upstairs meanwhile, in the room that had been lilith’s there reigned the silence of a deep desolation. the woman zaroba still crouched there, huddled on the floor, a mere heap of amber draperies,—her head covered, her features hidden. now and then a violent shuddering seized her,—but otherwise she gave no sign of life. hours passed;—she knew nothing, she thought of nothing; she was stupefied with misery and a great inextinguishable fear. to her bewildered, darkly superstitious, more than pagan mind, it seemed as if some terrible avenging angel had descended in the night and torn away her beautiful charge out of sheer spite and jealousy lest she should awake to the joys of earth’s life and love. it had always been her fixed idea that the chief and most powerful ingredient of the divine character (and of the human also) was jealousy; and she considered therefore that all women, as soon as they were born, should be solemnly dedicated to the ancient goddess anaïtis. anaïtis was a useful and accommodating deity, who in the old days, had unlimited power to make all things pure. a woman might have fifty lovers, and yet none could dare accuse her of vileness if she were a “daughter” or “priestess” of anaïtis. she might have been guilty of any amount of moral enormity, but she was held to be the chastest of virgins if anaïtis were her protectress and mistress. and so, in the eyes of zaroba, anaïtis was the true patroness of love,—she sanctified the joys of lovers and took away from them all imputation of sin; and many and many a time had the poor, ignorant, heathenish old woman secretly invoked the protection of this almost forgotten pagan goddess for the holy maiden lilith. and now—now she wondered tremblingly, if in this she had done wrong? ... more than for anything in the world had she longed that el-râmi, the “wise man” who scoffed at passion with a light contempt, should love with a lover’s wild idolatry the beautiful creature who was so completely in his power;—in her dull, half-savage, stupid way, she had thought that such a result of the long six years’ “experiment” could but bring happiness to both man and maid; and she spared no pains to try and foster the spark of mere interest which el-râmi had for his “subject” into the flame of a lover’s ardour. for this cause she had brought féraz to look upon the tranced girl, in order that el-râmi knowing of it, might feel the subtle prick of that perpetual motor, jealousy,—for this she had said all she dared say, concerning love and its unconquerable nature;—and now, just when her long-cherished wish seemed on the point of being granted, some dreadful invisible power had rushed in between the two, and destroyed lilith with the fire of wrath and revenge;—at any rate that was how she regarded it. the sleeping girl had grown dear to her,—it war impossible not to love such a picture of innocent, entrancing, ideal beauty,—and she felt as though her heart had been torn open and its very core wrenched out by a cruel and hasty hand. she knew nothing as yet of the fate that had overtaken el-râmi himself,—for as she could not hear a sound of the human voice, she had only dimly seen that he was led from the room by his young brother, and that he looked ill, feeble, and distraught. what she realised most positively and with the greatest bitterness, was the fact of lilith’s loss,—lilith’s evident destruction. this was undeniable,—this was irremediable;—and she thought of it till her aged brain burned as with some inward consuming fire, and her thin blood seemed turning to ice.
“who has done it?” she muttered—“who has claimed her? it must be the christ,—the cold, quiet, pallid christ, with his bleeding hands and beckoning eyes! he is a new god,—he has called, and she, lilith, has obeyed! without love, without life, without aught in the world save the lily-garb of untouched holiness,—it is what the pale christ seeks, and he has found it here,—here, with the child who slept the sleep of innocent ignorance—here where no thought of passion ever entered unless i breathed it,—or perchance he—el-râmi—thought it—unknowingly. o what a white flower for the christ in heaven, is lilith!—what a branch of bud and blossom! ... ah, cruel, cold new gods of the earth!—how long shall their sorrowful reign endure! who will bring back the wise old gods,—the gods of the ancient days,—the gods who loved and were not ashamed,—the gods of mirth and life and health,—they would have left me lilith,—they would have said—‘lo, how this woman is old and poor,—she hath lost all that she ever had,—let us leave her the child she loves, albeit it is not her own but ours;—we are great gods, but we are merciful!’ oh, lilith, lilith! child of the sun and air, and daughter of sleep! would i had perished instead of thee!—would i had passed away into darkness, and thou been spared to the light!”
