He caught his breath, he paused, then stepped within on tiptoe, and the hush of four thousand years closed after him. Awe stole upon him; he felt himself included in the great ideal of this older day.
The stupendous aisles lent him their vast shelter; the fierce sunlight could not burn his flesh; the air was cool and sweet in these dim recesses of unremembered time. He pa.s.sed his hand with reverence over the drum-shaped blocks that built up the majestic columns, as they reared towards the ma.s.sive, threatening roof. The countless inscriptions and reliefs showered upon his sight bewilderingly.
And he forgot his lesser self in this crowded atmosphere of ancient divinities and old-world splendour. He was aware of kings and queens, of princes and princesses, of stately priests, of hosts and conquests; forgotten G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses trooped past his listening soul; his heart remembered olden wars, and the royalty of golden days came back to him.
He steeped himself in the long, long silence in which an earlier day lay listening with ears of stone. There was colour; there was spendthrift grandeur, half savage, half divine. His imagination, wakened by Egypt, plunged backwards with a sense of strange familiarity. Tom easily found the mightier scale his aching heart so hungrily desired. It soothed his personal anguish with a sense of individual insignificance which was comfort. . . .
The peace was marvellous, an unearthly peace; the strength unwearied, inexhaustible. The power that was Amon lingered still behind the tossed and fabulous ruin. Those soaring columns held up the very sky, and their foundations made the earth itself swing true. The silence, profound, unalterable, was the silence in the soul that lies behind all pa.s.sion and distress. And these steadfast qualities Tom absorbed unconsciously through his very skin. . . . The Wave might fall indeed, but it would fall into the mothering sea where levels must be restored again, secure upon unshakable foundations. . . . And as he paced these solemn aisles, his soul drank in their peace and stillness, their strength of calm resistance. Though built upon the sand, they still endured, and would continue to endure. They pointed to the stars.
And the effect produced upon him, though the adjective was not his, seemed spiritual. There was a power in the mighty ruin that lifted him to an unaccustomed level from which he looked down upon the inner drama being played. He reached a height; the bird"s-eye view was his; he saw and realised, yet he did not judge. The vast structure, by its harmony, its power, its overmastering beauty, made him feel ashamed and mortified.
A sense of humiliation crept into him, melting certain stubborn elements of self that, grown out of proportion, blocked his soul"s clear vision.
That he must stand aside had never occurred to him before with such stern authority; it occurred to him now. The idea of sacrifice stole over him with a sweetness that was deep and marvellous. It seemed that Isis touched him. He looked into the eyes of great Osiris, . . . and that part of him that ever watched--the great Onlooker--smiled.
His being, as a whole, remained inarticulate as usual; no words came to his a.s.sistance. It was rather that he attained--as once before, in another moment of deeper insight--that att.i.tude towards himself which is best described as impersonal. Who was _he_, indeed, that he should claim the right to thwart another"s happiness, hinder another"s best self-realisation? By what right, in virtue of what exceptional personal value, could he, Tom Kelverdon, lay down the law to this other, and say, "Me only shall you love . . . because I happen to love you . . .?"
And, as though to test what of strength and honesty might lie in this sudden exaltation of resolve, he recognised just then the very pylon against whose vast bulk _they_ had rested together that moonlit night a few short weeks before . . . when he saw two rise up like one person . . . as he left them and stole away into the shadows.
"So I knew it even then--subconsciously," he realised. "The truth was in me even then, a few days after my arrival. . . . And they knew it too.
She was already going from me, if not already gone . . .!"
He leaned against that same stone column, thinking, searching in his mind, feeling acutely. Reactions caught at him in quick succession. Doubt, suspicion, anger clouded vision; pain routed the impersonal conception.
Loneliness came over him with the cool wind that stirred the sand between the columns; the patches of glaring sunshine took on a ghastly whiteness; he shivered. . . . But it was not that he lost belief in his moment of clear vision, nor that the impersonal att.i.tude became untrue. It was another thing he realised: that the power of attainment was not yet in him . . . quite. He could renounce, but not with complete acceptance. . . .
