/Ten/ minutes later the larger number of dancers in the ball-room came
to a sudden pause in their gyrations and stood looking on in
open-mouthed, reluctantly-admiring wonderment at the exquisite waltz
movements of the Princess Ziska as she floated past them in the arms
of Gervase, who, as a “Bedouin chief,” was perhaps only acting his
part aright when he held her to him with so passionate and close a
grip and gazed down upon her fair face with such a burning ardor in
his eyes. Nothing in the dancing world was ever seen like the dancing
of these two--nothing so languorously beautiful as the swaying grace
of their well-matched figures gliding to the music in as perfectly
harmonious a measure as a bird’s two wings beat to the pulsations of
the air. People noticed that as the Princess danced a tiny tinkling
sound accompanied her every step; and the more curious observers,
peeping downwards as she flew by, saw that she had kept to the details
of ancient Egyptian costume so exactly that she even wore sandals, and
that her feet, perfectly shaped and lovely as perfectly shaped and
lovely hands, were bare save for the sandal-ribbons which crossed
them, and which were fastened with jewels. Round the slim ankles were
light bands of gold, also glittering with gems, and furthermore
adorned by little golden bells which produced the pretty tinkling
music that attracted attention.
“What a delightful creature she is!” said Lady Fulkeward, settling her
“Duchess of Gainsborough” hat on her powdered wig more becomingly and
smiling up in the face of Ross Courtney, who happened to be standing
close by. “So sweetly unconventional! Everybody here thinks her
improper; she may be, but I like her. I’m not a bit of a prude.”
Courtney smiled irreverently at this. Prudery and “old” Lady Fulkeward
were indeed wide apart. Aloud he said:
“I think whenever a woman is exceptionally beautiful she generally
gets reported as ‘improper’ by her own sex; especially if she has a
fascinating manner and dresses well.”
“So true,” and Lady Fulkeward simpered. “Exactly what I find wherever
I go! Poor dear Ziska! She has to pay the penalty for captivating all
you men in the way she does. I’m sure _you_ have lost your heart to
her quite as much as anybody else, haven’t you?”
Courtney reddened.
“I don’t think so,” he answered; “I admire her very much, but I
haven’t lost my heart. …”
“Naughty boy! Don’t prevaricate!” and Lady Fulkeward smiled in the
bewitching pearly manner her admirably-made artificial teeth allowed
her to do. “Every man in the hotel is in love with the Princess, and
I’m sure I don’t blame them. If I belonged to your sex I should be in
love with her too. As it is, I am in love with the new arrival, that
glorious creature, Gervase. He is superb! He looks like an untamed
savage. I adore handsome barbarians!”
“He’s scarcely a barbarian, I think,” said Courtney, with some
amusement; “he is the great French artist, the ‘lion’ of Paris just
now,--only secondary to Sarah Bernhardt.”
“Artists are always barbarians,” declared Lady Fulkeward
enthusiastically. “They paint naughty people without any clothes on;
they never have any idea of time; they never keep their appointments;
and they are always falling in love with the wrong person and getting
into trouble, which is so nice of them! That’s why I worship them all.
They are so refreshingly unlike _our_ set!”
Courtney raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“You know what I mean by our set,” went on the vivacious old
“Gainsborough,” “the aristocrats whose conversation is limited to the
weather and scandal, and who are so frightfully dull! Dull! My dear
Ross, you know how dull they are!”
“Well, upon my word, they are,” admitted Courtney. “You are right
there. I certainly agree with you.”
“I’m sure you do! They have no ideas. Now, artists have ideas,--they
live on ideas and sentiment. Sentiment is such a beautiful thing--so
charming! I believe that fierce-looking Gervase is a creature of
sentiment--and how delightful that is! Of course, he’ll paint the
Princess Ziska--he _must_ paint her,--no one else could do it so well.
By the way, have you been asked to her great party next week?”
“Yes.”
“And are you going?”
“Most assuredly.”
“So am I. That absurd Chetwynd Lyle woman came to me this evening and
asked me if I really thought it would be proper to take her ‘girls’
there,” and Lady Fulkeward laughed shrilly. “Girls indeed! I should
say those two long, ugly women could go anywhere with safety. ‘Do you
consider the Princess a proper woman?’ she asked, and I said,
‘Certainly, as proper as you are.’”
