The Weavers, Complete - Gilbert Parker
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"I have held my peace for my own reasons, effendi. Wilt thou then force
me to speak? If thou dost still cherish Claridge Pasha, wilt thou see him
ruined? Naught but ruin could follow the telling of the tale at this
moment--his work, his life, all done. The scandal, the law, vengeance!
But as it is now, Kaid may turn to him again; his work may yet go on--he
has had the luck of angels, and Kaid is fickle. Who can tell?"
Abashed and overwhelmed, Ebn Ezra Bey looked at him keenly. "To tell of
Foorgat Bey would ruin thee also," he said. "That thou knowest. The
trick--would Kaid forgive it? Claridge Pasha would not be ruined alone."
"Be it so. If thou goest to Kaid with thy story, I go to Egypt with mine.
Choose."
Ebn Ezra turned to go. "The high God judge between him and thee," he
said, and, with bowed head, left the Palace.
CHAPTER XXXIV
NAHOUM DROPS THE MASK
"CLARIDGE PASHA!"
At the sound of the words, announced in a loud voice, hundreds of heads
were turned towards the entrance of the vast salon, resplendent with
gilded mirrors, great candelabra and chandeliers, golden hangings, and
divans glowing with robes of yellow silk.
It was the anniversary of Kaid's succession, and all entitled to come
poured into the splendid chamber. The showy livery of the officials, the
loose, spacious, gorgeous uniforms of the officers, with the curved
jewelled scimitars and white turbans, the rich silk robes of the Ulema,
robe over robe of coloured silk with flowing sleeves and sumptuous silken
vests, the ample dignity of noble-looking Arabs in immense white turbans,
the dark straight Stambouli coat of the officials, made a picture of
striking variety and colour and interest.
About the centre of the room, laying palm to palm again and yet again,
touching lips and forehead and breast, speaking with slow, leisurely,
voices, were two Arab sheikhs from the far Soudan. One of these showed a
singular interest in the movements of Nahoum Pasha as he entered the
chamber, and an even greater interest in David when he was announced; but
as David, in his journey up the chamber, must pass near him, he drew
behind a little group of officials, who whispered to each other excitedly
as David came on. More than once before this same Sheikh Abdullah had
seen David, and once they had met, and had made a treaty of amity, and
Abdullah had agreed to deal in slaves no more; and yet within three
months had sent to Cairo two hundred of the best that could be found
between Khartoum and Senaar. His business, of which Ebn Ezra Bey had due
knowledge, had now been with Nahoum. The business of the other Arab, a
noble-looking and wiry Bedouin from the South, had been with Ebn Ezra
Bey, and each hid his business from his friend. Abdullah murmured to
himself as David passed--a murmur of admiration and astonishment. He had
heard of the disfavour in which the Inglesi was; but, as he looked at
David's face with its quiet smile, the influence which he felt in the
desert long ago came over him again.
"By Allah," he said aloud abstractedly, "it is a face that will not hide
when the khamsin blows! Who shall gainsay it? If he were not an infidel
he would be a Mahdi."
To this his Bedouin friend replied: "As the depths of the pool at Ghebel
Farik, so are his eyes. You shall dip deep and you shall not find the
bottom. Bismillah, I would fight Kaid's Nubians, but not this infidel
pasha!"
Never had David appeared to such advantage. The victory over himself the
night before, the message of hope that had reached him at the monastery
in the desert, the coming of Lacey, had given him a certain quiet
masterfulness not reassuring to his foes.
As he entered the chamber but now, there flashed into his mind the scene
six years ago when, an absolute stranger, he had stepped into this
Eastern salon, and had heard his name called out to the great throng:
"Claridge efendi!"
He addressed no one, but he bowed to the group of foreign
consuls-general, looking them steadily in the eyes. He knew their devices
and what had been going on of late, he was aware that his fall would mean
a blow to British prestige, and the calmness of his gaze expressed a
fortitude which had a disconcerting effect upon the group. The British
Consul-General stood near by. David advanced to him, and, as he did so,
the few who surrounded the Consul-General fell back. David held out his
hand. Somewhat abashed and ill at ease, the Consul-General took it.
"Have you good news from Downing Street?" asked David quietly.
The Consul-General hesitated for an instant, and then said: "There is no
help to be had for you or for what you are doing in that quarter." He
lowered his voice. "I fear Lord Eglington does not favour you; and he
controls the Foreign Minister. I am very sorry. I have done my best, but
my colleagues, the other consuls, are busy--with Lord Eglington."