thus she wailed and moaned, her face hidden, her limbs quivering, and she knew not how long she had stayed thus, though all the morning had passed and the afternoon had begun. at last she was roused by the gentle yet firm pressure of a hand on her shoulder, and, slowly uncovering her drawn and anguished features she met the sorrowful eyes of féraz looking into hers. with a mute earnest gesture he bade her rise. she obeyed, but so feebly and tremblingly, that he assisted her, and led her to a chair, where she sat down, still quaking all over with fear and utter wretchedness. then he took a pencil and wrote on the slate which his brother had been wont to use,—
“a great trouble has come upon us. god has been pleased to so darken the mind of the beloved el-râmi, that he knows us no longer, and is ignorant of where he is. the wise man has been rendered simple,—and the world seems to him as it seems to a child who has everything in its life to learn. we must accept this ordinance as the will of the supreme, and bring our own will in accordance with it, believing the ultimate intention to be for the highest good. but for his former life, el-râmi exists no more,—the mind that guided his actions then is gone.”
slowly, and with pained, aching eyes zaroba read these words,—she grasped their purport and meaning thoroughly, and yet, she said not a word. she was not surprised,—she was scarcely affected;—her feelings seemed blunted or paralysed. el-râmi was mad? to her, he had always seemed mad,—with a madness born of terrible knowledge and power. to be mad now was nothing; the loss of lilith was amply sufficient cause for his loss of wit. nothing could be worse in her mind than to have loved lilith and lost her,—what was the use of uttering fresh cries and ejaculations of woe! it was all over,—everything was ended,—so far as she, zaroba, was concerned. so she sat speechless,—her grand old face rigid as bronze, with an expression upon it of stern submission, as of one who waits immovably for more onslaughts from the thunderbolts of destiny.
féraz looked at her very compassionately, and wrote again—
“good zaroba, i know your grief. rest—try to sleep. do not see el-râmi to-day. it is better i should be alone with him. he is quite peaceful and happy,—happier indeed than he has ever been. he has so much to learn, he says, and he is quite satisfied. for to-day we must be alone with our sorrows,—to-morrow we shall be able to see more clearly what we must do.”
still zaroba said nothing. presently however she arose, and walked totteringly to the side of lilith’s couch, ... there with an eloquently tragic gesture of supremest despair, she pointed to the gray-white ashes that were spread in that dreadfully suggestive outline on the satin coverlet and pillows. féraz, shuddering, shut his eyes for a moment;—then, as he opened them again, he saw, confronting him, the uncurtained picture of the “christ and his disciples.” he remembered it well,—el-râmi had bought it long ago from among the despoiled treasures of an old dismantled monastery,—and besides being a picture it was also a reliquary. he stepped hastily up to it and felt for the secret spring which used, he knew, to be there. he found and pressed it,—the whole of the picture flew back like a door on a hinge, and showed the interior to be a gothic-shaped casket, lined with gold, at the back of which was inserted a small piece of wood, supposed to have been a fragment of the “true cross.” there was nothing else in the casket,—and féraz leaving it open, turned to zaroba who had watched him with dull, scarcely comprehending eyes.
“gather together these sacred ashes,”—he wrote again on the slate,—“and place them in this golden recess,—it is a holy place fit for such holy relics. el-râmi would wish it, i know, if he could understand or wish for anything,—and wherever we go, the picture will go with us, for one day perhaps he will remember, ... and ask, ...”
he could trust himself to write no more,—and stood sadly enrapt, and struggling with his own emotion.
“the christ claims all!” muttered zaroba wearily, resorting to her old theme—“the crucified christ, ... he must have all; the soul, the body, the life, the love, the very ashes of the dead,—he must have all ... all!”
féraz heard her,—and taking up his pencil once more, wrote swiftly—
“you are right,—christ has claimed lilith. she was his to claim,—for on this earth we are all his,—he gave his very life to make us so. let us thank god that we are thus claimed,—for with christ all things are well.”
he turned away then immediately, and left her alone to her task,—a task she performed with groans and trembling, till every vestige of the delicate ashes, as fine as the dust of flowers, was safely and reverently placed in its pure golden receptacle. strange to say, one very visible relic of the vanished lilith’s bodily beauty had somehow escaped destruction,—this was a long, bright waving tress of hair which lay trembling on the glistening satin of the pillows like a lost sunbeam. over this lovely amber curl, old zaroba stooped yearningly, staring at it till her tears, the slow, bitter scalding tears of age, fell upon it where it lay. she longed to take it for herself,—to wear it against her own heart,—to kiss and cherish it as though it were a living, sentient thing,—but, thinking of el-râmi, her loyalty prevailed, and she tenderly lifted the clinging, shining, soft silken curl, and laid it by with the ashes in the antique shrine. all was now done,—and she shut to the picture, which, when once closed, showed no sign of any opening.
