And Tom, not understanding it, tried to shake himself free again; he called up cheerful things to balance it; he thought of his firm position in the world, of his proud partnership, of his security with her he loved, of his zest in life, of the happy prospect immediately in front of him. But, in spite of all, the mood crept upwards like a rising wave, swamping his best resistance, drowning all appeal to joy and confidence. He recognised an unwelcome revival of that earlier nightmare dread connected with his boyhood, things he had decided to forget, and had forgotten as he thought. The mood took him gravely, with the deepest melancholy he had ever known. It had begun so delicately; it became in a little while so determined, it threatened to overmaster him. He turned then and faced it, so to speak.
He looked hard at it and asked of himself its meaning. Thought and emotion in him shuffled with their shadowy feet.
And then he realised that, in germ at any rate, the mood had lain actually a long time in him, deeply concealed--the surface excitement merely froth. He had hidden it from himself. It had been acc.u.mulating, gaining strength and impetus, pausing upon direction only. All the hours just spent at Karnak it had been there, drawing nearer to the surface; this very night, but a little while ago, during the drive home as well; before that even--during all the talks and out-door meals and expeditions; he traced its existence suddenly, and with tiny darts of piercing, unintelligible pain, as far back as Alexandria and the day of his arrival. It seemed to justify the vivid emotions that had marked his entry into Egypt. It became sharply clear now--this had been in him subconsciously since the moment when he read the little letter of welcome Lettice sent to meet him at the steamer, a letter he discovered afterwards was curiously empty. This disappointment, this underlying sadness he had kept hidden from himself: he now laid it bare and recognised it. He faced it. With a further flash he traced it finally to the journey in the Geneva train when he had read over the Warsaw and the Egyptian letters.
And he felt startled: something at the roots of his life was trembling. He tried to think. But Tom was slow; he could feel, but he could not dissect and a.n.a.lyse. Introspection with him invariably darkened vision, led to distortion and bewilderment. The effort to examine closely confused him. Instead of dissipating the emotion he intensified it. The sense of loneliness grew inexplicably--a great, deep loneliness, a loneliness of the spirit, a loneliness, moreover, that it seemed to him he had experienced before, though when, under what conditions, he could not anywhere remember.
His former happiness was gone, the false excitement with it.
This freezing loneliness stole in and took their places.
Its explanation lay hopelessly beyond him, though he felt sure it had to do with this haunted and mysterious land where he now found himself, and in a measure with her, even with Tony too. . . .
The hint Egypt dropped into him upon his arrival was a true one--he had slipped over an edge, slipped into something underneath, below him--something past. But slipped _with her_. She had come back to fetch him. They had come back to fetch--each other . . . through pain. . . .
And a shadow from those sombre Theban mountains crept, as it were, upon his life. He knew a sinking of the heart, a solemn, dark presentiment that murmured in his blood the syllables of "tragedy."
To his complete amazement--at first he refused to believe it indeed-- there came a lump into his throat, as though tears must follow to relieve the strain; and a moment later there was moisture, a perceptible moisture, in his eyes. The sadness had so swiftly pa.s.sed into foreboding, with a sense of menacing tragedy that oppressed him without cause or explanation. Joy and confidence collapsed before it like a paper platform beneath the pressure of a wind. His feet and hands were cold. He shivered. . . .
Then gradually, as he stood there watching the calm procession of the stars, he felt the ominous emotion draw down again, retreat.
Deep down inside him whence it came, it retired into a kind of interior remoteness that lay beyond his reach. It was incredible and strange. The intensity had made it seem so real. . . . For, while it lasted, he had felt himself bereft, lonely beyond all telling, outcast, lost, forgotten, wrapped in a cold and desolate misery that frightened him past all belief. The hand that lit his pipe still trembled. But the mood had pa.s.sed as mysteriously as it came.
It left him curiously shaken in his heart. "Perhaps this too,"-- thought murmured from some depth in him he could neither control nor understand--"perhaps this too is--Egypt."
