/For/ the benefit of those among the untravelled English who have not
yet broken a soda-water bottle against the Sphinx, or eaten sandwiches
to the immortal memory of Cheops, it may be as well to explain that
the Mena House Hotel is a long, rambling, roomy building, situated
within five minutes’ walk of the Great Pyramid, and happily possessed
of a golfing-ground and a marble swimming-bath. That ubiquitous
nuisance, the “amateur photographer,” can there have his “dark room”
for the development of his more or less imperfect “plates”; and there
is a resident chaplain for the piously inclined. With a chaplain and a
“dark room,” what more can the aspiring soul of the modern tourist
desire? Some of the rooms at the Mena House are small and stuffy;
others large and furnished with sufficient elegance: and the Princess
Ziska had secured a “suite” of the best that could be obtained, and
was soon installed there with befitting luxury. She left Cairo quite
suddenly, and without any visible preparation, the morning after the
reception in which she had astonished her guests by her dancing: and
she did not call at the Gezireh Palace Hotel to say good-bye to any of
her acquaintances there. She was perhaps conscious that her somewhat
“free” behavior had startled several worthy and sanctimonious persons;
and possibly she also thought that to take rooms in an hotel which was
only an hour’s distance from Cairo, could scarcely be considered as
absenting herself from Cairene society. She was followed to her desert
retreat by Dr. Dean, Armand Gervase, and Denzil Murray, who drove to
the Mena House together in one carriage, and were more or less all
three in a sober and meditative frame of mind. They arrived in time to
see the Sphinx bathed in the fierce glow of an ardent sunset, which
turned the golden sands to crimson, and made the granite monster look
like a cruel idol surrounded by a sea of blood. The brilliant red of
the heavens flamed in its stony eyes, and gave them a sentient look as
of contemplated murder,--and the same radiance fitfully playing on the
half-scornful, half-sensual lips caused them to smile with a seeming
voluptuous mockery. Dr. Dean stood transfixed for a while at the
strange splendor of the spectacle, and turning to his two silent
companions, said suddenly:
“There is something, after all, in the unguessed riddle of the Sphinx.
It is not a fable; it is a truth. There is a problem to be solved, and
that monstrous creature knows it! The woman’s face, the brute’s
body--Spiritualism and Materialism in one! It is life, and more than
life; it is love. Forever and forever it teaches the same wonderful,
terrible mystery. We aspire, yet we fall; love would fain give us
wings wherewith to fly; but the wretched body lies prone--supine; it
cannot soar to the Light Eternal.”
“What _is_ the Light Eternal?” queried Gervase, moodily. “How do we
know it exists? We cannot prove it. This world is what we see; we have
to do with it and ourselves. Soul without body could not exist. …”
“Could it not?” said the Doctor. “How, then, does body exist without
soul?”
This was an unexpected but fair question, and Gervase found himself
curiously perplexed by it. He offered no reply, neither did Denzil,
and they all three slowly entered the Mena House Hotel, there to be
met with deferential salutations by the urbane and affable landlord,
and to be assured that they would find their rooms comfortable, and
also that “Madame la Princesse Ziska” expected them to dine with her
that evening. At this message, Denzil Murray made a sign to Gervase
that he wished to speak to him alone. Gervase moved aside with him.
“Give me my chance!” said Denzil, fiercely.
“Take it!” replied Gervase listlessly. “Let to-night witness the
interchange of hearts between you and the Princess; I shall not
interfere.”
Denzil stared at him in sullen astonishment.
“You will not interfere? Your fancy for her is at an end?”
Gervase raised his dark, glowing eyes and fixed them on his would-be
rival with a strange and sombre expression.
