The answers
rose with the quickened pulses in his blood. Moreover, she explained
Richard Vance. It was this woman's power that shone reflected in the
man. She was the one who knew the big, unusual things. Vance merely
echoed the rush of her vital personality. This was the first impression that he got--from the most striking,
curious face he had ever seen in a woman. It remained very near him all
through the meal: she had moved to his table, it seemed she sat beside
him. Their minds certainly knew contact from that moment. It is never difficult to credit strangers with the qualities and
knowledge that oneself craves for, and no doubt Henriot's active fancy
went busily to work. But, none the less, this thing remained and grew:
that this woman was aware of the hidden things of Egypt he had always
longed to know. There was knowledge and guidance she could impart. Her
soul was searching among ancient things. Her face brought the Desert
back into his thoughts. And with it came--the sand. Here was the flash. The sight of her restored the peace and splendour he
had left behind him in his Desert camps. The rest, of course, was what
his imagination constructed upon this slender basis. Only,--not all of
it was imagination. Now, Henriot knew little enough of women, and had no pose of
"understanding" them. His experience was of the slightest; the love and
veneration felt for his own mother had set the entire sex upon the
heights. His affairs with women, if so they may be called, had been
transient--all but those of early youth, which having never known the
devastating test of fulfilment, still remained ideal and superb. There
was unconscious humour in his attitude--from a distance; for he regarded
women with wonder and respect, as puzzles that sweetened but complicated
life, might even endanger it. He certainly was not a marrying man! But
now, as he felt the presence of this woman so deliberately possess him,
there came over him two clear, strong messages, each vivid with
certainty. One was that banal suggestion of familiarity claimed by
lovers and the like--he had often heard of it--"I have known that woman
before; I have met her ages ago somewhere; she is strangely familiar to
me"; and the other, growing out of it almost: "Have nothing to do with
her; she will bring you trouble and confusion; avoid her, and be
warned";--in fact, a distinct presentiment. Yet, although Henriot dismissed both impressions as having no shred of
evidence to justify them, the original clear judgment, as he studied her
extraordinary countenance, persisted through all denials The
familiarity, and the presentiment, remained. There also remained this
other--an enormous imaginative leap!--that she could teach him "Egypt." He watched her carefully, in a sense fascinated. He could only describe
the face as black, so dark it was with the darkness of great age. Elderly was the obvious, natural word; but elderly described the
features only. The expression of the face wore centuries. Nor was it
merely the coal-black eyes that betrayed an ancient, age-travelled soul
behind them. The entire presentment mysteriously conveyed it. This
woman's heart knew long-forgotten things--the thought kept beating up
against him. There were cheek-bones, oddly high, that made him think
involuntarily of the well-advertised Pharaoh, Ramases; a square, deep
jaw; and an aquiline nose that gave the final touch of power. For the
power undeniably was there, and while the general effect had grimness in
it, there was neither harshness nor any forbidding touch about it. There
was an implacable sternness in the set of lips and jaw, and, most
curious of all, the eyelids over the steady eyes of black were level as
a ruler. This level framing made the woman's stare remarkable beyond
description. Henriot thought of an idol carved in stone, stone hard and
black, with eyes that stared across the sand into a world of things
non-human, very far away, forgotten of men. The face was finely ugly. This strange dark beauty flashed flame about it. And, as the way ever was with him, Henriot next fell to constructing the
possible lives of herself and her companion, though without much
success. Imagination soon stopped dead. She was not old enough to be
Vance's mother, and assuredly she was not his wife. His interest was
more than merely piqued--it was puzzled uncommonly. What was the
contrast that made the man seem beside her--vile? Whence came, too, the
impression that she exercised some strong authority, though never
directly exercised, that held him at her mercy? How did he guess that
the man resented it, yet did not dare oppose, and that, apparently
acquiescing good-humouredly, his will was deliberately held in abeyance,
and that he waited sulkily, biding his time? There was furtiveness in
every gesture and expression. A hidden motive lurked in him;
unworthiness somewhere; he was determined yet ashamed. He watched her
ceaselessly and with such uncanny closeness. Henriot imagined he divined all this. He leaped to the guess that his
expenses were being paid. A good deal more was being paid besides. She
was a rich relation, from whom he had expectations; he was serving his
seven years, ashamed of his servitude, ever calculating escape--but,
perhaps, no ordinary escape. A faint shudder ran over him. He drew in
the reins of imagination. Of course, the probabilities were that he was hopelessly astray--one
usually is on such occasions--but this time, it so happened, he was
singularly right. Before one thing only his ready invention stopped
every time. This vileness, this notion of unworthiness in Vance, could
not be negative merely. A man with that face was no inactive weakling. The motive he was at such pains to conceal, betraying its existence by
that very fact, moved, surely, towards aggressive action. Disguised, it
never slept. Vance was sharply on the alert. He had a plan deep out of
sight. And Henriot remembered how the man's soft approach along the
carpeted corridor had made him start. He recalled the quasi shock it
gave him. He thought again of the feeling of discomfort he had
experienced. Next, his eager fancy sought to plumb the business these two had
together in Egypt--in the Desert. For the Desert, he felt convinced, had
brought them out. But here, though he constructed numerous explanations,
another barrier stopped him. Because he _knew_. This woman was in touch
with that aspect of ancient Egypt he himself had ever sought in vain;
and not merely with stones the sand had buried so deep, but with the
meanings they once represented, buried so utterly by the sands of later
thought. And here, being ignorant, he found no clue that could lead to any
satisfactory result, for he possessed no knowledge that might guide him. He floundered--until Fate helped him. And the instant Fate helped him,
the warning and presentiment he had dismissed as fanciful, became real
again. He hesitated. Caution acted.