in her flowing grey robe, and this evening in +her height there seemed to Isaacson to be something forbidding and +almost dreadful. She held up one hand, as if warning the two men to +pause for a moment. Then she went on, and disappeared through the +doorway that faced them beyond the two rows of bedrooms. + +"We are to wait, it seems," Isaacson said, stopping in the passage. "The +patient is up then?" + +"He wasn't when I left," murmured Hartley. + +"Did you say whether he was to be kept in bed?" + +"Oh, no. I don't know that there was any reason against his getting up, +except his weakness. He has never taken to his bed." + +"No?" + +Mrs. Armine reappeared, and beckoned to them to come on. They obeyed +her, and came into the farther saloon. As soon as Isaacson passed +through the doorway, he saw Nigel sitting up on the divan, with cushions +behind him, near the left-hand doorway which gave on to the balcony. He +had a hat on, as if he had just been out there, and a newspaper on his +knees. The saloon was not well lit. Only one electric burner covered +with a shade was turned on. With the aid of the cushions he was sitting +up very straight, as if he had just made a strong effort and succeeded +in bracing up his body. Mrs. Armine stood close to him. His eyes were +turned towards the two doctors, and as Isaacson came up to him, he said +in a colourless voice, which yet held a faintly querulous sound: + +"So you've come up again, Isaacson!" + +"Yes." + +"Very good of you. But I don't know why there should be all this fuss +made about me. It's rather trying, you know. I believe it keeps me +back." + +Already Isaacson knew just what he had to face, what he had to contend +with. + +"I hate a fuss made about me," Nigel continued, "simply hate it. You +must know that." + +Isaacson, who had come up to him, extended his hand in greeting. But +Nigel, whether he felt too weak to stretch out his hand, or for some +other reason, did not appear to see it, and Isaacson at once dropped his +hand, while he said: + +"I don't think there is any reason to make a fuss. But, being so near, I +just rowed up to see how you were getting on after your sleep." + +"I didn't sleep at night," Nigel said quickly. "What you gave me did me +no good at all." + +"I'm sorry for that." + +Nigel still sat up against the cushions, but his body now inclined +slightly to the left side, where Mrs. Armine was standing, looking down +on him with quiet solicitude. + +"I had a very bad night--very bad." + +"Then I'm afraid--" + +"Doctor Hartley rowed down to fetch you here, I understood," Nigel +interrupted. + +There was suspicion in his voice. + +"Yes," said Hartley, speaking for the first time, nervously. "I--I +thought to myself, 'Two heads are better than one.'" + +He forced a sort of laugh. Nigel twitched on the divan like a man +supremely irritated, then looked from one doctor to the other with eyes +that included them both in his irritation. + +"Two heads--what for?" he said. "What d'you mean?" + +He sighed heavily as he finished the question. Then, without waiting for +an answer, he said to his wife: + +"If only I could have a little peace!" + +There was a frightful weariness in his voice, a sound that made Isaacson +think of a cruelly treated child's voice. Mrs. Armine bent down and +touched his hand as it lay on the newspaper which was still across his +knees. She smiled at him. + +"A little patience!" she murmured. + +She raised her eyebrows. + +"Yes, it's all very well, Ruby, but--" He looked again at Isaacson, with +a distinct though not forcible hostility. "I know you want to doctor me, +Isaacson," he said. "And she asked me to-night to see you. Last night it +was different, but to-night I don't want doctoring. Frankly"--he sighed +again heavily--"I only see any one to-night to please her. All I want is +quiet. We came here for quiet. But we don't seem to get it." + +He turned again to his wife. + +"Even you are getting worn out. I can see that," he said. + +Mrs. Armine's forehead sharply contracted. "Oh, I'm all right, Nigel," +she said, quickly. She laughed. "I'm not going to let them begin +doctoring me," she said. + +"She's nursed me like a slave," Nigel continued, looking at the two men, +and speaking as if for a defence. "There has never been such devotion. +And I wish every one could know it." Tears suddenly started into his +eyes. "But the best things and the best people in the world are not +believed in, are never believed in," he murmured. + +"Never mind, Nigel dear," she said, soothingly. "It's all right." + +Isaacson, who with Hartley had been standing all this time because Mrs. +Armine was standing, now sat down beside the sick man. + +"I think true devotion will always find its reward," he said, quietly, +steadily. "We only want to do you good, to get you quickly into your old +splendid health." + +"That's very good of you, of course. But you didn't do me good last +night. It was the worst night I ever had." + +Isaacson remembered the sound he had heard when the Nubians lay on their +oars on the dark river. + +"Let us try to do you good to-night. Won't you?" he said. + +"All I want is rest. I've told her so. And I tell you so." + +"Shall I stay on board to-night and see you to-morrow morning when you +have had a night's rest?" + +Nigel looked up at his wife. + +"Aren't you quite near?" he asked Isaacson, in a moment. + +"I'm not very far away, but--" + +"Then I don't think we need bother you to stay. We've got Doctor +Hartley." + +"I--I'm afraid I shall have to leave you to-morrow," said the young man, +who had several times looked, almost with a sort of horror, at Mrs. +Armine's ravaged face. "You see I'm with people at Assouan. I really +came out to Egypt in a sort of way in attendance upon Mrs. Craven +Bagley, who is in delicate health. And though she's much stronger--" + +"Yes, yes!" Nigel interrupted. "Of course, go--go! I want peace, I want +rest." + +He drooped towards his wife. Suddenly she sat down beside him, holding +his hand. + +"Would you rather not be examined to-night?" she asked him. + +"Examined!" he said, in a startled voice. + +"Well, dearest, these doctors--" + +Nigel, with a great effort, sat up as before. + +"I won't be bothered to-night," he said, with the weak anger +of an utterly worn-out man. "I--I can't stand anything more. +I--can't--stand--" His voice died away. + +"We'd better go," whispered Hartley. "To-morrow morning." + +He looked at Mrs. Armine, and moved towards the door. Isaacson got up. + +"We will leave the patient to-night," he said to Mrs. Armine, in an +expressionless voice. + +"Yes?" + +"But may I have a word with you, please, in the other room?" + +Then he followed Hartley. + +He caught him up in the passage. + +"It's absolutely no use to-night," said Hartley. "Any examination would +only make matters worse. He's not in a fit state mentally to go through +it so late." + +[Illustration] + +"I think it will be best to wait till to-morrow." + +"And then, directly after the consultation is over, I must really get +away. That is, if you are willing to--" + +"You may leave everything in my hands." + +"She hates me now!" the young man said, almost plaintively. "Did you +ever see such a change?" + +"I'm going to speak with her in the first saloon, so I'll leave you," +said Isaacson. + +Hartley had his hand on one of the cabin doors. + +"Then I'll go in here. I sleep here." + +"Good night," Isaacson said. + +"Oh! you won't want me again?" + +"Not to-night." + +"Good night then." + +He opened the cabin door and disappeared within, while Isaacson walked +on to the first saloon. + +He had to wait in it for nearly ten minutes before he heard Mrs. Armine +coming. But he would not have minded much waiting an hour. He felt +within him the determination of an iron will now completely assured. And +strength can wait. + +Mrs. Armine came in and shut the door gently behind her. + +"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," she said. "I was taking my husband to +his cabin. He's going to bed. Where is Doctor Hartley?" + +"He's gone to his cabin." + +Something in Isaacson's tone seemed suddenly to strike her, and she sent +him a look of sharp enquiry. + +"Will you sit down for a minute?" he said. + +She sat down at once, still keeping her eyes fixed upon him. He sat down +near her. + +"Doctor Hartley is going away to-morrow morning," Isaacson said. + +"He promised to stay several days with us to preside over my husband's +convalescence." + +"He's going away, and there's no question of convalescence." + +"I don't understand you!" + +"I'll make myself plain. Your husband is not a convalescent. Your +husband is a very sick man." + +"No wonder, when he's worried to death, when he's allowed no peace day +or night, when he's given one thing on the top of another!" + +"May I ask what you mean by that?" + +"Didn't you come in last night, and force a sleeping draught upon him?" + +"I certainly gave him something to make him sleep." + +"And it didn't make him sleep." + +"Because before it had had time to take effect he received a great +shock," Isaacson said, quietly. + +She moved. + +"A great shock?" + +She stared at him. + +"At night, upon water, sound travels a very long way. Have you never +noticed that?" he asked her. + +Still she stared, and as he looked at her it seemed to him that the bony +structure of her face became more salient. + +"Last night," he said, as she did not speak, "I thought I heard +something strange. I made my men stop rowing for a minute, and I +listened. I am not surprised that the sleeping draught I gave your +husband had no effect. Under the circumstances it probably even did him +harm. But no doctor could have foreseen that." + +She moved restlessly. Isaacson got up and stood before her. + +"I'm going to speak plainly," he said. "Some time ago, in my +consulting-room in London, you told me a good deal of the truth of +yourself." + +"You think--" + +"I know. You told me then that your whole desire was to have a good +time. How long are you going to put up with your present life?" + +"Put up! You don't understand. Nigel has been very good to me, and I am +very happy with him." + +"If he's been good to you, don't you wish him to get well?" + +"Of course I do. I've been waiting upon him hand and foot." + +"And not even a maid to help you--although she did ring last night for +Hamza, when we were here." + +She looked down, and picked at the dim embroideries that covered the +divan. + +"I've nursed him till I've nearly made myself ill," she said, +mechanically. + +"I'm going to relieve you of that task." + +She turned her face up towards him. + +"No, you aren't!" she said. "I'm Nigel's wife, and that is my natural +duty." + +"Nevertheless, I'm going to relieve you of it." + +The rock-like firmness of his tone evidently made upon her an immense +impression. + +"From to-night I take charge of this case." + +Mrs. Armine stood up. She was taller than Isaacson, and now she stood +looking down upon him. + +"Nigel won't have you!" she said. + +"He must." + +"He won't--unless I wish it." + +"You will never wish it." + +"No." + +"But you will pretend to wish it." + +She continued to look down in silence. At last she breathed, "Why?" + +"Because, if you don't, I shall not send for another doctor. I shall +send for the police authorities." + +She sank down again upon the divan. But her expression did not change. +He believed that she succeeded in making her face a mere mask while she +thought with a furious rapidity. + +"You don't mean to say," she at length said, "that you think +anything--that you suppose one of the servants--Ibrahim--Hamza--? I +can't believe it! I could never believe it!" + +"Do you wish me to cure your husband?" + +"Of course I wish him to be cured." + +"Then please go now and tell him that you have asked me to stay here for +the night. I don't want him to see me to-night. I will see him as soon +as he wakes to-morrow." + +"But--he doesn't--" + +"Just as you like! Either I stay here and take charge of this case, or I +go back to the boat at Edfou and to-morrow I put myself into +communication with the proper authorities." + +She got up again slowly. + +"Well, if you really believe you can pull Nigel round quickly!" she +said. + +She moved to the door. + +"I'll see what he says!" she murmured. + +Then she opened the door and went out. + +That night Isaacson sent Hassan back to the _Fatma_ to fetch some +necessary luggage. For Mrs. Armine succeeded in persuading her husband +to submit to a doctor's visit the next morning. + +Isaacson had not been worsted. But as he went into one of the smart +little cabins to get some sleep if possible, he felt terribly, almost +unbearably, depressed. + +For what was--what must be--the meaning of this victory? + + + + +XL + + +Isaacson had asked himself at night the meaning of his victory. When the +morning dawned, when once more he had to go to his work, the work which +was his life, although sometimes he was inclined to decry it secretly in +moments of fatigue, he asked no further questions. His business was +plain before him, and it was business into which he could put his heart. +Although he was not an insensitive man, he was a man of generous nature. +He pushed away with an almost careless energy those small annoyances, +those little injuries of life, which more petty people make much of and +cannot easily forgive. The querulous man who was ready, out of his +bodily weakness and his mis-directed love, to make little of his +friendship, even to thrust away his proffered help, he disregarded as +man, regarded as so much nearly destroyed material which he had to +repair, to bring back to its former flawlessness. He knew the real +nature, the real soul of the man; he understood why they were warped, +and he put himself aside, put his pride into his pocket, which he +considered the proper place for it at that moment. But though he had +gained his point by a daring half-avowal of what his intuition had +whispered to him, he presently realized that if he were to win through +with Nigel into the sunshine, he must act with determination; perhaps, +too, with a cunning which the Eastern drops in his blood made not so +unnatural to him as it might have been to most men as honest living as +he was. + +Mrs. Armine had been dominated for the moment. She had obeyed. She had +done the thing she hated to do. But she was not the woman to run +straight on any path that led away from her wishes; she now loathed as +well as feared Meyer Isaacson, and she had a cruelly complete influence +over her husband. And even any secret fear could not hold her animus +against the man who understood her wholly in check. Like the mole, she +must work in the dark. She could not help it. + +What she had said of him to Nigel, between his first and his second +visits to the _Loulia_, Isaacson did not know. Indeed, he scarcely cared +to know. It was not difficult to divine how she had used her influence. +Isaacson could almost hear her reciting the catalogue of his misdeeds +against herself, could almost see her eyes as she murmured the +insinuations which doubtless the sick man had believed--because in his +condition he must believe almost anything she persistently told him. + +Yet at a word from her he had agreed to accept all the ministrations of +his friend, which at another word he had been willing to repel. + +The fact was that secretly he was crying out for the powerful hand to +save him from the abyss. And he believed in Isaacson as a doctor, +however much he now resented Isaacson's mistrust, no longer to be +doubted, of the woman his chivalry had lifted to a throne. + +He received Isaacson with an odd mixture of thankfulness and reserve, +put himself into the doctor's hands with almost a boy's confidence, but +kept himself free, with a determination that in the circumstances was +touching, however pitiful, from the stretched-out hands of the friend. + +And Isaacson felt swiftly that though one contest was ended, and ended +as he desired, another contest was at its beginning, a silent battle of +influences about this good fellow, who, by his very virtue, had fallen +so low. + +But the doctor must come first. That coming might clear the ground for +the friend. And so Isaacson, in the beginning, met Nigel's new reserve +with another reserve, very unself-conscious apparently, very +businesslike, practical, and, above