At high noon upon a morning towards the end of January, Jim happened to
saunter across the hot sand to the terrace of the temple where Monimé was
painting, and there found her engaged in conversation with a benevolent,
grey-bearded clergyman and a stout, beaming woman who appeared to
be his wife, both of whom wore blue spectacles, carried large white
umbrellas lined with green, and wore pith helmets adorned with green
veiling—appurtenances which stamped them as tourists. Jim himself was
somewhat disreputably dressed, having a slouch hat pulled over his eyes,
a canvas shirt open at the neck, a pair of well-worn flannel trousers
held up by an old leather belt, and red native slippers upon his bare
feet, and he therefore hesitated to approach.
Monimé, however, beckoned to him to come to her, and, when he had done
so, introduced him to her new friends, whose acquaintance, it was
explained, she had made an hour previously. The clergyman, it appeared,
whose name was Jones, was a man of some wealth who was now touring these
upper reaches of the Nile on a small private steamer, in search of the
good health of which his work in the underworld of London had deprived
him; and Monimé, in taking the trouble to show him and his wife around
the temple, perhaps had a woman’s eye to business, for a painter, after
all, has wares for sale, and is dependent on the conversion of all
colours into plain gold.
Be this as it may, she now invited them to luncheon upon the dahabiyeh,
and Jim, not to be churlish, was obliged to support the suggestion with
every mark of assent.
The meal was served under the awnings, and when coffee had been drunk
Monimé took Mrs. Jones down to the saloon, while the two men were left
to smoke on deck. Jim was in a communicative mood, and for some time
entertained his guest with narrations of his adventures in many lands,
being careful, however, to draw a veil over the years he had spent in
England. The clergyman responded, at length, with tales of his life in
the slums, expressing the opinion that, owing to the failure of the
Church to adapt itself to the exigencies of the present day, callousness
in regard to crime was on the increase.
“Here’s an instance of what I mean,” he said. “I was walking late one
night along a well-known London street when I was accosted by a young
woman who, in spite of my cloth and my age, made certain suggestions to
me. I was so astounded that I stopped and spoke to her, and presently
she confessed to me that this was the first time she had ever done such
a thing, but that she was engaged to be married to a penniless man, and
somehow money had to be obtained. Now there’s callousness for you! Can
you imagine such a proceeding?”
“Yes, that’s pretty low down,” Jim answered. “What did you do?”
The clergyman smiled. “Ah, that is another story,” he said. “To test her
I told her to come to my house the next day and to bring her fiancé with
her; and to my surprise they turned up. Well, to cut the story short, I
agreed to set them up in business, and I gave them quite a large sum of
money for the purpose, hardly expecting, however, that it would prove
anything but a dead loss. You may imagine my gratification, therefore,
when I began to receive regular quarterly repayments, each accompanied by
a gracious little letter of thanks stating that things were prospering
splendidly. At last the whole debt was paid off, and the woman came to
see me, smartly dressed, and in the best of spirits. I congratulated her
on her honesty, and told her that her action had strengthened my belief
in the basic goodness of human nature.”
“‘Well, you see,’ she said, ‘we felt we ought to pay our debt to you, as
we had made in the business ten times the original sum you gave us.’
“‘And what is the business?’ I asked.
“‘Oh,’ she said, ‘we are running a brothel.’”
Jim leant back in his chair and laughed. “That’s an instance of the evils
of indiscriminate charity,” he said.
“It is a sign of the times,” his guest replied, seriously. “Look at the
callous crimes of which we read in the newspapers. Take, for instance,
the Eversfield case.”
Jim’s heart seemed to stop beating. “I haven’t been reading the papers
lately,” he stammered. “I haven’t heard....” His voice failed him.
“Oh, it’s a shocking case,” said Mr. Jones, but to Jim his words were as
though they came from a great distance or were heard above the noise of
a tempest. “A young woman, the lady of the manor, was found murdered in
her own woods, and at first the police thought that the crime had been
committed by a certain Jane Potts who was jealous of her. But she proved
her innocence, and then the mother of the murdered woman, a Mrs. Darling,
admitted that her daughter’s husband, who had been supposed to be dead,
was actually alive, and had visited his wife on the day of the crime. It
seems that he had wanted to rid himself of her by divorce, but something
happened which induced him to kill her instead.”
