Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Her voice sank down into a feeble wailing, and Féraz gazed at her compassionately and in a little wonder, — he was accustomed to see her in various strange and incomprehensible moods, but she was seldom so excited as now.

  “Why do you not laugh?” she asked suddenly and with a touch of defiance— “Why do you not laugh at me? — at me, the wretched Zaroba, — old and unsightly — bent and wrinkled! — that I should dare to say I was once beautiful! — It is a thing to make sport of — an old forsaken woman’s dream of her dead youth.”

  With an impulsive movement that was as graceful as it was becoming, Féraz, for sole reply, dropped on one knee beside her, and taking her wrinkled hand, touched it lightly but reverently with his lips. She trembled, and great tears rose in her eyes.

  “Poor boy!” she muttered— “Poor child! — a child to me, and yet a man! As God liveth, a man!” She looked at him with a curious stedfastness. “Good Féraz, forgive me — I did you wrong — I know you would not mock the aged, or make wanton sport of their incurable woes, — you are too gentle. I would in truth you were less mild of spirit — less womanish of heart!”

  “Womanish!” and Féraz leaped up, stung by the word, he knew not why. His heart beat strangely — his blood tingled, — it seemed to him that if he had possessed a weapon, his instinct would have been to draw it then. Never had he looked so handsome; and Zaroba, watching his expression, clapped her withered hands in a sort of witch-like triumph.

  “Ha!” — she cried— “The man’s mettle speaks! There is something more than the dreamer in you then — something that will help you to explain the mystery of your existence — something that says— ‘Féraz, you are the slave of destiny — up! be its master! Féraz, you sleep — awake!’” and Zaroba stood up tall and imposing, with the air of an inspired sorceress delivering a prophecy— “Féraz, you have manhood — prove it! Féraz, you have missed the one joy of life — LOVE! — Win it!”

  Féraz stared at her amazed. Her words were such as she had never addressed to him before, and yet they moved him with a singular uneasiness. Love? Surely he knew the meaning of love? It was an ideal passion, like the lifting-up of life in prayer. Had not his brother told him that perfect love was unattainable on this planet? — and was it not a word the very suggestions of which could only be expressed in music? These thoughts ran through his mind while he stood inert and wondering, — then rousing himself a little from the effects of Zaroba’s outburst, he sat down at the table, and taking up a pencil, wrote as follows —

  “You talk wildly, Zaroba — you cannot be well. Let me hear no more — you disturb my peace. I know what love is — I know what life is. But the best part of my life and love is not here, — but elsewhere.”

  Zaroba took the paper from his hand, read it, and tore it to bits in a rage.

  “O foolish youth!” she exclaimed— “Your love is the love of a Dream, — your life is the life of a Dream! You see with another’s eyes — you think through another’s brain. You are a mere machine, played upon by another’s will! But not forever shall you be deceived — not forever,—” here she gave a slight start and looked around her nervously as though she expected someone to enter the room suddenly— “Listen! Come to me to — night, — to-night when all is dark and silent, — when every sound in the outside street is stilled, — come to me — and I will show you a marvel of the world! — one who, like you, is the victim of a Dream!” She broke off abruptly and glanced from right to left in evident alarm, — then with a fresh impetus of courage, she bent towards her companion again and whispered in his ear— “Come!”

  “But where?” asked Féraz in the language of signs.

  “Up yonder!” said Zaroba firmly, regardless of the utter amazement with which Féraz greeted this answer— “Up, where El-Râmi hides his great secret. Yes — I know he has forbidden you to venture there, — even so has he forbidden me to speak of what he cherishes so closely, — but are we slaves, you and I? Do you purpose always to obey him? So be it, an you will! But if I were you, — a man — I would defy both gods and fiends if they opposed my liberty of action. Do as it pleases you, — I, Zaroba, have given, you the choice, — stay and dream of life — or come and live it! Till to-night — farewell!”

  She had reached the door and vanished through it, before Féraz could demand more of her meaning, — and he was left alone, a prey to the most torturing emotions. “The vulgar vice of curiosity!” That was the phrase his brother had used to him scarcely an hour agone, — and yet, here he was, yielding to a fresh fit of the intolerable desire that had possessed him for years to know El-Râmi’s great secret. He dropped wearily into a chair and thought all the circumstances over. They were as follows, —