all things, very calm. + +Isaacson radiated calm. + +He found his patient that first morning weary after another bad night, +induced partly by the draught which had sent him to sleep in daylight, +and this very conscious and physical misery, acting upon the mind, +played into the Doctor's hands. He was able without difficulty to make a +minute examination of the case. The patient, though so reserved at first +in his manner, putting a barrier between himself and Isaacson, was +almost pathetically talkative directly the conversation became +definitely medical. But that conversation finished, he relapsed into his +former almost stiff reserve, a reserve which seemed so strangely foreign +to his real nature that Isaacson felt as if the man he knew and cared +for had got up and left the room. + +Mrs. Armine was waiting to hear the result of the interview. Doctor +Hartley had taken his departure--fled, perhaps, is the word--at an early +hour. In daylight her face looked even more ravaged than it had on the +previous night. But her manner was coldly calm. + +"What is the verdict?" she asked. + +"I'm afraid I am not prepared to give a verdict. Your husband is in a +very weak, low state. If it had been allowed to continue indefinitely, +the mischief might have become irreparable." + +"But you can put him right?" + +"Let's hope so." + +She stood as if she were waiting for more definite information. But none +came. After a silence Isaacson said: + +"The first thing to be done is to get him away from here." + +"Get him away! Where to?" + +"You've still got your villa at Luxor, I believe?" + +"Oh, yes." + +"I suppose it is comfortable, well arranged?" + +"Pretty well." + +"And it's quiet and has a garden, I know." + +"You've seen it?" + +"Yes. My boat was tied up just opposite to it the night before I started +up river." + +"Oh!" + +"Perhaps you'll be kind enough to give the order to the Reis to start +for Luxor as soon as possible?" + +"Very well," she said, indifferently. + +Her whole look and manner now were curiously indolent and indifferent. +Before she had been full of fiercely nervous life. To-day it seemed as +if that life was withdrawn from her. + +"I'll tell him now," she said. + +And without any more questions she went away to the deck. + +Soon afterwards there was a stir. Cries were heard from the sailors, and +the _Loulia_ began to move, floating northwards with the tide. When +Nigel asked the reason, Isaacson said to him: + +"This place is too isolated for an invalid. One can get at nothing here. +You will be much more at your ease in your own home, and I can take +better care of you there." + +"We are going back to the villa?" + +"Yes." + +"I'm glad," Nigel said, slowly. "I never told her, but I was beginning +to hate this boat; all this trouble has come upon me here. +Sometimes--sometimes I have felt almost as if--" + +He broke off. + +"Yes?" Isaacson said, quietly. + +"As if there were something that was fatal to me on board the _Loulia_." + +"In the villa I shall get you back to your original health and +strength." + +The thin, lead-coloured face drooped forward, and the eyes that were +full of a horrible malaise held for a moment the fires of hope. + +"Do you really think I can ever get well?" + +Isaacson did not reply for a moment. Then he said, "Will you make me a +promise?" + +"What is it?" + +"Will you promise me to obey implicitly everything I order you to do?" + +"Do you mean--as a doctor?" + +"I do." + +"I promise." + +"Very well. If you carry out that promise, I think I can undertake to +cure you. I think I can undertake that some day you will be once more +the strong man who rejoices in his strength." + +Tears came into Nigel's eyes. + +"I wonder," he said. "I wonder." + +"But remember," Isaacson said, almost with solemnity, "I shall expect +from you implicit obedience to my medical orders. And the first of them +is this: you are to swallow nothing which is not given to you by me with +my own hand." + +"Medicine, you mean?" + +"I mean what I say--nothing; not a morsel of food, not a drop of +liquid." + +"Then my wife and Hamza--" + +"Will you obey me?" Isaacson interrupted, almost sternly. + +"Yes," Nigel said, in a weak voice. + +"And now just lie quiet, and remember you are going towards your home, +in which I intend to get you quite well." + +And the _Loulia_ floated down with the tide, slowly, and broadside to +the great river, for there was no wind at all, and the weather was hot +almost as a furnace. The _Fatma_ untied, and followed her down. And the +night came, and still they floated on broadside under the stars. + +Nigel was now sleeping, and Meyer Isaacson was watching. + +And in a cabin close by a woman was staring at her face in a little +glass set in the lid of a gilded box, was staring, with desperation at +her heart. + +Hartley had said he believed she knew of the sudden collapse of her +beauty. Believed! Before he had noticed it, she had perceived it, with a +cold horror which, gathering strength, grew into a bitter despair. And +with the despair came hatred, hatred of the man who by keeping her back +from happiness had led her to this collapse. This man was Nigel. He +thought he had saved her from her worst self. But really he had stirred +this worst self from sleep. In London she had been almost a good woman, +compared to the woman she was now. His bungling search after nobility of +spirit had roused the devil within her. She longed to let him know what +she really was. Often and often, while they two had been isolated +together on the _Loulia_, she had been on the edge of telling him at +least some fragments of the truth. Her nerves had nearly betrayed her +when through the long and shining hours the dahabeeyah lay still on the +glassy river, far away from the haunts of men, and she, sick with ennui, +nearly mad because of the dulness of her life, had been forced to play +at love with the man whose former strength and beauty diminished day by +day. + +Would it never end? Each day seemed to her an eternity, each hour almost +a year. But she knew that she must be patient, though patience was no +part of her character. All through her life she had been an impatient +and greedy woman, seizing on what she wanted and holding to it +tenaciously. She had hidden her impatience with her charm, and so she +had gained successes. But now, with so little time left to her for +possible enjoyment, gnawed by desire and jealousy, she found her powers +reluctant in their coming. Formerly she had exercised her influence +almost without effort. Now she had to be stubborn in endeavour. And she +knew, with the frightful certainty of the middle-aged woman, that the +cruel exertions of her mind must soon tell upon her body. + +Her terror, a terror which had never left her during these days and +nights on the dahabeeyah, was that her beauty might fade before she was +free to go to Baroudi. She knew now how strongly she had fascinated him, +despite his seeming, almost cruel imperturbability. By her lowest +powers, the powers that Nigel ignored and thought that he hated--though +perhaps he too had been partially subject to them--she had grasped the +sensual nature of the Egyptian. As Starnworth had told Isaacson, Baroudi +had within him the madness for women. He had within him the madness for +Bella Donna. But he knew how to wait for what he wanted. He was waiting +now. The question that had presented itself to Mrs. Armine again and +again during her exile with Nigel was this: "Will he wait too long?" She +knew how fleeting is the Indian summer of women. And she knew, though +she denied it to herself, that if she brought to Baroudi not an Indian +summer as her gift, but a fading autumn, she would run the risk of being +confronted by the blank cruelty that is so often the offspring of the +Eastern conception of women. + +Yet in her terror she had always been supported by a fierce energy of +hope, until in the holy of holies of Horus she had come face to face +with Isaacson. + +And now! + +Now she sat alone in her cabin, and she stared into the little mirror +which Baroudi had given her in the garden of oranges. + +And Isaacson watched over her husband. + +"The fate of every man have we bound about his neck." + +The Arabic letters of gold seemed to be pressing down upon her, to crush +her body and spirit. She put down the box, and, almost savagely shut +down the lid upon it. + +And now that she no longer saw herself, she seemed to see Hamza praying, +as he had prayed that day in the orange garden when she looked out of +the window. Then she had felt that the hands of the East had grasped +her, that they would never let her go, and something within her had +recoiled, though something else had desired only that--to be grasped by +Baroudi's hands. + +The praying men had frightened her. Yet she believed in no God. + +If there really was a God! If He looked upon her now! + +She sprang up, and turned out the light. + + * * * * * + +The next day the _Loulia_ tied up under the garden of the Villa Androud, +just beyond the stone promontory that diverted the strong current of the +river. Nigel, too weak to walk up the bank to the house, was carefully +carried by the Nubians. The surprised servants of the villa, who had had +no notice of their master's arrival, hastened to throw back the +shutters, to open the windows, letting in light and air. And Ibrahim +once more began to look authoritative, for it seemed that Hamza's reign +was over. From henceforth only Meyer Isaacson gave food and drink and +"sick-food" to "my Lord Arminigel." + +The change from dahabeeyah life to life on shore seemed at once to make +a difference to the patient. When he was put carefully down in the white +and yellow drawing-room, and, looking out through the French windows +across the terrace, saw the roses blowing in the sandy garden, he heaved +a sigh that was like a deep breathing of relief. + +"I'm thankful to be out of the _Loulia_, Ruby," he said to his wife, who +was standing beside the sofa on which he was resting. + +"Are you, Nigel. Why?" + +"I don't know. It seemed to oppress me. And you know that writing?" + +"What writing?" + +"Over the door as you went in." + +"Oh, yes." + +"I used to think of it in the night when I felt so awful, and it was +like a weight coming down to crush me." + +"That was fanciful of you," she said. + +But she sent him a strange look of half-frightened suspicion. + +He did not see it. He was looking out to the garden. From the Nile rose +the voices of the sailors singing their song. He listened to it for a +moment. + +"What a strange time it's been since we first heard that song together, +Ruby," he said. + +"Yes." + +"When we first heard it, I was so strong, so happy--strong to protect +you, happy to have you to protect, and--and it's ended in your having to +protect and take care of me." + +She moved. + +"Yes," she said again, in a dry voice. + +"I--I think I'm glad we can't look into the future. One wants a lot of +courage in life." + +She said nothing. + +"But I feel a little courage now. I never quite told you how it was with +me on the _Loulia_. If I had stayed on her much longer, as we were, I +should have died. I should have died very soon." + +"No, no, Nigel." + +"Yes, I should. But here"--he moved, stretched out his arms, sighed--"I +feel that I shall get better, perhaps get well, even. How--how splendid +if I do!" + +"Well, I must go and look after things," she said. + +"You're tired, aren't you?" + +"No. Why should you think so?" + +"Your voice sounds tired." + +"It isn't that." + +"What is it?" + +"You know that for your sake I am enduring a companionship that is +odious to me," she said, in a low voice. + +At that moment, Meyer Isaacson came into the room. + +"We must get the patient to bed as soon as possible," he said, in his +quiet, practical, and strong voice. + +"I'll go and see about the room," said Mrs. Armine. + +She went away quickly. + +When she got upstairs there were drops of blood on her lower lip. + + + + +XLI + + +Nigel had come to hate the _Loulia_. They had no further need of her, +and he begged his wife to telegraph to Baroudi in his name to take her +away as soon as he liked. + +"Ibrahim has his address, I know," he said. + +The telegram was sent. In reply came one from Baroudi taking over the +_Loulia_. The same day the Reis came up to the villa to receive +backsheesh and to say farewell. He made no remark as to his own and his +crew's immediate destiny, but soon after he had gone the _Loulia_ +untied, crossed the Nile, and was tied up again nearly opposite to the +garden against the western bank. And in the evening the sailors could be +heard in the distance "making the fantasia." + +Mrs. Armine heard them as she walked alone in the garden close to the +promontory, and she saw the blue light at the mast-head. The cabin +windows were dark. + +So this was the end of their voyage to the South! + +She stood still near the wall of earth which divided the garden from the +partially waste and partially cultivated ground which lay beyond it. + +She had not thought that they would come back--there. + +This was the end of their voyage. But what was to be the end? + +Baroudi made no sign. He had never written to her one word. She had +never dared to write to him. He had not told her to write, and that +meant he did not choose her to write. She was very much afraid of him, +and her fear of him was part of the terrible fascination he held to +govern her. She who had had so many slaves when she was young ended +thus--in being herself a slave. + +She sat down by the earth wall on the first stones of the promontory. +The night was moonless; but in the clear nights of Egypt, even without +the moon very near details can often be distinguished. + +To the right of Mrs. Armine the brown earth bank shelved steeply to a +shore that was like a sandy beach which an incoming tide had nearly +covered. About it, in a sort of large basin of loose sand and earth, +grew a quantity of bushes forming a not dense scrub. She had never been +down to walk upon the sandy shore, though she had often descended to get +into the felucca. But to-night, after sitting still for some time, she +went down, and began to pace upon the sand close to the water's edge. + +From here she could not see the house with its lighted windows, speaking +to her of the life in which she was involved. She could see nothing +except the darkness of the great river, the dark outline of the +promontory, and of the top of the bank where the garden began, the dark +and confused forms of the bushes tangled together. At her feet the +silent water lay, like lake water almost, though farther out the current +was strong. + +"What am I going to do?" she kept on saying to herself, as she walked to +and fro in this solitude. "What am I going to do?" + +It was a strange thing, perhaps, that even at this moment Baroudi, the +man at a distance, frightened her more than Isaacson, the man who was +near. She did not know what either was going to do. She was the prey of +a double uncertainty. Isaacson, she supposed, would bring her husband +back to health, unless even now she found means to get rid of him. And +Baroudi, what would he do? She looked across the river and saw the blue +light. Why was the _Loulia_ tied up there? Was Baroudi coming up to +join her? + +If he did come! She walked faster, quite unconscious that she had +quickened her pace. If he did come she felt now that she could no longer +be obedient. She would have to see him, have to force him to come out +from his deep mystery of the Eastern mind and take notice of what she +was feeling. His magnificent selfishness had dominated hers. But she was +becoming desperate. The thought of her wrecked beauty haunted her +always, though she was perpetually thrusting it away from her. She was +resolved to think that there was very little change in her appearance, +and that such change as there was would only be temporary. A little, +only a little of what she wanted, and surely the Indian summer would +return. + +And then, she thought of Meyer Isaacson up there in the house close to +her, with his horribly acute eyes that proclaimed his horribly acute +brain. That man could be pitiless, but not to Nigel. And could he ever +be pitiless to her without being pitiless to Nigel? + +She looked at the water, and now stood still. + +If Baroudi were on board the _Loulia_ to-night, she would get a boat and +go to him--would not she?