The Wave: An Egyptian Aftermath Part 6

But he had felt--older. That ridge remained in his memory as the occasion of its first realisation; a door opened behind him; he looked back.

He envied the other's twenty-three years. It is curious that, about thirty, a man feels he is getting old, whereas at forty he feels himself young again. At thirty he judges by the standard of eighteen, at the later age by that of sixty. But this particular occasion remained vivid for another reason--it was accompanied by a strange sensation he had almost forgotten; and so long an interval had elapsed since its last manifestation that for a moment a kind of confusion dropped upon him, as from the cloudless sky. Something was gathering behind him, something was about to fall. He recognised the familiar feeling that he knew of old, the subterranean thrill, the rich, sweet pain, the power, the reality.

It was the wavy feeling.

Balanced on his ski, the sealskin strips gripping the icy ridge securely, he turned instinctively to seek the reason, if any were visible, of the abrupt revival. His mind, helped by the stimulating air and sunshine, worked swiftly. The odd confusion clouded his faculties still, as in a dream state, but he pierced it in several directions simultaneously.

Was it that, envying another's youth, he had re-entered imaginatively his own youthful feelings? He looked down at the rest of the party climbing towards him. And doing so, he picked out the slim figure of Nagorsky's sister, a girl whose winter costume became her marvellously, and whom the happy intimacy of the hotel life had made so desirable that an expedition without her seemed a lost, blank day. Unless she was of the party there was no sunshine. He watched her now, looking adorable in her big gauntlet gloves, her short skirt, her ta.s.selled cap of black and gold, a fairy figure on the big snowfield, filling the world with sunshine--and knew abruptly that she meant to him just exactly--nothing. The intensity of the wavy feeling reduced her to an unreality.

It was not she who brought the great emotion.

The confusion in him deepened. Another scale of measurement appeared.

The crowded intervening years now seemed but a pause, a brief delay; he had run down a side track and returned. _He_ had not grown older.

Seen by the grand scale to which the Wave and 'sea' belonged, he had scarcely moved from the old starting-point, where, far away in some una.s.sailable recess of life, still waiting for him, stood--Lettice Aylmer.

Turning his eyes, then, from the approaching climbers, he glanced at the steep slope above him, and saw--as once before on the English coast-- something that took his breath away and made his muscles weak. He stared up at it. It looked down at him.

Five hundred feet above, outlined against the sky of crystal clearness, ran a colossal wave of solid snow. At the highest point it was, of course, a cornice, but towards the east, whence came the prevailing weather, the wind had so manipulated the ma.s.s that it formed a curling billow, twenty or thirty feet in depth, leaping over in the very act of breaking, yet arrested just before it fell. It hung waiting in mid-air, perfectly moulded, a wave--but a wave of snow.

It swung along the ridge for half a mile and more: it seemed to fill the sky; it rose out of the sea of eternal snow below it, poised between the earth and heavens. In the hollow beneath its curve lay purple shadows the eye could not pierce. And the similarity to the earlier episode struck him vividly; in each case Nature a.s.sisted with a visible wave as by way of counterpart; each time, too, there was a girl--as though some significance of s.e.x hid in the 'wavy feeling.' He was profoundly puzzled.

The same second, in this wintry world where movement, sound, and perfume have no place, there stole to his nostrils across the desolate ranges another detail. It was more intimate in its appeal even than the wavy feeling, yet was part of it. He recognised the Whiff. And the joint attack, both by its suddenness and by its intensity, overwhelmed him.

Only the Sound was lacking, but that, too, he felt, was on the way.

Already a sharp instinctive movement was running down his legs. He began to shuffle on his ski. . . .

A chorus of voices, as from far away, broke round him, disturbing the intense stillness; and he knew that the others had reached the ridge.

With a violent effort he mastered the ridiculous movement of his disobedient legs, but what really saved him from embarra.s.sing notice was the breathless state of his companions, and the fact that his action looked after all quite natural--he seemed merely rubbing his ski along the snow to clean their under-surface.

Exclamations in French, English, Polish rose on all sides, as the view into the deep opposing valley caught the eye, and a shower of questions all delivered at once, drew attention from himself. What scenery, what a sky, what ma.s.ses of untrodden snow! Should they lunch on the ridge or continue to the summit? What were the names of all these peaks, and was the Danube visible? How lucky there was no wind, and how they pitied the people who stayed behind in the hotels! Sweaters and woollen waistcoats emerged from half a dozen knapsacks, cooking apparatus was produced, one chose a spot to make a fire, while another broke the dead branches from a stunted pine, and in five minutes had made a blaze behind a little wall of piled-up snow. The Polish girl came up and asked Tom for his Zeiss gla.s.ses, examined the soaring slope beyond, then obediently put on the extra sweater he held out for her. He hardly saw her face, and certainly did not notice the expression in her eyes. All took off their ski and plunged them upright in the nearest drift. The sun blazed everywhere, the snow crystals sparkled. They settled down for lunch, a small dark clot of busy life upon the vast expanse of desolate snow . . . and anything unusual about Tom Kelverdon, m.u.f.fled to the throat against the freezing cold, his eyes, moreover, concealed by green snow-spectacles, was certainly not noticed.

