At high noon upon a morning towards the end of January, Jim happened to saunter across the hot sand to the terrace of the temple where Monimé was painting, and there found her engaged in conversation with a benevolent, grey-bearded clergyman and a stout, beaming woman who appeared to be his wife, both of whom wore blue spectacles, carried large white umbrellas lined with green, and wore pith helmets adorned with green veiling—appurtenances which stamped them as tourists. Jim himself was somewhat disreputably dressed, having a slouch hat pulled over his eyes, a canvas shirt open at the neck, a pair of well-worn flannel trousers held up by an old leather belt, and red native slippers upon his bare feet, and he therefore hesitated to approach. Monimé, however, beckoned to him to come to her, and, when he had done so, introduced him to her new friends, whose acquaintance, it was explained, she had made an hour previously. The clergyman, it appeared, whose name was Jones, was a man of some wealth who was now touring these upper reaches of the Nile on a small private steamer, in search of the good health of which his work in the underworld of London had deprived him; and Monimé, in taking the trouble to show him and his wife around the temple, perhaps had a woman’s eye[277] to business, for a painter, after all, has wares for sale, and is dependent on the conversion of all colours into plain gold.
Be this as it may, she now invited them to luncheon upon the dahabiyeh, and Jim, not to be churlish, was obliged to support the suggestion with every mark of assent.
The meal was served under the awnings, and when coffee had been drunk Monimé took Mrs. Jones down to the saloon, while the two men were left to smoke on deck. Jim was in a communicative mood, and for some time entertained his guest with narrations of his adventures in many lands, being careful, however, to draw a veil over the years he had spent in England. The clergyman responded, at length, with tales of his life in the slums, expressing the opinion that, owing to the failure of the Church to adapt itself to the exigencies of the present day, callousness in regard to crime was on the increase.
“Here’s an instance of what I mean,” he said. “I was walking late one night along a well-known London street when I was accosted by a young woman who, in spite of my cloth and my age, made certain suggestions to me. I was so astounded that I stopped and spoke to her, and presently she confessed to me that this was the first time she had ever done such a thing, but that she was engaged to be married to a penniless man, and somehow money had to be obtained. Now there’s callousness for you! Can you imagine such a proceeding?”
“Yes, that’s pretty low down,” Jim answered. “What did you do?”
The clergyman smiled. “Ah, that is another[278] story,” he said. “To test her I told her to come to my house the next day and to bring her fiancé with her; and to my surprise they turned up. Well, to cut the story short, I agreed to set them up in business, and I gave them quite a large sum of money for the purpose, hardly expecting, however, that it would prove anything but a dead loss. You may imagine my gratification, therefore, when I began to receive regular quarterly repayments, each accompanied by a gracious little letter of thanks stating that things were prospering splendidly. At last the whole debt was paid off, and the woman came to see me, smartly dressed, and in the best of spirits. I congratulated her on her honesty, and told her that her action had strengthened my belief in the basic goodness of human nature.”
“‘Well, you see,’ she said, ‘we felt we ought to pay our debt to you, as we had made in the business ten times the original sum you gave us.’
“‘And what is the business?’ I asked.
“‘Oh,’ she said, ‘we are running a brothel.’”
Jim leant back in his chair and laughed. “That’s an instance of the evils of indiscriminate charity,” he said.
“It is a sign of the times,” his guest replied, seriously. “Look at the callous crimes of which we read in the newspapers. Take, for instance, the Eversfield case.”
Jim’s heart seemed to stop beating. “I haven’t been reading the papers lately,” he stammered. “I haven’t heard....” His voice failed him.
“Oh, it’s a shocking case,” said Mr. Jones, but to Jim his words were as though they came from a[279] great distance or were heard above the noise of a tempest. “A young woman, the lady of the manor, was found murdered in her own woods, and at first the police thought that the crime had been committed by a certain Jane Potts who was jealous of her. But she proved her innocence, and then the mother of the murdered woman, a Mrs. Darling, admitted that her daughter’s husband, who had been supposed to be dead, was actually alive, and had visited his wife on the day of the crime. It seems that he had wanted to rid himself of her by divorce, but something happened which induced him to kill her instead.”
