His Hour

Chapter 1

The Sphinx was smiling its eternal smile. It was two o'clock in the

morning. The tourists had returned to Cairo, and only an Arab or two

lingered near the boy who held Tamara's camel, and then gradually slunk

away; thus, but for Hafis, she was alone--alone with her thoughts and

the Sphinx.

The strange, mystical face looked straight at her from the elevation

where she sat. Its sensual mocking calm penetrated her brain. The

creature seemed to be laughing at all humanity--and saying--"There is

no beyond--live and enjoy the things of the present--Eat, drink, and be

merry, for to-morrow you die, and I--I who sit here and know, tell you

there is no beyond. The things you can touch and hold to your bodies

are the only ones worth grasping."

"No, no!" said Tamara, half aloud, "I will not--I will not believe it."

"Fool," said the Sphinx. "What is your soul? And if you have one, what

have you done with it hitherto? Are you any light in the world?--No,

you have lived upon the orders of others, you have let your

individuality be crushed these twenty-four years--since the day you

could speak. Just an echo it is--that fine thing, your soul! Show it

then, if you have one! Do you possess an opinion? Not a bit of it. You

simply announce platitudes that you have been taught were the right

answers to all questions! Believe me, you have no soul. So take what

you can--a body! You certainly have that, one can see it--well, snatch

what it can bring you, since you have not enough will to try for higher

things. Grasp what you may, poor weakling. That is the wisdom sitting

here for eternity has taught me."

Tamara stirred her hands in protest--but she knew the indictment was

true. Yes, her life had been one long commonplace vista of following

leads--like a sheep.

But was it too late to change? Had she the courage? Dared she think for

herself? If not, the mystic message of the Sphinx's smile were better

followed: "Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow you die."

The blue of the sky seemed to soothe her, and speak of hope. Could any

other country produce a sky of so deep a sapphire as the night sky of

Egypt? All around was intense sensuous warmth and stillness almost as

light as day.

How wise she had been to break through the conventionality which

surrounded her--and it had required some nerve--so as to be able to

come here alone, on this one of her last nights in Egypt.

She half smiled when she thought of Millicent Hardcastle's face when

she had first suggested it.

"My dear Tamara, what--what an extraordinary thing for a woman to do!

Go to the Sphinx all alone at two o'clock in the morning. Would not

people think it very strange?"

Tamara felt a qualm for a second, but was rebellious.

"Well, perhaps--but do you know, Millicent, I believe I don't care.

That carven block of stone has had a curious effect upon me. It has

made me think as I have never done before. I want to take the clearest

picture away with me--I must go."

And even Mrs. Hardcastle's mild assertion that it could equally well be

viewed and studied at a more reasonable hour did not move Tamara, and

while her friend slumbered comfortably in her bed at Mena House, she

had set off, a self-conscious feeling of a truant schoolboy exalting

and yet frightening her.

Tamara was a widow. James Loraine had been everything that a thoroughly

respectable English husband ought to be. He had treated her with

kindness, he had given her a comfortable home--he had only asked her to

spend ten months of the year in the country, and he had never caused

her a moment's jealousy.

She could not remember her heart having beaten an atom faster--or

slower--for his coming or going. She had loved him, and her sisters and

brother, and father, all in the same devoted way, and when pneumonia

had carried him off nearly two years before, she had grieved with the

measure the loss of any one of them would have caused her--that was

sincerely and tenderly.

They were such a nice family, Tamara's!

For hundreds of years they had lived on the same land, doing their duty

to their neighbors and helping to form that backbone of England of

which we hear so much nowadays, in its passing away.

They had been members of Parliament, of solid Whig, and later of

Unionist, views. They had been staunch Generals, Chairmen of

Quarter-Sessions, riders to hounds, subscribers to charities, rigid

church-goers, disciplined, orthodox, worthy members of society.

Underdown was their name, and Underwood their home.

