That day the adjournment of the House of Commons was moved “To call attention to an urgent matter of public importance”—the position of Claridge Pasha in the Soudan. Flushed with the success of last night’s performance, stung by the attacks of the Opposition morning papers, confident in the big majority behind, which had cheered him a few hours before, viciously resenting the letter he had received from David that morning, Eglington returned such replies to the questions put to him that a fire of angry mutterings came from the forces against him. He might have softened the growing resentment by a change of manner, but his intellectual arrogance had control of him for the moment; and he said to himself that he had mastered the House before, and he would do so now. Apart from his deadly antipathy to his half-brother, and the gain to himself—to his credit, the latter weighed with him not so much, so set was he on a stubborn course—if David disappeared for ever, there was at bottom a spirit of anti-expansion, of reaction against England’s world-wide responsibilities. He had no largeness of heart or view concerning humanity. He had no inherent greatness, no breadth of policy. With less responsibility taken, there would be less trouble, national and international—that was his point of view; that had been his view long ago at the meeting at Heddington; and his weak chief had taken it, knowing nothing of the personal elements behind.
The disconcerting factor in the present bitter questioning in the House was, that it originated on his own side. It was Jasper Kimber who had launched the questions, who moved the motion for adjournment. Jasper had had a letter from Kate Heaver that morning early, which sent him to her, and he had gone to the House to do what he thought to be his duty. He did it boldly, to the joy of the Opposition, and with a somewhat sullen support from many on his own side. Now appeared Jasper’s own inner disdain of the man who had turned his coat for office. It gave a lead to a latent feeling among members of the ministerial party, of distrust, and of suspicion that they were the dupes of a mind of abnormal cleverness which, at bottom, despised them.
With flashing eyes and set lips, vigilant and resourceful, Eglington listened to Jasper Kimber’s opening remarks.
By unremitting industry Jasper had made a place for himself in the House. The humour and vitality of his speeches, and his convincing advocacy of the cause of the “factory folk,” had gained him a hearing. Thickset, under middle size, with an arm like a giant and a throat like a bull, he had strong common sense, and he gave the impression that he would wear his heart out for a good friend or a great cause, but that if he chose to be an enemy he would be narrow, unrelenting, and persistent. For some time the House had been aware that he had more than a gift for criticism of the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs.
His speech began almost stumblingly, his h’s ran loose, and his grammar became involved, but it was seen that he meant business, that he had that to say which would give anxiety to the Government, that he had a case wherein were the elements of popular interest and appeal, and that he was thinking and speaking as thousands outside the House would think and speak.
He had waited for this hour. Indirectly he owed to Claridge Pasha all that he had become. The day in which David knocked him down saw the depths of his degradation reached, and, when he got up, it was to start on a new life uncertainly, vaguely at first, but a new life for all that. He knew, from a true source, of Eglington’s personal hatred of Claridge Pasha, though he did not guess their relationship; and all his interest was enlisted for the man who had, as he knew, urged Kate Heaver to marry himself—and Kate was his great ambition now. Above and beyond these personal considerations was a real sense of England’s duty to the man who was weaving the destiny of a new land.
“It isn’t England’s business?” he retorted, in answer to an interjection from a faithful soul behind the ministerial Front Bench. “Well, it wasn’t the business of the Good Samaritan to help the man that had been robbed and left for dead by the wayside; but he did it. As to David Claridge’s work, some have said that—I’ve no doubt it’s been said in the Cabinet, and it is the thing the Under-Secretary would say as naturally as he would flick a fly from his boots—that it’s a generation too soon. Who knows that? I suppose there was those that thought John the Baptist was baptising too soon, that Luther preached too soon, and Savonarola was in too great a hurry, all because he met his death and his enemies triumphed—and Galileo and Hampden and Cromwell and John Howard were all too soon. Who’s to be judge of that? God Almighty puts it into some men’s minds to work for a thing that’s a great, and maybe an impossible, thing, so far as the success of the moment is concerned. Well, for a thing that has got to be done some time, the seed has to be sown, and it’s always sown by men like Claridge Pasha, who has shown millions of people—barbarians and half-civilised alike—what a true lover of the world can do. God knows, I think he might have stayed and found a cause in England, but he elected to go to the ravaging Soudan, and he is England there, the best of it. And I know Claridge Pasha—from his youth up I have seen him, and I stand here to bear witness of what the working men of England will say to-morrow. Right well the noble lord yonder knows that what I say is true. He has known it for years. Claridge Pasha would never have been in his present position, if the noble lord had not listened to the enemies of Claridge Pasha and of this country, in preference to those who know and hold the truth as I tell it here to-day. I don’t know whether the noble lord has repented or not; but I do say that his Government will rue it, if his answer is not the one word ‘Intervention!’ Mistaken, rash or not, dreamer if you like, Claridge Pasha should be relieved now, and his policy discussed afterwards. I don’t envy the man who holds a contrary opinion; he’ll be ashamed of it some day. But”—he pointed towards Eglington—“but there sits the minister in whose hands his fate has been. Let us hope that this speech of mine needn’t have been made, and that I’ve done injustice to his patriotism and to the policy he will announce.”