He went to bed, emotion all smoothed out again, yet wondering a good deal at himself. For the odd upheaval was a new experience. Such an attack had never come to him before; he laughed at it, called it hysteria, and decided that its cause was physical; he persuaded himself that it had a very ba.n.a.l cause--a chill, even a violent chill, incipient fever and over-fatigue at the back of it. He smiled at himself, while obeying the loving orders he had received, and brewing the comforting hot mixture with his spirit-lamp.
Then drinking it, he looked round the room with satisfaction at the various evidences of precious motherly care. This mother-love restored his happiness by degrees. His more normal, stolid, unimaginative self climbed back into its place again--yet with a touch of awkwardness and difficulty. Something in him was changed, or changing; he had surprised it in the act.
The nature of the change escaped him, however. It seemed, perhaps-- this was the nearest he could get to it--that something in him had weakened, some sense of security, of confidence, of self-complacency given way a little. Only it was not his certainty of the mother-love in her: that remained safe from all possible attack. A tinge of uneasiness still lay like a shadow on his mind--until the fiery spirit chased it away, and a heavy sleep came over him that lasted without a break until he woke two hours after sunrise.
CHAPTER XVII
He sprang from his bed, went to the open window and thrust his head out into the crystal atmosphere. It was impossible to credit the afflicting nightmare of a few hours ago. Gold lay upon the world, and the face of Egypt wore her great Osirian look.
In the air was that tang of mountain-tops that stimulated like wine.
Everything sparkled, the river blazed, the desert was a sheet of burnished bronze. Light, heat, and radiance pervaded the whole glad morning, bathing even his bare feet on the warm, soft carpet. It was good to be alive. How could he not feel happy and unafraid?
The change, perhaps, was sudden; it certainly was complete. . . .
These vivid alternations seemed characteristic of his whole Egyptian winter. Another self thrust up, sank out of sight, then rose again.
The confusion seemed almost due to a pair of competing selves, each gaining the upper hand in turn--sometimes he lived both at once. . . .
The uneasy mood, at any rate, had vanished with the darkness, for nothing sad or heavy-footed could endure amid this dancing exhilaration of the morning. Born of the brooding night and mournful hills, his recent pain was forgotten.
He dressed in flannels, and went his way to the house upon the Nile soon after nine o"clock; he certainly had no chill, there was only singing in his heart. The curious change in Lettice, it seemed, no longer troubled him. And, finding Tony already in the garden, they sat in the shade and smoked together while waiting for their hostess. Light-hearted as himself, Tony outlined various projects, to which the other readily a.s.sented. He persuaded himself easily, if recklessly; the work could wait. "We simply must see it all together," Tony urged. "You can go back to a.s.souan next week. You"ll find everything all right. Why hurry off?"
. . . How his cousin had improved, Tom was thinking; his tact was perfect; he asked no awkward questions, showed no inquisitiveness.
He just a.s.sumed that his companions had a right to be fond of each other, while taking his own inclusion in the collective friendship for granted as natural too.
And when Lettice came out to join them, radiant in white, with her broad sun-hat and long blue veil and pretty gauntlet gloves, Tony explained with enthusiasm at the beauty of the picture: "She"s come into her own out here with a vengeance," he declared. "She ought to live in Egypt always.
It suits her down to the ground." Whereupon Tom, pleased by the spontaneous admiration, whispered proudly to himself, "And she is mine-- all mine!" Tony"s praise seemed to double her value in his eyes at once.
So Tony, too, was aware that she had changed; had noted the subtle alteration, the enhancement of her beauty, the soft Egyptian transformation!
"You"d hardly take her for European, I swear--at a distance--now, would you?"
"N-no," Tom agreed, "perhaps you wouldn"t----" at which moment precisely the subject of their remarks came up and threw her long blue veil across them both with the command that it was time to start.
The following days were one long dream of happiness and wonder spent between the sunlight and the stars. They were never weary of the beauty, the marvel, and the mystery of all they saw. The appeal of temple, tomb, and desert was so intimate--it seemed instinctive. The burning sun, the scented winds, great sunsets and great dawns, these with the palms, the river, and the sand seemed a perfect frame about a perfect picture.
They knew a kind of secret pleasure that was satisfying. Egypt harmonised all three of them. And if Tom did not notice the change increasing upon one of them, it was doubtless because he was too much involved in the general happiness to see it separate.
