"You--you liar! You d.a.m.nable liar!"
He spoke slowly, in a low, husky voice.
"That you hated her, I knew that! She told me that. But that you--that you should dare to--"
His voice broke, and he stopped. He leaned forward in his chair and made a gesture.
"Go!" he said. "Get out! If I--if I were myself, I"d put you out."
But Isaacson did not move. He felt no anger, nothing but a supreme pity for this man who could not see, could not understand the truth of a nature with which he had held commune for so long, and, as he in his blindness believed, in such a perfect intimacy. There was to the Doctor something shocking in such blindness, in such ignorance. But there was something beautiful, too. And to destroy beauty is terrible.
"If I am to go, you must hear me first," he said, quietly.
"I won"t hear you--not one word!"
Again there was the gesture towards the door.
"I have saved your life," Isaacson said. "And you shall hear me!"
And then, without waiting for Nigel to speak again, very quietly, very steadily, and with a great simplicity he told him what he had to tell.
He did not, even now, tell him all. He kept secret the visit of Mrs.
Chepstow to his consulting-room, and her self-revelation there. And he did not mention Baroudi. At this moment of crisis the man bred up in England fought against the Eastern Jew within Isaacson, and the Eastern Jew gave way. But he described his visits to the Savoy, how the last time he had gone with the resolution to beg Mrs. Chepstow not to go to Egypt, not to link herself with his friend; how he had begun to speak, and how her cold irony, pitiless and serene, had shown him the utter futility of his emba.s.sy. Then he came on to the later time, after the marriage and the departure, when he received his friend"s letter describing his happiness and his wonderful health, when he received soon afterwards that other letter from the lady patient, speaking of Nigel"s "extraordinary colour." He told how in London he had put those letters side by side and had compared them, and how some strong instinct of trouble and danger had driven him, almost against his will, to Egypt, had bound him to silence about his arrival. Then on the terrace at Shepheard"s an acquaintance casually met had increased his fears. And so, in his quick, terse, unembroidered narrative, almost frightfully direct, he reached the scene in the temple of Edfou. From that moment he spared Nigel no detail. He described Mrs. Armine"s obvious terror at his appearance; her lies, her omission to tell him her husband was ill until she realized that he--Isaacson--had already heard of the illness in Luxor; her pretence that his dangerous malady was only a slight indisposition caused by grief at the death of Lord Harwich; her endeavor to prevent Isaacson from coming on board the _Loulia_; the note she had sent by the felucca; his walk by night on the river bank till he came to the dahabeeyah, his eavesdropping, and how the words he overheard decided him to insist on seeing Nigel; the interview with Mrs. Armine in the saloon, and how he had forced his way, by a stratagem, to the after part of the vessel. Then he told of the contest with Doctor Hartley, already influenced by Mrs. Armine, and of the final victory, won--how?
By a threat, which could only have frightened a guilty woman.
"I told Mrs. Armine that either I took charge of your case or that I communicated with the police authorities. Then, and only then, she gave way. She let me come on board to nurse you back to life."
"How could you have known?" Nigel exclaimed, with intensely bitter defiance, when at last a pause came. "Even if it had been true, how could you have known?"
"I did not know. I suspected. To save you, I drew a bow at a venture, and I hit the mark. Your illness has been caused by the administration, through a long period of time, of minute doses of some preparation of lead--almost impalpable doubtless, perhaps not to be distinguished from the sand that is blown from the desert. And Mrs. Armine either herself gave or caused it to be given to you."
"Liar! Liar!"
"Did she ever herself give you food? Did she ever prepare your coffee?"
Nigel started up in his chair with a furious spasm of energy.
"Go! Go!" he uttered, in a sort of broken shout or cry. His face was yellowish white. His mouth was working.
"By G.o.d! I"ll put you out!"
Grasping the arms of his chair, he stood up and he advanced upon Isaacson.
"I"ll go. But I"ll leave you that!"
