XLI.

“You are right,—Christ has claimed Lilith. She was His to claim,—for on this earth we are all His,—He gave His very life to make us so. Let us thank God that wearethus claimed,—for with Christ all things are well.”

“You are right,—Christ has claimed Lilith. She was His to claim,—for on this earth we are all His,—He gave His very life to make us so. Let us thank God that wearethus claimed,—for with Christ all things are well.”

He turned away then immediately, and left her alone to her task,—a task she performed with groans and trembling, till every vestige of the delicate ashes, as fine as the dust of flowers, was safely and reverently placed in its pure golden receptacle. Strange to say, one very visible relic of the vanished Lilith’s bodily beauty had somehow escaped destruction,—this was a long, bright waving tress of hair which lay trembling on the glistening satin of the pillows like a lost sunbeam. Over this lovely amber curl, old Zaroba stooped yearningly, staring at it till her tears, the slow, bitter scalding tears of age, fell upon it where it lay. She longed to take it for herself,—to wear it against her own heart,—to kiss and cherish it as though it were a living, sentient thing,—but, thinking of El-Râmi, her loyalty prevailed, and she tenderly lifted the clinging, shining, soft silken curl, and laid it by with the ashes in the antique shrine. All was now done,—and she shut to the picture, which, when once closed, showed no sign of any opening.

Lilith was gone indeed;—there was now no perceptible evidence to show that she had ever existed. And, to the grief-stricken Zaroba, the face and figure of the Christ, as painted on the reliquary at which she gazed, seemed to assume a sudden triumph and majesty which appalled while it impressed her. She read the words “Whom Say Ye That I Am?” and shuddered; this “new god” with His tranquil smile and sorrowful dignity had more terrors for her than any of the old pagan deities.

“I cannot! I cannot!” she whispered feebly; “I cannot take you to my heart, cold Christ,—I cannot think it is good to wear the thorns of perpetual sorrow! You offer no joy to the sad and weary world,—one must sacrifice one’s dearest hopes,—one must bear the cross and weep for the sins of all men, to be at all acceptable to You! I am old—but I keep the memories of joy; I would not have all happiness reft out of the poor lives of men. I would have them full of mirth,—I would have them love where they list, drink pure wine, and rejoice in the breath of Nature,—I would have them feast in the sunlight and dance in the moonbeams, and crown themselves with the flowers of the woodland and meadow, and grow ruddy and strong and manful and generous, and free—free as the air! I would have their hearts bound high for the pleasure of life;—not break in a search for things they can never win. Ah no, cold Christ! I cannot love you!—at the touch of your bleeding Hand the world freezes like a starving bird in a storm of snow;—the hearts of men grow weak and weary, and of what avail is it, O Prince of Grief, to live in sadness all one’s days for the hope of a Heaven that comes not? O Lilith!—child of the sun, where art thou?—Where? Never to have known the joys of love,—never to have felt the real pulse of living,—never to have thrilled in a lover’s embrace,—ah, Lilith, Lilith! Will Heaven compensate thee for such loss? ... Never, never, never! No God, were He all the worlds’ gods in One, can give aught but a desolate Eden to the loveless and lonely soul!”

In such wise as this, she muttered and moaned all day long, never stirring from the room that was called Lilith’s. Now and then she moved up and down with slow restlessness,—sometimes fixing eager eyes upon the vacant couch, with the vague idea that perhaps Lilith might come back to it as suddenly as she had fled; and sometimes pausing by the vase of roses, and touching their still fragrant, but fast-fading blossoms. Time went on, and she never thought of breaking her fast, or going to see how her master, El-Râmi, fared. His mind was gone—she understood that well enough,—and in a strange wild way of her own, she connected this sudden darkening of his intellect with the equally sudden disappearance of Lilith; and she dreaded to look upon his face.

