The Weavers, Complete - Gilbert Parker
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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.
CHAPTER XXXIX
FAITH JOURNEYS TO LONDON
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.
THE WEAVERS
By Gilbert Parker
BOOK VI.
XL. HYLDA SEEKS NAHOUM
XLI. IN THE LAND OF SHINAR
XLII. THE LOOM OF DESTINY
CHAPTER XL
HYLDA SEEKS NAHOUM
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?"