“A set-back, a sharp set-back,” said Lord Windlehurst, in the Peers’ Gallery, as the cheers of the Opposition and of a good number of ministerialists sounded through the Chamber. There were those on the Treasury Bench who saw danger ahead. There was an attempt at a conference, but Kimber’s seconder only said a half-dozen words, and sat down, and Eglington had to rise before any definite confidences could be exchanged. One word only he heard behind him as he got up. It was the word, “Temporise,” and it came from the Prime Minister.
Eglington was in no mood for temporising. Attack only nerved him. He was a good and ruthless fighter; and last night’s intoxication of success was still in his brain. He did not temporise. He did not leave a way of retreat open for the Prime Minister, who would probably wind up the debate. He fought with skill, but he fought without gloves, and the House needed gentle handling. He had the gift of effective speech to a rare degree, and when he liked he could be insinuating and witty, but he had not genuine humour or good feeling, and the House knew it. In debate he was biting, resourceful, and unscrupulous. He made the fatal mistake of thinking that intellect and gifts of fence, followed by a brilliant peroration, in which he treated the commonplaces of experienced minds as though they were new discoveries and he was their Columbus, could accomplish anything. He had never had a political crisis, but one had come now.
In his reply he first resorted to arguments of high politics, historical, informative, and, in a sense, commanding; indeed, the House became restless under what seemed a piece of intellectual dragooning. Signs of impatience appeared on his own side, and, when he ventured on a solemn warning about hampering ministers who alone knew the difficulties of diplomacy and the danger of wounding the susceptibilities of foreign and friendly countries, the silence was broken by a voice that said sneeringly, “The kid-glove Government!”
Then he began to lose place with the Chamber. He was conscious of it, and shifted his ground, pointing out the dangers of doing what the other nations interested in Egypt were not prepared to do.
“Have you asked them? Have you pressed them?” was shouted across the House. Eglington ignored the interjections. “Answer! Answer!” was called out angrily, but he shrugged a shoulder and continued his argument. If a man insisted on using a flying-machine before the principle was fully mastered and applied—if it could be mastered and applied—it must not be surprising if he was killed. Amateurs sometimes took preposterous risks without the advice of the experts. If Claridge Pasha had asked the advice of the English Government, or of any of the Chancellories of Europe, as to his incursions into the Soudan and his premature attempts at reform, he would have received expert advice that civilisation had not advanced to that stage in this portion of the world which would warrant his experiments. It was all very well for one man to run vast risks and attempt quixotic enterprises, but neither he nor his countrymen had any right to expect Europe to embroil itself on his particular account.
At this point he was met by angry cries of dissent, which did not come from the Opposition alone. His lips set, he would not yield. The Government could not hold itself responsible for Claridge Pasha’s relief, nor in any sense for his present position. However, from motives of humanity, it would make representations in the hope that the Egyptian Government would act; but it was not improbable, in view of past experiences of Claridge Pasha, that he would extricate himself from his present position, perhaps had done so already. Sympathy and sentiment were natural and proper manifestations of human society, but governments were, of necessity, ruled by sterner considerations. The House must realise that the Government could not act as though it were wholly a free agent, or as if its every move would not be matched by another move on the part of another Power or Powers.
Then followed a brilliant and effective appeal to his own party to trust the Government, to credit it with feeling and with a due regard for English prestige and the honour brought to it by Claridge Pasha’s personal qualities, whatever might be thought of his crusading enterprises. The party must not fall into the trap of playing the game of the Opposition. Then, with some supercilious praise of the “worthy sentiments” of Jasper Kimber’s speech and a curt depreciation of its reasoning, he declared that: “No Government can be ruled by clamour. The path to be trodden by this Government will be lighted by principles of progress and civilisation, humanity and peace, the urbane power of reason, and the persuasive influence of just consideration for the rights of others, rather than the thunder and the threat of the cannon and the sword!”
He sat down amid the cheers of a large portion of his party, for the end of his speech had been full of effective if meretricious appeal. But the debate that followed showed that the speech had been a failure. He had not uttered one warm or human word concerning Claridge Pasha, and it was felt and said, that no pledge had been given to insure the relief of the man who had caught the imagination of England.
The debate was fierce and prolonged. Eglington would not agree to any modification of his speech, to any temporising. Arrogant and insistent, he had his way, and, on a division, the Government was saved by a mere handful of votes—votes to save the party, not to indorse Eglington’s speech or policy.