“My ‘fancy’ for her? My good boy, take care what you say! Don’t rouse
me too far, for I am dangerous! My ‘fancy’ for her! What do you know
of it? You are hot-blooded and young; but the chill of the North
controls you in a fashion, while I--a man in the prime of manhood--am
of the South, and the Southern fire brooks no control. Have you seen a
quiet ocean, smooth as glass, with only a dimple in the deep blue to
show that perhaps, should occasion serve, there might arise a little
wave? And have you seen the wild storm breaking from a black cloud and
suddenly making that quiet expanse nothing but a _tourbillon_ of
furious elements, in which the very sea-gull’s cry is whelmed and lost
in the thunder of the billows? Such a storm as that may be compared to
the ‘fancy’ you suppose I feel for the woman who has dragged us both
here to die at her feet--for that, I believe, is what it will come to.
Life is not possible under the strain of emotion with which we two are
living it. …”
He broke off, then resumed in quieter tones:
“I say to you: Use your opportunities while you have them. After
dinner I will leave you alone with the Princess. I will go out for a
stroll with Dr. Dean. Take your chance, Denzil, for, as I live, it is
your last! It will be my turn next! Give me credit for to-night’s
patience!”
He turned quickly away, and in a moment was gone. Denzil Murray stood
still for a while, thinking deeply, and trying to review the position
in which he found himself. He was madly in love with a woman for whom
his only sister had the most violent antipathy; and that sister, who
had once been all in all to him, had now become almost less than
nothing in the headstrong passion which consumed him. No consideration
for her peace and ultimate happiness affected him, though he was
sensible of a certain remorseful pity when thinking of her gentle ways
and docile yielding to his often impatient and impetuous humors; but,
after all, she was only his sister,--she could not understand his
present condition of mind. Then there was Gervase, whom he had for
some years looked upon as one of his most admired and intimate
friends; now he was nothing more or less than a rival and an enemy,
notwithstanding his seeming courtesy and civil self-restraint. As a
matter of fact, he, Denzil, was left alone to face his fate: to dare
the brilliant seduction of the witching eyes of Ziska,--to win her or
to lose her forever! And consider every point as he would, the weary
conviction was borne in upon him that, whether he met with victory or
defeat, the result would bring more misery than joy.
When he entered the Princess’s _salon_ that evening, he found Dr. Dean
and Gervase already there. The Princess herself, attired in a
dinner-dress made with quite a modern Parisian elegance, received him
in her usual graceful manner, and expressed with much sweetness her
hope that the air of the desert would prove beneficial to him after
the great heats that had prevailed in Cairo. Nothing but
conventionalities were spoken. Oh, those conventionalities! What a
world of repressed emotions they sometimes cover! How difficult it is
to conceive that the man and woman who are greeting each other with
calm courtesy in a crowded drawing-room are the very two, who,
standing face to face in the moonlit silence of some lonely grove of
trees or shaded garden, once in their lives suddenly realized the wild
passion that neither dared confess! Tragedies lie deepest under
conventionalities--such secrets are buried beneath them as sometimes
might make the angels weep! They are safeguards, however, against
stronger emotions; and the strange bathos of two human creatures
talking politely about the weather when the soul of each is clamoring
for the other, has sometimes, despite its absurdity, saved the
situation.
At dinner, the Princess Ziska devoted herself almost entirely to the
entertainment of Dr. Dean, and awakened his interest very keenly on
the subject of the Great Pyramid.
“It has never really been explored,” she said. “The excavators who
imagine they have fathomed its secrets are completely in error. The
upper chambers are mere deceits to the investigator; they were built
and planned purposely to mislead, and the secrets they hide have never
even been guessed at, much less discovered.”
“Are you sure of that?” inquired the Doctor, eagerly. “If so, would
you not give your information. …”
“I neither give my information nor sell it,” interrupted the Princess,
smiling coldly. “I am only a woman--and women are supposed to know
nothing. With the rest of my sex, I am judged illogical and
imaginative; you wise men would call my knowledge of history
deficient, my facts not proven. But, if you like, I will tell you the
story of the construction of the Great Pyramid, and why it is unlikely
that anyone will ever find the treasures that are buried within it.
You can receive the narrative with the usual incredulity common to
men; I shall not attempt to argue the pros and cons with you, because
I never argue. Treat it as a fairy-tale--no woman is ever supposed to
know anything for a fact,--she is too stupid. Only men are wise!”
