Chapter XLIV

Footnotes

INTRODUCTORY NOTE.

The following story does not assume to be what is generally

understood by a “novel.” It is simply the account of a strange and

daring experiment once actually attempted, and is offered to those who

are interested in the unseen “possibilities” of the Hereafter, merely

for what it is,--a single episode in the life of a man who voluntarily

sacrificed his whole worldly career in a supreme effort to prove the

apparently Unprovable.

THE SOUL OF LILITH.

I.

The theatre was full,--crowded from floor to ceiling; the lights

were turned low to give the stage full prominence,--and a large

audience packed close in pit and gallery as well as in balcony and

stalls, listened with or without interest, whichever way best suited

their different temperaments and manner of breeding, to the well-worn

famous soliloquy in _Hamlet_--“To be or not to be.” It was the first

night of a new rendering of Shakespeare’s ever puzzling play,--the

chief actor was a great actor, albeit not admitted as such by the

petty cliques,--he had thought out the strange and complex character

of the psychological Dane for himself, with the result that even the

listless, languid, generally impassive occupants of the stalls, many

of whom had no doubt heard a hundred Hamlets, were roused for once out

of their chronic state of boredom into something like attention, as

the familiar lines fell on their ears with a slow and meditative

richness of accent not commonly heard on the modern stage. This new

Hamlet chose his attitudes well; instead of walking, or rather

strutting about, as he uttered the soliloquy, he seated himself and

for a moment seemed lost in silent thought;--then, without changing

his position he began, his voice gathering deeper earnestness as the

beauty and solemnity of the immortal lines became more pronounced and

concentrated.

“To die--to sleep;--

To sleep!--perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub,

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. ...”

Here there was a brief and impressive silence. In that short interval,

and before the actor could resume his speech, a man entered the

theatre with noiseless step, and seated himself in a vacant stall of

the second row. A few heads were instinctively turned to look at him,

but in the semi-gloom of the auditorium his features could scarcely be

discerned, and Hamlet’s sad rich voice again compelled attention.

“Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovered country from whose bourne

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;

And enterprises of great pith and moment,

With this regard, their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action.”

The scene went on to the despairing interview with Ophelia, which was

throughout performed with such splendid force and feeling as to awaken

a perfect hurricane of applause;--then the curtain went down, the

lights went up, the orchestra recommenced, and again inquisitive eyes

were turned towards the latest new-comer in the stalls who had made

his quiet entrance in the very midst of the great philosophical

soliloquy. He was immediately discovered to be a person well worth

observing; and observed he was accordingly, though he seemed quite

unaware of the attention he was attracting. Yet he was

singular-looking enough to excite a little curiosity even among modern

fashionable Londoners, who are accustomed to see all sorts of

eccentric beings, both male and female, æsthetic and commonplace; and

he was so distinctly separated from ordinary folk by his features and

bearing, that the rather loud whisper of an irrepressible young

American woman, “I’d give worlds to know who that man is!” was almost

pardonable under the circumstances. His skin was dark as a

mulatto’s,--yet smooth, and healthily coloured by the warm blood

flushing through the olive tint,--his eyes seemed black, but could

scarcely be seen on account of the extreme length and thickness of

their dark lashes,--the fine, rather scornful curve of his short upper

lip was partially hidden by a black moustache; and with all this

blackness and darkness about his face his hair, of which he seemed to

have an extraordinary profusion, was perfectly white. Not merely a

silvery white, but a white as pronounced as that of a bit of washed

fleece or newly-fallen snow. In looking at him it was impossible to

decide whether he was old or young,--because, though he carried no

wrinkles or other defacing marks of Time’s power to destroy, his

features wore an impress of such stern and deeply-resolved thought as

is seldom or never the heritage of those to whom youth still belongs.

Nevertheless, he seemed a long way off from being old,--so that,

altogether, he was a puzzle to his neighbours in the stalls, as well

as to certain fair women in the boxes, who levelled their

opera-glasses at him with a pertinacity which might have made him

uncomfortably self-conscious had he looked up. Only he did not look

up; he leaned back in his seat with a slightly listless air, studied

his programme intently, and appeared half asleep, owing to the way in

which his eyelids drooped, and the drowsy sweep of his lashes. The

irrepressible American girl almost forgot _Hamlet_, so absorbed was

she in staring at him, in spite of the _sotto-voce_ remonstrances of

her decorous mother, who sat beside her,--and presently, as if aware

of, or annoyed by, her scrutiny, he lifted his eyes, and looked full

at her. With an instinctive movement she recoiled,--and her own eyes

fell. Never in all her giddy, thoughtless little life had she seen

such fiery, brilliant, night-black orbs,--they made her feel

uncomfortable,--gave her the “creeps,” as she afterwards

declared;--she shivered, drawing her satin opera-wrap more closely

about her, and stared at the stranger no more. He soon removed his

piercing gaze from her to the stage, for the now great “Play scene” of

_Hamlet_ was in progress, and was from first to last a triumph for the

actor chiefly concerned. At the next fall of the curtain, a fair

dissipated-looking young fellow leaned over from the third row of

stalls, and touched the white-haired individual lightly on the

shoulder.

“My dear El-Râmi! You here? At a theatre? Why, I should never have

thought you capable of indulging in such frivolity!”

“Do you consider _Hamlet_ frivolous?” queried the other, rising from

his seat to shake hands, and showing himself to be a man of medium

height, though having such peculiar dignity of carriage as made him

appear taller than he really was.

“Well, no!”--and the young man yawned rather effusively, “To tell you

the truth, I find him insufferably dull.”

“You do?” and the person addressed as El-Râmi smiled slightly.

“Well,--naturally you go with the opinions of your age. You would no

doubt prefer a burlesque?”

“Frankly speaking, I should! And now I begin to think of it, I don’t

know really why I came here. I had intended to look in at the

Empire--there’s a new ballet going on there--but a fellow at the club

gave me this stall, said it was a ‘first-night,’ and all the rest of

it--and so----”

“And so fate decided for you,” finished El-Râmi sedately. “And

instead of admiring the pretty ladies without proper clothing at the

Empire, you find yourself here, wondering why the deuce Hamlet the

Dane could not find anything better to do than bother himself about

his father’s ghost! Exactly! But, being here, you are here for a

purpose, my friend;” and he lowered his voice to a confidential

whisper. “Look!--Over there--observe her well!--sits your future

wife;” and he indicated, by the slightest possible nod, the American

girl before alluded to. “Yes,--the pretty creature in pink, with dark

hair. You don’t know her? No, of course you don’t--but you will. She

will be introduced to you to-night before you leave this theatre.

Don’t look so startled--there’s nothing miraculous about her, I assure

you! She is merely Miss Chester, only daughter of Jabez Chester, the

latest New York millionaire. A charmingly shallow, delightfully

useless, but enormously wealthy little person!--you will propose to

her within a month, and you will be accepted. A very good match for

you, Vaughan--all your debts paid, and everything set straight with

certain Jews. Nothing could be better, really--and, remember,--I am

the first to congratulate you!”

He spoke rapidly, with a smiling, easy air of conviction; his friend

meanwhile stared at him in profound amazement and something of fear.

“By Jove, El-Râmi!”--he began nervously--“you know, this is a little

too much of a good thing. It’s all very well to play prophet

sometimes, but it can be overdone.”

“Pardon!” and El-Râmi turned to resume his seat. “The play begins

again. Insufferably dull as Hamlet may be, we are bound to give him

some slight measure of attention.”