--and say she could not stand her life any +longer, that she must be with him. She would let him treat her as he +chose. Thinking of Nigel's kindness at this moment she actually longed +for cruelty from Baroudi. + +But she must be with him. + +If she could only be with Baroudi anywhere, anyhow, she would throw the +memory of this hateful life with Nigel away for ever. She would never +give Nigel another thought. There would be no time to waste over that. + +"But what am I going to do? What am I going to do?" + +That sentence came back to her mind. Flights of the imagination were +useless. It was no use now to give the reins to imagination. + +Baroudi must come up the river. He must be coming up, or the _Loulia_ +would surely not be tied up against the western shore. But perhaps she +was there only for the night. Perhaps she would sail on the morrow. + +Mrs. Armine felt that if the next morning the _Loulia_ was gone she +would be unable to remain in Luxor. She would have to take the train and +go. Where? Anywhere! To Cairo. She could make some excuse; that she must +get some clothes, mourning for Harwich. That would do. She would say she +was going only for a couple of days. Nigel would let her go. And Meyer +Isaacson? + +What he wished and what he meant in regard to her Mrs. Armine did not +know. And just at this moment she scarcely cared. The return to the +villa and the departure of the _Loulia_ seemed to have fanned the fire +within her. While she was on the _Loulia_, in an enclosed place, rather +like a beautiful prison, she had succeeded in concentrating herself to a +certain extent on matters in hand. She had had frightful hours of ennui +and almost of despair, but she had got through them somehow. And she had +been in command. + +Now Nigel had been taken forcibly out of her hands, and the beautiful +prison was no more theirs. And this return to the home which had seen +the opening of her life in Egypt strangely excited her. Once again the +_Loulia_ lay there where she had lain when Baroudi was on board of her; +once again from the bank of the Nile Mrs. Armine heard the song of Allah +in the distance, as on that night when she heard it first, and it was a +serenade to her. But how much had happened between then and now! + +Now in the house behind her there were two men--the man who did not know +her and loved her, and the man who did know her and hated her. + +But the man who knew her, and who had wanted her just as she was--he was +not there. + +She felt that she must see him again, quickly, that she must tell him +all that had happened since she had set sail on the _Loulia_. And yet +could she, dared she, leave Nigel alone with Meyer Isaacson? + +She paced again on the sand, passing and repassing in front of the +darkness of the bushes. + +When Isaacson had stood before her in the temple of Edfou, she had had a +moment of absolute terror--such a moment as can only come once in a +life. A period of fear and of struggle, of agony even, had followed. Yet +in that period there had been no moment quite so frightful. For she had +confronted the known, not the utterly unexpected, and she had been +fighting, and still she must fight. + +But she must have a word from Baroudi, a look from Baroudi. Without +these, she felt as if she might--as if she must do something stupid or +desperate. She was coming to the end of her means, to the limit of her +powers, perhaps. + +The hardest blow she had had as yet had been Doctor Hartley's escape out +of the circle of her influence. That escape had weakened her +self-confidence, had been a catastrophe surely grimly prophetic of other +catastrophes to come. It had even put into her mind a doubt that was +surely absurd. + +Suppose Nigel were to emancipate himself! + +If he were gone, she would care nothing. She would not want Nigel to +regret her. If she were gone, in a day he would be as one dead to her. +He meant nothing to her except a weight that dragged upon her, keeping +her from all that she was fitted for, from all that she desired. But +while she remained with Nigel, her influence must be paramount. For +Isaacson was at his elbow to take advantage of every opening. And she +was sure Isaacson would give her no mercy, if once he got Nigel on his +side. + +What was she to do? What was she to do? + +Secretly she cursed with her whole heart now the coldly practical, +utterly self-interested side of Baroudi's nature. But she was afraid to +defy it. She remembered his words: + +"We have to do what we want in the world without losing anything by it." + +And she saw him--how often!--going in at the tent-door through which +streamed light, to join the painted odalisque. + +She was reaching the limit of her endurance. She felt that strongly +to-night. + +On the day of their return to the villa Hamza had mysteriously left +them, without a word. + +Two or three times Nigel had asked for him. She had said at first that +he had gone to see his family. Afterwards she had said that he stayed +away because he was offended at not being allowed any more to wait upon +his master: "Doctor Isaacson's orders, you know!" And Nigel had answered +nothing. Where was Hamza? Mrs. Armine had asked Ibrahim. But Ibrahim, +without a smile, had answered that he knew nothing of Hamza, and in Mrs. +Armine's heart had been growing the hope that Hamza had gone to seek +Baroudi, that perhaps he would presently return with a message from +Baroudi. + +And yet could any good, any happiness, ever come to her through the +praying donkey-boy? Always she instinctively connected him with +fatality, with evil followed by sorrow. The look in his eyes when they +were turned upon her seemed like a quiet but steady menace. She had a +secret conviction that he hated her, perhaps because she was what he +would call a Christian. Strange if she were really hated for such a +reason! + +Once more she stood still by the edge of the river. + +She heard the sailors still singing on the _Loulia_, the faint barking +of dogs, perhaps from the village of Luxor. She looked up at the stars +mechanically, and remembered how Nigel had gazed at them when she had +wanted him to be wholly intent upon her. Then she looked again, for a +long time, at the blue light which shone from the _Loulia_'s mast-head. + +Behind her the bushes rustled. She turned sharply round. Ibrahim came +towards her from the tangled darkness. + +"What are you doing here?" she asked him. She spoke almost roughly. The +noise had startled her. + +"My lady, you better come in," said Ibrahim. "Very lonely heeyah. No +peoples comin' heeyah!" + +She moved towards the bank. He put his hand gently under her elbow to +assist her. When they were at the top she said: + +"Where's Hamza, Ibrahim?" + +Ibrahim's boyish face looked grim. + +"I dunno, my lady. I know nothin' at all about Hamza." + +For the first time it occurred to Mrs. Armine that Ibrahim and Hamza +were no longer good friends. She opened her lips to make some enquiry +about their relation. But she shut them again without saying anything, +and in silence they walked to the house. + +On the following morning, when Mrs. Armine looked out of her window, the +_Loulia_ still lay opposite. She took glasses to see if there was any +movement of the crew suggestive of impending departure. But all seemed +quiet. The men were squatting on the lower deck in happy idleness. + +Then Baroudi must presently be coming. + +She decided to be patient a little longer, not to make that excuse to go +to Cairo. With the morning she felt, she did not know why, more able to +endure present conditions. + +But as day followed day and Baroudi made no sign, and the _Loulia_ lay +always by the western shore with the shutters closed over the cabin +windows, the intense irritation of her nerves returned, and grew with +each succeeding hour. + +Isaacson had not gone to stay at an hotel, but had, as a matter of +course, taken up his abode at the villa, and he continued to live there. +She was obliged to see him perpetually, obliged to behave to him with +politeness, if not with suavity. His watch over Nigel was tireless. The +rule he had made at the beginning of his stay was not relaxed. Nigel was +not allowed to take anything from any hand but the Doctor's. + +The relation between Doctor and patient was still a curious and even an +awkward one. Although Nigel's trust in the Doctor was absolute, he had +never returned to his former pleasant intimacy with his friend. At first +Isaacson had secretly anticipated a gradual growth of personal +confidence, had thought that as weakness declined, as a little strength +began to bud out almost timidly in the poor, tormented body, Nigel would +revert, perhaps unconsciously, to a happier or more friendly mood. But +though the Doctor was offered the gratitude of the patient, the friend +was never offered the cordiality of the friend. + +Bella Donna's influence was stubborn. Between these two men the woman +always stood, dividing them, even now when the one was ministering to +the other, was bringing the other back to life, was giving up everything +for the other. + +For this prolonged stay in Egypt was likely to prove a serious thing to +Isaacson. Not only was he losing much money by it now. Probably, almost +certainly, he would lose money by it in the future. There were moments +when he thought about this with a secret vexation. But they passed, and +quickly. He had his reward in the growing strength of the sick man. Yet +sometimes it was difficult to bear the almost stony reserve which took +the colour out of his life in the Villa Androud. It would have been more +difficult still if he too, like Bella Donna, had not had his work to do +in the dark. Since they had arrived in Luxor he had been seeking for a +motive. The moment came when at last he found it. + +Prompted by him, Hassan played upon Ibrahim's indignation at having been +supplanted for so long by Hamza, and drew from him the truth of Mrs. +Armine's days while Nigel had been away in the Fayyum. + +Isaacson's treatment of Nigel's case had succeeded wonderfully. As the +great heats began to descend upon Upper Egypt, the health of the invalid +improved day by day. Mrs. Armine saw life returning into the eyes that +had expressed a sick weariness of an existence suddenly overcast by the +cloud of suffering. The limbs moved more easily as a greater vitality +was shed through the body. The nights were no longer made a torment by +the acute rheumatic pains. The parched mouth and throat craved no more +perpetually for the cooling drinks that had not allayed their misery. +Light could be borne without any grave discomfort, and the agonizing +abdominal pains, which had made the victim writhe and almost desire +death, had entirely subsided. From the face, too, the dreadful hue which +had even struck those who had only seen Nigel casually had nearly +departed. Though still very thin and pale, it did not look unnatural. It +was now the face of a man who had recently suffered, and suffered much; +it was not a face that suggested the grave. + +Nigel would recover, was fast recovering. He would not be strong for a +time, perhaps for a long time. But he was "out of the wood." One day he +realized it, and told himself so, silently, with a sort of wonder +mingled with a joy half solemn, half lively with the liveliness of the +spirit that again felt the touch of youth. + +The day that he realized it was the day that Isaacson found the motive +he had in the dark been seeking. + +And on that day, too, Mrs. Armine told herself that she could endure no +longer. She must get away to Cairo, if only for two or three days. If +Baroudi was not there, she must go to Alexandria and seek him. Baffled +desire, enforced patience, the perpetual presence of Meyer Isaacson, +with whom she was obliged to keep up a pretence of civility and even of +gratitude, and the jealousy that grows like a rank weed in the soil of +ignorance, rendered her at last almost reckless. She was sure if she +remained longer in the villa she would betray herself by some sudden +outburst. Isaacson had kept silence so long as to the cause of her +husband's illness that she sometimes nearly deceived herself into +thinking he did not know what it was. Perhaps she had been a fool to be +so much afraid of him. She strove to think so, and nearly succeeded. + +The _Loulia_ lay always by the western shore of the Nile, but each +night, when she looked from the garden, the cabin windows were dark. She +had made enquiries of Ibrahim. But Ibrahim was no longer the smiling, +boyish attendant who had been her slave. He performed his duties +carefully, and was always elaborately polite, but he had an air of +secrecy, of uneasiness, and almost of gloom, and when she mentioned +Baroudi, he said: + +"My lady, I know nothin'." + +"Well, but on the _Loulia_?" she persisted. "The Reis--the crew--?" + +"They knows nothin'. Nobody heeyah know nothin' at all." + +Then she resolved to wait no longer, but to go and find out for herself. +Perhaps it was the look of returning life in the eyes of her husband +which finally decided her. + +She came out on to the terrace where he was stretched in a long chair +under an awning. A book lay on one of the arms of the chair, but he was +not reading it. He was just lying there and looking out to the garden, +and to the hills that edge the desert of Libya. Isaacson was not with +him. He had gone away somewhere, perhaps for a stroll on the bank of the +Nile. + +Mrs. Armine sauntered up, with an indolent, careless air, and sat down +near her husband. + +"Dreaming?" she said, in her sweetest voice. + +He shook his head. + +"Waking!" he answered. "Waking up to life." + +"You do look much stronger to-day." + +"Stronger than yesterday?" he said, eagerly. "You think so? You notice +it, Ruby?" + +"Yes." + +"That's strange. To-day I--I know that all is going to be right with me. +To-day I know that presently--Ruby, think of it!