Part 43

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 embassy. 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 God! 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 attitude.

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 passed, 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 glass, 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."

The man went away. Slowly the morning passed. Twelve o'clock came, but the messenger did not return. Mrs. Armine had lunch in her room, but she could scarcely eat anything. After lunch she ordered very strong coffee. As she was drinking her second cup, there was a tap on the door. She cried, "Come in," and the messenger reappeared.

"Well?" she said. "Well?"

The man looked at her as if her voice had startled him.

"The gentleman has not come in, ma'am."

"When is he coming in?"

"I don't know, ma'am."

"Is he in Cairo?"

"I don't know, ma'am."

"What do you know? What's the good of you? What are you here for? Go back at once, and find out whether the gentleman is in Cairo or not."

The messenger went out rather hurriedly.

Mrs. Armine was shaking. She had felt inclined to attack the man, to beat him for his stupidity, as slaves are often beaten by their masters when they do wrong. When she was alone, she uttered two or three incoherent exclamations. Her body was burning with a sort of cruel, dry heat. She felt parched all over. An hour passed, and at length she again heard a tap. The messenger came in, and very sulkily said:

"The gentleman was in Cairo last night, ma'am."

"What I want to know is whether he is in Cairo now!" she exclaimed, angrily.

"They don't know, ma'am."

"Don't know! They must know!"

"They don't know, ma'am."

"I tell you they must know!"

"They don't know, ma'am."

She sprang up, tingling. She didn't know what she was going to do, but as she faced him the expression in the messenger's eyes recalled her to a sense of the proprieties. Without another word, she gave him some money and turned her back on him. When she heard the door close, she no longer controlled herself, until suddenly once more she remembered her ravaged face.

She went into her bedroom and after half an hour she came out dressed for driving. She was resolved to go herself to Baroudi's house. After all these months of slavish obedience and of fear, something rose up within her, something that had passed for the moment beyond obedience and even beyond fear, that was fiercely determined, that was reckless of consequences. She engaged a victoria and drove to Baroudi's house. It was on the outskirts of Cairo, near the Nile, on the Island of Gezira. A garden surrounded it, enclosed by high walls and entered by tall gates of elaborately-wrought ironwork. These gates were shut and the coachman pulled up his horses. Inside, on the left, there was a lodge from which there now came a tall Arab. Mrs. Armine got quickly out of the carriage, passed the horses, and stood looking through the gate.

"Is Mahmoud Baroudi in Cairo?" she said, in French.

The Arab said something in Arabic.

"Is Baroudi Effendi in Cairo?" Mrs. Armine said in English.

"Yes, I think," replied the man, in careful English, speaking slowly.

"In the city?"

"I think."

She took her purse, opened it, and gave him some money.

"Where?"

"I dunno."

"When will he be back here?"

"I dunno."

She felt inclined to scream.

"Will he come back to-night, do you think?"

"I dunno. Sometimes stay in Cairo all night."

"But he has not gone away? He is not away from Cairo? He is in Cairo?"

"I s'pose."

They stood for a moment staring at each other through the dividing gate. The man's eyes were absolutely expressionless. He looked as if he were half asleep. Mrs. Armine turned away, and got into the carriage.

"Go back to Shepheard's."

The coachman smacked his whip. The horses trotted.

When she reached Shepheard's, she resolved to spend the whole afternoon upon the terrace. By chance Baroudi might come there. It was not at all improbable. She had heard it said that almost every one who was any one, in Cairo, either came to Shepheard's or might be seen passing by in the afternoon hours. She took an arm-chair near the railing, with a table beside it. She bought papers, a magazine, and sat there, sometimes pretending to read, but always looking, looking, at the men coming up and down the steps, at the men walking and driving by in the crowded street. Tea-time came. She ordered tea. She drank it slowly. Her head was aching. Her eyes were tired with examining so many faces of men. But still she watched, till evening began to fall and within the house behind her the deep note of a gong sounded, announcing the half-hour before dinner. What more could she do? Mechanically she began to gather the papers together. She supposed she must go in. The terrace was almost deserted. She was just about to get up, when two men, one English, the other American, came up the steps and sat down at a table near her. One of these men was Starnworth, whom she did not know, and of whom she had never heard. He ordered an aperitif, and plunged into conversation with his companion. They talked about Cairo. Mrs. Armine sat still and listened. Starnworth began to describe the native quarters. Presently he spoke of the hashish cafe to which he had taken Isaacson. He told his friend where it was. Mrs. Armine heard the name of the street, Bab-el Meteira. Then he spoke of the rich Egyptians who frequented the cafe, and he mentioned the name of Baroudi. Almost immediately afterwards he and his companion got up and strolled into the hotel.

