THE SHRINE OF SEKHET
At the hour appointed for tea they all headed their course towards the
site chosen for meals, and there, already seated on the rugs,
comfortably leaning against the wall, were Lucinda and her escort.
"Where have you been?" shouted Guiseppe. "You don't know what we've just
been learning, ignorant ones that you are. The columns in the great hall
are three thousand five hundred feet high, and----"
"No, no! three thousand five hundred years old," he was corrected.
"Oh, I retire crushed."
"You need a cup of tea to revive your failing mental powers. So do we
all." And ere long the spirit-stove boiled away merrily and the general
desire was gratified.
"You have indeed missed an interesting sight this afternoon," declared
Signora Varesio.
"My unfortunate giddiness!" sighed Lucinda plaintively.
"What have you seen to compensate for it?"
"Oh, we have been over to a little temple--most interesting. But I was
fated to receive shocks this afternoon. In it there is----"
"Don't tell," interposed Morris. "After tea we will take them all over
and let them make the discovery for themselves. It will delight you,
Evarne, I'm certain."
As he spoke he looked across at the girl with that tender smile that
always penetrated to her very heart. It could do much even now to heal
that dull ache that would make itself felt despite her belief in his
repeated assurances of the fixity of his affection towards her sweet
self, and her consequent faith that the affair with Lucinda was a mere
temporary flirtation. She tried hard to be reasonable, and so long as
she could think that Morris's earnest and serious love was still hers,
and that the attraction any other woman might have for him was merely
temporary, she felt that--although a degree of anxiety and apprehension
was inevitable--she ought to be able to look down from the superior
heights of constancy and make allowances for that dancing butterfly--a
man's fancy.
Still, this course of diplomacy--laid down by that most successful of
royal mistresses, Madame de Pompadour--is difficult and painful indeed
when the heart-happiness of the resident on the superior heights depends
wholly upon the vagaries of the butterfly. Moreover, Evarne's poor
little vanity was receiving a series of severe blows. For so long she
had been accustomed to being first and foremost in Morris's regard--to
seeing the society of all other women set aside, if at all possible, for
her own. Now, despite her combination of trust and philosophy, this new
state of affairs was a protracted anguish. She was resolutely brave
under it--perhaps too much so to be quite pleasing or flattering to
Morris. Even the deep-rooted hatred she bore Lucinda was almost entirely
hidden.
When the slight meal was ended and the moment came for once more setting
forth, Mrs. Belmont arose with a childishly pretty air of happy
importance. "Now I must be dragoman," she declared, and proceeded to
lead the way amid the ruined masses of stone and fallen columns. But she
was soon fain to confess that she could not remember the track, and
called upon Morris for aid.
Smiling, he took the lead. Poor Evarne! Life seemed to have become a
series of heart-squeezings. Her keen eye noted the smile that was
flashed upon Lucinda, and it appeared to her to be every whit as
indulgent and kindly--almost as caressing--as that which had hitherto
been reserved for herself alone.
It was necessary to cover quite a long distance over a plain besprinkled
not only with fallen stones, but with a long spiky growth that rendered
progress difficult.
"It is well worth this walk," declared Morris, joining her after a
while, "for what we are going to see is the most perfectly-preserved
temple in the whole of Karnak. It is very small, but one gets from it a
better idea of what these buildings must have looked like in their palmy
days than the larger ruins can show."
"Talking about 'perfectly preserved,' why didn't the old 'Gyps pickle
their 'corpsies' instead of bothering to stuff them?" demanded Tony.
"Don't be nasty," retorted Evarne curtly; and a few minutes later the
goal was reached.
"Now, go in one by one," suggested Morris, "and ladies, be prepared for
a shock."
Despite this warning, Evarne could hardly suppress a little cry as she,
in her turn, entered alone into the inner sanctuary of the tiny temple.
Its walls were completely decorated with richly coloured representations
of weird deities and worshipping mortals. There was no window, but the
rays of the sinking sun filtered in through a small opening in the roof.
The chamber was dim and gloomy, but the one square beam of light was
arranged to fall with concentrated force upon a solitary upstanding
statue in polished black basalt. It depicted a slender woman's form,
surmounted by a cat's head. So perfect was it in every detail, so
realistic, so full of quiet animation, that for a moment Evarne had
believed herself to be in the presence of something living and dreadful.
Almost immediately, of course, she realised her mistake, and knew it for
what it was--a representation of the ancient Egyptian goddess Sekhet.