Exasperated and with jaw set, but with a defiant smile, Eglington drove straight home after the House rose. He found Hylda in the library with an evening paper in her hands. She had read and reread his speech, and had steeled herself for “the inevitable hour,” to this talk which would decide for ever their fate and future.
Eglington entered the room smiling. He remembered the incident of the night before, when she came to his study and then hurriedly retreated. He had been defiant and proudly disdainful at the House and on the way home; but in his heart of hearts he was conscious of having failed to have his own way; and, like such men, he wanted assurance that he could not err, and he wanted sympathy. Almost any one could have given it to him, and he had a temptation to seek that society which was his the evening before; but he remembered that she was occupied where he could not reach her, and here was Hylda, from whom he had been estranged, but who must surely have seen by now that at Hamley she had been unreasonable, and that she must trust his judgment. So absorbed was he with self and the failure of his speech, that, for a moment, he forgot the subject of it, and what that subject meant to them both.
“What do you think of my speech, Hylda?” he asked, as he threw himself into a chair. “I see you have been reading it. Is it a full report?”
She handed the paper over. “Quite full,” she answered evenly.
He glanced down the columns. “Sentimentalists!” he said as his eye caught an interjection. “Cant!” he added. Then he looked at Hylda, and remembered once again on whom and what his speech had been made. He saw that her face was very pale.
“What do you think of my speech?” he repeated stubbornly.
“If you think an answer necessary, I regard it as wicked and unpatriotic,” she answered firmly.
“Yes, I suppose you would,” he rejoined bitingly. She got to her feet slowly, a flush passing over her face. “If you think I would, did you not think that a great many other people would think so too, and for the same reason?” she asked, still evenly, but very slowly. “Not for the same reason,” he rejoined in a low, savage voice.
“You do not treat me well,” she said, with a voice that betrayed no hurt, no indignation. It seemed to state a fact deliberately; that was all.
“No, please,” she added quickly, as she saw him rise to his feet with anger trembling at his lips. “Do not say what is on your tongue to say. Let us speak quietly to-night. It is better; and I am tired of strife, spoken and unspoken. I have got beyond that. But I want to speak of what you did to-day in Parliament.”
“Well, you have said it was wicked and unpatriotic,” he rejoined, sitting down again and lighting a cigar, in an attempt to be composed.
“What you said was that; but I am concerned with what you did. Did your speech mean that you would not press the Egyptian Government to relieve Claridge Pasha at once?”
“Is that the conclusion you draw from my words?” he asked.
“Yes; but I wish to know beyond doubt if that is what you mean the country to believe?”
“It is what I mean you to believe, my dear.”
She shrank from the last two words, but still went on quietly, though her eyes burned and she shivered. “If you mean that you will do nothing, it will ruin you and your Government,” she answered. “Kimber was right, and—”
“Kimber was inspired from here,” he interjected sharply.
She put her hand upon herself. “Do you think I would intrigue against you? Do you think I would stoop to intrigue?” she asked, a hand clasping and unclasping a bracelet on her wrist, her eyes averted, for very shame that he should think the thought he had uttered.
“It came from this house—the influence,” he rejoined.
“I cannot say. It is possible,” she answered; “but you cannot think that I connive with my maid against you. I think Kimber has reasons of his own for acting as he did to-day. He speaks for many besides himself; and he spoke patriotically this afternoon. He did his duty.”
“And I did not? Do you think I act alone?”
“You did not do your duty, and I think that you are not alone responsible. That is why I hope the Government will be influenced by public feeling.” She came a step nearer to him. “I ask you to relieve Claridge Pasha at any cost. He is your father’s son. If you do not, when all the truth is known, you will find no shelter from the storm that will break over you.”
“You will tell—the truth?”
“I do not know yet what I shall do,” she answered. “It will depend on you; but it is your duty to tell the truth, not mine. That does not concern me; but to save Claridge Pasha does concern me.”
“So I have known.”
Her heart panted for a moment with a wild indignation; but she quieted herself, and answered almost calmly: “If you refuse to do that which is honourable—and human, then I shall try to do it for you while yet I bear your name. If you will not care for your family honour, then I shall try to do so. If you will not do your duty, then I will try to do it for you.” She looked him determinedly in the eyes. “Through you I have lost nearly all I cared to keep in the world. I should like to feel that in this one thing you acted honourably.”
He sprang to his feet, bursting with anger, in spite of the inward admonition that much that he prized was in danger, that any breach with Hylda would be disastrous. But self-will and his native arrogance overruled the monitor within, and he said: “Don’t preach to me, don’t play the martyr. You will do this and you will do that! You will save my honour and the family name! You will relieve Claridge Pasha, you will do what Governments choose not to do; you will do what your husband chooses not to do—Well, I say that you will do what your husband chooses to do, or take the consequences.”