That Tamara should have been given that Russian appellation, in a group

of Gladys, Mabels and Dorothys, must have surely indicated that fate

meant her to follow a line not quite so mapped out as that of her

sisters'. The very manner of her entry into the world was not in

accordance with the Underdown plan.

Her mother, Lady Gertrude Underdown, had contracted a friendship with

the wife of the First Secretary of the Russian Embassy.

Foreigners were not looked upon with favor in the home circle, and

instead of staying only the two months of May and June, as she was

fully entitled to, in London, she had insisted upon remaining for July

as well that year--to be near her friend Vera and enjoy the gay world.

The Squire had grumbled, but acquiesced, though when afterward a fourth

daughter was presented to him with a request that she might have

Princess Vera for a godmother and a Russian name to be called by, he

felt himself justified in carping at fate.

"Foreign fandangoes," he designated such ideas. However, Lady Gertrude

was very ill, and had to be humored, so the affair took place, and

Tamara the baby was christened, with due state.

There were no more Russian suggestions in the family; the son and heir

who arrived a year later became plain Tom, and then Lady Gertrude

Underdown made her bow to the world and retired to the family vault in

Underwood Church.

They were all estimably brought up by an aunt, and hardly ever left the

country until each one came up in turn to be presented at Court, and go

through a fairly dull season among country neighbors on the same bent.

Two of them, including Tamara, had secured suitable husbands, and at

the age of twenty-three years the latter had been left a well-dowered

widow.

She had worn mourning for just the right period, had looked after her

affairs--handed James' place over with a good grace to James' brother

and an unliked sister-in-law, and finally, when she was wearing grays

and mauves, two years almost after her loss, she had allowed herself to

be persuaded into taking a trip to Egypt with her friend, Millicent

Hardcastle, who was recovering from influenza.

It had caused the greatest flutter at Underwood, this journey abroad!

None of them had been further than Dresden, where each girl had learned

German for a year or so before her presentation.

And what had Egypt done for Tamara? Lifted just one pretty white

eyelid, perhaps. Stirred something which only once or twice in her life

she had been dimly conscious of. Everything had been a kind of shock to

her. A shock of an agreeable description. And once driving at night in

the orange groves of Ghezireh, after some open-air fte, the heavy

scent and intoxicating atmosphere had made her blood tingle. She felt

it was almost wrong that things should so appeal to her senses.

Anything which appealed deliberately to the senses had always been

considered as more than almost wrong at Underwood Chase.

The senses were improper things which Aunt Clara for her part never

quite understood why the Almighty should have had the bad taste to

permit in human beings.

But the Sphinx was again talking to Tamara--only this time in the voice

of a young man--who without a word of warning had risen from a bank of

sand where he had been stretched motionless and unperceived.

"A fine goddess, is she not, Madame," he said. And to add to the

impertinence of a stranger's addressing her at all, Tamara was further

incensed by the voice being that of a foreigner!

But it was an extraordinarily pleasant voice, deep and tuneful, and the

"_Insolent_" stood over six feet high and was as slender as Tamara

herself almost--in spite of his shoulders and air of strength.

She hardly knew what to answer, he had spoken with such ease and

assurance, almost with the tone of one who hails a fellow worshiper and

has a right to exchange sympathy.

Tamara had been startled, too, by the sudden rising of the man when she

thought she was alone, but at last she answered slowly, "Yes."

"I often come here at night," he went on, "when those devils of

tourists have gone back in their devil of a tramway. Then you get her

alone--and she says things to you. You think so, too, isn't it?"

"Yes," again said Tamara, convulsed with wonder at herself for speaking

at all.

"At first I was angry when I saw your camel against the sky and saw you

come and dismount and sit and look, I like to have her all to myself.

But afterwards when I watched you I saw you meant no harm--you aren't a

tourist, and so you did not matter."

"Indeed," said Tamara, the fine in her grasping the situation, the

Underdown training resenting its unconventionality.

