Chapter VII: Part 7

“To everything!” replied the monk firmly. “To everything that seems unclear and perplexing now. It will all be unravelled for us in such a simple way that we shall wonder why we did not discover it before. As I told you, my friend, I am, above all things, a _sympathiser_. I sympathise--God knows how deeply and passionately,--with what I may call the unexplained woe of the world. The other day I visited a poor fellow who had lost his only child. He told me he could believe in nothing,--he said that what people call the goodness of God was only cruelty. ‘Why take this boy?’ he cried, rocking the pretty little corpse to and fro on his breast--‘Why rob me of the chief thing I had to live for? Oh, if I only _knew_--as positively as I know day is day, and night is night--that I should see my living child again, and possess his love in another world than this, should I repine as I do? No,--I should believe in God’s wisdom,--and I should try to be a good man instead of a bad. But it is because I do not know, that I am broken-hearted. If there is a God, surely He might have given us some little _certain_ clue by way of help and comfort!’ Thus he wailed,--and my heart ached for him. Nevertheless, the clue is to be had,--and I believe it will be found suddenly in some little, deeply-hidden unguessed law,--we are on the track of it, and I fancy we shall soon find it.”

“Ah!--and what of the millions of creatures who, in the bygone eras, having no clue, have passed away without any sort of comfort?” asked El-Râmi.

“Nature takes time to manifest her laws,” replied the monk.--“And it must be remembered that what _we_ call ‘time’ is not Nature’s counting at all. The method Nature has of counting time may be faintly guessed by proven scientific fact,--as, for instance, take the comet which appeared in 1744. Strict mathematicians calculated that this brilliant world (for it is a world) needs 122,683 years to perform one single circuit! And yet the circuit of a comet is surely not so much time to allow for God and Nature to declare a meaning!”

El-Râmi shuddered slightly.

“All the same, it is horrible to think of,” he said.--“All those enormous periods,--those eternal vastnesses! For, during the 122,683 years we die, and pass into the silence.”

“Into the silence or the explanation?” queried the monk softly.--“For there _is_ an Explanation,--and we are all bound to know it at some time or other, else Creation would be but a poor and bungling business.”

“If _we_ are bound to know,” said El-Râmi, “then every living creature is bound to know, since every living creature suffers cruelly, in wretched ignorance of the cause of its suffering. To every atom, no matter how infinitely minute, must be given this ‘explanation,’--to dogs and birds as well as men--nay, even to flowers must be declared the meaning of the mystery.”

“Unless the flowers know already!” suggested the monk with a smile.--“Which is quite possible!”

“Oh, everything is ‘possible’ according to your way of thinking,” said El-Râmi somewhat impatiently. “If one is a visionary, one would scarcely be surprised to see the legended ‘Jacob’s ladder’ leaning against that dark midnight sky and the angels descending and ascending upon it. And so--” here he touched the two rolls of manuscript lying on the table, “you find no use in these?”

“I personally have no use for them,” responded his guest, “but, as you desire it, I will take charge of them and place them in safe keeping at the monastery. Every little link helps to forge the chain of discovery, of course. By the way, while on this subject, I must not forget to speak to you about poor old Kremlin. I had a letter from him about two months ago. I very much fear that famous disc of his will be his ruin.”

“Such an intimation will console him vastly!” observed El-Râmi sarcastically.

“Consolation has nothing to do with the matter. If a man rushes wilfully into danger, danger will not move itself out of the way for him. I always told Kremlin that his proposed design was an unsafe one, even before he went out to Africa fifteen years ago in search of the magnetic spar--a crystalline formation whose extraordinary reflection-power he learned from me. However, it must be admitted that he has come marvellously close to the unravelling of the enigma at which he works. And when you see him next you may tell him from me that if he can--mind, it is a very big ‘if’--if he can follow the movements of the Third Ray on his disc he will be following the signals from Mars. To make out the meaning of those signals is quite another matter--but he can safely classify them as the light-vibrations from that particular planet.”

“How is he to tell which is the Third Ray that falls, among a fleeting thousand?” asked El-Râmi dubiously.

“It will be difficult of course, but he can try,” returned the monk.--“Let him first cover the disc with thick, dark drapery, and then, when it is face to face with the stars in the zenith, uncover it quickly, keeping his eyes fixed on its surface. In one minute there will be three distinct flashes--the third is from Mars. Let him endeavour to follow that third ray in its course on the disc, and probably he will arrive at something worth remark. This suggestion I offer by way of assisting him, for his patient labour is both wonderful and pathetic,--but,--it would be far better and wiser were he to resign his task altogether. Yet--who knows!--the ordained end may be the best!”

“And do you know this ‘ordained end’?” questioned El-Râmi.

The monk met his incredulous gaze calmly.

“I know it as I know yours,” he replied. “As I know my own, and the end (or beginning) of all those who are, or who have been, in any way connected with my life and labours.”

“How _can_ you know!” exclaimed El-Râmi brusquely.--“Who is there to tell you these things that are surely hidden in the future?”

“Even as a picture already hangs in an artist’s brain before it is painted,” said the monk,--“so does every scene of each human unit’s life hang, embryo-like, in air and space, in light and colour. Explanations of these things are well-nigh impossible--it is not given to mortal speech to tell them. One must _see_,--and to see clearly, one must not become wilfully blind.” He paused,--then added--“For instance, El-Râmi, I would that you could see this room as I see it.”

El-Râmi looked about half carelessly, half wonderingly.

“And do I not?” he asked.

The monk stretched out his hand.

“Tell me first,--is there anything visible between this my extended arm and you?”

El-Râmi shook his head.

“Nothing.”