As he drove back along the sandy lanes of blazing heat a little later, it seemed to him that he had been through some strenuous battle that had taxed his final source of strength. If his position was somewhat vague, this was due to his inability to a.n.a.lyse such deep interior turmoil.
He was sure, at least, of one thing--that, before he could know this final joy awaiting him, he must first find in himself the strength for what seemed just then an impossible, an ultimate sacrifice. He must forget himself--if such forgetfulness involved the happiness of another.
He must slip out. The strength to do it would come presently. And his heart was full of this indeterminate, half-formed resolve as he entered the shady garden and saw Lettice lying in her deck-chair beneath the trees, awaiting him.
CHAPTER XXIV
Events, however slight, which involve the soul are drama; for once the soul takes a hand in them their effects are permanent and reproductive.
Not alone the relationship between individuals are determined this way or that, but the relationships of these individuals towards the universe are changed upon a scale of geometrical progression. The results are of the eternal order. Since that which persists--the soul--is radically affected, they are of ultimate importance.
Had the strange tie between Tom and Lettice been due to physical causes only, to mental affinity, or to mere sympathetic admiration of each other"s outward strength and beauty, a rupture between them could have been of a pa.s.sing character merely. A pang, a bitterness that lasted for a day or for a year--and the gap would be filled again by some one else.
They had idealised; they would get over it; they were not indispensable to one another; there were other fish in the sea, and so forth.
But with Tom, at any rate, there was something transcendental in their intimate union. Loss, where she was concerned, involved a permanent and irremediable bereavement--no subst.i.tute was conceivable. With him, this relationship seemed foreordained, almost prenatal--it had come to him at the very dawn of life; it had lasted through years of lonely waiting; no other woman had ever threatened its fixed security, and the sudden meeting in Switzerland had seemed to him reunion rather than discovery. Moreover, he had transferred his own sense of security to her; had always credited her with similar feelings; and the suspicion now that he had deceived himself in this made life tremble to the foundations. It was a terrible thought that robbed him of every atom of self-confidence. It affected his att.i.tude to the entire universe.
The intensity of this drama, however, being interior, caused little outward disturbance that casual onlookers need have noticed. He waved his hat as he walked towards the corner where she lay, greeting her with a smile and careless word, as though no shadow stood between them.
A barrier, nevertheless, was there he knew. He _felt_ it almost sensibly.
Also--it had grown higher. And at once he was aware that the Lettice who returned his smile with a colourless "Good morning, Tom, I"m so glad you could come," was not the Lettice who had known a moment"s reaction a little while before. He told by her very att.i.tude that now there was la.s.situde, even weariness in her. Her eyes betrayed none of the excitement and delight that another could wake in her. His own presence certainly no longer brought the thrill, the interest that once it did.
She was both bored and lonely.
And, while an exquisite pain ran through him, he made a prodigious effort to draw upon the strength he had felt in Karnak a short half-hour ago.
He struggled bravely to forget himself. "So Tony"s gone!" he said lightly, "run off and left us without so much as a word of warning or good-bye. A rascally proceeding, I call it! Rather sudden, too, wasn"t it?"
He sat down beside her and began to smoke. She need not answer unless she wanted to. She did answer, however, and at once. She did not look at him; her eyes were on the golden distance. It had to be said; she said it. "He"s only gone for two or three days. His friends suddenly changed their minds, and he couldn"t get out of it. He said he didn"t want to go--a bit."
How did she know it, Tom wondered, glancing up over his cigarette?
And how had she read his mind so easily?
"He just popped in to tell me," she added, "and to say good-bye. He asked me to tell you." She spoke without a tremor, as if Tom had no right to disapprove.
"Pretty early, wasn"t it?" It was not the first time either. "He comes at such unusual hours"--he remembered Mrs. Haughstone"s words.
"I was only just up. But there was time to give him coffee before the train."