How the hours wore away she never knew; but by and by her limbs began to ache heavily, and she crouched down upon the floor to rest. She fell into a heavy stupor of unconsciousness,—and when she awoke at last, the room was quite dark. She got up, stiff and cold and terrified,—she groped about with her hands,—it seemed to her dazed mind that she was in some sepulchral cave in the desert, all alone. Her lips were dry,—her head swam,—and she tottered along, feeling her way blindly, till she touched the velvetportièrethat divided the room from its little antechamber, and, dragging this aside in nervous haste, she stumbled through, and out on to the landing, where it was light. The staircase was before her,—the gas was lit in the hall—and the house looked quite as usual,—yet she could not in the least realise where she was. Indistinct images floated in her brain,—there were strange noises in her ears,—and she only dimly remembered El-Râmi, as though he were some one she had heard of long ago, in a dream. Pausing on the stair-head, she tried to collect her scattered senses,—but she felt sick and giddy, and her first instinct was to seek the air. Clinging to the banisters, she tottered down the stairs slowly, and reached the front-door, and, fumbling cautiously with the handle a little while, succeeded in turning it, and letting herself out into the street. The door had a self-acting spring, and shut to instantly, and almost noiselessly, behind her,—but Féraz, sitting in the study with his brother, fancied he heard a slight sound, and came into the hall to see what it was. Finding everything quiet, he concluded he was mistaken, and went back to his post beside El-Râmi, who had been dozing nearly all day, only waking up now and again to mildly accept the nourishment of soup and wine which Féraz prepared and gave him to keep up his strength. He was perfectly tranquil, and talked at times quite coherently of simple things, such as the flowers on the table, the lamp, the books, and other ordinary trifles. He only seemed a little troubled by his own physical weakness,—but when Féraz assured him he would soon be strong, he smiled, and with every appearance of content, dozed off again peacefully. In the evening, however, he grew a little restless,—and then Féraz tried what effect music would have upon him. Going to the piano, he played soft and dreamy melodies, ... but as he did so, a strange sense of loss stole over him,—he had the mechanism of the art, but the marvellously delicate attunement of his imagination had fled! Tears rose in his eyes,—he knew what was missing,—the guiding-prop of his brother’s wondrous influence had fallen,—and with a faint terror he realised that much of his poetic faculty would perish also. He had to remember that he was notnaturallyborn a poet or musician,—poesy and music had been El-Râmi’s fairy gifts to him—the exquisitely happy poise of his mind had been due to his brother’s daily influence and control. He would still retain the habit and the memory of art, but what had been Genius, would now be simple Talent,—no more,—yet what a difference between the two! Nevertheless his touch on the familiar ivory keys was very tender and delicate, and when, distrusting his own powers of composition, he played one of the softest and quaintest of Grieg’s Norwegian folk-songs, he was more than comforted by the expression of pleasure that illumined El-Râmi’s features, and by the look of enraptured peace that softened the piteous dark eyes.

“It is quite beautiful,—that music!” he murmured—“It is the pretty sound the daisies make in growing.”

And he leaned back in his chair and composed himself to rest,—while Féraz played on softly, thinking anxiously the while. True, most true, that for him dreams had ended, and life had begun! What was he to do? ... how was he to meet the daily needs of living,—how was he to keep himself and his brother? His idea was to go at once to the monastery in Cyprus, where he had formerly been a visitor,—it was quiet and peaceful,—he would ask the brethren to take them in,—for he himself detested the thought of a life in the world,—it was repellent to him in every way,—and El-Râmi’s affliction would necessitate solitude. And while he was thus puzzling himself as to the future, there came a sharp knock at the door,—he hastened to see who it was,—and a messenger handed him a telegram addressed to himself. It came from the very place he was thinking about, sent by the Head of the Order, and ran thus—

“We know all. It is the Will of God. Bring El-Râmi here,—our house is open to you both.”

“We know all. It is the Will of God. Bring El-Râmi here,—our house is open to you both.”

He uttered a low exclamation of thankfulness, the while he wondered amazedly how it was that they, that far-removed Brotherhood, “knew all”! It was very strange! He thought of the wondrous man whom he called the “Master,” and who was understood to be “wise with the wisdom of the angels,” and remembered that he was accredited with being able to acquire information when he chose, by swift and supernatural means. That he had done so in the present case seemed evident, and Féraz stood still with the telegram in his hand, stricken by a vague sense of awe as well as gratitude, thinking also of the glittering vision he had had of that “glory of the angels in the south”;—angels who were waiting for Lilith the night she disappeared.

El-Râmi suddenly opened his weary eyes and looked at him.

“What is it?” he asked faintly—“Why has the music ceased?”

Féraz went up to his chair and knelt down beside it.

“You shall hear it again”—he said gently, “But you must sleep now, and get strong,—because we are soon going away on a journey—a far, beautiful journey——”

“To Heaven?” inquired El-Râmi—“Yes, I know—it is very far.”

Féraz sighed.

“No—not to Heaven,”—he answered—“Not yet. We shall find out the way there, afterwards. But in the meantime, we are going to a place where there are fruits and flowers,—and where the sun is very bright and warm. You will come with me, will you not, El-Râmi?—there are friends there who will be glad to see you.”

“I have no friends,”—said El-Râmi plaintively, “unless you are one. I do not know if you are,—I hope so, but I am not sure. You have an angel’s face,—and the angels have not always been kind to me. But I will go with you wherever you wish,—is it a place in this world, or in some other star?”

“In this world,”—replied Féraz—“A quiet little corner of this world.”

“Ah!” and El-Râmi sighed profoundly—“I wish it had been in another. There are so many millions and millions of worlds;—it seems foolish waste of time to stay too long in this.”

He closed his eyes again, and Féraz let him rest,—till, when the hour grew late, he persuaded him to lie down on his own bed, which he did with the amiable docility of a child. Féraz himself, half sitting, half reclining in a chair beside him, watched him all night long, like a faithful dog guarding its master,—and so full was he of anxious thought and tender care for his brother, that he scarcely remembered Zaroba, and when he did, he felt sure that she too was resting, and striving to forget in sleep the sorrows of the day.

