“All that is true enough;” — murmured Féraz— “As true as any truth possible, and yet people will not accept or understand it. All the religions, all the preachers, all the teachers seem to avail them nothing, — and they go on believing in death far more than in life. What a sad and silly world it is! — always planning for itself and never for God, and only turning to God in imminent danger like a coward schoolboy who says he is sorry because he fears a whipping.”
Here he lifted his eyes from the book, feeling that someone was looking at him, and true enough, there in the doorway stood Zaroba. Her withered face had an anxious expression and she held up a warning finger.
“Hush! ...” she said whisperingly.... “No noise!...where is El-Râmi?”
Féraz replied by a gesture, indicating that he was still upstairs at work on his mysterious “experiment.”
Zaroba advanced slowly into the room, and seated herself on the nearest chair.
“My mind misgives me;” — she said in low awe-stricken tones,— “My mind misgives me; I have had dreams — such dreams! All night I have tossed and turned, — my head throbs here,” — and she pressed both hands upon her brow,— “and my heart — my heart aches! I have seen strange creatures clad in white, — ghostly faces of the past have stared at me, — my dead children have caressed me, — my dead husband has kissed me on the lips — a kiss of ice, freezing me to the marrow. What does it bode? No good — no good! — but ill! Like the sound of the flying feet of the whirlwind that brings death to the sons of the desert, there is a sound in my brain which says— ‘Sorrow! Sorrow!’ again and yet again ‘Sorrow!’”
Sighing, she clasped her hands about her knees and rocked herself to and fro, as though she were in pain. Féraz stood gazing at her wistfully and with a somewhat troubled air, — her words impressed him uncomfortably, — her very attitude suggested misery. The sunlight beaming across her bent figure, flashed on the silver bangles that circled her brown arms, and touched her rough gray hair to flecks of brightness, — her black eyes almost hid themselves under their tired drooping lids, — and when she ceased speaking her lips still moved as though she inwardly muttered some weird incantation. Growing impatient with her, he knew not why, the young man paced slowly up and down the room; — her deafness precluded him from speaking to her, and he just now had no inclination to communicate with her in the usual way by writing. And while he thus walked about, she continued her rocking movement, and peered at him dubiously from under her bushy gray brows.
“It is ill work meddling with the gods;” — she began again presently— “In old time they were vengeful, — and have they changed because the times are new? Nay, nay! The nature of a man may alter with the course of his passions, — but the nature of a god! — who shall make it otherwise than what it has been from the beginning? Cruel, cruel are the ways of the gods when they are thwarted; — there is no mercy in the blind eyes of Fate! To tempt Destiny is to ask the thunderbolt to fall and smite you, — to oppose the gods is as though a babe’s hand should essay to lift the Universe. Have I not prayed the Master, the wise and the proud El-Râmi Zarânos, to submit and not contend? As God liveth, I say, let us submit while we can like the slaves that we are, for in submission alone is safety!”
Féraz heard her with increasing irritation, — why need she come to him with all this melancholy jabbering, he thought angrily. He leaned far out of the open window and looked at the ugly houses of the little square, — at the sooty trees, the sparrows hopping and quarrelling in the road, the tradesmen’s carts that every now and again dashed to and from their various customers’ doors in the aggravatingly mad fashion they affect, and tried to realize that he was actually in busy practical London, and not, as seemed at the moment more likely, in some cavern of an Eastern desert, listening to an ancient sybil croaking misfortune. Just then a neighbouring clock struck nine, and he hastily drew in his head from the outer air, and making language with his eloquent fingers, he mutely asked Zaroba if she were going upstairs now, or whether she meant to wait till El-Râmi himself came down?
She left off rocking to and fro, and half rose from her chair, — then she hesitated.
“I have never waited” — she said— “before, — and why? Because the voice of the Master has roused me from my deepest slumbers, — and like a finger of fire laid on my brain, his very thought has summoned my attendance. But this morning no such voice has called, — no such burning touch has stirred my senses, — how should I know what I must do? If I go unbidden, will he not be angered? — and his anger works like a poison in my blood!...yet...it is late,...and his silence is strange—”
She paused, passing her hand wearily across her eyes, — then stood up, apparently resolved.
“I will obey the voices that whisper to me,” — she said, with a certain majestic resignation and gravity— “The voices that cry to my heart ‘Sorrow! Sorrow!’ and yet again ‘Sorrow!’ If grief must come, then welcome, grief! — one cannot gainsay the Fates. I will go hence and prove the message of the air, — for the air holds invisible tongues that do not lie.”
