“‘To die—to sleep;—To sleep!—perchance to dream; ay, there’s the rub!’
“‘To die—to sleep;—To sleep!—perchance to dream; ay, there’s the rub!’
“‘To die—to sleep;—
To sleep!—perchance to dream; ay, there’s the rub!’
Imagine it!—to die anddreamof Heaven—or Hell—and all the while if there should be no reality in either!”
With one more glance at the now soundly slumbering Zaroba, he went back to the couch, and gazed long and earnestly at the exquisite maiden there reclined,—then bending over her, he took her small fair left hand in his own, pressing his fingers hard round the delicate wrist.
“Lilith!—Lilith!” he said in low, yet commanding accents. “Lilith!—Speak to me! I am here!”
Deepsilence followed his invocation,—a silence he seemed to expect and be prepared for. Looking at a silver timepiece on a bracket above the couch, he mentally counted slowly a hundred beats,—then pressing the fragile wrist he held still more firmly between his fingers, he touched with his other hand the girl’s brow, just above her closed eyes. A faint quiver ran through the delicate body,—he quickly drew back and spoke again.
“Lilith! Where are you?”
The sweet lips parted, and a voice soft as whispered music responded—
“I am here!”
“Is all well with you?”
“All is well!”
And a smile irradiated the fair face with such a light as to suggest that the eyes must have opened,—but no!—they were fast shut.
El-Râmi resumed his strange interrogation.
“Lilith! What do you see?”
There was a moment’s pause,—then came the slow response—
“Many things,—things beautiful and wonderful. But you are not among them. I hear your voice and I obey it, but I cannot see you—I have never seen you.”
El-Râmi sighed, and pressed more closely the soft small hand within his own.
“Where have you been?”
“Where my pleasure led me”—came the answer in a sleepy yet joyous tone—“My pleasure and—your will.”
El-Râmi started, but immediately controlled himself, for Lilith stirred and threw her other arm indolently behind her head, leaving the great ruby on her breast flashingly exposed to view.
“Away, away, far, far away!” she said, and her accents sounded like subdued singing—“Beyond,—in those regions whither I was sent—beyond——” her voice stopped and trailed off into drowsy murmurings—“beyond—Sirius—I saw——”
She ceased, and smiled—some happy thought seemed to have rendered her mute.
El-Râmi waited a moment, then took up her broken speech.
“Far beyond Sirius you saw—what?”
Moving, she pillowed her cheek upon her hand, and turned more fully round towards him.
“I saw a bright new world,”—she said, now speaking quite clearly and connectedly—“A royal world of worlds; an undiscovered Star. There were giant oceans in it,—the noise of many waters was heard throughout the land,—and there were great cities marvellously built upon the sea. I saw their pinnacles of white and gold—spires of coral, and gates that were studded with pearl,—flags waved and music sounded, and two great Suns gave double light from heaven. I saw many thousands of people—they were beautiful and happy—they sang and danced and gave thanks in the everlasting sunshine, and knelt in crowds upon their wide and fruitful fields to thank the Giver of life immortal.”
“Life immortal!” repeated El-Râmi,—“Do not these people die, even as we?”
A pained look, as of wonder or regret, knitted the girl’s fair brows.
“There is no death—neither here nor there”—she said steadily—“I have told you this so often, yet you will not believe. Always you bid me seek for death,—I have looked, but cannot find it.”
She sighed, and El-Râmi echoed the sigh.
“I wish”—and her accents sounded plaintively—“I wish that I could see you! There is some cloud between us. I hear your voice and I obey it, but I cannot see who it is that calls me.”
El-Râmi paid no heed to these dove-like murmurings,—moreover, he seemed to have no eyes for the wondrous beauty of the creature who lay thus tranced and in his power,—set on his one object, the attainment of a supernatural knowledge, he looked as pitiless and impervious to all charm as any Grand Inquisitor of old Spain.
“Speak of yourself and not of me”—he said authoritatively, “How can you say there is no death?”
“I speak truth. There is none.”
“Not even here?”
“Not anywhere.”
“O daughter of vision, where are the eyes of your spirit?” demanded El-Râmi angrily—“Search again and see! Why should all Nature arm itself against Death if there be no death?”
“You are harsh,”—said Lilith sorrowfully—“Should I tell you what is not true? If I would, I cannot. There is no death—there is only change. Beyond Sirius, they sleep.”
El-Râmi waited; but she had paused again.
“Go on”—he said—“They sleep—why and when?”
“When they are weary”—responded Lilith. “When all is done that they can do, and when they need rest, they sleep, and in their sleep they change;—the change is——”
She ceased.
“The change is death,” said El-Râmi positively,—“for death is everywhere.”
“Not so!” replied Lilith quickly, and in a ringing tone of clarion-like sweetness. “The change is life,—for Life is everywhere!”
There ensued a silence. The girl turned away, and, bringing her hand slowly down from behind her head, laid it again upon her breast over the burning ruby gem. El-Râmi bent above her closely.
“You are dreaming, Lilith,”—he said as though he would force her to own something against her will. “You speak unwisely and at random.”
Still silence.
“Lilith!—Lilith!” he called.
No answer;—only the lovely tints of her complexion, the smile on her lips, and the tranquil heaving of her rounded bosom indicated that she lived.
