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 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 returned.
His anxiety not to appear ill at ease in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Jones led him to talk rapidly upon a variety of disconnected subjects; but his relief was great when, with umbrellas raised and blue spectacles adjusted, they took their departure and walked away over the hot sand towards their own vessel. Thereupon he hastened to assure Monimé that his indisposition had passed; and soon he had the satisfaction of observing that her anxieties were allayed. But when she had gone back to her painting at the temple, he left the dahabiyeh, and, scrambling up the sand-drift like one demented, went running over the vacant, sun-scorched plateau at the summit of the cliffs, flinging himself at length upon the ground, where no eyes save those of the circling vultures might see his abject misery, and no ears might hear his groans.
In the days which followed he so far mastered his emotions as to give his wife no great cause for worry; but from time to time he could see in her troubled face her consciousness that all was not well. On such occasions the extremity of human wretchedness seemed to be reached, and the weight upon his heart and mind was almost intolerable.
It was not personal fear of the scaffold that spread this horror along every nerve and through every vein of his body: it was the thought that he would not be able to avoid involving Monimé and their son in the catastrophe, and that not only would he disgrace them, but would alienate them from him completely. He realized now the enormity of his offence in holding back from Monimé the truth about his former marriage and in shutting her out from his confidences.
What would she do when she learnt the facts? Could she possibly understand and forgive? Would the pain that he was to bring upon her turn her love into hatred and contempt? Would she, the passionate mother, forgive the wrong he had done to their son in placing this stigma upon him?
Thoughts such as these drove him to the brink of madness; and the need of secrecy and of facing the situation by himself produced an unbearable sense of loneliness in his mind. He recalled the verse in the Book of Genesis which reads: “The Lord God said, ‘It is not good that man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him.’” If only he could tell her now, pour out his heart to her, and see in her tender eyes the overwhelming sweetness of her understanding.... But he dared not: he must fight this battle alone.
Gradually there developed in his brain the thought of suicide. Were he now to destroy himself in some manner which would suggest an accident, it would be Jim Easton who would be laid in the grave, without a stain upon his public memory; and the lost James Tundering-West, the supposed murderer, would not be connected in any way with Monimé or Ian. Without question this was the only solution of the problem; this was the only honourable course to follow, and follow it he must.
He found In this resolution a means of steadying his mind and of regaining to some extent his equilibrium. There was a fortnight yet before their return to the lower reaches of the Nile would bring matters towards their final phase. Monimé wished to go to Europe as soon as her work was finished, in order to be with Ian again; and it would not be necessary for Jim to put an end to himself, therefore, until he came within reach of the arm of the law. Here at Abu Simbel he could easily avoid seeing any of his fellow men who might visit the temple from the tourist steamers; and, fortunately, his friend the police officer at Shallâl who had helped him to embark on the dahabiyeh, knew him these many years as Mr. Easton, presumably a resident in Egypt, and would vouch for him if occasion arose. Very possibly he might reach Cairo or even the homeward-bound liner without detection. Then, an accidental fall at midnight from the deck into the sea—and his obligation would be honourably fulfilled.