“I think I will take the consequences,” she answered. “I will save Claridge Pasha, if it is possible. It is no boast. I will do it, if it can be done at all, if it is God’s will that it should be done; and in doing it I shall be conscious that you and I will do nothing together again—never! But that will not stop me; it will make me do it, the last right thing, before the end.”
She was so quiet, so curiously quiet. Her words had a strange solemnity, a tragic apathy. What did it mean? He had gone too far, as he had done before. He had blundered viciously, as he had blundered before.
She spoke again before he could collect his thoughts and make reply.
“I did not ask for too much, I think, and I could have forgiven and forgotten all the hurts you have given me, if it were not for one thing. You have been unjust, hard, selfish, and suspicious. Suspicious—of me! No one else in all the world ever thought of me what you have thought. I have done all I could. I have honourably kept the faith. But you have spoiled it all. I have no memory that I care to keep. It is stained. My eyes can never bear to look upon the past again, the past with you—never.”
She turned to leave the room. He caught her arm. “You will wait till you hear what I have to say,” he cried in anger. Her last words had stung him so, her manner was so pitilessly scornful. It was as though she looked down on him from a height. His old arrogance fought for mastery over his apprehension. What did she know? What did she mean? In any case he must face it out, be strong—and merciful and affectionate afterwards.
“Wait, Hylda,” he said. “We must talk this out.”
She freed her arm. “There is nothing to talk out,” she answered. “So far as our relations are concerned, all reason for talk is gone.” She drew the fatal letter from the sash at her waist. “You will think so too when you read this letter again.” She laid it on the table beside him, and, as he opened and glanced at it, she left the room.
He stood with the letter in his hand, dumfounded. “Good God!” he said, and sank into a chair.
Faith withdrew her eyes from Hylda’s face, and they wandered helplessly over the room. They saw, yet did not see; and even in her trouble there was some subconscious sense softly commenting on the exquisite refinement and gentle beauty which seemed to fill the room; but the only definite objects which the eyes registered at the moment were the flowers filling every corner. Hylda had been lightly adjusting a clump of roses when she entered; and she had vaguely noticed how pale was the face that bent over the flowers, how pale and yet how composed—as she had seen a Quaker face, after some sorrow had passed over it, and left it like a quiet sea in the sun, when wreck and ruin were done. It was only a swift impression, for she could think of but one thing, David and his safety. She had come to Hylda, she said, because of Lord Eglington’s position, and she could not believe that the Government would see David’s work undone and David killed by the slave-dealers of Africa.
Hylda’s reply had given her no hope that Eglington would keep the promise he had made that evening long ago when her father had come upon them by the old mill, and because of which promise she had forgiven Eglington so much that was hard to forgive. Hylda had spoken with sorrowful decision, and then this pause had come, in which Faith tried to gain composure and strength. There was something strangely still in the two women. From the far past, through Quaker ancestors, there had come to Hylda now this grey mist of endurance and self-control and austere reserve. Yet behind it all, beneath it all, a wild heart was beating.
Presently, as they looked into each other’s eyes, and Faith dimly apprehended something of Hylda’s distress and its cause, Hylda leaned over and spasmodically pressed her hand.
“It is so, Faith,” she said. “They will do nothing. International influences are too strong.” She paused. “The Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs will do nothing; but yet we must hope. Claridge Pasha has saved himself in the past; and he may do so now, even though it is all ten times worse. Then, there is another way. Nahoum Pasha can save him, if he can be saved. And I am going to Egypt—to Nahoum.”
Faith’s face blanched. Something of the stark truth swept into her brain. She herself had suffered—her own life had been maimed, it had had its secret bitterness. Her love for her sister’s son was that of a mother, sister, friend combined, and he was all she had in life. That he lived, that she might cherish the thought of him living, was the one thing she had; and David must be saved, if that might be; but this girl—was she not a girl, ten years younger than herself?—to go to Egypt to do—what? She herself lived out of the world, but she knew the world! To go to Egypt, and—“Thee will not go to Egypt. What can thee do?” she pleaded, something very like a sob in her voice. “Thee is but a woman, and David would not be saved at such a price, and I would not have him saved so. Thee will not go. Say thee will not. He is all God has left to me in life; but thee to go—ah, no! It is a bitter world—and what could thee do?”
Hylda looked at her reflectively. Should she tell Faith all, and take her to Egypt? No, she could not take her without telling her all, and that was impossible now. There might come a time when this wise and tender soul might be taken into the innermost chambers, when all the truth might be known; but the secret of David’s parentage was Eglington’s concern most of all, and she would not speak now; and what was between Nahoum and David was David’s concern; and she had kept his secret all these years. No, Faith might not know now, and might not come with her. On this mission she must go alone.
Hylda rose to her feet, still keeping hold of Faith’s hand. “Go back to Hamley and wait there,” she said, in a colourless voice. “You can do nothing; it may be I can do much. Whatever can be done I can do, since England will not act. Pray for his safety. It is all you can do. It is given to some to work, to others to pray. I must work now.”