With a slow step she moved across the room, — and on a sudden impulse Féraz sprang towards her exclaiming, “Zaroba! — stay!” — then recollecting she could not hear a word, he checked himself and drew aside to let her pass, with an air of indifference which he was far from feeling. He was in truth wretched and ill at ease, — the exhilaration with which he had arisen from sleep had given way to intense depression, and he could not tell what ailed him.
“Awake, Féraz! To-day dreams end, and life begins.” Those were the strange words he had heard the first thing on awaking that morning, — what could they mean, he wondered rather sadly? If dreams were indeed to end, he would be sorry, — and if life, as mortals generally lived it, were to begin for him, why then, he would be sorrier still. Troubled and perplexed, he began to set the breakfast in order, hoping by occupation to divert his thoughts and combat the miserable feeling of vague dread which oppressed him, and which, though he told himself how foolish and unreasonable it was, remained increasingly persistent. All at once such a cry rang through the house as almost turned his blood to ice, — a cry wild, despairing and full of agony. It was repeated with piercing vehemence, — and Féraz, his heart beating furiously, cleared the space of the room with one breathless bound and rushed upstairs, there to confront Zaroba tossing her arms distractedly and beating her breast like a creature demented.
“Lilith!” she gasped,— “Lilith has gone...gone!...and El-Râmi is dead!”
CHAPTER VII.
PUSHING the panic-stricken woman aside, Féraz dashed back the velvet curtains, and for the second time in his life penetrated the mysterious chamber. Once in the beautiful room, rich with its purple colour and warmth, he stopped as though he were smitten with sudden paralysis, — every artery in his body pulsated with terror, — it was true!...true that Lilith was no longer there! This was the first astounding fact that bore itself in with awful conviction on his dazed and bewildered mind; — the next thing he saw was the figure of his brother, kneeling motionless by the vacant couch. Hushing his steps and striving to calm his excitement, Féraz approached more nearly, and throwing his arms round El-Râmi’s shoulders endeavoured to raise him, — but all his efforts made no impression on that bent and rigid form. Turning his eyes once more to the ivory blankness of the satin couch on which the maiden Lilith had so long reclined, he saw with awe and wonder the distinct impression of where her figure had been, marked and hollowed out into deep curves and lines, which in their turn were outlined by a tracing of fine grayishwhite dust, like sifted ashes. Following the track of this powdery substance, he still more clearly discerned the impress of her vanished shape; and, shuddering in every limb, he asked himself — Could that — that dust — be all — all that was left of...of Lilith?...What dire tragedy had been enacted during the night? — what awful catastrophe had chanced to her , — to him, his beloved brother, whom he strove once more to lift f
rom his kneeling position, but in vain. Zaroba stood beside him, shivering, wailing, staring, and wringing her hands, till Féraz, dry-eyed and desperate, finding his own strength not sufficient, bade her, by a passionate gesture, assist him. Trembling violently, she obeyed, and between them both they at last managed to drag El-Râmi up from the ground and get him to a chair, where Féraz chafed his hands, bathed his forehead, and used every possible means to restore animation. Did his heart still beat? Yes, feebly and irregularly; — and presently one or two faint gasping sighs came from the labouring breast.
“Thank God!” muttered Féraz— “Whatever has happened, he lives! — Thank God he lives! When he recovers, he will tell me all; — there can be no secrets now between him and me.”
And he resumed his quick and careful ministrations, while Zaroba still wailed and wrung her hands, and stared miserably at the empty couch, whereon her beautiful charge had lain, slumbering away the hours and days for six long years. She too saw the little heaps and trackings of gray dust on the pillows and coverlid, and her feeble limbs shook with such terror that she could scarcely stand.
“The gods have taken her!” she whispered faintly through her pallid lips— “The gods are avenged! When did they ever have mercy! They have claimed their own with the breath and the fire of lightning, and the dust of a maiden’s beauty is no more than the dust of a flower! The dreadful, terrible gods are avenged — at last...at last!”
And sinking down upon the floor, she huddled herself together, and drew her yellow draperies over her head, after the Eastern manner of expressing inconsolable grief, and covered her aged features from the very light of day.
Féraz heeded her not at all, his sole attention being occupied in the care of his brother, whose large black eyes now opened suddenly and regarded him with a vacant expression like the eyes of a blind man. A great shudder ran through his frame, — he looked curiously at his own hands as Féraz gently pressed and rubbed them, — and he stared all round the room in vaguely in — quiring wonderment. Presently his wandering glance came back to Féraz, and the vacancy of his expression softened into a certain pleased mildness, — his lips parted in a little smile, but he said nothing.
“You are better, El-Râmi, my brother?” murmured Féraz caressingly, trembling and almost weeping in the excess of his affectionate anxiety, the while he placed his own figure so that it might obstruct a too immediate view of Lilith’s vacant couch, and the covered crouching form of old Zaroba beside it— “You have no pain?...you do not suffer?”