Vaughan forced a careless smile in response, and threw himself

indolently back in his own stall, but he looked annoyed and puzzled.

His eyes wandered from the back of El-Râmi’s white head to the

half-seen profile of the American heiress who had just been so coolly

and convincingly pointed out to him as his future wife.

“I don’t know the girl from Adam,”--he thought irritably, “and I don’t

want to know her. In fact, I won’t know her. And if I won’t, why, I

sha’n’t know her. Will is everything, even according to El-Râmi. The

fellow’s always so confoundedly positive of his prophecies. I should

like to confute him for once and prove him wrong.”

Thus he mused, scarcely heeding the progress of Shakespeare’s great

tragedy, till, at the close of the scene of Ophelia’s burial, he saw

El-Râmi rise and prepare to leave the auditorium. He at once rose

himself.

“Are you going?” he asked.

“Yes;--I do not care for Hamlet’s end, or for anybody’s end in this

particular play. I don’t like the hasty and wholesale slaughter that

concludes the piece. It is inartistic.”

“Shakespeare inartistic?” queried Vaughan, smiling.

“Why, yes, sometimes. He was a man, not a god;--and no man’s work can

be absolutely perfect. Shakespeare had his faults like everybody else,

and with his great genius he would have been the first to own them. It

is only your little mediocrities who are never wrong. Are you going

also?”

“Yes; I mean to damage your reputation as a prophet, and avoid the

chance of an introduction to Miss Chester--for this evening, at any

rate.”

He laughed as he spoke, but El-Râmi said nothing. The two passed out

of the stalls together into the lobby, where they had to wait a few

minutes to get their hats and overcoats, the man in charge of the

cloak-room having gone to cool his chronic thirst at the convenient

“bar.” Vaughan made use of the enforced delay to light his cigar.

“Did you think it a good _Hamlet_?” he asked his companion carelessly

while thus occupied.

“Excellent,” replied El-Râmi. “The leading actor has immense talent,

and thoroughly appreciates the subtlety of the part he has to

play;--but his supporters are all sticks,--hence the scenes drag where

he himself is not in them. That is the worst of the ‘star’ system,--a

system which is perfectly ruinous to histrionic art. Still--no matter

how it is performed, _Hamlet_ is always interesting. Curiously

inconsistent, too, but impressive.”

“Inconsistent? How?” asked Vaughan, beginning to puff rings of smoke

into the air, and to wonder impatiently how much longer the keeper of

the cloak-room meant to stay absent from his post.

“Oh, in many ways. Perhaps the most glaring inconsistency of the whole

conception comes out in the great soliloquy, ‘To be or not to be.’”

“Really?” and Vaughan became interested. “I thought that was

considered one of the finest bits in the play.”

“So it is. I am not speaking of the lines themselves, which are

magnificent, but of their connection with Hamlet’s own character. Why

does he talk of a ‘bourne from whence no traveller returns,’ when he

has, or thinks he has, proof positive of the return of his own father

in spiritual form;--and it is just concerning that return that he

makes all the pother? Don’t you see inconsistency there?”

“Of course,--but I never thought of it,” said Vaughan, staring. “I

don’t believe any one but yourself has ever thought of it. It is quite

unaccountable. He certainly does say ‘no traveller returns,’--and he

says it after he has seen the ghost too.”

“Yes,” went on El-Râmi, warming with his subject. “And he talks of

the ‘dread of something after death,’ as if it were only a ‘dread,’

and not a fact;--whereas if he is to believe the spirit of his own

father, which he declares is ‘an honest ghost,’ there is no

possibility of doubt on the matter. Does not the mournful phantom

say--

“‘But that I am forbid

To tell the secrets of my prison-house,

I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word

Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood;

Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres;

Thy knotted and combinèd locks to part,

And each particular hair to stand on end. ...’?”

“By Jove! I say, El-Râmi, don’t look at me like that!” exclaimed

Vaughan uneasily, backing away from a too close proximity to the

brilliant flashing eyes and absorbed face of his companion, who had

recited the lines with extraordinary passion and solemnity.

El-Râmi laughed.

“Did I scare you? Was I too much in earnest? I beg your pardon! True

enough,--‘this eternal blazon must not be, to ears of flesh and

blood!’ But, the ‘something after death’ was a peculiarly aggravating

reality to that poor ghost, and Hamlet knew that it was so when he

spoke of it as a mere ‘dread.’ Thus, as I say, he was inconsistent,

or, rather, Shakespeare did not argue the case logically.”

“You would make a capital actor,”--said Vaughan, still gazing at him

in astonishment. “Why, you went on just now as if,--well, as if you

meant it, you know.”

“So I did mean it,” replied El-Râmi lightly--“for the moment! I

always find _Hamlet_ a rather absorbing study; so will you, perhaps,

when you are my age.”

“Your age?” and Vaughan shrugged his shoulders. “I wish I knew it!

Why, nobody knows it. You may be thirty or a hundred--who can tell?”

“Or two hundred--or even three hundred?” queried El-Râmi, with a

touch of satire in his tone;--“Why stint the measure of limitless

time? But here comes our recalcitrant knave”--this, as the keeper of

the cloak-room made his appearance from a side-door with a perfectly

easy and unembarrassed air, as though he had done rather a fine thing

than otherwise in keeping two gentlemen waiting his pleasure. “Let us

get our coats, and be well away before the decree of Fate can be

accomplished in making you the winner of the desirable Chester prize.

It is delightful to conquer Fate--if one can!”

His black eyes flashed curiously, and Vaughan paused in the act of

throwing on his overcoat to look at him again in something of doubt

and dread.

At that moment a gay voice exclaimed:

“Why, here’s Vaughan!--Freddie Vaughan--how lucky!” and a big handsome

man of about two or three and thirty sauntered into the lobby from the

theatre, followed by two ladies. “Look here, Vaughan, you’re just the

fellow I wanted to see. We’ve left Hamlet in the thick of his fight,

because we’re going on to the Somers’s ball,--will you come with us?

And I say, Vaughan, allow me to introduce to you my friends--Mrs.

Jabez Chester, Miss Idina Chester--Sir Frederick Vaughan.”

For one instant Vaughan stood inert and stupefied; the next he

remembered himself, and bowed mechanically. His presentation to the

Chesters was thus suddenly effected by his cousin, Lord Melthorpe, to

whom he was indebted for many favours, and whom he could not afford to

offend by any show of _brusquerie_. As soon as the necessary

salutations were exchanged, however, he looked round vaguely, and in a

sort of superstitious terror, for the man who had so surely prophesied

this introduction. But El-Râmi was gone. Silently and without adieu

he had departed, having seen his word fulfilled.

II.

“Who is the gentleman that has just left you?” asked Miss Chester,

smiling prettily up into Vaughan’s eyes, as she accepted his proffered

arm to lead her to her carriage,--“Such a distinguished-looking

dreadful person!”

Vaughan smiled at this description.

“He is certainly rather singular in personal appearance,” he began,

when his cousin, Lord Melthorpe, interrupted him.

“You mean El-Râmi? It was El-Râmi, wasn’t it? Ah, I thought so. Why

did he give us the slip, I wonder? I wish he had waited a minute--he

is a most interesting fellow.”

