Chapter Five.“Love.”The stars were gleaming above the dusky pine trees. The soft December air, mild as spring on that sheltered coast, scarcely stirred the drooping boughs that overshadowed the terrace. Colonel Estcourt lit his cigar, and began to pace with slow and thoughtful steps beneath the many lighted windows of the great building. Mrs Jefferson’s words haunted him, despite his efforts to dispel them. One of those windows belonged to the room where this strange and beautiful woman might even now be seated. Why did he picture to himself the pale exquisite face—the full dark eyes—the lovely rippling hair—as if they were charms already recognised and remembered. Why?—save that when he had heard their description they had struck home to his memory with a shock of pain, and a feverish dread that longed yet feared to find itself realised. To and fro—to and fro—he paced the terraced walk, and again and again his eyes sought that long line of light above his head.There was a strange stillness in the brooding air—that mysterious hush, which is the music of night’s gentle footsteps, and insensibly its soothing influence stole over the unquiet of his restless thoughts—the warring powers of soul and sense grew silent and at rest.Then something—a sound sweet as song—yet without the vibratory passion of a human voice—seemed to float out of the darkness and hold his ear enchained like a spell. It was the divinest beauty of music, divinely interpreted, and it seemed to him as he listened that all the discord and woe and misery that oppressed his earthly senses, disappeared and died away into the very perfection of peace.He stood there quite silent—quite motionless—waiting, so it seemed to himself, for some fuller revelation to which these exquisite sounds were but a prelude.It was a matter of no surprise when he quietly lifted his dreamy glance to the stone balcony above, and saw there, in the soft glow of light from the rooms beyond, the fair form of the woman he had expected to see.A faint tremor of fear and apprehension thrilled his heart, but it died away as a low remembered voice stole through the space that parted him from a visible form he had never thought to see again.“I told you we should meet. But I scarcely thought it would be so soon. Will you come up here, or shall I join you?”The voice and greeting roused him. He bared his head and bent low to the speaker in a deeper homage than that of conventional courtesy.“Is it really you, Princess? And may I be permitted to join you?”The mute sign of assent showed him also a flight of steps leading up from the terrace to the balcony. A moment, and he was by her side.No ordinary greeting passed between them. Perhaps none could have conveyed what that long silent gaze did; seeming to go straight to the heart of each, full of memories that time had softened, but sad with the sadness that is in all deep human love.“A strange meeting-place,” she said. “Yet why more strange than the mountains of the East, or the lonely plains of the Desert, the steppes of Russia, or the house-tops of Damascus?”“You read my thoughts, as ever,” he said. “I must confess that it seemed strange to see you here, treading the narrow path of English conventionalism, after—after—”“I know,” she said. “But life is full of the unexpected. You do not ask how these five years have been spent. The years that have changed the dreamy enthusiastic girl into a woman such as you see before you.”“I do not ask,” he said, his voice vibrating beneath an emotion he could not conceal, “because it can be no pleasure to me to learn. Do you forget what I told you? Do you think that the memory of these five years is a pleasant one for me? Against my prayers, against my warnings, you chose your own life. Are you free—now?”“No,” she said, in a strange stifled voice, “neverthat—never while I wear the shackles of humanity!” She sank suddenly down in a low seat, and buried her face in her hands. “Oh,” she cried, faintly, “if I could tell you—if I only dared; but I cannot! My bondage is deeper—my chains are heavier. Sometimes I think those years were only a dream—a horrible, frightful dream—but then, again, Iknowthey were not.”“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice sharp with terror, for this shame and remorse that convulsed her, and made her one with the common weakness of her common womanhood, was something altogether different to the supremacy she had always shown in her proud girlhood.“I cannot tell you,” she said, “I dare not.”“Do you forget,” he said, severely, “that if Iwishto know, I shall learn it?”“Not now,” she said, suddenly, and raised her face and looked calmly, yet not defiantly, back at him with her great, sad, and most lovely eyes. “I have passed beyond your power,” she went on. “Beyond most human influence, I might say—” then she shuddered and her eyes sank again. “But oh!” she cried, “at what a cost!—at what a cost!”He felt as if his heart grew suddenly chill and stony. “I believe you are right,” he said; “my power is gone—yours is the strongest now.”He was silent for a few moments. “One question only,” he then said; “I don’t wish to pry into your past. It is enough that we have met—for that would never have taken place if you had not needed me. So much I know. Your marriage—was it as I foretold?”“It was worse,” she said, bitterly—“a million times worse! Body and soul, how I have suffered! And yet, as I told you then,it had to be.”“I did not believe it then,” he said stormily; “I refuse to believe it now. Your misery was self-created. You voluntarily degraded yourself. What result could there be? Only suffering and shame.”“The good of others,” she answered mournfully. “You cannot see it yet; but I know—it was foretold me. I did my work there. Sometimes I hope it is finished; but I do not know. One can never tell; at any time the summons may come again. God help me if it does.”“Is your life in danger, then?” he asked, and again that chill and horror seemed to thrill the pulses of his beating heart.“My life!” She lifted her eyes and looked back at his with something intensely mournful in her gaze. “As ifthatmattered! What is my life to me now, any more than it was then? Did I count the cost—did I call it a sacrifice? Life—the mere material actual life of the body—has never weighed with me for one moment. And yet,” she added, in a dull, strange voice, “I failed at the crucial test! Failed!—I, who had denied to myself all woman’s weakness, all mortal love, all fleshly vanities—failed! I am no more now than the veriest beginner on the path. I, who deemed myself so wise!”Then she rose and came close to him, and laid her white hand on his arm. “That,” she said, “is why I needed you again. You can help me—you can tell me where and how I failed.”That light touch thrilled his veins like sorcery. He bent his head and passionately kissed the white, soft hand. “You failed, oh, my Princess! because you are still mortal woman. Thank Heaven for it! You failed because memory and love were still strong in your heart. You failed—and I am by your side once more. Oh, let the past be forgotten! Brief is life, but love is its Paradise, and into that Paradise our feet once strayed. Fate stayed them on the threshold. But now—now—”She raised her white face. “Do not deceive yourself,” she said. “You have always loved me too well—but I—”“Onlyletme love you!” he whispered passionately. “It is honour enough. All the wide earth holds no other woman such as you. Having once known you, there has never been a disloyal thought within my heart. Read it—see for yourself.”“I read it,” she said, “even while the music was sounding in your ears, as you stood on the terrace there below; even while you moved amidst that chattering, flippant throng, and heard what they said of me. No, dear friend. You have nothing in that great frank, loyal soul to hide. But I—there is something that whispers I shall only bring you suffering. I am not for mortal love. True, I cannot see beyond, but Fear meets me on the threshold. The hour I gave myself to you would bring you an evil I dimly realise. I cannot foretell, and I cannot avert it; but it is there. It lurks like a hidden foe where our lives should join... No, no!—do not tempt me. Happiness is not for me, as we count it on the earth plane.”“And in the next I may lose you altogether. Oh listen—listen, and let the woman defy the priestess. Give me your love, and, even with Death as its bridal gift I shall receive it as the deepest joy of earth.”“There,” she said sadly, “speaks the mortal. Passion sways your senses. You too will lose your powers—and for what?—a few brief years of joy—a longer darkness—then the old weary round—the old sad effort to climb the long stairway from the bottom rung that once you proudly spurned. It was not this that Channa taught us in the sweet peace of our youth—it was not this for which our souls thirsted, and to which our faces were set.”“Channa is dead, and to the dead all is peace. Even he said that Life’s one good gift was Love.”“True, but not selfish love. ‘The feet of the soul must be washed in the blood of the heart.’ Love to all humanity—to the poor—the sad—the suffering. Love, even to the Fate that gives us sorrow and misfortune. Love to the eternal and immutable. Love for all that is purest and best in each life with which we mingle. Such a love is not sensual—not earthly. It gives without necessity of return; it is the soul’s devotion, not the heart’s impulse. But you are not content with loving me, you claim mine in return, and so far as I have lost or you have gained a firmer foothold since last we met, so far you can compel my lower nature to answer yours. We have loved before, and unhappy was our fate. Once more we meet, and your cry is still for me. And I—”She ceased; her arms fell to her side. Her face, lovely beyond all mere mortal loveliness, looked back to his yearning, passionate gaze. Had she been temptress, devil, saint, there could have been but one answer from the throbbing heart and leaping pulse of manhood. He caught her to his heart, and his lips drank from hers the sweetness that only earthly passion drains from earthly love.She did not resist. She lay there like a white lily in the moonlight, but her lips were cold as marble and her eyes held the mute sorrow of despair, not the rapture of a granted joy.
The stars were gleaming above the dusky pine trees. The soft December air, mild as spring on that sheltered coast, scarcely stirred the drooping boughs that overshadowed the terrace. Colonel Estcourt lit his cigar, and began to pace with slow and thoughtful steps beneath the many lighted windows of the great building. Mrs Jefferson’s words haunted him, despite his efforts to dispel them. One of those windows belonged to the room where this strange and beautiful woman might even now be seated. Why did he picture to himself the pale exquisite face—the full dark eyes—the lovely rippling hair—as if they were charms already recognised and remembered. Why?—save that when he had heard their description they had struck home to his memory with a shock of pain, and a feverish dread that longed yet feared to find itself realised. To and fro—to and fro—he paced the terraced walk, and again and again his eyes sought that long line of light above his head.
There was a strange stillness in the brooding air—that mysterious hush, which is the music of night’s gentle footsteps, and insensibly its soothing influence stole over the unquiet of his restless thoughts—the warring powers of soul and sense grew silent and at rest.
Then something—a sound sweet as song—yet without the vibratory passion of a human voice—seemed to float out of the darkness and hold his ear enchained like a spell. It was the divinest beauty of music, divinely interpreted, and it seemed to him as he listened that all the discord and woe and misery that oppressed his earthly senses, disappeared and died away into the very perfection of peace.
He stood there quite silent—quite motionless—waiting, so it seemed to himself, for some fuller revelation to which these exquisite sounds were but a prelude.
It was a matter of no surprise when he quietly lifted his dreamy glance to the stone balcony above, and saw there, in the soft glow of light from the rooms beyond, the fair form of the woman he had expected to see.
A faint tremor of fear and apprehension thrilled his heart, but it died away as a low remembered voice stole through the space that parted him from a visible form he had never thought to see again.
“I told you we should meet. But I scarcely thought it would be so soon. Will you come up here, or shall I join you?”
The voice and greeting roused him. He bared his head and bent low to the speaker in a deeper homage than that of conventional courtesy.
“Is it really you, Princess? And may I be permitted to join you?”
The mute sign of assent showed him also a flight of steps leading up from the terrace to the balcony. A moment, and he was by her side.
No ordinary greeting passed between them. Perhaps none could have conveyed what that long silent gaze did; seeming to go straight to the heart of each, full of memories that time had softened, but sad with the sadness that is in all deep human love.
“A strange meeting-place,” she said. “Yet why more strange than the mountains of the East, or the lonely plains of the Desert, the steppes of Russia, or the house-tops of Damascus?”
“You read my thoughts, as ever,” he said. “I must confess that it seemed strange to see you here, treading the narrow path of English conventionalism, after—after—”
“I know,” she said. “But life is full of the unexpected. You do not ask how these five years have been spent. The years that have changed the dreamy enthusiastic girl into a woman such as you see before you.”
“I do not ask,” he said, his voice vibrating beneath an emotion he could not conceal, “because it can be no pleasure to me to learn. Do you forget what I told you? Do you think that the memory of these five years is a pleasant one for me? Against my prayers, against my warnings, you chose your own life. Are you free—now?”
“No,” she said, in a strange stifled voice, “neverthat—never while I wear the shackles of humanity!” She sank suddenly down in a low seat, and buried her face in her hands. “Oh,” she cried, faintly, “if I could tell you—if I only dared; but I cannot! My bondage is deeper—my chains are heavier. Sometimes I think those years were only a dream—a horrible, frightful dream—but then, again, Iknowthey were not.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice sharp with terror, for this shame and remorse that convulsed her, and made her one with the common weakness of her common womanhood, was something altogether different to the supremacy she had always shown in her proud girlhood.
“I cannot tell you,” she said, “I dare not.”
“Do you forget,” he said, severely, “that if Iwishto know, I shall learn it?”
“Not now,” she said, suddenly, and raised her face and looked calmly, yet not defiantly, back at him with her great, sad, and most lovely eyes. “I have passed beyond your power,” she went on. “Beyond most human influence, I might say—” then she shuddered and her eyes sank again. “But oh!” she cried, “at what a cost!—at what a cost!”
He felt as if his heart grew suddenly chill and stony. “I believe you are right,” he said; “my power is gone—yours is the strongest now.”
He was silent for a few moments. “One question only,” he then said; “I don’t wish to pry into your past. It is enough that we have met—for that would never have taken place if you had not needed me. So much I know. Your marriage—was it as I foretold?”
“It was worse,” she said, bitterly—“a million times worse! Body and soul, how I have suffered! And yet, as I told you then,it had to be.”
“I did not believe it then,” he said stormily; “I refuse to believe it now. Your misery was self-created. You voluntarily degraded yourself. What result could there be? Only suffering and shame.”
“The good of others,” she answered mournfully. “You cannot see it yet; but I know—it was foretold me. I did my work there. Sometimes I hope it is finished; but I do not know. One can never tell; at any time the summons may come again. God help me if it does.”
“Is your life in danger, then?” he asked, and again that chill and horror seemed to thrill the pulses of his beating heart.
“My life!” She lifted her eyes and looked back at his with something intensely mournful in her gaze. “As ifthatmattered! What is my life to me now, any more than it was then? Did I count the cost—did I call it a sacrifice? Life—the mere material actual life of the body—has never weighed with me for one moment. And yet,” she added, in a dull, strange voice, “I failed at the crucial test! Failed!—I, who had denied to myself all woman’s weakness, all mortal love, all fleshly vanities—failed! I am no more now than the veriest beginner on the path. I, who deemed myself so wise!”
Then she rose and came close to him, and laid her white hand on his arm. “That,” she said, “is why I needed you again. You can help me—you can tell me where and how I failed.”
That light touch thrilled his veins like sorcery. He bent his head and passionately kissed the white, soft hand. “You failed, oh, my Princess! because you are still mortal woman. Thank Heaven for it! You failed because memory and love were still strong in your heart. You failed—and I am by your side once more. Oh, let the past be forgotten! Brief is life, but love is its Paradise, and into that Paradise our feet once strayed. Fate stayed them on the threshold. But now—now—”
She raised her white face. “Do not deceive yourself,” she said. “You have always loved me too well—but I—”
“Onlyletme love you!” he whispered passionately. “It is honour enough. All the wide earth holds no other woman such as you. Having once known you, there has never been a disloyal thought within my heart. Read it—see for yourself.”
“I read it,” she said, “even while the music was sounding in your ears, as you stood on the terrace there below; even while you moved amidst that chattering, flippant throng, and heard what they said of me. No, dear friend. You have nothing in that great frank, loyal soul to hide. But I—there is something that whispers I shall only bring you suffering. I am not for mortal love. True, I cannot see beyond, but Fear meets me on the threshold. The hour I gave myself to you would bring you an evil I dimly realise. I cannot foretell, and I cannot avert it; but it is there. It lurks like a hidden foe where our lives should join... No, no!—do not tempt me. Happiness is not for me, as we count it on the earth plane.”
“And in the next I may lose you altogether. Oh listen—listen, and let the woman defy the priestess. Give me your love, and, even with Death as its bridal gift I shall receive it as the deepest joy of earth.”
“There,” she said sadly, “speaks the mortal. Passion sways your senses. You too will lose your powers—and for what?—a few brief years of joy—a longer darkness—then the old weary round—the old sad effort to climb the long stairway from the bottom rung that once you proudly spurned. It was not this that Channa taught us in the sweet peace of our youth—it was not this for which our souls thirsted, and to which our faces were set.”
“Channa is dead, and to the dead all is peace. Even he said that Life’s one good gift was Love.”
“True, but not selfish love. ‘The feet of the soul must be washed in the blood of the heart.’ Love to all humanity—to the poor—the sad—the suffering. Love, even to the Fate that gives us sorrow and misfortune. Love to the eternal and immutable. Love for all that is purest and best in each life with which we mingle. Such a love is not sensual—not earthly. It gives without necessity of return; it is the soul’s devotion, not the heart’s impulse. But you are not content with loving me, you claim mine in return, and so far as I have lost or you have gained a firmer foothold since last we met, so far you can compel my lower nature to answer yours. We have loved before, and unhappy was our fate. Once more we meet, and your cry is still for me. And I—”
She ceased; her arms fell to her side. Her face, lovely beyond all mere mortal loveliness, looked back to his yearning, passionate gaze. Had she been temptress, devil, saint, there could have been but one answer from the throbbing heart and leaping pulse of manhood. He caught her to his heart, and his lips drank from hers the sweetness that only earthly passion drains from earthly love.
She did not resist. She lay there like a white lily in the moonlight, but her lips were cold as marble and her eyes held the mute sorrow of despair, not the rapture of a granted joy.
Chapter Six.Enchantment.When a proud woman yields to the entreaties of a lover, she yields with a grander humility, a more complete self-surrender, than one to whom coquetry and conquests are natural attributes of vanity.The Princess Zairoff, to whom men’s admiration was as familiar as the air of Heaven, who possessed rank and wealth and loveliness such as dower few women, had yet never granted to one human being a sign of tenderness, or unveiled, so to speak, the deep strange depths of her strange nature, to any beseechment.But now, for one brief hour she threw back the portals of emotion. She was a woman, pure and simple. The man beside her was the one man in the world to whom her memory had been faithful. Boy and girl they had known each other in years long past. As boy and girl they had shared in the same tastes, and been penetrated with the same desires for the Mystic and the Unknown.Living in a remote part of India under very careless guardianship, and with no one to care for their pursuits, or remark them, they had made the acquaintance of a learned and somewhat mysterious native, and from his lips they first heard some hints of the wonders that nature reveals to the earnest student. As time went on they were separated—the boy was sent to England, the girl remained in the East. When they met again he was a young lieutenant in an infantry regiment stationed at one of the most popular stations of a popular Presidency, and she was the reigning queen of the same station. Again fate parted them. Two years went by. Their next meeting was in Egypt, where she was travelling with her guardian.Julian Estcourt had learnt his heart’s secret by then, but there was a coldness, a strangeness, about the girl who had been his boyhood’s friend that kept him back from anything bearing the imputation of love-making.Much as they were together, long and frequent as were their talks, those talks were yet curiously impersonal for their age and sex, and, however much the young man’s heart might throb with its hidden passion, there yet lay between them a barrier, a restraint, light, yet strangely strong, and his lips never dared betray the secret of his long-cherished devotion.Another separation—another meeting. Time had worked changes in both. She was a beautiful woman, proud, cold, queenly—he had acquired strength of character, loftier ideals, and a sense of the value of intellectual gifts, which had kept him singularly free from and indifferent to, the temptations of the senses. He had learnt to drink mental stimulants with avidity. He had made one or two brilliant successes in literature, and was looked upon as a supremely “odd fish,” by his brother officers.That third meeting decided his fate. He spoke out his love, spurred on by a rivalry he had good cause to dread, but spoke to no purpose. Calmly, though with a sorrow she did not attempt to disguise, she told her old playmate and friend that her choice was made. She was going to marry the old, vicious, and fabulously wealthy Russian Prince, Fédor Ivanovitch Zairoff. She made no pretence of caring for the man whom, out of a host of suitors, she had selected to wed. When her young lover stormed and upbraided her she only raised those wonderful stag-like eyes to his face and said:“I have a reason, Julian. I cannot explain it. I dare not say more. Believe me I could not make you happy,it would not be permitted.”And having long ago learnt that arguments were utterly useless beforethatformula, he had to stand aside—to crush back a strong and unconquerable passion—to see her pass from his sight and knowledge—and to bear his life as best he could, with that feeling in his heart of having staked all on one throw, and lost, that makes so many men desperate and vicious. That it did not make Julian Estcourt so was entirely due to great strength of moral character, and a belief in the responsibilities with which life is charged, and for the abuse of which it is destined to suffer in future states or conditions, as well as in its present.If such belief were universally accepted and pursued, we should soon cease to hear those ridiculous and humiliating phrases with which popular favourites are extenuated for the reckless and disgraceful waste of mind, energy, and usefulness, occasioned by some trifling disappointment or misfortune. There would be no more sins glossed over as “sowing wild oats,” and “having his fling,” or “driven to the bad,” because once an individual feels he is responsible tohimselffor undue physical indulgences—for laws of natural life set at naught, and spiritual impulses disregarded—he will try to emerge from the slough of evil, and he will learn with startling rapidity to value all joys of the senses less and less. There can be no high order of morality without this sense of responsibility, for when a man feels he is moulding his own character, forming, as it were, fresh links in the chain of endurance, adding by every act and thought and word to that personality he is bound to confront ashimself, to re-inhabit as himself, and to judge as himself, then life rises into an importance that words cannot convey, but which the soul alone recognises and feels in those better moments that are mercifully granted to each and all of us.So Julian Estcourt took up his burden—saddened, aged, embittered perhaps, but not one whit more inclined to squander the gifts of life or the fruits of discipline than he had been in his dreamy, studious youth.He neither sought distraction in evil and dissipated courses, nor death by any of those foolhardy and rash exploits which have far too often been glorified as “courage” or “pluck.”He was graver, more reticent, more studious than of yore, and he found his reward, though few even of his intimate associates were aware of his abnormal gifts, or his superior knowledge. Such was the man who, still in the prime of life’s best years, still with thirst unslaked for that one divine draught of love which, once at least, is offered to mortal lips, stood now in the soft December moonlight by the side of the woman he had worshipped for long in secret and in pain, and cried aloud in triumph to his heart, “At last happiness is mine!”His whole consciousness was pervaded with a sense of ecstasy that seemed to make all past pain and regret sink into utter insignificance. To stand there by her side, to drink in that wonderful beauty of face and form, was a joy that brought absolute forgetfulness of everything outside and apart from its new and magical acquisition. The world was forgotten. Even the possibility of a formal and imperative ceremonial by which his newly-won treasure must be secured to himself at last, barely flashed across his consciousness. He did not trouble himself to put it into words. He listened to the brief disjointed fragments of her speech—fragments which gave a dim picture of her life in these empty years of division. Now and then he spoke of himself. She listened. Once she turned to him with an impulse of tenderness strange in one so cold and self-possessed.“Ah!” she cried, softly, “I have made you suffer... but it was not my will... Oh, always believe that... And I will give you compensation.—I can promise it—now.”They seemed to him the sweetest words that ever fell from mortal lips, and no less sweet—though infinitely puzzling—was that exquisite humility with which she crowned the wonder of her self-surrender. Yet even as he heard his brain grew bewildered—his senses seemed to reel. Strange thoughts and shapes seemed to hover around him, and all the soft, dim space of night appeared a black and peopled horror. For a moment he felt that consciousness was forsaking him... that the shock of this unexpected joy was beyond his strength to bear. Dizzy and sick he swayed suddenly forwards.—A cool hand touched his brow—a voice reached his ear. With a mighty effort he shook off the paralysing weakness, and sank down by the side of his enchantress.“Is it a dream?” he murmured, vaguely; “shall I wake to-morrow and know you have mocked me again?”“Nay, my beloved,” she whispered; “this—is no dream... Never again shall I mock you. I am but a woman now who loves. Earth holds no weaker thing.”When Julian Estcourt entered the public drawing-room, nearly two hours after he had left it, several curious eyes turned towards him. The card-players had finished their game and broken up into various groups. A few men were yawning and apparently meditating a retreat to the smoking-room. No one seemed particularly energetic, but the entrance of that tall soldierly figure struck a new note of interest in the languid assemblage. He seemed to bring—as it were—a breeze of vitality, a sense of freshness and energy along with him from the starlit air and the pine-scented woods. His head was erect, his eyes shone with the radiance of happiness, a certain sense of pride—of triumph—and yet of deep intense content, was in his aspect and his smile.Mrs Ray Jefferson, her spirits still unimpaired by losses at “poker,” was the first to remark audibly on the change.“Why, Colonel!” she said. “Haveyoubeen having a Turkish Bath? Guess you look as fresh and perky as if you’d taken a new lease of life.”He laughed. “The only bath I have taken,” he said, “is one of moonlight. You should all be out on the terrace. Far healthier and more enjoyable than these hot, gas-lit rooms, I assure you.”“The terrace,” said Mrs Jefferson, looking at him with a sudden stern accusing glance. “Ladies and gentlemen, what did I tell you? I—do—believe—”She paused dramatically, every eye turned fully and searchingly upon the handsome face and erect figure so calmly and easily confronting this sudden criticism.“Well?” he said at last. “What is it you believe?”“You’ve seen—her,” burst out Mrs Jefferson eagerly. “Now Colonel, no tricks—plain yes or no; I’m certain sure you’ve seen her—my Mystery. Haven’t you?”“I will not pretend,” he said, “to misunderstand you. I have met an old friend, and I hope soon to have the pleasure of introducing her to you all. Not with any mystery about her, as our American friend seems determined to suppose, but simply as the Princess Zairoff—of whom you may have heard before this.”There was a buzz—a stir—a confused murmur. “Heard of her—I should think so. You never mean to say she’shere? I thought she was in Russia—”“Gracious!” almost shrieked Mrs Jefferson. “Why it was her husband who died so mysteriously, on the eve of that awful conspiracy. You never mean to say, Colonel Estcourt, that you know her. Why she’s one of the celebrities of Europe, and to come here, to this quiet place—andincognito?”“Do you not think,” he said, “that the fact of being quiet and unknown would just be the one fact she would appreciate? I hope I am not claiming too much from your courtesy when I say that the privilege of her society can only be obtained by a due regard to her wishes in that respect. She wishes only to be known as Madame Zairoff, here.”“I’m sure,” exclaimed Mrs Jefferson eagerly, “I’m only too willing to promise anything for the privilege of seeing her. Isn’t that the general opinion also?”There was a murmur of assent, specially eager on the part of the men.“I can only assure you,” continued Colonel Estcourt gravely, “that you will not regret the slight inconvenience of repressing personal curiosity, for Madame Zairoff is a woman whose gifts and graces are of a marvellous nature and calculated to delight the most critical society. As Mrs Jefferson told us, she is here for her health. It is an incident we cannot deplore if we are to benefit by her society.”“You’d better all look out for your hearts, gentlemen,” laughed Mrs Jefferson gaily and excitedly. “I assure you I don’t believe there’s another woman in the world like her. I’ve seen her under trying circumstances, and I give you my word of honour that a woman who can preserve any charm of personal appearance under the ordeal of a Turkish Bath—”There came a discreet little cough from the neighbourhood of Mrs Masterman. The little American stopped abruptly.“I’d best say no more,” she said. Then she laughed. “All the same, if you only could see us—”
When a proud woman yields to the entreaties of a lover, she yields with a grander humility, a more complete self-surrender, than one to whom coquetry and conquests are natural attributes of vanity.
The Princess Zairoff, to whom men’s admiration was as familiar as the air of Heaven, who possessed rank and wealth and loveliness such as dower few women, had yet never granted to one human being a sign of tenderness, or unveiled, so to speak, the deep strange depths of her strange nature, to any beseechment.
But now, for one brief hour she threw back the portals of emotion. She was a woman, pure and simple. The man beside her was the one man in the world to whom her memory had been faithful. Boy and girl they had known each other in years long past. As boy and girl they had shared in the same tastes, and been penetrated with the same desires for the Mystic and the Unknown.
Living in a remote part of India under very careless guardianship, and with no one to care for their pursuits, or remark them, they had made the acquaintance of a learned and somewhat mysterious native, and from his lips they first heard some hints of the wonders that nature reveals to the earnest student. As time went on they were separated—the boy was sent to England, the girl remained in the East. When they met again he was a young lieutenant in an infantry regiment stationed at one of the most popular stations of a popular Presidency, and she was the reigning queen of the same station. Again fate parted them. Two years went by. Their next meeting was in Egypt, where she was travelling with her guardian.
Julian Estcourt had learnt his heart’s secret by then, but there was a coldness, a strangeness, about the girl who had been his boyhood’s friend that kept him back from anything bearing the imputation of love-making.
Much as they were together, long and frequent as were their talks, those talks were yet curiously impersonal for their age and sex, and, however much the young man’s heart might throb with its hidden passion, there yet lay between them a barrier, a restraint, light, yet strangely strong, and his lips never dared betray the secret of his long-cherished devotion.
Another separation—another meeting. Time had worked changes in both. She was a beautiful woman, proud, cold, queenly—he had acquired strength of character, loftier ideals, and a sense of the value of intellectual gifts, which had kept him singularly free from and indifferent to, the temptations of the senses. He had learnt to drink mental stimulants with avidity. He had made one or two brilliant successes in literature, and was looked upon as a supremely “odd fish,” by his brother officers.
That third meeting decided his fate. He spoke out his love, spurred on by a rivalry he had good cause to dread, but spoke to no purpose. Calmly, though with a sorrow she did not attempt to disguise, she told her old playmate and friend that her choice was made. She was going to marry the old, vicious, and fabulously wealthy Russian Prince, Fédor Ivanovitch Zairoff. She made no pretence of caring for the man whom, out of a host of suitors, she had selected to wed. When her young lover stormed and upbraided her she only raised those wonderful stag-like eyes to his face and said:
“I have a reason, Julian. I cannot explain it. I dare not say more. Believe me I could not make you happy,it would not be permitted.”
And having long ago learnt that arguments were utterly useless beforethatformula, he had to stand aside—to crush back a strong and unconquerable passion—to see her pass from his sight and knowledge—and to bear his life as best he could, with that feeling in his heart of having staked all on one throw, and lost, that makes so many men desperate and vicious. That it did not make Julian Estcourt so was entirely due to great strength of moral character, and a belief in the responsibilities with which life is charged, and for the abuse of which it is destined to suffer in future states or conditions, as well as in its present.
If such belief were universally accepted and pursued, we should soon cease to hear those ridiculous and humiliating phrases with which popular favourites are extenuated for the reckless and disgraceful waste of mind, energy, and usefulness, occasioned by some trifling disappointment or misfortune. There would be no more sins glossed over as “sowing wild oats,” and “having his fling,” or “driven to the bad,” because once an individual feels he is responsible tohimselffor undue physical indulgences—for laws of natural life set at naught, and spiritual impulses disregarded—he will try to emerge from the slough of evil, and he will learn with startling rapidity to value all joys of the senses less and less. There can be no high order of morality without this sense of responsibility, for when a man feels he is moulding his own character, forming, as it were, fresh links in the chain of endurance, adding by every act and thought and word to that personality he is bound to confront ashimself, to re-inhabit as himself, and to judge as himself, then life rises into an importance that words cannot convey, but which the soul alone recognises and feels in those better moments that are mercifully granted to each and all of us.
So Julian Estcourt took up his burden—saddened, aged, embittered perhaps, but not one whit more inclined to squander the gifts of life or the fruits of discipline than he had been in his dreamy, studious youth.
He neither sought distraction in evil and dissipated courses, nor death by any of those foolhardy and rash exploits which have far too often been glorified as “courage” or “pluck.”
He was graver, more reticent, more studious than of yore, and he found his reward, though few even of his intimate associates were aware of his abnormal gifts, or his superior knowledge. Such was the man who, still in the prime of life’s best years, still with thirst unslaked for that one divine draught of love which, once at least, is offered to mortal lips, stood now in the soft December moonlight by the side of the woman he had worshipped for long in secret and in pain, and cried aloud in triumph to his heart, “At last happiness is mine!”
His whole consciousness was pervaded with a sense of ecstasy that seemed to make all past pain and regret sink into utter insignificance. To stand there by her side, to drink in that wonderful beauty of face and form, was a joy that brought absolute forgetfulness of everything outside and apart from its new and magical acquisition. The world was forgotten. Even the possibility of a formal and imperative ceremonial by which his newly-won treasure must be secured to himself at last, barely flashed across his consciousness. He did not trouble himself to put it into words. He listened to the brief disjointed fragments of her speech—fragments which gave a dim picture of her life in these empty years of division. Now and then he spoke of himself. She listened. Once she turned to him with an impulse of tenderness strange in one so cold and self-possessed.
“Ah!” she cried, softly, “I have made you suffer... but it was not my will... Oh, always believe that... And I will give you compensation.—I can promise it—now.”
They seemed to him the sweetest words that ever fell from mortal lips, and no less sweet—though infinitely puzzling—was that exquisite humility with which she crowned the wonder of her self-surrender. Yet even as he heard his brain grew bewildered—his senses seemed to reel. Strange thoughts and shapes seemed to hover around him, and all the soft, dim space of night appeared a black and peopled horror. For a moment he felt that consciousness was forsaking him... that the shock of this unexpected joy was beyond his strength to bear. Dizzy and sick he swayed suddenly forwards.—A cool hand touched his brow—a voice reached his ear. With a mighty effort he shook off the paralysing weakness, and sank down by the side of his enchantress.
“Is it a dream?” he murmured, vaguely; “shall I wake to-morrow and know you have mocked me again?”
“Nay, my beloved,” she whispered; “this—is no dream... Never again shall I mock you. I am but a woman now who loves. Earth holds no weaker thing.”
When Julian Estcourt entered the public drawing-room, nearly two hours after he had left it, several curious eyes turned towards him. The card-players had finished their game and broken up into various groups. A few men were yawning and apparently meditating a retreat to the smoking-room. No one seemed particularly energetic, but the entrance of that tall soldierly figure struck a new note of interest in the languid assemblage. He seemed to bring—as it were—a breeze of vitality, a sense of freshness and energy along with him from the starlit air and the pine-scented woods. His head was erect, his eyes shone with the radiance of happiness, a certain sense of pride—of triumph—and yet of deep intense content, was in his aspect and his smile.
Mrs Ray Jefferson, her spirits still unimpaired by losses at “poker,” was the first to remark audibly on the change.
“Why, Colonel!” she said. “Haveyoubeen having a Turkish Bath? Guess you look as fresh and perky as if you’d taken a new lease of life.”
He laughed. “The only bath I have taken,” he said, “is one of moonlight. You should all be out on the terrace. Far healthier and more enjoyable than these hot, gas-lit rooms, I assure you.”
“The terrace,” said Mrs Jefferson, looking at him with a sudden stern accusing glance. “Ladies and gentlemen, what did I tell you? I—do—believe—”
She paused dramatically, every eye turned fully and searchingly upon the handsome face and erect figure so calmly and easily confronting this sudden criticism.
“Well?” he said at last. “What is it you believe?”
“You’ve seen—her,” burst out Mrs Jefferson eagerly. “Now Colonel, no tricks—plain yes or no; I’m certain sure you’ve seen her—my Mystery. Haven’t you?”
“I will not pretend,” he said, “to misunderstand you. I have met an old friend, and I hope soon to have the pleasure of introducing her to you all. Not with any mystery about her, as our American friend seems determined to suppose, but simply as the Princess Zairoff—of whom you may have heard before this.”
There was a buzz—a stir—a confused murmur. “Heard of her—I should think so. You never mean to say she’shere? I thought she was in Russia—”
“Gracious!” almost shrieked Mrs Jefferson. “Why it was her husband who died so mysteriously, on the eve of that awful conspiracy. You never mean to say, Colonel Estcourt, that you know her. Why she’s one of the celebrities of Europe, and to come here, to this quiet place—andincognito?”
“Do you not think,” he said, “that the fact of being quiet and unknown would just be the one fact she would appreciate? I hope I am not claiming too much from your courtesy when I say that the privilege of her society can only be obtained by a due regard to her wishes in that respect. She wishes only to be known as Madame Zairoff, here.”
“I’m sure,” exclaimed Mrs Jefferson eagerly, “I’m only too willing to promise anything for the privilege of seeing her. Isn’t that the general opinion also?”
There was a murmur of assent, specially eager on the part of the men.
“I can only assure you,” continued Colonel Estcourt gravely, “that you will not regret the slight inconvenience of repressing personal curiosity, for Madame Zairoff is a woman whose gifts and graces are of a marvellous nature and calculated to delight the most critical society. As Mrs Jefferson told us, she is here for her health. It is an incident we cannot deplore if we are to benefit by her society.”
“You’d better all look out for your hearts, gentlemen,” laughed Mrs Jefferson gaily and excitedly. “I assure you I don’t believe there’s another woman in the world like her. I’ve seen her under trying circumstances, and I give you my word of honour that a woman who can preserve any charm of personal appearance under the ordeal of a Turkish Bath—”
There came a discreet little cough from the neighbourhood of Mrs Masterman. The little American stopped abruptly.
