“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 white 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 realize 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 someone 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 realized 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 repellant 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.
CHAPTER IX.
ZAROBA had indeed forgotten her sorrows; but not in slumber, as Féraz hoped and imagined. Little did he think that she was no longer under the roof that had sheltered her for so many years; little could he guess that she was out wandering all alone in the labyrinth of the London streets, — a labyrinth of which she was almost totally ignorant, having hardly ever been out of doors since El-Râmi had brought her from the East. True, she had occasionally walked in the little square opposite the house, and in a few of the streets adjoining, — once or twice in Sloane Street itself, but no further, for the sight of the hurrying, pushing, busy throngs of men and women confused her. She had not realized what she was doing when she let herself out that night, — only when the street-door shut noiselessly upon her she was vaguely startled, — and a sudden sense of great loneliness oppressed her. Yet the fresh air blowing against her face was sweet and balmy, — it helped to relieve the sickness at her heart, the dizziness in her brain, — and she began to stroll along, neither knowing nor caring whither she was going, — chiefly impelled by the strong necessity she felt for movement, — space, — liberty. It had seemed to her that she was being suffocated and buried alive in the darkness and desolation that had fallen on the chamber of Lilith; — here, out in the open, she was free, — she could breathe more easily. And so she went on, almost unseeingly, — the people she met looked to her like the merest shadows. Her quaint garb attracted occasional attention from some of the passers-by, — but her dark fierce face and glittering eyes repelled all those who might have been inquisitive enough to stop and question her. She drifted errantly, yet safely, through the jostling crowds like a withered leaf on the edge of a storm, — her mind was dazed with grief and fear and long fasting, but now and then as she went, she smiled and seemed happy. Affliction had sunk so deep within her, that it had reached the very core and centre of imagination and touched it to vague issues of discordant joy; — wherefore, persuaded by the magic music of delusion, she believed herself to be at home again in her native Egypt. She fancied she was walking in the desert; — the pavement seemed hot to her feet and she took it for the burning sand, — and when after long and apparently interminable wanderings, she found herself opposite Nelson’s column in Trafalgar Square, she stared at the four great lions with stupefied dismay.
“It is the gate of a city,” — she muttered— “and at this hour the watchmen are asleep. I will go on — on still further, — there must be water close by, else there would be no city built.”
She had recovered a certain amount of physical strength in the restorative influence of the fresh air, and walked with a less feeble tread, — she became dimly conscious too of there being a number of people about, and she drew her amber-coloured draperies more closely over her head. It was a beautiful night; — the moon was full and brilliant, and hundreds of pleasure-seekers were moving hither and thither, — there was the usual rattle and roar of the vehicular traffic of the town which, it must be remembered, Zaroba did not hear. Neither did she clearly see anything that was taking place around her, — for her sight was blurred, and the dull confusion in her brain continued. She walked as in a dream, — she felt herself to be in a dream; — the images of El-Râmi, of the lost Lilith, of the beautiful young Féraz, had faded away from her recollection, — and she was living in the early memories of days long past, — days of youth and hope and love and promise. No one molested her; people in London are so accustomed to the sight of foreigners and foreign costumes, that so long as they are seen walking on their apparent way peaceably, they may do so in any garb that pleases them, provided it be decent, without attracting much attention save from a few small and irreverent street-arabs. And even the personal and pointed observations of these misguided youngsters fail to disturb the dignity of a Parsee in his fez, or to ruffle the celestial composure of a Chinaman in his slippers. Zaroba, moreover, did not present such a markedly distinctive appearance, — in her yellow wrapper and silver bangles, she only looked like one of the ayahs brought over from the East with the children of Anglo-Indian mothers, — and she passed on uninterruptedly, happily deaf to the noises around her, and almost blind to the evershifting human pageantry of the busy thoroughfares.
“The gates of the city,” — she went on murmuring— “they are shut, and the watchmen are asleep. There must be water near, — a river or a place of fountains, where the caravans pause to rest.”
Now and then the glare of the lights in the streets troubled her, — and then she would come to a halt and pass her hands across her eyes, — but this hesitation only lasted a minute, — and again she continued on her aimless way. The road widened out before her, — the buildings grew taller, statelier and more imposing, — and suddenly she caught sight of what she had longed for, — the glimmering of water silvering itself in the light of the moon.
She had reached the Embankment; — and a sigh of satisfaction escaped her, as she felt the damp chillness o
f the wind from the river blowing against her burning forehead. The fresh coolness and silence soothed her, — there were few people about, — and she slackened her pace unconsciously, and smiled as she lifted her dark face to the clear and quiet sky. She was faint and weary, — light-headed from want of food, — but she was not conscious of this any more than a fever-patient is conscious of his own delirium. She walked quite steadily now, — in no haste, but with the grave, majestic step that belongs peculiarly to women of her type and race, — her features were perfectly composed, and her eyes very bright. And now she looked always at the river, and saw nothing else for a time but its rippling surface lit up by the moon.
“They have cut down the reeds” — she said, softly under her breath,— “and the tall palms are gone, — but the river is always the same, — they cannot change that. Nothing can dethrone the Nile-god, or disturb his sleep among the lilies, down towards the path of the sunset. Here I shall meet my beloved again, — here by the banks of the Nile; — yet, it is strange and cruel that they should have cut down the reeds. I remember how softly they rustled with the movements of the little snakes that lived in the golden sand, — yes! — and the palm-trees were high — so high that their feathery crowns seemed to touch the stars. It was Egypt then, — and is it not Egypt now? Yes — surely — surely it is Egypt! — but it is changed — changed, — all is changed except love! Love is the same for ever, and the heart beats true to the one sweet tune. Yes, we shall meet, — my belovëd and I, — and we shall tell one another how long the time has seemed since we parted yesterday. Only yesterday! — and it seems a century, — a long long century of pain and fear, — but the hours have passed, and the waiting is over,—”
She broke off abruptly, and stood suddenly still; — the Obelisk faced her. Cut sharp and dark against the brilliant sky the huge “Cleopatra’s Needle” towered solemnly aloft, its apex seeming to point directly at the planet Mars which glittered with a faint redness immediately above it. Something there was in its weird and frowning aspect, that appealed strangely to Zaroba’s wandering intelligence, — she gazed at it with eager, dilated eyes.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 281
