/What/ a strange and awful face it was!--what a thing of distorted
passion and pain! What an agony was expressed in every line of the
features!--agony in which the traces of a divine beauty lingered only
to render the whole countenance more repellent and terrific! A kind of
sentient solemnity, mingled with wrath and terror, glared from the
painted eyes,--the lips, slightly parted in a cruel upward curve,
seemed about to utter a shriek of menace,--the hair, drooping in
black, thick clusters low on the brow, looked wet as with the dews of
the _rigor mortis_,--and to add to the mysterious horror of the whole
conception, the distinct outline of a death’s-head was seen plainly
through the rose-brown flesh-tints. There was no real resemblance in
this horrible picture to the radiant and glowing loveliness of the
Princess Ziska, yet, at the same time, there was sufficient dim
likeness to make an imaginative person think it might be possible for
her to assume that appearance in death. Several minutes passed in
utter silence,--then Lord Fulkeward suddenly rose.
“I’m going!” he said. “It’s a beastly thing; it makes me sick!”
“_Grand merci!_” said Gervase with a forced smile.
“I really can’t help it,” declared the young man, turning his back to
the picture. “If I am rude, you must excuse it. I’m not very
strong--my mother will tell you I get put out very easily,--and I
shall dream of this horrid face all night if I don’t give it a wide
berth.”
And, without any further remark he stepped out through the open window
into the garden, and walked off. Gervase made no comment on his
departure; he turned his eyes towards Dr. Dean who, with spectacles on
nose, was staring hard at the picture with every sign of the deepest
interest.
“Well, Doctor,” he said, “you see it is not at all like the Princess.”
“Oh, yes it is!” returned the Doctor placidly. “If you could imagine
the Princess’s face in torture, it would be like her. It is the kind
of expression she might wear if she suddenly met with a violent end.”
“But why should I paint her so?” demanded Gervase. “She was perfectly
tranquil; and her attitude was most picturesquely composed. I sketched
her as I thought I saw her,--how did this tortured head come on my
canvas?”
The Doctor scratched his chin thoughtfully. It was certainly a
problem. He stared hard at Gervase, as though searching for the clue
to the mystery in the handsome artist’s own face. Then he turned to
Denzil Murray, who had not stirred or spoken.
“What do you think of it, eh, Denzil?” he asked.
The young man started as from a dream.
“I don’t know what to think of it.”
“And you?” said the Doctor, addressing Ross Courtney.
“I? Oh, I am of the same opinion as Fulkeward,--I think it is a
horrible thing. And the curious part of the matter is that it is like
the Princess Ziska, and yet totally unlike. Upon my word, you know, it
is a very unpleasant picture.”
Dr. Dean got up and paced the room two or three times, his brows
knitted in a heavy frown. Suddenly he stopped in front of Gervase.
“Tell me,” he said, “have you any recollection of ever having met the
Princess Ziska before?”
Gervase looked puzzled, then answered slowly:
“No, I have no actual recollection of the kind. At the same time, I
admit to you that there is something about her which has always struck
me as being familiar. The tone of her voice and the peculiar cadence
of her laughter particularly affect me in this way. Last night when I
was dancing with her, I wondered whether I had ever come across her as
a model in one of the studios in Paris or Rome.”
The Doctor listened to him attentively, watching him narrowly the
while. But he shook his head incredulously at the idea of the Princess
ever having posed as a model.
“No, no, that won’t do!” he said. “I do not believe she was ever in
the model business. Think again. You are now a man in the prime of
life, Monsieur Gervase, but look back to your early youth,--the period
when young men do wild, reckless, and often wicked things,--did you
ever in that thoughtless time break a woman’s heart?”
Gervase flushed, and shrugged his shoulders.
“_Pardieu!_ I may have done! Who can tell? But if I did, what would
that have to do with this?” and he tapped the picture impatiently.
The Doctor sat down and smacked his lips with a peculiar air of
enjoyment.