She led Faith towards the door; she could not endure more; she must hold herself firm for the journey and the struggle before her. If she broke down now she could not go forward; and Faith’s presence roused in her an emotion almost beyond control.
At the door she took both of Faith’s hands in hers, and kissed her cheek. “It is your place to stay; you will see that it is best. Good-bye,” she added hurriedly, and her eyes were so blurred that she could scarcely see the graceful, demure figure pass into the sunlit street.
That afternoon Lord Windlehurst entered the Duchess of Snowdon’s presence hurried and excited. She started on seeing his face.
“What has happened?” she asked breathlessly. “She is gone,” he answered. “Our girl has gone to Egypt.”
The Duchess almost staggered to her feet. “Windlehurst—gone!” she gasped.
“I called to see her. Her ladyship had gone into the country, the footman said. I saw the butler, a faithful soul, who would die—or clean the area steps—for her. He was discreet; but he knew what you and I are to her. It was he got the tickets—for Marseilles and Egypt.”
The Duchess began to cry silently. Big tears ran down a face from which the glow of feeling had long fled, but her eyes were sad enough.
“Gone—gone! It is the end!” was all she could say. Lord Windlehurst frowned, though his eyes were moist. “We must act at once. You must go to Egypt, Betty. You must catch her at Marseilles. Her boat does not sail for three days. She thought it went sooner, as it was advertised to do. It is delayed—I’ve found that out. You can start to-night, and—and save the situation. You will do it, Betty?”
“I will do anything you say, as I have always done.” She dried her eyes.
“She is a good girl. We must do all we can. I’ll arrange everything for you myself. I’ve written this paragraph to go into the papers to-morrow morning: ‘The Duchess of Snowdon, accompanied by Lady Eglington, left London last night for the Mediterranean via Calais, to be gone for two months or more.’ That is simple and natural. I’ll see Eglington. He must make no fuss. He thinks she has gone to Hamley, so the butler says. There, it’s all clear. Your work is cut out, Betty, and I know you will do it as no one else can.”
“Oh, Windlehurst,” she answered, with a hand clutching at his arm, “if we fail, it will kill me.”
“If she fails, it will kill her,” he answered, “and she is very young. What is in her mind, who can tell? But she thinks she can help Claridge somehow. We must save her, Betty.”
“I used to think you had no real feeling, Windlehurst. You didn’t show it,” she said in a low voice. “Ah, that was because you had too much,” he answered. “I had to wait till you had less.” He took out his watch.
It was as though she had gone to sleep the night before, and waked again upon this scene unchanged, brilliant, full of colour, a chaos of decoration—confluences of noisy, garish streams of life, eddies of petty labour. Craftsmen crowded one upon the other in dark bazaars; merchants chattered and haggled on their benches; hawkers clattered and cried their wares. It was a people that lived upon the streets, for all the houses seemed empty and forsaken. The sais ran before the Pasha’s carriage, the donkey-boys shrieked for their right of way, a train of camels calmly forced its passage through the swirling crowds, supercilious and heavy-laden.
It seemed but yesterday since she had watched with amused eyes the sherbet-sellers clanking their brass saucers, the carriers streaming the water from the bulging goatskins into the earthen bottles, crying, “Allah be praised, here is coolness for thy throat for ever!” the idle singer chanting to the soft kanoon, the chess-players in the shade of a high wall, lost to the world, the dancing-girls with unveiled, shameless faces, posturing for evil eyes. Nothing had changed these past six years. Yet everything had changed.
She saw it all as in a dream, for her mind had no time for reverie or retrospect; it was set on one thing only.
Yet behind the one idea possessing her there was a subconscious self taking note of all these sights and sounds, and bringing moisture to her eyes. Passing the house which David had occupied on that night when he and she and Nahoum and Mizraim had met, the mist of feeling almost blinded her; for there at the gate sat the bowab who had admitted her then, and with apathetic eyes had watched her go, in the hour when it seemed that she and David Claridge had bidden farewell for ever, two driftwood spars that touched and parted in the everlasting sea. Here again in the Palace square were Kaid’s Nubians in their glittering armour as of silver and gold, drawn up as she had seen them drawn then, to be reviewed by their overlord.
She swept swiftly through the streets and bazaars on her mission to Nahoum. “Lady Eglington” had asked for an interview, and Nahoum had granted it without delay. He did not associate her with the girl for whom David Claridge had killed Foorgat Pey, and he sent his own carriage to bring her to the Palace. No time had been lost, for it was less than twenty-four hours since she had arrived in Cairo, and very soon she would know the worst or the best. She had put her past away for the moment, and the Duchess of Snowdon had found at Marseilles a silent, determined, yet gentle-tongued woman, who refused to look back, or to discuss anything vital to herself and Eglington, until what she had come to Egypt to do was accomplished. Nor would she speak of the future, until the present had been fully declared and she knew the fate of David Claridge. In Cairo there were only varying rumours: that he was still holding out; that he was lost; that he had broken through; that he was a prisoner—all without foundation upon which she could rely.