--I shall be the man I +once was." + +"And I know it, too, Nigel--to-day--and that is why at last I feel I can +ask you something." + +"Anything--anything. I would do anything to please you after all this +time of misery, and dulness for you!" + +"It's a prosaic little request I have to make. I only want you to let me +take the night train and run up to Cairo." + +His face fell. He stretched out his hand to touch hers. + +"Go away! Go to Cairo!" he said. + +And his voice was reluctant. + +"Yes, Nigel," she said, with gentle firmness. "I've been looking over +my wardrobe these last days, and I'm simply in rags." + +"But your dresses--" + +"It's not only my dresses--I really am in rags. Won't you let me go just +for two days to get a few things I actually need? I'm not going to spend +a lot of money." + +"As if it was that!" + +He pressed her hand, and his pressure showed his returning strength. + +"It's being without you." + +"For two days. And you'll have Doctor Isaacson. I want to go while he is +still with us, so as not to leave you alone. And Nigel, while I'm gone, +can't you manage to find out what we owe him? It must be an enormous +sum." + +Nigel suddenly looked preoccupied. + +"I'd never thought of that," he said, slowly. + +"No, because you've been ill. But I have often. And you must think of it +now." + +"Yes; he's saved my life. I can never really repay him." + +"Oh, yes, you can. Doctors do these things for fixed sums, you know." + +He shifted in his chair, and sent an uneasy glance to her. + +"I wish--how I wish that you and Isaacson could be better friends!" he +dropped out, at length. + +"After all I've told you!" she exclaimed, almost with bitterness. + +"I know, I know. But now that he's saved my life!" + +"There are some things a woman can never forget, Nigel. I--of course, I +am deeply grateful to Meyer Isaacson, the doctor. But Meyer Isaacson the +man I never can be friends with. I must always tell you the truth, even +if it hurts you." + +"Yes, yes." + +"While I'm in Cairo, find out what we owe him. For I suppose now you +feel so much better he won't remain with us for ever." + +"No, of course he must be wanting to go." + +He spoke with hesitation. With the blameless selfishness of a sick man, +he had taken a great deal for granted. She was making him feel that now. +And he had to take it all in. How he depended on Isaacson! He looked at +his wife. And how he depended on her, too! He was conscious again of his +weakness, almost as a child might be. And these two human beings upon +whom he was leaning were at enmity, not open but secret enmity. He did +not know exactly how, or how much! But Ruby had told him often--things +about Meyer Isaacson. And he knew that Isaacson had mistrusted her, and +felt that he did so still. + +"I may go, then?" she said. + +He could not in reason forbid her. He thought of her long service. + +"Of course, dearest, go. But surely you aren't going to-night?" + +"If you'll let me. I shall only take a bag. And the sooner I go, the +sooner I shall be back." + +"In two days?" + +"In two days." + +"And where will you stay?" + +"At Shepheard's." + +"I don't like your going alone. I wish you had a maid--" + +"You've guessed it!" she said. + +"What?" + +He looked almost startled. + +"I didn't like to tell you, but I will now. May I have a maid again?" + +"That's what you want, to get a maid?" + +She smiled, and looked almost shy. + +"I've done splendidly without one. But still--" + +From that moment he only pressed, begged her to go. + +Isaacson returned to find it was all settled. When he was told, he only +said, "I think it wonderful that Mrs. Armine has managed without a maid +for so long." + +Soon afterwards he went to his room, and was shut in there for a +considerable time. He said he had letters to write. Yet he sent no +letters to the post that day. + +Meanwhile Mrs. Armine, with the assistance of one of the Nubians, was +packing a few things. Now that at last she was going to do something +definite, she marvelled that she had been able to endure her life of +waiting so long. This movement and planning in connection with a journey +roused in her a secret excitement that was feverish. + +"If only I were going away for ever!" she thought, as she went about her +dressing-room. "If only I were never to see my husband and Isaacson +again!" + +And with that thought she paused and stood still. + +Suppose it really were so! Suppose she found Baroudi, told him all that +had happened, told him her misery, begged him to let her remain with +him! He might be kind. He might for once yield to her wishes instead of +imposing upon her his commands. There would be a great scandal; but what +of that? She did not care any longer for public opinion. She only wanted +now to escape from all that reminded her of Europe, of her former life, +to sink into the bosom of the East and be lost in it for ever. The far +future was nothing to her. All she thought about, all she cared for, was +to escape at once and have the one thing she wanted, the thing for which +the whole of her clamoured unceasingly. She was obsessed by the one +idea, as only the woman of her temperament, arrived at her critical age, +can be obsessed. + +She might never come back. This might be her last day with Nigel. + +In his room near to hers, Isaacson was sitting on his balcony, smoking +the nargeeleh, and thinking that, too. He was not at all sure, but he +was inclined to believe that this departure of Bella Donna was going to +be a flight. Ought he to allow her to go? Instead of writing those +letters, he was pondering, considering this. It was his duty, he +supposed, not to allow her to go. If everything were to be known, +people, the world would say that he ought to have acted already, that in +any case he ought to act now. But he was not bothering about the world. +He was thinking of his friend, how to do the best thing by him. + +When he took his long fingers from the nargeeleh he had decided that he +would let Bella Donna go. + +And that evening, a little before sunset, she kissed her husband and +bade him good-bye, wondering whether she would ever see him again. Then +she held out her hand to Meyer Isaacson. + +"Good-bye, Doctor! Take great care of him," she said, lightly. + +Isaacson took her hand. Again now, at this critical moment, despite his +afternoon's decision, he said to himself, not only "Ought I to let her +go?" but "Shall I let her go?" And the influence of the latter question +in his mind caused him unconsciously to grasp her hand arbitrarily, as +if he meant to detain her. Instantly there came into her eyes the look +he had seen in them when in the sanctuary of Edfou she had stood face to +face with him--a look of startled terror. + +"You promise only to stay two days, Ruby?" + +Nigel's voice spoke. + +"You promise?" + +"I promise faithfully, Nigel," she said, with her eyes on Isaacson. + +Isaacson dropped her hand. She sighed, and went out quickly. + + + + +XLII + + +The departure of Mrs. Armine brought to Meyer Isaacson a sudden and +immense feeling of relief. When he looked at his watch and knew that the +train for Cairo had left the station of Luxor, when half an hour later +Ibrahim came in to tell Nigel that "my lady" had gone off "very nice +indeed," he was for a time almost joyous, as a man is joyous who has got +rid of a heavy burden, or who is unexpectedly released from some cruel +prison of circumstance. How much the enforced companionship with Mrs. +Armine had oppressed him he understood fully now. And it was difficult +for him to realize, more difficult still for him to sympathize with, +Nigel's obvious regret at his wife's going, obvious longing for her to +be back again by his side. + +Isaacson's sympathy was not asked for by Nigel. Here the strong reserve +existing between the two men naturally stepped in. Isaacson strove to +dissimulate his joy, Nigel to dissimulate his feeling of sudden +loneliness. But either Isaacson played his part the better, or his +powers of observation were far more developed than Nigel's; for whereas +he saw with almost painful clearness the state of his friend's mind on +that first evening of their dual solitude, Nigel only partially guessed +at his, or very faintly suspected it. + +Their dinner together threatened at first to be dreary. For Mrs. +Armine's going, instead of breaking down, had consolidated for the +moment the reserve between them. But Isaacson's inner joyousness, +however carefully concealed, made its influence felt, as joy will. +Without quite knowing why, Nigel presently began to thaw. Isaacson +turned the conversation, which had stumbled, had halted, to Nigel's +condition of health, and then Nigel said, as he had already said to his +wife: + +"To-day I feel that I am waking up to life." + +"Only to-day?" said the Doctor. + +"Oh, I've been feeling better and better, but to-day it's as if a door +that had been creaking on its hinges was flung wide open." + +"I'm not surprised. These sudden leaps forward are often a feature of +convalescence." + +"They--they aren't followed by falling back, are they?" Nigel asked, +with a sudden change to uneasiness. + +"Sometimes, in fever cases especially. But in a case like yours we +needn't anticipate anything of that kind." + +The last words seemed to suggest to Nigel some train of thought, and +after sitting in silence two or three minutes, looking grave and rather +preoccupied, he said: + +"By the way, what has been the matter with me, exactly? What have I +really had in the way of an illness? All this time I've been so occupied +in being ill that I've never asked you." + +The last words were said with an attempt at lightness. + +"Have I?" he added. + +"No, I don't think you have," said Isaacson, in a voice that suggested a +nature at that moment certainly not inclined to be communicative. + +"Has it been all sunstroke! But--but I'm sure it hasn't." + +"No, I shouldn't put it down entirely to sunstroke. Hartley wasn't quite +right there, I think." + +"Well, then?" + +Nigel had found a safe topic for conversation, or thought he had. It was +sufficiently evident that he felt more at ease, and perhaps he was +atoning for former indifference as to the cause of his misery by a real +and keen interest about it now. + +"You were unwell, you see, before you went out digging without a hat. +Weren't you?" + +"Yes, that bath in the Nile near Kous. It seemed all to begin somewhere +about then. But d'you know, though I've never said so, even to you, I +believe I really was not quite myself when I took that dip. I think it +was because of that I got the chill." + +"Very possibly." + +"When I started, I was splendidly well. I mean when we went on board of +the _Loulia_. It's as if it was something to do with that boat. I +believe I began to go down the hill very soon after we started on her. +But it was all so gradual that I scarcely noticed anything at first. My +bath made things worse, and then the digging fairly finished me." + +"Ah!" + +The last course of the very light dinner was put on the table. Isaacson +poured out some Vichy water and began to squeeze the juice of half a +lemon into it. Nigel sat watching the process, which was very careful +and deliberate. + +"You don't tell me what exactly has been the matter," he said, at last. + +"You've had such a complication of symptoms." + +"That you mean it's impossible to give a name that covers them all?" + +Isaacson squeezed the last drop almost tenderly into the tumbler, took +up his napkin, and carefully dried his long, brown fingers. + +"'What's in a name?'" he quoted. + +He looked across the table at Nigel, and questions seemed to be shining +in his eyes. + +"Do you mean that you don't want to tell me the name?" Nigel said. + +It seemed that he was roused to persistence. Either curiosity or some +other feeling was awakened within him. + +"I don't say that. But you know we doctors often go cautiously--we don't +care to commit ourselves." + +"Hartley, yes. But that isn't true of you." + +He paused. + +"You are hedging," he said, bluntly. + +Isaacson drank the Vichy and lemon. He put down the glass. + +"You are hedging," Nigel repeated. "Why?" + +"Isn't it enough for you to get well? What good will it do you to know +what you have been suffering from?" + +"Good! But isn't it natural that I should wish to know? Why should there +be any mystery about it?" + +He stopped. Then, leaning forward a little with one arm on the table, he +said: + +"Does my wife know what it is?" + +"I've never told her," Isaacson answered. + +"Well, but does she know?" + +The voice that asked was almost suspicious. And the eyes that regarded +Isaacson were now suspicious, too. + +"How can I tell? She told me she supposed it to be a sunstroke." + +"That was Hartley's nonsense. Hartley put that idea into her head. But +since you came, of course she's realized there was more in it than +that." + +"I dare say." + +Nigel waited, as if expecting something more. But Isaacson kept silence. +Dinner was over. Nigel got up, and walking steadily, though not yet with +the brisk lightness of complete strength and buoyancy, led the way to +the drawing-room. + +"Shall we sit out on the terrace?" + +"If you like. But you must have a coat. I'll fetch it." + +"Oh, don't you--" + +But the doctor was gone. In a moment he returned with a coat and a light +rug. He helped Nigel to put the coat on, took him by the arm, led him +out to the chair, and, when he was in it, arranged the rug over his +knees. + +"You're awfully good to me, Isaacson," Nigel said, almost with softness, +"awfully good to me. I am grateful." + +"That's all right." + +"We were speaking about it only to-day, Ruby and I. She was saying that +we mustn't presume on your kindness that we mustn't detain you out here +now that I'm out of the wood." + +"She wants to get rid of me! Then she must be coming back!" The thought +darted through Isaacson's brain, upsetting a previously formed +conviction which, to a certain extent, had guided his conduct during +dinner. + +"Oh, I'm in no hurry," he said, carelessly. "I want to get you quite +strong." + +"Yes, but your patients in London! You know I've been feeling so ill +that I've been beastly selfish. I've thought only of myself. I've made a +slave of my wife, and now I've been keeping you out of London all this +time." + +As he spoke, his voice grew warmer. His reserve seemed to be melting, +the friend to be stirring in the patient. Although certainly he did not +realize it, the absence of his wife had already made a difference in his +feeling towards Isaacson. Her perpetual silent hostility was like an +emanation that insensibly affected her husband. Now that was withdrawn +to a distance, he reverted instinctively towards--not yet to--the old +relation with his friend. He longed to get rid of all the difficulty +between them, and this could only be done by making Isaacson understand +Ruby more as he understood her. If he could only accomplish this before +Ruby came back! Now this idea came to him, and sent warmth into his +voice, warmth into his manner. Isaacson opened his lips to make some +friendly protest, but Nigel continued: + +"And d'you know who made me see my selfishness--realize how tremendously +unselfish you've been in sticking to me all this time?" + +Isaacson said nothing. + +"My wife. She opened my eyes to it. But for her I mightn't have given a +thought to all your loss, not only your material loss, but--" + +Isaacson felt as if something poisonous had stung him. + +"Please don't speak of anything of that kind!" he said. + +"I know I can never compensate you for all you've done for us--" + +"Oh, yes, you can!" + +The Doctor's voice was almost sharp. Nigel was startled by it. + +"We can? How?" + +"You can!" Isaacson said, laying a heavy stress on the first word. + +"How?" + +"First, by never speaking to me of--of the usual 'compensation' patients +make to doctors." + +"But how can you expect me to accept all this devoted service and make +no kind of return?" + +"Perhaps you can make me a return--the only return I want." + +"But what is it?" + +"I--I won't tell you to-night." + +"Then when will you tell me?" + +Isaacson hesitated. His face was blazing with expression. He looked +like a man powerfully stirred--almost like a man on the edge of some +outburst. + +"I won't tell you to-night," he repeated. + +"But you must tell me." + +"At the proper time. You asked me at dinner what had been the matter +with you, what illness you had been suffering from. You observed that I +didn't care to tell you then. Well, I'll tell you before you get rid of +me." + +"Get rid of you!" + +"Yes, yes. Don't think I misunderstand what you've been trying to tell +me to-night. You want to convey to me in a friendly manner that now I've +accomplished my work it's time for me to be off." + +Nigel was deeply hurt. + +"Nothing of the sort!" he said. "It was only that my wife had made me +understand what a terrible loss to you remaining out here at such a time +must be." + +"There is something I must make you understand, Armine, before I leave +you. And when I've told you what it is, you can give me the only +compensation I want, and I want it badly--badly!" + +"And you won't tell me what it is now?" + +"Not to-night--not in a hurry." + +He got up. + +"When are you expecting Mrs. Armine back?" he asked. + +"In four nights. She wants a couple of full days in Cairo. Then there +are the two night journeys." + +"I'll tell you before she comes back." + +Isaacson turned round, and strolled away into the darkness of the +garden. + +When he was alone there, he tacitly reproached himself for his vehemence +of spirit, for the heat of his temper. Yet surely they were leading him +in the right path. These words of Nigel had awakened him to the very +simple fact that this association must come to an end, and almost +immediately. He had been, he supposed now, drifting on from day to day, +postponing any decision. Mrs. Armine was stronger than he. From her, +through Nigel, had come to him this access of determination, drawn +really from her decision. As he knew this, he was able secretly to +admire for a moment this woman whom he actively hated. Her work in the +dark would send him now to work in the light. + +It was inevitable. While he had believed that very possibly her +departure to Cairo was a flight from her husband, Isaacson had had a +reason for his hesitation. If Bella Donna vanished, why torture Nigel +further? Let him lose her, without knowing all that he had lost. But if +she were really coming back, and if he, Isaacson, must go--and his +departure in any case must shortly be inevitable--then, cost what it +might, the truth must be told. + +As he paced the garden, he was trying to brace