And Isaacson drew from his pocket the letter Mrs. Armine had sent by the felucca, and laid it on the coffee-table.
Then he turned quickly, and went away through the dark garden.
Before he was out of sight of the house, he looked back. Nigel had sunk upon his chair in a collapsed att.i.tude.
From the western bank of the Nile came the shrill, attenuated sound of the pipes, the deep throbbing of the daraboukkeh, the nasal chant of the Nubians.
And the lights of the _Loulia_ were like a line of fiery eyes staring across the Nile.
XLIII
When Mrs. Armine got into the night train at Luxor, heard the whistle of the engine, felt the first slow movement of the carriage, then the gradually increasing velocity, saw the houses of the village disappearing, and presently only the long plains and the ranges of mountains to right and left, hard and clear in the evening light, she had a moment of almost savage exultation, as of one who had been in great danger suddenly and unexpectedly escaping into freedom.
At last she was alone, unwatched by the eyes of affection and of perhaps menacing suspicion and even hatred. How had she endured so long? She wondered, and could scarcely tell where she had found her courage. But though now she felt exultation, she felt also the tremendous strain she had undergone. She knew that her nerves were shattered. Only in happiness could she recover. She must have the life she wanted, and she must have it now. Otherwise she was "done for." Was she going to have it?
And soon the exultation pa.s.sed, and again fear beset her. Even if she found Baroudi in Cairo, what reception would she have at his hands?
With anxious fingers she took out of her dressing-case the gilded box he had given her, and opened the lid. But, having opened it, she dared not look at herself in the gla.s.s, and she shut it sharply, replaced it in the case, and leaned back in her corner.
"I won"t bother," she said to herself; "I won"t worry. To-night I must sleep. I must look my best to-morrow. Everything now may depend on how I look when I get to Cairo."
And she shut her eyes with the determination to be calm, to be tranquil.
And soon she went to bed, determined to sleep.
But of course she did not sleep. Quietly, then angrily, she strove to lay hold on sleep. But it would not come to her wooing. The long hours of darkness wore gradually away; the first pale light of the new day crept in to the rocking carriage; the weary woman who had been tossing and turning from side to side, in a sort of madness of restrained and attenuated movement, sat up against her crushed pillow, and knew that there was probably some new line on her face, an accentuation of the sharpness of the cheek-bones, a more piteous droop at the corners of the mouth.
As she sat there, with her knees drawn up and her hands hanging, she felt that she was uglier than she had been only the day before.
When the train reached Cairo, she pulled down her veil, got out, and drove to Shepheard"s. She knew an address that would find Baroudi in Cairo, if he were there, and directly she was in her room she sat down and wrote a note to him.
"Shepheard"s Hotel, Tuesday morning.
"I have come to Cairo for a day"s shopping. Can I see you? If so, please tell me where and at what hour.
"Ruby Armine."
She wrote in French, sealed the envelope, and told the waiter to have it taken at once by a messenger. Then she ordered coffee and rolls to be sent in half an hour, and took a hot bath. How she wished that she had a clever maid with her! It was maddening to have no help except that of a clumsy Swiss housemaid, and she now saw, with horror, that she was haggard. She scarcely recognized her own face. Instead of looking younger than she was, it seemed to her now that she looked older, much older. She was shocked by her appearance.
But she had had a night journey and had not slept, and every woman looks old after a night journey. She would be all right when she had rested. On arriving she had engaged a sitting-room. She went into it and had breakfast, then asked for newspapers, and lay down on the sofa to read. At every moment she expected the return of her messenger to Baroudi. He came at last.
"Have you brought a note?" she asked, starting up on the sofa.
The messenger said no; the gentleman was not in.
"Did you leave the note?"
"Yes, ma"am."
"You can go back presently. Go back at twelve, and see if the gentleman has come in. He may come in for lunch. Stay till lunch-time and see. I want an answer."