Jim’s brain was seething. “But if he was guilty, why did he go to see Mrs. Darling afterwards?” he asked.
“Oh, then you have read about the case,” said his guest, glancing at him quickly.
Jim struggled inwardly to be calm and to rectify his mistake. “Yes,” he answered, “I remember it now.”
Mr. Jones bent forward in his chair and tapped his host’s knee. “Mark my words,” he declared, “that man is an out-and-out villain. He had deserted his wife, and had let it be thought that he was dead; and then, I suppose because he was short of money, he came home, and murdered her when she refused to give him any. My theory is that he believed he had been seen by somebody, and therefore determined to brazen it out by calling on his mother-in-law. He is evidently of the callous kind.”
Jim had the feeling that he himself, his ego, had become detached from his brain’s consciousness.[280] Distantly, he could hear every word that was being said, yet at the same time his mind was in confusion, in pandemonium. He looked down from afar off at his body, and wondered whether the trembling of his hand was noticeable. He could listen to himself speaking, and desperately he struggled to control his words.
“What d’you think will happen?” he asked, passing his fingers to and fro across his lips. The sudden dryness of his mouth had produced a sort of click in his words which he endeavoured thus to mitigate.
“Oh, they’ll catch him in time,” Mr. Jones replied, “though Mrs. Darling’s reprehensible conduct in keeping the facts to herself for so long has helped him to get clear away. His description is in all the papers—dark hair and eyes; clean-shaven; sallow complexion; athletic build; five foot ten in height....”
Jim smiled in a sickly manner. “That might describe me,” he said, and laughed.
“Yes,” Mr. Jones responded, “I’m afraid it’s not much to go on; but they’ll get him, believe me. I expect they’ll publish a photograph soon.”
Jim drew his breath between his teeth, and again his heart seemed to be arrested in its beating. He wanted to rise from his chair and to run from the dahabiyeh. It seemed to him that his agitation must be wholly apparent to his guest: a man’s entire life could not be shattered and fall to pieces in such utter ruin with no outward sign of the devastation.
He was about to make a move of some sort to end the ordeal when Monimé appeared upon the steps leading up from the saloon, and invited Mr.[281] Jones to come down to see some of her paintings. He rose at once to comply; and thereupon Jim lurched from his chair, and, holding on to the table before him, looked wildly towards the slopes of golden sand which could be seen between the vari-coloured hangings.
Monimé came over to him as the clergyman disappeared down the stairs. “Hullo, Jim,” she said, “you look ill, dear. Is anything the matter?”
He tried to laugh. “No,” he answered sharply. “Why should you think so? I’m all right—only rather bored by your talkative friend.”
She put her arm about him and kissed him: then, suddenly standing back from him, she looked anxiously into his face. “You are ill,” she said. “Your forehead is burning hot. You’ve been out in the sun without your hat. Oh, Jim, you are so careless!”
For a moment his knees gave way under him, and he swayed visibly as he stood. “I’m all right, I tell you,” he gasped. “Go and show them your pictures.”
Monimé’s consternation was not able to be concealed. “Oh, my darling,” she cried, “you’re feverish! You must go and lie down. I’ll get rid of these people presently: I’ll tell them you are not well....”
Jim interrupted her. “No, no!—don’t say anything. I assure you it’s nothing. I’ll be all right in a few minutes. I’ll just sit here quietly.”
He pushed her from him, and obliged her, presently, to leave him; but no sooner was she gone than he hastened to the zir, or large porous earthenware[282] vessel, which stood at the end of the deck and in which the “drinks” were kept cool, and, selecting a bottle of whisky, poured a stiff dose into a tumbler, swallowing the draught in two or three hasty gulps. Thus fortified, he paced to and fro, staring before him with unseeing eyes, until Monimé and their guests re............