Complete works of hall c.., p.478
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 478
The Consul-General stopped, and for a long moment he stared in silence into the blanched faces before him. Then he said sharply, “Who is it?”
The Commandant dropped his head, and the Sirdar seemed unwilling to reply.
“Who is it, then?”
“It is... it is a British officer.”
“A British... you say a British...”
“A colonel.”
The old man’s lips moved as if he were repeating the word without uttering it.
“His tunic was torn where his decorations had been. He looked like... like a man who might have been degraded.”
The Consul-General’s face twitched, but in a fierce, almost ferocious voice, he said, “Speak! Who is it?” There was another moment of silence, which seemed to be eternal, and then the Sirdar replied:
“Nuneham, it is your own son.”
XVIII
FROM THE SLAVE OF THE MOST HIGH, ABDUL ALI, CHANCELLOR OF EL AZHAR, TO ISHMAEL AMEER, THE MESSENGER OF GOD, PRAISE BE TO HIM THE EXALTED ONE.
A word in haste to say that he who came here as your missionary and representative has within the hour been arrested by the officials of the Government, having, so far as we can yet learn and surmise, been most treacherously and maliciously betrayed into their hands by means of a letter to the English lord from one who stands near to you in your camp.
In sadness and tears, with faces bowed to the earth and ashes on our heads, we send our sympathy to you and to your stricken followers, entreating you on our knees, in the name of the Compassionate, not to attempt to carry out your design of coming into Cairo, lest further and more fearful calamities should occur.
This by swift and trusty messenger to your hands at Sakkara.
FIFTH BOOK. THE DAWN
I
THE day that Ishmael had looked for, longed for, prayed for — the day that was to see the fulfilment not only of his spiritual hopes but of his rapturous dream of bliss, the day of his return to Cairo — had come at last.
But the Ishmael Ameer who was returning to Cairo was by no means the same man as the Ishmael who had gone away. In a few short months he had become a totally different person. Two forces had changed him — two forces which in their effect were one.
By the operation of the first of these forces he had become more of a mystic; by the operation of the second he had become more of a man; by the operation of both together he had become a creature who was controlled by his emotions alone.
When he left Cairo he had been a man of elevated spirit but of commanding common-sense. He had looked upon himself as one whose sole work was to call men back to God and to righteousness. But little by little the tyranny of outward events, the pressure of responsibility, and above all the heartfelt and prostrate but dim and perverted adulation of his followers, had led him to believe that he was a being apart, specially directed by the Almighty, and even permitted to be his mouthpiece.
Insensibly Ishmael had come to look upon himself as a “Son of God.” When he first saw that the crowds who came to him from East and West were beginning to believe that he was the Redeemer, the Deliverer, the Expected One whom he foretold, he was shocked and he protested. But when he perceived that this belief helped him to comfort and console and direct them he ceased to deny; and when he realised that it was necessary to his people’s confidence that they should think that he who guided them was himself guided by God, he permitted himself, by his silence, to acquiesce.
From allowing others to believe in his divinity he had come to believe in it himself. His burning, boundless influence over his people had seemed to his deep heart to be only intelligible as a thing given to him from Heaven, and then the “miracle” in the desert, the raising of the Sheikh’s daughter from the dead, had swept down the last of his scruples. God had given him supernatural powers and made him the mouthpiece of His will.
And now, at the end of his pilgrimage, if he did not accept the idea that he was in very fact the Redeemer who was to bring in the golden age, the Kingdom of God, he succumbed to a delusion that was nearly akin to it — that just as the Lord of the Christians, being condemned by the Roman Governor, had permitted another to take His form and face and bodily presence and to die on the cross instead of him, so the Messiah, the Mahdi, the Christ who was to come, was now using him as His substitute to lead and control His poor, oppressed, and helpless people until the time came for Him to appear in His own person.
Such was the operation of the force that had made Ishmael more of a mystic, and the force that had made him more of a man had been playing in the same way upon his heart.
It had played upon him through Helena.
When Helena entered into his life and he betrothed himself to her, he honestly believed that he was doing no more than protect her good name. For some time afterward he continued to deceive himself, but the constant presence of a beautiful woman by his side produced its effect, and little by little he came to know that his heart was touched.
As soon as he became conscious of this he remembered the vow he had made when his Coptic slave wife died, that no other woman should take her place, and he also reminded himself of his mission, his consecration to the welfare of humanity. But the more he tried to crush his affection for Helena, the more it grew.
He was like a boy in the first beautiful morning light of love. The moment be was alone, after parting from Helena at the door of her sleeping-room, he would kiss the band that bad touched her band, and find a tingling joy in stepping afresh over the places on which her feet had trod. A glance from her beaming eyes made his pulses beat rapidly, and when, one day, he saw her combing out her hair, with her round white arm bare to the elbow, his breathing came quick and loud.
His passion was like a flower which had sprung up in the parched place of the desert of his desolate soul, and everything that Helena did seemed to water it. Reading her conduct by the only light he had, he thought she loved him. Had she not followed him from India, breaking from her own people to live by his side? Had she not betrothed herself to him without a thought of any other than spiritual joys?