David turned his head away for an instant. Strange how that name sent a
thrill through him, stirred his blood! He did not answer the
Consul-General, and the latter continued:
"Is there any hope? Is the breach with Kaid complete?"
David smiled gravely. "We shall see presently. I have made no change in
my plans on the basis of a breach."
At that moment he caught sight of Nahoum some distance away and moved
towards him. Out of the corner of his eye Nahoum saw David coming, and
edged away towards that point where Kaid would enter, and where the crowd
was greater. As he did so Kaid appeared. A thrill went through the
chamber. Contrary to his custom, he was dressed in the old native
military dress of Mehemet Ali. At his side was a jewelled scimitar, and
in his turban flashed a great diamond. In his hand he carried a
snuff-box, covered with brilliants, and on his breast were glittering
orders.
The eyes of the reactionaries flashed with sinister pleasure when they
saw Kaid. This outward display of Orientalism could only be a reflex of
the mind. It was the outer symbol of Kaid's return to the spirit of the
old days, before the influence of the Inglesi came upon him. Every
corrupt and intriguing mind had a palpitation of excitement.
In Nahoum the sight of Kaid produced mixed feelings. If, indeed, this
display meant reaction towards an entourage purely Arab, Egyptian, and
Muslim, then it was no good omen for his Christian self. He drew near,
and placed himself where Kaid could see him. Kaid's manner was cheerful,
but his face showed the effect of suffering, physical and mental.
Presently there entered behind him Sharif Bey, whose appearance was the
signal for a fresh demonstration. Now, indeed, there could be no doubt as
to Kaid's reaction. Yet if Sharif had seen Mizraim's face evilly gloating
near by he would have been less confident.
David was standing where Kaid must see him, but the Effendina gave no
sign of recognition. This was so significant that the enemies of David
rejoiced anew. The day of the Inglesi was over. Again and again did
Kaid's eye wander over David's head.
David remained calm and watchful, neither avoiding nor yet seeking the
circle in which Kaid moved. The spirit with which he had entered the
room, however, remained with him, even when he saw Kaid summon to him
some of the most fanatical members of the court circle, and engage them
in talk for a moment. But as this attention grew more marked, a cloud
slowly gathered in the far skies of his mind.
There was one person in the great assembly, however, who seemed to be
unduly confident. It was an ample, perspiring person in evening dress,
who now and again mopped a prematurely bald head, and who said to
himself, as Kaid talked to the reactionaries:
"Say, Kald's overdoing it. He's putting potted chicken on the butter. But
it's working all right-r-i-g-h-t. It's worth the backsheesh!"
At this moment Kaid fastened David with his look, and spoke in a tone so
loud that people standing at some distance were startled.
"Claridge Pasha!"
In the hush that followed David stepped forward. "May the bounty of the
years be thine, Saadat," Kaid said in a tone none could misunderstand.
"May no tree in thy orchard wither, Effendina," answered David in a firm
voice.
Kaid beckoned him near, and again he spoke loudly: "I have proved thee,
and found thee as gold tried seven times by the fire, Saadat. In the
treasury of my heart shall I store thee up. Thou art going to the Soudan
to finish the work Mehemet Ali began. I commend thee to Allah, and will
bid thee farewell at sunrise--I and all who love Egypt."
There was a sinister smile on his lips, as his eyes wandered over the
faces of the foreign consuls-general. The look he turned on the
intriguers of the Palace was repellent; he reserved for Sharif a moody,
threatening glance, and the desperate hakim shrank back confounded from
it. His first impulse was to flee from the Palace and from Cairo; but he
bethought himself of the assault to be made on Kaid by the tent-maker, as
he passed to the mosque a few hours later, and he determined to await the
issue of that event. Exchanging glances with confederates, he
disappeared, as Kaid laid a hand on David's arm and drew him aside.
After viewing the great throng cynically for a moment Kaid said:
"To-morrow thou goest. A month hence the hakim's knife will find the
thing that eats away my life. It may be they will destroy it and save me;
if not, we shall meet no more."
David looked into his eyes. "Not in a month shall thy work be completed,
Effendina. Thou shalt live. God and thy strong will shall make it so."
A light stole over the superstitious face. "No device or hatred, or plot,
has prevailed against thee," Kaid said eagerly. "Thou hast defeated
all--even when I turned against thee in the black blood of despair. Thou
hast conquered me even as thou didst Harrik."
"Thou dost live," returned David drily. "Thou dost live for Egypt's sake,
even as Harrik died for Egypt's sake, and as others shall die."