Her dark, disdainful glance flashed on Gervase and Denzil; anon she
smiled bewitchingly, and added:
“Is it not so?”
“Wisdom is nothing compared to beauty,” said Gervase. “A beautiful
woman can turn the wisest man into a fool.”
The Princess laughed lightly.
“Yes, and a moment afterwards he regrets his folly,” she said. “He
clamors for the beautiful woman as a child might cry for the moon, and
when he at last possesses her, he tires. Satisfied with having
compassed her degradation, he exclaims: ‘What shall I do with this
beauty, which, because it is mine, now palls upon me? Let me kill it
and forget it; I am aweary of love, and the world is full of women!’
That is the way of your sex, Monsieur Gervase; it is a brutal way, but
it is the one most of you follow.”
“There is such a thing as love!” said Denzil, looking up quickly, a
pained flush on his handsome face.
“In the hearts of women, yes!” said Ziska, her voice growing tremulous
with strange and sudden passion. “Women love--ah!--with what force and
tenderness and utter abandonment of self! But their love is in
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred utterly wasted; it is a _largesse_
flung to the ungrateful, a jewel tossed in the mire! If there were not
some compensation in the next life for the ruin wrought on loving
women, the Eternal God himself would be a mockery and a jest.”
“And is he not?” queried Gervase, ironically. “Fair Princess, I would
not willingly shake your faith in things unseen, but what does the
‘Eternal God,’ as you call Him, care as to the destiny of any
individual unit on this globe of matter? Does He interfere when the
murderer’s knife descends upon the victim? And has He ever interfered?
He it is who created the sexes and placed between them the strong
attraction that often works more evil and misery than good; and what
barrier has He ever interposed between woman and man, her natural
destroyer? None!--save the trifling one of virtue, which is a flimsy
thing, and often breaks down at the first temptation. No, my dear
Princess; the ‘Eternal God,’ if there is one, does nothing but look on
impassively at the universal havoc of creation. And in the blindness
and silence of things, I cannot recognize an Eternal God at all; we
were evidently made to eat, drink, breed and die--and there an end.”
“What of ambition?” asked Dr. Dean. “What of the inspiration that
lifts a man beyond himself and his material needs, and teaches him to
strive after the Highest?”
“Mere mad folly!” replied Gervase impetuously. “Take the Arts. I, for
example, dream of painting a picture that shall move the world to
admiration,--but I seldom grasp the idea I have imagined. I paint
something,--anything,--and the world gapes at it, and some rich fool
buys it, leaving me free to paint another something; and so on and so
on, to the end of my career. I ask you what satisfaction does it
bring? What is it to Raphael that thousands of human units, cultured
and silly, have stared at his ‘Madonnas’ and his famous Cartoons?”
“Well, we do not exactly know what it may or may not be to Raphael,”
said the Doctor, meditatively. “According to my theories, Raphael is
not dead, but merely removed into another form, on another planet
possibly, and is working elsewhere. You might as well ask what it is
to Araxes now that he was a famous warrior once?”
Gervase moved uneasily.
“You have got Araxes on the brain, Doctor,” he said, with a forced
smile, “and in our conversation we are forgetting that the Princess
has promised to tell us a fairy-tale, the story of the Great Pyramid.”
The Princess looked at him, then at Denzil Murray, and lastly at Dr.
Dean.
“Would you really care to hear it?” she asked.
“Most certainly!” they all three answered.
She rose from the dinner-table.
“Come here to the window,” she said. “You can see the great structure
now, in the dusky light,--look at it well and try, if you can, to
realize that deep, deep down in the earth on which it stands is a
connected gallery of rocky caves wherein no human foot has ever
penetrated since the Deluge swept over the land and made a desert of
all the old-time civilization!”
Her slight figure appeared to dilate as she spoke, raising one slender
hand and arm to point at the huge mass that towered up against the
clear, starlit sky. Her listeners were silent, awed and attentive.