There came a temporary interruption, however, in due course--his conscience p.r.i.c.ked him. "I really must take a run up to a.s.souan," he decided. "I"ve been rather neglecting things perhaps. A week at most will do it--and then for another ten days" holiday again!"
The rhythm broke, as it were, with a certain suddenness. A rift came in the collective dream. He saw details again--saw them separate. And the day before he left a trifling thing occurred that forced him to notice the growth of the change in Lettice. He focussed it. It startled him a little.
The others had not sought to change his judgment. But they planned an all-night bivouac in the desert for his return; they would sleep with blankets on the sand, cook their supper upon an open fire, and see the dawn. "It"s an exquisite experience," said Tony. "The stars fade quickly, there"s a puff of warmer wind, and the sun comes up with a rush.
It"s marvellous. I"ll get de Lorne and his sister to join us; he can tell stories round the fire, and perhaps she will get inspiration at last for her awful pictures." Madame Jaretzka laughed. "Then we must have Lady Sybil too," she added; "de Lorne may find courage to propose to her fortune at last." Tom looked up at her with a momentary surprise.
"I declare, Lettice, you"ve grown quite worldly; that"s a very cynical remark and point of view."
He said it teasingly, but it was this innocent remark that served to focus the change in her he had been aware of vaguely for a long time. She was more worldly here, the ordinary "woman" in her was more in evidence: and while he rather liked it--it brought her more within his reach, as it were, yet without lowering her--he felt also puzzled. Several times of late he had surprised this wholesome sign of s.e.x in things she said and did, as though the woman-side, as he called it, was touched into activity at last. It added to her charm; at the same time it increased his burning desire to possess her absolutely for himself. What he felt as the impersonal--almost spiritually elusive--aspect of her he had first known, was certainly less in evidence. Another part of her was rising into view, if not already in the ascendant. The burning sun, the sensuous colour and beauty of the Egyptian climate, he had heard, could have this physiological effect. He wondered.
"Sybil has been waiting for him to ask her ever since I came out," he heard her saying with a gesture almost of impatience. "Only he thinks he oughtn"t to speak because he"s poor. The result is she"s getting bolder in proportion as he gets more shy."
They all laughingly agreed to help matters to a climax when Tom, looking up suddenly, saw Madame Jaretzka smiling at his cousin with her eyelids half closed in the way he once disliked but now adored. He wondered suddenly how much Tony liked her; the improvement in him was a.s.suredly due to her, he felt; Tony had less and less time now for his other friends.
It occurred to him for a second that the change in her was greater than he quite knew, perhaps. He watched them together for some moments. It gave him a proud sense of pleasure to feel that her influence was making a man out of the medley of talent and irresponsibility that was Tony. Tony was learning at last to "find himself." It must be quite a new experience for him to know and like a woman of her sort, almost a discovery. But with a flash--too swift and fleeting to be a definite thought--Tom was conscious of another thing as well--and for the first time: "How she would put him in his place if he attempted any liberties with her!"
The same second he was ashamed that such a notion could ever have occurred to him: it was mean towards Tony, ungenerous towards her; and yet--he was aware of a distinct emotion, a touch of personal triumph in it somewhere. . . .
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden tumult. There was a scurry; Tony flung a stone; Madame Jaretzka leaped upon a boulder, gathering her skirts together hurriedly, with a little scream. "Kill it, Tony! Quick!"
he heard her cry. And he saw then a very large and hairy spider crawling swiftly across the white paper that had wrapped their fruit and sandwiches, an ugly and distressing sight. "It"s a tarantula," she screamed, half laughing, half alarmed, showing neat ankles as she balanced precariously upon her boulder, "and it"s coming at me. Quick, Tony, another stone," as he missed it for the second time, "it"s making for me!
Oh, kill it, kill it!" Tony, still aiming badly, a.s.sured her it was not a tarantula, nor poisonous even; he knew the species well. "It"s quite harmless," he cried, "there"s no need to kill it. It"s not in a house----" And he flung another useless stone at it.
What followed happened very quickly, in a second or two at most.