  In the first place he had never known any other protector or friend than his brother, who, being several years older than himself, had taken sole charge of him after the almost simultaneous death of their father and mother, an event which he knew had occurred somewhere in the East, but how or when, he could not exactly remember, nor had he ever been told much about it. He had always been very happy in El-Râmi’s companionship, and had travelled with him nearly all over the world, — and though they had never been rich, they had always had sufficient wherewith to live comfortably, though how even this small competence was gained, Féraz never knew. There had been no particular mystery about his brother’s life, however, till on one occasion, when they were travelling together across the Syrian desert, where they had come upon a caravan of half-starved Arab wanderers in dire distress from want and sickness. Among them was an elderly woman at the extreme point of death, and an orphan child named Lilith, who was also dying. El-Râmi had suddenly, for no special reason, save kindness of heart and compassion, offered his services as physician to the stricken little party, and had restored the elderly woman, a widow, almost miraculously to health and strength in a day or two. This woman was no other than Zaroba. The sick child however, a girl of about twelve years old, died. And here began the puzzle. On the day of this girl’s death, El-Râmi, with sudden and inexplicable haste, had sent his young brother on to Alexandria, bidding him there take ship immediately for the Island of Cyprus, and carry to a certain monastery some miles from Famagousta, a packet of documents, which he stated were of the most extraordinary value and importance. Féraz had obeyed, and according to further instructions, had remained as a visitor in that Cyprian religious retreat, among monks unlike any other monks he had ever seen or heard of, till he was sent for, whereupon, according to command, he rejoined El-Râmi in London. He found him, somewhat to his surprise, installed in the small house where they now were, — with the woman Zaroba, whose presence was another cause of blank astonishment, especially as she seemed to have nothing to do but keep certain rooms upstairs in order. But all the questions Féraz poured out respecting her, and everything that had happened since their parting in the Syrian desert, were met by equivocal replies or absolute silence on his brother’s part, and by-and-bye the young man grew accustomed to his position. Day by day he became more and more subservient to El-Râmi’s will, though he could never quite comprehend why he was so willingly submissive. Of course he knew that his brother was gifted with certain powers of physical magnetism, — because he had allowed himself to be practised upon, and he took a certain interest in the scientific development of those powers, this being, as he quite comprehended, one of the branches of study on which El-Râmi was engaged. He knew that his brother could compel response to thought from a distance, — but, as there were others of his race who could do the same thing, and as that sort of mild hypnotism was largely practised in the East, where he was born, he attached no special importance to it. Endowed with various gifts of genius such as music and poetry, and a quick perception of everything beautiful and artistic, Féraz lived in a tranquil little Eden of his own, — and the only serpent in it that now and then lifted its head to hiss doubt and perplexity was the inexplicable mystery of those upstair rooms over which Zaroba had guardianship. Th
e merest allusion to the subject excited El-Râmi’s displeasure; and during the whole time they had lived together in that house, now nearly six years, he had not dared to speak of it more than a very few times, while Zaroba, on her part, had faithfully preserved the utmost secrecy. Now, she seemed disposed to break the long-kept rules, — and Féraz knew not what to think of it.

  “Is everything destiny, as El-Râmi says?” he mused— “Or shall I follow my own desires in the face of destiny? Shall I yield to temptation — or shall I overcome it? Shall I break his command, — lose his affection and be a free man, — or shall I obey him still, and be his slave? And what should I do with my liberty if I had it, I wonder? Womanish! What a word! Am I womanish?” He paced up and down the room in sudden irritation and haughtiness; — the piano stood open, but its ivory keys failed to attract him, — his brain was full of other suggestions than the making of sweet harmony.

  “Do not seek out sorrow for yourself by rash and idle questioning.”

  So his brother had said at parting. And the words rang in his ears as he walked to and fro restlessly, thinking, wondering, and worrying his mind with vague wishes and foreboding anxieties, till the shining afternoon wore away and darkness fell.

  CHAPTER IX.

  A ROUGH night at sea, — but the skies were clear, and the great worlds of God which we call stars, throbbed in the heavens like lustrous lamps, all the more brilliantly for there being no moon to eclipse their glory. A high gale was blowing, and the waves dashed up on the coast of Ilfracombe with an organ-like thud and roar as they broke in high jets of spray, and then ran swiftly back again with a soft swish and ripple suggestive of the downward chromatic scale played rapidly on well-attuned strings. There was freshness and life in the dancing wind; — the world seemed well in motion; — and, standing aloft among the rocks, and looking down at the tossing sea, one could realize completely the continuous whirl of the globe beneath one’s feet, and the perpetual movement of the planet-studded heavens. High above the shore, on a bare jutting promontory, a solitary house faced seaward; — it was squarely built and surmounted with a tower, wherein one light burned fitfully, its pale sparkle seeming to quiver with fear as the wild wind fled past joyously, with a swirl and cry like some huge sea-bird on the wing. It looked a dismal residence at its best, even when the sun was shining, — but at night its aspect was infinitely more dreary. It was an old house, and it enjoyed the reputation of being haunted, — a circumstance which had enabled its present owner to purchase the lease of it for a very moderate sum. He it was who had built the tower, and whether because of this piece of extravagance or for other unexplained reasons, he had won for himself personally, almost as uncanny a reputation as the house had possessed before he occupied it. A man who lived the life of a recluse, — who seemed to have no relations with the outside world at all, — who had only one servant, (a young German whom the shrewder gossips declared was his “keeper”) — who lived on such simple fare as certainly would never have contented a modern Hodge earning twelve shillings a week, and who seemed to purchase nothing but strange astronomical and geometrical instruments, — surely such a queer personage must either be mad, or in league with some evil “secret society,” — the more especially that he had had that tower erected, into which, after it was finished, no one but himself ever entered so far as the people of the neighbourhood could tell. Under all these suspicious circumstances, it was natural he should be avoided; and avoided he was by the good folk of Ilfracombe, in that pleasantly diverting fashion which causes provincial respectability to shudder away from the merest suggestion of superior intelligence.

