The Wave: An Egyptian Aftermath Part 44

The fiery red of insensate anger burst into flames, filled his throat to choking, set his paralysed muscles free with uncontrollable energy.

This savage l.u.s.t of murder caught him. The shuffling went faster, faster. . . . He turned and faced the eyes. He would kill--rather than see her touched by those great hands. It seemed he made the leap of a wild animal upon its prey. . . .

Fire flashed . . . then pa.s.sed, before he knew it, from red to shining amber, from sullen crimson into purest gold, from gold to the sheen of dazzling whiteness. The change was instantaneous. His leap was arrested in mid-air. The red wrath pa.s.sed amazingly, forgotten or trans.m.u.ted.

With a miraculous swiftness he was aware of understanding, of sympathy, of forgiveness. . . . The red light melted into white--the white of glory.

The murder faded from his heart, replaced by a deep, deep glow of peace, of love, of infinite trust, of complete comprehension. . . . He accepted something marvellously. . . He forgot--himself. . . .

The eyes faded, the gold, the raiment, the perfume vanished, the sound died away. He no longer shuffled upon yielding sand. There was solid ground beneath his feet. . . . He was standing alert and upright, his arms outstretched to save--Tony from collapse upon the sliding dune.

And the sandy wind drove blindingly against his face and skin.

The three of them stood side by side, holding to each other, laughing, choking, spluttering, heads bent and eyes closed tightly. Tom found his cousin's hand in his own, clutching it firmly to keep his balance, while behind himself--against his 'straight back,' he realised, even while he choked and laughed--Lettice clung for shelter. Tom, therefore, actually _had_ leaped forward--but to protect and not to kill. He protected both of them. This time, however, it was to himself that Lettice clung, instead of to another.

The violent gust pa.s.sed on its way, the flying cloud of sand subsided, settling down on everything. For a moment they stood there rubbing their eyes, shaking their clothing free; then raising their heads cautiously, they looked about them. The air was still and calm again, but in the distance, already a mile away and swiftly travelling across the luminous waste, they saw the miniature whirlwind driving furiously, leaping from ridge to ridge. It swept over the innumerable dunes, lifting the series, one crest after another, into upright waves upon a yellow shimmering sea, then scattering them in a cloud that shone and glinted against the fiery sunset. Its track was easily marked. They watched it. . . .

Tony was the first to recover breath.

'Whew!' he cried, still spluttering, 'but that was sudden! It took me clean off my feet for a moment. I got your hand, Tom, only just in time to save myself!' He shook himself, the sand was down his back and in his hair, his shoes were full of it. 'There'll be another any minute now-- another whirlwind--we'd better be starting.' He began packing up busily, shouting as he did so to the donkey-boys. 'By Jove!' he cried the next second, 'look what's happened to our dune!'

Tom, who was on his knees, helping Lettice shake her skirts free, rose to look. The high, curving bank of sand where they had sheltered had indeed changed its shape; the entire ridge had been flattened by the wind; the crest had been lifted and carried away, scattered in all directions.

The wave-outline of two minutes before no longer existed, it had broken, fallen over, melted back into the surrounding sea of desert whence it rose. . . .

'It's disappeared!' exclaimed Tom and Lettice in the same breath.

The boys arrived with the animals and sand-cart; the baskets were quickly arranged, Tony mounted, Tom helped Lettice in. She leaned heavily on his arm and shoulder. It was in this moment's pause before the actual start that Lettice turned her head suddenly as though listening. The air, motionless again, extraordinarily heated, hung in a dull and yet transparent curtain between them and the sinking sun. The entire heavens seemed to form a sounding-board, the least vibration resonant beneath its stretch.

'Listen!' she exclaimed. She had uttered no word till now. She looked down at Tom, then looked away again.

They turned their heads in the direction where she pointed, and Tom caught a faint, distant sound as of little strokes that fell thudding on the heavy air. Tony declared he heard nothing. The sound repeated itself rapidly, but at rhythmic intervals; it was unpleasant somewhere, a hint of alarm and menace in the throbbing note--ominous as though it warned.

In the pulse of the blood it seemed, like the beating of the heart, Tom thought. It came to him almost through the pressure of her hand upon his shoulder, although his ear told him it came from the horizon where the Theban Hills loomed through the coming dusk, just visible, but shadowy.

The muttering died away, then ceased, but not before he suddenly recalled an early morning hour beside a mountain lake, when months ago the thud of invisible paddle-wheels had stolen upon him through the quiet air. . . .

'A drum,' he heard Lettice murmur. 'It's a native drum in Thebes.

My little dream! How the sound travels too! And how it multiplies!'

She peered at Tom through half-closed eyelids. 'It must be at least a dozen miles away . . .!' She smiled faintly, then dropped her eyes quickly.

'Or a dozen centuries,' he replied, not knowing quite why he said it.

'And more like a thousand drums than only one!' He smiled too.

For another part of him, beyond capture somehow, knew what he meant, knew also why he smiled--knew also that _she_ knew.

'It frightens me! It's horrible. It sounds like death!' And though she whispered the words, more to herself than to the others, Tom heard each syllable.

The sound died away into the distance, and then ceased.

Then Tony, watching them both, but, unable to hear anything himself, called out again impatiently that it was time to start, that Tom had a train to catch, that any minute the real, big wind might be upon them.

The hand slowly, half lingeringly, left Tom's shoulder. They started rapidly with a kind of flourish. In a thin, black line the small procession crept across the immense darkening desert, like a strip of life that drifted upon a sh.o.r.eless ocean. . . .

The sun sank down below the Libyan sands. But no awful wind descended.

They reached home safely, exhausted and rather silent. The two hours seemed to Tom to have pa.s.sed with a dream-like swiftness. The stars were shining as they clattered down the little Luxor street. In a dream, too, he went to the hotel to change, and fetch his bag; in a dream he stood upon the platform, held Tony's hand, held the soft hand of Lettice, said good-bye . . . and watched the station lights glide past as he left them standing there together, side by side.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

One incident, however,--trivial, yet pregnant with significant revelation,--remained vividly outside the dream. The Play behind broke through, as it were; an actor forgot his role, and involved another actor; for an instant the masquerade tripped up, and merged with the commonplace reality of daily life. Explicit disclosure lay in the trifling matter.

They supplied a touch of comedy, but of rather ghastly comedy, ludicrous and at the same time painful--those smart, new yellow gloves that Tony put on when he climbed into the sand-cart and took the reins. His donkey had gone lame, he abandoned it to the boys behind, he climbed in to drive with Lettice. Tom, riding beside the cart, witnessed the entire incident; he laughed as heartily as either of the others; he felt it, however, as _she_ felt it--a new sudden spiritual proximity to her proved this to him.

Both shrank--from something disagreeable and afflicting. The hands looked somehow dreadful.

For the first time Tom realised the physiognomy of hands--that hands, rather than faces, should be photographed; not merely that they seemed now so large, so spread, so ugly, but that somehow the glaring canary yellow subtly emphasised another aspect that was distasteful and unpleasant--an undesirable aspect in their owner. The cotton was atrocious. So obvious was it to Tom that he felt pity before he felt disgust. The obnoxious revelation was so palpable. He was aware that he felt ashamed--for Lettice. He stared for a moment, unable to move his eyes away.

The next second, lifting his glance, he saw that she, too, had noticed it.

With a flash of keen relief, he was aware that she, like himself, shrank visibly from the distressing half-sinister revelation that was betrayal.

The hands, cased in their ridiculous yellow cotton, had physiognomy.

Upon the pair of them, just then, was an expression not to be denied: of furtiveness, of something sly and unreliable, a quality not to be depended on through thick and thin, able to grasp for themselves but not to hold--for others; eager to take, yet incompetent to give. The hands were selfish, mean and unprotective. It was a remarkable disclosure of innate duality hitherto concealed. Their physiognomy dropped a mask the face still wore. The hands looked straight at Lettice; they a.s.sumed a sensual leer; they grinned.

'One second,' Tony cried, 'the reins hurt my fingers,'--and had drawn from his pocket the gloves and quickly slipped them on--canary yellow--cotton!

'Oh, oh!' exclaimed Lettice, 'but how can you! It's ghastly . . . for a man . . .!' She stared a moment, as though fascinated, then turned her eyes away, flicking the whip in the air and laughing--a trifle nervously.

Why the innocent, if vulgar, sc.r.a.ps of clothing should have been so revealing was hard to say. That they were incongruous and out of place in the Desert was surely an inconsiderable thing, that they were possibly in bad taste was of even less account. It was something more than that.

It came in a second of vivid intuition--so, at least, it seemed to Tom, and therefore perhaps to Lettice too--that he saw his cousin's soul behind the foolish detail. Tony had put his soul upon his hands--and the hands were somewhere cheap and worthless.

So difficult was it to catch the elusive thought in language, that Tom certainly used none of the adjectives that flashed unbidden across his mind; he a.s.suredly thought neither of 'coa.r.s.e,' 'untrustworthy,' nor of 'false' or 'nasty'--yet the last named came probably nearest to expressing the disquieting sensation that laid its instant pressure upon his nerves, then went its way again. It was disturbing in a very searching way; he felt uneasy for _her_ sake. How could he leave her with the owner of those hands, the wearer of those appalling yellow cotton gloves!

The laughter in him was subtle mockery. For, of course, he laughed at himself for such an absurd conclusion. . . . Yet, somehow, those gloves revealed the man, betrayed him mercilessly! The hands were naked--they were stained.

It was just then that her exclamation of disapproval interrupted Tom's curious sensations. It came with welcome. 'Thank Heavens!' a voice cried inside him. . . . 'She feels it too!'

'But my sister sent them to me,' Tony defended himself, 'sent them from London. They're the latest thing at home!' He was laughing at himself.

At the same time he was shifting the responsibility as usual.

Lettice laughed with him then, though her laughter held another note that was not merriment. He felt disgust, resentment in her. There was no pity there. Tony had missed a cue--the entire Play was blocked.

The 'hero' stirred contempt in place of admiration. But more--the incident confirmed, it seemed, much else that had preceded it. Her eyes were opened.

The conflict of pain and joy in Tom was most acute. His entire sacrifice--for an instant--trembled in a hair-like balance. For the capital role stood gravely endangered in her eyes.

'Take them off, Tony! Put them away! Hide them! I couldn't trust you to drive me with such things on your hands. A man in yellow canary cotton!'

All three laughed together, and Tom, watching the trivial incident, as he rode beside them, saw her seize one hand and pull the glove off by the fingers. It seemed she tore a mask from one side of his face--the face beneath was disfigured. The glove fell into the bottom of the cart, then caught the loose rein and was jerked out upon the sand. The next second, something of covert fury in the gesture, Tony had taken off the other and tossed it to keep company with the first. Both hands showed naked: the entire face was bare. Tom looked away.

'They _are_ hideous rather, I admit,' exclaimed Tony. 'The donkey boys can pick them up and wear them.' And there was mortification in his tone and manner; almost--he was found out.

It was the memory of this pregnant little incident that held persistently before Tom's mind now, as the train bore him the long night through between the desert and the river that were Egypt. The bigger crowding pictures, scenes and sentences, thronged panorama of the recent weeks, lay in hiding underneath; but it was the incident of those yellow gloves that memory tossed up for ever before his eyes. He clung to it in spite of himself. Imagination played its impish pranks. What did it portend?

Removing gloves was the first act in undressing, it struck him. Tony had dressed up for the Play, the Play was over, he must put off, piece by piece, the glamour he had worn so successfully for his pa.s.sionate role.

Once off the stage, the enchantment of the limelight, the scenery, the raiment of gold that left a perfume of ambra in the air--all the a.s.sumed allurements he had borrowed must be discarded. The Tony of the Play withdrew, the real Tony stood discovered, undressed--by no means admirable. No longer on the boards, walking like a king, with the regal fascination of an older day, he would pa.s.s along the busy street unnoticed, unadorned, bereft of the high distinction that imagination, so strangely stirred, had laid upon him for a little s.p.a.ce. . . . The yellow gloves lay now upon the desert sand; perhaps the whirling tempest tossed them to and fro, perhaps it buried them; perhaps the Arab boys, proud of the tinsel they mistook for gold, now wore them in their sleep, lying on beds of rushes beneath the flat-roofed houses of sun-baked clay. . . .