"Death hath tracked thee down how often! Yet with a wave of the hand thou
hast blinded him, and his blow falls on the air. Thou art beset by a
thousand dangers, yet thou comest safe through all. Thou art an honest
man. For that I besought thee to stay with me. Never didst thou lie to
me. Good luck hath followed thee. Kismet! Stay with me, and it may be I
shall be safe also. This thought came to me in the night, and in the
morning was my reward, for Lacey effendi came to me and said, even as I
say now, that thou wilt bring me good luck; and even in that hour, by the
mercy of God, a loan much needed was negotiated. Allah be praised!"
A glint of humour shot into David's eyes. Lacey--a loan--he read it all!
Lacey had eased the Prince Pasha's immediate and pressing financial
needs--and, "Allah be praised!" Poor human nature--backsheesh to a Prince
regnant!
"Effendina," he said presently, "thou didst speak of Harrik. One there
was who saved thee then--"
"Zaida!" A change passed over Kaid's face.
"Speak! Thou hast news of her? She is gone?" Briefly David told him how
Zaida was found upon her sister's grave. Kaid's face was turned away as
he listened.
"She spoke no word of me?" Kaid said at last. "To whom should she speak?"
David asked gently. "But the amulet thou gavest her, set with one red
jewel, it was clasped in her hand in death."
Suddenly Kaid's anger blazed. "Now shall Achmet die," he burst out. "His
hands and feet shall be burnt off, and he shall be thrown to the
vultures."
"The Place of the Lepers is sacred even from thee, Effendina," answered
David gravely. "Yet Achmet shall die even as Harrik died. He shall die
for Egypt and for thee, Effendina."
Swiftly he drew the picture of Achmet at the monastery in the desert. "I
have done the unlawful thing, Effendina," he said at last, "but thou wilt
make it lawful. He hath died a thousand deaths--all save one."
"Be it so," answered Kaid gloomily, after a moment; then his face lighted
with cynical pleasure as he scanned once more the faces of the crowd
before him. At last his eyes fastened on Nahoum. He turned to David.
"Thou dost still desire Nahoum in his office?" he asked keenly.
A troubled look came into David's eyes, then it cleared away, and he said
firmly: "For six years we have worked together, Effendina. I am surety
for his loyalty to thee."
"And his loyalty to thee?"
A pained look crossed over David's face again, but he said with a will
that fought all suspicion down: "The years bear witness."
Kaid shrugged his shoulders slightly. "The years have perjured themselves
ere this. Yet, as thou sayest, Nahoum is a Christian," he added, with
irony scarcely veiled.
Now he moved forward with David towards the waiting court. David searched
the groups of faces for Nahoum in vain. There were things to be said to
Nahoum before he left on the morrow, last suggestions to be given. Nahoum
could not be seen.
Nahoum was gone, as were also Sharif and his confederates, and in the
lofty Mosque of Mahmoud soft lights were hovering, while the
Sheikh-el-Islam waited with Koran and scimitar for the ruler of Egypt to
pray to God and salute the Lord Mahomet.
At the great gateway in the Street of the Tent Makers Kaid paused on his
way to the Mosque Mahmoud. The Gate was studded with thousands of nails,
which fastened to its massive timbers relics of the faithful, bits of
silk and cloth, and hair and leather; and here from time immemorial a
holy man had sat and prayed. At the gateway Kaid salaamed humbly, and
spoke to the holy man, who, as he passed, raised his voice shrilly in an
appeal to Allah, commending Kaid to mercy and everlasting favour. On
every side eyes burned with religious zeal, and excited faces were turned
towards the Effendina. At a certain point there were little groups of men
with faces more set than excited. They had a look of suppressed
expectancy. Kald neared them, passed them, and, as he did so, they looked
at each other in consternation. They were Sharif's confederates, fanatics
carefully chosen. The attempt on Kaid's life should have been made
opposite the spot where they stood. They craned their necks in effort to
find the Christian tent-maker, but in vain.
Suddenly they heard a cry, a loud voice calling. It was Rahib the
tent-maker. He was beside Kaid's stirrups, but no weapon was in his hand;
and his voice was calling blessings down on the Effendina's head for
having pardoned and saved from death his one remaining son, the joy of
his old age. In all the world there was no prince like Kaid, said the
tent-maker; none so bountiful and merciful and beautiful in the eyes of
men. God grant him everlasting days, the beloved friend of his people,
just to all and greatly to be praised.