El-Râmi made no answer for the moment; — he was looking at Féraz with a gentle but puzzled inquisitiveness. Presently his dark brows contracted slightly, as though he were trying to connect some perplexing chain of ideas, — then he gave a slight gesture of fatigue and indifference.
“You will excuse me, I hope,—” he then said with plaintive courtesy— “I have forgotten your name. I believe I met you once, but I cannot remember where.”
The heart of poor Féraz stood still,...a great sob rose in his throat. But he checked it bravely, — he would not, he could not, he dared not give way to the awful fear that began to creep like a frost through his warm young blood.
“You cannot remember Féraz?” he said gently— “Your own Féraz?...your little brother, to whom you have been life, hope, joy, work — everything of value in the world!” Here his voice failed him, and he nearly broke down.
El-Râmi looked at him in grave surprise.
“You are very good!” he murmured, with a feebly polite wave of his hand;— “You over-rate my poor powers. I am glad to have been useful to you — very glad!”
Here he paused; — his head sank forward on his breast, and his eyes closed.
“El-Râmi!” cried Féraz, the hot tears forcing their way between his eyelids— “Oh, my belovëd brother! — have you no thought for me?”
El-Râmi opened his eyes and stared; — then smiled.
“No thought?” he repeated— “Oh, you mistake! — I have thought very much, — very much indeed, about many things. Not about you perhaps, — but then I do not know you. You say your name is Féraz, — that is very strange; it is not at all a common name. I only knew one Féraz, — he was my brother, or seemed so for a time, — but I found out afterwards,...hush!...come closer! ...” and he lowered his voice to a whisper,— “that he was not a mortal, but an angel, — the angel of a Star. The Star knew him better than I did.”
Féraz turned away his head, — the tears were falling down his cheeks — he could not speak. He realized the bitter truth, — the delicate overstrained mechanism of his brother’s mind had given way under excessive pain and pressure, — that brilliant, proud, astute, cold and defiant intellect was all unstrung and out of gear, and rendered useless, perchance for ever.
El-Râmi however seemed to have some glimmering perception of Féraz’s grief, for he put out a trembling hand and turned his brother’s face towards him with gentle concern.
“Tears?” he said in a surprised tone— “Why should you weep? There is nothing to weep for; — God is very good.”
And with an effort, he rose from the chair in which he had sat, and standing upright, looked about him. His eye at once lighted on the vase of roses at the foot of the couch and he began to tremble violently. Féraz caught him by the arm, — and then he seemed startled and afraid.
“She promised,...she promised!” he began in an incoherent rambling way— “and you must not interfere, — you must let me do her bidding. ‘Look for me where the roses are; there will I stand and wait!’ She said that, — and she will wait, and I will look, for she is sure to keep her word — no angel ever forgets. You must not hinder me; — I have to watch and pray, — you must help me, not hinder me. I shall die if you will not let me do what she asks; — you cannot tell how sweet her voice is; — she talks to me and tells me of such wonderful things, — things too beautiful to be believed, yet they are true. I know so well my work; — work that must be done, — you will not hinder me?”
“No, no!” — said Féraz, in anguish himself, yet willing to say anything to soothe his brother’s trembling excitement— “No, no! You shall not be hindered, — I will help you, — I will watch with you, — I will pray ...” and here again the poor fellow nearly broke down into womanish sobbing.
“Yes!” said El-Râmi, eagerly catching at the word— “Pray! You will pray — and so will I; — that is good, — that is what I need, — prayer, they say, draws all Heaven down to earth. It is strange, — but so it is. You know” — he added, with a faint gleam of intelligence lighting up for a moment his wandering eyes— “Lilith is not here! Not here, nor there,...she is Everywhere!”
A terrible pallor stole over his face, giving it almost the livid hue of death, — and Féraz, alarmed, threw one arm strongly and resolutely about him. But El-Râmi crouched and shuddered, and hid his eyes as though he strove to shelter himself from the fury of a whirlwind.
“Everywhere!” he moaned— “In the flowers, in the trees, in the winds, in the sound of the sea, in the silence of the night, in the slow breaking of the dawn, — in all these things is the Soul of Lilith! Beautiful, indestructible, terrible Lilith! She permeates the world, she pervades the atmosphere, she shapes and unshapes herself at pleasure, — she floats, or flies, or sleeps at will; — in substance, a cloud; — in radiance, a rainbow! She is the essence of God in the transient shape of an angel — never the same, but for ever immortal. She soars aloft — she melts like mist in the vast Unseen! — and I — I — I shall never find her, never know her, never see her — never, never again!”
The harrowing tone of voice in which he uttered these words pierced Féraz to the heart, but he would not give way to his own emotion.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 279