Courtney laughed outright, and began to think there was some fun in
Lady Fulkeward.
“By Jove! Did you tell her that?”
“I should think I did! Oh, I know a thing or two about the Chetwynd
Lyles, but I keep my mouth shut till it suits me to open it. I said I
was going, and then, of course, she said she would.”
“Naturally.”
And Courtney gave the answer vaguely, for the waltz was ended, and the
Princess Ziska, on the arm of Gervase, was leaving the ball-room.
“She’s going,” exclaimed Lady Fulkeward. “Dear creature! Excuse me--I
must speak to her for a moment.”
And with a swish of her full skirts and a toss of her huge hat and
feathers, the lively flirt of sixty tripped off with all the agility
of sixteen, leaving Courtney to follow her or remain where he was,
just as he chose. He hesitated, and during that undecided pause was
joined by Dr. Maxwell Dean.
“A very brilliant and interesting evening!” said that individual,
smiling complacently. “I don’t remember any time when I have enjoyed
myself so thoroughly.”
“Really! I shouldn’t have thought you a man to care for fancy-dress
balls,” said Courtney.
“Shouldn’t you? Ha! Well, some fancy-dress balls I might not care for,
but this one has been highly productive of entertainment in every way,
and several incidents connected with it have opened up to me a new
vista of research, the possibilities of which are--er--very
interesting and remarkable.”
“Indeed!” murmured Courtney indifferently, his eyes fixed on the slim,
supple figure of the Princess Ziska as she slowly moved amid her
circle of admirers out of the ball-room, her golden skirts gleaming
sun-like against the polished floor, and the jewels about her flashing
in vivid points of light from the hem of her robe to the snake in her
hair.
“Yes,” continued the Doctor, smiling and rubbing his hands, “I think I
have got the clue to a very interesting problem. But I see you are
absorbed--and no wonder! A charming woman, the Princess
Ziska--charming! Do you believe in ghosts?”
This question was put with such unexpected abruptness that Courtney
was quite taken aback.
“Ghosts?” he echoed. “No, I cannot say I do. I have never seen one,
and I have never heard of one that did not turn out a bogus.”
“Oh! I don’t mean the usual sort of ghost,” said the Doctor, drawing
his shelving brows together in a meditative knot of criss-cross lines
over his small, speculative eyes. “The ghost that is common to Scotch
castles and English manor-houses, and that appears in an orthodox
night-gown, sighs, screams, rattles chains and bangs doors _ad
libitum_. No, no! That kind of ghost is composed of indigestion, aided
by rats and a gust of wind. No; when I say ghosts, I mean
ghosts--ghosts that do not need the midnight hour to evolve themselves
into being, and that by no means vanish at cock-crow. My ghosts are
those that move about among us in social intercourse for days,
months--sometimes years--according to their several missions; ghosts
that talk to us, imitate our customs and ways, shake hands with us,
laugh and dance with us, and altogether comport themselves like human
beings. Those are my kind of ghosts--‘scientific’ ghosts. There are
hundreds, aye, perhaps thousands of them in the world at this very
moment.”
An uncomfortable shudder ran through Courtney’s veins; the Doctor’s
manner seemed peculiar and uncanny.
“By Jove! I hope not!” he involuntarily exclaimed. “The orthodox ghost
is an infinitely better arrangement. One at least knows what to
expect. But a ‘scientific’ ghost that moves about in society,
resembling ourselves in every respect, appearing to be actually human
and yet having no humanity at all in its composition, is a terrific
notion indeed! You don’t mean to say you believe in the possibility of
such an appalling creature?”
“I not only believe it,” answered the Doctor composedly, “I know it!”
Here the band crashed out “God save the Queen,” which, as a witty
Italian once remarked, is the _De Profundis_ of every English
festivity.
“But--God bless my soul!” began Courtney …
“No, don’t say that!” urged the Doctor. “Say ‘God save the Queen.’
It’s more British.”
“Bother ‘God save the Queen,’” exclaimed Courtney impatiently.--“Look
here, you don’t mean it seriously, do you?”
