Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “Theos!” she said tremulously. “Theos!” and waited.

  He, mute and oppressed by indistinct, hovering recollections, fed his gaze on her seductive fairness for one earnest moment longer, — then suddenly advancing he knelt before her, and took her unresisting hands in his.

  “Lysia!” — and his voice, even to his own ears, had a solemn as well as passionate thrill,— “Lysia, what wouldst thou have with me? Speak! … for my heart aches with a burden of dark memories, — memories conjured up by the wizard spell of thine eyes, — those eyes so cruel-sweet that seem to lure me to my soul’s ruin! Tell me — have we not met before? … loved before? … wronged each other and God before? … parted before? … Maybe ’tis but a brain sick fancy, — nevertheless my spirit knows thee, — feels thee, — clings to thee, — and yet recoils from thee as one whom I did love in by-gone days of old! My thoughts of thee are strange, fair Lysia!” — and he pressed her warm, delicate fingers with unconscious fierceness,— “I would have sworn that in the Past thou didst betray me!”

  Her low laugh stirred the silence into a faint, tuneful echo.

  “Thou foolish dreamer!” she murmured half mockingly, half tenderly … “Thou art dazed with wine, steeped in song, bewitched with beauty, and knowest nothing of what thou sayest! Methinks thou art a crazed poet, and more fervid than Sah-luma in the mystic nature of thine utterance, — thou shouldst be Laureate, not he! What if thou wert offered his place? … his fame?”

  He looked at her, surprised and perplexed, and paused an instant before replying. Then he said slowly:

  “So strange a thing could never be … for Sah-luma’s place, once empty, could not again be filled! I grudge him not his glory-laurels, — moreover, … what is Fame compared to Love!” He uttered the last words in a low tone as though he spoke them to himself, … she heard, — and a flash of triumph brightened her beautiful face.

  “Ah! …” and she drooped her head lower and lower till her dark, fragrant tresses touched his brow … “Then, … thou dost love me?”

  He started. A dull pang ached in his heart, — a chill of vague uncertainty and dread. Love! … was it love indeed that he felt? … love, … or … base desire? Love … The word rang in his ears with the same sacred suggestiveness as that conveyed by the chime of bells, — surely, Love was a holy thing, … a passion pure, impersonal, divine, and deathless, — and it seemed to him that somewhere it had been written or said … “Wheresoever a man seeketh himself, there he falleth from Love” And he, … did he not seek himself, and the gratification of his own immediate pleasure? Painfully he considered, … it was a supreme moment with him, — a moment when he felt himself to be positively held within the grasp of some great Archangel, who, turning grandly reproachful eyes upon him, demanded …

  “Art thou the Servant of Love or the Slave of Self?” And while he remained silent, the silken sweet voice of the fairest woman he had ever seen once more sent its musical cadence through his brain in that fateful question:

  “Thou dost love me?”

  A deep sigh broke from him, … he moved nearer to her, … he entwined her warm waist with his arms, and stared upon her as though he drank her beauty in with his eyes. Up to the crowning masses of her dusky hair where the little serpents’ heads darted forth glisteningly, — over the dainty curve of her white shoulders and bosom where the symbolic Eye seemed to regard him with a sleepy weirdness, — down to the blue-veined, small feet in the silvery sandals, and up again to the red witchery of her mouth and black splendor of those twin fire-jewels that flashed beneath her heavy lashes — his gaze wandered hungrily, searchingly, passionately, — his heart beat with a loud, impatient eagerness like a wild thing struggling in its cage, but though his lips moved, he said no word, — she too was silent. So passed or seemed to pass some minutes, — minutes that were almost terrible in the weight of mysterious meaning they held unuttered. Then, with a half-smothered cry, he suddenly released her and sprang erect.