“I’d best say no more,” she said. Then she laughed. “All the same, if you only could see us—”
Chapter Seven.Curiosity.There was suppressed but general excitement throughout the hotel all the next day.Someone had caught sight of the Princess Zairoff, who had driven out after luncheon in a low open carriage with three horses harnessed abreast in Russian fashion, that went like the wind. Colonel Estcourt was beside her, and curiosity was rife as to how he should have known her, and whether accident only was responsible for the meeting of two people, one of whom had come from Russia, and the other from India, to this prosaic English nook,for their health.Mrs Masterman sniffed ominously, as one who scents scandal and impropriety in facts that do not adapt themselves to every-day rules of life. A few other women, suffering from one or other of the fashionable complaints in vogue at this season, agreed with her, that “it certainly looked very odd.” They did not specify the “it,” but they were quite convinced of the oddity. It did not occur to them to reflect that there was not the slightest reason for any mystery on the part of the Princess, she being perfectly free and untrammelled, or that Colonel Estcourt had been singularly gloomy and depressed before Mrs Jefferson’s graphic description of the mysterious beauty attracted his notice.There is a certain class of people who always shake their heads, and purse up their lips, at the mere suggestion of “chance,” or “accident,” having a fortunate or happy application. They do not apply the same train of reasoning to the reverse side of the picture; the bias of their nature is evidently suspicious. These are the minds that refuse to credit those little misfortunes of picnic and pleasure parties, by which young people lose themselves in mysterious ways, and get into wrong boats and carriages, and generally contrive to upset the plans of their elders, when these plans have been framed with a deeper regard for rationality than for romance. Mrs Masterman belonged to this class, which doubtless has its uses, though those uses are not plainly evident on the surface of life; she spent the day in gloomy hints, and mysterious shakes of the head, and insinuations that no good was ever known to spring from a superabundance of feminine charms, which, in the course of nature, must have an evil tendency, and be productive of overweening vanity, extravagance, and even immorality.Still, even evil prognostications cannot quell the fires of curiosity in the female breast, and every woman in the hotel made her toilette with special care on this eventful evening, as befitting one who owed it to her sex to vindicate even the smallest personal attraction in the presence of rivalry. Colonel Estcourt was not at dinner, so his presence did not restrain comment and speculation, and the tongues did quite as much work as the knives and forks.“I do wonder what sort of gown she’ll wear,” sighed Mrs Ray Jefferson, who was attired in a “creation” of the great French man-milliner, accursed by husbands of fashionable wives, and whose power is only another note in that ascending scale of absurdity struck by the hands of fashion.“Perhaps she won’t come down in the drawing-room at all,” said Mrs Masterman spitefully, after listening for some time to the remarks around her. “Colonel Estcourt did not specify any particular night.”“Oh, I’m sure she’ll come,” said Mrs Jefferson, whose nature was specially happy in always assuring her of what she desired. “I’ve got an impression that she will—they never fail me. You know I’ve a singularly magnetic organisation. A great spiritualist in Boston once told me I only needed developing to exhibit extraordinary powers. But I hadn’t the time or the patience to go in thoroughly for psychic development. Besides it’s really a very exacting pursuit.”“Exacting rubbish!” exclaimed Mrs Masterman impatiently; “I can’t stand all that bosh about higher powers, and developing magnetism. Of course there are a set of people who’d believe anything that seemed to give them a superior organisation; it’s only another way of pandering to human vanity. Spiritualism is perfect rubbish. I’ve seen and heard enough of it to know. I once held aséanceat my house, just to convince myself as to its being a trick or not, I was told that the medium could materialise spirit forms. I, of course, asked some people to meet him, and we selected a room and put him behind a screen as he desired, and there we all sat in the dark, like so many fools, for about half-an-hour.—”“Well,” interposed Mrs Jefferson eagerly, “and did you have any manifestation?”“Oh, yes,” laughed the gouty sufferer grimly, “a very material one indeed. By some accident the medium knocked down the screen just after we’d seen a spirit face floatingaboveit. In the confusion some one struck a light, and there was our medium—standing on the chair without his coat, and wrapping some transparent India muslin about himself, which had been dipped in phosphorus I believe, so that it gave out a curious shimmering light in the dark. You may suppose I never went in for materialisticséancesagain.”“Still,” said Mrs Jefferson, “although you may have been tricked, it doesn’t stand to reason that spiritualismistrickery. I’ve come from the very core and centre of it—so to speak. I’ve been at moreséancesthan I could count, and I’ve seen tests applied thatprovethe manifestations are genuine. Still there are heaps of professional mediums who are not to be depended on, I grant. If you want to know the truth of spiritualism, you can always work it out for yourself. That’s quite possible, only it’s a deal of trouble.”“I don’t believe in it,” reiterated Mrs Masterman stubbornly. “All mediums are cheats and humbugs.”“Oh!” said Mrs Jefferson. “If it comes to exceptions laying down the rule, where are we? The other day a clergyman was taken before the courts for drunkenness, but I suppose you’re not going to say all clergymen are drunkards. A doctor poisoned a patient by mistake, but surely we’re not to class our dear medical men as poisoners and murderers on that account. It’s just the same with any abnormal or extraordinary facts that set up a new theory for investigation. Impostors are sure to creep in, and the lazy and the indifferent and the sceptical call their exposure ‘results.’ Depend on it we don’t half investigate subjects now-a-days, and we suffer for it by giving place and opportunity for the development of a certain class of beings who prey on our credulity, and make profit out of our indolence and superstition.”“There’s something in spiritualism, you bet,” drawled the nasal voice of Mr Ray Jefferson. “I’ve had messages written to me, and things said that no third person could possibly have known about.”“Ah, slate writing,” sneered Mrs Masterman. “I’ve seen that too. Just another trick.”“How do you explain that?” asked Mrs Jefferson quickly.“Well, this way. I went to two or three different mediums so as to test them all. I found they had no objections to bringing your own slates and writing your own questions, but while they held the slate under the table they kept you talking to distract your attention, and from time to time they got convulsive jerks and movements by which it was quite possible for them to see what was written. Then you heard a scratching (the medium probably had a little bit of pencil in his finger-nail), and your answer was given you. Well, let that pass for what it’s worth, but I always noticed the medium asked if I wouldn’t like a message, and when I said ‘yes,’ he brought outhis own slate.”“But,” said Mrs Jefferson, “didn’t he let you examine it first?”“Oh yes, and wiped it over with a damp cloth. Then it was held under the table, and in a few seconds covered with ‘spirit-writing.’ But I found out afterwards that you can buy slates with afalse cover, this cover fits within the frame and is exactly like the other side of the slate, but,your spirit-message is already written, a touch makes the cover drop off, the medium covers it with his foot in case you should look under the table, out comes the slate, and there you are!”“On,” said Mrs Jefferson angrily, “it’s plain you’ve only been to the charlatans and impostors of spiritualism. Why, I’ve had a message written in alockedslate while I held the key and held the slate too. What do you say to that?”“I’ve only your word for it,” said Mrs Masterman sarcastically. “My slates were never locked.”“And I’ve onlyyourword for what you’ve told us,” answered Mrs Jefferson with rising wrath. “I suppose my evidence may be as trustworthy.”“Well,” interposed another voice, “my view of spiritualism is, that it’s an intensely humiliating idea after you’ve done with this world to be at the beck and call of any other human being who can make you go through a variety of tricks, as if you were a performing dog, in order to convince people still in the body that there is another life. If that other life permits us to come back here and play tambourines, and knock furniture about, and write silly and ambiguous messages on slates, I don’t—myself—think it’s a very desirable one.”This view of the question produced a blank silence. It proceeded from a gentleman who was supposed to be a little “odd”—partly because he spoke seldom, and then with a startling originality, on any subject of discussion.Mr and Mrs Ray Jefferson looked at one another, somewhat dismayed. Mrs Masterman smiled triumphantly, the young poet murmured something vague about the inestimable beauty of sublime “mysteries,” but the subject was temporarily extinguished. The only side hitherto considered had been the ‘phenomenal,’ and people—once the idea was originated—felt really inclined to think that after all, when they quitted the earth plane, it would not be a very elevating prospect to find themselves dragged back to giveséancesand perform tricks like a French poodle in order to convince their friends and relatives that they werestill in existence!The conversation only went on in subdued murmurs, and presently there was a feminine move towards the drawing-room.Once there the great subject as to whether Madame Zairoff would or would not appear that evening, was again freely discussed. That it was an equally interesting probability to the sterner sex was soon made evident by the unusual alacrity with which they joined the circle. They broke up into groups and knots, scattered through the length of the handsome, brilliantly lighted room, but a curious restlessness was apparent; no one settled down to cards or music. Even the “odd” individual moved about and dropped cynical remarks along the route of his progress, instead of sitting down to backgammon as was his wont. A few other misguided individuals, of the male sex, offered and accepted betssotto voceon the chances of the Unknown appearing.At last, when expectation had been strained almost to breaking point, it was set at rest. The doors were thrown open, and, lightly leaning on Colonel Estcourt’s arm, appeared Mrs Jefferson’s much talked of, and beautiful “Mystery.”
There was suppressed but general excitement throughout the hotel all the next day.
Someone had caught sight of the Princess Zairoff, who had driven out after luncheon in a low open carriage with three horses harnessed abreast in Russian fashion, that went like the wind. Colonel Estcourt was beside her, and curiosity was rife as to how he should have known her, and whether accident only was responsible for the meeting of two people, one of whom had come from Russia, and the other from India, to this prosaic English nook,for their health.
Mrs Masterman sniffed ominously, as one who scents scandal and impropriety in facts that do not adapt themselves to every-day rules of life. A few other women, suffering from one or other of the fashionable complaints in vogue at this season, agreed with her, that “it certainly looked very odd.” They did not specify the “it,” but they were quite convinced of the oddity. It did not occur to them to reflect that there was not the slightest reason for any mystery on the part of the Princess, she being perfectly free and untrammelled, or that Colonel Estcourt had been singularly gloomy and depressed before Mrs Jefferson’s graphic description of the mysterious beauty attracted his notice.
There is a certain class of people who always shake their heads, and purse up their lips, at the mere suggestion of “chance,” or “accident,” having a fortunate or happy application. They do not apply the same train of reasoning to the reverse side of the picture; the bias of their nature is evidently suspicious. These are the minds that refuse to credit those little misfortunes of picnic and pleasure parties, by which young people lose themselves in mysterious ways, and get into wrong boats and carriages, and generally contrive to upset the plans of their elders, when these plans have been framed with a deeper regard for rationality than for romance. Mrs Masterman belonged to this class, which doubtless has its uses, though those uses are not plainly evident on the surface of life; she spent the day in gloomy hints, and mysterious shakes of the head, and insinuations that no good was ever known to spring from a superabundance of feminine charms, which, in the course of nature, must have an evil tendency, and be productive of overweening vanity, extravagance, and even immorality.
Still, even evil prognostications cannot quell the fires of curiosity in the female breast, and every woman in the hotel made her toilette with special care on this eventful evening, as befitting one who owed it to her sex to vindicate even the smallest personal attraction in the presence of rivalry. Colonel Estcourt was not at dinner, so his presence did not restrain comment and speculation, and the tongues did quite as much work as the knives and forks.
“I do wonder what sort of gown she’ll wear,” sighed Mrs Ray Jefferson, who was attired in a “creation” of the great French man-milliner, accursed by husbands of fashionable wives, and whose power is only another note in that ascending scale of absurdity struck by the hands of fashion.
“Perhaps she won’t come down in the drawing-room at all,” said Mrs Masterman spitefully, after listening for some time to the remarks around her. “Colonel Estcourt did not specify any particular night.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’ll come,” said Mrs Jefferson, whose nature was specially happy in always assuring her of what she desired. “I’ve got an impression that she will—they never fail me. You know I’ve a singularly magnetic organisation. A great spiritualist in Boston once told me I only needed developing to exhibit extraordinary powers. But I hadn’t the time or the patience to go in thoroughly for psychic development. Besides it’s really a very exacting pursuit.”
