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.