himself to the most +difficult, the most dreadful duty life had so far imposed upon him. + +When he went back to the terrace, Nigel was no longer there. He had gone +up to bed. + +The next day passed without a word between the two men on the subject of +the previous night. They talked on indifferent topics. But the cloud of +mutual reserve once more enveloped them, and intercourse was uneasy. + +Another day dawned. + +Mrs. Armine had now been away for two nights, and, if she held to her +announced plan, should leave Cairo on her return to Luxor on the evening +of the following day. No letter had been received from her. The question +in Isaacson's mind was, would she come back? If he spoke and she never +returned, he would have stabbed his friend to the heart for no reason. +But if she did return and he had not spoken? + +He was the prey of doubt, of contending instincts. He did not know what +to do. But deep down within him was there not a voice that, like the +ground swell of the ocean, murmured ever one thing, unwearied, +persistent? + +Sometimes he was aware of this voice and strove not to hear it, or not +to heed it, this voice in the depths of a man, telling him that in the +speaking of truth there is strength, and that out of weakness no good +ever came yet, nor ever will come till the end of all things. + +But the telling of certain truths seems too cruel; and how can one be +cruel to a man returning to life with almost hesitating steps? + +Perhaps something would happen to decide the matter, something--some +outside event. What it might be Isaacson could not say to himself. +Indeed, it was almost childish to hope for anything. He knew that. And +yet, unreasonably, he hoped. + +And the event did happen, and on that day. + +Late in the afternoon a telegram arrived for Nigel. Ibrahim brought it +out to the terrace where the two men were together, and Nigel opened it +with an eagerness he did not try to disguise. + +"It's from her," he said. "She starts to-night, and will be here +to-morrow morning early. She's in such a hurry to be back that she's +only staying the one night in Cairo." + +He looked across to Isaacson, who seemed startled. + +"Is there anything the matter with you?" he asked. + +"No. Why?" + +"You don't look quite yourself." + +"I feel perfectly well." + +"Oh!" + +Almost directly Isaacson made an excuse and got away. His decision was +made. There was no more combat within him. But his heart was heavy, was +sick, and he felt an acute and frightful nervousness, such as he could +imagine being experienced by a man under sentence of death, who is not +told on what day the sentence will be carried out. Apprehension fell +over him like an icy rain in the sultry air. + +He walked mechanically to the bank of the Nile. + +To-day the water was like a sheet of glass, dimpled here and there by +the wayward currents, and, because of some peculiar atmospheric effect, +perhaps, the river looked narrower than usual, the farther bank less far +off. Never before had Isaacson been so forcibly struck by the magical +clearness of Egypt. Even in the midst of his misery, a misery which +physically affected him, he stood still to marvel and to admire. + +How near everything looked! How startlingly every detail of things stood +out in this exquisite evening! + +Presently his eyes went to the _Loulia_. She, too, looked strangely +near, strangely distinct. He watched her, only because of that at first, +but presently because he began to notice an unusual bustle on board. Men +were moving rapidly about both on the lower and on the upper deck, were +going here and there ceaselessly. + +One man swarmed up the long and bending mast. Another clambered over the +balcony-rail into the stern. + +What did all this movement mean? + +The master of the _Loulia_ must surely be expected--the man Isaacson had +seen driving the Russian horses, and, clothed almost in rags, squatting +in the darkness of the hashish cafe in the entrails of Cairo. + +And Bella Donna was hurrying back after only one night in Cairo! + +Isaacson forgot the marvellous beauty of the declining day. In a few +minutes he returned to the house. But immediately after dinner, leaving +Nigel sitting on the terrace, he went again to the bank of the Nile. + +The _Loulia_ was illuminated from prow to stern. Light gleamed from +every cabin window, and the crew had not only the daraboukkeh but the +pipes on board, and were making the fantasia. Some of them, too, were +dancing. Against a strong light on the lower deck, Isaacson saw black +figures, sometimes relieved for a moment, moving with a wild +grotesqueness, like crazy shadows. + +He stood for several minutes listening, watching. He thought of a train +travelling towards Luxor. Then he went quickly across the garden, and +came to the terrace and Nigel. + +The deep voice within him must be obeyed. He could resist it no longer. + +"They're lively on the _Loulia_ to-night," Nigel said, as he came up. + +"Yes," Isaacson answered. + +He stood while he lighted a cigar. Then he sat down near to his friend. +The light from the drawing-room streamed out upon them from the open +French window. The shrill sound of the pipes, the dull throbbing of the +daraboukkeh, came to them from across the water. + +"The whole vessel is lighted up," he added. + +"Is she? Perhaps Baroudi has come up the river." + +"Looks like it," said Isaacson. + +He crossed, then uncrossed his legs. Never before had he felt himself to +be a coward. He knew what he must do. He knew he would do it before +Nigel and he went into the room behind them. Yet he could not force +himself to begin. He thought, "When I've smoked out this cigar." + +"You've never seen Baroudi," Nigel said. "He's one of the handsomest +fellows I've ever clapped eyes on. As strong as a bull, I should think; +enormously rich. A very good chap, too, I should say. But I don't fancy +my wife liked him. He's hardly a woman's man." + +"Why d'you think that?" + +"I don't know. His manner, perhaps. And he doesn't seem to bother about +them. But we only saw him about twice, except on the ship coming out. He +dined here one night, and the next day we went over the _Loulia_ with +him, and we've never set eyes on him since. He went up river, and we +went down, to the Fayyum." + +"But--but you went off alone to the Fayyum, didn't you? At first, I +mean?" + +"Oh, yes. The morning after Baroudi had sailed for Armant." + +"And Mrs. Armine was alone here for some time?" + +"Yes. Just while I was getting things a little ship-shape for her. But +we didn't have much luxury after all. However, she didn't mind that." + +"Wasn't--don't you think it may have been rather dull for Mrs. Armine +during that time?" + +"Which time? D'you mean in the Fayyum?" + +"I mean, while you were away in the Fayyum." + +"I dare say it was. I expect it was. But why?" + +"Well--" + +Isaacson threw away his cigar. + +"Not going to finish your cigar?" said Nigel. + +He was evidently beginning to be surprised by his friend's words and +manner. + +"No," Isaacson said. "I don't want to smoke to-night; I want to talk. I +must talk to you. You remember our conversation on the night of Mrs. +Armine's departure?" + +"About my illness?" + +"Yes." + +"Of course I do." + +"I said then that I wouldn't accept the usual money compensation for +anything I had been able to do for you." + +"Yes, but--" + +"And I told you you could compensate me in another way." + +"What way?" + +"That's what I'm going to try and tell you now. But--but it's not easy. +I want you to understand--I want you to understand." + +There was a moment of silence. Then Nigel said: + +"But what? Understand what?" + +"Armine, do you believe thoroughly in my friendship for you?" + +"Yes." + +"You believe, you know, it's a friendship that is quite disinterested?" + +"I'm sure it is." + +"And yet you have treated me all this time with almost as much reserve +as if I had been a mere acquaintance." + +Nigel looked uncomfortable. + +"I didn't mean--I am deeply grateful to you," he said; "deeply grateful. +You have saved my life." + +"I have, indeed," Isaacson said, solemnly. "If I had not followed you up +the river, you would certainly have died." + +"Are you--you said you would tell me what was the matter with me." + +"I'm going to." + +"What was it?" + +"The bath at Kous had nothing to do with it. As to sunstroke, you never +had it. You began to feel unwell--didn't you?--soon after you started +for your voyage?" + +"Yes." + +"Hasn't it ever struck you as very strange that you, a young man in +magnificent health, living an outdoor life in one of the finest climates +in the world, should be struck down by this mysterious illness?" + +"Mysterious?" + +"Well, wasn't it?" + +"It was very odd. I always thought that, of course." + +He leaned forward a little in his chair, fixing his eyes on Isaacson. + +"What was my illness?" + +"You've been suffering from lead-poisoning," said Isaacson, slowly, and +with an effort. + +"Lead?"--Nigel leaned farther forward, moving his hands along the arms +of his reclining chair--"lead-poisoning?" + +"Yes." + +"I've been--you say I've been poisoned?" + +"Poisoned from day to day, gradually poisoned through a considerable +period of time." + +"Poisoned!" + +Nigel repeated the word heavily, almost dully. For a moment he seemed +dazed. + +"If I had not arrived in time, you would have been killed, undoubtedly." + +"Killed! But--but who, in the name of God, should want to kill me?" + +Isaacson was silent. + +"I say, who should want to kill me?" reiterated Nigel. + +And this time there was a sound of violence in his voice. + +"There was somebody on board of the _Loulia_ who must have wished for +your death." + +"But who--who? The Nubians? Ibrahim? Hamza?" + +Isaacson did not answer. He could not answer at that moment. + +"I treated them well, I paid them well, they had everything they could +possibly want. They had an easy time. They all seemed fond of us. They +were fond of us. I know they were." + +"I don't say they were not." + +"Then what d'you mean? There was nobody else on board with me." + +"Yes, there was." + +"There was? Then I never saw him! Do you mean to say there was some one +hidden on board? What are you talking about, Isaacson?" + +He was becoming greatly, almost angrily excited. + +"Armine, the compensation I want is this. I don't want to clear out and +leave you here in Egypt; I want to take you away with me." + +"Take me away? Where to?" + +"Anywhere--back to England." + +"We are going to England as soon as I'm quite strong. But you haven't +told me! You say I've been poisoned. I want to know by whom." + + * * * * * + +"But perhaps you don't know! Do you know?" + +Isaacson got up. He felt as if he could not speak any more sitting down. + +"If you will only give me my compensation, let me take you away +quietly--I'm a doctor. Nobody will think anything of it--I need say +nothing more." + +"Take me away! But I'm nearly well now, and there can be no more +danger." + +"If you come away with me--no!" + +"But you forget, I'm not alone. I must consult my wife." + +"That is what I don't wish you to do." + +"Don't? You mean, go away with you without--?" + +"I mean, without Mrs. Armine." + +"Leave my wife?" + +"Leave Ruby? Desert her after all she's done for me?" + +"Yes." + +"Why?" + +Isaacson said nothing. + +Nigel looked at Isaacson in silence for what seemed to Isaacson a long +time--minutes. Then his face slowly flushed, was suffused with blood up +to his forehead. It seemed to swell, as if there was a pressure from +within outwards. Then the blood retreated, leaving behind it a sort of +dark pallor, and the eyes looked sunken in their sockets. + +"You--you dare to think--you dare to--to say--?" he stammered. + +"I say that you must come away from Mrs. Armine. Don't ask me to say +why." + +"You--you liar! You damnable liar!" + +He spoke slowly, in a low, husky voice. + +"That you hated her, I knew that! She told me that. But that you--that +you should dare to--" + +His voice broke, and he stopped. He leaned forward in his chair and made +a gesture. + +"Go!" he said. "Get out! If I--if I were myself, I'd put you out." + +But Isaacson did not move. He felt no anger, nothing but a supreme pity +for this man who could not see, could not understand the truth of a +nature with which he had held commune for so long, and, as he in his +blindness believed, in such a perfect intimacy. There was to the Doctor +something shocking in such blindness, in such ignorance. But there was +something beautiful, too. And to destroy beauty is terrible. + +"If I am to go, you must hear me first," he said, quietly. + +"I won't hear you--not one word!" + +Again there was the gesture towards the door. + +"I have saved your life," Isaacson said. "And you shall hear me!" + +And then, without waiting for Nigel to speak again, very quietly, very +steadily, and with a great simplicity he told him what he had to tell. +He did not, even now, tell him all. He kept secret the visit of Mrs. +Chepstow to his consulting-room, and her self-revelation there. And he +did not mention Baroudi. At this moment of crisis the man bred up in +England fought against the Eastern Jew within Isaacson, and the Eastern +Jew gave way. But he described his visits to the Savoy, how the last +time he had gone with the resolution to beg Mrs. Chepstow not to go to +Egypt, not to link herself with his friend; how he had begun to speak, +and how her cold irony, pitiless and serene, had shown him the utter +futility of his embassy. Then he came on to the later time, after the +marriage and the departure, when he received his friend's letter +describing his happiness and his wonderful health, when he received soon +afterwards that other letter from the lady patient, speaking of Nigel's +"extraordinary colour." He told how in London he had put those letters +side by side and had compared them, and how some strong instinct of +trouble and danger had driven him, almost against his will, to Egypt, +had bound him to silence about his arrival. Then on the terrace at +Shepheard's an acquaintance casually met had increased his fears. And +so, in his quick, terse, unembroidered narrative, almost frightfully +direct, he reached the scene in the temple of Edfou. From that moment he +spared Nigel no detail. He described Mrs. Armine's obvious terror at his +appearance; her lies, her omission to tell him her husband was ill until +she realized that he--Isaacson--had already heard of the illness in +Luxor; her pretence that his dangerous malady was only a slight +indisposition caused by grief at the death of Lord Harwich; her endeavor +to prevent Isaacson from coming on board the _Loulia_; the note she had +sent by the felucca; his walk by night on the river bank till he came to +the dahabeeyah, his eavesdropping, and how the words he overheard +decided him to insist on seeing Nigel; the interview with Mrs. Armine in +the saloon, and how he had forced his way, by a stratagem, to the after +part of the vessel. Then he told of the contest with Doctor Hartley, +already influenced by Mrs. Armine, and of the final victory, won--how? +By a threat, which could only have frightened a guilty woman. + +"I told Mrs. Armine that either I took charge of your case or that I +communicated with the police authorities. Then, and only then, she gave +way. She let me come on board to nurse you back to life." + +"How could you have known?" Nigel exclaimed, with intensely bitter +defiance, when at last a pause came. "Even if it had been true, how +could you have known?" + +"I did not know. I suspected. To save you, I drew a bow at a venture, +and I hit the mark. Your illness has been caused by the administration, +through a long period of time, of minute doses of some preparation of +lead--almost impalpable doubtless, perhaps not to be distinguished from +the sand that is blown from the desert. And Mrs. Armine either herself +gave or caused it to be given to you." + +"Liar! Liar!" + +"Did she ever herself give you food? Did she ever prepare your coffee?" + +Nigel started up in his chair with a furious spasm of energy. + +"Go! Go!" he uttered, in a sort of broken shout or cry. His face was +yellowish white. His mouth was working. + +"By God! I'll put you out!" + +Grasping the arms of his chair, he stood up and he advanced upon +Isaacson. + +"I'll go. But I'll leave you that!" + +And