Whereupon the monk raised his eyes, and in a low thrilling voice said solemnly--

“O God with whom Thought is Creation and Creation Thought, for one brief moment be pleased to lift material darkness from the sight of this man Thy subject-creature, and by Thy sovereign-power permit him to behold with mortal eyes, in mortal life, Thy deathless Messenger!”

Scarcely had these words been pronounced than El-Râmi was conscious of a blinding flash of fire as though sudden lightning had struck the room from end to end. Confused and dazzled, he instinctively covered his eyes with his hand, then removing it, looked up, stupefied, speechless, and utterly overwhelmed at what he saw. Clear before him stood a wondrous Shape, seemingly human, yet unlike humanity,--a creature apparently composed of radiant colour, from whose transcendent form great shafts of gold and rose and purple spread upward and around in glowing lines of glory. This marvellous Being stood, or rather was poised in a steadfast attitude, between him, El-Râmi, and the monk,--its luminous hands were stretched out on either side as though to keep those twain asunder--its starry eyes expressed an earnest watchfulness--its majestic patience never seemed to tire. A thing of royal stateliness and power, it stayed there immovable, parting with its radiant intangible Presence the two men who gazed upon it, one with fearless, reverent, yet accustomed eyes--the other with a dazzled and bewildered stare. Another moment and El-Râmi at all risks would have spoken,--but that the Shining Figure lifted its light-crowned head and gazed at him. The wondrous look appalled him,--unnerved him,--the straight, pure brilliancy and limpid lustre of those unearthly orbs sent shudders through him,--he gasped for breath--thrust out his hands, and fell on his knees in a blind, unconscious, swooning act of adoration, mingled with a sense of awe and something like despair,--when a dense chill darkness as of death closed over him, and he remembered nothing more.

XXII.

When he came to himself, it was full daylight. His head was resting on some one’s knee,--some one was sprinkling cold water on his face and talking to him in an incoherent mingling of Arabic and English,--who was that some one? Féraz? Yes!--surely it was Féraz! Opening his eyes languidly, he stared about him and attempted to rise.

“What is the matter?” he asked faintly. “What are you doing to me? I am quite well, am I not?”

“Yes, yes!” cried Féraz eagerly, delighted to hear him speak.--“You are well,--it was a swoon that seized you--nothing more! But I was anxious,--I found you here insensible----”

With an effort El-Râmi rose to his feet, steadying himself on his brother’s arm.

“Insensible!” he repeated vaguely.--“Insensible!--that is strange!--I must have been very weak and tired--and overpowered. But,--where is He?”

“If you mean the Master,” said Féraz, lowering his voice to an almost awe-stricken whisper--“He has gone, and left no trace,--save that sealed paper there upon your table.”

El-Râmi shook himself free of his brother’s hold and hurried forward to possess himself of the indicated missive,--seizing it, he tore it quickly open,--it contained but one line--“_Beware the end! With Lilith’s love comes Lilith’s freedom._”

That was all. He read it again and again--then deliberately striking a match, he set fire to it and burnt it to ashes. A rapid glance round showed him that the manuscripts concerning Neptune and Sirius were gone,--the mysterious monk had evidently taken them with him as desired. Then he turned again to his brother.

“When could he have gone?” he demanded.--“Did you not hear the street-door open and shut?--no sound at all of his departure?”

Féraz shook his head.

“I slept heavily,” he said apologetically. “But in my dreams it seemed as though a hand touched me, and I awoke. The sun was shining brilliantly--some one called ‘Féraz! Féraz!’--I thought it was your voice, and I hurried into the room to find you, as I thought, dead,--oh! the horror of that moment of suspense!”

El-Râmi looked at him kindly, and smiled.

“Why feel horror, my dear boy?” he inquired.--“Death--or what we call death,--is the best possible fortune for everybody. Even if there were no afterwards, it would still be an end--an end of trouble and tedium and infinite uncertainty. Could anything be happier?--I doubt it!”

And, sighing, he threw himself into his chair with an air of exhaustion. Féraz stood a little apart, gazing at him somewhat wistfully--then he spoke--

“I too have thought that, El-Râmi,” he said softly.--“As to whether this end, which the world and all men dread, might not be the best thing? And yet my own personal sensations tell me that life means something good for me if I only learn how best to live it.”

“Youth, my dear fellow!” said El-Râmi lightly. “Delicious youth,--which you share in common with the scampering colt who imagines all the meadows of the world were made for him to race upon. This is the potent charm which persuades you that life is agreeable. But unfortunately it will pass,--this rosy morning-glory. And the older you grow the wiser and the sadder you will be,--I, your brother, am an excellent example of the truth of this platitude.”

“You are not old,” replied Féraz quickly. “But certainly you are often sad. You overwork your brain. For example, last night of course you did not sleep--will you sleep now?”

“No--I will breakfast,” said El-Râmi, rousing himself to seem cheerful.--“A good cup of coffee is one of the boons of existence--and no one can make it as you do. It will put the finishing touch to my complete recovery.”

Féraz took this hint, and hastened off to prepare the desired beverage,--while El-Râmi, left alone, sat for a few moments wrapped in a deep reverie. His thoughts reverted to and dwelt upon the strange and glorious Figure he had seen standing in that very room between him and the monk,--he wondered doubtfully if such a celestial visitant were anywhere near him now? Shaking off the fantastic impression, he got up and walked to and fro.

“What a fool I am!” he exclaimed half aloud--“As if _my_ eyes could not be as much deluded for once in a way as the eyes of any one else! It was a strange shape,--a marvellously divine-looking apparition;--but _he_ evolved it--he is as great a master in the art of creating phantasma as Moses himself, and could, if he chose, make thunder echo at his will on another Mount Sinai. Upon my word, the things that men _can_ do are as wonderful as the things that they would fain attempt; and the only miraculous part of this particular man’s force is that he should have overpowered Me, seeing I am so strong. And then one other marvel--(if it be true),--he could _see_ the Soul of Lilith.”