Another party, besides, was discovered climbing upwards along their own laborious track: in the absorbing business of satisfying big appet.i.tes, tending the fire, and speculating who these other skiers might be, Tom's silence caused no comment. His self-control, for the rest, was soon recovered. But his interest in the expedition had oddly waned; he was still searching furiously in his thoughts for an explanation of the unexpected 'attack,' waiting for the Sound, but chiefly wondering why his boyhood's nightmare had never revealed that the Wave was of snow instead of water--and, at the same time, oddly convinced that he had moved but _one_ stage nearer to its final elucidation. That it was solid he had already discovered, but that it was actually of snow left a curious doubt in him.

Of all this he was thinking as he devoured his eggs and sandwiches, something still trembling in him, nerves keenly sensitive, but not _quite_ persuaded that this wave of snow was the sufficient cause of what he had just experienced--when at length the other climbers, moving swiftly, came close enough to be inspected. The customary remarks and criticisms pa.s.sed from mouth to mouth, with warnings to lower voices since sound carried too easily in the rarefied air. One of the party was soon recognised as the hotel doctor, and the other, first set down as a Norwegian owing to his light hair, shining hatless in the sunlight, proved on closer approach to be an Englishman--both men evidently experienced and accomplished 'runners.'

In any other place the two parties would hardly have spoken, settling down into opposing camps of hostile silence; but in the lonely winter mountains human relationship becomes more natural; the time of day was quickly pa.s.sed, and details of the route exchanged; the doctor and his friend mingled easily with the first arrivals; all agreed spontaneously to take the run home together; and finally, when names were produced with laughing introductions, the Englishman--by one of those coincidences people pretend to think strange, but that actually ought to occur more often than they do--turned out to be known to Tom, and after considerable explanations was proved to be more than that--a cousin.

Welcoming the diversion, making the most of it in fact, Kelverdon presented Anthony Winslowe to his Polish companions with a certain zeal to which the new arrival responded with equal pleasure. The light-haired blue-eyed Englishman, young and skilful on his ski, formed a distinct addition to the party. He was tall, with a slight stoop about the shoulders that suggested study; he was gay and very easy-going too.

It was 'Tom' and 'Tony' before lunch was over; they recalled their private school, a fight, an eternal friendship vowed after it, and the twenty intervening years melted as though they had not been.

'Of course,' Tom said, proud of his new-found cousin, 'and I've read your bird books, what's more. By Jove, you're quite an authority on natural history, aren't you?'

The other modestly denied any notoriety, but the girls, especially Nagorsky's sister, piqued by Tom's want of notice, pressed for details in their pretty broken English. It became a merry and familiar party, as the way is with easy foreigners, particularly when they meet in such wild and unconventional surroundings. Winslowe had lantern slides in his trunk: that night he promised to show them: they chattered and paid compliments and laughed, Tony explaining that he was on his way to Egypt to study the bird-life along the Nile. Natural history was his pa.s.sion; he talked delightfully; he made the bird and animal life seem real and interesting; there was imagination, humour, lightness in him. There was a fascination, too, not due to looks alone. It was in his atmosphere, what is currently, perhaps, called magnetism.

'No animals _here_ for you,' said a girl, pointing to the world of white death about them.

'There's something better,' he said quickly in quite decent Polish.

'We're all in the animal kingdom, you know.' And he glanced with a bow of admiration at the speaker, whom the others instantly began to tease.

It was Irena, Nagorsky's sister; she flushed and laughed. 'We thought,'

she said, 'you were Norwegian, because of your light hair, and the way you moved on your ski.'

'A great compliment,' he rejoined, 'but I saw _you_ long ago on the ridge, and I knew at once that you were--Polish.'

The girl returned his bow. 'The largest compliment,' she answered gaily, 'I had ever in my life.'

Tom had only arrived two days before, bringing a letter of introduction to the doctor, and that night he changed his hotel, joining his new friends and his cousin at the Grand. An obvious flirtation, possibly something more, sprung up spontaneously between him and the Polish girl, but Kelverdon welcomed it and felt no jealousy. 'Not trespa.s.sing, old chap, am I?' Tony asked jokingly, having divined on the mountains that the girl was piqued. 'On the contrary,' was the honest a.s.surance given frankly, 'I'm relieved. A delightful girl, though, isn't she? And fascinatingly pretty!'

For the existence of Nagorsky's sister had become suddenly to him of no importance whatsoever. It was strange enough, but the vivid recurrence of long-forgotten symbols that afternoon upon the heights had restored to him something he had curiously forgotten, something he had shamefully neglected, almost, it seemed, had been in danger of losing altogether.