His pride in him, too, was no less than her affection. Had she not proposed that he should go into Cairo in advance because, that being the place of the greatest danger, was the place of highest honour also? In her womanly jealousy for her husband’s rank, had she not resisted and resented the substitution of another when it was decided by the sheikhs that “Omar” should go instead? And, notwithstanding her illness at Khartoum, had she not insisted on following him across the desert, and, weak as she was, enduring the pains of his pilgrimage in order to continue by his side?
Allah bless and cherish her! Was there anything in the world so good as a sweet, unselfish, devoted woman?
During the journey Ishmael’s love for Helena grew hour by hour until it filled his whole being, and made his wild heart a globe of infinite radiance and hope. Her beauty, her gifts of mind as well as of body, took complete possession of him. Whenever he saw her everything brightened up. Whenever he turned on his camel, and caught sight of her dromedary at the tail of the caravan, he became excited. Whenever evil things befell he had only to think of the Rani and his troubles died away. All that was good and beautiful in the world seemed to centre in the litter that held her by day and in the tent that covered her by night.
Then, in spite of his mission and the burden of his work, he began to remember that all this loveliness, all this sweetness, belonged to him. The Rani was his wife, and he could not help but think of the possibility of nearer relations between them.
When this thought first came to him he repelled it as a species of treachery. Had he not pledged himself to a spiritual union? Would it not be wrong to break that pledge — wrong to the Rani, wrong to his own higher nature, wrong to God?
But nevertheless the temptation to claim the rights of a husband became stronger day by day, and he struggled to reconcile his faith with his affection. He reminded himself that renunciation was no part of Islam, that it was a Christian error, that “monkery” had been condemned by the Prophet, that it was contrary to the clear law of nature, and that as soon as his task was finished it was his duty to live a human life with woman and with children.
This seemed to solve the sphinx-like problem of existence, but when he tried to talk of it to the Rani, in order to break the ground with her, his tongue would not utter the words that were in his heart, and something made him stop in confusion and go away quickly.
Yet his self-denial only intensified his desire. Keeping away from Helena by day, he was with her in his dreams by night. One rapturous, incredible, almost impossible, and even terrible dream of bliss was always stirring within him. A little longer, only a little longer. The hour in which he would lay down his task as leader, as prophet, would be the hour in which he would take up his new life as a man.
That hour was now near. He was outside the gates of Cairo. Nothing would, nothing could, intervene at this last stage to prevent him from entering the city, and once within his work would be at an end. Oh, God, how good it was to live!
All that day at Sakkara Ishmael had been in the highest state of religious exaltation, and when night came he walked about the camp as if demented both in heart and brain.
The camp stretched from the banks of the Nile at Berrasheen over the black ruins of Memphis to the broad sands before the Step Pyramid, and everywhere the people sat in groups about their fires, eating, drinking, playing their pipes, tambourines, and drums, and singing to tunes that were like wild dance music their songs of rejoicing.
They were singing about himself, his wise words, his miracles, his miraculous birth (born of a virgin), his good looks, which made all women love him, and his divinity, which would save him from death. Ishmael heard this, yet he had no misgivings, no fear of what the coming day would bring forth. A sort of spiritual lightning blinded him to possible danger, and his heart swelled with love for his people. God bless them! God bless everybody! Bless East and West, white man and black man, sons of one Father, soon to be united in one hope, one love, one faith!
Ishmael felt as if he wanted to take the whole world in his arms. Above all he wanted to take the Rani in his arms. It was not that the lower man, the animal man, was conquering the higher man, the spiritual man, but that both body and soul were aflame, that a sense of fierce joy filled his whole being at the thought of entering into a new life, and that he wished to find physical expression for it.
Before he was aware of what he was doing he was walking in the direction of Helena’s tent. Striding along in the darkness which was slashed here and there with shafts of light from the camp fires, he approached the tent from the back, the mouth being toward the city. Close behind it he stumbled upon some one who was crouching there. It was a boy, and he rose hastily and hurried away without speaking, being followed immediately by a woman who seemed to have been watching him.
Ishmael’s heart was beating so violently by this time that he had only a confused impression of having seen this, and at the next instant, treading softly on the silent sand, he was in front of the tent looking at Helena, who was within.
She was sitting on her camp bed, her angerib, writing on a pad that rested upon her lap, by the light of a lamp which hung from the pole which upheld the canvas. Though her face was down, Ishmael could see that it was suffused by a rosy blush, and when at one moment she raised her head, her bright and shining eyes seemed to him to he wet with tears, but full, nevertheless, of joy and love.
Ishmael thought he knew what she was doing. She was thinking of him and writing, as she loved to do, the immortal story of his pilgrimage, happy in the near approach of his great triumph.
Standing in the darkness to look at her he could hardly restrain himself any longer. He wanted to burst in upon her and to he alone with her.
Behind and about him were the lights of the camp and its many sounds of rejoicing, but he did not see or hear them now. His heart was afire. He was intoxicated with love. What had been for so long his almost unconquerable dream of bliss was about to be fulfilled.