Zarobahad indeed forgotten her sorrows; but not in slumber, as Féraz hoped and imagined. Little did he think that she was no longer under the roof that had sheltered her for so many years; little could he guess that she was out wandering all alone in the labyrinth of the London streets,—a labyrinth of which she was almost totally ignorant, having hardly ever been out of doors since El-Râmi had brought her from the East. True, she had occasionally walked in the little square opposite the house, and in a few of the streets adjoining,—once or twice in Sloane Street itself, but no farther, for the sight of the hurrying, pushing, busy throngs of men and women confused her. She had not realised what she was doing when she let herself out that night,—only when the street-door shut noiselessly upon her she was vaguely startled,—and a sudden sense of great loneliness oppressed her. Yet the fresh air blowing against her face was sweet and balmy,—it helped to relieve the sickness at her heart, the dizziness in her brain,—and she began to stroll along, neither knowing nor caring whither she was going,—chiefly impelled by the strong necessity she felt for movement,—space,—liberty. It had seemed to her that she was being suffocated and buried alive in the darkness and desolation that had fallen on the chamber of Lilith;—here, out in the open, she was free,—she could breathe more easily. And so she went on, almost unseeingly—the people she met looked to her like the merest shadows. Her quaint garb attracted occasional attention from some of the passers-by,—but her dark fierce face and glittering eyes repelled all those who might have been inquisitive enough to stop and question her. She drifted errantly, yet safely, through the jostling crowds like a withered leaf on the edge of a storm,—her mind was dazed with grief and fear and long fasting, but now and then as she went, she smiled and seemed happy. Affliction had sunk so deep within her, that it had reached the very core and centre of imagination and touched it to vague issues of discordant joy;—wherefore, persuaded by the magic music of delusion, she believed herself to be at home again in her native Egypt. She fancied she was walking in the desert;—the pavement seemed hot to her feet and she took it for the burning sand,—and when after long and apparently interminable wanderings, she found herself opposite Nelson’s column in Trafalgar Square, she stared at the four great lions with stupefied dismay.

“It is the gate of a city,”—she muttered—“and at this hour the watchmen are asleep. I will go on—on still farther,—there must be water close by, else there would be no city built.”

She had recovered a certain amount of physical strength in the restorative influence of the fresh air, and walked with a less feeble tread,—she became dimly conscious too of there being a number of people about, and she drew her amber-coloured draperies more closely over her head. It was a beautiful night;—the moon was full and brilliant, and hundreds of pleasure-seekers were moving hither and thither,—there was the usual rattle and roar of the vehicular traffic of the town which, it must be remembered, Zaroba did not hear. Neither did she clearly see anything that was taking place around her,—for her sight was blurred, and the dull confusion in her brain continued. She walked as in a dream,—she felt herself to be in a dream;—the images of El-Râmi, of the lost Lilith, of the beautiful young Féraz, had faded away from her recollection,—and she was living in the early memories of days long past,—days of youth and hope and love and promise. No one molested her; people in London are so accustomed to the sight of foreigners and foreign costumes, that so long as they are seen walking on their apparent way peaceably, they may do so in any garb that pleases them, provided it be decent, without attracting much attention save from a few small and irreverent street-arabs. And even the personal and pointed observations of these misguided youngsters fail to disturb the dignity of a Parsee in his fez, or to ruffle the celestial composure of a Chinaman in his slippers. Zaroba, moreover, did not present such a markedly distinctive appearance,—in her yellow wrapper and silver bangles, she only looked like one of theayahsbrought over from the East with the children of Anglo-Indian mothers,—and she passed on uninterruptedly, happily deaf to the noises around her, and almost blind to the ever-shifting human pageantry of the busy thoroughfares.

“The gates of the city,” she went on murmuring—“they are shut, and the watchmen are asleep. There must be water near,—a river or a place of fountains, where the caravans pause to rest.”

Now and then the glare of the lights in the streets troubled her,—and then she would come to a halt and pass her hands across her eyes,—but this hesitation only lasted a minute,—and again she continued on her aimless way. The road widened out before her,—the buildings grew taller, statelier, and more imposing,—and suddenly she caught sight of what she had longed for,—the glimmering of water silvering itself in the light of the moon.

She had reached the Embankment;—and a sigh of satisfaction escaped her, as she felt the damp chillness of the wind from the river blowing against her burning forehead. The fresh coolness and silence soothed her,—there were few people about,—and she slackened her pace unconsciously, and smiled as she lifted her dark face to the clear and quiet sky. She was faint and weary,—light-headed from want of food,—but she was not conscious of this any more than a fever-patient is conscious of his own delirium. She walked quite steadily now,—in no haste, but with the grave, majestic step that belongs peculiarly to women of her type and race,—her features were perfectly composed, and her eyes very bright. And now she looked always at the river, and saw nothing else for a time but its rippling surface lit up by the moon.