It came back upon him now. He clung desperately to it as to a real, a vital, a necessary thing. It was a genuine relief that the relationship between him and the girl might be ended thus. In any case, he reflected, it would have 'ended thus' a little later--like all the others. No trace or sign of envy stayed in him. Irena and Tony, anyhow, seemed admirably suited to one another; he noticed on the long run home how naturally they came together. And even his own indifference would not bring her back to him. He felt quite pleased and satisfied. He had a long talk with Tony before going to bed. He felt drawn to him. There was a spontaneous innate sympathy between them.

They had many other talks together, and Tom liked his interesting, brilliant cousin. A week pa.s.sed; dances, ski-ing trips, skating, and the usual programme of wintry enjoyments filled the time too quickly; companionship became intimacy; all sat at the same table: Tony became a general favourite. He had just that combination of reserve and abandon which--provided something genuine lies behind--attracts the majority of people who, being dull, have neither. Most are reserved, through emptiness, or else abandoned--also through emptiness. Tony Winslowe, full of experience and ideas, vivid experience and original ideas, combined the two in rarest equipoise. It was spontaneous, and not calculated in him.

There was a stimulating quality in his personality. Like those tiny, exciting j.a.panese tales that lead to the edge of a precipice, then end with unexpected abruptness that is their purpose, he led all who liked him to the brink of a delightful revelation--then paused, stopped, vanished.

And all did like him. He was light and gay, for all the depth in him.

Something of the child peeped out. He won Tom Kelverdon's confidence without an effort. He also won the affectionate confidence of the Polish girl.

'You're not married, Tony, are you?' Tom asked him.

'Married!' Tony answered with a flush--he flushed so easily when teased-- 'I love my wild life and animals far too much.' He stammered slightly.

Then he looked up quickly into his cousin's eyes with frankness.

Tom, without knowing why, almost felt ashamed of having asked it. 'I--I never can go beyond a certain point,' he said, 'with girls. Something always holds me back. Odd--isn't it?' He hesitated. Then this flashed from him: 'Bees never sip the last, the sweetest drop of honey from the rose, you know. The sunset always leaves one golden cloud adrift--eh?'

So there was poetry in him too!

And Tom, simpler, as well as more rigidly moulded, felt a curious touch of pa.s.sionate sympathy as he heard it. His heart went out to the other suddenly with a burst of confidence. Some barrier melted in him and disappeared. For the first time in his life he knew the inclination, even the desire, to speak of things hidden deep within his heart. His cousin would understand.

And Tony's sudden, wistful silence invited the confession. They had already been talking of their forgotten youthful days together.

The ground was well prepared. They had even talked of his sister, Mary, and her marriage. Tony remembered her distinctly. He spoke of it, leaning forward and putting a hand on his cousin's knee. Tom noticed vaguely the size of the palm, the wrist, the fingers--they seemed disproportionate. They were ugly hands. But it was subconscious notice.

His mind was on another thing.

'I say,' Tom began with a sudden plunge, 'you know a lot about birds and natural history--biology too, I suppose. Have you ever heard of the spiral movement?'

'Spinal, did you say?' queried the other, turning the stem of his gla.s.s and looking up.

'No--_spiral_,' Tom repeated, laughing dryly in spite of himself.

'I mean the idea--that evolution, whether individually in men and animals, or with nations--historically, that is--is not in a straight line ahead, but moves upwards--in a spiral?'

'It's in the air,' replied Tony vaguely, yet somehow as if he knew a great deal more about it. 'The movement of the race, you mean?'

'And of the individual too. We're here, I mean, for the purpose of development--whatever one's particular belief may be--and that this development, instead of going forwards in a straight line, has a kind of-- spiral movement--upwards?'

Tony looked wonderfully wise. 'I've heard of it,' he said. 'The spiral movement, as you say, is full of suggestion. It's common among plants.

But I don't think science--biology, at any rate--takes much account of it.'

Tom interrupted eagerly, and with a certain grave enthusiasm that evidently intrigued his companion. 'I mean--a movement that is always upwards, always getting higher, and always looking down upon what has gone before. That, if it's true, a soul can look back--look down upon what it has been through before, but from a higher point--do you see?'

Tony emptied his gla.s.s and then lit a cigarette. 'I see right enough,' he said at length, quick and facile to appropriate any and every idea he came across, yet obviously astonished by his companion's sudden seriousness.

'Only the other day I read that humanity, for instance, is just now above the superst.i.tious period--of the Middle Ages, say--going over it again-- but that the recrudescence everywhere of psychic interests-- fortune-telling, palmistry, magic, and the rest--has become quasi-scientific. It's going through the same period, but seeks to explain and understand. It's above it--one stage or so. Is that what you mean, perhaps?'

Tom drew in his horns, though for the life of him he could not say why.

Tony appropriated his own idea too easily somehow--had almost read his thoughts. Vaguely he resented it. Tony had stolen from him--offended against some schoolboy _meum_ and _tuum_ standard.

'That's it--the idea, at any rate,' he said, wondering why confidence had frozen in him. 'Interesting, rather, isn't it?'