“The shadow-impression of a woman. Brown-haired, dark-eyed, — of a full, luscious beauty, and a violent, unbridled, ill-balanced will. Mindless, but physically attractive. She dominates your thought.”
A quiver ran through the clergyman’s frame, — if he could only have snatched away his hand he would have done it then.
“She is not your wife—” went on El-Râmi— “she is the wife of your wealthiest neighbour. You have a wife, — an invalid, — you have also eight children, — but these are not prominent in the picture at present. The woman with the dark eyes and hair is the chief figure. Your plans are made for her—”
He paused, and again the wretched Mr. Anstruther shuddered.
“Wait — wait!” exclaimed El-Râmi suddenly in a tone of animation— “Now it comes clearly. You have decided to leave the Church, not because you do not believe in a future state, — for this you never have believed at any time — but because you wish to rid yourself of all moral and religious responsibility. Your scheme is perfectly distinct. You will make out a ‘case of conscience’ to your authorities, and resign your living, — you will then desert your wife and children, — you will leave your country in the company of the woman whose secret lover you are—”
“Stop!” cried the Reverend Mr. Anstruther, savagely endeavouring to wrench away his hand from the binding fetter which held it remorselessly to the hand of El-Râmi— “Stop! You are telling me a pack of lies!”
El-Râmi opened his great flashing orbs and surveyed him first in surprise, then with a deep unutterable contempt. Unclasping the steel band that bound their two hands together, he flung it by, and rose to his feet.
“Lies?” he echoed indignantly. “Your whole life is a lie, and both Nature and Science are bound to give the reflex of it. What! would you play a double part with the Eternal Forces and think to succeed in such desperate fooling? Do you imagine you can deceive supreme Omniscience, which holds every star and every infinitesimal atom of life in a network of such instant vibrating consciousness and contact, that in terrible truth there are and can be ‘no secrets hid’? You may if you like act out the wretched comedy of feigning to deceive your God — the God of the Churches, — but beware of trifling with the real God, — the absolute EGO SUM of the Universe.”
His voice rang out passionately upon the stillness, — the clergyman had also risen from his chair, and stood, nervously fumbling with his gloves, not venturing to raise his eyes.
“I have told you the truth of yourself,” — continued El-Râmi more quietly— “You know I have. Why then do you accuse me of telling you lies? Why did you seek me out at all if you wished to conceal yourself and your intentions from me? Can you deny the testimony of your own brain reflected on mine? Come, confess! be honest for once, — do you deny it?”
“I deny everything;” — replied the clergyman, — but his accents were husky and indistinct.
“So be it!” — and El-Râmi gave a short laugh of scorn. “Your ‘case of conscience’ is evidently very pressing! Go to your Bishop — and tell him you cannot believe in a future state, — I certainly cannot help you to prove that mystery. Besides, you would rather there were no future state, — a ‘something after death’ must needs be an unpleasant point of meditation for such as you. Oh yes! — you will get your freedom; — you will get all you are scheming for, and you will be quite a notorious person for awhile on account of the delicacy of your sense of honour and the rectitude of your principles. Exactly! — and then your final coup, — your running away with your neighbour’s wife will make you notorious again — in quite another sort of fashion. Ah! — every man is bound to weave the threads of his own destiny, and you are weaving yours; — do not be surprised if you find you have made of them a net wherein to become hopelessly caught, tied and strangled. It is no doubt unpleasant for you to hear these things, — what a pity you came to me!”
The Reverend Francis Anstruther buttoned his glove carefully.
“Oh, I do not regret it,” he said. “Any other man might perhaps feel himself insulted, but—”
“But you are too much of a ‘Christian’ to take offence — yes, I dare say!” interposed El-Râmi satirically,— “I thank you for your amiable forbearance! Allow me to close this interview” — and he was about to ring the bell, when his visitor said hastily and with an effort at appearing unconcerned —
“I suppose I may rely on your secrecy respecting what has passed?”
“Secrecy?” and El-Râmi raised his black eyebrows disdainfully— “What you call secrecy I know not. But if you mean that I shall speak of you and your affairs, — why, make yourself quite easy on that score. I shall not even think of you after you have left this room. Do not attach too much importance to yourself, reverend sir, — true, your name will soon be mentioned in the newspapers, but this should not excite you to an undue vanity. As for me, I have other things to occupy me, and clerical ‘cases of conscience’ such as yours, fail to attract either my wonder or admiration!” Here he touched the bell.— “Féraz!” this, as his young brother instantly appeared— “The door!”
