For some days, however, the fairy dissembled a change of feeling which the jealous heart of Agib fearfully suspected. He was obliged to confess that, although he felt a difference, there was nothing so obvious as to justify complaint; but day by day shades of coldness, at first imperceptible, grew into carelessness, and then into neglect. At last he wandered alone through paths hitherto hallowed by her presence, whilst with the young Emir ever at her side, the object of his wildest devotion was fast yielding to a dream of affection for another. And the merchant one evening, in wretchedness unutterable, took his way to that very spot which had been pictured to Zarah—the scene of many a bright hour’s pleasures, where the fairy had sat with him in the evening’s fall, and uttered to him vows which he never could forget. There sat the fairy even now, but there also sat the Emir; and the meaning of his words was reflected in her beautiful face, for it beamed with a feeling which she could not conceal.
Agib rushed forward.
Soft! he awakens. The lily wreath is floating on the rivulet, and the fairy queen leans over him with the same dear smile, the same fond fascination, that have enshrined his spirit in the spell of affection.
“Ah! it was a dream. Alla be praised!” he sighed heavily. “But what a dream!”
“Was it then so painful? Rise, love, shake it off, and be happy.”
“But Zarah?”
“What of her?”
“Is she not dying?”
“You have been cheated by the delusive visions of these lilies?”
“Are they delusive? And the Georgian?”
“Zorayda?”
“Even she. Is she not an enchantress?”
“You are dreaming still. She is a simple Georgian girl.”
“It is true my queen, that you tore her from her parents?”
“Would you then have her restored to them?”
“Oh! Yes—yes! Let us crush no more hearts.”
“She shall return to them. But why are you unkind?”
“Oh! my queen, I have had visions so horrible?”
“Visions of what?”
“Of Zarah—dying, forsaken Zarah!”
“And you—you love me no more!”
“Love you! Oh! doubt it not—beyond all earth, all Paradise!”
“Then think no more of Zarah.”
“But you, my queen, will you ever forsake me?”
“Never. Do not give way to these idle fancies. They are unworthy of your future fortunes. Think you I will not elevate my lover to a prouder lot than Aleppo could supply! Ah forget a time when your hopes were less aspiring. We will make an excursion tonight, and dispel these dreams.”
“But not to Iran?”
“Well, not to Iran.”
And on this night they glided on the Ganges’ breast, lighted by the fire-flies, and those little floating lamps, that tell to eager watchers on the shore, the fate of their loves and hopes. And listening to the whispered assurances of the fairy, the mind of Agib became tranquilized, and the impression of his dream was effaced. The Georgian girl was absent from their train, and after some days the vision was forgotten.
Nor were the painful suggestions of his sleeping fancy again recalled, for the space of several moons. But there are events in our existence which come to us like the echoes of dim dreams, to regain which our memory vainly struggles. And the merchant was doomed to the fulfilment of his own.
It was in the very slumber of the moonlight, when the air was silenced, and the flower-bells steeped in dew, the very night which had passed before his sleeping eyes, that he found himself with the fairy in a garden of Persia, hitherto unvisited, and beheld, beside a fountain, the very form his visions had pictured—the Emir lying on the mossy brink. He felt that mental paralysis which sometimes seems to chain our efforts where they are most required, and before he could warn the fairy of their danger, or concentrate his senses to a moment’s energy, he heard the order given—he saw it executed—they were all in a hall of the queen’s palace, and the attendants were diverting themselves with the bewilderment of the awakening Persian. The very scene he had beheld in slumber was around him, but he seemed to be spell-bound. He looked upon his fate with unutterable despair, yet he seemed obedient to a fatality that kept him silently acquiescent. The very caresses of the queen fell upon his deadened heart without effect. Despair and remorse were busy at its core, and he saw, without power to arrest its course, his inevitable doom.