lilith was gone indeed;—there was now no perceptible evidence to show that she had ever existed. and, to the grief-stricken zaroba, the face and figure of the christ, as painted on the reliquary at which she gazed, seemed to assume a sudden triumph and majesty which appalled while it impressed her. she read the words “whom say ye that i am?” and shuddered; this “new god” with his tranquil smile and sorrowful dignity had more terrors for her than any of the old pagan deities.
“i cannot! i cannot!” she whispered feebly; “i cannot take you to my heart, cold christ,—i cannot think it is good to wear the thorns of perpetual sorrow! you offer no joy to the sad and weary world,—one must sacrifice one’s dearest hopes,—one must bear the cross and weep for the sins of all men, to be at all acceptable to you! i am old—but i keep the memories of joy; i would not have all happiness reft out of the poor lives of men. i would have them full of mirth,—i would have them love where they list, drink pure wine, and rejoice in the breath of nature,—i would have them feast in the sunlight and dance in the moonbeams, and crown themselves with the flowers of the woodland and meadow, and grow ruddy and strong and manful and generous, and free—free as the air! i would have their hearts bound high for the pleasure of life;—not break in a search for things they can never win. ah no, cold christ! i cannot love you!—at the touch of your bleeding hand the world freezes like a starving bird in a storm of snow;—the hearts of men grow weak and weary, and of what avail is it, o prince of grief, to live in sadness all one’s days for the hope of a heaven that comes not? o lilith!—child of the sun, where art thou?—where? never to have known the joys of love,—never to have felt the real pulse of living,—never to have thrilled in a lover’s embrace,—ah, lilith, lilith! will heaven compensate thee for such loss? ... never, never, never! no god, were he all the worlds’ gods in one, can give aught but a desolate eden to the loveless and lonely soul!”
in such wise as this, she muttered and moaned all day long, never stirring from the room that was called lilith’s. now and then she moved up and down with slow restlessness,—sometimes fixing eager eyes upon the vacant couch, with the vague idea that perhaps lilith might come back to it as suddenly as she had fled; and sometimes pausing by the vase of roses, and touching their still fragrant, but fast-fading blossoms. time went on, and she never thought of breaking her fast, or going to see how her master, el-râmi, fared. his mind was gone—she understood that well enough,—and in a strange wild way of her own, she connected this sudden darkening of his intellect with the equally sudden disappearance of lilith; and she dreaded to look upon his face.
how the hours wore away she never knew; but by and by her limbs began to ache heavily, and she crouched down upon the floor to rest. she fell into a heavy stupor of unconsciousness,—and when she awoke at last, the room was quite dark. she got up, stiff and cold and terrified,—she groped about with her hands,—it seemed to her dazed mind that she was in some sepulchral cave in the desert, all alone. her lips were dry,—her head swam,—and she tottered along, feeling her way blindly, till she touched the velvet portière that divided the room from its little antechamber, and, dragging this aside in nervous haste, she stumbled through, and out on to the landing, where it was light. the staircase was before her,—the gas was lit in the hall—and the house looked quite as usual,—yet she could not in the least realise where she was. indistinct images floated in her brain,—there were strange noises in her ears,—and she only dimly remembered el-râmi, as though he were some one she had heard of long ago, in a dream. pausing on the stair-head, she tried to collect her scattered senses,—but she felt sick and giddy, and her first instinct was to seek the air. clinging to the banisters, she tottered down the stairs slowly, and reached the front-door, and, fumbling cautiously with the handle a little while, succeeded in turning it, and letting herself out into the street. the door had a self-acting spring, and shut to instantly, and almost noiselessly, behind her,—but féraz, sitting in the study with his brother, fancied he heard a slight sound, and came into the hall to see what it was. finding everything quiet, he concluded he was mistaken, and went back to his post beside el-râmi, who had been dozing nearly all day, only waking up now and again to mildly accept the nourishment of soup and wine which féraz prepared and gave him to keep up his strength. he was perfectly tranquil, and talked at times quite coherently of simple things, such as the flowers on the table, the lamp, the books, and other ordinary trifles. he only seemed a little troubled by his own physical weakness,—but when féraz assured him he would soon be strong, he smiled, and with every appearance of content, dozed off again peacefully. in the evening, however, he grew a little restless,—and then féraz tried what effect music would have upon him. going to the piano, he played soft and dreamy melodies, ... but as he did so, a strange sense of loss stole over him,—he had the mechanism of the art, but the marvellously delicate attunement of his imagination had fled! tears rose in his eyes,—he knew what was missing,—the guiding-prop of his brother’s wondrous influence had fallen,—and with a faint terror he realised that much of his poetic faculty would perish also. he had to remember that he was not naturally born a poet or musician,—poesy and music had been el-râmi’s fairy gifts to him—the exquisitely happy poise of his mind had been due to his brother’s daily influence and control. he would still retain the habit and the memory of art, but what had been genius, would now be simple talent,—no more,—yet what a difference between the two! nevertheless his touch on the familiar ivory keys was very tender and delicate, and when, distrusting his own powers of composition, he played one of the softest and quaintest of grieg’s norwegian folk-songs, he was more than comforted by the expression of pleasure that illumined el-râmi’s features, and by the look of enraptured peace that softened the piteous dark eyes.