That night, quietly dressed and veiled, Mrs. Armine, accompanied by a native guide, made a pilgrimage into the strange places of the city; stayed long, very long, beneath the blackened roof of the cafe where the hashish was smoked. She was exhausted, yet she felt feverishly, almost crazily alive. She drank coffee after coffee. She watched the dreaming smokers, the dreaming dancers, till she seemed to be living in a nightmare, to be detached from earth and all things she had ever known till now.

But Baroudi did not come. And at last she returned through the dancing quarters, where her sense of nightmare deepened.

Again she did not sleep.

When day came, she felt really ill. Yet her body was still pulsing, her brain was still throbbing, with an activity that was like a fever within her. Directly after breakfast, which she scarcely touched, she again took a carriage and drove to Baroudi's house.

The sleepy Arab met her at the grille, and in an almost trembling voice she made enquiries.

"Gone away," was the reply.

"Gone? Where to?"

"Him gone to Luxor. Him got one dahabeeyah at Luxor."

"Gone to Luxor! When did he go?"

"We know last night."

"Did he get a note I sent him yesterday morning?"

The Arab shook his head.

"Not bin back heeyah at all."

Mrs. Armine telegraphed to the villa, and took the night train back to Luxor.

She arrived in the morning about nine, after another sleepless night. As she drove by the Winter Palace Hotel, she saw a man walking alone upon the terrace, and, to her great surprise, recognized Meyer Isaacson. He saw her--she was certain of that--but he immediately looked away, and did not take off his hat to her. Had she, or had she not, bowed to him? She did not know. But in either case his behaviour was very strange. And she could not understand why he was at the hotel. Had something happened at the villa? Almost before she had had time to wonder, the horses were pulled up at the gate.

She had expected Ibrahim to meet her at the station. But he had not come. Nor did he meet her at the gate, which was opened by the gardener. She nodded in reply to his salutation, hastened across the garden, and came into the house.

"Nigel!" she called out. "Nigel!"

She immediately heard a slow step, and saw her husband coming towards her from the drawing-room. She thought he looked very ill.

"Well, Ruby, you are back," he said.

He held out his hand. His eyes, which were curiously sunken, gazed into hers with a sort of wistful, yearning expression.

"Yes," she said. "I hurried. I couldn't stand Cairo. It was hot and dreadful. And I felt miserable there."

They were standing in the little hall.

"You look fearfully tired--fearfully!" he said.

He was still holding her hand.

Her mouth twisted.

"Do I? It's the two night journeys. I didn't sleep at all."

"And the maid? Did you get one?"

"No. What does it matter?"

Infinitely unimportant to her now seemed such a quest.

"I must sit down," she added. "I'm nearly dead."

She really felt as if her physical powers were failing her. Her legs shook under her.

"Come into the drawing-room. And you must have some breakfast."

He let go her hand. She went into the drawing-room, and she sank down on a sofa. He followed almost immediately.

"Oh!" she said.

She leaned back against the cushions, stretched out her arms, and shut her eyes. All the time she was thinking, "Baroudi is here! Baroudi is here! And I can't go to him; I can't go--I can't go!"

She seemed to see his mighty throat, his eyebrows, slanting upwards above his great bold eyes, his large, muscular hands, his deep chest of an athlete.

She heard Nigel sitting down close to her.

"Why didn't Ibrahim come to the station?" she said, with an effort opening her eyes.

"Oh, I suppose he was busy," Nigel replied.

His voice sounded cautious and uneasy.

"Busy?"

"Yes. He'll bring your breakfast. I've told him to."

Then he was in the house. She felt a slight sense of relief, she scarcely knew why.

The door opened, and Ibrahim came in quietly and carefully with a tray.

"Good mornin' to you, my lady," he said.

"Good morning, Ibrahim."

He set down the tray without noise, stood for a minute as if considering it, then softly went away.