“One of the latest ideas concerning the Pyramids is, as you know, that
they were built as towers of defence against the Deluge. That is
correct. The wise men of the old days foretold the time when ‘the
waters should rise and cover the earth,’ and these huge monuments were
prepared and raised to a height which it was estimated would always
appear above the level of the coming flood, to show where the
treasures of Egypt were hidden for safety. Yes,--the treasures of
Egypt, the wisdom, the science of Egypt! They are all down there
still! And there, to all intents and purposes, they are likely to
remain.”
“But archæologists are of the opinion that the Pyramids have been
thoroughly explored,” began Dr. Dean, with some excitement.
The Princess interrupted him by a slight gesture.
“Archæologists, my dear Doctor, are like the rest of this world’s
so-called ‘learned’ men; they work in one groove, and are generally
content with it. Sometimes an unusually brilliant brain conceives the
erratic notion of working in several grooves, and is straightway
judged as mad or fanatic. It is when these comet-like intelligences
sweep across the world’s horizon that we hear of a Julius Cæsar, a
Napoleon, a Shakespeare. But archæologists are the narrowest and
dryest of men,--they preconceive a certain system of work and follow
it out by mathematical rule and plan, without one touch of imagination
to help them to discover new channels of interest or historical
information. As I told you before I began to speak, you are welcome to
entirely disbelieve my story of the Great Pyramid,--but as I have
begun it, you may as well hear it through.”
She paused a moment, then went on:
“According to my information, the building of the Pyramids was
commenced three hundred years before the Deluge, in the time of
Saurid, the son of Sabaloc, who, it is said, was the first to receive
a warning dream of the coming flood. Saurid, being convinced by his
priests, astrologers and soothsayers that the portent was a true one,
became from that time possessed of one idea, which was that the vast
learning of Egypt, its sciences, discoveries and strange traditions
should not be lost,--and that the exploits and achievements of those
who were great and famous in the land should be so recorded as never
to be forgotten. In those days, here where you see these measureless
tracts of sand, there were great mountainous rocks and granite
quarries, and Saurid utilized these for the hollowing out of deep
caverns in which to conceal treasure. When these caverns were prepared
to his liking, he caused a floor to be made, portions of which were
rendered movable by means of secret springs, and then leaving a hollow
space of some four feet in height, he started foundations for another
floor above it. This upper floor is what you nowadays see when you
enter the Pyramid,--and no one imagines that under it is an open space
with room to walk in, and yet another floor below, where everything of
value is secreted.”
Dr. Dean drew a long breath of wonderment.
“Astonishing, if true!”
The Princess smiled somewhat disdainfully, and went on:
“Saurid’s work was carried on after his death by his successors, and
with thousands of slaves toiling night and day the Pyramids were in
the course of years raised above the caverns which concealed Egypt’s
mysteries. Everything was gradually accumulated in these underground
store-houses,--the engraved talismans, the slabs of stone on which
were deeply carved the geometrical and astronomical sciences;
indestructible glass chests containing papyri, on which were written
the various discoveries made in beneficial drugs, swift poisons, and
other medicines. And among these many things were thirty great jars
full of precious stones, some of which were marvels of the earth. They
are there still! And some of the great men who died were interred in
these caves, every one in a separate chamber inlaid with gold and
gems, and I think,” here the Princess turned her dark eyes full on Dr.
Dean, “I think that if you knew the secret way of lifting the
apparently immovable floor, which is like the solid ground, and
descending through the winding galleries beneath, it is more than
probable you would find in the Great Pyramid the tomb of Araxes!”
Her eyes glistened strangely in the evening light with that peculiar
fiery glow which had made Dr. Dean once describe them as being like
the eyes of a vampire-bat, and there was something curiously
impressive in her gesture as she once more pointed to the towering
structure which loomed against the heavens, with one star flashing
immediately above it. A sudden involuntary shudder shook Gervase as
with icy cold; he moved restlessly, and presently remarked:
“Well, it is a safe tomb, at any rate! Whoever Araxes was, he stands
little chance of being exhumed if he lies two floors below the Great
Pyramid in a sealed-up rocky cavern! Princess, you look like an
inspired prophetess!--so much talk of ancient and musty times makes me
feel uncanny, and I will, with your permission, have a smoke with Dr.