As she neared the Palace entrance, a female fortune-teller ran forward, thrusting towards her a gazelle’s skin, filled with the instruments of her mystic craft, and crying out: “I divine-I reveal! What is present I manifest! What is absent I declare! What is future I show! Beautiful one, hear me. It is all written. To thee is greatness, and thy heart’s desire. Hear all! See! Wait for the revealing. Thou comest from afar, but thy fortune is near. Hear and see. I divine—I reveal. Beautiful one, what is future I show.”
Hylda’s eyes looked at the poor creature eagerly, pathetically. If it could only be, if she could but see one step ahead! If the veil could but be lifted! She dropped some silver into the folds of the gazelle-skin and waved the Gipsy away. “There is darkness, it is all dark, beautiful one,” cried the woman after her, “but it shall be light. I show—I reveal!”
Inside these Palace walls there was a revealer of more merit, as she so well and bitterly knew. He could raise the veil—a dark and dangerous necromancer, with a flinty heart and a hand that had waited long to strike. Had it struck its last blow?
Outside Nahoum’s door she had a moment of utter weakness, when her knees smote together, and her throat became parched; but before the door had swung wide and her eyes swept the cool and shadowed room, she was as composed as on that night long ago when she had faced the man who knew.
Nahoum was standing in a waiting and respectful attitude as she entered. He advanced towards her and bowed low, but stopped dumfounded, as he saw who she was. Presently he recovered himself; but he offered no further greeting than to place a chair for her where her face was in the shadow and his in the light—time of crisis as it was, she noticed this and marvelled at him. His face was as she had seen it those years ago. It showed no change whatever. The eyes looked at her calmly, openly, with no ulterior thought behind, as it might seem. The high, smooth forehead, the full but firm lips, the brown, well-groomed beard, were all indicative of a nature benevolent and refined. Where did the duplicity lie? Her mind answered its own question on the instant; it lay in the brain and the tongue. Both were masterly weapons, an armament so complete that it controlled the face and eyes and outward man into a fair semblance of honesty. The tongue—she remembered its insinuating and adroit power, and how it had deceived the man she had come to try and save. She must not be misled by it. She felt it was to be a struggle between them, and she must be alert and persuasive, and match him word for word, move for move.
“I am happy to welcome you here, madame,” he said in English. “It is years since we met; yet time has passed you by.”
She flushed ever so slightly—compliment from Nahoum Pasha! Yet she must not resent anything to-day; she must get what she came for, if it was possible. What had Lacey said? “A few thousand men by parcel-post, and some red seals-British officers.”
“We meet under different circumstances,” she replied meaningly. “You were asking a great favour then.”
“Ah, but of you, madame?”
“I think you appealed to me when you were doubtful of the result.”
“Well, madame, it may be so—but, yes, you are right; I thought you were Claridge Pasha’s kinswoman, I remember.”
“Excellency, you said you thought I was Claridge Pasha’s kinswoman.”
“And you are not?” he asked reflectively.
He did not understand the slight change that passed over her face. His kinswoman—Claridge Pasha’s kinswoman!
“I was not his kinswoman,” she answered calmly. “You came to ask a favour then of Claridge Pasha; your life-work to do under him. I remember your words: ‘I can aid thee in thy great task. Thou wouldst remake our Egypt, and my heart is with you. I would rescue, not destroy.... I would labour, but my master has taken away from me the anvil, the fire, and the hammer, and I sit without the door like an armless beggar.’ Those were your words, and Claridge Pasha listened and believed, and saved your life and gave you work; and now again you have power greater than all others in Egypt.”
“Madame, I congratulate you on a useful memory. May it serve you as the hill-fountain the garden in the city! Those indeed were my words. I hear myself from your lips, and yet recognise myself, if that be not vanity. But, madame, why have you sought me? What is it you wish to know—to hear?”
He looked at her innocently, as though he did not know her errand; as though beyond, in the desert, there was no tragedy approaching—or come.
“Excellency, you are aware that I have come to ask for news of Claridge Pasha.” She leaned forward slightly, but, apart from her tightly interlaced fingers, it would not have been possible to know that she was under any strain.
“You come to me instead of to the Effendina. May I ask why, madame? Your husband’s position—I did not know you were Lord Eglington’s wife—would entitle you to the highest consideration.”
“I knew that Nahoum Pasha would have the whole knowledge, while the Effendina would have part only. Excellency, will you not tell me what news You have? Is Claridge Pasha alive?”