“But who is he?” persisted Miss Chester. She was now comfortably

ensconced in her luxurious brougham, her mother beside her, and two

men of “title” opposite to her--a position which exactly suited the

aspirations of her soul. “How very tiresome you both are! You don’t

explain him a bit; you only say he is ‘interesting,’ and of course one

can see that; people with such white hair and such black eyes are

always interesting, don’t you think so?”

“Well, I don’t see why they should be,” said Lord Melthorpe dubiously.

“Now, just think what horrible chaps Albinos are, and they have white

hair and pink eyes----”

“Oh, don’t drift off on the subject of Albinos, please!” pleaded Miss

Chester, with a soft laugh. “If you do, I shall never know anything

about this particular person--El-Râmi, did you say? Isn’t it a very

odd name? Eastern, of course?”

“Oh yes! he is a pure Oriental thoroughbred,” replied Lord Melthorpe,

who took the burden of the conversation upon himself, while he

inwardly wondered why his cousin Vaughan was in such an evidently

taciturn mood. “That is, I mean, he is an Oriental of the very old

stock, not one of the modern Indian mixtures of vice and knavery. But

when he came from the East, and why he came from the East, I don’t

suppose any one could tell you. I have only met him two or three times

in society, and on those occasions he managed to perplex and fascinate

a good many people. My wife, for instance, thinks him quite a

marvellous man; she always asks him to her parties, but he hardly ever

comes. His name in full is El-Râmi-Zarânos, though I believe he is

best known as El-Râmi simply.”

“And what is he?” asked Miss Chester. “An artist?--A literary

celebrity?”

“Neither, that I am aware of. Indeed, I don’t know what he is, or how

he lives. I have always looked upon him as a sort of magician--a kind

of private conjurer, you know.”

“Dear me!” said fat Mrs. Chester, waking up from a semi-doze, and

trying to get interested in the subject. “Does he do drawing-room

tricks?”

“Oh no, he doesn’t do tricks;” and Lord Melthorpe looked a little

amused. “He isn’t that sort of man at all; I’m afraid I explain myself

badly. I mean that he can tell you extraordinary things about your

past and future----”

“Oh, by your hand--_I_ know!” and the pretty Idina nodded her head

sagaciously. “There really is something awfully clever in palmistry.

_I_ can tell fortunes that way!”

“Can you?” Lord Melthorpe smiled indulgently, and went on,--“But it so

happens that El-Râmi does not tell anything by the hands,--he judges

by the face, figure, and movement. He doesn’t make a profession of it;

but, really, he does foretell events in rather a curious way now and

then.”

“He certainly does!” agreed Vaughan, rousing himself from a reverie

into which he had fallen, and fixing his eyes on the small _piquante_

features of the girl opposite him. “Some of his prophecies are quite

remarkable.”

“Really! How very delightful!” said Miss Chester, who was fully aware

of Sir Frederick’s intent, almost searching, gaze, but pretended to be

absorbed in buttoning one of her gloves. “I must ask him to tell me

what sort of fate is in store for me--something awful, I’m positive!

Don’t you think he has horrid eyes?--splendid, but horrid? He looked

at me in the theatre----”

“My dear, you looked at him first,” murmured Mrs. Chester.

“Yes; but I’m sure I didn’t make him shiver. Now, when he looked at

me, I felt as if some one were pouring cold water very slowly down my

back. It was _such_ a creepy sensation! Do fasten this, mother--will

you?” and she extended the hand with the refractory glove upon it to

Mrs. Chester, but Vaughan promptly interposed:

“Allow me!”

“Oh, well! if you know how to fix a button that is almost off!” she

said laughingly, with a blush that well became her transparent skin.

“I can make an attempt,”--said Vaughan, with due humility. “If I

succeed will you give me one or two dances presently?”

“With pleasure!”

“Oh! you _are_ coming in to the Somers’s, then?” said Lord Melthorpe,

in a pleased tone. “That’s right. You know, Fred, you’re so

absent-minded to-night that you never said ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ when I asked

you to accompany us.”

“Didn’t I? I’m awfully sorry!” and, having fastened the glove with

careful daintiness, he smiled. “Please set down my rudeness and

distraction to the uncanny influence of El-Râmi; I can’t imagine any

other reason.”

They all laughed carelessly, as people in an idle humour laugh at

trifles, and the carriage bore them on to their destination--a great

house in Queen’s Gate, where a magnificent entertainment was being

held in honour of some serene and exalted foreign potentate who had

taken it into his head to see how London amused itself during a

“season.” The foreign potentate had heard that the splendid English

capital was full of gloom and misery--that its women were

unapproachable, and its men difficult to make friends with; and all

these erroneous notions had to be dispersed in his serene and exalted

brain, no matter what his education cost the “Upper Ten” who undertook

to enlighten his barbarian ignorance.

Meanwhile, the subject of Lord Melthorpe’s conversation--El-Râmi, or

El-Râmi-Zarânos, as he was called by those of his own race--was

walking quietly homewards with that firm, swift, yet apparently

unhasting pace which so often distinguishes the desert-born savage,

and so seldom gives grace to the deportment of the cultured citizen.

It was a mild night in May; the weather was unusually fine and warm;

the skies were undarkened by any mist or cloud, and the stars shone

forth with as much brilliancy as though the city lying under their

immediate ken had been the smiling fairy Florence, instead of the

brooding giant London. Now and again El-Râmi raised his eyes to the

sparkling belt of Orion, which glittered aloft with a lustre that is

seldom seen in the hazy English air;--he was thinking his own

thoughts, and the fact that there were many passers to and fro in the

streets besides himself did not appear to disturb him in the least,

for he strode through their ranks without any hurry or jostling, as if

he alone existed, and they were but shadows.

“What fools are the majority of men!” he mused. “How easy to gull

them, and how willing they are to be gulled! How that silly young

Vaughan marvelled at my prophecy of his marriage!--as if it were not

as easy to foretell as that two and two inevitably make four! Given

the characters of people in the same way that you give figures, and

you are certain to arrive at a sum-total of them in time. How simple

the process of calculation as to Vaughan’s matrimonial prospects! Here

are the set of numerals I employed: Two nights ago I heard Lord

Melthorpe say he meant to marry his cousin Fred to Miss Chester,

daughter of Jabez Chester of New York. Miss Chester herself entered

the room a few minutes later on, and I saw the sort of young woman she

was. To-night at the theatre I see her again;--in an opposite box,

well back in shadow, I perceive Lord Melthorpe. Young Vaughan, whose

character I know to be of such weakness that it can be moulded

whichever way a stronger will turns it, sits close behind me; and I

proceed to make the little sum-total. Given Lord Melthorpe, with a

determination that resembles the obstinacy of a pig rather than of a

man; Frederick Vaughan, with no determination at all; and the little

Chester girl, with her heart set on an English title, even though it

only be that of a baronet, and the marriage is certain. What was

_un_certain was the possibility of their all meeting to-night; but

they were all there, and I counted that possibility as the fraction

over,--there is always a fraction over in character-sums; it stands as

Providence or Fate, and must always be allowed for. I chanced it, and

won. I always do win in these things,--these ridiculous trifles of

calculation, which are actually accepted as prophetic utterances by

people who never will think out anything for themselves. Good heavens!

what a monster-burden of crass ignorance and wilful stupidity this

poor planet has groaned under ever since it was hurled into space!

Immense!--incalculable! And for what purpose? For what progress? For

what end?”