“Gone!” and El-Râmi’s brow clouded; he laid back the little hand he held in its former position and looked at the girl long and steadily—“And so firm in her assertion!—as foolish an assertion as any of the fancies of Féraz. No death? Nay—as well say no life. She has not fathomed the secret of our passing hence; no, not though her flight has outreached the realm of Sirius.
“‘But that the dread of something after death,The undiscovered country from whose bourneNo traveller returns, puzzles the will.’
“‘But that the dread of something after death,The undiscovered country from whose bourneNo traveller returns, puzzles the will.’
“‘But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourne
No traveller returns, puzzles the will.’
Ay, puzzles the will and confounds it! But must I be baffled then?—or is it my own fault thatI cannot believe? Is it truly her spirit that speaks to me?—or is it my own brain acting upon hers in a state of trance? If it be the latter, why should she declare things that I never dream of, and which my reason does not accept as possible? And if it is indeed her Soul, or the ethereal Essence of her that thus soars at periodic intervals of liberty into the Unseen, how is it that she never comprehends Death or Pain? Is her vision limited only to behold harmonious systems moving to a sound of joy?”
And, seized by a sudden resolution, he caught both the hands of the tranced girl and held them in his own, the while he fixed his eyes upon her quiet face with a glance that seemed to shoot forth flame.
“Lilith! Lilith! By the force of my will and mastery over thy life, I bid thee return to me! O flitting spirit, ever bent on errands of pleasure, reveal to me the secrets of pain! Come back, Lilith! I call thee—come!”
A violent shudder shook the beautiful reposeful figure,—the smile faded from her lips, and she heaved a profound sigh.
“I am here!”
“Listen to my bidding!” said El-Râmi, in measured accents that sounded almost cruel. “As you have soared to heights ineffable, even so descend to lowest depths of desolation! Understand and seek out sorrow,—pierce to the root of suffering, explain the cause of unavailing agony! These things exist. Here in this planet of which you know nothing save my voice,—here, if nowhere else in the wide Universe, we gain our bread with bitterness and drink our wine with tears. Solve me the mystery of pain,—of injustice,—of an innocent child’s anguish on its death-bed,—ay! though you tell me there is no death!—of a good man’s ruin,—of an evil woman’s triumph,—of despair,—of self-slaughter,—of all the horrors upon horrors piled, which make up this world’s present life. Listen, O too ecstatic and believing Spirit!—we have a legend here that a God lives—a wise all-loving God,—and He, this wise and loving one, has out of His great bounty invented for the torture of His creatures,—Hell! Find out this Hell, Lilith!—Prove it!—bring the plan of its existence back to me. Go,—bring me news of devils,—and suffer, if spiritscansuffer, in the unmitigated sufferings of others! Take my command and go hence, find out God’s Hell!—so shall we afterwards know the worth of Heaven!”
He spoke rapidly,—impetuously,—passionately;—and now he allowed the girl’s hands to fall suddenly from his clasp. She moaned a little,—and, instead of folding them one over the other as before, raised them palm to palm in an attitude of prayer. The colour faded entirely from her face,—but an expression of the calmest, grandest wisdom, serenity, and compassion came over her features as of a saint prepared for martyrdom. Her breathing grew fainter and fainter till it was scarcely perceptible,—and her lips parted in a short sobbing sigh,—then they moved and whispered something. El-Râmi stooped over her more closely.
“What is it?” he asked eagerly—“what did you say?”
“Nothing, ... only ... farewell!” and the faint tone stirred the silence like the last sad echo of a song—“And yet ... once more ... farewell!”
He drew back, and observed her intently. She now looked like a recumbent statue, with those upraised hands of hers so white and small and delicate,—and El-Râmi remembered that he must keep the machine of the Body living, if he desired to receive through its medium the messages of the Spirit. Taking a small phial from his breast, together with the necessary surgeon’s instrument used for such purposes, he pricked the rounded arm nearest to him, and carefully injected into the veins a small quantity of a strange sparkling fluid which gave out a curiously sweet and pungent odour;—as he did this, the lifted hands fell gently into their original position, crossed over the ruby star. The breathing grew steadier and lighter,—the lips took fresh colour,—and El-Râmi watched the effect with absorbed interest and attention.
“One might surely preserve her body so for ever,” he mused half aloud. “The tissues renewed,—the blood reorganised,—the whole system completely nourished with absolute purity; and not a morsel of what is considered food, which contains so much organic mischief, allowed to enter that exquisitely beautiful mechanism, which exhales all waste upon the air through the pores of the skin as naturally as a flower exhales perfume through its leaves. A wonderful discovery!—if all men knew it, would not they deem themselves truly immortal, even here? But the trial is not over yet,—the experiment is not perfect. Six years has she lived thus, but who can say whether indeed Death has no power over her? In those six years she has changed,—she has grown from childhood to womanhood,—does not change imply age?—and age suggest death, in spite of all science? O inexorable Death!—I will pluck its secret out if I die in the effort!”
He turned away from the couch,—then seemed struck by a new idea.
“IfI die, did I say? ButcanI die? Is her Spirit right? Is my reasoning wrong? Is there no pause anywhere?—no cessation of thought?—no end to the insatiability of ambition? Must we plan and work and live—For Ever?”
