Sekhet. Irene Miller
Certainly it was worth the trouble. In the background, against the vividly blue sweep of lofty skies, appeared the sharp and clearly-defined outline of the arid, rose-tinted hills, concealed amid whose rocky recesses lay the tombs of the Pharaohs of bygone days. In the mid-distance the wide Nile—here dignified and placid, untroubled by dams, reservoirs or cataracts—flowed calmly and gently, cool even to behold.
Between the water and the temple the eye roved over pastures, carefully cultivated, often of a most vivid emerald, broken by clusters of lofty, feathery palm-trees. In the fields and on the pale dusty roads were Arabs, their many-hued garments adding to the rich brightness of the scene, yet without rendering it at all voyante. Over all was the glamour of a dancing haze of golden sunlight.
Near to the pylon, the Old and the New appeared in close conjunction. To the left lay a temple, ruinous yet still massive, and another pylon, far older than the Christian religion, but still almost uninjured by its vast weight of years. Nearer still stretched a wide avenue bordered on either hand by rows of huge ram-headed sphinxes.
To the right of these great works of times long past, lay a tiny poverty-stricken Arab village. It stood in the midst of a thin grove of palms, and was then encircled by an irregular wall of mud bricks. The small houses, also of dried mud, had, for the most part, been erected by their provident builders around the trunks of palm-trees, which helped support the huts, and gave some degree of shelter from the fiery rays of the broiling summer sun. The flat roofs were covered with piles of sugar-cane, amid which played naked brown babies and small ragged children. The terrifying half-savage dogs that defended the village and all its belongings during the hours of night, now basked peacefully in the mid-day warmth, or strolled around the top of the encircling wall.
The summit of the pylon itself, though fairly wide, was rough and steep. Its height was great, and the extensive view accentuated the feeling of loftiness. But Evarne's few years of "softness" and luxury had not sufficed to entirely undo the effects of her early training. The sensation of height had small effect upon her well-trained nerves, and when she wished to gaze particularly into one special little courtyard within the village, she walked boldly to the farther end and edge of the pylon.
As the party had neared the top their ears had been greeted by the sound of numerous voices uplifted in unison; on gaining this point of vantage the source of these cries could be seen.
Evidently death had visited the village that day, for the courtyard of one of the largest of the small houses was filled with women wailing and lamenting, while little knots of females were approaching with all speed from the entire countryside. Clad in their shapeless and voluminous black robes, with trailing ends leaving clouds of dust in their wake, their heads veiled, their faces hidden in the yashmak, they formed a strange, weird spectacle as they advanced, all uttering concerted cries of mourning that grew louder as they neared the village in which the dead man lay. The European witnesses of this phase of native life were convinced that only the departure to another world of one of the male half of humanity would have sufficed to create such a stir in the surrounding district.
A band of mourners reached their goal. Their arrival was the signal for the already assembled women of the village to wax yet more demonstrative in their display of anguish. The long shuddering moans, the shrill piercing cries, grew louder and more insistent, while dozens of lean brown arms were raised in despairing appeal to heaven, then descended with force upon head or face, and others of the mourners tore frantically at the garments over their breasts.
"It's just as it is drawn on the ancient monuments, the very same; they haven't changed a bit in all these thousands of years," cried Evarne. She was far more thrilled by this illustration of the realism of Egyptian art and of this justification for that romantic term—The Unchanging East—than moved to sorrow by the conventional mourning of the many wailers.
Evidently the news had spread widely. From all directions black figures bore down upon the village, sometimes in groups of six or eight, sometimes in bodies of thirty or more. Each one on her arrival passed into the low hut wherein the corpse lay, then came out after a minute or so to add her quota to the increasing lamentation for the dead. This business of mourning was clearly still the prerogative of the female sex. No men took any share in it—indeed, the only two existing in the whole place, as far as could be seen, were squatting calmly in a neighbouring yard, unconcernedly holding and milking a buffalo.
Evarne looked round for Morris. He stood just at the top of the slope, Lucinda still clinging to his arm.
"Come along to where I am, Morris," the girl called out to him. "You can see everything much better from here."
He made a movement as if to follow her suggestion, but Lucinda said something in a low voice, whereupon he replied—
"Mrs. Belmont feels too giddy either to walk or to be left alone; but don't you bother about us, my dear. We can really witness all the fun of the fair quite nicely."
"That chap may have died of fever or smallpox, or goodness knows what," remarked Tony's voice by her ear. "With all these women trotting in to have a last stare at the old boy—why, it's enough to infect the neighbourhood, isn't it?"
To Evarne the Jealous the health of the whole countryside was as nothing at that moment compared to the fact that when she had directly called upon her lover to join her, Lucinda should have had the assurance to promptly whisper a suggestion that he should remain where he was, and that the wish of her rival should have sufficed to keep Morris from her side.
She turned to Tony.
"Take my smelling-salts over to Mrs. Belmont," she said, opening her hand-bag and producing the little crystal bottle with its jewelled stopper. "Stay by her and look after her if she feels bad, won't you, so that Mr. Kenyon may come here where it is easier to see?"
But a different remedy for overcoming the lady's attack of nausea had already been prescribed. Supported by Morris's arm she had commenced to descend from the height.
Evarne instinctively uttered a little exclamation.
"Let 'em go," suggested Tony. "We don't want to go down yet, do we, Miss Stornway?"
Evarne glanced around at the remainder of her companions. Tom and Justine were seated close together on a stone by her side, apparently as rooted to the spot as ever Theseus and Pitheous could have been; the others were grouped near at hand, all staring downwards with the keenest interest.
Evarne was obliged to agree. Nature had been very neglectful in not imbuing her with the art of scheming and contriving events to suit her own purposes. True, she had now a daily object-lesson in the manœuvres of the adept Lucinda, and without being conscious thereof, her education in this direction was in progress. However, she was still in the very early stages, and could devise no method on the spur of the moment for preventing this hateful division of the party.
She shook her head and pursed up her mouth discontentedly.
"It's very evident that no one else wishes to descend yet awhile," she acknowledged. "Just ask Mr. Kenyon, then, where we shall find him when we do return to earth."
Tony left her side, and as rapidly came back.
"It's arranged that we are to have tea at four o'clock on the same spot where we lunched. Kenyon says let's meet there at that hour, and all wander about anywhere we choose for the rest of the afternoon. If there's anything particular we want to see again, Hassan knows the way about. That's all right, isn't it?"
She nodded, but dared not trust herself to speak.
"Aren't we tired of this diversion?" cried Guiseppe, joining them a couple of minutes later, his bright spirit having no inclination to dwell long on aught connected with death.
"The others are not, but that is no reason why you should remain," she answered rather eagerly. "Anyone who does not want another hour at least up here is to go with Mr. Kenyon. Hurry up!"
She experienced a certain malicious delight in the idea that she had thus counteracted Lucinda's trick, but her self-congratulation was but short-lived. Guiseppe promptly