  “Love!” he cried, … “Nay!— ’tis a word for children and angels! — not for me! What have I to do with love? … what hast thou? … thou, Lysia, who dost make the lives of men thy sport and their torments thy mockery! There is no name for this fever that consumes me when I look upon thee, … no name for this unquiet ravishment that draws me to thee in mingled bliss and agony! If I must perish of mine own bitter-sweet frenzy, let me be slain now and most utterly, … but Love has no abiding-place ‘twixt me and thee, Lysia! … Love! … ah, no, no! … speak no more of love … it hath a charmed sound, recalling to my soul some glory I have lost!”

  He spoke wildly, incoherently, scarcely knowing what he said, and she, half lying on her couch of roses, looked at him curiously, with somber, meditative eyes. A smile of delicate derision parted her lips.

  “Of a truth, our late feasting hath roused in thee a most singular delirium!” she murmured indolently with a touch of cold amusement in her accents— “Thou dost seem to dwell in the Past rather than the Present! What ails thee? … Come hither — closer!” — and she stretched out her lovely arms on which the twisted diamond snakes glittered in such flashing coils,— “Come! … or is thy manful guise mere feigning, and dost thou fear me?”

  “Fear thee!” — and stung to a sudden heat Theos made one bound to her side and seizing her slim wrists, held them in a vise-like grip— “So little do I fear thee, Lysia, so well do I know thee, that in my very caresses I would slay thee, couldst thou thus be slain! Thou art to me the living presence of an unforgotten Sin, — a sin most deadly sweet and unrepented of, . . ah! why dost thou tempt me!” — and he bent over her more ardently— “must I not meet my death at thy hands? I must, — and more than death! — yet for thy kiss I will risk hell, — for one embrace of thine I will brave perdition! Ah, cruel enchantress!” — and winding his arms about her, he drew her close against his breast and looked down on the dreamy fairness of her face,— “Would there WERE such a thing as Death for souls like mine and thine! Would we might die most absolutely thus, heart against heart, never to wake again and loathe eathtypo or archaism? other! Who speaks of the cool sweetness of the grave, — the quiet ending of all strife, — the unbreaking seal of Fate, the deep and stirless rest? … These things are not, and never were, . . for the grave gives up its dead, — the strife is forever and ever resumed, — the seal is broken, and in all the laboring Universe there shall be found no rest, and no forgetfulness, . . ah, God! … no forgetfulness!” A shudder ran through his frame, — and clasping her almost roughly, he stooped toward her till his lips nearly touched hers, . . “Thou art accursed, Lysia, — and I share thy curse! Speak — how shall we cheer each other in the shadow-realm of fiends? Thou shall be Queen there, and I thy servitor, — we will make us merry with the griefs of others, — our music shall be the dropping of lost women’s tears, and the groans of betrayed and tortured men, — and the light around us shall be quenchless fire! Shall it not be so, Lysia? … and thinkest thou that we shall ever regret the loss of Heaven?”

  The words rushed impetuously from his lips; he thought little and cared less what he said, so long as he could, by speech, no matter how incoherent, relieve in part, the terrible oppression of vague memories that burdened his brain. But she, listening, drew herself swiftly from his embrace and stood up, — her large eyes fixed full upon him with an expression of wondering scorn and fear.

  “Thou art mad!” she said, a quiver of alarm in her voice … “Mad as Khosrul, and all his evil-croaking brethren! I offer thee Love, — and thou pratest of death, — life is here in all the fulness of the now, for thy delight, and thou ravest of an immortal Hereafter which is not, and can never be! Why talk thus wildly? … why gaze on me with so distraught a countenance? But an hour agone, thou wert the model of a cold discretion and quiet valor, — thus I had judged thee worthy of my favor — favor sought by many, and granted to few, . . but an thou dost wander amid such chaotic and unreasoning fancies, thou canst not serve me, — nor therefore canst thou win t
he reward that would otherwise have awaited thee.”…

  Here she paused, — a questioning, keen under-glance flashed from beneath her dark lashes, . . he, however, with pained, wistful eyes raised steadfastly to hers, gave no sign of apology or contrition for the disconnected strangeness of his recent outburst. Only he became gradually conscious of an inward, growing calm, — as though the Divine Voice that had once soothed the angry waves of Galilee were now hushing his turbulent emotions with a soft “Peace be still!” She watched him closely, . .and all at once apparently rendered impatient by his impassive attitude, she came coaxingly toward him, and laid one soft hand on his shoulder.