“It would have a great deal to do with it,” he answered, “that is,
psychologically speaking. I have known of such cases. We will argue
the point out systematically thus:--Suppose that you, in your boyhood,
had wronged some woman, and suppose that woman had died. You might
imagine you had got rid of that woman. But if her love was very strong
and her sense of outrage very bitter, I must tell you that you have
not got rid of her by any means, moreover, you never will get rid of
her. And why? Because her Soul, like all Souls, is imperishable. Now,
putting it as a mere supposition, and for the sake of the argument,
that you feel a certain admiration for the Princess Ziska, an
admiration which might possibly deepen into something more than
platonic, …”--here Denzil Murray looked up, his eyes glowing with an
angry pain as he fixed them on Gervase,--“why then the Soul of the
other woman you once wronged might come between you and the face of
the new attraction and cause you to unconsciously paint the tortured
look of the injured and unforgiving Spirit on the countenance of the
lovely fascinator whose charms are just beginning to ensnare you. I
repeat, I have known of such cases.” And, unheeding the amazed and
incredulous looks of his listeners, the little Doctor folded both his
short arms across his chest, and hugged himself in the exquisite
delight of his own strange theories. “The fact is,” he continued, “you
cannot get rid of ghosts! They are all about us--everywhere! Sometimes
they take forms, sometimes they are content to remain invisible. But
they never fail to make their presence felt. Often during the
performance of some great piece of music they drift between the air
and the melody, making the sounds wilder and more haunting, and
freezing the blood of the listener with a vague agony and chill.
Sometimes they come between us and our friends, mysteriously
forbidding any further exchange of civilities or sympathies, and
occasionally they meet us alone and walk and talk with us invisibly.
Generally they mean well, but sometimes they mean ill. And the only
explanation I can offer you, Monsieur Gervase, as to the present
picture problem is that a ghost must have come between you and your
canvas!”
Gervase laughed loudly.
“My good friend, you are an adept in the art of pleading the
impossible! You must excuse me; I am a sceptic; and I hope I am also
in possession of my sober reason,--therefore, you can hardly wonder at
my entirely refusing to accept such preposterous theories as those you
appear to believe in.”
Dr. Dean gave him a civil little bow.
“I do not ask you to accept them, my dear sir! I state my facts, and
you can take them or leave them, just as you please. You yourself can
offer no explanation of the singular way in which this picture has
been produced; I offer one which is perfectly tenable with the
discoveries of psychic science,--and you dismiss it as preposterous.
That being the case, I should recommend you to cut up this canvas and
try your hand again on the same subject.”
“Of course, I shall try again,” retorted Gervase. “But I do not think
I shall destroy this first sketch. It is a curiosity in its way; and
it has a peculiar fascination for me. Do you notice how thoroughly
Egyptian the features are? They are the very contour of some of the
faces on the recently-discovered frescoes.”
“Oh, I noticed that at once,” said the Doctor; “but that is not
remarkable, seeing that you yourself are quite of an Egyptian type,
though a Frenchman,--so much so, in fact, that many people in this
hotel have commented on it.”
Gervase said nothing, but slowly turned the canvas round with its face
to the wall.
“You have seen enough of it, I suppose?” he inquired of Denzil Murray.
“More than enough!”
Gervase smiled.
“It ought to disenchant you,” he said in a lower tone.
“But it is a libel on her beauty,--it is not in the least like her,”
returned Murray coldly.
“Not in the very least? Are you sure? My dear Denzil, you know as well
as I do that there _is_ a likeness, combined with a dreadful
unlikeness; and it is that which troubles both of us. I assure you, my
good boy, I am as sorry for you as I am for myself,--for I feel that
this woman will be the death of one or both of us!”
Denzil made no reply, and presently they all strolled out in the
garden and lit their cigars and cigarettes, with the exception of Dr.
Dean who never smoked and never drank anything stronger than water.
“I am going to get up a party for the Nile,” he said as he turned his
sharp, ferret-like eyes upwards to the clear heavens; “and I shall
take the Princess into my confidence. In fact, I have written to her
about it to-day. I hear she has a magnificent electric dahabeah, and
if she will let us charter it. …”
“She won’t,” said Denzil hastily, “unless she goes with it herself.”
“You seem to know a great deal about her,” observed Dr. Dean
indulgently, “and why should she not go herself? She is evidently well
instructed in the ancient history of Egypt, and, as she reads the
hieroglyphs, she will be a delightful guide and a most valuable
assistant to me in my researches.”