“I always mean everything seriously,” said Dr. Dean,--“even my jokes.”
“Now come, no nonsense, Doctor,” and Courtney, taking his arm, led him
towards one of the windows opening out to the moonlit garden,--“can
you, as an honest man, assure me in sober earnest that there are
‘scientific ghosts’ of the nature you describe?”
The little Doctor surveyed the scenery, glanced up at the moon, and
then at his companion’s pleasant but not very intelligent face.
“I would rather not discuss the matter,” he said at last, with some
brusqueness. “There are certain subjects connected with psychic
phenomena on which it is best to be silent; besides, what interest can
such things have for you? You are a sportsman,--keep to your big game,
and leave ghost-hunting to me.”
“That is not a fair answer to my question,” said Courtney, “I’m sure I
don’t want to interfere with your researches in any way; I only want
to know if it is a fact that ghosts exist, and that they are really of
such a nature as to deserve the term ‘scientific.’”
Dr. Dean was silent a moment. Then, stretching out his small, thin
hand, he pointed to the clear sky, where the stars were almost lost to
sight in the brilliance of the moon.
“Look out there!” he said, his voice thrilling with sudden and solemn
fervor. “There in the limitless ether move millions of universes--vast
creations which our finite brains cannot estimate without
reeling,--enormous forces always at work, in the mighty movements of
which our earth is nothing more than a grain of sand. Yet far more
marvellous than their size or number is the mathematical exactitude of
their proportions,--the minute perfection of their balance,--the
exquisite precision with which every one part is fitted to another
part, not a pin’s point awry, not a hair’s breadth astray. Well, the
same exactitude which rules the formation and working of Matter
controls the formation and working of Spirit; and this is why I know
that ghosts exist, and, moreover, that we are _compelled_ by the laws
of the phenomena surrounding us to meet them every day.”
“I confess I do not follow you at all,” said Courtney bewildered.
“No,” and Dr. Dean smiled curiously. “I have perhaps expressed myself
obscurely. Yet I am generally considered a clear exponent. First of
all, let me ask you, do you believe in the existence of Matter?”
“Why, of course!”
“You do. Then you will no doubt admit that there is Something--an
Intelligent Principle or Spiritual Force--which creates and controls
this Matter?”
Courtney hesitated.
“Well, I suppose there must be,” he said at last. “I’m not a
church-goer, and I’m rather a free-thinker, but I certainly believe
there is a Mind at work behind the Matter.”
“That being the case,” proceeded the Doctor, “I suppose you will not
deny to this Invisible Mind the same exactitude of proportion and
precise method of action already granted to Visible Matter?”
“Of course, I could not deny such a reasonable proposition,” said
Courtney.
“Very good! Pursuing the argument logically, and allowing for an
exactly-moving Mind behind exactly-working Matter, it follows that
there can be no such thing as injustice anywhere in the universe?”
“My dear Socrates _redivivus_,” laughed Courtney, “I fail to see what
all this has to do with ghosts.”
“It has everything to do with them,” declared the Doctor emphatically,
“I repeat that if we grant these already stated premises concerning
the composition of Mind and Matter, there can be no such thing as
injustice. Yet seemingly unjust things are done every day, and
seemingly go unpunished. I say ‘seemingly’ advisedly, because the
punishment is always administered. And here the ‘scientific ghosts’
come in. ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord,--and the ghosts I speak
of are the Lord’s way of doing it.”
“You mean …” began Courtney.
“I mean,” continued the Doctor with some excitement, “that the sinner
who imagines his sins are undiscovered is a fool who deceives himself.
I mean that the murderer who has secretly torn the life out of his
shrieking victim in some unfrequented spot, and has succeeded in
hiding his crime from what we call ‘justice,’ cannot escape the
Spiritual law of vengeance. What would you say,” and Dr. Dean laid his
thin fingers on Courtney’s coat-sleeve with a light pressure,--“if I
told you that the soul of a murdered creature is often sent back to
earth in human shape to dog its murderer down? And that many a
criminal undiscovered by the police is haunted by a seeming Person,--a
man or a woman,--who is on terms of intimacy with him,--who eats at
his table, drinks his wine, clasps his hand, smiles in his face, and
yet is truly nothing but the ghost of his victim in human disguise,
sent to drag him gradually to his well-deserved, miserable end; what
would you say to such a thing?”