Time proceeded, and the fulfilment of the vision progressed. The queen became indifferent to the presence of Agib; but to the young Emir she turned with those fascinations, which had hitherto constituted his own sum of bliss. Whilst the Persian sang the verses of his tuneful countryman, or those dictated by the magician, Love himself, she hung upon his voice with an enthusiasm which it was impossible to misunderstand; and when night brought its moonlight, or morning its freshness, Agib, though permitted to follow in the wake of their pleasures, was now no longer the centre of attraction. By degrees he absented himself from their haunts. His absence was not adverted to, and he wandered alone, ignorant alike of their pursuits and their prospects. And memory—at one time the angel, at another the fiend of life—how did she urge his unrequited passion to despair? how did she lead him over every scene consecrated by love, and shining with the past, only to torture his reflections on the present? It was she who led him one evening, when the star of evening was beaming distantly in the cloudless sky, to the moss banks by the rivulet, where the rosy coloring of the brief hour of sunset was deepening the rose’s hues, and faintly flushing the whiteness of the lily. And there, entranced ill each other, the fairy and the young Emir are earnestly conversing.
Indignant and furious, Agib sprang forward. With a cry of vengeance, he drew his yataghan, and essayed to sever the Persian’s head from his body. But the fairy is powerful, and his arm grows nerveless, and his weapon falls trembling to the earth. Maddened by a thousand conflicting pangs, he stands before his rival in an agony of helpless rage.
“Agib,” said the fairy—and how did her voice still thrill to his inmost heart. “Poor Agib! I pity—I forgive thee.” The merchant stood silent.
“Do thou forgive me, also,” continued the fairy, extending her beautiful hand. “We cannot, as thou knowest, control our affections. Yet what I can do for thee, I will do. Speak to me, Agib, wilt thou be our friend?”
“Your friend! fairy,” exclaimed the merchant, and even in his rival’s presence, the agony of tenderness rushed to his eyes. “Your friend! Can the heart that has loved you as I have loved, calm its wild throbbings to so cold a name? No! break the chain that has bound us together; I will not behold you happy in another!”
“I will not compel thee to so cruel a trial,” said the queen, and how did her quiet voice chill and pain the heart of the unfortunate Agib. “Thou shalt leave the oasis—thou shall have treasures—power—whatever thou will.”
“Fairy, thou hast broken my heart!”
“Agib! Agib! I pity—I deplore it. But can I not atone?”
“No, fairy. It is that injury for which there is no atonement. Hear me. I was happy when I saw you first. The world opened to me whatever the heart might ask to be happy. My prospects equalled my ambition, my life might have glided on serene and calm. But why—oh! why did you interrupt its course? why lure me to a passion beyond all dreams delirious then, beyond all words distracting now? Can you restore me peace?—can you regain for my soul its own respect? You have betrayed the trust of my heart; and oh! fairy, were you the prophet himself, you could not atone to it for the ruin you have made. And Zarah has known my treachery—the true, the kind, is sacrificed! No, fairy, no!—offer me nothing, but transport me once more to my lost one’s presence, and oh! if she live to forgive me, I will atone to her.”
“Place again the lily wreath upon your head,” said the fairy, with the indifference which the happy feel for the miserable. “Name this Zarah as you do so, and be with her when you will.”
Agib withdrew,
and as he departed heard the Emir’s sneer at his expense, and saw the queen of the oasis smile on him as he uttered it!
So he fled to the rivulet, and twined the lilies on his brow, and, with tears in his eyes, he uttered the name of his betrothed. At this moment he stood at the entrance of Aleppo. And he thought how rarely it is, that, even on earth, a deviation from the straight road of honor fails to create its own punishment. But he had little time for reflection. As if just arrived from a long journey, he traversed the city, and approached old Hussein’s house. Exclamations of wonder and joy brought the venerable merchant to the door. His welcome was warm, but his looks were overcast. Much that Agib already knew, his uncle now repeated.
“A maniac! But is she still a maniac?”
“Her delirium has settled into melancholy silence,” said Hussein; “but she recognizes no one.”
“And the cause?” asked Agib, willing to understand how much his uncle understood of the affair.