A shudder ran through him,—the notion of his own perpetuity appalled him. Passing a long mirror framed in antique silver, he caught sight of himself in it,—his dark handsome face, rendered darker by the contrasting whiteness of his hair,—his full black eyes,—his fine but disdainful mouth,—all looked back at him with the scornful reflex of his own scornful regard.
He laughed a little bitterly.
“There you are, El-Râmi-Zarânos!” he murmured half aloud. “Scoffer and scientist,—master of a few common magnetic secrets such as the priests of ancient Egypt made sport of, though in these modern days of ‘culture’ they are sufficient to make most men your tools! What now? Is there no rest for the inner calculations of your mind? Plan and work and live for ever? Well, why not? Could I fathom the secrets of thousand universes, would that suffice me? No! I should seek for the solving of a thousand more!”
He gave a parting glance round the room,—at the fair tranced form on the couch, at the placid Zaroba slumbering in a corner, at the whole effect of the sumptuous apartment, with its purple and gold, its roses, its crystal and ivory adornments,—then he passed out, drawing to the velvet curtains noiselessly behind him. In the small ante-room, he took up the slate and wrote upon it—
“I shall not return hither for forty-eight hours. During this interval admit as much full daylight as possible. Observe the strictest silence, and do not touch her.“El-Râmi.”
“I shall not return hither for forty-eight hours. During this interval admit as much full daylight as possible. Observe the strictest silence, and do not touch her.
“El-Râmi.”
Having thus set down his instructions he descended the stairs to his own room, where, extinguishing the electric light, he threw himself on his hard camp-bedstead and was soon sound asleep.
“I donot believe in a future state. I am very much distressed about it.”
The speaker was a stoutish, able-bodied individual in clerical dress, with rather a handsome face and an easy agreeable manner. He addressed himself to El-Râmi, who, seated at his writing-table, observed him with something of a satirical air.
“You wrote me this letter?” queried El-Râmi, selecting one from a heap beside him. The clergyman bent forward to look, and, recognising his own handwriting, smiled a bland assent.
“You are the Reverend Francis Anstruther, Vicar of Laneck,—a great favourite with the Bishop of your diocese, I understand?”
The gentleman bowed blandly again,—then assumed a meek and chastened expression.
“That is, Iwasa favourite of the Bishop’s at one time”—he murmured regretfully—“and I suppose I am now, only I fear that this matter of conscience——”
“Oh, itisa matter of conscience?” said El-Râmi slowly—“You are sure of that?”
“Quite sure of that!” and the Reverend Francis Anstruther sighed profoundly.
“‘Thus conscience does make cowards of us all——’”
“I beg your pardon?” and the clergyman opened his eyes a little.
“Nay, I beg yours!—I was quotingHamlet.”
“Oh!”
There was a silence. El-Râmi bent his dark flashing eyes on his visitor, who seemed a little confused by the close scrutiny. It was the morning after the circumstances narrated in the previous chapter,—the clock marked ten minutes to noon,—the weather was brilliant and sunshiny, and the temperature warm for the uncertain English month of May. El-Râmi rose suddenly and threw open the window nearest him, as if he found the air oppressive.
“Why did you seek me out?” he demanded, turning towards the reverend gentleman once more.
“Well, it was really the merest accident——”
“It always is!” said El-Râmi with a slight dubious smile.
“I was at Lady Melthorpe’s the other day, and I told her my difficulty. She spoke of you, and said she felt certain you would be able to clear up my doubts——”
“Not at all. I am too busy clearing up my own,” said El-Râmi brusquely.
The clergyman looked surprised.
“Dear me!—I thought, from what her ladyship said, that you were scientifically certain of——”
“Of what?” interrupted El-Râmi—“Of myself? Nothing more uncertain in the world than my own humour, I assure you! Of others? I am not a student of human caprice. Of life?—of death? Neither. I am simply trying to prove the existence of a ‘something after death’—but I am certain of nothing, and I believe in nothing, unless proved.”
“But,” said Mr. Anstruther anxiously—“you will, I hope, allow me to explain that you leave a very different impression on the minds of those to whom you speak, from the one you now suggest. Lady Melthorpe, for instance——”
“Lady Melthorpe believes what it pleases her to believe,”—said El-Râmi quietly—“All pretty, sensitive, imaginative women do. That accounts for the immense success of Roman Catholicism with women. It is a graceful, pleasing, comforting religion,—moreover, it is really becoming to a woman,—she looks charming with a rosary in her hand, or a quaint old missal,—and she knows it. Lady Melthorpe is a believer in ideals,—well, there is no harm in ideals,—long may she be able to indulge in them.”
“But Lady Melthorpe declares that you are able to tell the past and the future,” persisted the clergyman—“And that you can also read the present;—if that is so, you must surely possess visionary power?”
El-Râmi looked at him steadfastly.
“I can tell you the past;”—he said—“And I can read your present;—and from the two portions of your life I can calculate the last addition, the Future,—but my calculation may be wrong. I mean wrong as regards coming events;—past and present I can never be mistaken in, because there exists a natural law, by which you are bound to reveal yourself to me.”