  “Canst thou not be happy, Theos?” she whispered gently— “Happy as other men are, when loved as thou art loved?”

  His upturned gaze rested on the glittering serpents’ heads that crowned her dusky tresses, — then on the great Eye that stared watchfully between her white breasts. A strong tremor shook him, and he sighed.

  “Happy as other men are, when they love and are deceived in love!” — he said.. “Yes, even so, Lysia, — I can be happy!”

  She threw one arm about him. “Thou shalt not be deceived” — she murmured quickly,— “Thou shalt be honored above the noblest in the realm, . . thy dearest hopes shall be fulfilled, . . thy utmost desires shall be granted, . . riches, power, fame, — all shall be thine, — IF THOU WILT DO MY BIDDING!”

  She uttered the last words with slow and meaning emphasis. He met her eager, burning looks quietly, almost coldly, — the curious numb apathy of his spirit increased, and when he spoke, his voice was low and faint like the voice of one who speaks unconsciously in his sleep.

  “What canst thou ask that I will not grant?” he said listlessly.. “Is it not as it was in the old time, — thou to command, and I to obey? … Speak, fair Queen! — how can I serve thee?”

  Her answer came, swift and fierce as the hiss of a snake:

  “KILL SAH-LUMA!”

  The brief sentence leaped into his brain with the swift, fiery action of some burning drug, — a red mist rose to his eyes, — pushing her fiercely from him, he started to his feet in a bewildered, sick horror. KILL SAH-LUMA! … kill the gracious, smiling, happy creature whose every minute of existence was a joy, — kill the friend he loved, — the poet he worshipped! … Kill him! … ah God! … never! … never! … He staggered backward dizzily, — and Lysia with a sudden stealthy spring, like that of her favorite tigress, threw herself against his breast and looked up at him, her splendid eyes ablaze with passion, her black hair streaming, her lips curved in a cruel smile, and the hateful Jewel on her breast seeming to flash with ferocious vindictiveness.

  “Kill him!” she repeated eagerly— “Now — in his sottish slumber, — now when he hath lost sight of his Poetmission in the hot fumes of wine, — now, when, despite his genius, he hath made of himself a thing lower than the beasts! Kill him! … — I will keep good council, and none shall ever know who did the deed! He loves me, and I weary of his love, . . I would have him dead — dead as Nir-jalis! … but were he to drain the Silver Nectar, the whole city would cry out upon me for his loss, — therefore he may not perish so. But an thou wilt slay him, . . see!” and she clung to Theos with the fierce tenacity of some wild animal— “All this beauty of mine, is thine! — thy days and nights shall be dreams of rapture, — thou shalt be second to none in Al-Kyris, — thou shalt rule with me over King and people, — and we will make the land a pleasure-garden for our love and joy! Here is thy weapon..” — and she thrust into his hand a dagger, — the very dagger her slave Gazra, had deprived him of, when by its prompt use he might have mercifully ended the cruel torments of Nir-jalis,— “Let thy stroke be strong and unfaltering, . . stab him to the heart, — the cold, cold, selfish heart that has never ached with a throb of pity! … kill him!— ’tis an easy task, — for lo! how fast he sleeps!”