“Your absence, my son, and the delusions of an enchantress, who persuaded her, as I gather from her women, that you had become unfaithful. But could she be made to comprehend your return, her joy might win your forgiveness of a woman’s weakness.”
Agib groaned.
“Let us see,” he said, after a pause, “let us see if she cannot recognize me.”
“I have no hope, my son; yet follow me.”
Agib hurried after him—to his cousin’s apartment.
She was lying on a sofa, changed, motionless, almost unconscious—nor did she raise her eyes as he entered.
For a moment Agib stood conscience-struck, and unable to move from the door. Then stung by the recollection of Zarah’s former beauty, and of her betrayed affection, he rushed to her side.
“Zarah, dear Zarah,” he exclaimed, almost choked by contrition, and returning affection—and he took her hand, but it did not return his pressure, “will you not look upon me, Zarah?” he continued,” will you not speak to me? Though you know no one else, you will recognize me! Zarah! Zarah! it is Agib.”
Roused from her apathy by a voice ever thrilling to her heart, Zarah half raised herself, and gazed upon him eagerly, long, without utterance.
“I am repentant, Zarah, I am changed. I am yours—yours only!” continued Agib with increasing anguish.
“Zarah!” he pursued rapidly, and clasping her hand, whilst he strove to free himself from the long gaze which was becoming intolerable, “only speak to me! one word, Zarah, only one. Say you will forgive me; tell me you will live.”
“Live!” exclaimed Zarah, again sinking back, and closing her eyes. “But where is Agib?”
“Alla!” screamed the merchant at this renewal of his despair.
The shriek aroused the invalid, and again she raised her eyes, and now—yes now there is in those eyes a ray of intelligence.
“Oh if I might trust myself! Is it Agib—Agib returned?”
“Yes, Zarah, yes! it is Agib,” said the breathless merchant—“he loves you only, Zarah—he is waiting your forgiveness!” He drew her to his heart, and she wept there long and violently.
“She has not wept till now,” said one of her attendants.
And blessed tears they were, for in the course of an hour she appeared collected and rational, and although some days elapsed before the full flow of joy was expended, or the explanations and apologies of the merchant (and some of these were none of the clearest) were concluded; yet, after a time, things began to be composed. Zarah, perhaps, at last did not completely understand why Agib’s return had been delayed, and her father Hussein was compelled to be satisfied with a long tale of a compulsory residence with the Arabs; but on the whole, affairs grew flourishing once more. A brother merchant had disposed of the merchandize of Agib at Yemen, and rendered to old Hussein a very fair account of the profits. By degrees Agib began to lose his regret for the faithless fairy, and to resume his attachment for Zarah, who daily improved in health, and whose beauty again transcended that of all the ladies in Aleppo.
The marriage was celebrated with pomp and splendor; Hussein very wisely waiving further experiments as to Agib’s abilities for trade, for the present. He lived very happily with Zarah, and as he increased in years, grew also in wealth and gravity of deportment. So accurate was his judgment, and so imposing his air, that he was known throughout the city as “the wise merchant Agib.” This solemn importance was never known to desert him except on one occasion, when a rich Persian Emir chanced to pass the bazaar, and to stop to examine some rich stuff which his attendants applauded to the skies. At the sight of the Persian, the gravity of Agib entirely forsook him, he turned quite pale, a sudden nimbleness took possession of his heels, and he fled precipitately to his own house, leaving his goods to the Emir and his people. These, with a few oriental maledictions on the departed owner, rolled up for themselves the quantity of stuff which their necessities required, and laying down a sum which they considered its value, departed. With this exception, the merchant’s peace was uninterrupted—he lived and traded with respect and success, and when, after the lapse of many years, he was transferred from the bazaar to the cemetery, the reputation of their sire was esteemed not the least valuable portion of his sons’ rich inheritance. Of the Fairy of the Desert nothing more can be related, but it may fairly be inferred, that her reign continues in the oasis; as she is an immortal, and had the prudence not to dispute the sway of Solomon. For to this day the Genii and Fairies of the East obey the destinies incurred by their conduct in the Wise Man’s reign.