Here he came to a full stop in his walk, and with his eyes fixed on vacancy he repeated musingly--

“He could _see_ the Soul of Lilith. If that is so--if that is possible, then I will see it too, if I die in the attempt. To _see_ the Soul--to look upon it and know its form--to discern the manner of its organisation, would surely be to prove it. Sight can be deceived, we know--we look upon a star (or think we look upon it), that may have disappeared some thirty thousand years ago, as it takes thirty thousand years for its reflex to reach us--all that is true--but there are ways of guarding against deception.”

He had now struck upon a new line of thought,--ideas more daring than he had ever yet conceived began to flit through his brain,--and when Féraz came in with the breakfast he partook of that meal with avidity and relish, his excellent appetite entirely reassuring his brother with regard to his health.

“You are right, Féraz,” he said, as he sipped his coffee.--“Life can be made enjoyable after a fashion, no doubt. But the best way to get enjoyment out of it is to be always at work--always putting a brick in to help the universal architecture.”

Féraz was silent. El-Râmi looked at him inquisitively.

“Don’t you agree with me?” he asked.

“No--not entirely”--and Féraz pushed the clustering hair off his brow with a slightly troubled gesture.--“Work may become as monotonous and wearisome as anything else if we have too much of it. If we are always working--that is, if we are always obtruding ourselves into affairs and thinking they cannot get on without us, we make an obstruction in the way, I think--we are not a help. Besides, we leave ourselves no time to absorb suggestions, and I fancy a great deal is learned by simply keeping the brain quiet and absorbing light.”

“‘Absorbing light’?” queried his brother perplexedly--“What do you mean?”

“Well, it is difficult to explain my meaning,” said Féraz with hesitation--“but yet I feel there is truth in what I try to express. You see, everything absorbs something, and you will assuredly admit that the brain absorbs certain impressions?”

“Of course,--but impressions are not ‘light’?”

“Are they not? Not even the effects of light? Then what is the art of photography? However, I do not speak of the impressions received from our merely external surroundings. If you can relieve the brain from _conscious_ thought,--if you have the power to shake off outward suggestions and be willing to think of nothing personal, your brain will receive impressions which are to some extent new, and with which you actually have very little connection. It is strange,--but it is so;--you become obediently receptive, and perhaps wonder where your ideas come from. I say they are the result of light. Light can use up immense periods of time in travelling from a far distant star into our area of vision, and yet at last we see it,--shall not God’s inspiration travel at a far swifter pace than star-beams, and reach the human brain as surely? This thought has often startled me,--it has filled me with an almost apprehensive awe,--the capabilities it opens up are so immense and wonderful. Even a man can suggest ideas to his fellow-man and cause them to germinate in the mind and blossom into action,--how can we deny to God the power to do the same? And so,--imagine it!--the first strain of the glorious _Tannhäuser_ may have been played on the harps of Heaven, and rolling sweetly through infinite space may have touched in fine far echoes the brain of the musician who afterwards gave it form and utterance--ah yes!--I would love to think it were so!--I would love to think that nothing,--nothing is truly ours; but that all the marvels of poetry, of song, of art, of colour, of beauty, were only the echoes and distant impressions of that eternal grandeur which comes hereafter!”

His eyes flashed with all a poet’s enthusiasm,--he rose from the table and paced the room excitedly, while his brother, sitting silent, watched him meditatively.

“El-Râmi, you have no idea,” he continued--“of the wonders and delights of the land I call my Star! You think it is a dream--an unexplained portion of a splendid trance,--and I am now fully aware of what I owe to your magnetic influence,--your forceful spell that rests upon my life;--but see you!--when I am alone--quite, quite alone, when you are absent from me, when you are not influencing me, it is then I see the landscapes best,--it is then I hear my people sing! I let my brain rest;--as far as it is possible, I think of nothing,--then suddenly upon me falls the ravishment and ecstasy,--this world rolls up as it were in a whirling cloud and vanishes, and lo! I find myself at home. There is a stretch of forest-land in this Star of mine,--a place all dusky green with shadows, and musical with the fall of silvery waters,--that is my favourite haunt when I am there, for it leads me on and on through grasses and tangles of wild flowers to what I know and feel must be my own abode, where I should rest and sleep if sleep were needful; but this abode I never reach; I am debarred from entering in, and I do not know the reason why. The other day, when wandering there, I met two maidens bearing flowers,--they stopped, regarding me with pleased yet doubting eyes, and one said--‘Look you, our lord is now returned!’ And the other sighed and answered--‘Nay! he is still an exile and may not stay with us.’ Whereupon they bent their heads, and, shrinking past me, disappeared. When I would have called them back I woke!--to find that this dull earth was once again my house of bondage.”

El-Râmi heard him with patient interest.

“I do not deny, Féraz,” he said slowly, “that your impressions are very strange----”

“Very strange? Yes!” cried Féraz. “But very true!”

He paused--then on a sudden impulse came close up to his brother, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“And do you mean to tell me,” he asked, “that you who have studied so much, and have mastered so much, yet receive _no_ such impressions as those I speak of?”

A faint flush coloured El-Râmi’s olive skin.

“Certain impressions come to me at times, of course,” he answered slowly.--“And there have been certain seasons in my life when I have had visions of the impossible. But I have a coldly-tempered organisation, Féraz,--I am able to reason these things away.”

“Oh, you can reason the whole world away if you choose,” said Féraz.--“For it is nothing after all but a pinch of star-dust.”

“If you can reason a thing away it does not exist,” observed El-Râmi drily.--“Reduce the world, as you say, to a pinch of star-dust, still the pinch of star-dust is _there_--it Exists.”