Dean in the garden to steady my nerves. The mere notion of thirty
vases of unclaimed precious stones hidden down yonder is enough to
upset any man’s equanimity!”
“The papyri would interest me more than the jewels,” said Dr. Dean.
“What do you say, Denzil?”
Denzil Murray woke up suddenly from a fit of abstraction.
“Oh, I don’t know anything about it,” he answered. “I never was very
much interested in those old times,--they seem to me all myth. I could
never link past, present and future together as some people can; they
are to me all separate things. The past is done with,--the present is
our own to enjoy or to detest, and the future no man can look into.”
“Ah, Denzil, you are young, and reflection has not been very hard at
work in that headstrong brain of yours,” said Dr. Dean with an
indulgent smile, “otherwise you would see that past, present and
future are one and indissoluble. The past is as much a part of your
present identity as the present, and the future, too, lies in you in
embryo. The mystery of one man’s life contains all mysteries, and if
we could only understand it from its very beginning we should find out
the cause of all things, and the ultimate intention of creation.”
“Well, now, you have all had enough serious talk,” said the Princess
Ziska lightly, “so let us adjourn to the drawing-room. One of my
waiting-women shall sing to you by and by; she has a very sweet
voice.”
“Is it she who sings that song about the lotus-lily?” asked Gervase,
suddenly.
The Princess smiled strangely.
“Yes,--it is she.”
Dr. Dean chose a cigar from a silver box on the table; Gervase did the
same.
“Won’t you smoke, Denzil?” he asked carelessly.
“No, thanks!” Denzil spoke hurriedly and hoarsely. “I think--if the
Princess will permit me--I will stay and talk with her in the
drawing-room while you two have your smoke together.”
The Princess gave a charming bow of assent to this proposition.
Gervase took the Doctor somewhat roughly by the arm and led him out
through the open French window into the grounds beyond, remarking as
he went:
“You will excuse us, Princess? We leave you in good company!”
She smiled.
“I will excuse you, certainly! But do not be long!”
And she passed from the dining-room into the small saloon beyond,
followed closely by Denzil.
Once out in the grounds, Gervase gave vent to a boisterous fit of wild
laughter, so loud and fierce that little Dr. Dean came to an abrupt
standstill, and stared at him in something of alarm as well as
amazement.
“Are you going mad, Gervase?” he asked.
“Yes!” cried Gervase, “that is just it,--I am going mad,--mad for
love, or whatever you please to call it! What do you think I am made
of? Flesh and blood, or cast-iron? Heavens! Do you think if all the
elements were to combine in a war against me, they should cheat me out
of this woman or rob me of her? No, no! A thousand times no! Satisfy
yourself, my excellent Doctor, with your musty records of the
past,--prate as you choose of the future,--but in the immediate,
burning, active present my will is law! And the fool Denzil thinks to
thwart me,--I, who have never been thwarted since I knew the meaning
of existence!”
He paused in a kind of breathless agitation, and Dr. Dean grasped his
arm firmly.
“Come, come, what is all this excitement for?” he said. “What are you
saying about Denzil?”
Gervase controlled himself with a violent effort and forced a smile.
“He has got his chance,--I have given it to him! He is alone with the
Princess, and he is asking her to be his wife!”
“Nonsense!” said the Doctor sharply. “If he does commit such a folly,
it will be no use. The woman is _not human_!”
“Not human?” echoed Gervase, his black eyes dilating with a sudden
amazement--“What do you mean?”
The little Doctor rubbed his nose impatiently and seemed sorry he had
spoken.