WINDERHANS AND THE GENTLEMAN IN BLACK, by Anonymous
A Tale of Richmond Thirty Years Ago
EDITOR SOU. LIT. MESSENGER:
Dear Sir,
On a visit to Richmond last year I was much entertained with the singular myth on which this sketch is founded. Of the existence and annual appearance of the dog in question I believe there can be, in intelligent minds, no sort of doubt, and to such I address these details of his personal history, which I have gathered with much trouble from sources very difficult to arrive at. Should you find it suitable, insert it in your magazine as a companion-piece to your “Revelation of the Spirits.”
Yours, truly.
CHAPTER I.
PROFESSOR WINDERHANS.
There is a tradition among the Virginia State Guard that for a number of years a very singular object has appeared, or seemed to appear, on every recurring thirteenth of December, at the iron grate in front of the Capitol. You are told that on dark and tempestuous nights, when the solitary sentinel is blowing his fingers and wrapping more closely around him his large white cloak: when the winds howl around the old edifice, and the tall trees wave in the blast like gigantic spectres bowing and nodding to each other—then, you are told. the sentinel hears a sound at the iron grating in front of the basement which thrills him with dread, and beholds a sight which makes him tremble more than the icy wind. The sight is that of a large black dog with fiery eyes, who endeavors in vain to tear down the grating with his teeth, and the sound is the growling and moaning of the before-mentioned animal in his disappointment. Why he thus “makes night hideous with”—howling, I am about to relate.
Thirty or forty years ago there dwelt in Richmond a certain Professor Winderhans who had acquired much reputation for his knowledge of geology, engineering and accounts, in all of which branches of science he was an adept. He held some government office: what, I have never been able exactly to ascertain. It is now, I believe, extinct however, whatever it may have been.
The Professor who was much beloved for his generous and benevolent nature, was a little dingy man with a snuff-colored coat of antique cut, a queue behind, and immense spectacles on an enormous nose, which stood out like a promontory over the wide opening of his mouth. Though personally popular the Professor was scarcely intimate with a dozen persons, and this arose from the inordinate delight he took in discussing all matters of mystery and superstition involving those “things in heaven and earth” undreamt of in general ph
ilosophy. He was apt to protrude these subjects on all occasions in general conversation, and he was known to have once held Mr. Jefferson a whole hour by the button disputing with him on the question of the truth or untruth of Lord Littleton’s celebrated vision.
The Professor was a late sitter and an early riser. But little sleep sufficed for him. His custom was to sit up working in his little office, situated in the Capitol basement, long after midnight had driven honest folks to rest, and his solitary light would gleam from far through the trees, long after every other light had been extinguished throughout the whole city.
On these occasions passers-by—gay young men, or portly citizens—coming from the Theatre or late parties, would say to each other, “there is that old dried-up Winderhans killing himself with work”—or “the devil will fly away with that old philosopher some day!” But the Professor, like a wise man who follows his own wishes before those of other people, held on the even tenor of his way, caring nothing for all these reflections and speeches—for Winderhans was a philosopher—Winderhans was a dreamer. Winderhans, we may even say, in his spare moments, was a mystic. He couldn’t usually afford the time.
One night the Professor was working late in the basement and very wearily. His eyes were dim, his head dizzy, his back ached and he was nearly overcome with sleep and fatigue. Nevertheless he made another effort to decipher the vile scrawl before him which it was his place to read and report the contents of. One word puzzled him. That word was either treasure, leisure or bearer.
“It don’t make sense!” exclaimed the Professor breaking the profound silence with an impatient voice, “it is ‘treasure,’ or may the devil take it.”
“Ha! ha!” said a subdued voice at the Professor’s elbow accompanied by the creaking of the door. “The fact is then, my dear Professor, I have no right or title to it. It is TREASURE.”
The Second Macabre Megapack Page 45
