Afterwards, months, years afterwards, looking back upon these strange
weeks of his brief Egyptian winter, Tom marvelled at himself; he looked
back, as it were, upon the thoughts and emotions of another man he could
not recognise. This illusion involved his two companions also, Madame
Jaretzka supremely, Tony slightly less, all three, however, together
affected, all three changed.
As regards himself, however, there was always a part, it seemed, that
remained unaffected. It looked on, it compared, it judged. He called it
the Onlooker. . . .
Explanation lay beyond his reach; he termed it enchantment: and there he
left it. Insight seemed only to operate with regard to himself: of
_their_ feelings, thoughts, or point of view he was uninformed.
They offered no explanations, and he sought none. . . . The man honest
with himself is more rare than a January swallow. He alone is honest who
can state a case without that bias of exaggeration favourable to himself
which is almost lying. Try as he may, his statement leans one way or the
other. The spirit-level of absolute honesty is hard to find, and, of
course, Tom was no exception. . . . Occasionally he recalled the
'spiral theory,' which once, at least, had been in the minds of all
three--the notion that their three souls lived over a former episode
together, but from a higher point, and with the bird's-eye view which
brought in understanding. But if this offered a hint of that winter's
inner spiritual structure, Tom certainly did not claim it as a true
solution. The whole thing began so stealthily, and progressed so slowly
yet so surely. . . .
He could only marvel at himself: he was so singularly changed--imagination
so active, judgment alternately so positive and so faltering, every
emotion so amazingly intensified. All the weakest and least admirable in
him, the very dregs, seemed dragged up side by side with what was noblest,
highest, and flung together in the rush and smother of the breaking Wave.
Events, in the dramatic meaning of the word, and outwardly, there were few
perhaps, and those few meagre and unsensational. No one was shot or
drowned, no one was hanged and quartered; the police were not called in;
to outsiders there seemed no air or attitude of drama anywhere; but in
three human hearts, thrown together as by chance currents of normal life,
there came to pass changes of a spiritual kind, conflict between
essential, primitive forces of the soul, battlings, temptings,
aspirations, sacrifice, that are the truest drama always, because the
inmost being, whether glorified or degraded, is thereby--changed.
In this fierce intensification of his own being, and in the events
experienced, Tom recognised the rising of his childhood Wave towards the
breaking point. The early premonition that had seemed causeless to his
learned father, that stirred in his mother the deep instinct to protect,
and that ever, more or less, hung poised above the horizon of his passing
years, had its origin in the bed-rock of his nature. It was associated
with memory and instinct; the native tendencies and forces of his being
had dramatised their inevitable fulfilment in a dream. He recognised
intuitively what was coming--and he welcomed it. The body shrank from
pain; the soul held out her hands to it. . . .
Thus, looking back, he saw it mapped below him from a higher curve in
life's ascending spiral. In the glare of a drenching sunshine that seemed
hauntingly familiar, in the stupendous blaze of Egypt that knew and
favoured it, the action lay spread out: but in darkness, too, an
oppressive, suffocating darkness as of the grave, as of the bottom of the
sea. The map was streaked with this alternate light and gloom of
elemental kind. It passed swiftly, he went swiftly with it. A few short
crowded weeks of the intensest pain and happiness he had ever known,--and
the Wave, its crest reflected in its origin, fell with a drowning crash.
He merged into his background, yet he did not drown: in due course he
again--emerged.
The sense of rushing that accompanied it all was in himself apparently:
heightened by the contrast of the divine stillness which is Egypt--the
golden, hanging days, the nights of cool, soft moonlight, the sighing
winds with perfume in their breath, the mournful palms that fringed the
peaceful river, the calm of multitudinous stars. The grim Theban hills
looked on; the ruined Temples watched and knew; there were listening ears
within a thousand tombs. . . . And there was the Desert--the endless
emptiness where everything had already happened, the place where,
therefore, everything could happen again without affronting time and
space--the Desert seemed the infinite background whence the Wave tossed up
three little specks of passionate human action and reaction. It was the
'sea,' a sea of dust. Yet out of the dust wild roses blossomed eventually
with a sweetness of beauty unknown to any cultivated gardens. . . .