She offered no further comment; Tom made none; he sat smoking there beside her, outwardly calm and peaceful as though no feeling of any kind was in him. He felt numb perhaps. In his mind he saw the picture of the breakfast-table beneath the trees. The plan had been arranged, of course, beforehand.
"Miss de Lorne"s coming to lunch," she mentioned presently. "She"s to bring her pictures--the Deir-el-Bahri ones. You must help me criticise them."
So they were not to be alone even, was Tom"s instant thought. Aloud he said merely, "I hope they"re good." She flicked the flies away with her horse-hair whisk, and sighed. He caught the sigh. The day felt empty, uninspired, the boredom of cruel disillusion in it somewhere. But it was the sigh that made him realise it. Avoiding the subject of Tony"s abrupt departure, he asked what she would like to do that afternoon. He made various proposals; she listened without interest. "D"you know, Tom, I don"t feel inclined to do anything much, but just lie and rest."
There was no energy in her, no zest for life; expeditions had lost their interest; she was listless, tired. He felt impatience in him, sharp disappointment too; but there was an alert receptiveness in his mind that noted trifles done or left undone. She made no reference, for instance, to the fact that they might be frequently alone together now. A faint hope that had been in him vanished quickly. . . . He wondered when she was going to speak of her letter, of his conduct the night before that was "beautiful and precious," of the "comfort" she had needed, or even of the dreams that she had mentioned. But, though he waited, giving various openings, nothing was forthcoming. That side of her, once intimately precious and familiar, seemed buried, hidden away, perhaps forgotten.
This was not Lettice--it was some one else.
"You had dreams that frightened you?" he enquired at length. "You said you"d tell them to me." He moved nearer so that he could watch her face.
She looked puzzled for a second. "Did I?" she replied. She thought a moment. "Oh yes, of course I did. But they weren"t much really.
I"d forgotten. It was about water or something. Ah, I remember now--we were drowning, and you saved us." She gave a little unmeaning laugh as she said it.
"Who were drowning?"
"All of us--me and you, I think it was--and Tony----"
"Oh, of course."
She looked up. "Tom, why do you say "of course" like that?"
"It was your old idea of the river and the floating faces, I meant," he answered. "I had the feeling."
"You said it so sharply."
"Did I!" He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I didn"t mean to."
He noticed the beauty of her ear, the delicate line of the nostrils, the long eyelashes. The graceful neck, with the firm, slim line of the breast below, were exquisite. The fairy curve of her ankle was just visible.
He could have knelt and covered it with kisses. Her coolness, the touch of contempt in her voice made him wild. . . . But he understood his role; and--he remembered Karnak.
A little pause followed. Lettice made one of her curious gestures, half impatience, half weariness. She stretched; the other ankle appeared.
Tom, as he saw it, felt something in him burst into flame. He came perilously near to saying impetuously a hundred things he had determined that he must not say. He felt the indifference in her, the coolness, almost the cruelty. Her negative att.i.tude towards him goaded, tantalised.
He was full of burning love, from head to foot, while she lay there within two feet of him, calm, listless, unresponsive, pa.s.sionless. The bitter pain of promises unfulfilled a.s.sailed him acutely, poignantly. Yet in ordinary life the situation was so commonplace. The "strong man" would face her with it, have it out plainly; he would be masterful, forcing a climax of one kind or another, behaving as men do in novels or on the stage.
Yet Tom remained tongue-tied and restrained; he seemed unable to take the lead; an inner voice cried sternly No to all such natural promptings.
It would be a gross mistake. He must let things take their course.
He must not force a premature disclosure. With a tremendous effort, he controlled himself and smothered the rising fires that struggled towards speech and action. He would not even ask a single question. Somehow, in any case, it was impossible.
The subject dropped; Lettice made no further reference to the letter.
"When you feel like going anywhere, or doing anything, you"ll let me know," he suggested presently. "We"ve been too energetic lately.
It"s best for you to rest. You"re tired." The words hurt and stung him as though he were telling lies. He felt untrue to himself. The blood boiled in his veins.