“Rani!” he whispered in a quivering voice, and then, plunging into the tent, he caught her up in his arms.
II
HALF blind with tears which belied her brave words, Helena had been writing the letter to Gordon which Mosie was waiting to take away. She had told him not to think of her, for she was quite able to take care of herself whatever happened. Then wiping the tears from her eyes, she had smiled as she told him to forget the nonsense she had written about Jezebel and her Jewish blood and to remember that until Ishmael’s work was “finished” and he entered Cairo, she ran no risk by remaining in his camp.
She had got thus far when she thought she heard a step on the sand outside, but raising her eyes to look, and seeing nothing except the red and white stars from the rockets that rained through the air at Ghezirah, she resumed her letter, telling herself as she did so that if the worst came to the worst and matters reached an unexpected crisis with Ishmael, she could defeat him again, as she had done before, by diplomacy, by finesse, and by woman’s wit.
“I suppose you are in the thick of it by this time, for I see that the illuminations at Ghezirah have already begun. My dear, my dear, my—”
Her last word was not yet written when she heard Ishmael’s tremulous whisper of the name he knew her by, and, starting up as if she had received an electric shock, she saw the Egyptian coming into her tent with the glittering eyes of one who was about to accomplish some joyous task. At the next moment, before she knew what was happening, she found herself clasped in his arms.
“My life! My heart! My eyes! My own!” he was saying in hot and impetuous whispers, and raising her face to his face he was kissing her on the lips.
She struggled to liberate herself, but felt like a helpless child in his strong, irresistible grasp.
“Leave me! Let me go!” she said with heat and anger, but he did not seem to hear her or to be conscious of her resistance.
“Oh, how glad I am!” he said. “Our journey is at an end! Our new life is about to begin! How happy we shall be!”
All the blood in Helena’s body rushed to her cheeks, and putting up her hands between their faces, she demanded angrily:
“What do you mean by this? What are you doing?”
Yet still he did not hear her, for his passion was overpowering him, its intoxicating voice was ringing through his whole being, and he continued to pour into her ears a torrent of endearing words.
“Yes, yes, our new life is about to begin! It is to begin to-night — now!”
Helena was overwhelmed with fear, but suddenly, by the operation of an instinct which she did not comprehend, she smiled up into Ishmael’s smiling face — a feeble, frightened, involuntary smile — and pointing to the open mouth of the tent, she said with a sense of mingled cunning and confusion:
“Be careful! Look!”
Ishmael loosened his hold of her and, stepping back to the tent’s mouth, he began to close and button it.
While he did so Helena watched him and asked herself what she ought to do next. Cry for help? It would be useless. There were none to hear her except Ishmael’s own people, and they worshipped him and looked upon her as his wife, his property, his slave, his chattel. Escape? Impossible! More than ever impossible for what (at her own direction) he was doing now.
“Then what am I do to?” she asked herself, and before she had found an answer Ishmael, having sealed up the tent, was returning with outstretched arms, as if with the intention of embracing and kissing her again.
She read in his great wild eyes the light of a passion which she had never seen in a man’s face before, but she put on a bold front in spite of the terror which possessed her, thrust out her right hand to keep him off, looked him full in the face and cried:
“No, no! You shall not! On no account! No!”
At that he dropped his outstretched arms, but, still smiling his joyous smile, he continued to approach her, saying as he did so in a tone of affectionate surprise and remonstrance:
“Why, what is this, O my Rani? Have we not joined hands under the handkerchief? Are you not my wife? Am I not your husband? It is true that I pledged myself to renunciation. But renunciation is wrong. It is against religion, against God.”
He came nearer. She could feel his hot breath upon her face. It made her shiver with the race-feeling she had experienced before.
“And then, how can I continue to deny myself?” he said. “I am like one who has been dying of hunger in the sight of food. You are my joy, my flower, my treasure. God has given you to me. You are mine.”
With that he threw his irresistible arms about her again, and bringing his glittering eyes close to her eyes he whispered:
“My Rani! My wife!”
Helena knew that the hour she had looked forward to with dread had come at length; she saw that the diplomacy, the finesse, the woman’s wit she had counted upon to save her were useless to quell the passion which flashed from Ishmael’s eyes and throbbed in his voice, and she made one last and violent effort to escape from his arms.
“Let me go! Let me go!” she cried.
“Am I doing wrong?” he said. “No, no! I would not harm you for all the kingdoms of the world. But every wife must submit to her husband.”
“No, no, no!” she cried in tones of repulsion and loathing.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he replied, still more tenderly, still more passionately. “But if she is a good woman she has her modesty, her shield of shame. That is only right, only natural. It makes her the more sweet, the more dear, the more charming—”
Helena felt his arms tightening about her; she knew that he was lifting her off her feet, and realised that she was being carried across the tent.
Then she remembered the assurances she had given to Gordon, the promises she had made to herself, and hardly conscious of what she did until it was done, or of what she was saying until it was said, she brought her open hands heavily down upon his face and cried in a fury of wrath and scorn:
