Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 460
And then, when prayers were over and Ishmael brought up his uncle, and the patriarchal old man, with a heard like a flowing fleece, said he was to lodge at his house, and finally, when Ishmael led him home and took him to his own chamber and called to Abdullah to set up another angerib, saying they were to sleep in the same room, Gordon’s twinges of pride and qualms of conscience were swallowed up in one great wave of human brotherhood.
But both came hack with a sudden bound when Ishmael began to talk of his wife, and to send the servant to fetch her. They were sitting in the guest-room by this time, waiting for the lady to come to them, and Gordon felt himself moved by the inexplicable impulse of anxiety he had felt before. Who was this Mohammedan woman who had prompted Ishmael to a scheme that must so surely lead to disaster? Did she know what she was doing? Was she betraying him?
Then a door on the women’s side of the house opened slowly and he saw a woman enter the room. He did not look into her face. His distrust of her, whereof he was now half ashamed, made him keep his head down while he bowed low during the little formal ceremony of Ishmael’s presentation. But instantly a certain indefinite memory of height and step and general bearing made his blood flow fast, and he felt the perspiration breaking out on his forehead.
A moment afterward he raised his eyes, and then he felt as if his hair rose upright. He was like a man who has been made colour-blind by some bright light. He could not at first believe the evidence of his senses — that she who appeared to be there was actually before him.
He did not speak or utter a sound, but his embarrassment was not observed by Ishmael, who was clapping his hands to call for food. During the next few minutes there was a little confusion in the room — Black Zogal and Abdullah were laying a big brass tray on trestles and covering it with dishes. Then came the ablutions and the sitting down to eat — Gordon at the head of the table, with Ishmael on his right and old Mahmud on his left, and Helena next to Ishmael.
The meal began with the beautiful Eastern custom of the host handing the first mouthful of food to his guest as a pledge of peace and brotherhood, faith and trust. This kept Gordon occupied for the moment, but Helena had time for observation. In the midst of her agitation she could not help seeing that Gordon had grown thinner, that his eyes were bloodshot and his nostrils pinched as if by physical or moral suffering. After a while she saw that he was looking across at her with increasing eagerness, and under his glances she became nervous and almost hysterical.
Gordon on his part had now not the shadow of a doubt of Helena’s identity, but still he did not speak. He, too, noticed a change — Helena’s profile had grown more severe, and there were dark rims under her large eyes. He could not help seeing these signs of the pain she had gone through, though his mind was going like a windmill under constantly changing winds. Why was she there? Could it be that the great sorrow which fell upon her at the death of her father had made her fly to the consolation of religion?
He dismissed that thought the instant it came to him, for behind it, close behind it, came the recollection of Helena’s hatred of Ishmael Ameer and of the jealousy which had been the first cause of the separation between themselves. “Smash the Mahdi!” she had said, not altogether in play. Then why was she there? Great God, could it be possible — that after the death of the General — she had —
Gordon felt at that moment as if the world were reeling round him.
Helena, glancing furtively across the table, was sure she could read Gordon’s thoughts. With the certainty that he knew what had brought her to Khartoum, she felt at first a crushing sense of shame. What a fatality! If anybody had told her that she would be overwhelmed with confusion by the very person she had been trying to avenge, she would have thought him mad, yet that was precisely what Providence had permitted to come to pass.
The sense of her blindness and helplessness in the hands of destiny was so painful as to reach the point of tears. When Gordon spoke in reply to Ishmael’s or old Mahmud’s questions the very sound of his voice brought back memories of their happy days together, and, looking back on the past of their lives and thinking where they were now, she wanted to run away and cry.
All this time Ishmael saw nothing, for he was talking rapturously of the great hope, the great expectation, the near approach of the time when the people’s sufferings would end. A sort of radiance was about him, and his face shone with the joy and the majesty of the dreamer in the full flood of his dream.
When the meal was over, the old man, who had been too busy with his food to see anything else, went off to his siesta, and then, the dishes being removed and the servants gone, Ishmael talked in lower tones of the details of his scheme — how he was to go into Cairo in advance, in the habit of a Bedouin such as Gordon wore, in order to win the confidence of the Egyptian Army, so that they should throw down the arms which no man ought to bear, and thus permit the people of the pilgrimage, coming behind, to take possession of the city, the citadel, the arsenal, and the engines of war, in the name of God and His Expected One.
All this he poured out in the rapturous language of one who saw no impediments, no dangers, no perils from chance or treachery, and then, turning to where Helena sat with her face aflame and her eyes cast down, he gave her the credit of everything that had been thought of, everything that was to be done.
“Yes, it was the Rani who suggested it,” he said; “and when the triumph of peace is won, God will write it on her forehead.”
The afternoon had passed by this time, and the sun, which had gone far round to the west, was glistening like hammered gold along the river, in the line of the forts of Omdurman. It was near to the hour for evening prayers, and Helena was now trembling under a new thought — the thought that Ishmael would soon be called out to speak to the people who gathered in the evening in front of the house, and then she and Gordon would be left alone.