“Exacting rubbish!” exclaimed Mrs Masterman impatiently; “I can’t stand all that bosh about higher powers, and developing magnetism. Of course there are a set of people who’d believe anything that seemed to give them a superior organisation; it’s only another way of pandering to human vanity. Spiritualism is perfect rubbish. I’ve seen and heard enough of it to know. I once held aséanceat my house, just to convince myself as to its being a trick or not, I was told that the medium could materialise spirit forms. I, of course, asked some people to meet him, and we selected a room and put him behind a screen as he desired, and there we all sat in the dark, like so many fools, for about half-an-hour.—”
“Well,” interposed Mrs Jefferson eagerly, “and did you have any manifestation?”
“Oh, yes,” laughed the gouty sufferer grimly, “a very material one indeed. By some accident the medium knocked down the screen just after we’d seen a spirit face floatingaboveit. In the confusion some one struck a light, and there was our medium—standing on the chair without his coat, and wrapping some transparent India muslin about himself, which had been dipped in phosphorus I believe, so that it gave out a curious shimmering light in the dark. You may suppose I never went in for materialisticséancesagain.”
“Still,” said Mrs Jefferson, “although you may have been tricked, it doesn’t stand to reason that spiritualismistrickery. I’ve come from the very core and centre of it—so to speak. I’ve been at moreséancesthan I could count, and I’ve seen tests applied thatprovethe manifestations are genuine. Still there are heaps of professional mediums who are not to be depended on, I grant. If you want to know the truth of spiritualism, you can always work it out for yourself. That’s quite possible, only it’s a deal of trouble.”
“I don’t believe in it,” reiterated Mrs Masterman stubbornly. “All mediums are cheats and humbugs.”
“Oh!” said Mrs Jefferson. “If it comes to exceptions laying down the rule, where are we? The other day a clergyman was taken before the courts for drunkenness, but I suppose you’re not going to say all clergymen are drunkards. A doctor poisoned a patient by mistake, but surely we’re not to class our dear medical men as poisoners and murderers on that account. It’s just the same with any abnormal or extraordinary facts that set up a new theory for investigation. Impostors are sure to creep in, and the lazy and the indifferent and the sceptical call their exposure ‘results.’ Depend on it we don’t half investigate subjects now-a-days, and we suffer for it by giving place and opportunity for the development of a certain class of beings who prey on our credulity, and make profit out of our indolence and superstition.”
“There’s something in spiritualism, you bet,” drawled the nasal voice of Mr Ray Jefferson. “I’ve had messages written to me, and things said that no third person could possibly have known about.”
“Ah, slate writing,” sneered Mrs Masterman. “I’ve seen that too. Just another trick.”
“How do you explain that?” asked Mrs Jefferson quickly.
“Well, this way. I went to two or three different mediums so as to test them all. I found they had no objections to bringing your own slates and writing your own questions, but while they held the slate under the table they kept you talking to distract your attention, and from time to time they got convulsive jerks and movements by which it was quite possible for them to see what was written. Then you heard a scratching (the medium probably had a little bit of pencil in his finger-nail), and your answer was given you. Well, let that pass for what it’s worth, but I always noticed the medium asked if I wouldn’t like a message, and when I said ‘yes,’ he brought outhis own slate.”
“But,” said Mrs Jefferson, “didn’t he let you examine it first?”
“Oh yes, and wiped it over with a damp cloth. Then it was held under the table, and in a few seconds covered with ‘spirit-writing.’ But I found out afterwards that you can buy slates with afalse cover, this cover fits within the frame and is exactly like the other side of the slate, but,your spirit-message is already written, a touch makes the cover drop off, the medium covers it with his foot in case you should look under the table, out comes the slate, and there you are!”
“On,” said Mrs Jefferson angrily, “it’s plain you’ve only been to the charlatans and impostors of spiritualism. Why, I’ve had a message written in alockedslate while I held the key and held the slate too. What do you say to that?”
“I’ve only your word for it,” said Mrs Masterman sarcastically. “My slates were never locked.”
“And I’ve onlyyourword for what you’ve told us,” answered Mrs Jefferson with rising wrath. “I suppose my evidence may be as trustworthy.”
“Well,” interposed another voice, “my view of spiritualism is, that it’s an intensely humiliating idea after you’ve done with this world to be at the beck and call of any other human being who can make you go through a variety of tricks, as if you were a performing dog, in order to convince people still in the body that there is another life. If that other life permits us to come back here and play tambourines, and knock furniture about, and write silly and ambiguous messages on slates, I don’t—myself—think it’s a very desirable one.”
This view of the question produced a blank silence. It proceeded from a gentleman who was supposed to be a little “odd”—partly because he spoke seldom, and then with a startling originality, on any subject of discussion.
Mr and Mrs Ray Jefferson looked at one another, somewhat dismayed. Mrs Masterman smiled triumphantly, the young poet murmured something vague about the inestimable beauty of sublime “mysteries,” but the subject was temporarily extinguished. The only side hitherto considered had been the ‘phenomenal,’ and people—once the idea was originated—felt really inclined to think that after all, when they quitted the earth plane, it would not be a very elevating prospect to find themselves dragged back to giveséancesand perform tricks like a French poodle in order to convince their friends and relatives that they werestill in existence!
The conversation only went on in subdued murmurs, and presently there was a feminine move towards the drawing-room.
Once there the great subject as to whether Madame Zairoff would or would not appear that evening, was again freely discussed. That it was an equally interesting probability to the sterner sex was soon made evident by the unusual alacrity with which they joined the circle. They broke up into groups and knots, scattered through the length of the handsome, brilliantly lighted room, but a curious restlessness was apparent; no one settled down to cards or music. Even the “odd” individual moved about and dropped cynical remarks along the route of his progress, instead of sitting down to backgammon as was his wont. A few other misguided individuals, of the male sex, offered and accepted betssotto voceon the chances of the Unknown appearing.
At last, when expectation had been strained almost to breaking point, it was set at rest. The doors were thrown open, and, lightly leaning on Colonel Estcourt’s arm, appeared Mrs Jefferson’s much talked of, and beautiful “Mystery.”
Chapter Eight.Surprise.An involuntary hush fell upon the whole assemblage. Not a man or woman there but felt their breath come a little quicker, their hearts beat with suppressed excitement, as that perfect figure, with its magical indolent grace, swept slowly through the room and into their midst.It was the usual homage paid to Princess Zairoff, for she possessed that rare and delicate mixture of indifference, languor, and disdain that is in itself a distinction, and makes ordinary womanhood and beauty suddenly feel coarse and commonplace.She paused before Mrs Ray Jefferson, and greeted her with a soft indescribable grace, and after a few minutes’ conversation permitted herself to be introduced to a few of the group around the little American. That perfect ease of manner, which held not a vestige of condescension, soon exerted its charm. One after another drew near that envied circle, anxious to pick up some stray pearl of speech from those lovely lips. The women forgot to be envious, because she never for one moment forgot or ignored them. Even gouty Mrs Masterman found that her ailment had been remembered, and was sympathetically enquired about in a way to which she was entirely unaccustomed. The poet talked as if he drew in inspiration with every glance from those starry eyes, the musician at her request moved to the piano and played some of his “Music of the Future,” and it no longer seemed incomprehensible. A sense of exhilaration, of pleasure, of content, spread through the group, and animated discussion, and gave even ordinary conversation a sudden grace and charm.It was to be expected before the evening was over, that that conversation would ascend by natural gradations from the ordinary to the intellectual, yet no one could tell exactly how or when it began to do so, any more than they could describe the strange yet clear logic by which this one woman set to rights various perplexing problems, and gave the key as it were to a nobler and higher order of eclectic philosophy than they had yet ventured upon.To Mrs Ray Jefferson, that discussion in the Baths had acted as the stimulus of an olive to the palate. She was all eagerness to resume it.“I hope, Madame Zairoff,” she said, in her brisk, lively, fashion, “that you will give me a little enlightenment about what you said yesterday. This is just a leisure time with most of us, and I suppose mental culture is not incompatible with hygienic pursuits.”“Assuredly not,” said the Princess, smiling. “The more you cultivate the mind the less you feel or care for the ailments of the body, and to give those ailments even occasional insignificance, is to first forget, and then banish them. If you draw your mind away from the thought of pain, you cease to feel pain.”“But that would require a far stronger mental capacity than we possess,” said Mrs Masterman. Then she suddenly remembered that she had not felt a single gouty twinge the whole evening, because her mental consciousness had been unusually excited. This remembrance made her grow suddenly thoughtful and attentive to the discussion.“I think,” said Princess Zairoff, gently; “that we all make a great mistake in setting any absolute limit to our mental capacity. It is quite within our own power to dwarf or extend it. If we are content to rest satisfied with a small amount of knowledge we can do so, and even cease to suffer in our own self-esteem by feeling we are stupid, or indolent, or ignorant. Our perceptions are gradually blunted, and society is kind enough to case most of its remarks and opinions in a sugar-coating, so that the real truth never reaches us. We gradually find, then, that an opinion that soothes our personal vanity and self-esteem is a very pleasant opinion. So long as we cherish that falsehood, so long do we blunt our faculties of progress. Now it seems a very extraordinary thing to me, who have long been accustomed to investigate and direct the psychic side of nature, to find such numbers and numbers of people who don’t believe inany psychic laws at all, far less care to investigate them as knowledge. The reason is simply this, that they all are convinced thatonetrivial, petty earth-life is the one life for which they were created and are responsible, therefore the only one they feel bound to investigate.”She paused and looked at the circle of grave and wondering faces.“You have heard of the law of Karma, I suppose?” she said.There was a murmur, vague, spontaneous, or doubtful, according to the amount of comprehension excited by the question.“It is a pity,” resumed the Princess, “that it is not more generally understood. What is the difficulty? I learnt it in my childhood just as your English children learn their catechism. You have taken up the doctrine of Evolution very strongly, but Karma is its very leading law, so to speak. Man is perpetually working out and developing afresh the energies, aspirations, and character with which his spirit was originally endowed. He becomes, as it were, the product of the better part of himself, that struggles to the surface again and again during periods of incarceration in the flesh.”“Then you would convey that we all live over and over again?”“Most certainly. It is the only rational way to account for the injustice, the sorrows, and the miseries of earth. It gives long opportunities for the modification of character; it acts as retribution to the evil and the vicious and the selfish; it gives a far deeper sense of responsibility than the shallow acceptance of mere creeds, because a man’s good or evil deeds become a series of actions with inevitable consequences. If you teach him that he can throw off the results of a bad life, and of all it has entailed upon his fellow man, by a brief spell of penitence, or a blind, irrational faith in the sacrifice of a Being he has neglected and ignored during the greater part of that life, you really are only pandering to the selfish and cowardly side of his nature.”A little shudder ran through the group at these bold words. Mrs Ray Jefferson lifted her head and cast glances of triumph about, as one who should say, “I told you she would shock you all!”There was scarcely a man or woman there who did not attend church on Sundays, and who had not managed to make a comfortable compact between the tenets of religion and the demands of social and worldly pleasures. Not one who, if taken to task on the momentous subject of a spiritual future, could have given any rational explanation of why he or she held certain vague ideas on the subject of salvation, or put off the deeper consideration of the subject to some indefinite period when they would have had their fill of vanities, and lost either the means or the desire to pursue them.And yet there was a subtlefrou-frouof rustling skirts as the women drew slightly away, and a decided appearance of discomfort on the faces of the men, to whom an unpleasant truth was suddenly and sharply conveyed, and who found themselves strangely powerless to combat, or argue out its real meaning.
