The felucca was close to the _Loulia_ now. And the doll upon the balcony was once more moving by the rail.
He was certain this doll was Mrs. Armine, and that she was restless for his answer.
The tiny boat joined the dahabeeyah, seemed to become one with it. The doll moved and disappeared. Isaacson put down the gla.s.s.
In his note to Mrs. Armine, the note she was reading at that moment, he had politely accepted her decision, and written that he would look out for them at a.s.souan. He had written nothing about Doctor Hartley, nothing in answer to her postscript. His note had been shorter than hers, rather careless and perfunctory. He had intended, when he was writing it, to convey to her the impression that the whole matter was a trifle and that he took it lightly. But he, too, had put his postscript.
And this was it:
"P.S. I look forward to a real acquaintance with you at a.s.souan."
And now, if he gave the word to the Reis to untie, to pole off, to get out the huge oars, and to cross to the western bank of the river! Soon they would be level with the _Loulia_. A little later the _Loulia_ would lie behind them. A little later still, and she would be out of their sight.
"G.o.d knows when they"ll be at a.s.souan!"
Isaacson found himself saying that. And he felt as if, as soon as the _Fatma_ rounded the bend of the Nile and crept out of sight on her slow way southwards, the _Loulia_ would untie and drop down towards the north. He felt it? He knew it as if he had seen it happen.
"Ha.s.san!"
When Ha.s.san answered, Isaacson bade him tell the Reis that he and his men could rest all the afternoon.
"I"m going to Edfou again. I shall probably spend some hours in the temple."
"Him very fine temple."
"Yes. I shall go alone and on foot."
A few minutes later he set out. He gained the temple, and stayed in it a long time. When he returned to the _Fatma_, the afternoon was waning. In the ethereal distance the _Loulia_ still lay motionless.
"We goin" now?" asked Ha.s.san.
Isaacson shook his head.
"We goin" to-night?"
"I"ll tell you when I want to go. You needn"t keep asking me questions."
The dragoman was getting terribly on Isaacson"s nerves. For a moment Isaacson thought of dismissing him there and then, paying him handsomely and sending him ash.o.r.e now, on the instant. The impulse was strong, but he resisted it. The fellow might possibly be useful. Isaacson looked at him meditatively and searchingly.
"What can I doin" for my gentlemans?"
"Nothing, except hold your tongue."
Ha.s.san retired indignantly.
While he had looked at Ha.s.san, Isaacson had considered a proposition and rejected it. He had thought of sending the dragoman with a note to the _Loulia_. It would be simple enough to invent an excuse for the note.
Ha.s.san might see Nigel--would see Nigel, if a hint were given him to do so. But he would no doubt also see Mrs. Armine; and--if Isaacson"s instinct were not utterly astray in a wilderness of absurdity and error--she would make more use of Ha.s.san than he ever could. The dragoman"s face bore the sign-manual of treachery stamped upon it. And Mrs. Armine would be more clever in using treachery than Isaacson. He appreciated her talent at its full value.
While he had been in the temple of Edfou he had come to a conclusion with himself. Entirely alone in the semi-darkness of the most perfect building, and the most perfectly calm building, that he had ever entered, he had known his own calm and what his instinct told him in it.
Had he not spent those hours in Edfou, possibly he might have denied the insistent voice of his instinct. Now he would heed that voice, certain that it was no unreasonable ear that was listening.
He saw the tapering mast of the _Loulia_ against the thin, magical gold of the sky at sunset. He saw it against the even more magical primrose, pale green, soft red, of the after-glow. He saw it black as ink in the livid spasm of light that the falling night struck away from the river, the land, the sky. And then he saw it no more.
His sailors began to sing a song of the Nile, sitting in a circle around a bowl that had been pa.s.sed from hand to hand. He dined quickly.
Ha.s.san came to ask if he might go ash.o.r.e. He had friends in the native village, and wished to see them. Isaacson told him to go. A minute later, with a swish of skirts, the tall figure vanished over the gangway and up the bank.
The sailors went on singing, throwing back their heads, swaying them, rocking gently to and fro and from side to side. They were happy and intent.
Isaacson let five minutes go by; then he followed Ha.s.san"s example. He crossed the gangway, climbed the bank, and stood still on the flat ground which dominated the river.
The night was warm, almost lusciously warm, and very still. The sky was absolutely clear, but there was no moon, and the river, the flats, the two ranges of mountains that keep the Nile, were possessed by a gentle darkness. As Isaacson stood there, he saw the lights on the _Fatma_ gleaming, he heard the sad and tempestuous singing of his men, and the barking of dogs on hidden houses keeping guard against imagined intruders. When he looked at the lights of the _Fatma_, he realized how the boat stood to him for home. He felt almost desolate in leaving her to adventure forth in the night.
But he turned southwards and looked up-river. Far away--so it seemed, now the night was come--isolated in the darkness, was a pattern of lights. And high above them, apparently hung in air, there was a blue jewel. Isaacson knew it for a lamp fixed against the mast of the _Loulia_. He put his hand down to his hip-pocket. Yes, his revolver was safely there. He lit a cigar, then, moved by an after-thought, threw it away. Its tip hissed as it struck the river. He looked at that blue jewel, at the diaper of yellow below it, and he set out upon his nocturnal journey.
At first he walked very slowly and cautiously. But soon his eyes, which were exceptionally strong-sighted, became accustomed to the gloom, and he could see his way without difficulty. Now and then he looked back, rather as a man going into a tunnel on foot may look back to the orifice which shows the light of day. He looked back to his home. And each time it seemed to have receded from him. And at last he felt he was homeless.