Already that day the girl had stood in the middle of an open field--once
the site of a great temple, of which the ruins lay all about--and gazed
around the extensive circle of large, gleaming, black marble statues of
Sekhet that now alone remained to hint at the departed grandeur of this
vanished temple.
Evarne's brown eyes had grown graver, and all-unconsciously she had
sighed deeply as she stood amidst those numerous Sekhets seated beneath
the clear blue sky. They had struck strange awe to her heart, these
symbolic counterfeits of the goddess who presided over the most
powerful--the most eternal--forces in heaven and earth, Sekhet--goddess
both of Love and of Cruelty! Ah, they were a subtle people, those
ancient Egyptians, skilful in reading the heart of humanity, fearless of
the truth, defiant in stripping the gloss from life!
The light laughter and exclamations of her companions had jarred upon
Evarne's ear. She felt weighed down with an unreasoning reverence.
These solemn figures in the great ruined hall of the temple had
seemed instinct with a supernatural power. Battered by the passing of
much time, discredited for centuries as representing a great
divinity--objects but of curiosity and wonder to this age--they had yet
appealed to her as invested with the calm complacency of conscious
power. Serenely they sat, confidently awaiting at least the individual
recognition and homage of mankind. Strangely did they convey the idea
that theirs was the triumphant knowledge that, for so long as human
hearts can pulsate, for so long, too, Sekhet--the personification of
Love and Lust, and the suffering both bring--shall find her throne, her
shrine, her arena.
This figure that Evarne now stood before was not seated. Somewhat over
life-size it stood, stiffly erect, one foot advanced, the symbol of Life
held in its grasp. It was raised above the sand of the floor on a low
pedestal. Evarne stood motionless, gazing upwards. The battered figures
in the open had been impressive, but this one--uninjured, and with the
artificial advantage of its surroundings--was more than that! It was
terrible, awe-inspiring, with its inhuman head, the menacing feline
features bearing so clearly the impress of unpitying and vindictive
cruelty, malignant spite, merciless joy in the inflicting and witnessing
of the direst agonies that can rack tortured brain or flesh or spirit.
Evarne had been the last to enter, and as she rejoined her companions
outside, the party commenced to retrace its steps. Unperceived, she left
them and returned to the temple. She had something to say to Sekhet.
Alone she stood, facing the goddess--the lifeless marble into which the
hand of an artist, long since pulseless, had wrought this unhallowed
expression with such marvellous realism that it was difficult to
remember that no knowledge, no power, no fearsome intelligence, lay
behind those gleaming eyes, that low animal brow. Evarne stood
motionless, gazing intently up at the brutal face, trying to forget her
own individuality and all that was modern. It had been a little prayer
that was in her heart as she hastened back, but now she shook her head
slowly as the conception of the innate and unalterable cruelty of Sekhet
impressed itself with yet greater force upon her mind. This was a
goddess who surely had ever been more inclined to fulfil curses than to
answer prayers.
As she commenced her half-whispered appeal she recalled some of the
titles under which this cat-headed image had been invoked--doubtless
many a time and oft--in the dim and distant past. "Oh, Queen of the
Goddesses! Oh, Crusher of Hearts! If you can hear me and still wield
power, let just tribulation fall on all those who set forth to steal a
love that is not free for them--a love to which they have no right--a
love that is another's! May success but open the gates of sorrow; may
that which they desired and schemed to gain crush the heart, even in its
triumph, down to the very dust! Deal out stern justice, untempered by
all mercy, to the false, the scornful, the treacherous, the
hypocritical, to those who are unscrupulous and base in thy service, and
who cast aside all honour when in pursuit of that which thou dost
offer!"
Then she stood silent awhile, still gazing with fixed eyes at the
impassive countenance before her, monstrous, yet so strangely human. She
had not originally designed to send forth such a plea into the universe,
but it had arisen spontaneously from the depth of her soul, and she
would not have recalled one word.
Then she turned, and slowly, with strange reluctance proceeded to quit
this dim sanctuary. Still her mind was not relieved. Impulsively she
hastened back and stood close under the grim black statue.
"Sekhet," she whispered softly and rapidly, "help me--help me always.
Whatever be the price of your aid I will pay it ungrudgingly. Watch over
me; be ever near me. I cannot live without love. I do not shrink from
its suffering. Sekhet, at all costs, I am thy worshipper. Do not forsake
me. Do not forsake me ever."
At the throat of her gown were fastened a couple of crimson roses. They
drooped now after the long day, yet were still rich in perfume. These
she unclasped and laid on the yellow sand at the base of the statue.
Then, with a final glance around the little chamber--once well
accustomed to the sound of prayer, now but the relic of a dead
religion--she hurried away.