“Some people doubt even that!” said Féraz, smiling.

“Well, everything can be over-done,” replied his brother,--“even the process of reasoning. We can, if we choose, ‘reason’ ourselves into madness. There is a boundary-line to every science which the human intellect dare not overstep.”

“I wonder what and where is _your_ boundary-line?” questioned Féraz lightly.--“Have you laid one down for yourself at all? Surely not!--for you are too ambitious.”

El-Râmi made no answer to this observation, but betook himself to his books and papers. Féraz meanwhile set the room in order and cleared away the breakfast,--and, these duties done, he quietly withdrew. Left to himself, El-Râmi took from the centre drawer of his writing-table a medium-sized manuscript book which was locked, and which he opened by means of a small key that was attached to his watch-chain, and bending over the title-page he critically examined it. Its heading ran thus--

The New Religion _A Reasonable Theory of Worship conformable to the Eternal and Unalterable Laws of Nature._

“The title does not cover all the ground,” he murmured as he read.--“And yet how am I to designate it? It is a vast subject, and presents different branches of treatment, and, after all said and done, I may have wasted my time in planning it. Most likely I have,--but there is no scientist living who would refuse to accept it. The question is, shall I ever finish it?--shall I ever know positively that there IS, without doubt, a conscious, personal Something or Some one after death who enters at once upon another existence? My new experiment will decide all--if I _see_ the Soul of Lilith, all hesitation will be at an end--I shall be sure of everything which now seems uncertain. And then the triumph!--then the victory!”

His eyes sparkled, and, dipping his pen in the ink, he prepared to write, but ere he did so the message which the monk had left for him to read recurred with a chill warning to his memory,--

“Beware the end! With Lilith’s love comes Lilith’s freedom.”

He considered the words for a moment apprehensively,--and then a proud smile played round his mouth.

“For a Master who has attained to some degree of wisdom, his intuition is strangely erroneous this time,” he muttered. “For if there be any dream of love in Lilith, that dream, that love is mine! And being mine, who shall dispute possession,--who shall take her from me? No one,--not even God,--for He does not break through the laws of Nature. And by those laws I have kept Lilith--and even so I will keep her still.”

Satisfied with his own conclusions, he began to write, taking up the thread of his theory of religion where he had left it on the previous day. He had a brilliant and convincing style, and was soon deep in an elaborate and eloquent disquisition on the superior scientific reasoning contained in the ancient Eastern faiths, as compared with the modern scheme of Christianity, which limits God’s power to this world only, and takes no consideration of the fate of other visible and far more splendid spheres.

XXIII.

The few days immediately following the visit of the mysterious monk from Cyprus were quiet and uneventful enough. El-Râmi led the life of a student and recluse; Féraz, too, occupied himself with books and music, thinking much, but saying little. He had solemnly sworn never again to make allusion to the forbidden subject of his brother’s great experiment, and he meant to keep his vow. For, though he had in very truth absolutely forgotten the name “Lilith,” he had not forgotten the face of her whose beauty had surprised his senses and dazzled his brain. She had become to him a nameless Wonder,--and from the sweet remembrance of her loveliness he gained a certain consolation and pleasure which he jealously and religiously kept to himself. He thought of her as a poet may think of an ideal goddess seen in a mystic dream,--but he never ventured to ask a question concerning her. And even if he had wished to do so,--even if he had indulged the idea of encouraging Zaroba to follow up the work she had begun by telling him all she could concerning the beautiful tranced girl, that course was now impossible. For Zaroba seemed stricken dumb as well as deaf,--what had chanced to her he could not tell,--but a mysterious silence possessed her; and, though her large black eyes were sorrowfully eloquent, she never uttered a word. She came and went on various household errands, always silently and with bent head,--she looked older, feebler, wearier and sadder, but not so much as a gesture escaped her that could be construed into a complaint. Once Féraz made signs to her of inquiry after her health and well-being--she smiled mournfully, but gave no other response, and, turning away, left him hurriedly. He mused long and deeply upon all this,--and, though he felt sure that Zaroba’s strange but resolute speechlessness was his brother’s work, he dared not speculate too far or inquire too deeply. For he fully recognised El-Râmi’s power,--a power so scientifically balanced, and used with such terrible and unerring precision, that there could be no opposition possible unless one were of equal strength and knowledge. Féraz knew he could no more compete with such a force than a mouse can wield a thunderbolt,--he therefore deemed it best to resign himself to his destiny and wait the course of events.

“For,” he said within himself, “it is not likely one man should be permitted to use such strange authority over natural forces long,--it may be that God is trying him,--putting him to the proof, as it were, to find out how far he will dare to go,--and then--ah then!--_what_ then? If his heart were dedicated to the service of God I should not fear,--but--as it is, I dread the end!”

His instinct was correct in this,--for in spite of his poetic and fanciful temperament he had plenty of quick perception and he saw plainly what El-Râmi himself was not very willing to recognise,--namely, that in all the labour of his life, so far as it had gone, he, El-Râmi, had rather opposed himself to the unseen divine, than striven to incorporate himself with it. He preferred to believe in natural Force only; his inclination was to deny the possibility of anything behind that. He accepted the idea of Immortality to a certain extent, because natural Force was for ever giving him proofs of the perpetual regeneration of life--but that there was a primal source of this generating influence,--One, great and eternal, who would demand an account of all lives, and an accurate summing-up of all words and actions,--in this, though he might assume the virtue of faith, Féraz very well knew he had it not. Like the greater majority of scientists and natural philosophers generally, what Self could comprehend, he accepted,--but all that extended beyond Self,--all that made of Self but a grain of dust in a vast infinitude,--all that forced the creature to prostrate himself humbly before the Creator and cry out “Lord, be merciful to me a sinner!” this he tacitly and proudly rejected. For which reasons the gentle, dreamy Féraz had good cause to fear,--and a foreboding voice for ever whispered in his mind that man without God was as a world without light,--a black chaos of blank unfruitfulness.