Jim’s brain was seething. “But if he was guilty, why did he go to see
Mrs. Darling afterwards?” he asked.
“Oh, then you have read about the case,” said his guest, glancing at him
quickly.
Jim struggled inwardly to be calm and to rectify his mistake. “Yes,” he
answered, “I remember it now.”
Mr. Jones bent forward in his chair and tapped his host’s knee. “Mark my
words,” he declared, “that man is an out-and-out villain. He had deserted
his wife, and had let it be thought that he was dead; and then, I suppose
because he was short of money, he came home, and murdered her when she
refused to give him any. My theory is that he believed he had been seen
by somebody, and therefore determined to brazen it out by calling on his
mother-in-law. He is evidently of the callous kind.”
Jim had the feeling that he himself, his ego, had become detached from
his brain’s consciousness. Distantly, he could hear every word that
was being said, yet at the same time his mind was in confusion, in
pandemonium. He looked down from afar off at his body, and wondered
whether the trembling of his hand was noticeable. He could listen to
himself speaking, and desperately he struggled to control his words.
“What d’you think will happen?” he asked, passing his fingers to and fro
across his lips. The sudden dryness of his mouth had produced a sort of
click in his words which he endeavoured thus to mitigate.
“Oh, they’ll catch him in time,” Mr. Jones replied, “though Mrs.
Darling’s reprehensible conduct in keeping the facts to herself for so
long has helped him to get clear away. His description is in all the
papers—dark hair and eyes; clean-shaven; sallow complexion; athletic
build; five foot ten in height....”
Jim smiled in a sickly manner. “That might describe me,” he said, and
laughed.
“Yes,” Mr. Jones responded, “I’m afraid it’s not much to go on; but
they’ll get him, believe me. I expect they’ll publish a photograph soon.”
Jim drew his breath between his teeth, and again his heart seemed to be
arrested in its beating. He wanted to rise from his chair and to run
from the dahabiyeh. It seemed to him that his agitation must be wholly
apparent to his guest: a man’s entire life could not be shattered and
fall to pieces in such utter ruin with no outward sign of the devastation.
He was about to make a move of some sort to end the ordeal when Monimé
appeared upon the steps leading up from the saloon, and invited Mr.
Jones to come down to see some of her paintings. He rose at once to
comply; and thereupon Jim lurched from his chair, and, holding on to the
table before him, looked wildly towards the slopes of golden sand which
could be seen between the vari-coloured hangings.
Monimé came over to him as the clergyman disappeared down the stairs.
“Hullo, Jim,” she said, “you look ill, dear. Is anything the matter?”
He tried to laugh. “No,” he answered sharply. “Why should you think so?
I’m all right—only rather bored by your talkative friend.”
She put her arm about him and kissed him: then, suddenly standing back
from him, she looked anxiously into his face. “You _are_ ill,” she said.
“Your forehead is burning hot. You’ve been out in the sun without your
hat. Oh, Jim, you are so careless!”
For a moment his knees gave way under him, and he swayed visibly as he
stood. “I’m all right, I tell you,” he gasped. “Go and show them your
pictures.”
Monimé’s consternation was not able to be concealed. “Oh, my darling,”
she cried, “you’re feverish! You must go and lie down. I’ll get rid of
these people presently: I’ll tell them you are not well....”
Jim interrupted her. “No, no!—don’t say anything. I assure you it’s
nothing. I’ll be all right in a few minutes. I’ll just sit here quietly.”
He pushed her from him, and obliged her, presently, to leave him; but
no sooner was she gone than he hastened to the _zir_, or large porous
earthenware vessel, which stood at the end of the deck and in which the
“drinks” were kept cool, and, selecting a bottle of whisky, poured a
stiff dose into a tumbler, swallowing the draught in two or three hasty
gulps. Thus fortified, he paced to and fro, staring before him with
unseeing eyes, until Monimé and their guests returned.