"Yes," he continued, unconcerned. "You can't look at that face and feel

we any of us matter much--can you?"

"No," said Tamara.

"How many thousand years has she been telling people that? But it

drives me mad, angry, furious, to see the tourists! I want to strangle

them all!"

He clenched his hand and his eyes flashed.

Tamara peeped up at him--he was not looking at her--but at the Sphinx.

She saw that he was extremely attractive in spite of having un-English

clothes, which were not worn with ease. Gray flannel of unspeakable

cut, and boots which would have made her brother Tom shriek with

laughter. The Underdown part of her whispered, could he be quite a

gentleman? But when he turned his face full upon her in the moonlight,

that doubt vanished completely. He might even be a very great

gentleman, she thought.

"Would you like to see a bit of the Arabian Nights?" he asked her.

Tamara rose. This really ought not to go on, this conversation--and

yet--

"Yes, I would," she said.

"Well, the spell is broken of the Sphinx," he continued. "She can't

talk to me with you there, and she can't talk to you with me near, so

let us go and see something else that is interesting together."

"What?" asked Tamara.

"The Sheikh's village down below. Half the people who come don't

realize it is there, and the other half would be afraid to ride through

it at night--but they know me and I will take care of you."

Without the least further hesitation he called Hafis and the camel,

spoke to them in Arabic, and then stood ready to help Tamara up. She

seemed hypnotized, when she was settled in the high saddle. She began

to realize that she was going into the unknown with a perfect stranger,

but she did not think of turning back.

"What do you ride?" she asked.

"See," he said, and he made a strange low whistle, which was instantly

answered by an equally strange low whinny of a horse, and a beautiful

Arab appeared from the foot of the rocks--where all things were in

shadow--led by a little brown boy.

"I am taking him back with me," he said, "Isn't he a beauty. I only

bought him a week ago, and he already knows me."

Then he was in the saddle with the lightest bound, and Tamara, who had

always admired Tom on a horse, knew that she had never seen anyone who

seemed so much a part of his mount as this quaint foreigner. "I suppose

he is an Austrian," she said to herself, and then added with English

insular arrogance, "Only Austrians are like us."

The young man appeared quite indifferent to anything she thought. He

prepared to lead the way down beyond the Sphinx, apparently into the

desert.

Now that he was in front of her, Tamara could not help admiring the

lines of his figure. He was certainly a very decent shape, and

certainly knew how to ride.

Then it came to her that this was a most singular adventure, and the

faint pink mounted to her clear cheeks when she remembered how

dreadfully shocked Millicent would be--or any of the family! But it was

her night of rebellion, so things must take their course.

The young man rode in front until they were on the flat desert, then he

drew rein and waited for her.

"You see," he said, "we skirt these rocks and then we shall ride

through the village. One can very well imagine it has been the same

always."

They entered the little town. The streets were extremely narrow and the

dark houses gave an air of mystery--a speculation--what could be going

on behind those closed shutters? Here and there a straight blue-clad

figure slunk away round a corner. There was a deep silence and the

moonlight made the shadows sharp as a knife. Then a shaft of red light

would shoot from some strange low hovel as they passed, and they could

see inside a circle of Arab Bedouins crouching over a fire. There

seemed no hilarity, their faces were solemn as the grave.

Presently, in the narrowest and darkest street, there was a sound of

tom-toms, strains of weird music and voices, and through the c****s of

the half-opened shutters light streamed across the road--while a small

crowd of Arabs were grouped about the gate in the wall holding donkeys

and a camel.

"A wedding," said the young man. "They have escorted the bride. What

pleasure to raise a veil and see a black face! But each one to his

taste."

Tamara looked up at the window. She wondered what could be happening

within--were the other wives there as well? She would have liked to

have asked.

The young man saw her hesitation and said laconically--

"Well?"

"They are having a party," Tamara replied, with lame obviousness.