He stopped a moment; he had walked from the Strand up through

Piccadilly, and was now close to Hyde Park. Taking out his watch, he

glanced at the time--it was close upon midnight. All at once he was

struck fiercely from behind, and the watch he held was snatched from

his hand by a man who had no sooner committed the theft than he

uttered a loud cry, and remained inert and motionless. El-Râmi turned

quietly round and surveyed him.

“Well, my friend?” he inquired blandly--“What did you do that for?”

The fellow stared about him vaguely, but seemed unable to answer,--his

arm was stiffly outstretched, and the watch was clutched fast within

his palm.

“You had better give that little piece of property back to me,” went

on El-Râmi, coldly smiling,--and, stepping close up to his assailant,

he undid the closed fingers one by one, and, removing the watch,

restored it to his own pocket. The thief’s arm at the same moment fell

limply at his side; but he remained where he was, trembling violently

as though seized with a sudden ague-fit.

“You would find it an inconvenient thing to have about you, I assure

you. Stolen goods are always more or less of a bore, I believe. You

seem rather discomposed? Ah! you have had a little shock, that’s all.

You’ve heard of torpedoes, I dare say? Well, in this scientific age of

ours, there are human torpedoes going about; and I am one of them. It

is necessary to be careful whom you touch nowadays,--it really is, you

know! You will be better presently--take time!”

He spoke banteringly, observing the thief meanwhile with the most

curious air, as though he were some peculiar specimen of beetle or

frog. The wretched man’s features worked convulsively, and he made a

gesture of appeal:

“You won’t ’ave me took up?” he muttered hoarsely, “I’m starvin’!”

“No, no!” said El-Râmi persuasively--“you are nothing of the sort. Do

not tell lies, my friend; that is a great mistake--as great a mistake

as thieving. Both things, as you practise them, will put you to no end

of trouble,--and to avoid trouble is the chief aim of modern life. You

are not starving--you are as plump as a rabbit,”--and, with a

dexterous touch, he threw up the man’s loose shirt-sleeve, and

displayed the full, firm flesh of the strong and sinewy arm beneath.

“You have had more meat in you to-day than I can manage in a week; you

will do very well. You are a professional thief,--a sort of--lawyer,

shall we say? Only, instead of protesting the right you have to live,

politely by means of documents and red tape, you assert it roughly by

stealing a watch. It’s very frank conduct,--but it is not civil; and,

in the present state of ethics, it doesn’t pay--it really doesn’t. I’m

afraid I’m boring you! You feel better? Then--good evening!”

He was about to resume his walk, when the now recovered rough took a

hasty step towards him.

“I wanted to knock ye down!” he began.

“I know you did,”--returned El-Râmi composedly. “Well--would you like

to try again?”

The man stared at him, half in amazement, half in fear.

“Ye see,” he went on, “ye pulled out yer watch, and it was all jools

and sparkles----”

“And it was a glittering temptation”--finished El-Râmi. “I see! I had

no business to pull it out; I grant it; but, being pulled out, you had

no business to want it. We were both wrong; let us both endeavour to

be wiser in future. Good-night!”

“Well, I’m blowed if yer not a rum un, and an orful un!” ejaculated

the man, who had certainly received a fright, and was still nervous

from the effects of it. “Blowed if he ain’t the rummest card!”

But the “rummest card” heard none of these observations. He crossed

the road, and went on his way serenely, taking up the thread of his

interrupted musings as though nothing had occurred.

“Fools--fools all!” he murmured. “Thieves steal, murderers slay,

labourers toil, and all men and women lust and live and die--to what

purpose? For what progress? For what end? Destruction or new life?

Heaven or hell? Wisdom or caprice? Kindness or cruelty? God or the

Devil? Which? If I knew that I should be wise,--but _till_ I know, I

am but a fool also,--a fool among fools, fooled by a Fate whose secret

I mean to discover and conquer--and defy!”

He paused,--and, drawing a long, deep breath, raised his eyes to the

stars once more. His lips moved as though he repeated inwardly some

vow or prayer, then he proceeded at a quicker pace, and stopped no

more till he reached his destination, which was a small, quiet, and

unfashionable square off Sloane Street. Here he made his way to an

unpretentious-looking little house, semi-detached, and one of a row of

similar buildings; the only particularly distinctive mark about it

being a heavy and massively-carved ancient oaken door, which opened

easily at the turn of his latch-key, and closed after him without the

slightest sound as he entered.

III.

A dim red light burned in the narrow hall, just sufficient to enable

him to see the wooden peg on which he was accustomed to hang his hat

and overcoat,--and as soon as he had divested himself of his outdoor

garb he extinguished even that faint glimmer of radiance. Opening a

side-door, he entered his own room--a picturesque apartment running

from east to west, the full length of the house. From its appearance

it had evidently once served as drawing-room and dining-room, with

folding-doors between; but the folding-doors had been dispensed with,

and the place they had occupied was now draped with heavy amber silk.

This silk seemed to be of some peculiar and costly make, for it

sparkled with iridescent gleams of silver like diamond-dust when

El-Râmi turned on the electric burner, which, in the form of a large

flower, depended from the ceiling by quaintly-worked silver chains,

and was connected by a fine wire with a shaded reading-lamp on the

table. There was not much of either beauty or value in the room,--yet,

without being at all luxurious, it suggested luxury. The few chairs

were of the most ordinary make, all save one, which was of finely

carved ebony, and was piled with silk cushions of amber and red,--the

table was of plain painted deal, covered with a dark woollen cloth

worked in and out with threads of gold,--there were a few geometrical

instruments about,--a large pair of globes,--a rack on the wall

stocked with weapons for the art of fence,--and one large bookcase

full of books. An ebony-cased pianette occupied one corner,--and on a

small side-table stood a heavily-made oaken chest, brass-bound and

double-locked. The furniture was completed by a plain camp-bedstead

such as soldiers use, which at the present moment was partly folded up

and almost hidden from view by a rough bear-skin thrown carelessly

across it.

El-Râmi sat down in the big ebony chair and looked at a pile of

letters lying on his writing-table. They were from all sorts of

persons,--princes, statesmen, diplomats, financiers, and artists in

all the professions,--he recognised the handwriting on some of the

envelopes, and his brows contracted in a frown as he tossed them aside

still unopened.

“They must wait,” he said half aloud. “Curious that it is impossible

for a man to be original without attracting around him a set of

unoriginal minds, as though he were a honey-pot and they the flies!

Who would believe that I, poor in worldly goods, and living in more or

less obscurity, should, without any wish of my own, be in touch with

kings?--should know the last new policy of governments before it is

made ripe for public declaration?--should hold the secrets of ‘my

lord’ and ‘my lady’ apart from each other’s cognisance, and be able to

amuse myself with their little ridiculous matrimonial differences, as

though they were puppets playing their parts for use at a marionette

show? I do not ask these people to confide in me,--I do not want them

to seek me out,--and yet the cry is, ‘still they come!’--and the

attributes of my own nature are such that, like a magnet, I attract,

and so am never left in peace. Yet perhaps it is well it should be

thus,--I need the external distraction,--otherwise my mind would be

too much like a bent bow,--fixed on the one centre,--the Great

Secret,--and its powers might fail me at the last. But no!--failure is

impossible now. Steeled against love,--hate,--and all the merely

earthly passions of mankind as I am,--I must succeed--and I will!”