  And suddenly throwing back a rich gold curtain that depended from one side of the painted pavilion, she disclosed a small interior chamber hung with amber and crimson, where, on a low, much-tumbled couch covered with crumpled glistening draperies, lay the King’s Chief Minstrel, — the dainty darling of women, — the Laureate of the realm, sunk in a heavy, drunken stupor, so deep as to be almost death-like. Theos stared upon him amazed and bewildered, . . how came he there? Had he heard any of the conversation that had just passed between Lysia and himself? … Apparently not, . . he seemed bound as by chains in a stirless lethargy. His posture was careless, yet uneasy, — his brilliant attire was torn and otherwise disordered, — and some of his priceless jewels had fallen on the couch, and gleamed here and there like big stray dewdrops. His face was deeply flushed, and his straight dark brows were knit frowningly, his breathing was hurried and irregular, . . one arm was thrown above his head, — the other hung down nervelessly, the relaxed fingers hovering immediately above a costly jewelled cup that had dropped from his clasp, — two emptied wine flagons lay cast on the ground beside him, and he had evidently experienced the discomfort and feverous heat arising from intoxication, for his silken vest was loosened as though for greater ease and coolness, thus leaving the smooth breadth of his chest bare and fully exposed. To this Lysia pointed with a fiendish glee, as she pulled Theos forward.

  “Strike now!” she whispered.. “Quick.. why dost thou hesitate?”

  He looked at her fixedly, . . the previous hot passion he had felt for her froze like ice within his veins, … her fairness seemed no longer so distinctly fair, . . the witching radiance of her eyes had lost its charm, . …. and he motioned her from him with a silent gesture of stern repugnance. Catching sight of the sheeny glimmer of the lake through the curtained entrance of the tent, he made a sudden spring thither — dashed aside the draperies, and flung the dagger he held, far out towards the watery mirror. It whirled glittering through the air, and fell with a quick splash into the silver-rippled depths, — and, gravely contented, he turned upon her, dauntless and serene in the consciousness of power.

  “Thus do I obey thee!” he said, in firm tones that thrilled through and through with scorn and indignation,— “Thou evil Beauty! … thou fallen Fairness! … Kill Sah-luma? … Nay, sooner would I kill myself…or thee! His life is a glory to the world, . . his death shall never profit thee!”…

  For one instant a lurid anger blazed in her face, — the next her features hardened themselves into a rigidly cold expression of disdain, though her eyes widened with wrathful wonder. A low laugh broke from her lips.

  “Ah!” she cried— “Art thou angel or demon that thou darest defy me? Thou shouldst be either or both, to array thyself in opposition against the High Priestess of Nagaya, whose relentless Will hath caused empires to totter and thrones to fall! HIS life a glory to the world? …” and she pointed to Sah-luma’s recumbent figure with a gesture of loathing and contempt, . . “HIS? … the life of a drunken voluptuary? … a sensual egotist? … a poet who sees no genius save his own, and who condemns all vice, save that which he himself indulges in! A laurelled swine! … a false god of art! … and for him thou dost reject Me! … ah, thou fool!” and her splendid eyes shot forth resentful fire.. “Thou rash, unthinking, headstrong fool! thou knowest not what thou hast lost! Aye, guard thy friend as thou wilt, — thou dost guard him at thine own peril! … think not that he, . . or thou, … shall escape my vengeance! What! — dost thou play the heroic with me? … thou who art Man, and therefore NO hero? … For men are cowards all, except when in the heat of battle they follow the pursuit of their own brief glory! … poltroons and knaves in spirit, incapable of resisting their own passions! … and wilt THOU pretend to be stronger than the rest? … Wilt thou take up arms against thyself and Destiny? Thou madman!” — and her lithe form quivered with concentrated rage— “Thou puny wretch that dost first clutch at, and then refuse my love! — thou who dost oppose thy miserable force to the Fate that hunts thee down! — thou who dost gaze at me with such grave, child-foolish eyes! … Beware, . . beware of me! I hate thee
as I hate ALL men! … I will humble thee as I have humbled the proudest of thy sex! .. — wheresoever thou goest I will track thee out and torture thee! … and thou shalt die — miserably, lingeringly, horribly, — as I would have every man die could I fulfil my utmost heart’s desire! To-night, be free! … but to-morrow as thou livest, I will claim thee!”