The Reverend Francis Anstruther moved uneasily in his chair, but managed to convey into his countenance the proper expression of politely incredulous astonishment.
“This natural law,” went on El-Râmi, laying one hand on the celestial globe as he spoke, “has been in existence ever since man’s formation, but we are only just now beginning to discover it, or rather re-discover it, since it was tolerably well known to the priests of ancient Egypt. You see this sphere;”—and he moved the celestial globe round slowly—“It represents the pattern of the heavens according to our solar system. Now a Persian poet of old time declared in a few wild verses that solar systems, taken in a mass, could be considered the brain of heaven, the stars being the thinking, moving molecules of that brain. A sweeping idea,—what your line-and-pattern critics would call ‘far-fetched’—but it will serve me just now for an illustration of my meaning. Taking this ‘brain of heaven’ by way of simile then, it is evident we—we human pigmies—are, notwithstanding our ridiculous littleness and inferiority, able to penetrate correctly enough into some of the mysteries of that star-teeming intelligence,—we can even take patterns of its shifting molecules”—and again he touched the globe beside him,—“we can watch its modes of thought—and calculate when certain planets will rise and set,—and when we cannot see its action, we can get its vibrations of light, to the marvellous extent of being able to photograph the moon of Neptune, which remains invisible to the eye even with the assistance of a telescope. You wonder what all this tends to?—well,—I speak of vibrations of light from the brain of heaven,—vibrations which we know are existent; and which we prove by means of photography; and, because weseethe results in black and white, we believe in them. But there are other vibrations in the Universe, which cannot be photographed,—the vibrations of the human brain, which, like those emanating from the ‘brain of heaven,’ are full of light and fire, and convey distinct impressions or patterns of thought. People speak of ‘thought-transference’ from one subject to another as if it were a remarkable coincidence,—whereas you cannot put a stop to the transference of thought,—it is in the very air, like the germs of disease or health,—and nothing can do away with it.”
“I do not exactly understand”—murmured the clergyman with some bewilderment.
“Ah, you want a practical demonstration of what seems a merely abstract theory? Nothing easier!”—and moving again to the table he sat down, fixing his dark eyes keenly on his visitor—“As the stars pattern heaven in various shapes, like the constellation Lyra, or Orion, so you have patterned your brain with pictures or photographs of your past and your present.Allyour past, every scene of it, is impressed in the curious little brain-particles that lie in their various cells,—you have forgotten some incidents, but they would all come back to you if you were drowning or being hanged;—because suffocation or strangulation would force up every infinitesimal atom of brain-matter into extraordinary prominence for the moment. Naturally your present existence is the most vivid picture with you, therefore perhaps you would like me to begin with that?”
“Begin?—how?” asked Mr. Anstruther, still in amazement.
“Why,—let me take the impression of your brain upon my own. It is quite simple, and quite scientific. Consider yourself the photographic negative, and me the sensitive paper to receive the impression! I may offer you a blurred picture, but I do not think it likely. Only if you wish to hide anything from me I would advise you not to try the experiment.”
“Really, sir,—this is very extraordinary!—I am at a loss to comprehend——”
“Oh, I will make it quite plain to you,” said El-Râmi with a slight smile—“There is no witchcraft in it—no trickery,—nothing but the commonest A B C science. Will you try?—or would you prefer to leave the matter alone? My demonstration will not convince you of a ‘future state,’ which was the subject you first spoke to me about,—it will only prove to you the physiological phenomena surrounding your present constitution and condition.”
The Reverend Francis Anstruther hesitated. He was a little startled by the cold and convincing manner with which El-Râmi spoke,—at the same time he did not believe in his words, and his own incredulity inclined him to see the “experiment,” whatever it was. It would be all hocus-pocus, of course,—this Oriental fellow could know nothing about him,—he had never seen him before, and must therefore be totally ignorant of his private life and affairs. Considering this for a moment, he looked up and smiled.
“I shall be most interested and delighted,”—he said—“to make the trial you suggest. I am really curious. As for the present picture or photograph on my brain, I think it will only show you my perplexity as to my position with the Bishop in my wavering state of mind——”
“Or conscience—” suggested El-Râmi—“You said it was a matter of conscience.”
“Quite so—quite so! And conscience is the most powerful motor of a man’s actions, Mr.—Mr. El-Râmi! It is indeed the voice of God!”
“That depends on what it says, and how we hear it—” said El-Râmi rather dryly—“Now if we are to make this ‘demonstration,’ will you put your left hand here, in my left hand? So,—your left palm must press closely upon my left palm,—yes—that will do. Observe the position, please;—you see that my left fingers rest on your left wrist, and are therefore directly touching the nerves and arteries running through your heart from your brain. By this, you are, to use my former simile, pressing me, the sensitive paper, to your photographic negative—and I make no doubt we shall get a fair impression. But to prevent any interruption to the brain-wave rushing from you to me, we will add this little trifle,” and he dexterously slipped a steel band over his hand and that of his visitor as they rested thus together on the table, and snapt it to,—“a sort of handcuff, as you perceive. It has nothing in the world to do with our experiment. It is simply placed there to prevent your moving your hand away from mine, which would be your natural impulse if I should happen to say anything disagreeably true. And to do so would of course cut the ethereal thread of contact between us. Now, are you ready?”