Isaacson drew from his pocket the letter Mrs. Armine had sent by the +felucca, and laid it on the coffee-table. + +Then he turned quickly, and went away through the dark garden. + +Before he was out of sight of the house, he looked back. Nigel had sunk +upon his chair in a collapsed attitude. + +From the western bank of the Nile came the shrill, attenuated sound of +the pipes, the deep throbbing of the daraboukkeh, the nasal chant of the +Nubians. + +And the lights of the _Loulia_ were like a line of fiery eyes staring +across the Nile. + + + + +XLIII + + +When Mrs. Armine got into the night train at Luxor, heard the whistle of +the engine, felt the first slow movement of the carriage, then the +gradually increasing velocity, saw the houses of the village +disappearing, and presently only the long plains and the ranges of +mountains to right and left, hard and clear in the evening light, she +had a moment of almost savage exultation, as of one who had been in +great danger suddenly and unexpectedly escaping into freedom. + +At last she was alone, unwatched by the eyes of affection and of perhaps +menacing suspicion and even hatred. How had she endured so long? She +wondered, and could scarcely tell where she had found her courage. But +though now she felt exultation, she felt also the tremendous strain she +had undergone. She knew that her nerves were shattered. Only in +happiness could she recover. She must have the life she wanted, and she +must have it now. Otherwise she was "done for." Was she going to have +it? + +And soon the exultation passed, and again fear beset her. Even if she +found Baroudi in Cairo, what reception would she have at his hands? + +With anxious fingers she took out of her dressing-case the gilded box he +had given her, and opened the lid. But, having opened it, she dared not +look at herself in the glass, and she shut it sharply, replaced it in +the case, and leaned back in her corner. + +"I won't bother," she said to herself; "I won't worry. To-night I must +sleep. I must look my best to-morrow. Everything now may depend on how I +look when I get to Cairo." + +And she shut her eyes with the determination to be calm, to be tranquil. +And soon she went to bed, determined to sleep. + +But of course she did not sleep. Quietly, then angrily, she strove to +lay hold on sleep. But it would not come to her wooing. The long hours +of darkness wore gradually away; the first pale light of the new day +crept in to the rocking carriage; the weary woman who had been tossing +and turning from side to side, in a sort of madness of restrained and +attenuated movement, sat up against her crushed pillow, and knew that +there was probably some new line on her face, an accentuation of the +sharpness of the cheek-bones, a more piteous droop at the corners of the +mouth. + +As she sat there, with her knees drawn up and her hands hanging, she +felt that she was uglier than she had been only the day before. + +When the train reached Cairo, she pulled down her veil, got out, and +drove to Shepheard's. She knew an address that would find Baroudi in +Cairo, if he were there, and directly she was in her room she sat down +and wrote a note to him. + + "Shepheard's Hotel, Tuesday morning. + + "I have come to Cairo for a day's shopping. Can I see you? If so, + please tell me where and at what hour. + + "Ruby Armine." + +She wrote in French, sealed the envelope, and told the waiter to have it +taken at once by a messenger. Then she ordered coffee and rolls to be +sent in half an hour, and took a hot bath. How she wished that she had a +clever maid with her! It was maddening to have no help except that of a +clumsy Swiss housemaid, and she now saw, with horror, that she was +haggard. She scarcely recognized her own face. Instead of looking +younger than she was, it seemed to her now that she looked older, much +older. She was shocked by her appearance. + +But she had had a night journey and had not slept, and every woman +looks old after a night journey. She would be all right when she had +rested. On arriving she had engaged a sitting-room. She went into it and +had breakfast, then asked for newspapers, and lay down on the sofa to +read. At every moment she expected the return of her messenger to +Baroudi. He came at last. + +"Have you brought a note?" she asked, starting up on the sofa. + +The messenger said no; the gentleman was not in. + +"Did you leave the note?" + +"Yes, ma'am." + +"You can go back presently. Go back at twelve, and see if the gentleman +has come in. He may come in for lunch. Stay till lunch-time and see. I +want an answer." + +The man went away. Slowly the morning passed. Twelve o'clock came, but +the messenger did not return. Mrs. Armine had lunch in her room, but she +could scarcely eat anything. After lunch she ordered very strong coffee. +As she was drinking her second cup, there was a tap on the door. She +cried, "Come in," and the messenger reappeared. + +"Well?" she said. "Well?" + +The man looked at her as if her voice had startled him. + +"The gentleman has not come in, ma'am." + +"When is he coming in?" + +"I don't know, ma'am." + +"Is he in Cairo?" + +"I don't know, ma'am." + +"What do you know? What's the good of you? What are you here for? Go +back at once, and find out whether the gentleman is in Cairo or not." + +The messenger went out rather hurriedly. + +Mrs. Armine was shaking. She had felt inclined to attack the man, to +beat him for his stupidity, as slaves are often beaten by their masters +when they do wrong. When she was alone, she uttered two or three +incoherent exclamations. Her body was burning with a sort of cruel, dry +heat. She felt parched all over. An hour passed, and at length she +again heard a tap. The messenger came in, and very sulkily said: + +"The gentleman was in Cairo last night, ma'am." + +"What I want to know is whether he is in Cairo now!" she exclaimed, +angrily. + +"They don't know, ma'am." + +"Don't know! They must know!" + +"They don't know, ma'am." + +"I tell you they must know!" + +"They don't know, ma'am." + +She sprang up, tingling. She didn't know what she was going to do, but +as she faced him the expression in the messenger's eyes recalled her to +a sense of the proprieties. Without another word, she gave him some +money and turned her back on him. When she heard the door close, she no +longer controlled herself, until suddenly once more she remembered her +ravaged face. + +She went into her bedroom and after half an hour she came out dressed +for driving. She was resolved to go herself to Baroudi's house. After +all these months of slavish obedience and of fear, something rose up +within her, something that had passed for the moment beyond obedience +and even beyond fear, that was fiercely determined, that was reckless of +consequences. She engaged a victoria and drove to Baroudi's house. It +was on the outskirts of Cairo, near the Nile, on the Island of Gezira. A +garden surrounded it, enclosed by high walls and entered by tall gates +of elaborately-wrought ironwork. These gates were shut and the coachman +pulled up his horses. Inside, on the left, there was a lodge from which +there now came a tall Arab. Mrs. Armine got quickly out of the carriage, +passed the horses, and stood looking through the gate. + +"Is Mahmoud Baroudi in Cairo?" she said, in French. + +The Arab said something in Arabic. + +"Is Baroudi Effendi in Cairo?" Mrs. Armine said in English. + +"Yes, I think," replied the man, in careful English, speaking slowly. + +"In the city?" + +"I think." + +She took her purse, opened it, and gave him some money. + +"Where?" + +"I dunno." + +"When will he be back here?" + +"I dunno." + +She felt inclined to scream. + +"Will he come back to-night, do you think?" + +"I dunno. Sometimes stay in Cairo all night." + +"But he has not gone away? He is not away from Cairo? He is in Cairo?" + +"I s'pose." + +They stood for a moment staring at each other through the dividing gate. +The man's eyes were absolutely expressionless. He looked as if he were +half asleep. Mrs. Armine turned away, and got into the carriage. + +"Go back to Shepheard's." + +The coachman smacked his whip. The horses trotted. + +When she reached Shepheard's, she resolved to spend the whole afternoon +upon the terrace. By chance Baroudi might come there. It was not at all +improbable. She had heard it said that almost every one who was any one, +in Cairo, either came to Shepheard's or might be seen passing by in the +afternoon hours. She took an arm-chair near the railing, with a table +beside it. She bought papers, a magazine, and sat there, sometimes +pretending to read, but always looking, looking, at the men coming up +and down the steps, at the men walking and driving by in the crowded +street. Tea-time came. She ordered tea. She drank it slowly. Her head +was aching. Her eyes were tired with examining so many faces of men. But +still she watched, till evening began to fall and within the house +behind her the deep note of a gong sounded, announcing the half-hour +before dinner. What more could she do? Mechanically she began to gather +the papers together. She supposed she must go in. The terrace was almost +deserted. She was just about to get up, when two men, one English, the +other American, came up the steps and sat down at a table near her. One +of these men was Starnworth, whom she did not know, and of whom she had +never heard. He ordered an aperitif, and plunged into conversation with +his companion. They talked about Cairo. Mrs. Armine sat still and +listened. Starnworth began to describe the native quarters. Presently he +spoke of the hashish cafe to which he had taken Isaacson. He told his +friend where it was. Mrs. Armine heard the name of the street, Bab-el +Meteira. Then he spoke of the rich Egyptians who frequented the cafe, +and he mentioned the name of Baroudi. Almost immediately afterwards he +and his companion got up and strolled into the hotel. + +That night, quietly dressed and veiled, Mrs. Armine, accompanied by a +native guide, made a pilgrimage into the strange places of the city; +stayed long, very long, beneath the blackened roof of the cafe where the +hashish was smoked. She was exhausted, yet she felt feverishly, almost +crazily alive. She drank coffee after coffee. She watched the dreaming +smokers, the dreaming dancers, till she seemed to be living in a +nightmare, to be detached from earth and all things she had ever known +till now. + +But Baroudi did not come. And at last she returned through the dancing +quarters, where her sense of nightmare deepened. + +Again she did not sleep. + +When day came, she felt really ill. Yet her body was still pulsing, her +brain was still throbbing, with an activity that was like a fever within +her. Directly after breakfast, which she scarcely touched, she again +took a carriage and drove to Baroudi's house. + +The sleepy Arab met her at the grille, and in an almost trembling voice +she made enquiries. + +"Gone away," was the reply. + +"Gone? Where to?" + +"Him gone to Luxor. Him got one dahabeeyah at Luxor." + +"Gone to Luxor! When did he go?" + +"We know last night." + +"Did he get a note I sent him yesterday morning?" + +The Arab shook his head. + +"Not bin back heeyah at all." + +Mrs. Armine telegraphed to the villa, and took the night train back to +Luxor. + +She arrived in the morning about nine, after another sleepless night. As +she drove by the Winter Palace Hotel, she saw a man walking alone upon +the terrace, and, to her great surprise, recognized Meyer Isaacson. He +saw her--she was certain of that--but he immediately looked away, and +did not take off his hat to her. Had she, or had she not, bowed to him? +She did not know. But in either case his behaviour was very strange. And +she could not understand why he was at the hotel. Had something happened +at the villa? Almost before she had had time to wonder, the horses were +pulled up at the gate. + +She had expected Ibrahim to meet her at the station. But he had not +come. Nor did he meet her at the gate, which was opened by the gardener. +She nodded in reply to his salutation, hastened across the garden, and +came into the house. + +"Nigel!" she called out. "Nigel!" + +She immediately heard a slow step, and saw her husband coming towards +her from the drawing-room. She thought he looked very ill. + +"Well, Ruby, you are back," he said. + +He held out his hand. His eyes, which were curiously sunken, gazed into +hers with a sort of wistful, yearning expression. + +"Yes," she said. "I hurried. I couldn't stand Cairo. It was hot and +dreadful. And I felt miserable there." + +They were standing in the little hall. + +"You look fearfully tired--fearfully!" he said. + +He was still holding her hand. + +Her mouth twisted. + +"Do I? It's the two night journeys. I didn't sleep at all." + +"And the maid? Did you get one?" + +"No. What does it matter?" + +Infinitely unimportant to her now seemed such a quest. + +"I must sit down," she added. "I'm nearly dead." + +She really felt as if her physical powers were failing her. Her legs +shook under her. + +"Come into the drawing-room. And you must have some breakfast." + +He let go her hand. She went into the drawing-room, and she sank down on +a sofa. He followed almost immediately. + +"Oh!" she said. + +She leaned back against the cushions, stretched out her arms, and shut +her eyes. All the time she was thinking, "Baroudi is here! Baroudi is +here! And I can't go to him; I can't go--I can't go!" + +She seemed to see his mighty throat, his eyebrows, slanting upwards +above his great bold eyes, his large, muscular hands, his deep chest of +an athlete. + +She heard Nigel sitting down close to her. + +"Why didn't Ibrahim come to the station?" she said, with an effort +opening her eyes. + +"Oh, I suppose he was busy," Nigel replied. + +His voice sounded cautious and uneasy. + +"Busy?" + +"Yes. He'll bring your breakfast. I've told him to." + +Then he was in the house. She felt a slight sense of relief, she +scarcely knew why. + +The door opened, and Ibrahim came in quietly and carefully with a tray. + +"Good mornin' to you, my lady," he said. + +"Good morning, Ibrahim." + +He set down the tray without noise, stood for a minute as if considering +it, then softly went away. + +"You'll feel better when you've had breakfast." + +"I ought to have had a bath first. But I couldn't wait." + +She sat up in front of the little table, and poured out the strong tea. +As she did this, she glanced again at her husband and again thought how +ill he looked. But she did not remark upon it. She drank some tea, and +ate a piece of toast. + +"Oh," she said, "as I passed by the Winter Palace, I saw Doctor Isaacson +on the terrace." + +"Did you?" + +"Yes. What's he gone there for this morning?" + +"I suppose he's staying there." + +Mrs. Armine put down the cup she was lifting to her lips. + +"Staying! Doctor Isaacson!" she said, staring at her husband. + +"I suppose so." + +"But--do you mean he has left here?" + +"Yes. He went away last night." + +"Why? Why?" + +"Why? Well--well, we had a discussion. It ended in a disagreement, and +he left the house." + +"You quarrelled?" + +"Yes, I suppose it might be called that." + +In the midst of her exhaustion, her physical misery and mental +distraction, Mrs. Armine was conscious of a sharp pang. It was like that +of joy. + +"Doctor Isaacson has left the house for good?" she said. + +"Yes. He won't come here again." + +She drank some more tea, and went on eating. For the first time for days +she felt some appetite. A shock of fear that had assailed her had passed +away. She remembered how Nigel had held her hand closely in the hall. + +"But why did you quarrel?" she said, at last. + +"Oh, we had a discussion--" He paused. + +"I know," she said, "I know! You did what I asked you to do. You spoke +about being strong enough now to let Doctor Isaacson go back to London." + +"Yes, I did that." + +"And about what we owed him?" + +"Yes." + +"And he was angry?" + +"I had been speaking of that; and--Ruby, what do we owe him? I--I must +send him a cheque. I must send it to him to-night." + +She shrugged her shoulders. + +"I don't know. He'll open his mouth very wide, no doubt, now you've +quarrelled." + +"I think--I'm sure that you wrong him there," Nigel said, slowly. + +"Do you think so? Well, I must go up and take a bath. I may be a good +while." + +"Let me come and sit with you. Shall I? I mean in a few minutes." + +"Not just yet. Better try and calculate out your debt to Doctor +Isaacson." + +She hastened away. Directly she reached her room, she locked the door, +went out on to the balcony, and looked across the river to the _Loulia_. +She saw the Egyptian flag flying. Was Baroudi on board? She must know, +and immediately. She rang the bell, and unlocked the door. + +"Ibrahim!" she said, to the Nubian who appeared. + +He retreated, and in a moment Ibrahim came, with his soft stride, up the +staircase. + +"Ibrahim," she almost whispered, "is Baroudi on board the _Loulia_?" + +"Yes, my lady." + +She could hardly repress an exclamation. + +"He is? Ibrahim"--in her astonishment she put one hand on his shoulder +and grasped it tightly--"to-night, as soon as dinner is over, you are to +have a felucca ready at the foot of the garden. D'you understand?" + +He looked at her very seriously. + +"Can you manage to row me across to the _Loulia_ without help?" + +"My lady, I am as strong as Rameses the Second." + +"Very well then! Get a small, light boat. We shall go more quickly in +that. How long is Baroudi going to stay?" + +"I dunno." + +"Try to find out. Is Hamza with him?" + +Ibrahim looked vicious. + +"Hamza him there. But Hamza very bad boy. I not speak any more to +Hamza." + +"Don't forget! Directly after dinner." + +She shut and relocked the door. + +She took a hot bath, let down her hair, got into a wrapper, lay down, +and tried to rest. But her body twitched with desire for active +movement, almost worn out though she was. Again and again she got up, +went out to the terrace, and looked at the _Loulia_. She took her +glasses and tried to discern Baroudi on the upper deck. But she could +not see him. Presently she pulled a long chair out to the balcony, and +was just going to lie down on it when she heard a knock on the door. + +"Ruby!" + +It was Nigel. She felt inclined to rush across the room, to open the +door, to seize him by the shoulders and thrust him out of the house, out +of her life for ever. + +"Ruby!" + +"I am coming!" she said. + +She waited an instant, striving for self-control. Every nerve in her +body seemed to be quivering. + +"The door is locked." + +"I know. I'm coming! I'm coming!" + +She set her teeth, went to the door, and unlocked it. + +"Come in! Come in, your importunate man!" + +"Importunate! But I haven't seen you for three nights. And I can't get +on without you, Ruby. Thank God, to-night we shall be alone together. +After dinner I want you to play to me." + +Her face twitched. + +"If I'm not too tired." + +"We'll go to bed quite early." + +He shut the door. + +"I'll come and sit in here with you. I want to take your opinion about +this cheque to Isaacson." + +He sighed heavily. + +He had a pencil and some paper in his hands, and he sat down by a table. + +"I must get this off my mind. After what has happened, I must pay +Isaacson, though otherwise I think we--" He sighed again. "Let me see, +when did he first come on board to take care of me?" + + * * * * * + +That day went by slowly, slowly, with feet of lead. Whether she would +endure to its end without some hysterical outburst of temper Mrs. Armine +did not know. She seemed to herself to be clinging frantically to the +last fragments of her self-control. For so long she had acted a part, +that it would be tragic to break down feebly, contemptibly, now close to +the end of the drama. + +This night must see its end. For her powers were exhausted. She meant to +tell Baroudi so. He must take her away now, or let her join him +somewhere. But in any case she must get away from her life with Nigel. +She could no longer play the devoted wife, safe at last, after many +trials, in the arms of respectability. It was only by making a cruel +effort that she was able to get through the day without rousing +suspicion in Nigel. And to-day he was curiously observant of her. His +eyes seemed to be always upon her, watching her with a look she could +not quite understand. He never left her for a moment, and sometimes she +had a strange sensation that, like herself, he was on the verge +of--what--some self-revelation? Some confession? Some perhaps emotional +laying bare of his heart? She did not know. But she did know that he was +not in a normal state. And once or twice she wondered what had been the +exact truth of the quarrel with Isaacson. But, at any rate, it had not +been the truth in which she was concerned. And she was too frightfully +intent upon herself to-day to be very curious, even about Isaacson's +relations with her husband. + +He was gone, and gone without having tried to destroy her. That was +enough. She would not bother about small things to-day. + +At last the evening approached along the marvellous ways of gold. As she +saw the sky beginning to change Mrs. Armine's fever of excitement and +impatience increased. Now that the moment of her meeting with Baroudi +was so near she felt as if she could not bear even another second's +delay. How she was going to escape from her husband she did not know. +But she did not worry about that. She could always manage Nigel somehow, +and she would not fail for the first time to-night. + +When the moment came it would find her ready. Of that she was sure. + +She made up her face elaborately that evening, put a delicate flush upon +her cheeks, darkened her eyebrows more than usual, made her lips very +red. She took infinite pains to give to her face an appearance of youth. +Her eyes burned out of the painted shadows about them. Her shining hair +was perfectly arranged in the way that suited her best. She put on a +very low-cut evening gown, that showed as much as possible of her still +lovely figure. And she strove to think that she looked no older now than +when Baroudi had seen her last. The mirror contradicted her cruelly. But +she was determined not to believe what it said. + +At last she was ready, and she went down to get through the last +_supplice_, as she called it to herself, the tete-a-tete dinner with +Nigel. + +He was not yet down, and she was just going to step out upon the terrace +when he came into the drawing-room in evening dress. This was the first +evening since his illness that he had dressed for dinner, and the +clothes he wore seemed to her a sign that soon he would resume his +normal and active life. The look of illness which she had thought she +saw in his face that morning had given place to an expression of +intensity that must surely be the token of inward excitement. + +As he came in, she thought to herself that she had never seen Nigel +look so expressive, that she had never imagined he could look so +expressive. Something in his face startled and gripped her. + +He, too, gazed at her almost as if with new eyes, as he came towards +her, looking resolute, like a man who had taken some big decision since +she had last seen him an hour ago. All day he had seemed curiously +watchful, uneasy, sometimes weak, sometimes lively with effort. Now, +though intense, excited, he looked determined, and this determination, +too, was like a new note of health. + +His eyes went over her bare shoulders. Then he said: + +"For me!" + +His voice lingered over the words. But his eyes changed in expression as +they looked at her face. + +"I couldn't help it to-night Nigel," she said, coolly. "I knew I must be +looking too frightful after all this journeying. You must forgive me +to-night." + +"Of course I do. It's good of you to take this trouble for me, even +though I--Come! Dinner is ready." + +He drew her arm through his, and led her in to the dining-room. + +"Where's Ibrahim to-night?" she said carelessly, as they sat down. + +"He asked if he might go to the village to see his mother, and I let him +go." + +"Oh!" + +She felt relieved. Ibrahim had gone to fetch the felucca to take her +across the Nile. A hot excitement surged through her. In a couple of +hours, perhaps in less time, she would see Baroudi, be alone with +Baroudi. How long she had waited! What torment she had endured! What +danger, what failure she had undergone! But for a moment she forget +everything in that thought which went like wine to her head, "To-night I +shall be with Baroudi!" She did not just then go beyond that thought. +She did not ask herself what sort of reception he would give her. That +wine from the mind brought a carelessness, almost a recklessness, with +it, preventing analysis, sweeping away fears. A sort of spasm--was it +the very last?--of youth seemed to leap up in her, like a brilliant +flame from a heap of ashes. And she let the flame shoot out towards +Nigel. + +And again he was saying: + +"For me!" + +He was repeating it to himself, and he was reiterating silently those +terrible words with which he had struck the man who had saved him from +death. + +"You liar! You damnable liar!" + +The dinner was not the _supplice_ Mrs. Armine had anticipated. She +talked, she laughed, she was gay, frivolous, gentle, careless, as in the +days long past when she had charmed men by mental as much as by merely +physical qualities. And Nigel responded with an almost boyish eagerness. +Her liveliness, her merriment, seemed not only to delight but to +reassure something within him. She noticed that. And, noticing it, she +was conscious that with his decision, beneath it as it were, there was +something else, some far different quality, stranger to her, though +faintly perceived, or perhaps, rather, obscurely divined by that +sleepless intuition which lives in certain women. Her apparent +joyousness gave helping hands to something in Nigel, leading it forward, +onward--whither? + +She was to know that night. + +At length the dinner was over, and they got up to go into the +drawing-room. And now, instantly, Mrs. Armine was seized by a frantic +longing to escape. The felucca, she felt sure, was waiting on the still +water just below the promontory. If only Nigel would remain behind over +his cigarette in the dining-room for a moment, she would steal out to +see. She would not start, of course, till he was safely upstairs. But +she longed to be sure that the boat was there. + +"Won't you have your cigarette in here?" she said, carelessly, as he +followed her towards the door. + +"Here? Alone?" + +His voice sounded surprised. + +"I thought perhaps you wanted another glass of wine," she murmured with +a feigned indifference as she walked on. + +"No," he said, "I am coming to the terrace with you." + +"For a little while. But you must soon go to bed. Now that Doctor +Isaacson has gone, I must play the sick nurse again, or you will be ill, +and then I know he'll blame me." + +"How do you know that?" + +The sound of his voice startled her. She was just by the drawing-room +door. She stood still and looked round. + +"How?" she said. "Why, because Doctor Isaacson doesn't believe in me in +any capacity." + +"But I do." + +Again she noticed the amazing expressiveness of his face. + +"Yes," she said, "I know. You are different." + +She opened the door and passed into the room. Directly she was in it she +heard the Nubian sailors on the _Loulia_ beginning their serenade. (She +chose to call it that to herself to-night.) Their music tore at her +heart, at her whole nature. She wanted to rush to it, now, at once, +without one moment of waiting. Hardly could she force her body to move +quietly across the room to the terrace. Nigel came up and stood close to +her. + +"Oh, I must have a wrap," she said. + +"I'll fetch it." + +"No, no! You mustn't go upstairs. You'll tire yourself." + +"Not to-night," he said. + +And he turned away. Directly the door shut behind him Mrs. Armine darted +into the garden. + +"Ibrahim! Ibrahim! Are you there?" + +"Yes, my lady." + +He came up from the water's edge and stood beside her. + +"I can't come yet, but I'll be as quick as I can." + +"Yes." + +He looked at her. Then he said: + +"I dunno what Mahmoud Baroudi say to us. He got one girl on the board." + +"On the board!" + +"On the board of the _Loulia_." + +"Ruby! Ruby! where are you?" + +"Go back! Wait for me--wait!" + +"Ruby!" + +"I'm here! I'm coming, Nigel!" + + + + +XLIV + + +She met him in the garden, a little beyond the terrace. He had on an +overcoat and a soft hat, and was carrying a cloak for her. + +"You shouldn't walk out in the night air with bare arms and shoulders," +he said, holding the cloak so that she could easily put it on. + +She turned her back on him, put up her hands and so took it. + +"It's very warm to-night." + +"Still, it's imprudent." + +"You playing sick nurse!" + +But all the gaiety had gone out of her voice, all the liveliness had +vanished from her manner. + +"Shall we walk a little?" he said. "Shall we go to the bank of the +river?" + +"No, no. You mustn't tire yourself. Let us sit down, and very soon I +shall send you to bed." + +"Not just yet." + +"I'm--" + +"It isn't that I want you to play. Besides, that noise over there would +disturb us. No, but I want to talk to you. I must talk to you to-night." + +One side of her mouth went down. But she turned her face quickly, and he +did not see it. They came on to the terrace before the lighted windows. + +"Sit down here, Ruby--near to me." + +She sat down. With the very madness for movement thrilling, tingling, +through all her weary and feverish body she was obliged to sit down +quietly. + +Nigel sat down close to her. There was a silence. + +"Oh," she said, almost desperately to break it, "we haven't had coffee +to-night. Shall I--would you like me to make it once more for you?" + +She spoke at random. She wanted to move, to do something, anything. She +felt as if she must occupy herself in some way, or begin to cry out, to +scream. + +"Shall I? Shall I?" she repeated, half getting up. + +Nigel looked at her fixedly. + +"No, Ruby, not to-night." + +She sank back. + +"Very well. But I thought you liked my coffee." + +"So I did. So I shall again." + +He put out his hand to touch hers. + +"Only not to-night." + +"Just as you like." + +"We've--there are other things to-night." + +He kept his eyes always fixed upon hers. + +"Other things!" she said. "Yes--sleep. You must rest well to-night, and +so must I." + +A fierce irony, in despite of herself, broke out in her voice as she +said the last three words. It frightened her, and she burst into a fit +of coughing, and pulled up her cloak about her bare neck. To do this she +had to draw away her hand from Nigel's. She was thankful for that. + +"I swallowed quantities of dust and sand in the train," she said. + +He held out his hand to take hers again, and she was forced to give it. + +"I shall rest to-night," he said. "Because I've come to a resolution. If +I hadn't, if--if I followed my first thought, my first decision, I know +I should not be able to rest. I know I shouldn't." + +She stared at him in silence. + +"Ruby," he said, "you remember our first evening here?" + +"Yes," she forced herself to say. + +Would he never end? Would he never let go of her hand? never let her +get away to the Nile, to that barbarous music? + +"I think we were getting close to each other then. But--but I think we +are much closer now. Don't you?" + +"Yes," she managed to say. + +"Closer because I've proved you; I've proved you through all this +dreadful illness." + +His hand gripped hers more firmly. + +"But you, perhaps, haven't proved me yet as I have proved you." + +"Oh, I don't doubt your--" + +"No, but I want you to know, to understand me as I believe I understand +you. And that's why I'm going to tell you something, something +very--frightful." + +There was a solemnity in his voice which held, which startled her. + +"Frightful?" she almost whispered. + +"Yes. I didn't mean ever to tell you. But somehow, when you came back +to-day, came hurrying back to me so quickly, without even doing what you +went away to do, somehow I began to feel as if I must tell you, as if I +should be a cad not to, as if it was your right to know." + +She said nothing. She had no idea what was coming. + +"It is your right to know." + +He paused. Now he was not looking at her, but straight before him into +the darkness. + +"Last night Isaacson and I were here." + +At the Doctor's name she moved. + +"I had asked him to tell me what my illness had been, what I had been +suffering from. He said he would tell me. This was before." + +Now