Of one thing only did he feel uncertain. He caught himself sharply wondering more than once. For he had the impression--the conviction almost--that something had happened during his absence at a.s.souan--that there was a change in _her_ att.i.tude to Tony. It was a subtle change; it was beginning merely; but it was there. Her behaviour at breakfast was not due to pique, not solely due to pique, at any rate. It had a deeper origin. Almost he detected signs of friction between herself and Tony.

Very slight they were indeed, if not imagined altogether. His perception was still exceptionally alert, its acuteness left over, apparently, from the earlier days of pain and jealousy. Yet the result upon him was confusing chiefly.

In very trivial ways the change betrayed itself. The talk between the three of them remained incongruously upon the surface always. The play and chatter went on independently of the Play beneath, almost ignoring it.

In that Wordless Play, however, the change was registered.

'Tom, you've got the straightest back of any man I ever saw,' Lettice exclaimed once, eyeing them critically with an amused smile as they came back towards her chair. 'I've just been watching you both.'

They laughed, while Tony turned it wittily into fun. 'It's always safer to look a person in the face,' he observed. If he felt the comparison was made to his disadvantage he did not show it. Tom, wondering what she meant and why she said it, felt that the remark annoyed him. For there was disparagement of Tony in it.

'I can read your soul from your back alone,' she added.

'And mine!' cried Tony, laughing: 'what about my back too? Or have I got no soul misplaced between my shoulder-blades?'

Tom laid his hand between those slightly-rounded shoulders then--and rather suddenly.

'It's bent from too much creeping after birds,' he exclaimed. 'In your next life you'll be on all fours if you're not careful.'

The Arab appeared to say the donkeys and sand-cart were waiting in the road, and Tony went indoors to get cameras and other paraphernalia essential to a Desert picnic. Lettice continued talking idly to Tom, who stood beside her, smoking. . . . The feeling of dream and reality were very strong in him at the moment. He hardly realised what the nonsense was he had said to his cousin. There was a slight sense of discomfort in him. The little, playful conversation just over had meaning in it.

He missed that meaning. Somehow the comparison in his favour was disagreeable--he preferred to hear his cousin praised, but certainly not belittled. Perhaps vanity was wounded there--that his successful rival woke contempt in her was unendurable. . . . And he thought of his train for the first time with a vague relief.

'Birds,' she was saying, half to herself, the eyes beneath the big sun-hat looking beyond him, 'that reminds me, Tom--a dream I had. A little bird left its nest and hopped about to try all the other branches, because it thought it ought to explore them--had to, in a way. And it got into all sorts of danger, and ran fearful risks, and couldn't fly or use its wings properly,--till finally----'

She stopped, and her eyes turned full upon his own. The love in his face was plain to read, though he was not conscious of it. He waited in silence:

'Till finally it crept back up into its own nest again,' she went on, 'and found its wings lying there all the time. It had forgotten them!

And it got in, felt warm and safe and cosy--and fell asleep.'

'Whereupon you woke and found it was all a dream,' said Tom. His tone, though matter-of-fact, was lower than usual, but it was firm. No sign of emotion now was visible in his face. The eyes were steady, the lips betrayed no hint. Her little dream, the way of telling it rather, perplexed him.

'Yes,' she said, 'but I found somehow that the bird was me.' She sighed a little.

It flashed upon him suddenly that she was exhausted, wearied out; that her heart was beating with some interior stress and struggle. She seemed on the point of giving up, some long long battle in her ended. There was something she wished to say to him--he got this impression too--something she could not bring herself to say, unless he helped her, unless he asked for it. The duality was ending, perhaps fused into unity again? . . .

The intense and burning desire to help her rose upon him, the desire to protect. And the word 'Warsaw' fled across his mind . . . as though it fell through the heated air into his mind . . . from hers.

'Tony declares,' she was saying, 'that our memories are packed away under pressure like steam in a boiler, and the dream is their safety-valve . . .

I wonder. . . . He read it somewhere. It's not his own, of course.

But Tony never explains--because he doesn't really know. He's flashy--not the depth we thought--the truth . . . _Tom!_'

She called his name with emphasis, as if annoyed that he showed so little interest. There was an instant's cloud upon her face; the eyes wavered, then looked away; he felt again there was disappointment somewhere in her --with himself or with Tony, he did not know. . . . He kept silent.