The clergyman grew a shade paler. El-Râmi seemed so very sure of the result of this singular trial that it was a little bit disagreeable. But, having consented to the experiment, he felt he was compelled to go through with it, so he bowed a nervous assent. Whereupon El-Râmi closed his brilliant eyes, and sat for one or two minutes silent and immovable. A curious fidgetiness began to trouble the Reverend Francis Anstruther,—he tried to think of something ridiculous, something altogether apart from himself, but in vain,—his own personality, his own life, his own secret aims seemed all to weigh upon him like a sudden incubus. Presently tingling sensations pricked his arm as with burning needles,—the hand that was fettered to that of El-Râmi felt as hot as though it were being held to a fire. All at once El-Râmi spoke in a low tone, without opening his eyes—
“The shadow-impression of a woman. Brown-haired, dark-eyed,—of a full, luscious beauty, and a violent, unbridled, ill-balanced will. Mindless, but physically attractive. She dominates your thought.”
A quiver ran through the clergyman’s frame,—if he could only have snatched away his hand he would have done it then.
“She is not your wife—” went on El-Râmi—“she is the wife of your wealthiest neighbour. You have a wife,—an invalid,—you have also eight children,—but these are not prominent in the picture at present. The woman with the dark eyes and hair is the chief figure. Your plans are made for her——”
He paused, and again the wretched Mr. Anstruther shuddered.
“Wait—wait!” exclaimed El-Râmi suddenly in a tone of animation—“Now it comes clearly. You have decided to leave the Church, not because you do not believe in a future state,—for this you never have believed at any time—but because you wish to rid yourself of all moral and religious responsibility. Your scheme is perfectly distinct. You will make out a ‘case of conscience’ to your authorities, and resign your living,—you will then desert your wife and children,—you will leave your country in the company of the woman whose secret lover you are——”
“Stop!” cried the Reverend Mr. Anstruther, savagely endeavouring to wrench away his hand from the binding fetter which held it remorselessly to the hand of El-Râmi—“Stop! You are telling me a pack of lies!”
El-Râmi opened his great flashing orbs and surveyed him first in surprise, then with a deep unutterable contempt. Unclasping the steel band that bound their two hands together, he flung it by, and rose to his feet.
“Lies?” he echoed indignantly. “Your whole life is a lie, and both Nature and Science are bound to give the reflex of it. What! would you play a double part with the Eternal Forces and think to succeed in such desperate fooling? Do you imagine you can deceive supreme Omniscience, which holds every star and every infinitesimal atom of life in a network of such instant vibrating consciousness and contact that in terrible truth there are and can be ‘no secrets hid’? You may if you like act out the wretched comedy of feigning to deceiveyourGod—the God of the Churches,—but beware of trifling with therealGod,—the absoluteEgo Sumof the Universe.”
His voice rang out passionately upon the stillness,—the clergyman had also risen from his chair, and stood, nervously fumbling with his gloves, not venturing to raise his eyes.
“I have told you the truth of yourself,”—continued El-Râmi more quietly—“You know I have. Why then do you accuse me of telling you lies? Why did you seek me out at all if you wished to conceal yourself and your intentions from me? Can you deny the testimony of your own brain reflected on mine? Come, confess! be honest for once,—doyou deny it?”
“I deny everything;”—replied the clergyman,—but his accents were husky and indistinct.
“So be it!”—and El-Râmi gave a short laugh of scorn. “Your ‘case of conscience’ is evidently very pressing. Go to your Bishop—and tell him you cannot believe in a future state,—I certainly cannot help you to provethatmystery. Besides, you would rather there were no future state,—a ‘something after death’ must needs be an unpleasant point of meditation for such as you. Oh yes!—you will get your freedom;—you will get all you are scheming for, and you will be quite a notorious person for a while on account of the delicacy of your sense of honour and the rectitude of your principles. Exactly!—and then your finalcoup,—your running away with your neighbour’s wife will make you notorious again—in quite another sort of fashion. Ah!—every man is bound to weave the threads of his own destiny, and you are weaving yours;—do not be surprised if you find you have made of them a net wherein to become hopelessly caught, tied, and strangled. It is no doubt unpleasant for you to hear these things,—what a pity you came to me!”
The Reverend Francis Anstruther buttoned his glove carefully.
“Oh, I do not regret it,” he said. “Any other man might perhaps feel himself insulted, but——”
“But you are too much of a ‘Christian’ to take offence—yes, I daresay!” interposed El-Râmi satirically,—“I thank you for your amiable forbearance! Allow me to close this interview”—and he was about to ring the bell, when his visitor said hastily and with an effort at appearing unconcerned—
“I suppose I may rely on your secrecy respecting what has passed?”
“Secrecy?” and El-Râmi raised his black eyebrows disdainfully. “What you call secrecy I know not. But if you mean that I shall speak of you and your affairs,—why, make yourself quite easy on that score. I shall not even think of you after you have left this room. Do not attach too much importance to yourself, reverend sir,—true, your name will soon be mentioned in the newspapers, but this should not excite you to an undue vanity. As for me, I have other things to occupy me, and clerical ‘cases of conscience,’ such as yours, fail to attract either my wonder or admiration!” Here he touched the bell.—“Féraz!” this as his young brother instantly appeared—“The door!”