Tom saw it with sharp surprise, a curious distaste, almost with a shudder.
It certainly astonished him, and in another sense it shocked him.
He had done nothing himself because Lettice, he thought, was half in fun, making a diversion out of nothing. Only much later did it occur to him that she had turned instinctively to Tony for protection, rather than to himself. What caused him the unpleasant sensation, however, was that she deliberately stepped down from her perch of safety and kicked at the advancing horror. Probably her intention was merely to drive it away--she was certainly excited--but the result was that she set her foot upon the creature and crushed its life out with an instant"s pressure of her dainty boot. "There!" she cried. "Oh, but I didn"t mean to kill it!
How frightful of me!"
He heard Tony say, "Bravo, you _are_ a brave woman! Such creatures have no right to live!" as he hid the disfigured piece of paper beneath some stones . . . and, after a few minutes" chatter, the donkey-boys had packed up the luncheon things and they were all on their way towards the next object of their expedition, as though nothing had happened. The entire incident had occupied a moment and a half at most. Madame Jaretzka was laughing and talking as before, gay as a child and pretty as a dream.
In Tom"s mind, however, it went on happening--over and over again.
He could not at once clean his mind of a disagreeable impression that remained. Another woman, any woman for that matter, might have done what she did without leaving a trace in him of anything but a certain admiration. It was a perfectly natural thing. The creature probably was poisonous as well as hideous; Tony merely said the contrary to calm her; moreover, he gave no help, and the insect was certainly making hurriedly towards her--she had to save and protect herself. There was nothing in the incident beyond an ugliness, a pa.s.sing second of distress; and yet-- this was what remained with him--it was not a natural thing for "Lettice"
to have done. Her intention, no doubt, was otherwise; there was miscalculation as well. She had only meant to frighten the scurrying creature. Yet at the same time the instinctive act issued, he felt, from another aspect, another part of her, a part that in London, in Montreux, lay unexpressed and unawakened. And it issued deliberately too.
The exquisite tenderness that could not have put a fly to death was less in her. Egypt had changed her oddly. He was aware of something that made him shrink, though he did not use the phrase even to himself in thought; of something hard and almost cruel, though both adjectives lay far from clothing the faint sensation in his mind with definite words.
Tom watched her instinctively from that moment, unconsciously, that is; less with his eyes than with a little pair of gla.s.ses in his heart.
There was certainly a change in her that he could not quite account for; the notion came to him once or twice that some influence was upon her, some power that was outside herself, modifying the sharp outlines of her first peculiar tenderness. These dear outlines blurred a trifle in the fierce sunlight of this desert air. He knew not how to express it even to himself, for it was too tenuous to seize in actual words.
He arrived at this partial conclusion anyhow: that he was aware of what he called the "woman" in her, but a very human woman--a certain wilfulness that was half wildness in it. There was a hint of the earthly, too, as opposed to spiritual, though in a sense that was wholesome, good, entirely right. Yet it was rather, perhaps, primitive than earthly in any vulgar meaning. . . . It had been absent or dormant hitherto. She needed it; something--was it Egypt? was it s.e.x?--had stirred it into life. And its first expression--surprising herself as much as it surprised him--had an aspect of exaggeration almost.
The way she raced their donkeys in her sand-cart on the way home, by no means sparing the whip, was extremely human, but unless he had witnessed it he could never have pictured it as possible--so utterly unlike the gentle, gracious, almost fastidious being he had known first. There was a hint of a darker, stronger colour in the pattern of her being now, partly of careless and abundant spirits, partly of this new primitive savagery.
He noticed it more and more, it was both repellant and curiously attractive; yet, while he adored it in her, he also shrank. He detected a touch even of barbaric vanity, and this singular touch of the barbaric veiled the tenderness. He almost felt in her the power to inflict pain without flinching--upon another. . . .
The following day their time of gaiety was to end, awaiting only his return later from a.s.souan. Tony was going down to Cairo with some other friends. Tom would be away at least a week, and tried hard to persuade his cousin to come with him instead; but Tony had given his word, and could not change. Moreover, he was dining with his friends that very night, and must hurry off at once. He said his good-byes and went.