Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “So true,” and Lady Fulkeward simpered. “Exactly what I find wherever I go! Poor dear Ziska! She has to pay the penalty for captivating all you men in the way she does. I’m sure YOU have lost your heart to her quite as much as anybody else, haven’t you?”

  Courtney reddened.

  “I don’t think so,” he answered; “I admire her very much, but I haven’t lost my heart …”

  “Naughty boy! Don’t prevaricate!” and Lady Fulkeward smiled in the bewitching pearly manner her admirably-made artificial teeth allowed her to do. “Every man in the hotel is in love with the Princess, and I’m sure I don’t blame them. If I belonged to your sex I should be in love with her too. As it is, I am in love with the new arrival, that glorious creature, Gervase. He is superb! He looks like an untamed savage. I adore handsome barbarians!”

  “He’s scarcely a barbarian, I think,” said Courtney, with some amusement; “he is the great French artist, the ‘lion’ of Paris just now, — only secondary to Sarah Bernhardt.”

  “Artists are always barbarians,” declared Lady Fulkeward enthusiastically. “They paint naughty people without any clothes on; they never have any idea of time; they never keep their appointments; and they are always falling in love with the wrong person and getting into trouble, which is so nice of them! That’s why I worship them all. They are so refreshingly unlike OUR set!”

  Courtney raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

  “You know what I mean by our set,” went on the vivacious old

  “Gainsborough,” “the aristocrats whose conversation is limited to the

  weather and scandal, and who are so frightfully dull! Dull! My dear

  Ross you know how dull they are!”

  “Well, upon my word, they are,” admitted Courtney. “You are right there. I certainly agree with you.”

  “I’m sure you do! They have no ideas. Now, artists have ideas, — they live on ideas and sentiment. Sentiment is such a beautiful thing — so charming! I believe that fierce-looking Gervase is a creature of sentiment — and how delightful that is! Of course, he’ll paint the Princess Ziska — he MUST paint her, — no one else could do it so well. By the way, have you been asked to her great party next week?”

  “Yes.”

  “And are you going?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  “So am I. That absurd Chetwynd Lyle woman came to me this evening and asked me if I really thought it would be proper to take her ‘girls’ there,” and Lady Fulkeward laughed shrilly. “Girls indeed! I should say those two long, ugly women could go anywhere with safety. ‘Do you consider the Princess a proper woman?’ she asked, and I said, ‘Certainly, as proper as you are.’”

  Courtney laughed outright, and began to think there was some fun in

  Lady Fulkeward.

  “By Jove! Did you tell her that?”

  “I should think I did! Oh, I know a thing or two about the Chetwynd Lyles, but I keep my mouth shut till it suits me to open it. I said I was going, and then, of course, she said she would.”

  “Naturally.”

  And Courtney gave the answer vaguely, for the waltz was ended, and the

  Princess Ziska, on the arm of Gervase, was leaving the ball-room.

  “She’s going,” exclaimed Lady Fulkeward. “Dear creature! Excuse me — I must speak to her for a moment.”

  And with a swish of her full skirts and a toss of her huge hat and feathers, the lively flirt of sixty tripped off with all the agility of sixteen, leaving Courtney to follow her or remain where he was, just as he chose. He hesitated, and during that undecided pause was joined by Dr. Maxwell Dean.

  “A very brilliant and interesting evening!” said that individual, smiling complacently. “I don’t remember any time when I have enjoyed myself so thoroughly.”

  “Really! I shouldn’t have thought you a man to care for fancy-dress balls,” said Courtney.

  “Shouldn’t you? Ha! Well, some fancy-dress balls I might not care for, but this one has been highly productive of entertainment in every way, and several incidents connected with it have opened up to me a new vista of research, the possibilities of which are — er — very interesting and remarkable.”

  “Indeed!” murmured Courtney indifferently, his eyes fixed on the slim, supple figure of the Princess Ziska as she slowly moved amid her circle of admirers out of the ball-room, her golden skirts gleaming sun-like against the polished floor, and the jewels about her flashing in vivid points of light from the hem of her robe to the snake in her hair.