The Reverend Francis Anstruther took up his hat, looked into it, glanced nervously round at the picturesque form of the silent Féraz, then, with a sudden access of courage, looked at El-Râmi. That handsome Oriental’s fiery eyes were fixed upon him,—the superb head, the dignified figure, the stately manner, all combined to make him feel uncomfortable and awkward; but he forced a faint smile—it was evident he must say something.
“You are a very remarkable man, Mr. ... El-Râmi”—he stammered. ... “It has been a most interesting ... and ... instructive morning!”
El-Râmi made no response other than a slight frigid bow.
The clergyman again peered into the depths of his hat.
“I will not go so far as to say you were correct in anything you said”—he went on—“but there was a little truth in some of your allusions,—they really applied, or might be made to apply, to past events,—bygone circumstances ... you understand? ...”
El-Râmi took one step towards him.
“No more lies in Heaven’s name!” he said in a stern whisper. “The air is poisoned enough for to-day. Go!”
Such a terrible earnestness marked his face and voice that the Reverend Francis retreated abruptly in alarm, and, stumbling out of the room hastily, soon found himself in the open street with the great oaken door of El-Râmi’s house shut upon him. He paused a moment, glanced at the sky, then at the pavement, shook his head, drew a long breath, and seemed on the verge of hesitation; then he looked at his watch,—smiled a bland smile, and, hailing a cab, was driven to lunch at the Criterion, where a handsome woman with dark hair and eyes met him with mingled flattery and upbraiding, and gave herself pouting and capricious airs of offence, because he had kept her ten minutes waiting.
Thatafternoon El-Râmi prepared to go out, as was his usual custom, immediately after the mid-day meal, which was served to him by Féraz, who stood behind his chair like a slave all the time he ate and drank, attending to his needs with the utmost devotion and assiduity. Féraz indeed was his brother’s only domestic,—Zaroba’s duties being entirely confined to the mysterious apartments upstairs and their still more mysterious occupant. El-Râmi was in a taciturn mood,—the visit of the Reverend Francis Anstruther seemed to have put him out, and he scarcely spoke, save in monosyllables. Before leaving the house, however, his humour suddenly softened, and, noting the wistful and timorous gaze with which Féraz regarded him, he laughed outright.
“You are very patient with me, Féraz!” he said—“And I know I am as sullen as a bear.”
“You think too much;”—replied Féraz gently—“And you work too hard.”
“Both thought and labour are necessary,” said El-Râmi—“You would not have me live a life of merely bovine repose?”
Féraz gave a deprecating gesture.
“Nay—but surely rest is needful. To be happy, God Himself must sometimes sleep.”
“You think so?” and El-Râmi smiled—“Then it must be during His hours of repose and oblivion that the business of life goes wrong, and darkness and the spirit of confusion walk abroad. The Creator should never sleep.”
“Why not, if He has dreams?” asked Féraz—“For if Eternal Thought becomes Substance, so a God’s Dream may become Life.”
“Poetic as usual, my Féraz”—replied his brother—“and yet perhaps you are not so far wrong in your ideas. That Thought becomes Substance, even with man’s limited powers, is true enough;—the thought of a perfect form grows up embodied in the weight and substance of marble, with the sculptor,—the vague fancies of a poet, being set in ink on paper, become substance in book-shape, solid enough to pass from one hand to the other;—even so may a God’s mere Thought of a world create a Planet. It is my own impression that thoughts, like atoms, are imperishable, and that even dreams, being forms of thought, never die. But I must not stay here talking,—adieu! Do not sit up for me to-night—I shall not return,—I am going down to the coast.”
“To Ilfracombe?” questioned Féraz—“So long a journey, and all to see that poor mad soul?”
El-Râmi looked at him steadfastly.
“No more ‘mad,’ Féraz, than you are with your notions about your native star! Why should a scientist who amuses himself with the reflections on a disc of magnetic crystal be deemed ‘mad’? Fifty years ago the electric inventions of Edison would have been called ‘impossible,’—and he, the inventor, considered hopelessly insane. But now we know these seeming ‘miracles’ are facts, we cease to wonder at them. And my poor friend with his disc is a harmless creature;—his ‘craze,’ if it be a craze, is as innocent as yours.”
“But I have no craze,”—said Féraz composedly,—“All that I know and see lives in my brain like music,—and, though I remember it perfectly, I trouble no one with the story of my past.”
“And he troubles no one with what he deems may be the story of the future”—said El-Râmi—“Call no one ‘mad’ because he happens to have a new idea—for time may prove such ‘madness’ a merely perfected method of reason. I must hasten, or I shall lose my train.”
“If it is the 2.40 from Waterloo, you have time,” said Féraz—“It is not yet two o’clock. Do you leave any message for Zaroba?”
“None. She has my orders.”
Féraz looked full at his brother, and a warm flush coloured his handsome face.
“Shall I never be worthy of your confidence?” he asked in a low voice—“Can you never trustmewith your great secret, as well as Zaroba?”
El-Râmi frowned darkly.
“Again, this vulgar vice of curiosity? I thought you were exempt from it by this time.”