The Reverend Francis Anstruther took up his hat, looked into it, glanced nervously round at the picturesque form of the silent Féraz, then with a sudden access of courage, looked at El-Râmi. That handsome Oriental’s fiery eyes were fixed upon him, — the superb head, the dignified figure, the stately manner, all combined to make him feel uncomfortable and awkward; but he forced a faint smile — it was evident he must say something.
“You are a very remarkable man, Mr....El-Râmi” — he stammered.... “It has been a most interesting...and...instructive morning!”
El-Râmi made no response other than a slight frigid bow.
The clergyman again peered into the depths of his hat.
“I will not go so far as to say you were correct in anything you said” — he went on— “but there was a little truth in some of your allusions, — they really applied, or might be made to apply to past events, — by-gone circumstances...you understand? ..”
El-Râmi took one step towards him.
“No more lies in Heaven’s name!” he said in a stern whisper. “The air is poisoned enough for to-day. Go!”
Such a terrible earnestness marked his face and voice that the Reverend Francis retreated abruptly in alarm, and stumbling out of the room hastily, soon found himself in the open street with the great oaken door of El-Râmi’s house shut upon him. He paused a moment, glanced at the sky, then at the pavement, shook his head, drew a long breath, and seemed on the verge of hesitation; then he looked at his watch, — smiled a bland smile, and hailing a cab, was driven to lunch at the Criterion, where a handsome woman with dark hair and eyes, met him with mingled flattery and upbraiding, and gave herself pouting and capricious airs of offence, because he had kept her ten minutes waiting.
CHAPTER VII.
THAT afternoon El-Râmi prepared to go out as was his usual custom, immediately after the mid-day meal, which was served to him by Féraz, who stood behind his chair like a slave all the time he ate and drank, attending to his needs with the utmost devotion and assiduity. Féraz indeed was his brother’s only domestic, — Zaroba’s duties being entirely confined to the mysterious apartments upstairs and their still more mysterious occupant. El-Râmi was in a taciturn mood, — the visit of the Reverend Francis Anstruther seemed to have put him out, and he scarcely spoke, save in monosyllables. Before leaving the house, however, his humour suddenly softened, and noting the wistful and timorous gaze with which Féraz regarded him, he laughed outright.
“You are very patient with me, Féraz!” he said— “And I know I am as sullen as a bear.”
“You think too much;” — replied Féraz gently— “And you work too hard.”
“Both thought and labour are necessary,” said El-Râmi— “You would not have me live a life of merely bovine repose?”
Féraz gave a deprecating gesture.
“Nay — but surely rest is needful. To be happ
y, God Himself must sometimes sleep.”
“You think so?” and El-Râmi smiled— “Then it must be during His hours of repose and oblivion that the business of life goes wrong, and Darkness and the Spirit of Confusion walk abroad. The Creator should never sleep.”
“Why not, if He has dreams?” asked Féraz— “For if Eternal Thought becomes Substance, so a God’s Dream may become Life.”
“Poetic as usual, my Féraz” — replied his brother— “and yet perhaps you are not so far wrong in your ideas. That Thought becomes substance, even with man’s limited powers, is true enough; — the thought of a perfect, form grows up embodied in the weight and Substance of marble, with the sculptor, — the vague fancies of a poet, being set in ink on paper, become Substance in book-shape, solid enough to pass from one hand to the other; — even so may a God’s mere Thought of a world create a Planet. It is my own impression that thoughts, like atoms, are imperishable, and that even dreams, being forms of thought, never die. But I must not stay here talking, — adieu! Do not sit up for me to-night — I shall not return, — I am going down to the coast.”
“To Ilfracombe?” questioned Féraz— “So long a journey, and all to see that poor mad soul?”
El-Râmi looked at him stedfastly.
