"Can it be possible that you didn't see him, Fatimah?"
"See whom, my lady?"
"Why, Gordon."
Fatimah made an upward gesture with her hand.
"When, my heart?"
"Just now--not a moment ago."
Fatimah raised both hands and seemed for a moment unable to speak.
"He knocked at the door--I knew his knock immediately. Then he said
outside, 'Don't be afraid'--I knew his voice too. And then he opened
the door and came in, and I thought at first it was a Bedouin, for he
wore Eastern clothes, but he whispered, 'Mother,' and it was Gordon
himself."
"O my dear eyes, you have been dreaming," said Fatimah, whereupon the
old lady looked reproachfully at her and said--
"How can you say that, Fatimah? I clasped my arms around his neck, and
he put his arms about me and kissed me, and then----"
"Well?"
The old lady thought for a moment. "I think I must have fainted," she
said. "I cannot remember what happened then."
"O my lady, O my heart, you have been sleeping for nearly an hour," said
Fatimah.
"Sleeping?"
"Yes, but a little after eleven o'clock you were restless and threw out
your arms and I covered them up again."
The joyful gleam had now gone from the old lady's eyes, and a troubled
look had taken the place of it.
"Do you say that Gordon has not been here, Fatimah?"
"Alas, no, my lady."
"Has nobody been?"
"Nobody at all, my lady, since his lordship was up last."
"But I could have been sure that----"
She stopped; a smile crossed her bewildered face, and she said in a
soft, indulgent voice--
"My poor Fatimah! I wear you out. I wear out everybody. You must have
dozed off at that moment, and so----"
"Oh no, my lady, no! Wallahi! I've not closed my eyes since
yesterday."
"How strange!"
"But Ibrahim ought to know if anybody has come upstairs. Should I call
him, my lady?"
"Yes ... no ... that is to say ... wait!"
There was silence for a moment, and then, all the sweet illusion being
gone, the old lady said in a sadder tone--
"Perhaps you are right, Fatimah. But it was so dear to think that ...
Hush!"
She had heard her husband's footsteps on the stairs, and she began to
straighten her lace cap with her delicate white fingers.
The Consul-General had gone through a heavy and trying day. In the
morning he had received from the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs
a despatch which was couched in terms more caustic than had been
addressed to him from London at any time during his forty years in
Egypt. He had spent the night in dictating an answer to this Despatch,
and his reply, though framed in diplomatic form, had been no less biting
and severe.
Having finished his work in some warmth, he was now on his way to bed,
and thinking of the humiliation to which he had been exposed in England
by the late disturbance in Cairo, he was blaming his son for the worst
of it. Every step of his heavy foot as he went upstairs was like a word
or a blow against Gordon. It was Gordon who had encouraged the people
to rebel; it was Gordon's name that was being used (because it was his
own name also) by pestilent prattlers in Parliament to support the
accusation that he had outraged (contrary to the best traditions of
British rule) the religious instincts of an Eastern people; therefore it
was Gordon who had poisoned the source of his authority in Egypt and the
fount of his influence at home.
In this mood he entered his wife's room, and there Fatimah, who had been
frightened for all her brave show of unbelief, fell at once to telling
him of her mistress's delusion.
"But this is wrong of you, Janet--very, very wrong," said the
Consul-General with a frown. "These visions and dreams are doing more
than anything else to destroy your health, and they will kill you if you
continue to encourage them. Gordon is gone. You must make up your mind
to it."
"Is it quite certain that he is gone, dear?" said the old lady, who was
now nervously plucking at the counterpane. "For instance, Fatimah told
me to-day that there was a story in town----"
"Fatimah has no business to repeat such idle rumours," said the
Consul-General sharply. He was walking to and fro in the room with a
face that was hard and furrowed.
"As for the story you speak of, they sent it up to me as late as ten
o'clock to-night, saying Gordon was being sheltered in a certain place,
and asking what steps they were to take with respect to him."
The old lady fixed her frightened eyes on her husband's face and began
to ask in a whisper--
"And what did you----"
"The rumour was groundless," said the Consul-General. "I've just heard
so from the Commandant of Police. Gordon was not there. There was no
sign that he ever had been."