“They have cut down the reeds”—she said, softly under her breath,—“and the tall palms are gone,—but the river is always the same,—they cannot change that. Nothing can dethrone the Nile-god, or disturb his sleep among the lilies, down towards the path of the sunset. Here I shall meet my belovëd again,—here by the banks of the Nile;—yet, it is strange and cruel that they should have cut down the reeds. I remember how softly they rustled with the movements of the little snakes that lived in the golden sand,—yes!—and the palm-trees were high—so high that their feathery crowns seemed to touch the stars. It was Egypt then,—and is it not Egypt now? Yes—surely—surely it is Egypt!—but it is changed—changed,—all is changed except love! Love is the same for ever, and the heart beats true to the one sweet tune. Yes, we shall meet,—my belovëd and I,—and we shall tell one another how long the time has seemed since we parted yesterday. Only yesterday!—and it seems a century,—a long long century of pain and fear, but the hours have passed, and the waiting is over——”

She broke off abruptly, and stood suddenly still;—the Obelisk faced her. Cut sharp and dark against the brilliant sky the huge “Cleopatra’s Needle” towered solemnly aloft, its apex seeming to point directly at a cluster of stars above it. Something there was in its weird and frowning aspect, that appealed strangely to Zaroba’s wandering intelligence,—she gazed at it with eager, dilated eyes.

“To the memory of heroes!” she said whisperingly, with a slight proud gesture of her hand,—“To the glory of the Dead! Salutation to the great gods and crowned Kings! Salutation and witness to the world of what Hath Been! The river shall find a tongue—the shifting sands shall uphold the record, so that none shall forget the things that Were! For the things that Are, being weak, shall perish,—but the things that Were, being strong, shall endure for ever! Here, as God liveth, is the meeting-place; the palms are gone, but the Nile flows on, and the moon is the sunlight of lovers. Here will I wait for my belovëd,—he knows the appointed hour, ... he will not be long!”

She sat down, as close to the Obelisk as she could get, her face turned towards the river and the moonlight; and the clocks of the great city around her slowly tolled eleven. Her head dropped forward on her chest,—though after a few minutes she lifted her face with an anxious look—and,—“Did the child call me?” she said, and listened. Then she relapsed into her former sunken posture, ... once a strong shuddering shook her limbs as of intense cold in the warm June night, ... and then she was quite still ...

The hours passed on,—midnight came and went,—but she never stirred. She seemed to belong to the Obelisk and its attendant sphinxes,—so rigid was her figure, so weird in its outline, so solemn in its absolute immobility. ... And in that same attitude she was found later on towards morning, stone dead. There was no clue to her identity,—nothing about her that gave any hint as to her possible home or friends; her statuesque old face, grander than ever in the serene pallor of death, somewhat awed the two burly policemen who lifted her stark body and turned her features to the uncertain light of early dawn, but it told them no history save that of age and sorrow. So, in the sad chronicles entitled “Found Dead,” she was described as “a woman unknown, of foreign appearance and costume, seemingly of Eastern origin,”—and, after a day or two, being unrecognised and unclaimed, she was buried in the usual way common to all who perish without name and kindred in the dreary wilderness of a great city. Féraz, missing her on the morning after her disappearance, searched for her everywhere as well as he knew how,—but, as he seldom read the newspapers, and probably would not have recognised the brief account of her there if he had,—and as, moreover, he knew nothing about certain dreary buildings in London called mortuaries, where the bodies of the drowned, and murdered, and unidentified, lie for a little while awaiting recognition, he remained in complete and bewildered ignorance of her fate. He could not imagine what had become of her, and he almost began to believe that she must have taken ship back to her native land,—and that perhaps he might hear of her again some day. And truly, she had gone back to her native land,—in fancy;—and truly, it was also possible she might be met with again some day,—in another world than this. But in the meantime she had died,—as best befitted a servant of the old gods,—alone, and in uncomplaining silence.

Thehair’s-breadth balance of a Thought,—the wrong or right control of Will;—on these things hang the world, life, time, and all Eternity. Such slight threads!—imperceptible, ungraspable,—and yet withal strong,—strong enough to weave the everlasting web of good or evil, joy or woe. On some such poise, as fine, as subtly delicate, the whole majestic Universe swings round in its appointed course,—never a pin’s point awry, never halting in its work, never hesitating in the fulfilment of its laws, carrying out the Divine command with faithful exactitude and punctuality. It is strange,—mournfully strange,—that we never seem able to learn the grand lessons that are taught us by this unvarying routine of natural forces,—Submission, Obedience, Patience, Resignation, Hope. Preachers preach the doctrine,—teachers teach it,—Nature silently and gloriously manifests it hourly; but we,—we continue to shut our ears and eyes,—we prefer to retreat within ourselves,—our little incomplete ignorant selves,—thinking we shall be able to discover some way out of what has no egress, by the cunning arguments of our own finite intellectual faculties. We fail always;—we must fail. We are bound to find out sooner or later that we must bend our stubborn knees in the presence of the Positive Eternal. But till the poor brain gives way under the prolonged pressure and strain of close inquiry and analysis, so long will it persist in attempting to probe the Impenetrable,—so long will it audaciously attempt to lift the veil that hides the Beyond instead of resting content with what Nature teaches. “Wait”—she says—“Wait till you are mentally able to understand the Explanation. Wait till the Voice which is as a silver clarion, proclaims all truth, saying ‘Awake, Soul, for thy dream is past! Look now and see,—for thou art strong enough to bear the Light.’”

Alas! we will not wait,—hence our life in these latter days of analysis is a mere querulous complaint, instead of what it should be, a perpetual thanksgiving.