again he looked at her. + +She formed "Yes" with her lips. + +"When we were out here after dinner, I asked him again to tell me. I had +had your telegram then." + +She nodded. + +"He knew you were coming back a day sooner than we had expected." + +She nodded again. + +"And he told me. I am going to tell you what he said. He said that I had +been poisoned"--her hand twitched beneath his--"by a preparation of +lead, administered in small doses through a long period of time." + +"Poisoned!" + +"Yes." + +"And--and you believe such a thing?" + +"Yes. In such matters Isaacson _knows_." + +"Poisoned!" she repeated. + +She said the word without the horror he had expected, dully, +mechanically. He thought perhaps she was dazed by surprise. + +"But that's not all," he said, still holding her hand closely. "I asked +him who on board the _Loulia_ could have wished for my death." + +"That's--that's just what I was thinking," she managed to say. + +"And then he said a dreadful thing." + +"What?" + +"He said that you had done it." + +She took her hand away from his sharply, and sat back in her chair. He +did not move. They sat there looking at each other. And their silence +was disturbed by the perpetual singing on the _Loulia_. + +And so it had been said! + +Isaacson had discovered the exact truth, and had told it to Nigel! + +She felt a reckless relief. As she sat there, she seemed to be staring +not at Nigel but at herself. And as she stared at herself, she +marvelled. + +"He said that you had done it, or, if not that, had known that it was +being done, had meant it to be done." + +She remained silent and motionless. And now, with her thought of the +truth revealed to her husband was linked another thought of the girl +with Baroudi on board of the _Loulia_. + +"Then I told him to go, or I would put him out." + +"Ah!" she said. + +There was a sort of bitter astonishment in the exclamation, and now in +the eyes regarding him Nigel seemed to discern wonder. + +"And he went, after he had told me some--some other things." + +Something in her, in her face, or her manner, or her deadly silence, +broken only by that seemingly almost sarcastic cry--began evidently to +affect her husband. + +"Some other things," he repeated. + +"What were they?" + +"He said he had come out from England because he had suspected something +was wrong. He told me that he met you by chance in the temple of Edfou, +that you seemed terrified at seeing him, that it was not you who asked +him to come to the _Loulia_ to see me, but that, on the contrary, he +asked to come and you refused to let him. He said you even sent him a +letter telling him not to come. He gave me that letter. Here it is. I +have not read it." + +He put his hand into his coat and drew out the letter, and with it the +gilded box which Baroudi had given to her in the orange garden. + +"There is the letter." + +He laid it on the table. + +"I found this in your room when I went for the cloak," he said, "full of +Eastern things for the face." + +His eyes were a question. + +"I bought it in Cairo yesterday." + +He laid it down. + +"In spite of that letter--Isaacson said--he did come that night, and he +overheard us talking on the balcony, and heard me say how I wished he +were in Egypt." + +He stopped again. His own narrative seemed to be waking up something in +his mind. + +"Why didn't you tell me then that you knew he was in Egypt?" he asked. + +She merely raised her eyebrows. Within her now the recklessness was +increasing. With it was blent a strange and powerful sensation of +fatalism. + +"Was it because you hated Isaacson so much?" + +"That was it." + +"But then--but then, when he was with me, you said that you had brought +him. You said that in the temple you had begged him to come. I remember +that quite well." + +"Do you?" she said. + +And fate seemed to her to be moving her lips, to be forming for her each +word she said. + +"Yes. Why was that? Why did you say that?" + +"Don't remember!" + +"You don't--?" + +He got up slowly out of his chair. + +"But the--the strangest thing Isaacson said was this." + +He put one hand on the back of the chair, and leaned down a little +towards her. + +"He said that at last he forced you to let him attend me as a doctor +by--by threatening you." + +"Oh!" + +"By threatening, if you would not, to call in the police authorities." + +She said nothing. All he was saying flowed past her like running water. +No more than running water did it mean to her. Apparently she had fought +and struggled too long, and the revenge of nature upon her was this +terrible indifference following upon so much of terror, of strife, of +enforced and desperate patience. + +"Ruby!" + + * * * * * + +"Ruby!" + +"Well?" She looked at him. "What is it?" + +"You don't say anything!" + +"Why should I? What do you want me to say?" + +"Want! I--but--" + +He bent down. + +"You--you don't think--you aren't thinking that I--?" + +"Well?" + +"I've told you this to prove my complete trust in you. I've only told +you so that there may be nothing between us, no shadow; as even such a +thing, hidden, might be." + +"Ah!" + +"And if there are things I don't understand, I know--they are such +trifles in comparison--I know you'll explain. Won't you?" + +"Not to-night. I can't explain things to-night." + +"No. You're tired out. To-morrow--to-morrow!" + +"Ah!" she said again. + +He leant right down to her, and took both her hands. + +"Come upstairs with me! Come!" She stood up. "Come! I'll prove to +you--I'll prove to you--" + +There was a sort of desperation of crude passion in his manner. + +He tried to draw her towards the house. She resisted him. + +"Ruby!" + +"I'm not coming." + +He stopped. + +"Ruby!" he said again, but with a different voice. + +"I'm not coming!" + +His hands grew cold on hers. He let her hands go. They dropped to her +sides. + +"So you didn't believe what Isaacson told you?" she said. + +Her only thought was, "I'll make him give me my liberty! I'll make him +give me my liberty, so that Baroudi must keep me!" + +"What?" he said. + +"You didn't believe what Isaacson told you?" she repeated. + +"Believe it! I turned him out!" + +"You fool!" she said. + +She moved a step nearer to him. + +"You fool!" she repeated. "It's true!" + +She snatched up the gilded box from the table. He tore it out of her +hands. + +"Who--who--?" he whispered, with lips that had gone white. + +"Mahmoud Baroudi," she said. + +The box fell from his hands to the terrace, scattering the aids to her +beauty, which he had always hated. + +She turned, pulled her cloak closely round her, and hurried to the bank +of the Nile. + +"Ibrahim! Ibrahim!" + +"My lady!" + +He came, striding up the bank. + +"Take my hand! Help me! Quickly!" + +She almost threw herself down the bank. + +"Where is the boat--ah!" + +She stumbled as she got into it, and nearly fell. + +"Push off!" + +She sat straight up on the hard, narrow bench, and stared at the lights +on the _Loulia_. + +"There's a girl on board," she said, in a minute. + +"Yes, my lady, one girl. Whether Mahmoud Baroudi likin' we comin' I +dunno." + +"Ibrahim!" + +"My lady!" + +"Directly I go on board the _Loulia_, you are to go. Take the boat +straight back to Luxor." + +"I leavin' you?" + +He looked relieved. + +"Yes. I'll--I'll come back in Baroudi's felucca." + +"I quite well stayin', waitin' till you ready." + +"No, no. I don't wish that. Promise me you will take the boat away at +once." + +"All what you want you must have," he murmured. + +"How loudly the sailors are singing!" she said. + +Now they were drawing near to the _Loulia_. Mrs. Armine, with fierce +eyes, gazed at the lighted cabin windows, at the upper deck, at the +balcony in the stern where so often she had sat with Nigel. She was on +fire with eagerness; she was the prey of an excitement that made her +forget all her bodily fatigue, forget everything except that at last +she was close to Baroudi. Already her husband had ceased to exist for +her. He was gone for ever with the past. Not only the river but a great +gulf, never to be bridged, divided them. + +"Baroudi! Baroudi! Baroudi!" + +She could belong to Baroudi openly at last. In this moment she even +forgot herself, forgot to think of her appearance. Within her there was +a woman who could genuinely feel. And that woman asserted herself now. + +The boat touched the _Loulia's_ side. A Nubian appeared. The singing on +board abruptly ceased. Mrs. Armine quickly stood up in the boat. + +"Go to Luxor, Ibrahim! Go at once!" + +"I goin' quick, my lady." + +She sprang on board and stood to see him go. Only when the boat had +diminished upon the dark water did she turn round. She was face to face +with Hamza. + +"Hamza!" she said, startled. + +His almond-shaped eyes regarded her, and she thought a menace was in +them. Even in the midst of her fiery excitement she felt a touch of +something that was cold as fear is cold. + +"Yes," he said. + +"I must see Mahmoud Baroudi." + +He did not move. His expression did not change. The Nubians, squatting +in a circle on the deck a little way off, looked at her calmly, almost +as animals look at something they have very often seen. + +"Where is he?" she said. "Where is he?" + +And abruptly she went down the steps, under the golden letters, and into +the first saloon. It was lit up, but no one was there. She hurried on +down the passage, pulled aside the orange-coloured curtain, and came +into the room of the faskeeyeh. + +On the divan, dressed in native costume, with the turban and djelab, +Baroudi was sitting on his haunches with his legs tucked under him, +smoking hashish and gazing at the gilded ball as it rose and fell on the +water. A little way off, supported by many cushions, an Eastern girl +was lying. She looked very young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. But her +face was painted, her eyes were bordered with kohl, and the nails of her +fingers and of her bare toes were tinted with the henna. She wore the +shintiyan, and a tob, or kind of shirt of coloured and spangled gauze. +On her pale brown arms there were quantities of narrow bracelets. She, +too, was smoking a little pipe with a mouthpiece of coral. + +Mrs. Armine stood still in the doorway. She looked at the girl, and now, +immediately, she thought of her own appearance, with something like +terror. + +"Baroudi!" she said. "Baroudi!" + +He stared at her face. + +When she saw that, with trembling fingers she unfastened her cloak and +let it fall on the floor. + +"Baroudi!" she repeated. + +But Baroudi still stared at her face. + +With one hand he held the long stem of his pipe, but he had stopped +smoking. + +At once she felt despair. + +But she came on into the middle of the saloon. + +"Send her away!" she said. "Send her away!" + +She spoke in French. And he answered in French: + +"Why?" + +"I've left my husband. I've left the villa. I can never go back." + +"Why not?" he said, still gazing at her face. + +He threw back his head, and his great throat showed among the folds of +muslin that swept down to his mighty chest. + +"He knows!" + +"Knows! Who has told him?" + +"I have!" + +As he looked at her, she grew quite cold, as if she had been plunged +into icy water. + +"You have told him about me?" he said. + +"Not all about you! But he knows that--that I made him ill, that I +wished him to die. I told him, because I wanted to get away. I had to +get away--and be with you...." + +The bracelets on the arms of the Eastern girl jingled as she moved +behind Mrs. Armine. + +"Send her away! Send her away!" Mrs. Armine repeated. + +"Hamza!" + +Baroudi called, but not loudly. Hamza came in at the door. + +Baroudi spoke to him quickly in Arabic. A torrent of words that sounded +angry, as Arabic words do to those from the Western world, rushed out of +his throat. What did they mean? Mrs. Armine did not know. But she did +know that her fate was in them. + +Hamza said nothing, only made her a sign to follow him. + +But she stood still. + +"Baroudi!" she said. + +"Go with Hamza," he said, in French. + +And she went, without another word, past the girl, and out of the room. + +Hamza, with a sign, told her to go in front of him. She went slowly down +the passage, into the first saloon. There she hesitated, looked back. +Hamza signed to her to go on. She passed under the _Loulia's_ motto--for +the last time. On the sailors' deck she paused. + +The small felucca of the _Loulia_ was alongside. Hamza took her by the +arm. Although his hand was small and delicate, it seemed to her then a +thing of iron that could not be resisted. She got into the boat. Where +was she going to be taken? It occurred to her now that perhaps Baroudi +had some plan, that he did not choose to keep her on board, that he had +a house at Luxor, or-- + +The Villa Nuit d'Or! Was Hamza going to take her there in the night? + +Hamza sat down, took the oars, pushed off. + +Yes, he was rowing up stream against the tide! A wild hope sprang up in +her. The _Loulia_ diminished. Always Hamza was rowing against the tide, +but she noticed that the felucca was drifting out into the middle of the +Nile. The current was very strong. They were making little or no +headway. She longed to seize an oar, to help the boat up stream. Now the +eastern bank of the river grew more distinct, looming out of the +darkness. It seemed to be approaching them, coming stealthily nearer and +nearer. She saw the lights in the Villa Androud. + +"Hamza!" she murmured. "Hamza!" + +He rowed on, without much force, almost languidly. Never could they go +up against the tide if he did not pull more strongly. Why had they not +two of the Nubians with them? The lights of the villa vanished. They +were hidden by the high and shelving bank. + +"Hamza!" she cried out. "Hamza!" + +There was a slight shock. The felucca had touched bottom. Hamza, with a +sort of precision characteristic of him, stepped quietly ashore and +signed to her to come. + +She knew she would not go. And, instantly, she went. + +Directly she stood upon the sand, near the tangle of low bushes, Hamza +pushed off the felucca, springing into it as he did so, and rowed away +on the dark water. + +"Hamza!" she called. + +"Hamza! Hamza!" she shrieked. + +The boat went on steadily, quickly, and disappeared. + + * * * * * + +Nearly an hour later there appeared at the edge of the garden of the +Villa Androud a woman walking unsteadily, with a sort of frantic +slowness. She made her way across the garden and drew near to the +terrace, beyond which light shone out from the drawing-room through the +tall window space. Close to the terrace she stood still, and she looked +into the room. + +She saw Nigel sitting crouched upon a sofa, with his elbows on his knees +and his face in his hands. He was alone, and was sitting quite still. + +She stood for some time staring in at him. Then at last, as if making up +her mind to something, she moved, and slowly she stepped upon the +terrace. + +Just as she did this, the door of the drawing-room opened and Ibrahim +came in, looking breathless and scared. Behind him came Meyer Isaacson. + +The woman stood still on the terrace. + +Ibrahim remained by the door. Nigel never moved. Meyer Isaacson came +quickly forward into the room as if he were going to Nigel. But when he +was in the middle of the room, something seemed to startle him. He +stopped abruptly, looked questioningly towards the window, then came out +to the terrace. On the threshold he stopped again. He had seen the +woman. He looked for a moment at her, and she at him. Then he came +forward, put out his hands quickly, unlatched the wooden shutters, which +were set back against the house wall, and pulled them inward towards +him. They met with a clang, blotting out the room from the woman's eyes. + +Then she waited no longer. She made her way to the gate of the garden, +passed out to the deserted track beyond, and disappeared into the +darkness, going blindly towards the distant hills that keep the Arabian +desert. + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bella Donna, by Robert Hichens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BELLA DONNA *** + +***** This file should be named 17698.txt or 17698.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/6/9/17698/ + +Produced by Sjaani, Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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