The Wave: An Egyptian Aftermath Part 36

'Tommy, you--don't mind? You _will_ take it, won't you?' And it was as if he heard her saying 'Help me . . .' once again, 'Trust me as I trust you. . . .'

Mechanically he put his hand out and drew the object towards him. He knew then what it was and what was in it. He was glad of the darkness, for there was a ridiculous moisture in his eyes now. A lump _was_ in his throat!

'I've been neglecting you. You haven't had a thing for ages. You'll take it, Tommy, won't you--dear?'

The little foolish words, so sweetly commonplace, fell like balm upon an open wound. He already held the small white packet in his hand.

He looked up at her. G.o.d alone knows the strain upon his will in that moment. Somehow he mastered himself. It seemed as if he swallowed blood.

For behind the mothering words lurked, he knew, the other self that any minute would return.

'Thank you, Lettice, very much,' he said with a strange calmness, and his voice was firm. Whatever happened he must not prevent the delivery of what had to be. Above all, that was clear. The pain must come in full before the promised joy.

Was it, perhaps, this strength in him that drew her? Was it his moment of iron self-mastery that brought her with outstretched, clinging arms towards him? Was it the unshakable love in him that threatened the temporary ascendancy of that other in her who gladly tortured him that joy might come in a morning yet to break?

For she stood beside him, though he had not seen her move. She was close against his shoulder, nestling as of old. It was surely a stage effect.

A trap-door had opened in the floor of his consciousness; his first, early love sheltered in his aching heart again. The entire structure of the drama they played together threatened to collapse.

'Tom . . . you love me less?'

He held her to him, but he did not kiss the face she turned up to his.

Nor did he speak.

'You've changed somewhere?' she whispered. 'You, too, have changed?'

There was a pause before he found words that he could utter. He dared not yield. To do so would be vain in any case.

'N--no, Lettice. But I can't say what it is. There is pain. . . .

It has turned some part of me numb . . . killed something, brought something else to life. You will come back to me . . . but not quite yet.'

In spite of the darkness, he saw her face clearly then. For a moment--it seemed so easy--he could have caught her in his arms, kissed her, known the end of his present agony of heart and mind. She would have come back to him, Tony's claim obliterated from her life. The driving power that forced an older self upon her had weakened before the steadfast love he bore her. She was ready to capitulate. The little, childish present in his hands was offered as of old. . . . Tears rose behind his eyes.

How he resisted he never understood. Some thoroughness in him triumphed.

If he s.h.i.+rked the pain to-day, it would have to be faced to-morrow--that alone was clear in his breaking heart. To be worthy of the greater love, the completer joy to follow, they must accept the present pain and see it through--experience it--exhaust it once for all. To refuse it now was only to postpone it. She must go her way, while he went his. . . .

Gently he pushed her from him, released his hold; the little face slipped from his shoulder as though it sank into the sea. He felt that she understood. He heard himself speaking, though how he chose the words he never knew. Out of new depths in himself the phrases rose--a regenerated Tom uprising, though not yet sure of himself:

'You are not wholly mine. I must first--oh, Lettice!--learn to do without you. It is you who say it.'

Her voice, as she answered, seemed already changed, a shade of something harder and less yielding in it:

'That which you can do without is added to you.'

'A new thing . . . beginning,' he whispered, feeling it both belief and prophecy. His whisper broke in spite of himself. He saw her across the room, the table between them again. Already she looked different, 'Lettice' fading from her eyes and mouth.

She said a marvellous, sweet thing before that other self usurped her then:

'One day, Tom, we shall find each other in a crowd. . . .'

There was a yearning cry in him he did not utter. It seemed she faded from the atmosphere as the dimness closed about her. He saw a darker figure with burning eyes upon a darker face; there was a gleam of gold; a faint perfume as of ambra hung about the air, and outside the palm leaves rattled in the northern wind. He had heard awful words, it seemed, that sealed his fate. He was forsaken, lonely, outcast. It was a sentence of death, for she was set in power over him. . . .

A flood of dazzling suns.h.i.+ne poured into the room from a lifted blind, as the others looked in from the verandah to say that they were going and wanted to say good-bye. A moment later all were discussing plans in the garden, Tom as loudly and eagerly as any of them. He held his square white packet. But he did not open it till he reached his room a little later, and then arranged the different articles in a row upon his table: the favourite cigarettes, the soap, the pair of white tennis socks with his initial neatly sewn on, the tie in the shade of blue that suited him best . . . the writing-pad and the dates!

A letter from Tony next caught his eye and he opened it, slowly, calmly, almost without interest, knowing exactly what it would say:

' . . . I was delighted, old chap, to get your note,' he read.

'I felt sure it would be all right, for I felt somehow that I _had_ exaggerated your feeling towards her. As you say, what one has to think of with a woman in so delicate a position is her happiness more than one's own. But I wouldn't do anything to offend you or cause you pain for worlds, and I'm awfully glad to know the way is clear.

To tell you the truth, I went away on purpose, for I felt uneasy.

I wanted to be quite sure first that I was not trespa.s.sing. She made me feel I was doing you no wrong, but I wanted your a.s.surance too. . . .'

There was a good deal more in similar vein--he laid the burden upon _her_--ending with a word to say he was coming back to Luxor immediately.

He would arrive the following day.

As a matter of fact Tony was already then in the train that left Cairo that evening and reached Luxor at eight o'clock next morning. Tom, who had counted upon another twenty-four hours' respite, did not know this; nor did he know till later that another telegram had been carried by a ghostly little Arab boy, with the result that Tony and Lettice enjoyed their hot rolls and coffee alone together in the shady garden where the cool northern wind rattled among the palm trees. Mrs. Haughstone mentioned it in due course, however, having watched the _tete-a-tete_ from her bedroom window, un.o.bserved.

CHAPTER XXVII

And next day there was one more revealing incident that helped, yet also hindered him, as he moved along his _via dolorosa_. For every step he took away from her seemed also to bring him nearer. They followed opposing curves of a circle. They separated ever more widely, back to back, yet were approaching each other at the same time. They would meet face to face. . . .

He found her at the piano, practising the song that now ran ever in his blood; the score, he noticed, was in Tony's writing.

'Unwelcome!' he exclaimed, reading out the t.i.tle over her shoulder.

'Tom! How you startled me! I was trying to learn it.' She turned to him; her eyes were s.h.i.+ning. He was aware of a singular impression-- struggle, effort barely manageable. Her beauty seemed fresh made; he thought of a wild rose washed by the dew and sparkling in the sunlight.

'I thought you knew it already,' he observed.

She laughed significantly, looking up into his face so close he could have kissed her lips by merely bending his head a few inches. 'Not quite-- yet,' she answered. 'Will you give me a lesson, Tom?'

'Unpaid?' he asked.

She looked reproachfully at him. 'The best services are unpaid always.'

'I'm afraid I have neither the patience nor the knowledge,' he replied.

Her next words stirred happiness in him for a moment; the divine trust he fought to keep stole from his heart into his eyes: 'But you would never, never give up, Tom, no matter how difficult and obstinate the pupil.

You would always understand. _That_ I know.'

He moved away. Such double-edged talk, even in play, was dangerous.

A deep weariness was in him, weakening self-control. Sensitive to the slightest touch just then, he dared not let her torture him too much.

He felt in her a strength far, far beyond his own; he was powerless before her. Had Tony been present he could not have played his part at all.

Somehow he had a curious feeling, moreover, that his cousin was not very far away.

'Tony will be here later, I think,' she said, as she followed him outside.

'But, if not, he's sure to come to dinner.'