Four seasons have passed away since the “Soul of Lilith” was caught up into its native glory,—four seasons,—summer, autumn, winter and spring—and now it is summer again,—summer in the Isle of Cyprus, that once most sacred spot, dear to historic and poetic lore. Up among the low olive-crowned hills of Baffo or Paphos, there is more shade and coolness than in other parts of the island, and the retreat believed to have been the favourite haunt of Venus is still full of something like the mystical glamour that hallowed it of old. As the singer of “Love-Letters of a Violinist” writes:

“There is a glamour all about the bayAs if the nymphs of Greece had tarried here.The sands are golden and the rocks appearCrested with silver; and the breezes playSnatches of song they hummed when far away,And then are hush’d as if from sudden fear.”

“There is a glamour all about the bayAs if the nymphs of Greece had tarried here.The sands are golden and the rocks appearCrested with silver; and the breezes playSnatches of song they hummed when far away,And then are hush’d as if from sudden fear.”

“There is a glamour all about the bay

As if the nymphs of Greece had tarried here.

The sands are golden and the rocks appear

Crested with silver; and the breezes play

Snatches of song they hummed when far away,

And then are hush’d as if from sudden fear.”

Flowers bloom luxuriantly, as though the white, blue-veined feet of the goddess had but lately passed by,—there is a suggestive harmony in the subdued low whispering of the trees, accompanied by the gentle murmur of the waves, and “Hieros Kiphos,” or the Sacred Grove, still bends its thick old boughs caressingly towards the greensward as though to remind the dreaming earth of the bygone glories here buried deep in its silent bosom. The poor fragment of the ruined “Temple of Venus” once gorgeous with the gold and precious stones, silks and embroideries, and other offerings brought from luxury-loving Tyre, stands in its desolation among the quiet woods, and no sound of rejoicing comes forth from its broken wall to stir the heated air. Yet there is music not far off,—the sweet and solemn music of an organ chant, accompanying a chorus of mild and mellow voices singing the “Agnus Dei.” Here in this part of the country, the native inhabitants are divided in their notions of religious worship,—they talk Greek, albeit modern Greek, with impurities which were unknown to the sonorous ancient tongue, and they are heroes no more, as the heroic Byron has told us in his superb poesy, but simply slaves. They but dimly comprehend Christianity,—the joyous paganism of the past is not yet extinct, and the Virgin Mother of Christ is here adored as “Aphroditissa.” Perhaps in dirty Famagousta they may be more orthodox,—but among these sea-fronting hills where the sound of the “Agnus Dei” solemnly rises and falls in soft surges of harmony, it is still the old home of the Queen of Beauty, and still the birthplace of Adonis, son of a Cyprian King. Commercial England is now the possessor of this bower of sweet fancies,—this little corner of the world haunted by a thousand poetic memories,—and in these prosy days but few pilgrimages are made to a shrine that was once the glory of a glorious age. To the native Cypriotes themselves the gods have simply changed their names and become a little sadder and less playful, that is all,—and to make up for the lost “Temple of Venus” there is, hidden deep among the foliage, a small monastic retreat with a Cross on its long low roof,—a place where a few poor monks work and pray,—good men whose virtues are chiefly known to the sick, destitute and needy. They call themselves simply “The Brotherhood,” and there are only ten of them in all, including the youngest, who joined their confraternity quite recently. They are very poor,—they wear rough white garments and go barefooted, and their food is of the simplest; but they do a vast amount of good in their unassuming way, and when any of their neighbours are in trouble, such afflicted ones at once climb the little eminence where Venus was worshipped with such pomp in ancient days, and make direct for the plain unadorned habitation devoted to the service of One who was “a Man of Sorrows and acquainted with grief.” There they never fail to find consolation and practical aid,—even their persistent prayers to “Aphroditissa” are condoned with a broad and tender patience by these men who honestly strive to broaden and not confine the road that leads to heaven. Thus Paphos is sacred still,—with the glamour of old creeds and the wider glory of the new,—yet though it is an interesting enough nook of the earth, it is seldom that travellers elect to go thither either to admire or explore. Therefore the sight of a travelling-carriage, a tumble-down sort of vehicle, yet one of the best to be obtained thereabouts, making its way slowly up the ascent, with people in modern fashionable dress sitting therein, was a rare and wonderful spectacle to the ragged Cypriote youth of both sexes, who either stood by the roadway, pushing their tangled locks from their dark eyes and staring at it, or else ran swiftly alongside its wheels to beg for coppers from its occupants. There were four of these,—two ladies and two gentlemen,—Sir Frederick Vaughan and Lady Vaughan (néeIdina Chester); the fair and famous authoress, Irene Vassilius, and a distinguished-looking handsome man of about forty or thereabouts, the Duke of Strathlea, a friend of the Vaughans, who had entertained them royally during the previous autumn at his grand old historic house in Scotland. By a mere chance during the season, he had made the acquaintance of Madame Vassilius, with whom he had fallen suddenly, deeply and ardently in love. She, however, was the same unresponsive far-gazing dreamy sibyl as ever, and though not entirely indifferent to the gentle reverential homage paid to her by this chivalrous and honourable gentleman, she could not make up her mind to give him any decided encouragement. He appeared to make no progress with her whatever,—and of course his discouragement increased his ardour. He devised every sort of plan he could think of for obtaining as much of her society as possible,—and finally, he had entreated the Vaughans to persuade her to join them in a trip to the Mediterranean in his yacht. At first she had refused,—then, with a sudden change of humour, she had consented to go, provided the Island of Cyprus were one of the places to be visited. Strathlea eagerly caught at and agreed to this suggestion,—the journey had been undertaken, and had so far proved most enjoyable. Now they had reached the spot Irene most wished to see,—it was to please her that they were making the present excursion to the “Temple of Venus,” or rather, to the small and obscure monastery among the hills which she had expressed a strong desire to visit,—and Strathlea, looking wistfully at her fair thoughtful face, wondered whether after all these pleasant days passed together between sparkling sea and radiant sky, she had any kinder thoughts of him,—whether she would always be so quiet, so impassive, so indifferent to the love of a true man’s heart?