The old lady wept silently, and the Consul-General continued to walk to
and fro at the foot of her bed as if he were trying to avoid her face.
"You still think he left Cairo on the night of the riot, dear?"
"I trust he did. I trust, too, that he is far from here by this
time--on his way to America, India, Australia, anywhere. And as he has
broken the law, and his career is at an end, I think the kindest thing
we can do is to hope that he may never come back again."
The old lady tried to speak but her voice failed her.
"More than that," continued the Consul-General, "as he deliberately took
sides against us, I also think it is our duty--our strict and bounden
duty--to dismiss all further thought of him."
Saying this with heat and emphasis, he caught sight of his wife's wet
eyes and his conscience began to accuse him.
"I don't say it is easy to do," he said, taking a chair by the side of
the bed. "Perhaps it is the reverse of easy--especially for you--for
his mother."
At that the sweet old woman wished to take the part of her absent
son--to say that if he had taken the wrong course, and allowed himself
to be led away by some one, he could not have counted on any gain in
doing so, and must have been moved by the most unselfish motives--but
her tears prevented her, and still she could not speak.
"Why should we continue to think of _him_ if he never thinks of _us_--of
either of us?" asked the Consul-General.
He was calmer now, and was speaking with less anger.
"Was he thinking of you when he took the step which broke up your health
like this? Was he thinking of me when he took the side of my
enemies--of one of my enemies, at all events--perhaps the worst of
them--and left me to the mercy of ... in my old age, too--a childless
man?"
There was a moment in which nothing was spoken, and then in a voice that
quivered perceptibly the Consul-General said--
"Let us trifle with ourselves no longer, Janet. Our son has gone. He
has abandoned us. We have to think no more about him."
After that there was a long silence, during which the Consul-General sat
with his head down and his eyes tightly closed. Then a voice came
softly from the bed.
"John!"
"Well?"
"It is harder for you, dear."
The old man turned his head aside.
"You wanted a son so much, you know."
Fatimah, who had been sitting out of sight, now stepped into the boys'
room and closed the door noiselessly behind her, leaving the two old
people alone together with the sanctities of their married life, on
which no other eye should look.
"I thought at first that God was not going to give me any children, but
when my child came, and it was a boy, how happy we both were!"
The old man closed his eyes still more tightly and stiffened his iron
lip.
"Foolish people used to think in those days that you didn't love our
little one because you couldn't pay much heed to him. But Fatimah was
telling me only to-night that you never went to bed without going into
her room to see if it was well with our child."
The tears were now forcing themselves through the old man's eyelids.
"And when our dear boy had the fever, and he was so ill that we had to
shave his little head, you never went to bed at all--not until the
crisis came, and then--don't you remember?--just when we thought the
wings of death were over us, he opened his beautiful blue eyes and
smiled. I think that was the happiest moment of all our lives, dear."
She was on her husband's side at last--thinking for him--seeing
everything from his point of view.
"Then all the years afterwards you worked so hard, and won such high
honours and such a great name, only to leave them behind to our son, and
now ... now----"
The Consul-General laid one of his wrinkled hands on the counterpane,
and in a moment the old lady had put her delicate white hand over it.
"Yes, it's harder for you, dear."
"No, Janet, no! ... But it's hard for both of us."
There was another moment of silence, and then, pressing the hand that
lay under her hand, the old lady said--
"I think I know now what people feel when they are old and their
children die before them. They feel that they ought to be more to each
other than they have ever been before, and keep together as long as they
can."
The Consul-General drew his hand away and covered his face with it. He
was asking himself why, through so many years, he had buried his love
for his wife so deep in his heart and sealed it as with a seal.
Presently a more cheerful voice came from the bed.
"John!"
"Yes!"
"I'm going to get up to-morrow."
"No, no!"
"But I must! Mohammed" (the cook) "is so forgetful when there's no
mistress about--I must see that he gives you good food, you know.
Besides, it must be lonely to eat your meals by yourself--I must make it
a rule to go down to lunch at all events."
"That is nothing, Janet. You are weak and ill--the doctor will not
permit you to disturb yourself."