With the ensuing week the grand “reception” to which El-Râmi and his brother had been invited by Lord Melthorpe came off with great _éclat_. Lady Melthorpe’s “crushes” were among the most brilliant of the season, and this one was particularly so, as it was a special function held for the entertainment of the distinguished Crown Prince of a great nation. True, the distinguished Crown Prince was only “timed” to look in a little after midnight for about ten minutes, but the exceeding brevity of his stay was immaterial to the fashionable throng. All that was needed was just the piquant flavour,--the “passing” of a Royal Presence,--to make the gathering socially complete. The rooms were crowded--so much so indeed that it was difficult to take note of any one person in particular, yet, in spite of this fact, there was a very general movement of interest and admiration when El-Râmi entered with his young and handsome brother beside him. Both had a look and manner too distinctly striking to escape observation:--their olive complexions, black melancholy eyes, and slim yet stately figures, were set off to perfection by the richness of the Oriental dresses they wore; and the grave composure and perfect dignity of their bearing offered a pleasing contrast to the excited pushing, waddling, and scrambling indulged in by the greater part of the aristocratic assemblage. Lady Melthorpe herself, a rather pretty woman attired in a very æsthetic gown, and wearing her brown hair all towzled and arranged _à la Grecque_, in diamond bandeaux, caught sight of them at once, and was delighted. Such picturesque-looking creatures were really ornaments to a room, she thought with much interior satisfaction; and, wreathing her face with smiles, she glided up to them.

“I am so charmed, my dear El-Râmi!” she said, holding out her jewelled hand.--“So charmed to see _you_--you so very seldom will come to me! _And_ your brother! So glad! Why did you never tell me you had a brother? Naughty man! What is your brother’s name? Féraz? Delightful!--it makes one think of Hafiz and Sadi and all those very charming Eastern people. I must find some one interesting to introduce to you. Will you wait here a minute--the crowd is so thick in the centre of the room that really I’m afraid you will not be able to get through it--_do_ wait here, and I’ll bring the Baroness to you--don’t you know the Baroness? Oh, she’s such a delightful creature--so clever at palmistry! Yes--just stay where you are,--I’ll come back directly!”

And with sundry good-humoured nods her ladyship swept away, while Féraz glanced at his brother with an expression of amused inquiry.

“That is Lady Melthorpe?” he asked.

“That is Lady Melthorpe,” returned El-Râmi--“our hostess, and Lord Melthorpe’s wife; his, ‘to have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, honour, and cherish till death do them part,’” and he smiled somewhat satirically.--“It seems odd, doesn’t it?--I mean, such solemn words sound out of place sometimes. Do you like her?”

Féraz made a slight sign in the negative.

“She does not speak sincerely,” he said in a low tone.

El-Râmi laughed.

“My dear boy, you mustn’t expect any one to be ‘sincere’ in society. You said you wanted to ‘see life’--very well, but it will never do to begin by viewing it in that way. An outburst of actual sincerity in this human _mêlée_”--and he glanced comprehensively over the brilliant throng--“would be like a match to a gunpowder magazine--the whole thing would blow up into fragments and be dispersed to the four winds of heaven, leaving nothing behind but an evil odour.”

“Better so,” said Féraz dreamily, “than that false hearts should be mistaken for true.”

El-Râmi looked at him wistfully;--what a beautiful youth he really was, with all that glow of thought and feeling in his dark eyes! How different was his aspect from that of the jaded, cynical, vice-worn young men of fashion, some of whom were pushing their way past at that moment,--men in the twenties who had the air of being well on in the forties, and badly preserved at that--wretched, pallid, languid, exhausted creatures who had thrown away the splendid jewel of their youth in a couple of years’ stupid dissipation and folly. At that moment Lord Melthorpe, smiling and cordial, came up to them and shook hands warmly, and then introduced with a few pleasant words a gentleman who had accompanied him as,--“Roy Ainsworth, the famous artist, you know!”

“Oh, not at all!” drawled the individual thus described, with a searching glance at the two brothers from under his drowsy eyelids.--“Not famous by any means--not yet. Only trying to be. You’ve got to paint something startling and shocking nowadays before you are considered ‘famous’;--and even then, when you’ve outraged all the proprieties, you must give a banquet, or take a big house and hold receptions, or have an electrically-lit-up skeleton in your studio, or something of that sort, to keep the public attention fixed upon you. It’s such a restless age.”

El-Râmi smiled gravely.

“The feverish outburst of an unnatural vitality immediately preceding dissolution,” he observed.

“Ah!--you think that? Well--it may be,--I’m sure I hope it is. I, personally, should be charmed to believe in the rapidly-approaching end of the world. We really need a change of planet as much as certain invalids require a change of air. Your brother, however”--and here he flashed a keen glance at Féraz--“seems already to belong to quite a different sphere.”

Féraz looked up with a pleased yet startled expression.

“Yes,--but how did you know it?” he asked.

It was now the artist’s turn to be embarrassed. He had used the words “different sphere” merely as a figure of speech, whereas this intelligent-looking young fellow evidently took the phrase in a literal sense. It was very odd!--and he hesitated what to answer, so El-Râmi came to the rescue.

“Mr. Ainsworth only means that you do not look quite like other people, Féraz, that’s all. Poets and musicians often carry their own distinctive mark.”

“Is he a poet?” inquired Lord Melthorpe with interest.--“And has he published anything?”

El-Râmi laughed good-humouredly.