“I mean--let me see! What do I mean?” he said at last
meditatively--“Oh, well, it is easy enough of explanation. There are
plenty of people like the Princess Ziska to whom I would apply the
words ‘not human.’ She is all beauty and no heart. Again--if you
follow me--she is all desire and no passion, which is a character
‘like unto the beasts which perish.’ A large majority of men are made
so, and some women,--though the women are comparatively few. Now, so
far as the Princess Ziska is concerned,” continued the Doctor, fixing
his keen, penetrative glance on Gervase as he spoke, “I frankly admit
to you that I find in her material for a very curious and complex
study. That is why I have come after her here. I have said she is all
desire and no passion. That of itself is inhuman; but what I am busy
about now is to try and analyze the nature of the particular desire
that moves her, controls her, keeps her alive,--in short. It is not
love; of that I feel confident; and it is not hate,--though it is more
like hate than love. It is something indefinable, something that is
almost occult, so deep-seated and bewildering is the riddle. You look
upon me as a madman--yes! I know you do! But mad or sane, I
emphatically repeat, the Princess is _not human_, and by this
expression I wish to imply that though she has the outward appearance
of a most beautiful and seductive human body, she has the soul of a
fiend. Now, do you understand me?”
“It would take Œdipus himself all his time to do that,”--said
Gervase, forcing a laugh which had no mirth in it, for he was
conscious of a vaguely unpleasant sensation--a chill, as of some dark
presentiment, which oppressed his mind. “When you know I do not
believe in the soul, why do you talk to me about it? The soul of a
fiend,--the soul of an angel,--what are they? Mere empty terms to me,
meaning nothing. I think I agree with you though, in one or two points
concerning the Princess; _par exemple_, I do not look upon her as one
of those delicately embodied purities of womanhood before whom we men
instinctively bend in reverence, but whom, at the same time, we
generally avoid, ashamed of our vileness. No; she is certainly not one
of the
“‘Maiden roses left to die
Because they climb so near the sky,
That not the boldest passer-by
Can pluck them from their vantage high.’
And whether it is best to be a solitary ‘maiden-rose’ or a Princess
Ziska, who shall say? And human or inhuman, whatever composition she
is made of, you may make yourself positively certain that Denzil
Murray is just now doing his best to persuade her to be a Highland
châtelaine in the future. Heavens, what a strange fate it will be for
_la belle Egyptienne_!”
“Oh, you think she _is_ Egyptian then?” queried Dr. Dean, with an air
of lively curiosity.
“Of course I do. She has the Egyptian type of form and countenance.
Consider only the resemblance between her and the dancer she chose to
represent the other night--the Ziska-Charmazel of the antique
sculpture on her walls!”
“Ay, but if you grant one resemblance, you must also admit another,”
said the Doctor quickly. “The likeness between yourself and the
old-world warrior, Araxes, is no less remarkable!” Gervase moved
uneasily, and a sudden pallor blanched his face, making it look wan
and haggard in the light of the rising moon. “And it is rather
singular,” went on the imperturbable _savant_, “that according to the
legend or history--whichever you please to consider it,--for in time,
legends become histories and histories legends--Araxes should have
been the lover of this very Ziska-Charmazel, and that you, who are the
living portrait of Araxes, should suddenly become enamored of the
equally living portrait of the dead woman! You must own, that to a
mere onlooker and observer like myself, it seems a curious
coincidence!”
Gervase smoked on in silence, his level brows contracted in a musing
frown.
“Yes, it seems curious,” he said at last, “but a great many curious
coincidences happen in this world--so many that we, in our days of
rush and turmoil, have not time to consider them as they come or go.
Perhaps of all the strange things in life, the sudden sympathies and
the headstrong passions which spring up in a day or a night between
certain men and certain women are the strangest. I look upon you,
Doctor, as a very clever fellow with just a little twist in his brain,
or let us say a ‘fad’ about spiritual matters; but in one of your more
or less fantastic and extravagant theories I am half disposed to
believe, and that is the notion you have of the possibility of some
natures, male and female, having met before in a previous state of
existence and under different forms, such as birds, flowers, or forest
animals, or even mere incorporeal breaths of air and flame. It is an
idea which I confess fascinates me. It seems fairly reasonable too,
for, as many scientists argue that you cannot destroy matter, but only
transform it, there is really nothing impossible in the suggestion.”