“No more ‘mad,’ Féraz, than you are with your notions about your native star! Why should a scientist who amuses himself with the reflections on a Disc of magnetic crystal be deemed ‘mad’? Fifty years ago the electric inventions of Edison would have been called ‘impossible,’ — and he, the in — ventor, considered hopelessly insane. But now we know these seeming ‘miracles’ are facts, we cease to wonder at them. And my poor friend with his Disc is a harmless creature; — his ‘craze,’ if it be a craze, is as innocent as yours.”
“But I have no craze” — said Féraz composedly,— “all that I know and see, lives in my brain like music, — and though I remember it perfectly, I trouble no one with the story of my past.”
“And he troubles no one with what he deems may be the story of the future” — said El-Râmi— “Call no one ‘mad’ because he happens to have a new idea — for time may prove such ‘madness’ a merely perfected method of reason. I must hasten, or I shall lose my train.”
“If it is the 2.40 from Waterloo, you have time,” said Féraz— “It is not yet two o’clock. Do you leave any message for Zaroba?”
“None. She has my orders.”
Féraz looked full at his brother, and a warm flush coloured his handsome face.
“Shall I never be worthy of your con — fidence?” he asked in a low voice— “Can you never trust me with your great secret, as well as Zaroba?”
El-Râmi frowned darkly.
“Again, this vulgar vice of curiosity? I thought you were exempt from it by this time.”
“Nay, but hear me, El-Râmi” — said Féraz eagerly, distressed at the anger in his brother’s eyes— “It is not curiosity, — it is something else, — something that I can hardly explain, except.... Oh, you will only laugh at me if I tell you...but yet—”
“But what?” demanded El-Râmi sternly.
“It is as if a voice called me,” — answered Féraz dreamily— “a voice from those upper chambers, which you keep closed, and of which only Zaroba has the care — a voice that asks for freedom and for peace. It is such a sorrowful voice, — but sweet, — more sweet than any singing. True, I hear it but seldom, — only when I do, it haunts me for hours and hours. I know you are at some great work up there, — but can you make such voices ring from a merely scientific laboratory? Now you are angered!”
His large soft brilliant eyes rested appealingly upon his brother, whose features had grown pale and rigid.
“Angered!” he echoed, speaking as it seemed with some effort,— “Am I ever angered at your — your fancies? For fancies they are, Féraz, — the voice you hear is like the imagined home in that distant star you speak of, — an image and an echo on your brain — no more. My ‘great work,’ as you call it, would have no interest for you; — it is nothing but a test-experiment, which, if it fails, then I fail with it, and am no more El-Râmi-Zarânos, but the merest fool that ever clamoured for the moon.” He said this more to himself than to his brother, and seemed for the moment to have forgotten where he was, — till suddenly rousing himself with a start, he forced a smile.
“Farewell for the present, gentle visionary!” he said kindly,— “You are happier with your dreams than I with my facts, — do not seek out sorrow for yourself by rash and idle questioning.”
With a parting nod he went out, and Féraz, closing the door after him, remained in the hall for a few moments in a sort of vague reverie. How silent the house seemed, he thought with a half-sigh. The very atmosphere of it was depressing, and even his favourite occupation, music, had just now no attraction for him. He turned listlessly into his brother’s study, — he determined to read for an hour or so, and looked about in search of some entertaining volume. On the table he found a book open, — a manuscript, written on vellum in Arabic, with curious uncanny figures and allegorical designs on the headings and margins. El-Râmi had left it there by mistake, — it was a particularly valuable treasure which he generally kept under lock and key. Féraz sat down in front of it, and resting his head on his two hands, began to read at the page where it lay open. Arabic was his native tongue, — yet he had some difficulty in making out this especial specimen of the language, because the writing was anything but distinct, and some of the letters had a very odd way of vanishing before his eyes, just as he had fixed them on at word. This was puzzling as well as irritating, — he must have something the matter with his sight or his brain, he concluded, as these vanishing letters always came into position again after a little. Worried by the phenomenon, he seized the book and carried it to the full light of the open window, and there succeeded in making out the meaning of one passage which was quite sufficient to set him thinking. It ran as follows:
* “Wherefore, touching illusions and impressions, as also strong emotions of love, hatred, jealousy or revenge, these nerve and brain sensations are easily conveyed from one human subject to another by Suggestion. The first process is to numb the optic nerve. This is done in two ways — I. By causing the subject to fix his eyes steadily on a round shining case containing a magnet, while you shall count two hundred beats of time. II. By wilfully making your own eyes the magnet, and fixing your subject thereto. Either of these operations will temporarily paralyze the optic nerves, and arrest the motion of the blood in the vessels pertaining. Thus the brain becomes insensible to external impressions, and is only awake to internal suggestions, which you may make as many and as devious as you please. Your subject will see exactly what you choose him to see, hear what you wish him to hear, do what you bid him do, so long as you hold him by your power, which if you understand the laws of light, sound, and air-vibrations, you may be able to retain for an indefinite period. The same force applies to the magnetising of a multitude as of a single individual.”