When she thought of that she felt a desire which she had never felt before and never expected to feel — a desire that Ishmael might remain to protect her from the shock of the first word that would be spoken when he was gone.
Gordon on his part, too, was feeling a thrill of the heart from his fear of the truth that must fall on him the moment he and Helena were left together.
But Black Zogal came to the open door of the guestroom, and Ishmael, who was still on the heights of his fanatical rapture, rose to go.
“Talk to him, Rani! Tell him everything! About the kufiah you intend to make, and all the good plan you propose to prevent bloodshed.”
The two unhappy souls, still sitting at the empty table, heard his sandalled footsteps pass out behind them.
Then they raised their eyes, and for the first time looked into each other’s faces.
XIII
WHEN they began to speak it was in scarcely audible whispers:
“Helena!”
“Gordon!”
“Why are you here, Helena? What have you come for? You disliked and distrusted Ishmael Ameer when you heard about him first. You used to say you hated him. What does it all mean?”
Helena did not answer immediately.
“Tell me, Helena. Don’t let me go on thinking these cruel thoughts. Why are you here with Ishmael in Khartoum?”
Still Helena did not answer. She was now sitting with her eyes down, and her hands tightly folded in her lap. There was a moment of silence while he waited for her to speak, and in that silence there came the muffled sound of Ishmael’s voice outside, reciting the Fatihah:
“Praise be to God, the Lord of all creatures—”
When the whole body of the people had repeated the solemn words there was silence in the guest-room again, and then, in the same hushed whisper as before, but more eagerly, more impetuously, Gordon said:
“He says you put this scheme into his mind, Helena. If so, you must know quite well what it will lead to. It will lead to ruin — inevitable ruin — bloodshed — perhaps great bloodshed.”
Helena found her voice at last. A spirit of defiance took possession of her for a moment, and she said firmly; “No, it will never come to that. It will all end before it goes so far.”
“You mean that he will he — will be taken?”
“Yes, he will be taken the moment he sets foot in Cairo. Therefore the rest of the plan will never be carried out, and consequently there will be no bloodshed.”
“Do you know that, Helena?”
Her lips were compressed; she made a silent motion of her head.
“How do you know it?”
“I have written to your father.”
“You have — written — to my father?”
“Yes,” she said, still more firmly. “He will know everything before Ishmael arrives, and act as he thinks best.”
“Helena! Hel—”
But he was struck breathless both by what she said and by the relentless strength with which she said it. There was silence again for some moments, and once more in the silence the voice of Ishmael came from without:
“There are three holy books, oh, my brothers — the book of Moses and the Hebrew prophets; the book of the Gospel of the Lord Jesus, and the plain book of the Koran. In the first of these it is written: ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.’”
Gordon reached over to where Helena sat at the side of the table, with her eyes fixed steadfastly before her, and, touching her arm, he said in a whisper so low that he seemed to be afraid the very air would hear:
“Then — then — you are sending him to his death!”
She shuddered for an instant, as if cut to the quick; then she braced herself up.
“Isn’t that so, Helena? Isn’t it?”
With her lips still firmly compressed she made the same silent motion of her head.
“Is that what you came here to do?”
“Yes.”
“To possess yourself of his secrets, and then—”
“There was no other way,” she answered, biting her under lip.’
“Helena! Can it be possible that you have deliberately—”
He stopped, as if afraid to utter the word that was trembling on his tongue, and then said, in a softer voice:
“But why, Helena? Why?”
The spirit of defiance took possession of her again, and she said:
“Wasn’t it enough that he came between you and me, and that our love—”
“Love! Helena! Helena! Can you talk of our love here — now?”
She dropped her head before his flashing eyes, and again he reached over to her and said, in the same breathless whisper:
“Is this love — for me — to become the wife of another man — Helena, what are you saying?”
She did not speak; only her hard breathing told how much she suffered.
“Then think of the other man! His wife! When a woman becomes a man’s wife they are one. And to marry a man in order to — to — Oh, it is impossible! I cannot believe it of you, Helena!”
Suddenly, without warning, she burst into tears, for something in the tone of his voice, rather than the strength of his words, had made her feel the shame of the position she occupied in his eyes.
After a moment she recovered herself, and, in wild anger at her own weakness, she flamed out at him, saying that if she was Ishmael’s wife it was in name only; that if she had married Ishmael it was only as a matter of form, at best a betrothal, in order to meet his own wish and to make it possible for her to go on with her purpose.
“As for love — our love — it is not I who have been false to it. No, never for one single moment — although — in spite of everything — for even when you were gone — when you had abandoned me — in the hour of my trouble, too — and I had lost all hope of you — I—”
“Then why, Helena? You hated Ishmael and wished to put him down while you thought he was coming between you and me. But why — when all seemed to be over between us—”
Her lips were twitching and her eyes were ablaze.
“You ask me why I wished to punish him?” she said. “Very well, I will tell you. Because—” she paused, hesitated, breathed hard, and then said, “because he hilled my father!”
