Mrs Boynton was here, at Petra!
Sarah answered mechanically questions that were addressed to her. Would she have dinner straight away—it was ready—or would she like to wash first? Would she prefer to sleep in a tent or a cave?
Her answer to that came quickly. A tent. She flinched at the thought of a cave, the vision of that monstrous squatting figure recurred to her. (Why was it that something about the woman seemed hardly human?)
Finally she followed one of the native servants. He wore khaki breeches, much patched, and untidy puttees and a ragged coat very much the worse for wear. On his head the native headdress, the cheffiyah, its long folds protecting the neck and secured in place with a black silk twist fitting tightly to the crown of his head. Sarah admired the easy swing with which he walked—the careless proud carriage of his head. Only the European part of his costume seemed tawdry and wrong. She thought: ‘Civilization is all wrong—all wrong! But for civilization there wouldn’t be a Mrs Boynton! In savage tribes they’d probably have killed and eaten her years ago!’
She realized, half-humorously, that she was over-tired and on edge. A wash in hot water and a dusting of powder over her face and she felt herself again—cool, poised, and ashamed of her recent panic.
She passed a comb through her thick black hair, squinting sideways at her reflection in the wavering light of a small oil-lamp in a very inadequate glass.
Then she pushed aside the tent-flap and came out into the night prepared to descend to the big marquee below.
‘You—here?’
It was a low cry—dazed, incredulous.
She turned to look straight into Raymond Boynton’s eyes. So amazed they were! And something in them held her silent and almost afraid. Such an unbelievable joy…It was as though he had seen a vision of Paradise—wondering, dazed, thankful, humble! Never, in all her life, was Sarah to forget that look. So might the damned look up and see Paradise…
He said again: ‘You…’
It did something to her—that low, vibrant tone. It made her heart turn over in her breast. It made her feel shy, afraid, humble and yet suddenly arrogantly glad. She said quite simply: ‘Yes.’
He came nearer—still dazed—still only half believing.
Then suddenly he took her hand.
‘It is you,’ he said. ‘You’re real. I thought at first you were a ghost—because I’d been thinking about you so much.’ He paused and then said, ‘I love you, you know…I have from the moment I saw you in the train. I know that now. And I want you to know it so that—so that you’ll know it isn’t me—the real me—who—who behaves so caddishly. You see I can’t answer for myself even now. I might do–anything! I might pass you by or cut you, but I do want you to know that it isn’t me—the real me—who is responsible for that. It’s my nerves. I can’t depend on them…When she tells me to do things—I do them! My nerves make me! You will understand, won’t you? Despise me if you have to—’
She interrupted him. Her voice was low and unexpectedly sweet. ‘I won’t despise you.’
‘All the same, I’m pretty despicable! I ought to—to be able to behave like a man.’
It was partly an echo of Gerard’s advice, but more out of her own knowledge and hope that Sarah answered—and behind the sweetness of her voice there was a ring of certainty and conscious authority.
‘You will now.’
‘Shall I?’ His voice was wistful. ‘Perhaps…’
‘You’ll have courage now. I’m sure of it.’
He drew himself up—flung back his head.
‘Courage? Yes, that’s all that’s needed. Courage!’
Suddenly he bent his head, touched her hand with his lips. A minute later he had left her.
[Appointment with Death -Agatha Christie] Part 1. Chapter 11