His anxiety not to appear ill at ease in the presence of Mr. and Mrs.
Jones led him to talk rapidly upon a variety of disconnected subjects;
but his relief was great when, with umbrellas raised and blue spectacles
adjusted, they took their departure and walked away over the hot sand
towards their own vessel. Thereupon he hastened to assure Monimé that his
indisposition had passed; and soon he had the satisfaction of observing
that her anxieties were allayed. But when she had gone back to her
painting at the temple, he left the dahabiyeh, and, scrambling up the
sand-drift like one demented, went running over the vacant, sun-scorched
plateau at the summit of the cliffs, flinging himself at length upon the
ground, where no eyes save those of the circling vultures might see his
abject misery, and no ears might hear his groans.
In the days which followed he so far mastered his emotions as to give his
wife no great cause for worry; but from time to time he could see in her
troubled face her consciousness that all was not well. On such occasions
the extremity of human wretchedness seemed to be reached, and the weight
upon his heart and mind was almost intolerable.
It was not personal fear of the scaffold that spread this horror along
every nerve and through every vein of his body: it was the thought that
he would not be able to avoid involving Monimé and their son in the
catastrophe, and that not only would he disgrace them, but would alienate
them from him completely. He realized now the enormity of his offence
in holding back from Monimé the truth about his former marriage and in
shutting her out from his confidences.
What would she do when she learnt the facts? Could she possibly
understand and forgive? Would the pain that he was to bring upon her turn
her love into hatred and contempt? Would she, the passionate mother,
forgive the wrong he had done to their son in placing this stigma upon
him?
Thoughts such as these drove him to the brink of madness; and the need
of secrecy and of facing the situation by himself produced an unbearable
sense of loneliness in his mind. He recalled the verse in the Book of
Genesis which reads: “The Lord God said, ‘It is not good that man should
be alone; I will make him an help meet for him.’” If only he could tell
her now, pour out his heart to her, and see in her tender eyes the
overwhelming sweetness of her understanding.... But he dared not: he must
fight this battle alone.
Gradually there developed in his brain the thought of suicide. Were he
now to destroy himself in some manner which would suggest an accident,
it would be Jim Easton who would be laid in the grave, without a stain
upon his public memory; and the lost James Tundering-West, the supposed
murderer, would not be connected in any way with Monimé or Ian. Without
question this was the only solution of the problem; this was the only
honourable course to follow, and follow it he must.
He found In this resolution a means of steadying his mind and of
regaining to some extent his equilibrium. There was a fortnight yet
before their return to the lower reaches of the Nile would bring matters
towards their final phase. Monimé wished to go to Europe as soon as her
work was finished, in order to be with Ian again; and it would not be
necessary for Jim to put an end to himself, therefore, until he came
within reach of the arm of the law. Here at Abu Simbel he could easily
avoid seeing any of his fellow men who might visit the temple from the
tourist steamers; and, fortunately, his friend the police officer at
Shallâl who had helped him to embark on the dahabiyeh, knew him these
many years as Mr. Easton, presumably a resident in Egypt, and would
vouch for him if occasion arose. Very possibly he might reach Cairo or
even the homeward-bound liner without detection. Then, an accidental
fall at midnight from the deck into the sea—and his obligation would be
honourably fulfilled.
Yes, that was it: that was his obligation. For the first time in his
life he understood thoroughly and wholly the meaning of the word. “It is
my duty,” he muttered over and over again. “It is my duty at all costs
to prevent any scandal which would hurt Monimé or Ian.” He had so often
asked himself the meaning of that strange term “duty,” and now he knew.
Love had taught him.
Fortunately, Monimé was very hard at work on the completion of her
paintings, and he was therefore able to go away alone into the desert
for hours at a time, under the pretence of writing his verses, and thus
obtain a respite from the strain of appearing cheerful and normal. The
great untenanted spaces soothed the clamour of his brain; and, wandering
there alone over the golden sand or the shelving rocks, in the blazing
sunlight, between the vacancy of earth and the void of heaven, there
passed into his mind a kind of calmness which remained with him when
Monimé was again at his side.