And while he and his two companions made their moves upon this ancient
chessboard of half-forgotten, half-remembered life, all natural things as
well seemed raised to their most significant expression, sharing the joy
and sadness, the beauty and the terror of his own experience. For the
very scenery borrowed of his intensity, the familiar details urged a
fraction beyond the normal, as though any moment they must break down into
their elemental and essential nakedness. The pungent odour of the
universal sand, the dust, the minute golden particles suspended in the
flaming air, the marvellous dawns and sunsets, the mighty, awful pylons,
and the heat--all these contributed their quota of wonder and mystery to
what happened. Egypt inspired it, and was satisfied.
The sediment of his nature was drawn up, the rubbish floated before his
eyes, he saw himself through the curtains of suspended dust--until the
flood, retiring, left him high upon the shore, no longer shuffling with
his earthly, physical feet.
In the train to Assouan, Tom still felt the clinging arms about his neck,
still heard the loving voice, eager with tenderness for his welfare and
his quick return. She needed him: he was everything to her. He knew it,
oh he was sure of it. He thought of his work, and knew some slight
anxiety that he had neglected it. He would devote all his energies to the
interests of his firm: there should be no shirking anywhere; his ten
days' holiday was over. His mind fixed itself deliberately, though not
too easily, on this alone.
He knew his own capacity, however, and that by concentration he could
accomplish in a short time what other men might ask weeks to complete.
Provided all was going well, he saw no reason why he could not be free
again in a week at most. He knew quite well his value to the firm, but he
knew also that he must continue to justify it. He was complacent, but, he
hoped, not carelessly complacent. Tom felt very sure of himself again.
To his great relief he found things running smoothly. He examined every
detail, interviewed all and sundry, supervised, decided, gave
instructions. There was a letter from the London office conveying the
formal satisfaction of the Board with results so far, praising especially
certain reductions in cost he had judiciously effected; another private
letter from the older partner referred confidently to greater profits than
they had dared to anticipate; also there was a brief note from Sir
William, the Chairman, now at Salonica, saying he might run over a little
later and see for himself how the work was getting along.
Tom was supremely happy with it all. There was really very little for him
to do; his engineers were highly competent; they could summon him at a
day's notice from Luxor if anything went wrong. 'But there's no sign of
difficulty, sir,' was their verdict; 'everything's going like clockwork;
the men working splendidly; it's only a matter of time.'
It was the evening of the second day that Tom decided to go back to Luxor.
He was eager for the promised bivouac they had arranged together.
He had written once to say that all was well, but no word had yet come
from her; she was resting, he was glad to think: Tony was away at Cairo
with his friends; there might be a letter for him in the morning, but that
could be sent after him. Joy and impatience urged him. He chuckled
happily over his boyish plan; he would not announce himself; he would
surprise her. He caught a train that would get him in for dinner.
And during his journey of six hours he rehearsed this pleasure of
surprising her. She was lonely without him. He visualised her delight
and happiness. He would creep up to the window, to the edge of the
verandah where she sat reading, Mrs. Haughstone knitting in a chair
opposite. He would call her name 'Lettice. . . .' Her eyes would
lighten, her manner change. That new spontaneous joy would show
itself. . . .
The sun was setting when the train got in, but by the time he had changed
into flannels at his hotel the short dusk was falling. The entire western
sky was gold and crimson, the air was sharp, the light dry desert wind
blew shrewdly down the street. Behind the eastern hills rose a huge full
moon, still pale with daylight, peering wisely over the enormous spread of
luminous desert. . . . He drove to her house, leaving the _arabyieh_ at
the gates. He walked quickly up the drive. The heavy foliage covered him
with shadows, and he easily reached the verandah unobserved; no one seemed
about; there was no sound of voices; the thick creepers up the wooden
pillars screened him admirably. There was a movement of a chair, his
heart began to thump, he climbed up softly, and at the other end of the
verandah saw--Mrs. Haughstone knitting. But there was no sign of
Lettice--and the blood rushed from his heart.