“Nay, but hear me, El-Râmi”—said Féraz eagerly, distressed at the anger in his brother’s eyes—“It is not curiosity,—it is something else,—something that I can hardly explain, except. ... Oh, you will only laugh at me if I tell you. ... but yet——”
“But what?” demanded El-Râmi sternly.
“It is as if a voice called me,”—answered Féraz dreamily—“a voice from those upper chambers, which you keep closed, and of which only Zaroba has the care—a voice that asks for freedom and for peace. It is such a sorrowful voice,—but sweet,—more sweet than any singing. True, I hear it but seldom,—only, when I do, it haunts me for hours and hours. I know you are at some great work up there,—but can you make such voices ring from a merely scientific laboratory? Now you are angered!”
His large soft brilliant eyes rested appealingly upon his brother, whose features had grown pale and rigid.
“Angered!” he echoed, speaking as it seemed with some effort,—“Am I ever angered at your—your fancies? For fancies they are, Féraz,—the voice you hear is like the imagined home in that distant star you speak of,—an image and an echo on your brain—no more. My ‘great work,’ as you call it, would have no interest for you;—it is nothing but a test-experiment, which, if it fails, then I fail with it, and am no more El-Râmi-Zarânos, but the merest fool that ever clamoured for the moon.” He said this more to himself than to his brother, and seemed for the moment to have forgotten where he was,—till suddenly rousing himself with a start he forced a smile.
“Farewell for the present, gentle visionary!” he said kindly,—“You are happier with your dreams than I with my facts,—do not seek out sorrow for yourself by rash and idle questioning.”
With a parting nod he went out, and Féraz, closing the door after him, remained in the hall for a few moments in a sort of vague reverie. How silent the house seemed, he thought with a half-sigh. The very atmosphere of it was depressing, and even his favourite occupation, music, had just now no attraction for him. He turned listlessly into his brother’s study,—he determined to read for an hour or so, and looked about in search of some entertaining volume. On the table he found a book open,—a manuscript, written on vellum in Arabic, with curious uncanny figures and allegorical designs on the headings and margins. El-Râmi had left it there by mistake,—it was a particularly valuable treasure which he generally kept under lock and key. Féraz sat down in front of it, and, resting his head on his two hands, began to read at the page where it lay open. Arabic was his native tongue,—yet he had some difficulty in making out this especial specimen of the language, because the writing was anything but distinct, and some of the letters had a very odd way of vanishing before his eyes, just as he had fixed them on a word. This was puzzling as well as irritating,—he must have something the matter with his sight or his brain, he concluded, as these vanishing letters always came into position again after a little. Worried by the phenomenon, he seized the book and carried it to the full light of the open window, and there succeeded in making out the meaning of one passage which was quite sufficient to set him thinking. It ran as follows:—
“Wherefore, touching illusions and impressions, as also strong emotions of love, hatred, jealousy, or revenge, these nerve and brain sensations are easily conveyed from one human subject to another by Suggestion. The first process is to numb the optic nerve. This is done in two ways—I. By causing the subject to fix his eyes steadily on a round shining case containing a magnet, while you shall count two hundred beats of time. II. By wilfully making your own eyes the magnet, and fixing your subject thereto. Either of these operations will temporarily paralyse the optic nerves, and arrest the motion of the blood in the vessels pertaining. Thus the brain becomes insensible to external impressions, and is only awake to internal suggestions, which you may make as many and as devious as you please. Your subject will see exactly what you choose him to see, hear what you wish him to hear, do what you bid him do, so long as you hold him by your power, which if you understand the laws of light, sound, and air-vibrations, you may be able to retain for an indefinite period. The same force applies to the magnetising of a multitude as of a single individual.”[1]
“Wherefore, touching illusions and impressions, as also strong emotions of love, hatred, jealousy, or revenge, these nerve and brain sensations are easily conveyed from one human subject to another by Suggestion. The first process is to numb the optic nerve. This is done in two ways—I. By causing the subject to fix his eyes steadily on a round shining case containing a magnet, while you shall count two hundred beats of time. II. By wilfully making your own eyes the magnet, and fixing your subject thereto. Either of these operations will temporarily paralyse the optic nerves, and arrest the motion of the blood in the vessels pertaining. Thus the brain becomes insensible to external impressions, and is only awake to internal suggestions, which you may make as many and as devious as you please. Your subject will see exactly what you choose him to see, hear what you wish him to hear, do what you bid him do, so long as you hold him by your power, which if you understand the laws of light, sound, and air-vibrations, you may be able to retain for an indefinite period. The same force applies to the magnetising of a multitude as of a single individual.”[1]
Féraz read this over and over again,—then, returning to the table, laid the book upon it with a deeply engrossed air. It had given him unpleasant matter for reflection.
“A dreamer—a visionary, he calls me—” he mused, his thoughts reverting to his absent brother—“Full of fancies poetic and musical,—now can it be that I owe my very dreams to his dominance? Does hemakeme subservient to him, as I am, or is my submission to his will myowndesire? Is my ‘madness’ or ‘craze,’ or whatever he calls it, ofhisworking? and should I be more like other men if I were separated from him? And yet what has he ever done to me, save make me happy? Has he placed me under the influence of any magnet such as this book describes? Certainly not that I am aware of. He has made my inward spirit clearer of comprehension, so that I hear him call me even by a thought,—I see and know beautiful things of which grosser souls have no perception,—and am I not content?—Yes, surely I am!—surely I should be,—though at times there seems a something missing—a something to which I cannot give a name.”