He leaned his head on one hand, and seemed to suddenly concentrate his

thoughts on one particular subject,--his eyes dilated and grew luridly

brilliant as though sparks of fire burnt behind them. He had not sat

thus for more than a couple of minutes, when the door opened gently,

and a beautiful youth, clad in a loose white tunic and vest of Eastern

fashion, made his appearance, and standing silently on the threshold

seemed to wait for some command.

“So, Féraz! you heard my summons?” said El-Râmi gently.

“I heard my brother speak,”--responded Féraz in a low melodious voice

that had a singularly dreamy far-away tone within it--“Through a wall

of cloud and silence his beloved accents fell like music on my

ears;--he called me and I came.”

And, sighing lightly, he folded his arms cross-wise on his breast and

stood erect and immovable, looking like some fine statue just endowed

by magic with the flush of life. He resembled El-Râmi in features,

but was fairer-skinned,--his eyes were softer and more femininely

lovely,--his hair, black as night, clustered in thick curls over his

brow, and his figure, straight as a young palm-tree, was a perfect

model of strength united with grace. But just now he had a strangely

absorbed air,--his eyes, though they were intently fixed on El-Râmi’s

face, looked like the eyes of a sleep-walker, so dreamy were they

while wide-open,--and as he spoke he smiled vaguely as one who hears

delicious singing afar off.

El-Râmi studied him intently for a minute or two,--then, removing his

gaze, pressed a small silver hand-bell at his side. It rang sharply

out on the silence.

“Féraz!”

Féraz started,--rubbed his eyes,--glanced about him, and then sprang

towards his brother with quite a new expression,--one of grace,

eagerness, and animation, that intensified his beauty and made him

still more worthy the admiration of a painter or a sculptor.

“El-Râmi! At last! How late you are! I waited for you long--and then

I slept. I am sorry! But you called me in the usual way, I

suppose?--and I did not fail you? Ah no! I should come to you if I

were dead!”

He dropped on one knee, and raised El-Râmi’s hand caressingly to his

lips.

“Where have you been all the evening?” he went on. “I have missed you

greatly--the house is so silent.”

El-Râmi touched his clustering curls tenderly.

“You could have made music in it with your lute and voice, Féraz, had

you chosen,” he said. “As for me, I went to see _Hamlet_.”

“Oh, why did you go?” demanded Féraz impetuously. “_I_ would not see

it--no! not for worlds! Such poetry must needs be spoilt by men’s

mouthing of it,--it is better to read it, to think it, to feel

it,--and so one actually _sees_ it,--best.”

“You talk like a poet,”--said El-Râmi indulgently. “You are not much

more than a boy, and you think the thoughts of youth. Have you any

supper ready for me?”

Féraz smiled and sprang up, left the room, and returned in a few

minutes with a daintily-arranged tray of refreshments, which he set

before his brother with all the respect and humility of a well-trained

domestic in attendance on his master.

“You have supped?” El-Râmi asked, as he poured out wine from the

delicately-shaped Italian flask beside him.

Féraz nodded.

“Yes. Zaroba supped with me. But she was cross to-night--she had

nothing to say.”

El-Râmi smiled. “That is unusual!”

Féraz went on. “There have been many people here,--they all wanted to

see you. They have left their cards. Some of them asked me my name and

who I was. I said I was your servant--but they would not believe me.

There were great folks among them--they came in big carriages with

prancing horses. Have you seen their names?”

“Not I.”

“Ah, you are so indifferent,” said Féraz gaily,--he had no quite lost

his dreamy and abstracted look, and talked on in an eager boyish way

that suited his years,--he was barely twenty. “You are so bent on

great thoughts that you cannot see little things, But these dukes and

earls who come to visit you do not consider themselves little,--not

they!”

“Yet many of them are the least among little men,” said El-Râmi with

a touch of scorn in his mellow accents. “Dowered with great historic

names which they almost despise, they do their best to drag the memory

of their ancient lineage into dishonour by vulgar passions, low

tastes, and a scorn as well as lack of true intelligence. Let us not

talk of them. The English aristocracy was once a magnificent tree, but

its broad boughs are fallen,--lopped off and turned into saleable

timber,--and there is but a decaying stump of it left. And so Zaroba

said nothing to you to-night?”

“Scarce a word. She was very sullen. She bade me tell you all was

well,--that is her usual formula. I do not understand it;--what is it

that should be well or ill? You never explain your mystery!”

He smiled, but there was a vivid curiosity in his fine eyes,--he

looked as if he would have asked more had he dared to do so.

El-Râmi evaded his questioning glance. “Speak of yourself,” he said.

“Did you wander at all into your Dreamland to-day?”

“I was there when you called me,” replied Féraz quickly. “I saw my

home,--its trees and flowers,--I listened to the ripple of its

fountains and streams. It is harvest-time there, do you know? I heard

the reapers singing as they carried home the sheaves.”

His brother surveyed him with a fixed and wondering scrutiny.

“How absolute you are in your faith!” he said half enviously. “You

_think_ it is your home,--but it is only an idea after all,--an idea,

born of a vision.”

“Does a mere visionary idea engender love and longing?” exclaimed

Féraz impetuously. “Oh no, El-Râmi,--it cannot do so! I _know_ the

land I see so often in what you call a ‘dream,’--its mountains are

familiar to me,--its people are my people; yes!--I am remembered

there, and so are you,--we dwelt there once,--we shall dwell there

again. It is your home as well as mine,--that bright and far-off star

where there is no death but only sleep,--why were we exiled from our

happiness, El-Râmi? Can your wisdom tell?”

“I know nothing of what you say,” returned El-Râmi brusquely. “As I

told you, you talk like a poet,--harsher men than I would add, like a

madman. You imagine you were born or came into being in a different

planet from this,--that you lived there,--that you were exiled from

thence by some mysterious doom, and were condemned to pass into human

existence here;--well, I repeat, Féraz,--this is your own fancy,--the

result of the strange double life you lead, which is not by my will or

teaching. I believe only in what can be proved--and this that you tell

me is beyond all proof.”

“And yet,” said Féraz meditatively,--“though I cannot reason it out,

I am sure of what I feel. My ‘dream’ is more life-like than life

itself,--and as for my beloved people yonder, I tell you I have heard

them singing the harvest-home.”

And with a quick soft step he went to the piano, opened it, and began

to play. El-Râmi leaned back in his chair mute and absorbed,--did

ever common keyed instrument give forth such enchanting sounds? Was

ever written music known that could, when performed, utter such divine

and dulcet eloquence? There was nothing earthly in the tune, it seemed

to glide from under the player’s fingers like a caress upon the

air,--and an involuntary sigh broke from El-Râmi’s lips as he

listened. Féraz heard that sigh, and turned round smiling.

“Is there not something familiar in the strain?” he asked. “Do you not

see them all, so fair and light and lithe of limb, coming over the

fields homewards as the red Ring burns low in the western sky?

Surely--surely you remember?”

A slight shudder shook El-Râmi’s frame,--he pressed his hands over

his eyes, and seemed to collect himself by a strong effort,--then,

walking over to the piano, he took his young brother’s hands from the

keys and held them for a moment against his breast.

“Keep your illusions”--he said in a low voice that trembled slightly.

“Keep them,--and your faith,--together. It is for you to dream, and

for me to prove. Mine is the hardest lot. There may be truth in your

dreams,--there may be deception in my proofs--Heaven only knows! Were

you not of my own blood, and dearer to me than most human things, I

should, like every scientist worthy of the name, strive to break off

your spiritual pinions and make of you a mere earth-grub even as most

of us are made,--but I cannot do it,--I have not the heart to do

it,--and if I had the heart”--he paused a moment,--then went on

slowly--“I have not the power. Good-night!”