An involuntary hush fell upon the whole assemblage. Not a man or woman there but felt their breath come a little quicker, their hearts beat with suppressed excitement, as that perfect figure, with its magical indolent grace, swept slowly through the room and into their midst.
It was the usual homage paid to Princess Zairoff, for she possessed that rare and delicate mixture of indifference, languor, and disdain that is in itself a distinction, and makes ordinary womanhood and beauty suddenly feel coarse and commonplace.
She paused before Mrs Ray Jefferson, and greeted her with a soft indescribable grace, and after a few minutes’ conversation permitted herself to be introduced to a few of the group around the little American. That perfect ease of manner, which held not a vestige of condescension, soon exerted its charm. One after another drew near that envied circle, anxious to pick up some stray pearl of speech from those lovely lips. The women forgot to be envious, because she never for one moment forgot or ignored them. Even gouty Mrs Masterman found that her ailment had been remembered, and was sympathetically enquired about in a way to which she was entirely unaccustomed. The poet talked as if he drew in inspiration with every glance from those starry eyes, the musician at her request moved to the piano and played some of his “Music of the Future,” and it no longer seemed incomprehensible. A sense of exhilaration, of pleasure, of content, spread through the group, and animated discussion, and gave even ordinary conversation a sudden grace and charm.
It was to be expected before the evening was over, that that conversation would ascend by natural gradations from the ordinary to the intellectual, yet no one could tell exactly how or when it began to do so, any more than they could describe the strange yet clear logic by which this one woman set to rights various perplexing problems, and gave the key as it were to a nobler and higher order of eclectic philosophy than they had yet ventured upon.
To Mrs Ray Jefferson, that discussion in the Baths had acted as the stimulus of an olive to the palate. She was all eagerness to resume it.
“I hope, Madame Zairoff,” she said, in her brisk, lively, fashion, “that you will give me a little enlightenment about what you said yesterday. This is just a leisure time with most of us, and I suppose mental culture is not incompatible with hygienic pursuits.”
“Assuredly not,” said the Princess, smiling. “The more you cultivate the mind the less you feel or care for the ailments of the body, and to give those ailments even occasional insignificance, is to first forget, and then banish them. If you draw your mind away from the thought of pain, you cease to feel pain.”
“But that would require a far stronger mental capacity than we possess,” said Mrs Masterman. Then she suddenly remembered that she had not felt a single gouty twinge the whole evening, because her mental consciousness had been unusually excited. This remembrance made her grow suddenly thoughtful and attentive to the discussion.
“I think,” said Princess Zairoff, gently; “that we all make a great mistake in setting any absolute limit to our mental capacity. It is quite within our own power to dwarf or extend it. If we are content to rest satisfied with a small amount of knowledge we can do so, and even cease to suffer in our own self-esteem by feeling we are stupid, or indolent, or ignorant. Our perceptions are gradually blunted, and society is kind enough to case most of its remarks and opinions in a sugar-coating, so that the real truth never reaches us. We gradually find, then, that an opinion that soothes our personal vanity and self-esteem is a very pleasant opinion. So long as we cherish that falsehood, so long do we blunt our faculties of progress. Now it seems a very extraordinary thing to me, who have long been accustomed to investigate and direct the psychic side of nature, to find such numbers and numbers of people who don’t believe inany psychic laws at all, far less care to investigate them as knowledge. The reason is simply this, that they all are convinced thatonetrivial, petty earth-life is the one life for which they were created and are responsible, therefore the only one they feel bound to investigate.”
She paused and looked at the circle of grave and wondering faces.
“You have heard of the law of Karma, I suppose?” she said.
There was a murmur, vague, spontaneous, or doubtful, according to the amount of comprehension excited by the question.
“It is a pity,” resumed the Princess, “that it is not more generally understood. What is the difficulty? I learnt it in my childhood just as your English children learn their catechism. You have taken up the doctrine of Evolution very strongly, but Karma is its very leading law, so to speak. Man is perpetually working out and developing afresh the energies, aspirations, and character with which his spirit was originally endowed. He becomes, as it were, the product of the better part of himself, that struggles to the surface again and again during periods of incarceration in the flesh.”
“Then you would convey that we all live over and over again?”
“Most certainly. It is the only rational way to account for the injustice, the sorrows, and the miseries of earth. It gives long opportunities for the modification of character; it acts as retribution to the evil and the vicious and the selfish; it gives a far deeper sense of responsibility than the shallow acceptance of mere creeds, because a man’s good or evil deeds become a series of actions with inevitable consequences. If you teach him that he can throw off the results of a bad life, and of all it has entailed upon his fellow man, by a brief spell of penitence, or a blind, irrational faith in the sacrifice of a Being he has neglected and ignored during the greater part of that life, you really are only pandering to the selfish and cowardly side of his nature.”
A little shudder ran through the group at these bold words. Mrs Ray Jefferson lifted her head and cast glances of triumph about, as one who should say, “I told you she would shock you all!”
There was scarcely a man or woman there who did not attend church on Sundays, and who had not managed to make a comfortable compact between the tenets of religion and the demands of social and worldly pleasures. Not one who, if taken to task on the momentous subject of a spiritual future, could have given any rational explanation of why he or she held certain vague ideas on the subject of salvation, or put off the deeper consideration of the subject to some indefinite period when they would have had their fill of vanities, and lost either the means or the desire to pursue them.
And yet there was a subtlefrou-frouof rustling skirts as the women drew slightly away, and a decided appearance of discomfort on the faces of the men, to whom an unpleasant truth was suddenly and sharply conveyed, and who found themselves strangely powerless to combat, or argue out its real meaning.