He could think of nothing by way of answer--nothing appropriate, nothing safe.

She waited, keeping silent too. The Curtain was lowering, its shadow growing on the air.

'I dream so little,' he stammered at length, 'I can't say.' It enraged him that he faltered. He turned away. . . . Tony at that moment arrived.

The cart and animals were ready, everything was collected. He announced it loudly, urging them with a certain impatience, as though they caused the delay. He stared keenly at them a moment. . . . They started.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

How trivial, yet how significant of the tension of interior forces--the careless words, the foolish little dream, the playful allusion to one man's stoop and to another's upright carriage, how easy to read, how obvious! Yet Tom, too intensely preoccupied, perhaps, with keeping his own balance, was unaware of revelation. His mind perceived the delicate change, yet attached a wrong direction to it. Perplexity and discomfort in him deepened. He was relieved when Tony interrupted; he felt glad.

The shifting of values was disturbing to him. It was as though the falling Curtain halted. . . .

The hours left to him were few; they both rushed and lingered.

The afternoon seemed gone so quickly, while yet the moments dragged, each separate instant too intense with feeling to yield up its being willingly.

The minutes lingered; it was the hours that rushed.

Subconsciously, it seemed, Tom counted them in his heart. . . .

Subconsciously, too, he stated the position, as though to do so steadied him: Three persons, three friends, were off upon a picnic. At a certain moment they would turn back; at a certain moment two of them would say good-bye; at a certain moment a final train would start--his eyes would no longer see _her_. . . . It seemed impossible, unreal; it could not happen. . . . He could so easily prevent it. No question had been asked about his going to Cairo; it was taken for granted that he went on business and would return. He could cancel his steamer-berth, no explanation necessary, nor any asked.

But having weighed the sacrifice against the joy, he was not wanting.

They mounted their l.u.s.ty donkeys; Lettice climbed into her sand-cart; the boys came clattering after them down the street of Thebes with the tea-things and the bundles of clover for the animals. Across the belt of brilliant emerald green, past clover-fields and groves of palms, they followed the ancient track towards the desert. They were on the eastern bank, the Theban Hills far behind them on the horizon. Towards the Red Sea they headed, though Tom had no notion of their direction, aware only that while they went further and further from those hills, the hills themselves somehow came ever nearer. The gaunt outline followed them; each time he looked back the shadow cast was closer than before, almost upon their heels. But for the a.s.surance of his senses he could have believed they headed towards these yellow cliffs instead of the reverse.

He could not shake off the singular impression that their weight was on his back; he felt the oppression of those ancient tombs, those crowded corridors, that hidden subterranean world. No mummy, he remembered, but believed it would one day unwind again when the soul, cleansed and justified, came back to claim it. Regeneration was inevitable.

A glorious faith secure in ultimate joy!

They hurried vainly; the distance between them, instead of increasing, lessened. The hills would not let them go.

The burning atmosphere, the motionless air caused doubtless the optical illusion. The glare was blinding. Tom did not draw attention to it.

He tugged his obstinate donkey into line with the slower sand-cart, riding for several minutes in silence, close beside Lettice, aware of her perfume, her flying veil almost across his eyes from time to time.

Tony was some way ahead.

'Tom,' he heard suddenly, 'must you really go to Cairo to-night?'

'I'm afraid so. It's important.' But after a pause he added 'Why?'

He said it because his sentence sounded otherwise suspiciously incomplete.

Above all, he must seem natural. 'Why do you ask?'

The answer made him regret that extra word:

'There's something I want to tell you.'

'_Very_ important?' He asked it laughingly, busy with the reins apparently.

'Far more important than your going to Cairo. I want your advice and help.'

'I must,' he said slowly. 'Won't it keep?' He tugged violently at the reins, though the donkey was behaving admirably.

'How long will you stay?' she asked.

'One night only, Lettice. Not longer.'

They were on soft and yellow sand by now; the desert shone with a luminous glow; Tom could not hear the sound of his donkey's hoofs, nor the crunching of the sand-cart. He heard nothing but a voice singing beside him in the burning air. But the air had grown radiant. He realised that he was beating the donkey without the slightest reason.

'When you come back, then--I'll tell you when you come back,' he heard.

And a sudden inspiration came to his a.s.sistance. 'Couldn't you write it?'