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.