As the soldiers drove the old man away with kindly insistence--for Kaid
had thrown him a handful of gold--Mizraim, the Chief Eunuch, laughed
wickedly. As Nahoum had said, the greatest of all weapons was the mocking
finger. He and Mizraim had had their way with the governor of the
prisons, and the murderer had gone in safety, while the father stayed to
bless Kaid. Rahib the tent-maker had fooled the plotters. They were mad
in derision. They did not know that Kaid was as innocent as themselves of
having pardoned the tent-maker's son. Their moment had passed; they could
not overtake it; the match had spluttered and gone out at the fuel laid
for the fire of fanaticism.
The morning of David's departure came. While yet it was dark he had
risen, and had made his last preparations. When he came into the open air
and mounted, it was not yet sunrise, and in that spectral early light,
which is all Egypt's own, Cairo looked like some dream-city in a
forgotten world. The Mokattam Hills were like vast dun barriers guarding
and shutting in the ghostly place, and, high above all, the minarets of
the huge mosque upon the lofty rocks were impalpable fingers pointing an
endless flight. The very trees seemed so little real and substantial that
they gave the eye the impression that they might rise and float away. The
Nile was hung with mist, a trailing cloud unwound from the breast of the
Nile-mother. At last the sun touched the minarets of the splendid mosque
with shafts of light, and over at Ghizeh and Sakkarah the great pyramids,
lifting their heads from the wall of rolling blue mist below, took the
morning's crimson radiance with the dignity of four thousand years.
On the decks of the little steamer which was to carry them south David,
Ebn Ezra, Lacey, and Mahommed waited. Presently Kaid came, accompanied by
his faithful Nubians, their armour glowing in the first warm light of the
rising sun, and crowds of people, who had suddenly emerged, ran shrilling
to the waterside behind him.
Kaid's pale face had all last night's friendliness, as he bade David
farewell with great honour, and commended him to the care of Allah; and
the swords of the Nubians clashed against their breasts and on their
shields in salaam.
But there was another farewell to make; and it was made as David's foot
touched the deck of the steamer. Once again David looked at Nahoum as he
had done six years ago, in the little room where they had made their bond
together. There was the same straight look in Nahoum's eyes. Was he not
to be trusted? Was it not his own duty to trust? He clasped Nahoum's hand
in farewell, and turned away. But as he gave the signal to start, and the
vessel began to move, Nahoum came back. He leaned over the widening space
and said in a low tone, as David again drew near:
"There is still an account which should be settled, Saadat. It has waited
long; but God is with the patient. There is the account of Foorgat Bey."
The light fled from David's eyes and his heart stopped beating for a
moment. When his eyes saw the shore again Nahoum was gone with Kaid.
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
Cherish any alleviating lie
Triumph of Oriental duplicity over Western civilisation
When God permits, shall man despair?
THE WEAVERS
By Gilbert Parker
BOOK V.
XXXV. THE FLIGHT OF THE WOUNDED
XXXVI. "IS IT ALWAYS SO-IN LIFE?"
XXXVII. THE FLYING SHUTTLE
XXXVIII. JASPER KIMBER SPEAKS
XXXIX. FAITH JOURNEYS TO LONDON
CHAPTER XXXV
THE FLIGHT OF THE WOUNDED
"And Mario can soothe with a tenor note
The souls in purgatory."
"Non ti scordar di mi!" The voice rang out with passionate stealthy
sweetness, finding its way into far recesses of human feeling. Women of
perfect poise and with the confident look of luxury and social fame
dropped their eyes abstractedly on the opera-glasses lying in their laps,
or the programmes they mechanically fingered, and recalled, they knew not
why--for what had it to do with this musical narration of a tragic
Italian tale!--the days when, in the first flush of their wedded life,
they had set a seal of devotion and loyalty and love upon their arms,
which, long ago, had gone to the limbo of lost jewels, with the chaste,
fresh desires of worshipping hearts. Young egotists, supremely happy and
defiant in the pride of the fact that they loved each other, and that it
mattered little what the rest of the world enjoyed, suffered, and
endured--these were suddenly arrested in their buoyant and solitary
flight, and stirred restlessly in their seats. Old men whose days of work
were over; who no longer marshalled their legions, or moved at a nod
great ships upon the waters in masterful manoeuvres; whose voices were
heard no more in chambers of legislation, lashing partisan feeling to a
height of cruelty or lulling a storm among rebellious followers; whose
intellects no longer devised vast schemes of finance, or applied secrets
of science to transform industry--these heard the enthralling cry of a
soul with the darkness of eternal loss gathering upon it, and drew back
within themselves; for they too had cried like this one time or another
in their lives. Stricken, they had cried out, and ambition had fled away,
leaving behind only the habit of living, and of work and duty.
