The clamour of praise was loud round the
figure of the weary dancer as she left in a carriage for her dahabîyeh
on the Nile. A low wind whistled round the walls of the great hotel,
blowing chill and bitter between the pillars of the colonnades. The
girl heard the voices float up to her through the night, and once more,
behind the confused sound of the many, she heard her own name called,
but more faintly than before, and from very far away. It came through
the spaces beyond her open window; it died away again; then--but for
the sighing of that bitter wind--silence, the deep silence of the
desert. And these two, Paul Rivers and the girl, between them merely a floor
of that stone that built the Pyramids, lay a few moments before the
Wave of Sleep engulfed them. And, while they slept, two shadowy forms
hovered above the roof of the quiet hotel, melting presently into
one, as dreams stole down from the desert and the stars. Immortality
whispered to them. On either side rose Life and Death, towering in
splendour. Love, joining their spreading wings, fused the gigantic
outlines into one. The figures grew smaller, comprehensible. They
entered the little windows. Above the beds they paused a moment,
watching, waiting, and then, like a wave that is just about to break,
they stooped....

And in the brilliant Egyptian sunlight of the morning, as she went
downstairs, she passed his door again. She had awakened, but he slept
on. He had preceded her. It was next day she learned his room was
vacant.... Within the month she joined him, and within the year the
cool north wind that sweetens Lower Egypt from the sea blew the dust
across the desert as before. It is the dust of kings, of queens, of
priests, princesses, lovers. It is the dust no earthly power can
annihilate. It, too, lasts for ever. There was a little more of it ...
the desert's message slightly added to: Immortality. VI

THE OTHER WING


1

It used to puzzle him that, after dark, some one _would_ look in round
the edge of the bedroom door, and withdraw again too rapidly for him
to see the face. When the nurse had gone away with the candle this
happened: "Good night, Master Tim," she said usually, shading the light
with one hand to protect his eyes; "dream of me and I'll dream of you." She went out slowly. The sharp-edged shadow of the door ran across the
ceiling like a train. There came a whispered colloquy in the corridor
outside, about himself, of course, and--he was alone. He heard her
steps going deeper and deeper into the bosom of the old country house;
they were audible for a moment on the stone flooring of the hall; and
sometimes the dull thump of the baize door into the servants' quarters
just reached him, too--then silence. But it was only when the last
sound, as well as the last sign of her had vanished, that the face
emerged from its hiding-place and flashed in upon him round the corner. As a rule, too, it came just as he was saying, "Now I'll go to sleep. I
won't think any longer. Good night, Master Tim, and happy dreams." He
loved to say this to himself; it brought a sense of companionship, as
though there were two persons speaking. The room was on the top of the old house, a big, high-ceilinged room,
and his bed against the wall had an iron railing round it; he felt very
safe and protected in it. The curtains at the other end of the room
were drawn. He lay watching the firelight dancing on the heavy folds,
and their pattern, showing a spaniel chasing a long-tailed bird towards
a bushy tree, interested and amused him. It was repeated over and over
again. He counted the number of dogs, and the number of birds, and the
number of trees, but could never make them agree. There was a plan
somewhere in that pattern; if only he could discover it, the dogs and
birds and trees would "come out right." Hundreds and hundreds of times
he had played this game, for the plan in the pattern made it possible
to take sides, and the bird and dog were against him. They always won,
however; Tim usually fell asleep just when the advantage was on his own
side. The curtains hung steadily enough most of the time, but it seemed
to him once or twice that they stirred--hiding a dog or bird on purpose
to prevent his winning. For instance, he had eleven birds and eleven
trees, and, fixing them in his mind by saying, "that's eleven birds
and eleven trees, but only ten dogs," his eyes darted back to find the
eleventh dog, when--the curtain moved and threw all his calculations
into confusion again. The eleventh dog was hidden. He did not quite
like the movement; it gave him questionable feelings, rather, for the
curtain did not move of itself. Yet, usually, he was too intent upon
counting the dogs to feel positive alarm. Opposite to him was the fireplace, full of red and yellow coals; and,
lying with his head sideways on the pillow, he could see directly in
between the bars. When the coals settled with a soft and powdery crash,
he turned his eyes from the curtains to the grate, trying to discover
exactly which bits had fallen. So long as the glow was there the sound
seemed pleasant enough, but sometimes he awoke later in the night, the
room huge with darkness, the fire almost out--and the sound was not so
pleasant then. It startled him. The coals did not fall of themselves. It seemed that some one poked them cautiously. The shadows were very
thick before the bars. As with the curtains, moreover, the morning
aspect of the extinguished fire, the ice-cold cinders that made a
clinking sound like tin, caused no emotion whatever in his soul. And it was usually while he lay waiting for sleep, tired both of the
curtain and the coal games, on the point, indeed, of saying, "I'll go
to sleep now," that the puzzling thing took place. He would be staring
drowsily at the dying fire, perhaps counting the stockings and flannel
garments that hung along the high fender-rail when, suddenly, a person
looked in with lightning swiftness through the door and vanished again
before he could possibly turn his head to see. The appearance and
disappearance were accomplished with amazing rapidity always. It was a head and shoulders that looked in, and the movement combined
the speed, the lightness and the silence of a shadow. Only it was not
a shadow. A hand held the edge of the door. The face shot round, saw
him, and withdrew like lightning. It was utterly beyond him to imagine
anything more quick and clever. It darted. He heard no sound. It went. But--it had seen him, looked him all over, examined him, noted what
he was doing with that lightning glance. It wanted to know if he were
awake still, or asleep. And though it went off, it still watched him
from a distance; it waited somewhere; it knew all about him. _Where_ it
waited no one could ever guess. It came probably, he felt, from beyond
the house, possibly from the roof, but most likely from the garden or
the sky. Yet, though strange, it was not terrible. It was a kindly and
protective figure, he felt.