  And yet poor old Dr. Kremlin was a being not altogether to be despised. His appearance was perhaps against him, inasmuch as his clothes were shabby, and his eyes rather wild, — but the expression of his meagre face was kind and gentle, and a perpetual compassion for everything and everybody, seemed to vibrate in his voice and reflect itself in his melancholy smile. He was deeply occupied — so he told a few friends in Russia, where he was born, — in serious scientific investigations, — but the “friends,” deeming him mad, held aloof till those investigations should become results. If the results proved disappointing, there would be no need to notice him any more, — if successful, why then, by a mystic process known only to themselves, the “friends” would so increase and multiply that he would be quite inconveniently surrounded by them. In the meantime, nobody wrote to him, or came to see him, except El-Râmi; and it was El-Râmi now, who, towards ten o’clock in the evening, knocked at the door of his lonely habitation and was at once admitted with every sign of deference and pleasure by the servant Karl.

  “I’m glad you’ve come, sir,” — said this individual cheerfully,— “The Herr Doctor has not been out all day, and he eats less than ever. It will do him good to see you.”

  “He is in the tower as usual, at work?” enquired El-Râmi, throwing off his coat.

  Karl assented, with rather a doleful look, — and opening the door of a small dining-room, showed the supper-table laid for two.

  El-Râmi smiled.

  “It’s no good, Karl!” he said kindly— “It’s very well meant on your part, but it’s no good at all. You will never persuade your master to eat at this time of night, or me either. Clear all these things away, — and make your mind easy, — go to bed and sleep. To-morrow morning prepare as excellent a breakfast as you please — I promise you we’ll do justice to it! Don’t look so discontented — don’t you know that over-feeding kills the working capacity?”

  “And over-starving kills the man, — working-capacity and all” — responded Karl lugubriously— “However, I suppose you know best, sir!”

  “In this case I do” — replied El-Râmi— “Your master expects me?”

  Karl nodded, — and El-Râmi, with a brief “good-night,” ascended the staircase rapidly and soon disappeared. A door banged aloft — then all was still. Karl sighed profoundly, and slowly cleared away the useless supper.

  “Well! How wise men can bear to starve themselves just for the sake of teaching fools, is more than I shall ever understand!” he said half aloud— “But then I shall never be wise — I am an ass and always was. A good dinner and a glass of good wine have always seemed to me better than all the science going, — there’s a shameful confession of ignorance and brutality together, if you like. ‘Where do you think you will go to when you die, Karl?’ says the poor old Herr Doctor. And what do I say? I say— ‘I don’t know, mein Herr — and I don’t care. This world is good enough for me so long as I live in it.’ ‘But afterwards Karl, — afterwards!’ he says, with his gray head shaking. And what do I say? Why, I say— ‘I can’t tell, mein Herr! but whoever sent me Here will surely have sense enough to look after me There!’ And he laughs, and his head shakes worse than ever. Ah! Nothing can ever make me clever, and I’m very glad of it!”

  He whistled a lively tune softly, as he went to bed in his little side-room off the passage, and wondered again, as he had wondered hundreds of times before, what caused that solemn low humming noise that throbbed so incessantly through the house, and seemed so loud when everything else was still. It was a grave sound, — suggestive of a long-sustained organ-note held by the pedal-bass; — the murmuring of seas and rivers seemed in it, as well as the rush of the wind. Karl had grown accustomed to it, though he did not know what it meant, — and he listened to it, till drowsiness made him fancy it was the hum of his mother’s spinning wheel, at home in his native German village among the pine-forests, and so he fell happily asleep.

  Meanwhile El-Râmi, ascending to the tower, knocked sharply at a small nail-studded door in the wall. The mysterious murmuring noise was now louder than ever, — and the knock had to be repeated three or four times before it was attended to. Then the door was cautiously opened, and the “Herr Doctor” himself looked out, his wizened, aged, meditative face illumined like a Rembrandt picture by the small hand-lamp he held in his hand.

  “Ah! — El-Râmi!�
� he said in slow yet pleased tones— “I thought it might be you. And like ‘Bernardo’ — you ‘come most carefully upon your hour.’”

  He smiled, as one well satisfied to have made an apt quotation, and opened the door more widely to admit his visitor.

  “Come in quickly,” — he said— “The great window is open to the skies, and the wind is high, — I fear some damage from the draught, — come in — come in!”

  His voice became suddenly testy and querulous, — and El-Râmi stepped in at once without reply. Dr. Kremlin shut to the door carefully and bolted it — then he turned the light of the lamp he carried, full on the dark handsome face and dignified figure of his companion.