As Hylda, in the Duchess of Snowdon's box, listened with a face which
showed nothing of what she felt, and looking straight at the stage before
her, the words of a poem she had learned but yesterday came to her mind,
and wove themselves into the music thrilling from the voice in the stage
prison:
"And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence
For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or agonised?
Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue
thence?
Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized?"
"And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence?" Was it then so?
The long weeks which had passed since that night at Hamley, when she had
told Eglington the truth about so many things, had brought no peace, no
understanding, no good news from anywhere. The morning after she had
spoken with heart laid bare. Eglington had essayed to have a
reconciliation; but he had come as the martyr, as one injured. His
egotism at such a time, joined to his attempt to make light of things, of
treating what had happened as a mere "moment of exasperation," as "one of
those episodes inseparable from the lives of the high-spirited," only
made her heart sink and grow cold, almost as insensible as the flesh
under a spray of ether. He had been neither wise nor patient. She had not
slept after that bitter, terrible scene, and the morning had found her
like one battered by winter seas, every nerve desperately alert to pain,
yet tears swimming at her heart and ready to spring to her eyes at a
touch of the real thing, the true note--and she knew so well what the
true thing was! Their great moment had passed, had left her withdrawn
into herself, firmly, yet without heart, performing the daily duties of
life, gay before the world, the delightful hostess, the necessary and
graceful figure at so many functions.
Even as Soolsby had done, who went no further than to tell Eglington his
dark tale, and told no one else, withholding it from "Our Man"; as Sybil
Lady Eglington had shrunk when she had been faced by her obvious duty, so
Hylda hesitated, but from better reason than either. To do right in the
matter was to strike her husband--it must be a blow now, since her voice
had failed. To do right was to put in the ancient home and house of
Eglington one whom he--with anger and without any apparent desire to have
her altogether for himself, all the riches of her life and love--had
dared to say commanded her sympathy and interest, not because he was a
man dispossessed of his rights, but because he was a man possessed of
that to which he had no right. The insult had stung her, had driven her
back into a reserve, out of which she seemed unable to emerge. How could
she compel Eglington to do right in this thing--do right by his own
father's son?
Meanwhile, that father's son was once more imperilling his life, once
more putting England's prestige in the balance in the Soudan, from which
he had already been delivered twice as though by miracles. Since he had
gone, months before, there had been little news; but there had been much
public anxiety; and she knew only too well that there had been
'pourparlers' with foreign ministers, from which no action came
safe-guarding David.
Many a human being has realised the apathy, the partial paralysis of the
will, succeeding a great struggle, which has exhausted the vital forces.
Many a general who has fought a desperate and victorious fight after a
long campaign, and amid all the anxieties and miseries of war, has failed
to follow up his advantage, from a sudden lesion of the power for action
in him. He has stepped from the iron routine of daily effort into a
sudden freedom, and his faculties have failed him, the iron of his will
has vanished. So it was with Hylda. She waited for she knew not what. Was
it some dim hope that Eglington might see the right as she saw it? That
he might realise how unreal was this life they were living, outwardly
peaceful and understanding, deluding the world, but inwardly a place of
tears. How she dreaded the night and its recurrent tears, and the hours
when she could not sleep, and waited for the joyless morning, as one lost
on the moor, blanched with cold, waits for the sun-rise! Night after
night at a certain hour--the hour when she went to bed at last after that
poignant revelation to Eglington--she wept, as she had wept then,
heart-broken tears of disappointment, disillusion, loneliness; tears for
the bitter pity of it all; for the wasting and wasted opportunities; for
the common aim never understood or planned together; for the precious
hours lived in an air of artificial happiness and social excitement; for
a perfect understanding missed; for the touch which no longer thrilled.
But the end of it all must come. She was looking frail and delicate, and
her beauty, newly refined, and with a fresh charm, as of mystery or pain,
was touched by feverishness. An old impatience once hers was vanished,
and Kate Heaver would have given a month's wages for one of those flashes
of petulance of other days ever followed by a smile. Now the smile was
all too often there, the patient smile which comes to those who have
suffered. Hardness she felt at times, where Eglington was concerned, for
he seemed to need her now not at all, to be self-contained,
self-dependent--almost arrogantly so; but she did not show it, and she
was outwardly patient.