Chapter Nine.Discussion.Colonel Estcourt came to the rescue.“No doubt,” he said, “the subject and this view of the subject seems a little strange to our friends here. We must remember they have not been accustomed to hear it freely discussed, as we have.”“Itisstrange,” said Mrs Jefferson, rallying her energies, “but we should not shirk its consideration for that reason. I quite agree with Madame Zairoff that people don’t think half seriously enough of their real natures, the mysterious innersomethingwhich we all feel we possess, but whose voice we stifle in the din of the world. And yet,” she added, sighing pathetically as she looked at the great Worth’s ‘creation,’—“the vanities are very pleasant. Why should we turn anchorites?”“There is not the slightest necessity to do that,” said the princess, smiling at the unuttered thought she had read in that glance. “Far from it. The gravest duties of life are generally those that meet us in the world, and are called forth by our actions in that world. All lives are not meant to be isolated, and certainly none for the whole period of earth life. A person would have to be very sure that he wasfreeto cut himself adrift from his fellows before he would even be permitted to do it.”“Permitted!” echoed Mrs Jefferson, rather vaguely. “But by whom?”“The teachers of occult science,” answered the Princess Zairoff.“But who are they?” exclaimed the little American.“That I cannot tell you,” she answered, gravely. “They exist, and their influence is already beginning to make itself felt. But it would be a poor triumph to unveil the highest wisdom that humanity can ever learn, in order to satisfy the idle and the curious, and the lovers of marvels. Those who desire to learn can always do so, but nothing is forced upon you, or even obtruded. I should not have opened my lips on the subject had you not expressed a desire to hear something about it.”“I suppose,” said Mrs Jefferson, eagerly, “you yourself are a believer in occultism?”“Madame Zairoff is a great deal more than that,” said Colonel Estcourt; “she is one of its most earnest students and most ardent votaries. If you knew half of her marvellous powers you would congratulate yourselves upon being permitted to receive her, unless, indeed,” he added, with a questioning glance at the beautiful woman beside him, “she has a fancy to make converts.”The men became eager of entreaties to her so made, but the women held back a little.Princess Zairoff, however, assured them she had no intention of proselytising. “It is quite true I am deeply interested in this subject,” she said, “but I should be sorry to bore you all with my views, or the reasons for my holding those views. Psychic inquiry demands a great deal more than cursory study. There are many mysteries of nature that men have looked upon as enigmas, until patience and research have solved them for them. Then they marvel how they could have been blind so long! Magnetism, spiritualism, and clairvoyance have all their mystical, as well as their explicable, side. It is only because they don’t readily lend themselves to the comprehension of our material nature, that we try to scoff them into the limbo of absurdity and imposture.”“Ah,” said Mrs Jefferson. “Talking of clairvoyance,thatI do believe in. I knew a coloured woman in America—the way that woman would tell you things—it was enough to make your flesh creep! She’d just go quietly off to sleep, and you might ask her anything you liked, and she’d tell you; and it was all as true as possible.”The princess met Julian Estcourt’s eyes, and smiled strangely. Mrs Jefferson caught the glance.“Perhaps,” she said, “you’re a clairvoyant?”“I used to be,” she said, gravely. “Perhaps my faculties have grown blunted, for want of use. They are far from being as keen as they were in India. However,” and she smiled at the circle of faces, “I wonder if any of you would believe me if I told you what you were talking about at dinner time. First of all, you must remember, your conversation could not have been betrayed to me by my friend, as he was not there, and that my rooms are on the opposite wing to the dining saloon. Well, you discussed different phases of spiritualism. This lady,” she indicated Mrs Masterman, “gave her experiences of imposture; you,” looking at Mrs Jefferson, “combated those experiences by your own, and this gentleman.”—she smiled at the cynical individual, who was hovering on the outskirts of the circle—“silenced you all by reducing your theories to strong commonsense facts. Shall I quote his own words? After the rate people have been running after spiritual phenomena, they are absolutely refreshing. He said that it was an intensely humiliating idea to find oneself at the beck and call of any other human being when you imagined you had done with this life.”“Good gracious!” almost screamed Mrs Jefferson, “but how on earth did you hear all this? It’s positively alarming.”“Well,” said the princess, still smiling at the pale and conscience-stricken faces, “you see I have a—faculty shall I call it?—that enables me to hear and see anything I am curious about, or interested in. I don’t believe I could even explain how I do it; but it seems easy and natural enough to myself. I only paid you a brief visit to-night, more that I might have a little bit of proof to give you, that the powers I spoke of do exist, and are capable of being trained to almost any extent, if the motives for developing them are good. Have I convinced you?”She rose as she spoke, and stood facing them in her beautiful indolent grace. She was garbed in some white soft stuff, which floated round her like a cloud, the wide hanging sleeves were lined with faint shell-like pink, and fell away from her bare lovely arms to the hem of her floating draperies. She looked like some goddess of mythology, rather than a living woman, and as Julian Estcourt gazed at her he felt a sudden thrill of awe.Could that more than mortal beauty ever really be his—his in the common prose of possession that can never be disassociated with marriage—the prose that is to the delicate subtle beauty of love, what the rough touch is to the wings of the butterfly, the bloom of the grape?For a moment the thought seemed like sacrilege. He could have fallen at her feet in a sudden adoration of the divine beauty and purity of embodied womanhood. “If ever she has lived before,” he said in his heart, “it must have been as a vestal virgin, or a martyred saint. Where in the world is such another woman?”The voice of the cynical philosopher broke on his ear and disturbed his thoughts. “Madame, it is my humble opinion that you could convince us of anything you desired. Happy are those who have so charming a disciple to expound their doctrines, happier still the fortunate few to whom those doctrines are to be expounded by lips so lovely and a heart so wise.”Ere the circle had quite recovered from its astonishment at hearing a speech so flattering uttered by their surly Diogenes, they had parted to make way for the beautiful stranger, and the last gleam of her snowy robes had floated through the doorway, as a cloud melts into the darkness of descending night.There was a sort of long-drawn breath, a feeling as of long tension suddenly set free, a turning as if by one accord to one another. Then—well, then all the tongues leaped into action, and for the remainder of that evening, like Thackeray’s folk “At the Springs,” they talked, and they talked,and they talked.
Colonel Estcourt came to the rescue.
“No doubt,” he said, “the subject and this view of the subject seems a little strange to our friends here. We must remember they have not been accustomed to hear it freely discussed, as we have.”
“Itisstrange,” said Mrs Jefferson, rallying her energies, “but we should not shirk its consideration for that reason. I quite agree with Madame Zairoff that people don’t think half seriously enough of their real natures, the mysterious innersomethingwhich we all feel we possess, but whose voice we stifle in the din of the world. And yet,” she added, sighing pathetically as she looked at the great Worth’s ‘creation,’—“the vanities are very pleasant. Why should we turn anchorites?”
“There is not the slightest necessity to do that,” said the princess, smiling at the unuttered thought she had read in that glance. “Far from it. The gravest duties of life are generally those that meet us in the world, and are called forth by our actions in that world. All lives are not meant to be isolated, and certainly none for the whole period of earth life. A person would have to be very sure that he wasfreeto cut himself adrift from his fellows before he would even be permitted to do it.”
“Permitted!” echoed Mrs Jefferson, rather vaguely. “But by whom?”
“The teachers of occult science,” answered the Princess Zairoff.
“But who are they?” exclaimed the little American.
“That I cannot tell you,” she answered, gravely. “They exist, and their influence is already beginning to make itself felt. But it would be a poor triumph to unveil the highest wisdom that humanity can ever learn, in order to satisfy the idle and the curious, and the lovers of marvels. Those who desire to learn can always do so, but nothing is forced upon you, or even obtruded. I should not have opened my lips on the subject had you not expressed a desire to hear something about it.”
“I suppose,” said Mrs Jefferson, eagerly, “you yourself are a believer in occultism?”
“Madame Zairoff is a great deal more than that,” said Colonel Estcourt; “she is one of its most earnest students and most ardent votaries. If you knew half of her marvellous powers you would congratulate yourselves upon being permitted to receive her, unless, indeed,” he added, with a questioning glance at the beautiful woman beside him, “she has a fancy to make converts.”
The men became eager of entreaties to her so made, but the women held back a little.
Princess Zairoff, however, assured them she had no intention of proselytising. “It is quite true I am deeply interested in this subject,” she said, “but I should be sorry to bore you all with my views, or the reasons for my holding those views. Psychic inquiry demands a great deal more than cursory study. There are many mysteries of nature that men have looked upon as enigmas, until patience and research have solved them for them. Then they marvel how they could have been blind so long! Magnetism, spiritualism, and clairvoyance have all their mystical, as well as their explicable, side. It is only because they don’t readily lend themselves to the comprehension of our material nature, that we try to scoff them into the limbo of absurdity and imposture.”
“Ah,” said Mrs Jefferson. “Talking of clairvoyance,thatI do believe in. I knew a coloured woman in America—the way that woman would tell you things—it was enough to make your flesh creep! She’d just go quietly off to sleep, and you might ask her anything you liked, and she’d tell you; and it was all as true as possible.”
The princess met Julian Estcourt’s eyes, and smiled strangely. Mrs Jefferson caught the glance.
“Perhaps,” she said, “you’re a clairvoyant?”
“I used to be,” she said, gravely. “Perhaps my faculties have grown blunted, for want of use. They are far from being as keen as they were in India. However,” and she smiled at the circle of faces, “I wonder if any of you would believe me if I told you what you were talking about at dinner time. First of all, you must remember, your conversation could not have been betrayed to me by my friend, as he was not there, and that my rooms are on the opposite wing to the dining saloon. Well, you discussed different phases of spiritualism. This lady,” she indicated Mrs Masterman, “gave her experiences of imposture; you,” looking at Mrs Jefferson, “combated those experiences by your own, and this gentleman.”—she smiled at the cynical individual, who was hovering on the outskirts of the circle—“silenced you all by reducing your theories to strong commonsense facts. Shall I quote his own words? After the rate people have been running after spiritual phenomena, they are absolutely refreshing. He said that it was an intensely humiliating idea to find oneself at the beck and call of any other human being when you imagined you had done with this life.”
“Good gracious!” almost screamed Mrs Jefferson, “but how on earth did you hear all this? It’s positively alarming.”
“Well,” said the princess, still smiling at the pale and conscience-stricken faces, “you see I have a—faculty shall I call it?—that enables me to hear and see anything I am curious about, or interested in. I don’t believe I could even explain how I do it; but it seems easy and natural enough to myself. I only paid you a brief visit to-night, more that I might have a little bit of proof to give you, that the powers I spoke of do exist, and are capable of being trained to almost any extent, if the motives for developing them are good. Have I convinced you?”
She rose as she spoke, and stood facing them in her beautiful indolent grace. She was garbed in some white soft stuff, which floated round her like a cloud, the wide hanging sleeves were lined with faint shell-like pink, and fell away from her bare lovely arms to the hem of her floating draperies. She looked like some goddess of mythology, rather than a living woman, and as Julian Estcourt gazed at her he felt a sudden thrill of awe.
Could that more than mortal beauty ever really be his—his in the common prose of possession that can never be disassociated with marriage—the prose that is to the delicate subtle beauty of love, what the rough touch is to the wings of the butterfly, the bloom of the grape?
For a moment the thought seemed like sacrilege. He could have fallen at her feet in a sudden adoration of the divine beauty and purity of embodied womanhood. “If ever she has lived before,” he said in his heart, “it must have been as a vestal virgin, or a martyred saint. Where in the world is such another woman?”
The voice of the cynical philosopher broke on his ear and disturbed his thoughts. “Madame, it is my humble opinion that you could convince us of anything you desired. Happy are those who have so charming a disciple to expound their doctrines, happier still the fortunate few to whom those doctrines are to be expounded by lips so lovely and a heart so wise.”
Ere the circle had quite recovered from its astonishment at hearing a speech so flattering uttered by their surly Diogenes, they had parted to make way for the beautiful stranger, and the last gleam of her snowy robes had floated through the doorway, as a cloud melts into the darkness of descending night.
There was a sort of long-drawn breath, a feeling as of long tension suddenly set free, a turning as if by one accord to one another. Then—well, then all the tongues leaped into action, and for the remainder of that evening, like Thackeray’s folk “At the Springs,” they talked, and they talked,and they talked.