He left the room abruptly without another word or look,--and the

beautiful young Féraz gazed after his retreating figure doubtfully

and with something of wondering regret. Was it worth while, he

thought, to be so wise, if wisdom made one at times so sad?--was it

well to sacrifice Faith for Fact, when Faith was so warm and Fact so

cold? Was it better to be a dreamer of things possible, or a

worker-out of things positive? And how much was positive after all?

and how much possible? He balanced the question lightly with

himself,--it was like a discord in the music of his mind, and

disturbed his peace. He soon dismissed the jarring thought, however,

and, closing the piano, glanced round the room to make sure that

nothing more was required for his brother’s service or comfort that

night, and then he went away to resume his interrupted

slumbers,--perchance to take up the chorus of his “people” singing in

what he deemed his native star.

IV.

El-Râmi meanwhile slowly ascended the stairs to the first floor,

and there on the narrow landing paused, listening. There was not a

sound in the house,--the delicious music of the strange “harvest-song”

had ceased, though to El-Râmi’s ears there still seemed to be a throb

of its melody in the air, like perfume left from the carrying by of

flowers. And with this vague impression upon him he

listened,--listened as it were to the deep silence; and as he stood in

this attentive attitude, his eyes rested on a closed door opposite to

him,--a door which might, if taken off its hinges and exhibited at

some museum, have carried away the palm for perfection in

panel-painting. It was so designed as to resemble a fine trellis-work,

hung with pale clambering roses and purple passion-flowers,--on the

upper half among the blossoms sat a meditative cupid, pressing a bud

against his pouting lips, while below him, stretched in full-length

desolation on a bent bough, his twin brother wept childishly over the

piteous fate of a butterfly that lay dead in his curled pink palm.

El-Râmi stared so long and persistently at the pretty picture that it

might have been imagined he was looking at it for the first time and

was absorbed in admiration, but truth to tell he scarcely saw it. His

thoughts were penetrating beyond all painted semblances of

beauty,--and,--as in the case of his young brother Féraz,--those

thoughts were speedily answered. A key turned in the lock,--the door

opened, and a tall old woman, bronze-skinned, black-eyed, withered,

uncomely yet imposing of aspect, stood in the aperture.

“Enter, El-Râmi!” she said in a low yet harsh voice--“The hour is

late,--but when did ever the lateness of hours change or deter your

sovereign will! Yet, truly as God liveth, it is hard that I should

seldom be permitted to pass a night in peace!”

El-Râmi smiled indifferently, but made no reply, as it was useless to

answer Zaroba. She was stone-deaf, and therefore not in a condition to

be argued with. She preceded him into a small ante-room, provided with

no other furniture than a table and chair;--one entire side of the

wall, however, was hung with a magnificent curtain of purple velvet

bordered in gold. On the table were a slate and pencil, and these

implements El-Râmi at once drew towards him.

“Has there been any change to-day?” he wrote.

Zaroba read the words.

“None,” she replied.

“She has not moved?”

“Not a finger.”

He paused, pencil in hand,--then he wrote--

“You are ill-tempered. You have your dark humour upon you.”

Zaroba’s eyes flashed, and she threw up her skinny hands with a

wrathful gesture.

“Dark humour!” she cried in accents that were almost shrill--“Ay!--and

if it be so, El-Râmi, what is my humour to you? Am I anything more to

you than a cipher,--a mere slave? What have the thoughts of a foolish

woman, bent with years and close to the dark gateways of the tomb, to

do with one who deems himself all wisdom? What are the feelings of a

wretched perishable piece of flesh and blood to a self-centred god and

opponent of Nature like El-Râmi-Zarânos?” She laughed bitterly. “Pay

no heed to me, great Master of the Fates invisible!--superb controller

of the thoughts of men!--pay no heed to Zaroba’s ‘dark humours,’ as

you call them. Zaroba has no wings to soar with--she is old and

feeble, and aches at the heart with a burden of unshed tears,--she

would fain have been content with this low earth whereon to tread in

safety,--she would fain have been happy with common joys,--but these

are debarred her, and her lot is like that of many a better woman,--to

sit solitary among the ashes of dead days and know herself desolate!”

She dropped her arms as suddenly as she had raised them. El-Râmi

surveyed her with a touch of derision, and wrote again on the slate:

“I thought you loved your charge?”

Zaroba read, and drew herself up proudly, looking almost as dignified

as El-Râmi himself.

“Does one love a statue?” she demanded. “Shall I caress a picture?

Shall I rain tears or kisses over the mere semblance of a life that

does not live,--shall I fondle hands that never return my clasp? Love!

Love is in my heart--yes! like a shut-up fire in a tomb,--but you hold

the key, El-Râmi, and the flame dies for want of air.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and, putting the pencil aside, wrote no

more. Moving towards the velvet curtain that draped the one side of

the room he made an imperious sign. Zaroba, obeying the gesture

mechanically and at once, drew a small pulley, by means of which the

rich soft folds of stuff parted noiselessly asunder, displaying such a

wonderful interior of luxury and loveliness as seemed for the moment

almost unreal. The apartment opened to view was lofty and perfectly

circular in shape, and was hung from top to bottom with silken

hangings of royal purple embroidered all over with curious arabesque

patterns in gold. The same rich material was caught up from the edges

of the ceiling to the centre, like the drapery of a pavilion or tent,

and was there festooned with golden fringes and tassels. From out the

midst of this warm mass of glistening colour swung a gold lamp which

shed its light through amber-hued crystal,--while the floor below was

carpeted with the thickest velvet pile, the design being pale purple

pansies on a darker ground of the same almost neutral tint. A specimen

of everything beautiful, rare, and costly seemed to have found its way

into this one room, from the exquisitely-wrought ivory figure of a

Psyche on her pedestal, to the tall vase of Venetian crystal which

held lightly up to view dozens of magnificent roses that seemed born

of full midsummer, though as yet, in the capricious English climate,

it was scarcely spring. And all the beauty, all the grace, all the

evidences of perfect taste, art, care, and forethought were gathered

together round one centre,--one unseeing, unresponsive centre,--the

figure of a sleeping girl. Pillowed on a raised couch such as might

have served a queen for costliness, she lay fast bound in slumber,--a

matchless piece of loveliness,--stirless as marble,--wondrous as the

ideal of a poet’s dream. Her delicate form was draped loosely in a

robe of purest white, arranged so as to suggest rather than conceal

its exquisite outline,--a silk coverlet was thrown lightly across her

feet, and her head rested on cushions of the softest, snowiest satin.

Her exceedingly small white hands were crossed upon her breast over a

curious jewel,--a sort of giant ruby cut in the shape of a star, which

scintillated with a thousand sparkles in the light, and coloured the

under-tips of her fingers with a hue like wine, and her hair, which

was of extraordinary length and beauty, almost clothed her body down

to the knee, as with a mantle of shimmering gold. To say merely that

she was lovely would scarcely describe her,--for the loveliness that

is generally understood as such was here so entirely surpassed and

intensified that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to express

its charm. Her face had the usual attributes of what might be deemed

perfection,--that is, the lines were purely oval,--the features

delicate, the skin most transparently fair, the lips a dewy red, and

the fringes of the closed eyes were long, dark, and delicately

upcurled;--but this was not all. There was something else,--something

quite undefinable, that gave a singular glow and radiance to the whole

countenance, and suggested the burning of a light through

alabaster,--a creeping of some subtle fire through the veins which

made the fair body seem the mere reflection of some greater fairness

within. If those eyes were to open, one thought, how wonderful their

lustre must needs be!--if that perfect figure rose up and moved, what

a harmony would walk the world in maiden shape!--and yet,--watching

that hushed repose, that scarcely perceptible breathing, it seemed

more than certain that she would never rise,--never tread earthly soil

in common with earth’s creatures,--never be more than what she

seemed,--a human flower, gathered and set apart--for whom? For God’s

love? Or Man’s pleasure? Either, neither, or both?