“Madame, I do not know. He is in the desert. He was surrounded. For over a month there has been no word-none. He is in danger. His way by the river was blocked. He stayed too long. He might have escaped, but he would insist on saving the loyal natives, on remaining with them, since he could not bring them across the desert; and the river and the desert are silent. Nothing comes out of that furnace yonder. Nothing comes.”
He bent his eyes upon her complacently. Her own dropped. She could not bear that he should see the misery in them.
“You have come to try and save him, madame. What did you expect to do? Your Government did not strengthen my hands; your husband did nothing—nothing that could make it possible for me to act. There are many nations here, alas! Your husband does not take so great an interest in the fate of Claridge Pasha as yourself, madame.”
She ignored the insult. She had determined to endure everything, if she might but induce this man to do the thing that could be done—if it was not too late. Before she could frame a reply, he said urbanely:
“But that is not to be expected. There was that between Claridge Pasha and yourself which would induce you to do all you might do for him, to be anxious for his welfare. Gratitude is a rare thing—as rare as the flower of the century—aloe; but you have it, madame.”
There was no chance to misunderstand him. Foorgat Bey—he knew the truth, and had known it all these years.
“Excellency,” she said, “if through me, Claridge Pasha—”
“One moment, madame,” he interrupted, and, opening a drawer, took out a letter. “I think that what you would say may be found here, with much else that you will care to know. It is the last news of Claridge Pasha—a letter from him. I understand all you would say to me; but he who has most at stake has said it, and, if he failed, do you think, madame, that you could succeed?”
He handed her the letter with a respectful salutation.
“In the hour he left, madame, he came to know that the name of Foorgat Bey was not blotted from the book of Time, nor from Fate’s reckoning.”
After all these years! Her instinct had been true, then, that night so long ago. The hand that took the letter trembled slightly in spite of her will, but it was not the disclosure Nahoum had made which caused her agitation. This letter she held was in David Claridge’s hand, the first she had ever seen, and, maybe, the last that he had ever written, or that any one would ever see, a document of tears. But no, there were no tears in this letter! As Hylda read it the trembling passed from her fingers, and a great thrilling pride possessed her. If tragedy had come, then it had fallen like a fire from heaven, not like a pestilence rising from the earth. Here indeed was that which justified all she had done, what she was doing now, what she meant to do when she had read the last word of it and the firm, clear signature beneath.
Without a pause Hylda had read the letter from the first word to the last. She was too proud to let this conspirator and traitor see what David’s words could do to her. When she read the lines concerning herself, she became cold from head to foot, but she knew that Nahoum never took his eyes from her face, and she gave no outward sign of what was passing within. When she had finished it, she folded it up calmly, her eyes dwelt for a moment on the address upon the envelope, and then she handed it back to Nahoum without a word. She looked him in the eyes and spoke. “He saved your life, he gave you all you had lost. It was not his fault that Prince Kaid chose him for his chief counsellor. You would be lying where your brother lies, were it not for Claridge Pasha.”
“It may be; but the luck was with me; and I have my way.”
She drew herself together to say what was hard to say. “Excellency, the man who was killed deserved to die. Only by lies, only by subterfuge, only because I was curious to see the inside of the Palace, and because I had known him in London, did I, without a thought of indiscretion, give myself to his care to come here. I was so young; I did not know life, or men—or Egyptians.” The last word was uttered with low scorn.
He glanced up quickly, and for the first time she saw a gleam of malice in his eyes. She could not feel sorry she had said it, yet she must remove the impression if possible.
“What Claridge Pasha did, any man would have done, Excellency. He struck, and death was an accident. Foorgat’s temple struck the corner of a pedestal.
“His death was instant. He would have killed Claridge Pasha if it had been possible—he tried to do so. But, Excellency, if you have a daughter, if you ever had a child, what would you have done if any man had—”
“In the East daughters are more discreet; they tempt men less,” he answered quietly, and fingered the string of beads he carried.
“Yet you would have done as Claridge Pasha did. That it was your brother was an accident, and—”
“It was an accident that the penalty must fall on Claridge Pasha, and on you, madame. I did not choose the objects of penalty. Destiny chose them, as Destiny chose Claridge Pasha as the man who should supplant me, who should attempt to do these mad things for Egypt against the judgment of the world—against the judgment of your husband. Shall I have better judgment than the chancellories of Europe and England—and Lord Eglington?”
“Excellency, you know what moves other nations; but it is for Egypt to act for herself. You ask me why I did not go to the Effendina. I come to you because I know that you could circumvent the Effendina, even if he sent ten thousand men. It is the way in Egypt.”