“Horrible!” exclaimed Courtney, recoiling. “Beyond everything
monstrous and horrible!”
The Doctor smiled and withdrew his hand from his companion’s arm.
“There are a great many horrible things in the universe as well as
pleasant ones,” he observed dryly. “Crime and its results are always
of a disagreeable nature. But we cannot alter the psychic law of
equity any more than we can alter the material law of gravitation. It
is growing late; I think, if you will excuse me, I will go to bed.”
Courtney looked at him puzzled and baffled.
“Then your ‘scientific ghosts’ are positive realities?” he began; here
he gave a violent start as a tall white figure suddenly moved out of
the shadows in the garden and came slowly towards them. “Upon my life,
Doctor, you have made me quite nervous!”
“No, no, surely not,” smiled the Doctor pleasantly--“not nervous! Not
such a brave killer of game as you are! No, no! You don’t take
Monsieur Armand Gervase for a ghost, do you? He is too
substantial,--far too substantial! Ha! ha! ha!”
And he laughed quietly, the wrinkled smile still remaining on his face
as Gervase approached.
“Everybody is going to bed,” said the great artist lazily. “With the
departure of the Princess Ziska, the pleasures of the evening are
ended.”
“She is certainly the belle of Cairo this season,” said Courtney, “but
I tell you what,--I am rather sorry to see young Murray has lost his
head about her.”
“_Parbleu!_ So am I,” said Gervase imperturbably; “it seems a pity.”
“He will get over it,” interposed Dr. Dean placidly. “It’s an
illness,--like typhoid,--we must do all we can to keep down the
temperature of the patient, and we shall pull him through.”
“Keep him cool, in short!” laughed Gervase.
“Exactly!” The little Doctor smiled shrewdly. “You look feverish,
Monsieur Gervase.”
Gervase flushed red under his dark skin.
“I daresay I am feverish,” he replied irritably,--“I find this place
hot as an oven. I think I should go away to-morrow if I had not asked
the Princess Ziska to sit to me.”
“You are going to paint her picture?” exclaimed Courtney. “By Jove! I
congratulate you. It will be the masterpiece of the next _salon_.”
Gervase bowed.
“You flatter me! The Princess is undoubtedly an attractive subject.
But, as I said before, this place stifles me. I think the hotel is too
near the river,--there is an oozy smell from the Nile that I hate, and
the heat is perfectly sulphureous. Don’t you find it so, Doctor?”
“N-n-o! I cannot say that I do. Let me feel your pulse; I am not a
medical man--but I can easily recognize any premonitions of illness.”
Gervase held out his long, brown, well-shaped hand, and the _savant’s_
small, cool fingers pressed lightly on his wrist.
“You are quite well, Monsieur Gervase,” he said after a pause,--“You
have a little sur-excitation of the nerves, certainly,--but it is not
curable by medicine.” He dropped the hand he held, and looked
up--“Good-night!”
“Good-night!” responded Gervase.
“Good-night!” added Courtney.
And with an amiable salutation the Doctor went his way. The ball-room
was now quite deserted, and the hotel servants were extinguishing the
lights.
“A curious little man, that Doctor,” observed Gervase, addressing
Courtney, to whom as yet he had not been formally introduced.
“Very curious!” was the reply. “I have known him for some years,--he
is a very clever man, but I have never been able quite to make him
out. I think he is a bit eccentric. He’s just been telling me he
believes in ghosts.”
“Ah, poor fellow!” and Gervase yawned as, with his companion, he
crossed the deserted ball-room. “Then he has what you call a screw
loose. I suppose it is that which makes him interesting. Good-night!”
“Good-night!”
And separating, they went their several ways to the small, cell-like
bedrooms, which are the prime discomfort of the Gezireh Palace Hotel,
and soon a great silence reigned throughout the building. All Cairo
slept,--save where at an open lattice window the moon shone full on a
face up-turned to her silver radiance,--the white, watchful face, and
dark, sleepless eyes of the Princess Ziska.