The carriage went slowly,—the view widened with every upward yard of the way,—and they were all silent, gazing at the glittering expanse of blue ocean below them.

“How very warm it is!” said Lady Vaughan at last breaking the dumb spell, and twirling her sunshade round and round to disperse a cloud of gnats and small flies—“Fred, you look absolutely broiled! You are so dreadfully sunburnt!”

“Am I?” and Sir Frederick smiled blandly,—he was as much in love with his pretty frivolous wife as it is becoming for a man to be, and all her remarks were received by him with the utmost docility—“Well, I daresay I am. Yachting doesn’t improve the transparent delicacy of a man’s complexion. Strathlea is too dark to show it much,—but I was always a florid sort of fellow. You’ve no lack of colour yourself, Idina.”

“Oh, I’m sure I look a fright!” responded her ladyship vivaciously and with a slight touch of petulance—“Irene is the only one who appears to keep cool. I believe her aspect would be positively frosty with the thermometer marking 100 in the shade!”

Irene, who was gazing abstractedly out to sea, turned slowly and lifted her drooping lace parasol slightly higher from her face. She was pale,—and her deep-set gray eyes were liquid as though unshed tears filled them.

“Did you speak to me, dear?” she inquired gently. “Have I done something to vex you?”

Lady Vaughan laughed.

“No, of course you haven’t. The idea of your vexing anybody! You look irritatingly cool in this tremendous heat,—that’s all.”

“I love the sun,”—said Irene dreamily—“To me it is always the visible sign of God in the world. In London we have so little sunshine,—and, one might add, so little of God also! I was just then watching that golden blaze of light upon the sea.”

Strathlea looked at her interrogatively.

“And what does it suggest to you, Madame?” he asked—“The glory of a great fame, or the splendour of a great love?”

“Neither”—she replied tranquilly—“Simply the reflex of Heaven on Earth.”

“Love might be designated thus,” said Strathlea in a low tone.

She coloured a little, but offered no response.

“It was odd that you alone should have been told the news of poor El-Râmi’s misfortune,” said Sir Frederick, abruptly addressing her,—“None of us, not even my cousin Melthorpe, who knew him before you did, had the least idea of it.”

“His brother wrote to me”—replied Irene; “Féraz, that beautiful youth who accompanied him to Lady Melthorpe’s reception last year. But he gave me no details,—he simply explained that El-Râmi, through prolonged overstudy, had lost the balance of his mind. The letter was very short, and in it he stated he was about to enter a religious fraternity who had their abode near Baffo in Cyprus, and that the brethren had consented to receive his brother also and take charge of him in his great helplessness.”

“And their place is what we are going to see now”—finished Lady Vaughan—“I daresay it will be immensely interesting. Poor El-Râmi! Who would ever have thought it possible for him to lose his wits! I shall never forget the first time I saw him at the theatre.Hamletwas being played, and he entered in the very middle of the speech ‘To be or not to be.’ I remember how he looked, perfectly. What eyes he had!—they positively scared me!”

Her husband glanced at her admiringly.

“Do you know, Idina”—he said, “that El-Râmi told me on that very night—the night ofHamletthat I was destined to marry you?”

She lifted her eyelids in surprise.

“No! Really! And did you feel yourself compelled to carry out the prophecy?”—and she laughed.

“No, I did not feel myself compelled,—but somehow, it happened—didn’t it?” he inquired with naïve persistency.

“Of course it did! How absurd you are!” and she laughed again—“Are you sorry?”

He gave her an expressive look,—he was really very much in love, and she was still a new enough bride to blush at his amorous regard. Strathlea moved impatiently in his seat;—the assured happiness of others made him envious.

“I suppose this prophet,—El-Râmi, as you call him, prophesies no longer, if his wits are lacking”—he said—“otherwise I should have asked him to prophesy something good for me.”

No one answered. Lady Vaughan stole a meaning glance and smile at Irene, but there was no touch of embarrassment or flush of colour on that fair, serene, rather plaintive face.

“He always went into things with such terrible closeness, did El-Râmi,—” said Sir Frederick after a pause—“No wonder his brain gave way at last. You know you can’t keep on asking the why, why, why of everything without getting shut up in the long run.”

“I think we were not meant to ask ‘why’ at all,” said Irene slowly—“We are made to accept and believe that everything is for the best.”