* From “The Natural Law of Miracles,” written in Arabic 400 B.C.
Féraz read this over and over again, — then returning to the table, laid the book upon it with a deeply engrossed air. It had given him unpleasant matter for reflection.
“A dreamer — a visionary, he calls me—” he mused, his thoughts reverting to his absent brother— “Full of fancies poetic and musical, — now can it be that I owe my very dreams to his dominance? Does he make me subservient to him, as I am, or is my submission to his will, my own desire? Is my ‘madness’ or ‘craze,’ or whatever he calls it, of his working? and should I be more like other men if I were separated from him? And yet what has he ever done to me, save make me happy? Has he placed me under the influence of any magnet such as this book describes? Certainly not that I am aware of. He has made my inward spirit clearer of comprehension, so that I hear him call me even by a thought, — I see and know beautiful things of which grosser souls have no perception, — and am I n
ot content? — Yes, surely I am! — surely I should be, — though at times there seems a something missing, — a something to which I cannot give a name.”
He sighed, — and again buried his head between his hands, — he was conscious of a dreary sensation, unusual to his bright and fervid nature, — the very sunshine streaming through the window seemed to lack true brilliancy. Suddenly a hand was laid upon his shoulder, — he started and rose to his feet with a bewildered air, — then smiled, as he saw that the intruder was only Zaroba.
CHAPTER VIII.
ONLY Zaroba, — gaunt, grim, fierce-eyed Zaroba, old and unlovely, yet possessing withal an air of savage dignity, as she stood erect, her amber-coloured robe bound about her with a scarlet girdle, and her gray hair gathered closely under a small coif of the same vivid hue. Her wrinkled visage had more animation in it than on the previous night, and her harsh voice grew soft as she looked at the picturesque glowing beauty of the young man beside her, and addressed him.
“El-Râmi has gone?” she asked.
Féraz nodded. He generally made her understand him either by signs, or the use of the finger-alphabet, at which he was very dexterous.
“On what quest?” she demanded.
Féraz explained rapidly and mutely that he had gone to visit a friend residing at a distance from town.
“Then he will not return to-night;” — muttered Zaroba thoughtfully— “He will not return to-night.”
She sat down, and clasping her hands across her knees, rocked herself to and fro for some minutes in silence. Then she spoke, more to herself than to her listener.
“He is an angel or a fiend,” she said in low meditative accents. “Or maybe he is both in one. He saved me from death once — I shall never forget that. And by his power he sent me back to my native land last night — I bound my black tresses with pearl and gold, and laughed and sang, — I was young again!” — and with a sudden cry she raised her hands above her head and clapped them fiercely together, so that the silver bangles on her arms jangled like bells;— “As God liveth, I was young! You know what it is to be young” — and she turned her dark orbs half enviously upon Féraz, who, leaning against his brother’s writing-table, regarded her with interest and something of awe— “or you should know it! To feel the blood leap in the veins, while the happy heart keeps time like the beat of a joyous cymbal, — to catch the breath and tremble with ecstasy as the eyes one loves best in the world flash lightning-passion into your own, — to make companions of the roses, and feel the pulses quicken at the songs of birds, — to tread the ground so lightly as to scarcely know whether it is earth or air — this is to be young! — young! — and I was young last night. My love was with me, — my love, my more than lover— ‘Zaroba, beautiful Zaroba!’ he said, and his kisses were as honey on my lips— ‘Zaroba, pearl of passion! fountain of sweetness in a desert land! — thine eyes are fire in which I burn my soul, — thy round arms the prison in which I lock my heart! Zaroba, beautiful Zaroba!’ — Beautiful! Ay! — through the power of El-Râmi I was fair to see — last night!...only last night!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 246