He paused, then added slowly as he flung the end of his cigar away:
“I have felt the force of this odd fancy of yours most strongly since
I met the Princess Ziska.”
“Indeed! Then the impression she gave you first is still upon
you--that of having known her before?”
Gervase waited a minute or two before replying; then he answered:
“Yes. And not only of having known her before, but of having loved her
before. Love!--_mon Dieu!_--what a tame word it is! How poorly it
expresses the actual emotion! Fire in the veins--delirium in the
brain--reason gone to chaos! And this madness is mildly described as
‘love?’”
“There are other words for it,” said the Doctor. “Words that are not
so poetic, but which, perhaps, are more fitting.”
“No!” interrupted Gervase, almost fiercely. “There are no words which
truly describe this one emotion which rules the world. I know what
_you_ mean, of course; you mean evil words, licentious words, and yet
it has nothing whatever to do with these. You cannot call such an
exalted state of the nerves and sensations by an evil name.”
Dr. Dean pondered the question for a few moments.
“No, I am not sure that I can,” he said, meditatively. “If I did, I
should have to give an evil name to the Creator who designed man and
woman and ordained the law of attraction which draws, and often
_drags_ them together. I like to be fair to everybody, the Creator
included; yet to be fair to everybody I shall appear to sanction
immorality. For the fact is that our civilization has upset all the
original intentions of nature. Nature evidently meant Love, or the
emotion we call Love, to be the keynote of the universe. But
apparently Nature did not intend marriage. The flowers, the birds, the
lower animals, mate afresh every spring, and this is the creed that
the disciples of Naturalism nowadays are anxious to force upon the
attention of the world. It is only men and women, they say, that are
so foolish as to take each other for better or worse till death do
them part. Now, I should like, from the physical scientist’s point of
view, to prove that the men and women are wrong, and that the lower
animals are right; but spiritual science comes in and confutes me. For
in spiritual science I find this truth, which will not be
gainsaid--namely, that from time immemorial, certain immortal forms of
Nature have been created solely for one another; like two halves of a
circle, they are intended to meet and form the perfect round, and all
the elements of creation, spiritual and material, will work their
hardest to pull them together. Such natures, I consider, should
absolutely and imperatively be joined in marriage. It then becomes a
divine decree. Even grant, if you like, that the natures so joined are
evil, and that the sympathy between them is of a more or less
reprehensible character, it is quite as well that they should unite,
and that the result of such an union should be seen. The evil might
come out of them in a family of criminals which the law could
exterminate with advantage to the world in general. Whereas on the
other hand, given two fine and aspiring natures with perfect sympathy
between them, as perfect as the two notes of a perfect chord, the
children of such a marriage would probably be as near gods as humanity
could bring them. I speak as a scientist merely. Such consequences are
not foreseen by the majority, and marriages as a rule take place
between persons who are by no means made for each other. Besides, a
kind of devil comes into the business, and often prevents the two
sympathetic natures conjoining. Love-matters alone are quite
sufficient to convince me that there _is_ a devil as well as a
divinity that ‘shapes our ends.’”
“You speak as if you yourself had loved, Doctor,” said Gervase, with a
half smile.
“And so I have,” replied the Doctor, calmly. “I have loved to the full
as passionately and ardently as even you can love. I thank God the
woman I loved died,--I could never have possessed her, for she was
already wedded,--and I would not have disgraced her by robbing her
from her lawful husband. So Death stepped in and gave her to
me--forever!” and he raised his eyes to the solemn starlit sky. “Yes,
nothing can ever come between us now; no demon tears her white soul
from me; she died innocent of evil, and she is mine--mine in every
pulse of her being, as we shall both know hereafter!”
His face, which was not remarkable for any beauty of feature, grew
rapt and almost noble in its expression, and Gervase looked at him
with a faint touch of ironical wonder.