“Not he! My dear Lord Melthorpe, we are not all called upon to give the world our blood and brain and nerve and spirit. Some few reserve their strength for higher latitudes. To give greedy humanity everything of one’s self is rather too prodigal an expenditure.”

“I agree with you,” said a chill yet sweet voice close to them.--“It was Christ’s way of work,--and quite too unwise an example for any of us to follow.”

Lord Melthorpe and Mr. Ainsworth turned quickly to make way for the speaker,--a slight fair woman, with a delicate thoughtful face full of light, languor, and scorn, who, clad in snowy draperies adorned here and there with the cold sparkle of diamonds, drew near them at the moment. El-Râmi and his brother both noted her with interest,--she was so different from the other women present.

“I am delighted to see you!” said Lord Melthorpe as he held out his hand in greeting.--“It is so seldom we have the honour! Mr. Ainsworth you already know,--let me introduce my Oriental friends here,--El-Râmi Zarânos and his brother Féraz Zarânos,--Madame Irene Vassilius--you must have heard of her very often.”

El-Râmi had indeed heard of her,--she was an authoress of high repute, noted for her brilliant satirical pen, her contempt of press criticism, and her influence over, and utter indifference to, all men. Therefore he regarded her now with a certain pardonable curiosity as he made her his profoundest salutation, while she returned his look with equal interest.

“It is you who said that we must not give ourselves wholly away to the needs of humanity, is it not?” she said, letting her calm eyes dwell upon him with a dreamy yet searching scrutiny.

“I certainly did say so, Madame,” replied El-Râmi.--“It is a waste of life,--and humanity is always ungrateful.”

“You have proved it? But perhaps you have not tried to deserve its gratitude.”

This was rather a home-thrust, and El-Râmi was surprised and vaguely annoyed at its truth. Irene Vassilius still stood quietly observing him,--then she turned to Roy Ainsworth.

“There is the type you want for your picture,” she said, indicating Féraz by a slight gesture.--“That boy, depicted in the clutches of your Phryne, would make angels weep.”

“If I could make _you_ weep I should have achieved something like success,” replied the painter, his sleepy eyes dilating with a passion he could not wholly conceal.--“But icebergs neither smile nor shed tears,--and intellectual women are impervious to emotion.”

“That is a mistaken idea,--one of the narrow notions common to men,” she answered, waving her fan idly to and fro.--“You remind me of the querulous Edward Fitzgerald, who wrote that he was glad Mrs. Barrett Browning was dead, because there would be no more _Aurora Leighs_. He condescended to say she was a ‘woman of Genius,’ but what was the use of it? ‘She and her Sex,’ he said, ‘would be better minding the Kitchen and their Children.’ He and _his_ Sex always consider the terrible possibilities to themselves of a badly-cooked dinner and a baby’s screams. His notion about the limitation of woman’s sphere is man’s notion generally.”

“It is not mine,” said Lord Melthorpe.--“I think women are cleverer than men.”

“Ah, you are not a reviewer!” laughed Madame Vassilius--“so you can afford to be generous. But as a rule men detest clever women, simply because they are jealous of them.”

“They have cause to be jealous of _you_,” said Roy Ainsworth.--“You succeed in everything you touch.”

“Success is easy,” she replied indifferently,--“Resolve upon it, and carry out that resolve--and the thing is done.”

El-Râmi looked at her with new interest.

“Madame, you have a strong will!” he observed.--“But permit me to say that all your sex are not like yourself, beautiful, gifted, and resolute at one and the same time. The majority of women are deplorably unintelligent and uninteresting.”

“That is precisely how I find the majority of men!” declared Irene Vassilius, with that little soft laugh of hers which was so sweet, yet so full of irony.--“You see, we view things from different standpoints. Moreover, the deplorably unintelligent and uninteresting women are the very ones you men elect to marry, and make the mothers of the nation. It is the way of masculine wisdom,--so full of careful forethought and admirable calculation!” She laughed again, and continued--“Lord Melthorpe tells me you are a seer,--an Eastern prophet arisen in these dull modern days--now will you solve me a riddle that I am unable to guess,--myself?--and tell me if you can, who am I and what am I?”

“Madame,” replied El-Râmi bowing profoundly, “I cannot in one moment unravel so complex an enigma.”

She smiled, not ill pleased, and met his dark, fiery, penetrating glance unreservedly,--then, drawing off her long loose glove, she held out her small beautifully-shaped white hand.

“Try me,” she said lightly, “for if there is any truth in ‘brain-waves’ or reflexes of the mind the touch of my fingers ought to send electric meanings through you. I am generally judged as of a frivolous disposition because I am small in stature, slight in build, and have curly hair--all proofs positive, according to the majority, of latent foolishness. Colossal women, however, are always astonishingly stupid, and fat women lethargic--but a mountain of good flesh is always more attractive to man than any amount of intellectual perception. Oh, I am not posing as one of the ‘misunderstood’; not at all--I simply wish you to look well at me first and take in my ‘frivolous’ appearance thoroughly, before being misled by the messages of my hand.”

El-Râmi obeyed her in so far that he fixed his eyes upon her more searchingly than before,--a little knot of fashionable loungers had stopped to listen, and now watched her face with equal curiosity. No rush of embarrassed colour tinged the cool fairness of her cheeks--her expression was one of quiet, half-smiling indifference--her attitude full of perfect self-possession.

“No one who looks at your eyes can call you frivolous Madame,” said El-Râmi at last.--“And no one who observes the lines of your mouth and chin could suspect you of latent foolishness. Your physiognomy must have been judged by the merest surface-observers. As for stature, we are aware that goes for naught,--most of the heroes and heroines of history have been small and slight in build. I will now, if you permit me, take your hand.”

She laid it at once in his extended palm,--and he slowly closed his own fingers tightly over it. In a couple of minutes, his face expressed nothing but astonishment.