  “Yes,” continued the Doctor, smiling and rubbing his hands, “I think I have got the clue to a very interesting problem. But I see you are absorbed — and no wonder! A charming woman, the Princess Ziska — charming! Do you believe in ghosts?”

  This question was put with such unexpected abruptness that Courtney was quite taken aback.

  “Ghosts?” he echoed. “No, I cannot say I do. I have never seen one, and

  I have never heard of one that did not turn out a bogus.”

  “Oh! I don’t mean the usual sort of ghost,” said the Doctor, drawing his shelving brows together in a meditative knot of criss-cross lines over his small, speculative eyes. “The ghost that is common to Scotch castles and English manor-houses, and that appears in an orthodox night-gown, sighs, screams, rattles chains and bangs doors ad libitum. No, no! That kind of ghost is composed of indigestion, aided by rats and a gust of wind. No; when I say ghosts, I mean ghosts — ghosts that do not need the midnight hour to evolve themselves into being, and that by no means vanish at cock-crow. My ghosts are those that move about among us in social intercourse for days, months — sometimes years — according to their several missions; ghosts that talk to us, imitate our customs and ways, shake hands with us, laugh and dance with us, and altogether comport themselves like human beings. Those are my kind of ghosts— ‘scientific’ ghosts. There are hundreds, aye, perhaps thousands of them in the world at this very moment.”

  An uncomfortable shudder ran through Courtney’s veins; the Doctor’s manner seemed peculiar and uncanny.

  “By Jove! I hope not!” he involuntarily exclaimed. “The orthodox ghost is an infinitely better arrangement. One at least knows what to expect. But a ‘scientific’ ghost that moves about in society, resembling ourselves in every respect, appearing to be actually human and yet having no humanity at all in its composition, is a terrific notion indeed! You don’t mean to say you believe in the possibility of such an appalling creature?”

  “I not only believe it,” answered the Doctor composedly, “I know it!”

  Here the band crashed out “God save the Queen,” which, as a witty

  Italian once remarked, is the De Profundis of every English festivity.

  “But — God bless my soul!” began Courtney …

  “No, don’t say that!” urged the Doctor. “Say ‘God save the Queen.’ It’s more British.”

  “Bother ‘God save the Queen,’” exclaimed Courtney impatiently.— “Look here, you don’t mean it seriously, do you?”

  “I always mean everything seriously,” said Dr. Dean,— “even my jokes.”

  “Now come, no nonsense, Doctor,” and Courtney, taking his arm, led him towards one of the windows opening out to the moonlit garden,— “can you, as an honest man, assure me in sober earnest that there are ‘scientific ghosts’ of the nature you describe?”

  The little Doctor surveyed the scenery, glanced up at the moon, and then at his companion’s pleasant but not very intelligent face.

  “I would rather not discuss the matter,” he said at last, with some brusqueness. “There are certain subjects connected with psychic phenomena on which it is best to be silent; besides, what interest can such things have for you? You are a sportsman, — keep to your big game, and leave ghost-hunting to me.”

  “That is not a fair answer to my question,” said Courtney, “I’m sure I don’t want to interfere with your researches in any way; I only want to know if it is a fact that ghos
ts exist, and that they are really of such a nature as to deserve the term ‘scientific.’”

  Dr. Dean was silent a moment. Then, stretching out his small, thin hand, he pointed to the clear sky, where the stars were almost lost to sight in the brilliance of the moon.

  “Look out there!” he said, his voice thrilling with sudden and solemn fervor. “There in the limitless ether move millions of universes — vast creations which our finite brains cannot estimate without reeling, — enormous forces always at work, in the mighty movements of which our earth is nothing more than a grain of sand. Yet far more marvellous than their size or number is the mathematical exactitude of their proportions, — the minute perfection of their balance, — the exquisite precision with which every one part is fitted to another part, not a pin’s point awry, not a hair’s breadth astray. Well, the same exactitude which rules the formation and working of Matter controls the formation and working of Spirit; and this is why I know that ghosts exist, and, moreover, that we are COMPELLED by the laws of the phenomena surrounding us to meet them every day.”

  “I confess I do not follow you at all,” said Courtney bewildered.