But the nights were made fearful to him lest in his sleep he should
reveal his secret. He would lie awake hour after hour in the darkness,
while Monimé slept peacefully, her head upon his encircling arm, her
black hair tumbled about his shoulder, her breast against his breast, and
he would not dare to shut his eyes. Sometimes, his weariness overcoming
his will, he would drop into oblivion, only to waken again with a start
which caused her to turn or to mutter in her slumbers. Once he woke up
thus, knowing that he had just uttered the words “Not guilty,” and in an
agony of fear he waited, propped on his elbow, to ascertain whether she
had heard him or not. She was asleep, however, and with beating pulse he
fell back at length upon the pillows, the cold sweat upon his face.
During these days, which he recognized as his last upon earth, he allowed
himself to drown his sorrow in the full flood of his love; and, like the
waves of the sea, he overwhelmed Monimé in the tide of his adoration,
sweeping her along with him so that there were times when the breath of
life seemed to fail them, and the silent rapture of their hearts had
near kinship with the quiescence of death. There were times when it was
as though he were eager to die upon her lips, and so to pass in ecstasy
into the hollow acreage of heaven. There were times when by the might of
his passion he seemed to lift her, clasped in his arms, into the regions
beyond the planets, there to revolve in the exaltation of dream, round
and round the universe, until the sound of the last trump should hurl
their inseparable souls headlong into the abyss of time and space.
But between these spells of enchantment there were periods of deep and
horrible gloom in which he cursed himself for his mistakes, and railed
against man and God.
“How I hate myself!” he muttered. “Life is like a prison cell where you
and your deadly enemy are locked in together.”
Standing at the summit of the cliffs above the temple, he would shake his
fists at the blue depths of the sky, or, with bronzed arms folded, would
stare down at the rippling waters of the Nile, and kick the pebbles over
the precipice. Occasionally, too, he turned for comfort to his guitar;
and at the river’s brink, or in the shade of an acacia tree, he would sit
twanging the strings and singing some outlandish song, his head bent over
the instrument and his dark hair falling over his face.
As the day of their departure drew near these periods of gloom increased
in frequency, and he was often aware that the troubled eyes of his wife
were fixed upon him, while, more than once, she questioned him in regard
to his health. His mirror revealed to him the haggard appearance of his
face, and in order to prevent this becoming too apparent he was obliged
to manœuvre his position so that, when Monimé was facing him, his back
should be to the light.
At length the dreaded hour arrived. Upon the glaring face of the waters
the little puffing steam-tug, which had been ordered by them for this
date, came into sight, bearing down upon them as they sat at breakfast on
deck; and soon it was heading northwards again, towing their dahabiyeh
in its wake towards the First Cataract which marks the frontier of Egypt
proper. For the greater part of the two days’ journey Jim sat listlessly
watching the banks of the river as they glided by; but when at last
Shallâl, their destination, was reached he pulled himself together to
meet the last crisis, and, by the exertion of the power of his will,
managed to appear as a normal being.
They made no halt upon their way; but, after sleeping for the last time
upon their dahabiyeh, moored near the railway station, they transferred
themselves and their baggage to the morning train, and arrived at Luxor
as the sun went down.
When they entered the large hotel where they were to spend the night Jim
hid his face as best he could from the little groups of tourists gathered
about the hall, and, telling Monimé that his head ached, hastened up the
stairs to the room which had been assigned to them.
But as he was about to enter, his destiny descended upon him. A door
further along the passage opened, and a moment later, to his horror,
the fat, well-remembered figure of Mrs. Darling faced him in the bright
illumination of the electric light. He saw her start, he saw her eyes
open wide in surprise, and, with a gasp, he dashed forward into his room,
and slammed the door behind him.
Monimé had preceded him, and her back was turned as he staggered forward
and fell into an armchair, his face as white as the whitewashed walls.
She was busying herself with the baggage, and did not look in his
direction for some moments. When at length she glanced at him he had
nearly recovered from the first force of the shock, and she saw only a
tired man mopping his forehead with his handkerchief.