El-Râmi entered the rich apartment, followed by Zaroba, and stood by

the couch for some minutes in silence. Whatever his thoughts were, his

face gave no clue to them,--his features being as impassive as though

cast in bronze. Zaroba watched him curiously, her wrinkled visage

expressive of some strongly-suppressed passion. The sleeping girl

stirred and smiled in her sleep,--a smile that brightened her

countenance as much as if a sudden glory had circled it with a halo.

“Ay, she lives for you!” said Zaroba. “And she grows fairer every day.

She is the sun and you the snow. But the snow is bound to melt in due

season,--and even you, El-Râmi-Zarânos, will hardly baffle the laws

of Nature!”

El-Râmi turned upon her with a fierce mute gesture that had something

of the terrible in it,--she shrank from the cold glance of his intense

eyes, and in obedience to an imperative wave of his hand moved away to

a farther corner of the room, where, crouching down upon the floor,

she took up a quaint implement of work, a carved triangular frame of

ebony, with which she busied herself, drawing glittering threads in

and out of it with marvellous speed and dexterity. She made a weird

picture there, squatted on the ground in her yellow cotton draperies,

her rough gray hair gleaming like spun silk in the light, and the

shining threadwork in her withered hands. El-Râmi looked at her

sitting thus, and was suddenly moved with compassion--she was old and

sad,--poor Zaroba! He went up to her where she crouched, and stood

above her, his ardent fiery eyes seeming to gather all their wonderful

lustre into one long, earnest, and pitiful regard. Her work fell from

her hands, and as she met that burning gaze a vague smile parted her

lips,--her frowning features smoothed themselves into an expression of

mingled placidity and peace.

“Desolate Zaroba!” said El-Râmi, slowly lifting his hands. “Widowed

and solitary soul! Deaf to the outer noises of the world, let the ears

of thy spirit be open to my voice--and hear thou all the music of the

past! Lo, the bygone years return to thee and picture themselves

afresh upon thy tired brain!--again thou dost listen to the voices of

thy children at play,--the wild Arabian desert spreads out before thee

in the sun like a sea of gold,--the tall palms lift themselves against

the burning sky--the tent is pitched by the cool spring of fresh

water,--and thy savage mate, wearied out with long travel, sleeps,

pillowed on thy breast. Thou art young again, Zaroba!--young, fair,

and beloved!--be happy so! Dream and rest!”

As he spoke he took the aged woman’s unresisting hands and laid her

gently, gently, by gradual degrees down in a recumbent posture, and

placing a cushion under her head watched her for a few seconds.

“By Heaven!” he muttered, as he heard her regular breathing and noted

the perfectly composed expression of her face. “Are dreams after all

the only certain joys of life? A poet’s fancies,--a painter’s

visions--the cloud-castles of a boy’s imaginings--all dreams!--and

only such dreamers can be called happy. Neither Fate nor Fortune can

destroy their pleasure,--they make sport of kings and hold great

nations as the merest toys of thought--oh sublime audacity of Vision!

Would I could dream so!--or rather, would I could prove my dreams not

dreams at all, but the reflections of the absolute Real! Hamlet again!

“‘To die--to sleep;--

To sleep!--perchance to dream; ay, there’s the rub!’

Imagine it!--to die and _dream_ of 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!”

V.

Deep silence 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 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 that _I 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 spirits

_can_ suffer, 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.

“_If_ I die, did I say? But _can_ I 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.”

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.

VI.

“I do not 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, I _was_ a 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, it _is_ a 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 quoting _Hamlet_.”

“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 we _see_ the

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. _All_ your 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 deceive _your_

God--the God of the Churches,--but beware of trifling with the _real_

God,--the absolute Ego Sum of 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,--_do_ you

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 prove _that_ mystery. 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 final _coup_,--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.

VII.

That afternoon 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 trust _me_ with 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]

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 he _make_ me subservient to him, as I am, or is my submission to

his will my _own_ desire? Is my ‘madness’ or ‘craze,’ or whatever he

calls it, of _his_ working? 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.

VIII.

Only Zaroba,--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!

_You_ know 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--

“You talk wildly, Zaroba--you cannot be well. Let me hear no more--you

disturb my peace. I know what love is--I know what life is. But the

best part of my life and love is not here,--but elsewhere.”

Zaroba took the paper from his hand, read it, and tore it to bits in a

rage.

“O foolish youth!” she exclaimed--“Your love is the love of a

Dream,--your life is the life of a Dream! You see with another’s

eyes--you think through another’s brain. You are a mere machine,

played upon by another’s will! But not for ever shall you be

deceived--not for ever,--” here she gave a slight start and looked

around her nervously as though she expected some one to enter the room

suddenly--“Listen! Come to me to-night,--to-night when all is dark and

silent,--when every sound in the outside street is stilled,--come to

me--and I will show you a marvel of the world!--one who, like you, is

the victim of a Dream!” She broke off abruptly and glanced from right

to left in evident alarm,--then, with a fresh impetus of courage, she

bent towards her companion again and whispered in his ear--“Come!”

“But where?” asked Féraz in the language of signs.

“Up yonder!” said Zaroba firmly, regardless of the utter amazement

with which Féraz greeted this answer--“Up, where El-Râmi hides his

great secret. Yes--I know he has forbidden you to venture there,--even

so has he forbidden me to speak of what he cherishes so closely,--but

are we slaves, you and I? Do you purpose always to obey him? So be it,

an you will? But if I were you,--a man--I would defy both gods and

fiends if they opposed my liberty of action. Do as it pleases you,--I,

Zaroba, have given you the choice,--stay and dream of life--or come

and live it! Till to-night--farewell!”

She had reached the door and vanished through it, before Féraz could

demand more of her meaning,--and he was left alone, a prey to the most

torturing emotions. “The vulgar vice of curiosity!” That was the

phrase his brother had used to him scarcely an hour agone,--and yet,

here he was, yielding to a fresh fit of the intolerable desire that

had possessed him for years to know El-Râmi’s great secret. He

dropped wearily into a chair and thought all the circumstances over.

They were as follows:--

In the first place he had never known any other protector or friend

than his brother, who, being several years older than himself, had

taken sole charge of him after the almost simultaneous death of their

father and mother, an event which he knew had occurred somewhere in

the East, but how or when, he could not exactly remember, nor had he

ever been told much about it. He had always been very happy in

El-Râmi’s companionship, and had travelled with him nearly all over

the world,--and, though they had never been rich, they always had

sufficient wherewith to live comfortably, though how even this small

competence was gained Féraz never knew. There had been no particular

mystery about his brother’s life, however, till on one occasion, when

they were travelling together across the Syrian desert, where they had

come upon a caravan of half-starved Arab wanderers in dire distress

from want and sickness. Among them was an elderly woman at the extreme

point of death, and an orphan child named Lilith, who was also dying.