  “No,” and Dr. Dean smiled curiously. “I have perhaps expressed myself obscurely. Yet I am generally considered a clear exponent. First of all, let me ask you, do you believe in the existence of Matter?”

  “Why, of course!”

  “You do. Then you will no doubt admit that there is Something — an Intelligent Principle or Spiritual Force — which creates and controls this Matter?”

  Courtney hesitated.

  “Well, I suppose there must be,” he said at last. “I’m not a church-goer, and I’m rather a free-thinker, but I certainly believe there is a Mind at work behind the Matter.”

  “That being the case,” proceeded the Doctor, “I suppose you will not deny to this Invisible Mind the same exactitude of proportion and precise method of action already granted to Visible Matter?”.

  “Of course, I could not deny such a reasonable proposition,” said

  Courtney.

  “Very good! Pursuing the argument logically, and allowing for an exactly-moving Mind behind exactly-working Matter, it follows that there can be no such thing as injustice anywhere in the universe?”

  “My dear Socrates redivivus,” laughed Courtney, “I fail to see what all this has to do with ghosts.”

  “It has everything to do with them,” declared the Doctor emphatically, “I repeat that if we grant these already stated premises concerning the composition of Mind and Matter, there can be no such thing as injustice. Yet seemingly unjust things are done every day, and seemingly go unpunished. I say ‘seemingly’ advisedly, because the punishment is always administered. And here the ‘scientific ghosts’ come in. ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord, — and the ghosts I speak of are the Lord’s way of doing it.”

  “You mean …” began Courtney.

  “I mean,” continued the Doctor with some excitement, “that the sinner who imagines his sins are undiscovered is a fool who deceives himself. I mean that the murderer who has secretly torn the life out of his shrieking victim in some unfrequented spot, and has succeeded in hiding his crime from what we call ‘justice,’ cannot escape the Spiritual law of vengeance. What would you say,” and Dr. Dean laid his thin fingers on Courtney’s coat-sleeve with a light pressure,— “if I told you that the soul of a murdered creature is often sent back to earth in human shape to dog its murderer down? And that many a criminal undiscovered by the police is haunted by a seeming Person, — a man or a woman, — who is on terms of intimacy with him, — who eats at his table, drinks his wine, clasps his hand, smiles in his face, and yet is truly nothing but the ghost of his victim in human disguise, sent to drag him gradually to his well-deserved, miserable end; what would you say to such a thing?”

  “Horrible!” exclaimed Courtney, recoiling. “Beyond everything monstrous and horrible!”

  The Doctor smiled and withdrew his hand from his companion’s arm.

  “There are a great many horrible things in the universe as well as pleasant ones,” he observed dryly. “Crime and its results are always of a disagreeable nature. But we cannot alter the psychic law of equity any more than we can alter the material law of gravitation. It is growing late; I think, if you will excuse me, I will go to bed.”

  Courtney look at him puzzled and baffled.

  “Then your ‘scientific ghosts’ are positive realities?” he began; here he gave a violent start as a tall white figure suddenly moved out of the shadows in the garden and came slowly towards them. “Upon my life, Doctor, you have made me quite nervous!”

  “No, no, surely not,” smiled the Doctor pleasantly— “not nervous! Not such a brave killer of game as you are! No, no! You don’t take Monsieur Armand Gervase for a ghost, do you? He is too substantial, — far too substantial! Ha! ha! ha!”

  And he laughed quietly, the wrinkled smile still remaining on his face as Gervase approached.

  “Everybody is going to bed,” said the great artist lazily. “With the departure of the Princess Ziska, the pleasures of the evening are ended.”

  “She is certainly the belle of Cairo this season,” said Courtney, “but I tell you what, — I am rather sorry to see young Murray has lost his head about her.”

  “Parbleu! So am I,” said Gervase imperturbably; “it seems a pity.”

  “He will get over it,” interposed Dr. Dean placidly. “It’s an illness, — like typhoid, — we must do all we can to keep down the temperature of the patient, and we shall pull him through.”

  “Keep him cool, in short!” laughed Gervase.