Gordon gasped, his face became distorted, his lips grew pale, he tried to speak, but could only stammer out broken exclamations.
“Great God! Hele—”
“Oh, you may not believe it, but I know,” said Helena.
And then, with a rush of emotion, in a torrent of hot words, she told him how Ishmael Ameer had been the last man seen in her father’s company; how she had seen them together and they were quarrelling; how her father had been found dead a few minutes after Ishmael had left him; how she had found him; how other evidence gave proof, abundant proof, that violence, as a contributory means at least, had been the cause of her father’s death; and how the authorities knew this perfectly, but were afraid, in the absence of conclusive evidence, to risk a charge against one whom the people in their blindness worshipped.
“So I was left alone — quite alone — for you were gone, too — and therefore I vowed that if there was no one else, I would punish him!”
“And that is what you—”
“Yes.”
“Oh, God! Oh, God!”
Gordon hid his face in his hands, being made speechless by the awful strength of the blind force which had governed her life and led her on to the tragic tangle of her error. But she misunderstood his feeling, and with flashing, almost blazing, eyes, though sobs choked her voice for a moment, she turned on him and said:
“Why not? Think of what my father had been to me, and say if I was not justified. Nobody ever loved me as he did — nobody. He was old, too, and weak, for he was ill, though nobody knew it. And then this — this barbarian — this hypocritical — Oh, when I think of it I have such a feeling of physical repulsion for the man that I can scarcely sit by his side!”
Saying this she rose to her feet, and, standing before Gordon, as he sat with his face covered by his hands, she said with intense bitterness, as if exulting in the righteousness of her vengeance:
“Let him go to Damietta, or to death itself, if need he! Doesn’t he deserve it? Doesn’t he? Uncover your face and tell me. Tell me if — if — tell me if—”
She was approaching Gordon as if to draw away his hands, when she began to gasp and stammer as though she had experienced a sudden electric shock. Her eyes had fallen on the third finger of his left hand, and they fixed themselves upon it with the fascination of fear. She saw that it was shorter than the rest, and that, since she had seen it before, it had been injured and amputated.
Her breath, which had been labouring heavily, seemed to stop altogether, and there was silence once more in which the voice of -Ishmael came again:
“When the Deliverer comes, will He find peace on the earth? Will He find war? Will He find corruption and the worship of false gods? Will He find hatred and vengeance? Beware of vengeance, oh, my brothers! It corrupts the heart; it pulls down the pillars of the soul! Vengeance belongs to God, and when men take it out of His hands He writes black marks upon their faces.”
The two unhappy people sitting together in the guestroom seemed to hear their very hearts beat. At length Gordon, making a great call on his resolution, began to speak: “Helena!”
“Well?”
“It is all a mistake — a fearful, frightful mistake.”
She listened without drawing breath — a vague foreshadowing of the truth coming over her.
“Ishmael Ameer did not kill your father.”
Her lips trembled convulsively; she grew paler and paler every moment.
“I know he did not, Helena, because” — he covered His face again—” because I know who did.”
“Then who — who was it?”
“He did not intend to do it, Helena.”
“Who was it?”
“It was all in the heat of blood.”
“Who was—”
He hesitated, then stammered out: “Don’t you see, Helena? — it was I.”
She had known in advance what he was going to say, but not until he had said it did the whole truth fall on her. Then in a moment the world itself seemed to reel. A moral earthquake, upheaving everything, had brought all her aims to ashes. The mighty force which had guided and sustained her soul — the sense of doing a necessary and a righteous thing — had collapsed without an instant’s warning. Another force, the powerful, almost brutal force of fate, had broken it to pieces.
“My God! My God! What has become of me?” she thought, and without speaking she gazed blankly at Gordon as he sat with his eyes hidden by his injured hand.
Then in broken words, with gasps of breath, he told her what had happened, beginning with the torture of his separation from her at the door of the General’s house.
“You said I had not really loved you — that you had been mistaken and were punished, and — and that was the end.”
Going away with the memory of these words in his mind, his wretched soul had been on the edge of a vortex of madness, in which all its anger, all its hatred, had been directed against the General. In the blind leading of his passion, torn to the heart’s core, he had then returned to the Citadel to accuse the General of injustice and tyranny.
“‘Helena was mine,’ I said, ‘and you have taken her from me, and broken her heart as well as my own. Is that the act of a father?’”
Other words he had also said in the delirium of his rage, mad and insulting words such as no father could bear, and then the General had snatched up the broken sword from the floor and fallen on him, hacking at his hand — see!
“I didn’t want to do it, God knows I did not, for he was an old man and I was no coward; but the hot blood was in my head, and I laid hold of him by the throat to hold him off.”
He uncovered his face — it was full of humility and pain.
“God forgive me, I didn’t know my strength. I flung him away; he fell. I had killed him — my General, my friend!”
Tears filled his eyes. In her eyes also tears were gathering.