El-Râmi had suddenly, for no special reason, save kindness of heart

and compassion, offered his services as physician to the stricken

little party, and had restored the elderly woman, a widow, almost

miraculously to health and strength in a day or two. This woman was no

other than Zaroba. The sick child however, a girl of about twelve

years old, died. And here began the puzzle. On the day of this girl’s

death, El-Râmi, with sudden and inexplicable haste, had sent his

young brother on to Alexandria, bidding him there take ship

immediately for the Island of Cyprus, and carry to a certain monastery

some miles from Famagousta a packet of documents, which he stated were

of the most extraordinary value and importance. Féraz had obeyed,

and, according to further instructions, had remained as a visitor in

that Cyprian religious retreat, among monks unlike any other monks he

had ever seen or heard of, till he was sent for, whereupon, according

to command, he rejoined El-Râmi in London. He found him, somewhat to

his surprise, installed in the small house where they now were,--with

the woman Zaroba, whose presence was another cause of blank

astonishment, especially as she seemed to have nothing to do but keep

certain rooms upstairs in order. But all the questions Féraz poured

out respecting her, and everything that had happened since their

parting in the Syrian desert, were met by equivocal replies or

absolute silence on his brother’s part, and by and by the young man

grew accustomed to his position. Day by day he became more and more

subservient to El-Râmi’s will, though he could never quite comprehend

why he was so willingly submissive. Of course he knew that his brother

was gifted with certain powers of physical magnetism,--because he had

allowed himself to be practised upon, and he took a certain interest

in the scientific development of those powers, this being, as he quite

comprehended, one of the branches of study on which El-Râmi was

engaged. He knew that his brother could compel response to thought

from a distance,--but, as there were others of his race who could do

the same thing, and as that sort of mild hypnotism was largely

practised in the East, where he was born, he attached no special

importance to it. Endowed with various gifts of genius such as music

and poetry, and a quick perception of everything beautiful and

artistic, Féraz lived in a tranquil little Eden of his own,--and the

only serpent in it that now and then lifted its head to hiss doubt and

perplexity was the inexplicable mystery of those upstair rooms over

which Zaroba had guardianship. The merest allusion to the subject

excited El-Râmi’s displeasure; and during the whole time they had

lived together in that house, now nearly six years, he had not dared

to speak of it more than a very few times, while Zaroba, on her part,

had faithfully preserved the utmost secrecy. Now, she seemed disposed

to break the long-kept rules,--and Féraz knew not what to think of

it.

“Is everything destiny, as El-Râmi says?” he mused--“Or shall I

follow my own desires in the face of destiny? Shall I yield to

temptation--or shall I overcome it? Shall I break his command,--lose

his affection and be a free man,--or shall I obey him still, and be

his slave? And what should I do with my liberty if I had it, I wonder?

Womanish! What a word! _Am_ I womanish?” He paced up and down the room

in sudden irritation and haughtiness;--the piano stood open, but its

ivory keys failed to attract him,--his brain was full of other

suggestions than the making of sweet harmony.

“Do not seek out sorrow for yourself by rash and idle questioning.”

So his brother had said at parting And the words rang in his ears as

he walked to and fro restlessly, thinking, wondering, and worrying his

mind with vague wishes and foreboding anxieties, till the shining

afternoon wore away and darkness fell.

IX.

A rough night at sea,--but the skies were clear, and the great

worlds of God, which we call stars, throbbed in the heavens like

lustrous lamps, all the more brilliantly for there being no moon to

eclipse their glory. A high gale was blowing, and the waves dashed up

on the coast of Ilfracombe with an organ-like thud and roar as they

broke in high jets of spray, and then ran swiftly back again with a

soft swish and ripple suggestive of the downward chromatic scale

played rapidly on well-attuned strings. There was freshness and life

in the dancing wind;--the world seemed well in motion;--and, standing

aloft among the rocks, and looking down at the tossing sea, one could

realise completely the continuous whirl of the globe beneath one’s

feet, and the perpetual movement of the planet-studded heavens. High

above the shore, on a bare jutting promontory, a solitary house faced

seaward;--it was squarely built and surmounted with a tower, wherein

one light burned fitfully, its pale sparkle seeming to quiver with

fear as the wild wind fled past joyously, with a swirl and cry like

some huge sea-bird on the wing. It looked a dismal residence at its

best, even when the sun was shining,--but at night its aspect was

infinitely more dreary. It was an old house, and it enjoyed the

reputation of being haunted,--a circumstance which had enabled its

present owner to purchase the lease of it for a very moderate sum. He

it was who had built the tower, and, whether because of this piece of

extravagance or for other unexplained reasons, he had won for himself

personally almost as uncanny a reputation as the house had possessed

before he occupied it. A man who lived the life of a recluse,--who

seemed to have no relations with the outside world at all,--who had

only one servant (a young German, whom the shrewder gossips declared

was his “keeper”)--who lived on such simple fare as certainly would

never have contented a modern Hodge earning twelve shillings a week,

and who seemed to purchase nothing but strange astronomical and

geometrical instruments,--surely such a queer personage must either be

mad, or in league with some evil “secret society,”--the more

especially that he had had that tower erected, into which, after it

was finished, no one but himself ever entered, so far as the people of

the neighbourhood could tell. Under all these suspicious

circumstances, it was natural he should be avoided; and avoided he was

by the good folk of Ilfracombe, in that pleasantly diverting fashion

which causes provincial respectability to shudder away from the merest

suggestion of superior intelligence.

And yet poor old Dr. Kremlin was a being not altogether to be

despised. His appearance was perhaps against him inasmuch as his

clothes were shabby, and his eyes rather wild,--but the expression of

his meagre face was kind and gentle, and a perpetual compassion for

everything and everybody seemed to vibrate in his voice and reflect

itself in his melancholy smile. He was deeply occupied--so he told a

few friends in Russia, where he was born--in serious scientific

investigations,--but the “friends,” deeming him mad, held aloof till

those investigations should become results. If the results proved

disappointing, there would be no need to notice him any more,--if

successful, why then, by a mystic process known only to themselves,

the “friends” would so increase and multiply that he would be quite

inconveniently surrounded by them. In the meantime, nobody wrote to

him, or came to see him, except El-Râmi; and it was El-Râmi now,

who, towards ten o’clock in the evening, knocked at the door of his

lonely habitation and was at once admitted with every sign of

deference and pleasure by the servant Karl.

“I’m glad you’ve come, sir,”--said this individual cheerfully,--“The

Herr Doctor has not been out all day, and he eats less than ever. It

will do him good to see you.”

“He is in the tower as usual, at work?” inquired El-Râmi, throwing

off his coat.

Karl assented, with rather a doleful look,--and, opening the door of a

small dining-room, showed the supper-table laid for two.

El-Râmi smiled.

“It’s no good, Karl!” he said kindly--“It’s very well meant on your

part, but it’s no good at all. You will never persuade your master to

eat at this time of night, or me either. Clear all these things

away,--and make your mind easy,--go to bed and sleep. To-morrow

morning prepare as excellent a breakfast as you please--I promise you

we’ll do justice to it! Don’t look so discontented--don’t you know

that over-feeding kills the working capacity?”

“And over-starving kills the man,--working capacity and

all”--responded Karl lugubriously--“However, I suppose you know best,

sir!”

“In this case I do”--replied El-Râmi--“Your master expects me?”