Then he looked back no more, but always forward to the pattern of light that marked where the _Loulia_ lay. And then--why was that?--he felt more homeless still. Perhaps he was possessed by the consciousness of moving towards an enemy. Men feel very differently in darkness and in light. And in darkness their thought of an individual sometimes a.s.sumes strange contours. Now Isaacson"s imagination awoke, and led his mind down paths that were dim and eerie. The blue jewel that hung in air seemed like the cruel eye of a beautiful woman that was watching him as he walked. He felt as if Bella Donna had mounted upon a tower to spy out his progress in the night. With this fancy he played a sort of horrible game, until deep in his mind a conviction grew that Mrs. Armine had actually somehow divined his approach. How? Women have the strangest intuitions. They know things that--to speak by the card--they cannot know.
Surely Bella Donna was upon her tower.
He stopped at the edge of a field of doura. What was the use of going further?
He looked to the north, then turned and looked to the south, comparing the two distances that lay between him and his own boat, between him and the _Loulia_. His mind had said, "If I"m nearer to the _Fatma_ I"ll go back; if I"m nearer to the _Loulia_ I"ll go on." His eyes, keenly judging the distances, told him he was nearer to the _Loulia_ than to his own boat. The die was cast. He went on.
Surely Bella Donna knew it, spied it from her tower.
Now he heard he knew not where, violent voices of fellahin, of many fellahin talking, as it seemed, furiously in the darkness. The noise suggested a crowd roused by some strong emotion. It sounded quite near, but not close. Isaacson stood still, listened, tried to locate it, but could not. The voices rose in the night, kept perpetually at a high, fierce pitch, like voices of men in a frenzy. Then abruptly they failed, as if the night, wearied with their importunity, had fallen upon the speakers and choked them. And the silence, broken only by the faint rustle of the doura, was startling, was almost dreadful.
Isaacson walked more quickly, fixing his eyes on those lights to the south. As he drew near to them, he was conscious of a sort of cold excitement, cold because at its core lay apprehension. When he was very near to them and could distinguish the solidity of the darkness out of which they were shining, he walked slowly, and then presently stood still. And as he stood still the Nubian sailors on the _Loulia_ began to sing the song about Allah which Mrs. Armine had heard from the garden of the Villa Androud on her first evening in Upper Egypt.
First a solo voice, vehement, strange to Western ears, immensely expressive, like the voice of a mueddin summoning the faithful to prayer, cried aloud, "Al-lah! Al-lah! Al-lah!" And this voice was accompanied by a deep and monotonous murmur, and by the ground ba.s.s of the daraboukkeh. Then the chorus of male voices joined in.
As Isaacson stood a little way off on the lonely bank of the Nile in this deserted place--for the _Loulia_ was tied up far from any village, in a desolate reach of the river--he thought that he had never heard till now any music at the same time so pitiless and so sad, so cruel, and yet, at moments, so full of a rough and artless yearning. It seemed heavy with the burthen of fate, of that from which a man cannot escape, though he strive with all his powers and cry out of the very depths of his heart.
Like a great and sombre cloud the East settled down upon Isaacson as he heard that song of the dark people. And as he stood in the cloud something within him responded to these voices, responded to the souls that were behind them.
Once, one morning in London, besieged by the commonplace, he had longed for events, tragic, tremendous, horrible even, if only they were unusual, if only they were such as would lift him into sharp activity.
Had that longing resulted in--now?
He put out one lean, dark hand, and pulled at the heavily podded head of a doura plant. And the voices sang on, and on, and on.
Suddenly, with a sharp and cruel abruptness, they ceased.
"Al--" and silence! The name of the dark man"s G.o.d was executed upon their lips.
Isaacson let go the podded head of the doura. He waited. Then, as the deep silence continued, he went on till the outline of the big boat was distinct before his eyes, till he saw that the blue light was a lamp fixed against an immense mast that bent over and tapered to a delicate point. He saw that, and yet he still seemed to see Bella Donna upon her tower; Bella Donna, the eternal spy, whose beautiful eyes had sought his secrets between the walls of his consulting-room.
Very cautiously he went now. He looked warily about him. But he saw no more upon the bank. It was not high here. Without a long descent he would be able to see into the chambers of the _Loulia_, unless their shutters were closed against the night. It was strange to think that he was close to Nigel, and that Nigel believed him to be in Cleveland Square, unless Mrs. Armine had been frank. Now he saw something moving upon the bank, furtively creeping towards the lights, as if irresistibly attracted, and yet always afraid. It was a wretched pariah dog, starving, and with its yellow eyes fixed upon the thing that contained food; a dog such as that which crept near to Mrs. Armine as she sat in the garden of the villa, while Nigel, above her, watched the stars. As Isaacson came near to it, it shivered and moved away, but not far. Then it sat down and shook. Its ribs were like the ribs of a wrecked vessel.
Isaacson was close to the _Loulia_ now. He could see the balcony in the stern where the doll had moved by the rail. It was lit by one electric burner, and was not closed in with canvas, though there was a canvas roof above it. Beyond it, through two large apertures, Isaacson could see more light that gleamed in a room. He stood still again. Upon the balcony he saw a long outline, the outline of a deckchair with a figure stretched out in it. As he saw this the silence was again broken by music. From the lighted room came the chilly and modern sound of a piano.