"You'll feel better when you've had breakfast."

"I ought to have had a bath first. But I couldn't wait."

She sat up in front of the little table, and poured out the strong tea. As she did this, she glanced again at her husband and again thought how ill he looked. But she did not remark upon it. She drank some tea, and ate a piece of toast.

"Oh," she said, "as I passed by the Winter Palace, I saw Doctor Isaacson on the terrace."

"Did you?"

"Yes. What's he gone there for this morning?"

"I suppose he's staying there."

Mrs. Armine put down the cup she was lifting to her lips.

"Staying! Doctor Isaacson!" she said, staring at her husband.

"I suppose so."

"But--do you mean he has left here?"

"Yes. He went away last night."

"Why? Why?"

"Why? Well--well, we had a discussion. It ended in a disagreement, and he left the house."

"You quarrelled?"

"Yes, I suppose it might be called that."

In the midst of her exhaustion, her physical misery and mental distraction, Mrs. Armine was conscious of a sharp pang. It was like that of joy.

"Doctor Isaacson has left the house for good?" she said.

"Yes. He won't come here again."

She drank some more tea, and went on eating. For the first time for days she felt some appetite. A shock of fear that had assailed her had passed away. She remembered how Nigel had held her hand closely in the hall.

"But why did you quarrel?" she said, at last.

"Oh, we had a discussion--" He paused.

"I know," she said, "I know! You did what I asked you to do. You spoke about being strong enough now to let Doctor Isaacson go back to London."

"Yes, I did that."

"And about what we owed him?"

"Yes."

"And he was angry?"

"I had been speaking of that; and--Ruby, what do we owe him? I--I must send him a cheque. I must send it to him to-night."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't know. He'll open his mouth very wide, no doubt, now you've quarrelled."

"I think--I'm sure that you wrong him there," Nigel said, slowly.

"Do you think so? Well, I must go up and take a bath. I may be a good while."

"Let me come and sit with you. Shall I? I mean in a few minutes."

"Not just yet. Better try and calculate out your debt to Doctor Isaacson."

She hastened away. Directly she reached her room, she locked the door, went out on to the balcony, and looked across the river to the _Loulia_. She saw the Egyptian flag flying. Was Baroudi on board? She must know, and immediately. She rang the bell, and unlocked the door.

"Ibrahim!" she said, to the Nubian who appeared.

He retreated, and in a moment Ibrahim came, with his soft stride, up the staircase.

"Ibrahim," she almost whispered, "is Baroudi on board the _Loulia_?"

"Yes, my lady."

She could hardly repress an exclamation.

"He is? Ibrahim"--in her astonishment she put one hand on his shoulder and grasped it tightly--"to-night, as soon as dinner is over, you are to have a felucca ready at the foot of the garden. D'you understand?"

He looked at her very seriously.

"Can you manage to row me across to the _Loulia_ without help?"

"My lady, I am as strong as Rameses the Second."

"Very well then! Get a small, light boat. We shall go more quickly in that. How long is Baroudi going to stay?"

"I dunno."

"Try to find out. Is Hamza with him?"

Ibrahim looked vicious.

"Hamza him there. But Hamza very bad boy. I not speak any more to Hamza."

"Don't forget! Directly after dinner."

She shut and relocked the door.

She took a hot bath, let down her hair, got into a wrapper, lay down, and tried to rest. But her body twitched with desire for active movement, almost worn out though she was. Again and again she got up, went out to the terrace, and looked at the _Loulia_. She took her glasses and tried to discern Baroudi on the upper deck. But she could not see him. Presently she pulled a long chair out to the balcony, and was just going to lie down on it when she heard a knock on the door.

"Ruby!"

It was Nigel. She felt inclined to rush across the room, to open the door, to seize him by the shoulders and thrust him out of the house, out of her life for ever.

"Ruby!"

"I am coming!" she said.

She waited an instant, striving for self-control. Every nerve in her body seemed to be quivering.

"The door is locked."

"I know. I'm coming! I'm coming!"

She set her teeth, went to the door, and unlocked it.

"Come in! Come in, your importunate man!"

"Importunate! But I haven't seen you for three nights. And I can't get on without you, Ruby. Thank God, to-night we shall be alone together. After dinner I want you to play to me."