“Upon my word, your morality almost outreaches your mysticism!” he
said. “I see you are one of those old-fashioned men who think marriage
a sacred sort of thing and the only self-respecting form of love.”
“Old-fashioned I may be,” replied Dr. Dean; “but I certainly believe
in marriage for the woman’s sake. If the license of men were not
restrained by some sort of barrier it would break all bounds. Now I,
had I chosen, could have taken the woman I loved to myself; it needed
but a little skilful persuasion on my part, for her husband was a
drink-sodden ruffian …”
“And why, in the name of Heaven, did you not do so?” demanded Gervase
impatiently.
“Because I know the end of all such _liaisons_,” said the Doctor
sadly. “A month or two of delirious happiness, then years of remorse
to follow. The man is lowered in his own secret estimation of himself,
and the woman is hopelessly ruined, socially and morally. No, Death is
far better; and in my case Death has proved a good friend, for it has
given me the spotless soul of the woman I loved, which is far fairer
than her body was.”
“But, unfortunately, intangible!” said Gervase, satirically.
The Doctor looked at him keenly and coldly.
“Do not be too sure of that, my friend! Never talk about what you do
not understand; you only wander astray. The spiritual world is a blank
to you, so do not presume to judge of what you will never realize
_till realization is forced upon you_!”
He uttered the last words with slow and singular emphasis.
“Forced upon me?” began Gervase. “What do you mean? …”
He broke off abruptly, for at that moment Denzil Murray emerged from
the doorway of the hotel, and came towards them with an unsteady,
swaying step like that of a drunken man.
“You had better go in to the Princess,” he said, staring at Gervase
with a wild smile; “she is waiting for you!”
“What’s the matter with you, Denzil?” inquired Dr. Dean, catching him
by the arm as he made a movement to go on and pass them.
Denzil stopped, frowning impatiently.
“Matter? Nothing! What should be the matter?”
“Oh, no offence; no offence, my boy!” and Dr. Dean at once loosened
his arm. “I only thought you looked as if you had had some upset or
worry, that’s all.”
“Climate! climate!” said Denzil, hoarsely. “Egypt does not agree with
me, I suppose!--the dryness of the soil breeds fever and a touch of
madness! Men are not blocks of wood or monoliths of stone; they are
creatures of flesh and blood, of nerve and muscle; you cannot torture
them so. …”
He interrupted himself with a kind of breathless irritation at his own
speech. Gervase regarded him steadily, slightly smiling.
“Torture them how, Denzil?” asked the Doctor, kindly. “Dear lad, you
are talking nonsense. Come and stroll with me up and down; the air is
quite balmy and delightful; it will cool your brain.”
“Yes, it needs cooling!” retorted Denzil, beginning to laugh with a
sort of wild hilarity. “Too much wine,--too much woman,--too much of
these musty old-world records and ghastly pyramids!”
Here he broke off, adding quickly:
“Doctor, Helen and I will go back to England next week, if all is
well.”
“Why, certainly, certainly!” said Dr. Dean, soothingly. “I think we
are all beginning to feel we have had enough of Egypt. I shall
probably return home with you. Meanwhile, come for a stroll and talk
to me; Monsieur Armand Gervase will perhaps go in and excuse us for a
few minutes to the Princess Ziska.”
“With pleasure!” said Gervase; then, beckoning Denzil Murray aside, he
whispered:
“Tell me, have you won or lost?”
“Lost!” replied Denzil, fiercely, through his set teeth. “It is your
turn now! But, if you win, as sure as there is a God above us, I will
kill you!”
“_Soit!_ But not till I am ready for killing! _After to-morrow night_
I shall be at your service, not till then!”
And smiling coldly, his dark face looking singularly pale and stern in
the moonlight, Gervase turned away, and, walking with his usual light,
swift, yet leisurely tread, entered the Princess’s apartment by the
French window which was still open, and from which the sound of sweet
music came floating deliciously on the air as he disappeared.