“What researches are you engaged upon now?” inquired Courtney.
“I am hunting down a man called Araxes,” answered the Doctor. “He
lived, so far as I can make out, some four or five thousand years ago,
more or less; and I want to find out what he did and how he died, and
when I know how he died, then I mean to discover where he is buried.
If possible, I shall excavate him. I also want to find the remains of
Ziska-Charmazel, the lady impersonated by our charming friend the
Princess last night,--the dancer, who, it appears from a
recently-discovered fresco, occupied most of her time in dancing
before this same Araxes and making herself generally agreeable to
him.”
“What an odd fancy!” exclaimed Denzil. “How can a man and woman dead
five thousand years ago be of any interest to you?”
“What interest has Rameses?” demanded the Doctor politely, “or any of
the Ptolemies? Araxes, like Rameses, may lead to fresh discoveries in
Egypt, for all we know. One name is as good as another,--and each
odoriferous mummy has its own mystery.”
They all came just then to a pause in their walk, Gervase stopping to
light a fresh cigarette. The rays of the rising moon fell upon him as
he stood, a tall and stately figure, against a background of palms,
and shone on his dark features with a touch of grayish-green luminance
that gave him for the moment an almost spectral appearance. Dr. Dean
glanced at him with a smile.
“What a figure of an Egyptian, is he not!” he said to Courtney and
Denzil Murray. “Look at him! What height and symmetry! What a world of
ferocity in those black, slumbrous eyes! Yes, Monsieur Gervase, I am
talking about you. I am admiring you!”
“_Trop d’honneur!_” murmured Gervase, carefully shielding with one
hand the match with which he was kindling his cigarette.
“Yes,” continued the Doctor, “I am admiring you. Being a little man
myself, I naturally like tall men, and as an investigator of psychic
forms I am immensely interested when I see a finely-made body in which
the soul lies torpid. That is why you unconsciously compose for me a
wonderful subject of study. I wonder now, how long this torpidity in
the psychic germ has lasted in you? It commenced, of course,
originally in protoplasm; but it must have continued through various
low forms and met with enormous difficulties in attaining to
individual consciousness as man,--because even now it is scarcely
conscious.”
Gervase laughed.
“Why, that beginning of the soul in protoplasm is part of a creed
which the Princess Ziska was trying to teach me to-day,” he said
lightly. “It’s all no use. I don’t believe in the soul; if I did, I
should be a miserable man.”
“Why?” asked Murray.
“Why? Because, my dear fellow, I should be rather afraid of my future.
I should not like to live again; I might have to remember certain
incidents which I would rather forget. There is your charming sister,
Mademoiselle Helen! I must go and talk to her,--her conversation
always does me good; and after that picture which I have been
unfortunate enough to produce, her presence will be as soothing as the
freshness of morning after an unpleasant nightmare.”
He moved away; Denzil Murray with Courtney followed him. Dr. Dean
remained behind, and presently sitting down in a retired corner of the
garden alone, he took out a small pocket-book and stylographic pen and
occupied himself for more than half an hour in busily writing till he
had covered two or three pages with his small, neat caligraphy.
“It is the most interesting problem I ever had the chance of
studying!” he murmured half aloud when he had finished. “Of course, if
my researches into the psychic spheres of action are worth anything,
it can only be one case out of thousands. Thousands? Aye, perhaps
millions! Great heavens! Among what terrific unseen forces we live!
And in exact proportion to every man’s arrogant denial of the
‘Divinity that shapes our ends,’ so will be measured out to him the
revelation of the invisible. Strange that the human race has never
entirely realized as yet the depth of meaning in the words describing
hell: ‘Where the worm dieth not, and where the flame is never
quenched.’ The ‘worm’ is Retribution, the ‘flame’ is the immortal
Spirit,--and the two are forever striving to escape from the other.
Horrible! And yet there are men who believe in neither one thing nor
the other, and reject the Redemption that does away with both! God
forgive us all our sins,--and especially the sins of pride and
presumption!”
And with a shade of profound melancholy on his features, the little
Doctor put by his note-book, and, avoiding all the hotel loungers on
the terrace and elsewhere, retired to his own room and went to bed.