Below him the lights of Helouan twinkled like the Pleiades reflected in
a pool of water; a hum of queer soft noises rose to his ears; but just
beyond the houses the desert stood at attention, the vastest thing he
had ever known, very stern, yet very comforting, with its peace beyond
all comprehension, its delicate, wild terror, and its awful message
of immortality. And the attitude of his mind, though he did not know
it, was one of prayer.... From time to time he went to lie on the bed
with paroxysms of coughing. He had overtaxed his strength--his swiftly
fading strength. The wave had risen to his lips. Nearer forty than thirty-five, Paul Rivers had come out to Egypt,
plainly understanding that with the greatest care he might last a few
weeks longer than if he stayed in England. A few more times to see the
sunset and the sunrise, to watch the stars, feel the soft airs of earth
upon his cheeks; a few more days of intercourse with his kind, asking
and answering questions, wearing the old familiar clothes he loved,
reading his favourite pages, and then--out into the big spaces--where
there is nothing. Yet no one, from his stalwart, energetic figure, would have guessed--no
one but the expert mind, not to be deceived, to whom in the first
attack of overwhelming despair and desolation he went for final advice. He left that house, as many had left it before, knowing that soon he
would need no earthly protection of roof and walls, and that his soul,
if it existed, would be shelterless in the space behind all manifested
life. He had looked forward to fame and position in this world; had,
indeed, already achieved the first step towards this end; and now,
with the vanity of all earthly aims so mercilessly clear before him,
he had turned, in somewhat of a nervous, concentrated hurry, to make
terms with the Infinite while still the brain was there. And had, of
course, found nothing. For it takes a lifetime crowded with experiment
and effort to learn even the alphabet of genuine faith; and what could
come of a few weeks' wild questioning but confusion and bewilderment
of mind? It was inevitable. He came out to Egypt wondering, thinking,
questioning, but chiefly wondering. He had grown, that is, more
childlike, abandoning the futile tool of Reason, which hitherto had
seemed to him the perfect instrument. Its foolishness stood naked
before him in the pitiless light of the specialist's decision. For--"Who can by searching find out God?" To be exceedingly careful of over-exertion was the final warning he
brought with him, and, within a few hours of his arrival, three weeks
ago, he had met this girl and utterly disregarded it. He took it
somewhat thus: "Instead of lingering I'll enjoy myself and go out--a
little sooner. I'll _live_. The time is very short." His was not a
nature, anyhow, that could heed a warning. He could not kneel. Upright
and unflinching, he went to meet things as they came, reckless, unwise,
but certainly not afraid. And this characteristic operated now. He ran
to meet Death full tilt in the uncharted spaces that lay behind the
stars. With love for a companion now, he raced, his speed increasing
from day to day, she, as he thought, knowing merely that he sought her,
but had not guessed his darker secret that was now his _lesser_ secret. And in the desert, this afternoon of the picnic, the great thing he
sped to meet had shown itself with its familiar touch of appalling
cold and shadow, familiar, because all minds know of and accept it;
appalling because, until realised close, and with the mental power at
the full, it remains but a name the heart refuses to believe in. And he
had discovered that its name was--Life. Rivers had seen the Wave that sweeps incessant, tireless, but as a
rule invisible, round the great curve of the bulging earth, brushing
the nations into the deeps behind. It had followed him home to the
streets and houses of Helouan. He saw it _now_, as he leaned from his
window, dim and immense, too huge to break. Its beauty was nameless,
undecipherable. His coughing echoed back from the wall of its great
sides.... And the music floated up at the same time from the ball-room
in the opposite wing. The two sounds mingled. Life, which is love, and
Death, which is their unchanging partner, held hands beneath the stars. He leaned out farther to drink in the cool, sweet air. Soon, on this
air, his body would be dust, driven, perhaps, against her very cheek,
trodden on possibly by her little foot--until, in turn, she joined him
too, blown by the same wind loose about the desert. True. Yet at the
same time they would always be together, always somewhere side by side,
continuing in the vast universe, _alive_. This new, absolute conviction
was in him now. He remembered the curious, sweet perfume in the desert,
as of flowers, where yet no flowers are. It was the perfume of life. But in the desert there is no life. Living things that grow and move
and utter, are but a protest against death. In the desert they are
unnecessary, because death there _is_ not. Its overwhelming vitality
needs no insolent, visible proof, no protest, no challenge, no little
signs of life. The message of the desert is immortality.... He went finally to bed, just before midnight. Hovering magnificently
just outside his window, Death watched him while he slept. The wave
crept to the level of his eyes. He called her name....

       *       *       *       *       *

And downstairs, meanwhile, the girl, knowing nothing, wondered where he
was, wondered unhappily and restlessly; more--though this she did not
understand--wondered motheringly. Until to-day, on the ride home, and
from their singular conversation together, she had guessed nothing of
his reason for being at Helouan, where so many come in order to find
life. She only knew her own. And she was but twenty-five....

Then, in the desert, when that touch of unearthly chill had stolen out
of the sand towards sunset, she had realised clearly, astonished she
had not seen it long ago, that this man loved her, yet that something
prevented his obeying the great impulse. In the life of Paul Rivers,
whose presence had profoundly stirred her heart the first time she saw
him, there was some obstacle that held him back, a barrier his honour
must respect. He could never tell her of his love. It could lead to
nothing. Knowing that he was not married, her intuition failed her
utterly at first. Then, in their silence on the homeward ride, the
truth had somehow pressed up and touched her with its hand of ice. In
that disjointed conversation at the end, which reads as it sounded, as
though no coherent meaning lay behind the words, and as though both
sought to conceal by speech what yet both burned to utter, she had
divined his darker secret, and knew that it was the same as her own. She understood then it was Death that had tracked them from the desert,
following with its gigantic shadow from the sandy wastes.