He had not been noticed, but his game was spoilt. He came round to the
front steps and wished her politely a good-evening. Her surprise once
over and explanations made, she asked him, cordially enough, to stay to
dinner. 'Lettice, I know, would like it. You must be tired out. She did
not expect you back so soon; but she would never forgive me if I let you
go after them.'
Tom heard the words as in a dream, and answered also in a dream--a dream
of astonishment, vexation, disappointment, none of them concealed.
His uneasiness returned in an acute, intensified form. For he learned
that they were bivouacking on the Nile to see the sunrise. Tony had,
after all, not gone to Cairo; de Lorne and Lady Sybil accompanied them.
It was the picnic they had planned together against his return.
'Lettice wrote,' Mrs. Haughstone mentioned, 'but the letter must have
missed you. I warned her you'd be disappointed--if you knew.'
'So Tony didn't go to Cairo after all?' Tom asked again. His voice
sounded thin, less volume in it than usual. That 'if you knew' dropped
something of sudden anguish in his heart.
'His friends put him off at the last moment--illness, he said, or
something.' Mrs. Haughstone repeated the invitation to dine and make
himself at home. 'I'm positive my cousin would like you to,' she added
with a certain emphasis.
Tom thanked her. He had the impression there was something on her mind.
'I think I'll go after them,' he repeated, 'if you'll tell me exactly
where they've gone.' He stammered a little. 'It would be rather a lark,
I thought, to surprise them.' What foolish, what inadequate words!
'Just as you like, of course. But I'm sure she's quite safe,' was the
bland reply. 'Mr. Winslowe will look after her.'
'Oh, rather,' replied Tom; 'but it would be good fun--rather a joke, you
know--to creep upon them unawares,'--and then was surprised and sorry that
he said it. 'Have they gone very far?' he asked, fumbling for his
cigarettes.
He learned that they had left after luncheon, taking with them all
necessary paraphernalia for the night. There were feelings in him that he
could not understand quite as he heard it. But only one thing was clear
to him--he wished to be quickly, instantly, where Lettice was.
It was comprehensible. Mrs. Haughstone understood and helped him.
'I'll send Mohammed to get you a boatman, as you seem quite determined,'
she said, ringing the bell: 'you can get there in an hour's ride.
I couldn't go,' she added, 'I really felt too tired. Mr. Winslowe was
here for lunch, and he exhausted us all with laughing so that I felt I'd
had enough. Besides, the sun----'
'They all lunched here too?' asked Tom.
'Mr. Winslowe only,' she mentioned, 'but he was a host in himself.
It quite exhausted me----'
'Tony can be frightfully amusing, can't he, when he likes?' said Tom.
Her repetition of 'exhausted' annoyed him furiously for some reason.
He saw her hesitate then: she began to speak, but stopped herself; there
was a curious expression in her face, almost of anxiety, he fancied.
He felt the kindness in her. She was distressed. And an impulse, whence
he knew not, rose in him to make her talk, but before he could find a
suitable way of beginning, she said with a kind of relief in her tone and
manner: 'I'm glad you're back again, Mr. Kelverdon.' She looked
significantly at him. 'Your influence is so steadying, if you don't mind
my saying so.' She gave an awkward little laugh, half of apology, half of
shyness, or of what passed with her for shyness. 'This climate--upsets
some of us. It does something to the blood, I'm sure----'
'You feel anxious about--anything in particular?' Tom asked, with a
sinking heart. At any other time he would have laughed.
Mrs. Haughstone shrugged her shoulders and sighed. She spoke with an
effort apparently, as though doubtful how much she ought to say.
'My cousin, after all, is--in a sense, at least--a married woman,' was the
reply, while Tom remembered that she had said the same thing once before.
'And all men are not as careful for her reputation, perhaps, as you are.'