“Is it possible?” he muttered--“can I believe----” he broke off hurriedly, interrupted by a chorus of voices exclaiming--“Oh, what is it?--_do_ tell us!” and so forth.

“May I speak, Madame?” he inquired, bending towards Irene, with something of reverence.

She smiled assent.

“If I am surprised,” he then said slowly, “it is scarcely to be wondered at, for it is the first time I have ever chanced across the path of a woman whose life was so perfectly ideal. Madame, to you I must address the words of Hamlet--‘pure as ice, chaste as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.’ Such an existence as yours, stainless, lofty, active, hopeful, patient, and independent, is a reproach to men, and few will love you for being so superior. Those who do love you, will probably love in vain,--for the completion of your existence is not here--but elsewhere.”

Her soft eyes dilated wonderingly,--the people immediately around her stared vaguely at El-Râmi’s dark impenetrable face.

“Then shall I be alone all my life as I am now?” she asked, as he released her hand.

“Are you sure you are alone?” he said with a grave smile.--“Are there not more companions in the poet’s so-called solitude than in the crowded haunts of men?”

She met his earnest glance, and her own face grew radiant with a certain sweet animation that made it very lovely.

“You are right,” she replied simply--“I see you understand.”

Then, with a graceful salutation, she prepared to move away--Roy Ainsworth pressed up close to her.

“Are you satisfied with your fortune, Madame Vassilius?” he asked rather querulously.

“Indeed I am,” she answered. “Why should I not be?”

“If loneliness is a part of it,” he said audaciously, “I suppose you will never marry?”

“I suppose not,” she said with a ripple of laughter in her voice.--“I fear I should never be able to acknowledge a man my superior!”

She left him then, and he stood for a moment looking after her with a vexed air,--then he turned anew towards El-Râmi, who was just exchanging greetings with Sir Frederick Vaughan. This latter young man appeared highly embarrassed and nervous, and seemed anxious to unburden himself of something which apparently was difficult to utter. He stared at Féraz, pulled the ends of his long moustache, and made scrappy remarks on nothing in particular, while El-Râmi observed him with amused intentness.

“I say, do you remember the night we saw the new Hamlet?” he blurted out at last.--“You know--I haven’t seen you since----”

“I remember most perfectly,” said El-Râmi composedly--“‘To be or not to be’ was the question then with you, as well as with Hamlet--but I suppose it is all happily decided now as ‘to be.’”

“What is decided?” stammered Sir Frederick--“I mean, how do you know everything is decided, eh?”

“When is your marriage to take place?” asked El-Râmi.

Vaughan almost jumped.

“By Jove!--you are an uncanny fellow!” he exclaimed.--“However, as it happens, you are right. I’m engaged to Miss Chester.”

“It is no surprise to me, but pray allow me to congratulate you!” and El-Râmi smiled.--“You have lost no time about it, I must say! It is only a fortnight since you first saw the lady at the theatre. Well!--confess me a true prophet!”

Sir Frederick looked uncomfortable, and was about to enter into an argument concerning the _pros_ and _cons_ of prophetic insight, when Lady Melthorpe suddenly emerged from the circling whirlpool of her fashionable guests and sailed towards them with a swan-like grace and languor.

“I cannot find the dear Baroness,” she said plaintively. “She is so much in demand! Do you know, my dear El-Râmi, she is really almost as wonderful as you are! Not quite--oh, not quite, but nearly! She can tell you all your past and future by the lines of your hand, in the most astonishing manner! Can you do that also?”

El-Râmi laughed.

“It is a gipsy’s trick,” he said,--“and the _bonâ-fide_ gipsies who practise it in country lanes for the satisfaction of servant girls get arrested by the police for ‘fortune-telling.’ The gipsies of the London drawing-rooms escape scot-free.”

“Oh, you are severe!” said Lady Melthorpe, shaking her finger at him with an attempt at archness--“You are really very severe! You must not be hard on our little amusements,--you know, in this age, we are all so very much interested in the supernatural!”

El-Râmi grew paler, and a slight shudder shook his frame. The supernatural! How lightly people talked of that awful Something, that like a formless Shadow waits behind the portals of the grave!--that Something that evinced itself, suggested itself, nay, almost declared itself, in spite of his own doubts, in the momentary contact of a hand with his own, as in the case of Irene Vassilius. For in that contact he had received a faint, yet decided thrill through his nerves--a peculiar sensation which he recognised as a warning of something spiritually above himself,--and this had compelled him to speak of an “elsewhere” for her, though for himself he persisted in nourishing the doubt that an “elsewhere” existed. Roy Ainsworth, the artist, observing him closely, noted how stern and almost melancholy was the expression of his handsome dark face,--then glancing from him to his brother, was surprised at the marked difference between the two. The frank, open, beautiful features of Féraz seemed to invite confidence, and, acting on the suggestion made to him by Madame Vassilius, he spoke abruptly.

“I wish you would sit to me,” he said.

“Sit to you? For a picture, do you mean?” and Féraz looked delighted yet amazed.

“Yes. You have just the face I want. Are you in town?--can you spare the time?”

“I am always with my brother”--began Féraz hesitatingly.

El-Râmi heard him, and smiled rather sadly.

“Féraz is his own master,” he said gently, “and his time is quite at his own disposal.”

“Then come and let us talk it over,” said Ainsworth, taking Féraz by the arm. “I’ll pilot you through this crowd, and we’ll make for some quiet corner where we can sit down. Come along!”