“There is a story extant in France of a certain philosopher who was always asking why—” said Strathlea—“He was a taciturn man as a rule, and seldom opened his lips except to say ‘Pourquoi?’ When his wife died suddenly, he manifested no useless regrets—he merely said ‘Pourquoi?’ One day they told him his house in the country was burned to the ground,—he shrugged his shoulders and said ‘Pourquoi?’ After a bit he lost all his fortune,—his furniture was sold up,—he stared at the bailiffs and said ‘Pourquoi?’ Later on he was suspected of being in a plot to assassinate the King,—men came and seized his papers and took him away to prison,—he made no resistance,—he only said ‘Pourquoi?’ He was tried, found guilty and condemned to death; the judge asked him if he had anything to say? He replied at once ‘Pourquoi?’ No answer was vouchsafed to him, and in due time he was taken to the scaffold. There the executioner bandaged his eyes,—he said ‘Pourquoi?’—he was told to kneel down; he did so, but again demanded ‘Pourquoi?’—the knife fell, and his head was severed from his body—yet before it rolled into the basket, it trembled on the block, its eyes opened, its lips moved, and for the last time uttered that final, never-to-be answered query ‘Pourquoi?’!”

They all laughed at this story, and just then the carriage stopped. The driver got down and explained in very bad French that he could go no farther,—that the road had terminated, and that there was now only a footpath which led through the trees to the little monastic retreat whither they were bound. They alighted, therefore, and found themselves close to the ruin supposed to have once been the “Temple of Venus.” They paused for a moment, looking at the scene in silence.

“There must have been a great joyousness in the old creeds,” said Strathlea softly, with an admiring glance at Irene’s slight, slim, almost fairy-like figure clad in its close-fitting garb of silky white—“At the shrine of Venus for example, one could declare one’s love without fear or shame.”

“That can be done still,” observed Sir Frederick laughingly, “And is done, pretty often. People haven’t left off making love because the faith in Venus is exploded. I expect they’ll go on in the same old abandoned way to the end of the chapter.”

And, throwing his arm round his wife’s waist, he sauntered on with her towards the thicket of trees at the end of which their driver had told them the “refuge” was situated, leaving Strathlea and Madame Vassilius to follow. Strathlea perceived and was grateful for the opportunity thus given, and ventured to approach Irene a little more closely. She was still gazing out to the sea, her soft eyes were dreamy and abstracted,—her small ungloved right hand hung down at her side,—after a moment’s hesitation, he boldly lifted it and touched its delicate whiteness with a kiss. She started nervously—she had been away in the land of dreams,—and now she met his gaze with a certain vague reproach in the sweet expression of her face.

“I cannot help it—” said Strathlea quickly, and in a low eager tone—“I cannot, Irene! You know I love you,—you have seen it, and you have discouraged and repelled me in every possible way,—but I am not made of stone or marble—I am mere flesh and blood, and I must speak. I love you, Irene! I love you—I will not unsay it. I want you to be my wife. Will you, Irene? Do not be in a hurry to answer me—think long enough to allow some pity for me to mingle with your thoughts. Just imagine a little hand like this”—and he kissed it again—“holding the pen with such a masterful grip and inditing to the world the thoughts and words that live in the minds of thousands,—is it such a cold hand that it is impervious to love’s caress? I cannot—I will not believe it. You cannot be obdurate for ever. What is there in love that it should repel you?”

She smiled gravely; and gently, very gently, withdrew her hand.

“It is not love that repels me—” she said, “It is what iscalledlove, in this world,—a selfish sentiment that is not love at all. I assure you I am not insensible to your affection for me, my dear Duke, ... I wish for your sake I were differently constituted.”

She paused a moment, then added hastily, “See, the others are out of sight—do let us overtake them.”

She moved away quickly with that soft gliding tread of hers which reminded one of a poet’s sylph walking on a moonbeam, and he paced beside her, half mortified, yet not altogether without hope.

“Why are you so anxious to see this man who has lost his wits,—this El-Râmi Zarânos?” he asked, with a touch of jealousy in his accents—“Was he more to you than most people?”

She raised her eyes with an expression of grave remonstrance.

“Your thoughts wrong me—” she said simply—“I never saw El-Râmi but twice in my life,—I only pitied him greatly. I used to have a strong instinct upon me that all would not be well with him in the end.”

“Why?”

“First, because he had no faith,—secondly, because he had an excess of pride. He dismissed God out of his calculations altogether, and was perfectly content to rely on the onward march of his own intellect. Intellectual Egoism is always doomed to destruction,—this seems to be a Law of the Universe. Indeed, Egoism, whether sensual or intellectual, is always a defiance of God.”

Strathlea walked along in silence for a minute, then he said abruptly:

“It is odd to hear you speak like this, as if you were a religious woman. You are not religious,—every one says so,—you are a free-thinker,—and also, pardon me for repeating it, society supposes you to be full of this sin you condemn—Intellectual Egoism.”