  “Exactly!” The little Doctor smiled shrewdly. “You look feverish,

  Monsieur Gervase.”

  Gervase flushed red under his dark skin.

  “I daresay I am feverish,” he replied irritably,— “I find this place hot as an oven. I think I should go away to-morrow if I had not asked the Princess Ziska to sit to me.”

  “You are going to paint her picture?” exclaimed Courtney. “By Jove! I congratulate you. It will be the masterpiece of the next salon.”

  Gervase bowed.

  “You flatter me! The Princess is undoubtedly an attractive subject. But, as I said before, this place stifles me. I think the hotel is too near the river, — there is an oozy smell from the Nile that I hate, and the heat is perfectly sulphureous. Don’t you find it so, Doctor?”

  “N-n-o! I cannot say that I do. Let me feel your pulse; I am not a medical man — but I can easily recognize any premonitions of illness.”

  Gervase held out his long, brown, well-shaped hand, and the savant’s small, cool fingers pressed lightly on his wrist.

  “You are quite well, Monsieur Gervase,” he said after a pause,— “You have a little sur-excitation of the nerves, certainly, — but it is not curable by medicine.” He dropped the hand he held, and looked up— “Good-night!”

  “Good-night!” responded Gervase.

  “Good-night!” added Courtney.

  And with an amiable salutation the Doctor went his way. The ball-room was now quite deserted, and the hotel servants were extinguishing the lights.

  “A curious little man, that Doctor,” observed Gervase, addressing

  Courtney, to whom as yet he had not been formally introduced.

  “Very curious!” was the reply, “I have known him for some years, — he is a very clever man, but I have never been able quite to make him out. I think he is a bit eccentric. He’s just been telling me he believes in ghosts.”

  “Ah, poor fellow!” and Gervase yawned as, with his companion, he crossed the deserted ball-room. “Then he has what you call a screw loose. I suppose it is that which makes him interesting. Good-night!”

  “Good-night!”

  And separating, they went their several ways to the small, cell-like bedrooms, which are the prime discomfort of the Gezireh Palace Hotel, and soon a great silence reigned throughout the building. All Cairo slept, — s
ave where at an open lattice window the moon shone full on a face up-turned to her silver radiance, — the white, watchful face, and dark, sleepless eyes of the Princess Ziska.

  CHAPTER VI.

  Next day the ordinary course of things was resumed at the Gezireh Palace Hotel, and the delights and flirtations of the fancy-ball began to vanish into what Hans Breitmann calls “the ewigkeit”. Men were lazier than usual and came down later to breakfast, and girls looked worn and haggard with over-much dancing, but otherwise there was no sign to indicate that the festivity of the past evening had left “tracks behind,” or made a lasting impression of importance on any human life. Lady Chetwynd Lyle, portly and pig-faced, sat on the terrace working at an elaborate piece of cross-stitch, talking scandal in the civilest tone imaginable, and damning all her “dear friends” with that peculiar air of entire politeness and good breeding which distinguishes certain ladies when they are saying nasty things about one another. Her daughters, Muriel and Dolly, sat dutifully near her, one reading the Daily Dial, as befitted the offspring of the editor and proprietor thereof, the other knitting. Lord Fulkeward lounged on the balustrade close by, and his lovely mother, attired in quite a charming and girlish costume of white foulard exquisitely cut and fitting into a waist not measuring more than twenty-two inches, reclined in a long deck-chair, looking the very pink of painted and powdered perfection.

  “You are so very lenient,” Lady Chetwynd Lyle was saying, as she bent over her needlework. “So very lenient, my dear Lady Fulkeward, that I am afraid you do not read people’s characters as correctly as I do. I have had, owing to my husband’s position in journalism, a great deal of social experience, and I assure you I do NOT think the Princess Ziska a safe person. She may be perfectly proper — she MAY be — but she is not the style we are accustomed to in London.”

  “I should rather think not!” interrupted Lord Fulkeward, hastily. “By Jove! She wouldn’t have a hair left on her head in London, don’cher know!”

  “What do you mean?” inquired Muriel Chetwynd Lyle, simpering. “You really do say such funny things, Lord Fulkeward!”