“Madame, you have insight—will you not look farther still, and see that, however good Claridge Pasha’s work might be some day in the far future, it is not good to-day. It is too soon. At the beginning of the twentieth century, perhaps. Men pay the penalty of their mistakes. A man’s life”—he watched her closely with his wide, benevolent eyes—“is neither here nor there, nor a few thousands, in the destiny of a nation. A man who ventures into a lion’s den must not be surprised if he goes as Harrik went—ah, perhaps you do not know how Harrik went! A man who tears at the foundations of a house must not be surprised if the timbers fall on him and on his workmen. It is Destiny that Claridge Pasha should be the slayer of my brother, and a danger to Egypt, and one whose life is so dear to you, madame. You would have it otherwise, and so would I, but we must take things as they are—and you see that letter. It is seven weeks since then, and it may be that the circle has been broken. Yet it may not be so. The circle may be smaller, but not broken.”
She felt how he was tempting her from word to word with a merciless ingenuity; yet she kept to her purpose; and however hopeless it seemed, she would struggle on.
“Excellency,” she said in a low, pleading tone, “has he not suffered enough? Has he not paid the price of that life which you would not bring back if you could? No, in those places of your mind where no one can see lies the thought that you would not bring back Foorgat Bey. It is not an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth that has moved you; it has not been love of Foorgat Bey; it has been the hatred of the East for the West. And yet you are a Christian! Has Claridge Pasha not suffered enough, Excellency? Have you not had your fill of revenge? Have you not done enough to hurt a man whose only crime was that he killed a man to save a woman, and had not meant to kill?”
“Yet he says in his letter that the thought of killing would not have stopped him.”
“Does one think at such a moment? Did he think? There was no time. It was the work of an instant. Ah, Fate was not kind, Excellency! If it had been, I should have been permitted to kill Foorgat Bey with my own hands.”
“I should have found it hard to exact the penalty from you, madame.”
The words were uttered in so neutral a way that they were enigmatical, and she could not take offence or be sure of his meaning.
“Think, Excellency. Have you ever known one so selfless, so good, so true? For humanity’s sake, would you not keep alive such a man? If there were a feud as old as Adam between your race and his, would you not before this life of sacrifice lay down the sword and the bitter challenge? He gave you his hand in faith and trust, because your God was his God, your prophet and lord his prophet and lord. Such faith should melt your heart. Can you not see that he tried to make compensation for Foorgat’s death, by giving you your life and setting you where you are now, with power to save or kill him?”
“You call him great; yet I am here in safety, and he is—where he is. Have you not heard of the strife of minds and wills? He represented the West, I the East. He was a Christian, so was I; the ground of our battle was a fair one, and—and I have won.”
“The ground of battle fair!” she protested bitterly. “He did not know that there was strife between you. He did not fight you. I think that he always loved you, Excellency. He would have given his life for you, if it had been in danger. Is there in that letter one word that any man could wish unwritten when the world was all ended for all men? But no, there was no strife between you—there was only hatred on your part. He was so much greater than you that you should feel no rivalry, no strife. The sword he carries cuts as wide as Time. You are of a petty day in a petty land. Your mouth will soon be filled with dust, and you will be forgotten. He will live in the history of the world. Excellency, I plead for him because I owe him so much: he killed a man and brought upon himself a lifelong misery for me. It is all I can do, plead to you who know the truth about him—yes, you know the truth—to make an effort to save him. It may be too late; but yet God may be waiting for you to lift your hand. You said the circle may be smaller, but it may be unbroken still. Will you not do a great thing once, and win a woman’s gratitude, and the thanks of the world, by trying to save one who makes us think better of humanity? Will you not have the name of Nahoum Pasha linked with his—with his who thought you were his friend? Will you not save him?”
He got slowly to his feet, a strange look in his eyes. “Your words are useless. I will not save him for your sake; I will not save him for the world’s sake; I will not save him—”
A cry of pain and grief broke from her, and she buried her face in her hands.
“—I will not save him for any other sake than his own.”
He paused. Slowly, as dazed as though she had received a blow, Hylda raised her face and her hands dropped in her lap.
“For any other sake than his own!” Her eyes gazed at him in a bewildered, piteous way. What did he mean? His voice seemed to come from afar off.
“Did you think that you could save him? That I would listen to you, if I did not listen to him? No, no, madame. Not even did he conquer me; but something greater than himself within himself, it conquered me.”
She got to her feet gasping, her hands stretched out. “Oh, is it true—is it true?” she cried.
“The West has conquered,” he answered.
“You will help him—you will try to save him?”
“When, a month ago, I read the letter you have read, I tried to save him. I sent secretly four thousand men who were at Wady Halfa to relieve him—if it could be done; five hundred to push forward on the quickest of the armed steamers, the rest to follow as fast as possible. I did my best. That was a month ago, and I am waiting—waiting and hoping, madame.”
Suddenly she broke down. Tears streamed from her eyes. She sank into the chair, and sobs shook her from head to foot.
“Be patient, be composed, madame,” Nahoum said gently. “I have tried you greatly—forgive me. Nay, do not weep. I have hope. We may hear from him at any moment now,” he added softly, and there was a new look in his wide blue eyes as they were bent on her.