“it is quite beautiful,—that music!” he murmured—“it is the pretty sound the daisies make in growing.”
and he leaned back in his chair and composed himself to rest,—while féraz played on softly, thinking anxiously the while. true, most true, that for him dreams had ended, and life had begun! what was he to do? ... how was he to meet the daily needs of living,—how was he to keep himself and his brother? his idea was to go at once to the monastery in cyprus, where he had formerly been a visitor,—it was quiet and peaceful,—he would ask the brethren to take them in,—for he himself detested the thought of a life in the world,—it was repellent to him in every way,—and el-râmi’s affliction would necessitate solitude. and while he was thus puzzling himself as to the future, there came a sharp knock at the door,—he hastened to see who it was,—and a messenger handed him a telegram addressed to himself. it came from the very place he was thinking about, sent by the head of the order, and ran thus—
“we know all. it is the will of god. bring el-râmi here,—our house is open to you both.”
he uttered a low exclamation of thankfulness, the while he wondered amazedly how it was that they, that far-removed brotherhood, “knew all”! it was very strange! he thought of the wondrous man whom he called the “master,” and who was understood to be “wise with the wisdom of the angels,” and remembered that he was accredited with being able to acquire information when he chose, by swift and supernatural means. that he had done so in the present case seemed evident, and féraz stood still with the telegram in his hand, stricken by a vague sense of awe as well as gratitude, thinking also of the glittering vision he had had of that “glory of the angels in the south”;—angels who were waiting for lilith the night she disappeared.
el-râmi suddenly opened his weary eyes and looked at him.
“what is it?” he asked faintly—“why has the music ceased?”
féraz went up to his chair and knelt down beside it.
“you shall hear it again”—he said gently, “but you must sleep now, and get strong,—because we are soon going away on a journey—a far, beautiful journey——”
“to heaven?” inquired el-râmi—“yes, i know—it is very far.”
féraz sighed.
“no—not to heaven,”—he answered—“not yet. we shall find out the way there, afterwards. but in the meantime, we are going to a place where there are fruits and flowers,—and where the sun is very bright and warm. you will come with me, will you not, el-râmi?—there are friends there who will be glad to see you.”
“i have no friends,”—said el-râmi plaintively, “unless you are one. i do not know if you are,—i hope so, but i am not sure. you have an angel’s face,—and the angels have not always been kind to me. but i will go with you wherever you wish,—is it a place in this world, or in some other star?”
“in this world,”—replied féraz—“a quiet little corner of this world.”
“ah!” and el-râmi sighed profoundly—“i wish it had been in another. there are so many millions and millions of worlds;—it seems foolish waste of time to stay too long in this.”
he closed his eyes again, and féraz let him rest,—till, when the hour grew late, he persuaded him to lie down on his own bed, which he did with the amiable docility of a child. féraz himself, half sitting, half reclining in a chair beside him, watched him all night long, like a faithful dog guarding its master,—and so full was he of anxious thought and tender care for his brother, that he scarcely remembered zaroba, and when he did, he felt sure that she too was resting, and striving to forget in sleep the sorrows of the day.