“Society may suppose what it pleases of me”—said Irene, “I was never its favourite, and never shall be, nor do I court its good opinion. Yes, I am a free-thinker, and freely think without narrow law or boundary, of the majesty, beauty and surpassing goodness of God. As for intellectual egoism,—I hope I am not in any respect guilty of it. To be proud of what one does, or what one knows, has always seemed to me the poorest sort of vanity,—and it is the stumbling block over which a great many workers in the literary profession fall, never to rise again. But you are quite right in saying I am not a ‘religious’ woman; I never go to church and I never patronise bazaars.”

The sparkle of mirth in her eyes was infectious, and he laughed. But suddenly she stopped, and laid her hand on his arm.

“Listen,” she said, with a slight tremor in her voice—“You love me, you say ... and I—I am not altogether indifferent to you—I confess that much. Wait!” for in an excess of delight he had caught both her hands in his own, and she loosened them gently—“Wait—you do not know me, my dear friend. You do not understand my nature at all,—I sometimes think myself it is not what is understood as ‘feminine.’ I am an abnormal creature—and perhaps if you knew me better you would not like me ...”

“I adore you!” said Strathlea impetuously, “and I shall always adore you!”

She smiled rather sadly.

“You think so now,”—she said—“but you cannot be sure,—no man can always be sure of himself. You spoke of society and its opinion of me;—now, as a rule, average people do not like me,—they are vaguely afraid of me,—and they think it is strange and almost dangerous for a ‘writing woman’ to be still young, and not entirely hideous. Literary women generally are so safely and harmlessly repellent in look and bearing. Then again, as you said, I am not a religious woman,—no, not at all so in the accepted sense of the term. But with all my heart and soul I believe in God, and the ultimate good of everything. I abhor those who would narrow our vision of heavenly things by dogma or rule—I resent all ideas of the Creator that seem to lessen His glory by one iota. I may truly say I live in an ecstasy of faith, accepting life as a wondrous miracle, and death as a crowning joy. I pray but seldom, as I have nothing to ask for, being given far more than I deserve,—and I complain of nothing save the blind, cruel injustice and misjudgment shown by one human unit to another. This is not God’s doing, but Man’s—and it will, it must, bring down full punishment in due season.”

She paused a moment,—Strathlea was looking at her admiringly, and she coloured suddenly at his gaze.

“Besides”—she added with an abrupt change of tone, from enthusiasm to coldness, “you must not, my dear Duke, think that I feel myself in any way distinguished or honoured by your proposal to make me your wife. I do not. This sounds very brusque, I know, but I think as a general rule in marriage, a woman gives a great deal more than she ever receives. I am aware how very much your position and fortune might appeal to many of my sex,—but I need scarcely tell you they have no influence upon me. For, notwithstanding an entire lack of log-rollers and press ‘booms’”—and she smiled—“my books bring me in large sums, sufficient and more than sufficient for all my worldly needs. And I am not ambitious to be a duchess.”

“You are cruel, Irene”—said Strathlea—“Should I ever attaint you with worldly motives? I never wanted to be a duke—I was born so,—and a horrid bore it is! If I were a poor man, could you fancy me?”

He looked at her,—and her eyes fell under his ardent gaze. He saw his advantage, and profited by it.

“You do not positively hate me?” he asked.

She gave him one fleeting glance through her long lashes, and a faint smile rested on her mouth.

“How could I?” she murmured—“you are my friend.”

“Well, will you try to like me a little more than a friend?”—he continued eagerly—“Will you say to yourself now and then—‘He is a big, bluff, clumsy Englishman, with more faults than virtues, more money than brains, and a stupid title sticking upon him like a bow of ribbon on a boar’s head, but he is very fond of me, and would give up everything in the world for me’—will you say that to yourself, and think as well as you can of me?—will you, Irene?”

She raised her head. All coldness and hauteur had left her face, and her eyes were very soft and tender.

“My dear friend, I cannot hear you do yourself wrong”—she said—“and I am not as unjust as you perhaps imagine. I know your worth. You have more virtues than faults, more brains than money,—you are generous and kindly, and in this instance, your title sets off the grace of a true and gallant gentleman. Give me time to consider a little,—let us join the Vaughans,—I promise you I will give you your answer to-day.”

A light flashed over his features, and stooping, he once more kissed her hand. Then, as she moved on, a gracefully gliding figure under the dark arching boughs, he followed with a firm joyous step such as might have befitted a knight of the court of King Arthur who had, after hard fighting, at last won some distinct pledge of his “ladye’s” future favour.

Deeplyembowered among arching boughs and covered with the luxuriant foliage of many a climbing and flowering vine, the little monastic refuge appeared at first sight more like the retreat of a poet or painter than a religious house where holy ascetics fasted and prayed and followed the difficult discipline of daily self-denial. When the little party of visitors reached its quaint low door they all paused before ringing the bell that hung visibly aloft among clustering clematis, and looked about them in admiration.

“What a delicious place!” said Lady Vaughan, bending to scent the odours of a rich musk rose that had pushed its lovely head through the leaves as though inviting attention—“How peaceful! ... and listen! What grand music they are singing!”

She held up her finger,—the others obeyed the gesture, and hushed their steps to hear every note of the stately harmony that pealed out upon the air. The brethren were chanting part of the grand Greek “Hymn of Cleanthes,” a translation of which may be roughly rendered in the following strophes:

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