Out of old habit Féraz glanced at his brother for permission, but El-Râmi’s head was turned away; he was talking to Lord Melthorpe. So through the brilliant throng of fashionable men and women, many of whom turned to stare at him as he passed, Féraz went, half eager, half reluctant, his large fawn-like eyes flashing an innocent wonderment on the scene around him,--a scene different from everything to which he had been accustomed. He was uncomfortably conscious that there was something false and even deadly beneath all this glitter and show,--but his senses were dazzled for the moment, though the poet-soul of him instinctively recoiled from the noise and glare and restless movement of the crowd. It was his first entry into so-called “society”;--and, though attracted and interested, he was also somewhat startled and abashed--for he felt instinctively that he was thrown upon his own resources,--that, for the present at any rate, his brother’s will no longer influenced him, and with the sudden sense of liberty came the sudden sense of fear.

XXIV.

Towards midnight the expected Royal Personage came and went; fatigued but always amiable, he shed the sunshine of his stereotyped smile on Lady Melthorpe’s “crush”--shook hands with his host and hostess, nodded blandly to a few stray acquaintances, and went through all the dreary duties of social boredom heroically, though he was pining for his bed more wearily than any work-worn digger of the soil. He made his way out more quickly than he came in, and with his departure a great many of the more “snobbish” among the fashionable set disappeared also, leaving the rooms freer and cooler for their absence. People talked less loudly and assertively,--little groups began to gather in corners and exchange friendly chit-chat,--men who had been standing all the evening found space to sit down beside their favoured fair ones, and indulge themselves in talking a little pleasant nonsense,--even the hostess herself was at last permitted to occupy an arm-chair and take a few moments’ rest. Some of the guests had wandered into the music-saloon, a quaintly-decorated oak-panelled apartment which opened out from the largest drawing-room. A string band had played there till Royalty had come and gone, but now “sweet harmony” no longer “wagged her silver tongue,” for the musicians were at supper. The grand piano was open, and Madame Vassilius stood near it, idly touching the ivory keys now and then with her small white, sensitive-looking fingers. Close beside her, comfortably ensconced in a round deep chair, sat a very stout old lady with a curiously large hairy face and a beaming expression of eye, who appeared to have got into her pink silk gown by some cruelly unnatural means, so tightly was she laced, and so much did she seem in danger of bursting. She perspired profusely and smiled perpetually, and frequently stroked the end of her very pronounced moustache with quite a mannish air. This was the individual for whom Lady Melthorpe had been searching,--the Baroness von Denkwald, noted for her skill in palmistry.

“Ach! it is warm!” she said in her strong German accent, giving an observant and approving glance at Irene’s white-draped form.--“You are ze one womans zat is goot to look at. A peach mit ice-cream,--dot is yourself.”

Irene smiled pensively, but made no answer.

The Baroness looked at her again, and fanned herself rapidly.

“It is sometings bad mit you?” she asked at last.--“You look sorrowful? Zat Eastern mans--he say tings disagreeable? You should pelieve _me_,--I have told you of your hand--ach! what a fortune!--splendid!--fame,--money, title,--a grand marriage----”

Irene lifted her little hand from the keyboard of the piano, and looked curiously at the lines in her pretty palm.

“Dear Baroness, there must be some mistake,” she said slowly.--“I was a lonely child,--and some people say that as you begin, so will you end. I shall never marry--I am a lonely woman, and it will always be so.”

“Always, always--not at all!” and the Baroness shook her large head obstinately. “You will marry; and Gott in Himmel save you from a husband such as mine! He is dead--oh yes--a goot ting;--he is petter off--and so am I. Moch petter!”

And she laughed, the rise and fall of her ample neck causing quite a cracking sound in the silk of her bodice.

Madame Vassilius smiled again,--and then again grew serious. She was thinking of the “elsewhere” that El-Râmi had spoken of,--she had noticed that all he said had seemed to be uttered involuntarily,--and that he had hesitated strangely before using the word “elsewhere.” She longed to ask him one or two more questions,--and scarcely had the wish formed itself in her mind, than she saw him advancing from the drawing-room, in company with Lord Melthorpe, Sir Frederick Vaughan, and the pretty frivolous Idina Chester, who, regardless of all that poets write concerning the unadorned simplicity of youth, had decked herself, American fashion, with diamonds enough for a dowager.

“It’s too lovely!” the young lady was saying as she entered.--“I think, Mr. El-Râmi, you have made me out a most charming creature! “Unemotional, harmless, and innocently worldly”--that was it, wasn’t it? Well now, I think that’s splendid! I had an idea you were going to find out something horrid about me;--I’m so glad I’m harmless! You’re sure I’m harmless?”

“Quite sure!” said El-Râmi with a slight smile. “And there you possess a great superiority over most women.”

And he stepped forward in obedience to Lady Melthorpe’s signal, to be introduced to the “dear” Baroness, whose shrewd little eyes dwelt upon him curiously.

“Do you believe in palmistry?” she asked him, after the ordinary greetings were exchanged.

“I’m afraid not,” he answered politely--“though I am acquainted with the rules of the art as practised in the East, and I know that many odd coincidences do occur. But,--as an example--take _my_ hand--I am sure you can make nothing of it.”

He held out his open palm for her inspection--she bent over it, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. There were none of the usual innumerable little criss-cross lines upon it--nothing, in fact, but two deep dents from left to right, and one well-marked line running from the wrist to the centre.

“It is unnatural!” cried the Baroness in amazement.--“It is a malformation! There is no hand like it!”

“I believe not,” answered El-Râmi composedly.--“As I told you, you can learn nothing from it--and yet my life has not been without its adventures. This hand of mine is my excuse for not accepting palmistry as an absolutely proved science.”

“Must everything be ‘proved’ for you?” asked Irene Vassilius suddenly.

“Assuredly, Madame!”

“Then have you ‘proved’ the elsewhere of which you spoke to me?”

El-Râmi flushed a little,--then paled again.