"Of course," said the young man. "Weddings and funerals--equally good

occasions for company. They are so wise they leave all to fate; they do

not tear their eyes out for something they cannot have--and fight after

disappointment. They are philosophers, these Arabs."

The little crowd round the gate now barred the road, half good

humoredly, half with menace.

"So, so," said the young man, riding in front. Then he laughed, and

putting his hand in his pocket, brought out a quantity of silver and

flung it among them with merry words in Arabic, while he pointed to the

windows of the house.

Then he seized the bridle of Tamara's camel and started his horse

forward. The crowd smiled now and began scrambling for the baksheesh,

and so they got through in peace.

Neither spoke until they were in a silent lane again.

"Sometimes they can be quite disagreeable," he said, "but it is amusing

to see it all. The Sheikh lives here--he fancies the pyramids belong to

him, just as the Khedive fancies all Egypt is his--life is mostly

imagination."

Now Tamara could see his face better as he looked up to her superior

height on the camel. He had a little moustache and peculiarly chiseled

lips--too chiseled for a man, she thought for a moment, until she

noticed the firm jaw. His eyes were sleepy--slightly Oriental in their

setting, and looked very dark, and yet something made her think that in

daylight they might be blue or gray.

He did not smile at all; as he spoke his face was grave, but when

something made him laugh as they turned the next corner, it transformed

him. It was the rippling spontaneous gaiety of a child.

Two goats had got loose from opposite hovels and were butting at one

another in the middle of the road.

He pulled up his horse and watched.

"I like any fight," he said.

But the goats fled in fear of him, so they went on.

Tamara was wondering why she felt so stupid. She wanted to ask her

strange companion a number of questions. Who he was? What he was doing

at the Sphinx?--and indeed in Egypt. Why he had spoken to her at

all?--and yet appeared absolutely indifferent as they rode along! He

had not asked her a single question or expressed the least curiosity.

For some reason she felt piqued.

Presently they emerged at the end of the village where there was a

small lake left by the retirement of the Nile. The moon, almost full,

was mirrored in it. The scene was one of extreme beauty. The pyramids

appeared an old rose pink, and everything else in tones of

sapphire--not the green-blue of moonlight in other countries. All was

breathlessly still and lifeless. Only they two, and the camel boys,

alone in the night.

The dark line of trees which border the road faced them, and they rode

slowly in that direction.

"You are going to the hotel, I suppose?" he said. "I will see you

safely to it."

And they climbed the bank on to the avenue from Cairo.

"And you?" Tamara could not prevent herself from asking. "Where do you

go?"

"To hell, sometimes," he answered, and his eyes were full of mist, "but

tonight I shall go to bed for a change."

Tamara was nonplussed. She felt intensely commonplace. She was even a

little cross with herself. Why had she asked a question?

The Arab horse now took it into his head to curvet and bound in the air

for no apparent reason, but the young man did not stir an inch--he

laughed.

"Go on, my beauty," he said. "I like you to be so. It shows you are

alive."

As they approached the hotel, Tamara began to hope no one would see

them. No one who could tell Millicent that she had a companion. She

bent down and said rather primly to the young man who was again at her

side:

"I am quite safe now, thank you. I need not trouble you any further.

Good-bye! and I am so obliged to you for showing me a new way home."

He looked up at her, and his whole face was lit with a whimsical smile.

"Yes, at the gate," he said. "Don't be nervous. I will go at the gate."

Tamara did not speak, and presently they came to the turning into the

hotel. Then he stopped.

"I suppose we shall meet again some day," he said. "They have a proverb

here, 'Meet before dawn--part not till dawn.' They see into the future

in a few drops of water in any hollow thing. Well, good-night"--and

before she could answer he was off beyond the hotel up the road and

then turning to the right on a sand-path, galloped out of sight into

what must be the vast desert.

Where on earth could he be going to?--possibly the devil--if one knew.