She mentioned the names of various people in Luxor, and left the
impression that there was considerable gossip in the air. Tom disliked
exceedingly the things she said and the way she said them, but felt unable
to prevent her. He was angry with himself for listening, yet felt it
beyond him to change the conversation. He both longed to hear every word,
and at the same time dreaded it unspeakably. If only the boat would give
him quickly an excuse. . . . He therefore heard her to the end concerning
the unwisdom of Madame Jaretzka in her careless refusal to be more
circumspect, even--Mrs. Haughstone feared--to the point of compromising
herself. With whom? Why, with Mr. Winslowe, of course. Hadn't he
noticed it? No! Well, of course there was no harm in it, but it was a
mistake, she felt, to be seen about always with the same man. He called,
too, at such unusual hours. . . .
And each word she uttered seemed to Tom exactly what he had expected her
to utter, entering his mind as a keenly poisoned shaft. Something already
prepared in him leaped swiftly to understanding; only too well he grasped
her meaning. The excitement in him passed into a feverishness that was
painful.
For a long time he merely stood and listened, gazing across the river but
seeing nothing. He said no word. His impatience was difficult to
conceal, yet he concealed it.
'Couldn't you give her a hint perhaps?' continued the other, as they
waited on the steps together, watching the preparations for the boat
below. She spoke with an assumed carelessness that was really a disguised
emphasis. 'She would take it from _you_, I'm sure. She means no harm;
there is no harm. We all know that. She told me herself it was only a
boy and girl affair. Still----'
'_She_ said that?' asked Tom. His tone was calm, even to indifference,
but his eyes, had she looked round, must certainly have betrayed him.
Luckily she kept her gaze upon the moon-lit river. She drew her knitted
shawl more closely round her. The cold air from the desert touched them
both. Tom shivered.
'Oh, before you came out, that was,' she mentioned; and each word was a
separate stab in the centre of his heart. After a pause she went on:
'So you might say a little word to be more careful, if you saw your way.
Mr. Winslowe, you see, is a poor guide just now: he has so completely lost
his head. He's very impressionable--and very selfish--_I_ think.'
Tom was aware that he braced himself. Various emotions clashed within
him. He knew a dozen different pains, all equally piercing. It angered
him, besides, to hear Lettice spoken of in this slighting manner, for the
inference was unavoidable. But there hid below his anger a deep, dull
bitterness that tried angrily to raise its head. Something very ugly,
very fierce moved with it. He crushed it back. . . . A feeling of hot
shame flamed to his cheeks.
'I should feel it an impertinence, Mrs. Haughstone,' he stammered at
length, yet confident that he concealed his inner turmoil. 'Your cousin--
I mean, all that she does is quite beyond reproach.'
Her answer staggered him like a blow between the eyes.
'Mr. Kelverdon--on the contrary. My cousin doesn't realise quite, I'm
sure--that she may cause _him_ suffering. She won't listen to me, but you
could do it. _You_ touch the mother in her.'
It was a merciless, keen shaft--these last six words. The sudden truth of
them turned him into ice. He touched only the mother in her: the woman--
but the thought plunged out of sight, smothered instantly as by a granite
slab he set upon it. The actual thought was smothered, yes, but the
feeling struggled horribly for breath; and another inference, more deadly
than the first, stole with a freezing touch upon his soul.
He turned round quietly and looked at his companion. 'By Jove,' he said,
with a laugh he believed was admirably natural, 'I believe you're right.
I'll give her a little hint--for Tony's sake.' He moved down the steps.
'Tony is so--I mean he so easily loses his head. It's quite absurd.'
But Mrs. Haughstone did not laugh. 'Think it over,' she rejoined.
'You have excellent judgment. You may prevent a little disaster.'
She smiled and shook a warning finger. And Tom, feigning amusement as
best he might, murmured something in agreement and raised his helmet with
a playful flourish.
Mohammed, soft of voice and moving like a shadow, called that the boat was
ready, and Tom prepared to go. Mrs. Haughstone accompanied him half-way
down the steps.
'You won't startle them, will you, Mr. Kelverdon?' she said. 'Lettice,
you know, is rather easily frightened.' And she laughed a little.
'It's Egypt--the dry air--one's nerves----'
Tom was already in the boat, where the Arab stood waiting in the moonlight
like a ghost.
'Of course not,' he called up to her through the still air. But, none the
less, he meant to surprise her if he could. Only in his thought the
pronoun insisted, somehow, on the plural form.