He sighed,—and again buried his head between his hands,—he was conscious of a dreary sensation, unusual to his bright and fervid nature,—the very sunshine streaming through the window seemed to lack true brilliancy. Suddenly a hand was laid upon his shoulder,—he started and rose to his feet with a bewildered air,—then smiled, as he saw that the intruder was only Zaroba.
OnlyZaroba,—gaunt, grim, fierce-eyed Zaroba, old and unlovely, yet possessing withal an air of savage dignity, as she stood erect, her amber-coloured robe bound about her with a scarlet girdle, and her gray hair gathered closely under a small coif of the same vivid hue. Her wrinkled visage had more animation in it than on the previous night, and her harsh voice grew soft as she looked at the picturesque glowing beauty of the young man beside her, and addressed him.
“El-Râmi has gone?” she asked.
Féraz nodded. He generally made her understand him either by signs, or the use of the finger-alphabet, at which he was very dexterous.
“On what quest?” she demanded.
Féraz explained rapidly and mutely that he had gone to visit a friend residing at a distance from town.
“Then he will not return to-night;”—muttered Zaroba thoughtfully—“He will not return to-night.”
She sat down, and, clasping her hands across her knees, rocked herself to and fro for some minutes in silence. Then she spoke, more to herself than to her listener.
“He is an angel or a fiend,” she said in low meditative accents. “Or maybe he is both in one. He saved me from death once—I shall never forget that. And by his power he sent me back to my native land last night—I bound my black tresses with pearl and gold, and laughed and sang,—I was young again!”—and with a sudden cry she raised her hands above her head and clapped them fiercely together, so that the silver bangles on her arms jangled like bells;—“As God liveth, I was young!Youknow what it is to be young”—and she turned her dark orbs half enviously upon Féraz, who, leaning against his brother’s writing-table, regarded her with interest and something of awe—“or you should know it! To feel the blood leap in the veins, while the happy heart keeps time like the beat of a joyous cymbal,—to catch the breath and tremble with ecstasy as the eyes one loves best in the world flash lightning-passion into your own,—to make companions of the roses, and feel the pulses quicken at the songs of birds,—to tread the ground so lightly as to scarcely know whether it is earth or air—this is to be young!—young!—and I was young last night. My love was with me,—my love, my more than lover—‘Zaroba, beautiful Zaroba!’ he said, and his kisses were as honey on my lips—‘Zaroba, pearl of passion! fountain of sweetness in a desert land!—thine eyes are fire in which I burn my soul,—thy round arms the prison in which I lock my heart! Zaroba, beautiful Zaroba!’—Beautiful! Ay!—through the power of El-Râmi I was fair to see—last night! ... only last night!”
Her voice sank down into a feeble wailing, and Féraz gazed at her compassionately and in a little wonder,—he was accustomed to see her in various strange and incomprehensible moods, but she was seldom so excited as now.
“Why do you not laugh?” she asked suddenly and with a touch of defiance—“Why do you not laugh at me?—at me, the wretched Zaroba,—old and unsightly—bent and wrinkled!—that I should dare to say I was once beautiful!—It is a thing to make sport of—an old forsaken woman’s dream of her dead youth.”
With an impulsive movement that was as graceful as it was becoming, Féraz, for sole reply, dropped on one knee beside her, and, taking her wrinkled hand, touched it lightly but reverently with his lips. She trembled, and great tears rose in her eyes.
“Poor boy!” she muttered—“Poor child!—a child to me, and yet a man! As God liveth, a man!” She looked at him with a curious steadfastness. “Good Féraz, forgive me—I did you wrong—I know you would not mock the aged, or make wanton sport of their incurable woes,—you are too gentle. I would in truth you were less mild of spirit—less womanish of heart!”
“Womanish!” and Féraz leaped up, stung by the word, he knew not why. His heart beat strangely—his blood tingled,—it seemed to him that if he had possessed a weapon his instinct would have been to draw it then. Never had he looked so handsome; and Zaroba, watching his expression, clapped her withered hands in a sort of witch-like triumph.
“Ha!”—she cried—“The man’s mettle speaks! There is something more than the dreamer in you then—something that will help you to explain the mystery of your existence—something that says—‘Féraz, you are the slave of destiny—up! be its master! Féraz, you sleep—awake!’” and Zaroba stood up tall and imposing, with the air of an inspired sorceress delivering a prophecy—“Féraz, you have manhood—prove it!—Féraz, you have missed the one joy of life—Love!—Win it!”
Féraz stared at her amazed. Her words were such as she had never addressed to him before, and yet they moved him with a singular uneasiness. Love? Surely he knew the meaning of love? It was an ideal passion, like the lifting up of life in prayer. Had not his brother told him that perfect love was unattainable on this planet?—and was it not a word the very suggestions of which could only be expressed in music? These thoughts ran through his mind while he stood inert and wondering—then, rousing himself a little from the effects of Zaroba’s outburst, he sat down at the table, and, taking up a pencil, wrote as follows—