The Mystery of a Turkish Bath
disciple to expound their doctrines, happier still the fortunate few to
whom those doctrines are to be expounded by lips so lovely and a heart
so wise."
Ere the circle had quite recovered from its astonishment at hearing a
speech so flattering uttered by their surly Diogenes, they had parted to
make way for the beautiful stranger, and the last gleam of her snowy
robes had floated through the doorway, as a cloud melts into the
darkness of descending night.
There was a sort of long-drawn breath, a feeling as of long tension
suddenly set free, a turning as if by one accord to one another. Then--
well, then all the tongues leaped into action, and for the remainder of
that evening, like Thackeray's folk "At the Springs," they talked, and
they talked, _and they talked_.
CHAPTER TEN.
PREMONITION.
When the Princess Zairoff was in the privacy of her own boudoir, she
turned to Colonel Estcourt in a sudden appeal:
"Why did you make me go, Julian?" she said. "I knew I should only shock
them. I can't ever put up with that languid ignorant curiosity."
"I think it will do them good to be shocked," he said, with a smile.
"Give them something to think of beside their ailments. And I had a
special reason," he went on with a deeper note of tenderness in his
voice--"I do not wish you to shut yourself away as you have been doing.
You will grow morbid and dissatisfied with life. I want you to take a
healthy interest in it once again."
She had thrown herself on a low cushioned lounge before the bright wood
fire. He took a chair beside her. She seemed to lapse into profound
thought, and he watched her beautiful grave face with adoring eyes.
"I wish," she said suddenly, "one could live a free, simple,
uncriticised life. Do you remember the old days among the wild hills?
The cool grey dawns... the sharp sweet air... the long gallops over the
rough roads by the rice fields... the strange temples... the songs of
the snake-charmers? Ah, we were happy then, Julian, happier than we
ever realised."
"May we not be still happier?" he said earnestly. "Life has a graver
and a wider meaning, it is true, but that should only give us a deeper
power of appreciation."
A strange smile touched her lips; a smile of mystery, and of dreamy,
unfathomable regret.
"We shall never be happier," she said, "than we were then. I have
always felt that... yes, I know what you would ask. Did I love you
then? Yes, Julian, with all my heart and soul... and yet--and yet--I
could have been nothing more to you than a sister, a friend. There was
a purpose in my marriage."
She ceased speaking. For a moment her eyes closed, her head sank back
wearily on the soft cushions.
Presently she opened them, and met his anxious gaze. "No, I did not
faint," she said. "But, why I know not, that sense of blankness and
dizziness always comes over me when I speak on that subject. There is
something I wish, yet dread, to remember--but, just as I am on the point
of grasping it, there is a blank."
"Do not speak of that time," he said passionately. "I hate to think you
were the wife of that man--it was sacrilege... you--my pure-souled
goddess."
"He was a bad man," she said. "But, up to a certain point, I could
always escape and defy him. He was a coward at heart, and he was afraid
of me."
Then suddenly she stretched out her arm and touched his shoulder with a
timid, caressing movement. "You need not be jealous of those years, my
beloved," she said softly. "No man would, who knew them and valued them
for what they were to me."
He sank on his knees, and folded his arms about her. "Ah, queen of
mine," he said, "it is only natural that I should be jealous of the
lightest touch, or look, or word, that were once another's privilege.
Therein lies the only sting in my happiness--"
"Does not that prove it is of earth--earthly?" she said, as her deep
mournful eyes looked back to his own. "I believe, Julian, it would be
better, even now, if we were to part. I have always that dread upon my
soul, that I am destined to bring you suffering--misfortune--"
"Bring me what you will," he interrupted passionately, "but do not speak
of parting! Rather suffering and trial at your hands, oh, my life's
love, than the greatest peace and prosperity from any other woman's!"
"I wish you loved me less," she said sadly. "But I am not forbidden to
accept your love now; only, I have warned you, do not forget. And
now--" she added suddenly: "Put me to sleep... it is so long, so long,
since I have known real rest, such as you used to give me."
He rose slowly and stood beside her, as she nestled back amidst her
cushions. A strange calm and chill seemed to fold him in its peace, and
the throbbing fires of pain and longing died slowly out of vein and
pulse. He laid one hand gently on the beautiful white brow; his eyes
met hers, and the glance seemed like a command. The lids drooped, the
long, soft lashes fell like a fringe on the delicate, flushed cheek.
One long, sobbing breath left her lips; then a beautiful serenity and
calm seemed to enfold her. Like a statue, she lay there, motionless,
stirless; lifeless, one would have thought, save for the faint regular
breath that stole forth from the parted lips.
Julian Estcourt stood for a moment in perfect silence by her side. Then
he moved away, and, drawing aside the _portieres_ which separated the
boudoir from the adjoining room, he called softly to her maid.
"Felicie," he said, "your mistress will sleep for two hours; see that
she is not disturbed."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Once out in the cool night-air, Julian Estcourt gave the rein to thought
and memory. The march of events had been rapid. It seemed difficult to
realise that he really stood in the light of an accepted lover to the
woman who, but the previous day, he deemed at the other end of the
world... difficult to realise that she loved him--and had loved him
through all the blank, desolate years of absence and suffering they had
both endured.
Her warning came ever and again like a living voice across the fevered
train of his thoughts. But he was no whit more inclined to listen to it
here, in the calmness and soberness of solitude, than when her own lips
had spoken it, and the charm of her own presence had swept away prudence
and self-restraint.
"It may not be wise," he said in his heart, "but I have not the strength
to deny myself the only happiness I have ever pictured as possible. It
is not as if I had frittered away my life on other women--on mere
sensual pleasures. From my boyhood up to the present hour her power has
been the same--her charm for me the same, I love her. That says all,
and yet not half enough. Human nature is weak. I had dreamt of another
life--of a higher and nobler field of duty, apart from the selfish joys
that are inseparable from mere human ties--but I can yield that dream up
without a regret. I can turn back from the threshold I have crossed...
May there not be a purpose in our meeting like this--in the prospect of
our union? If the time has come to teach, and to speak out boldly what
has long been veiled in mysticism and doubt, where could a teacher so
eloquent be found, or one whose natural gifts and loveliness could make
those teachings of so much weight? and I--I, too, can help and protect
her. Our souls need not descend from the spiritual level they have
attained--they may meet and touch, and yet expand in the duality of
perfect love and perfect comprehension. It is a glorious thought," and
he lifted his eyes to the starry heights, that to him held all the
mystery of peopled worlds--and were no mere pin-pricks of light, created
to illuminate _one_. "A beautiful thought--God grant it may be
realised!"
But even as his eyes rested on the solemn splendour of the heavens--even
as the human passions of the senses grew stilled beneath the loftier
aspirations of the soul--even as that involuntary prayer sprang from
heart to lips, some inner consciousness whispered like a warning
voice--"_it cannot be_."
He started as if that sound were audible. A cold and sudden terror
swept over his body like a chilling wind. "Bah," he cried. "What a
nervous fool I am! Is this all my love has done for me--made me like a
frightened child, starting at shadows?"
He turned abruptly, and went within to seek his own room.
It was just midnight. Lights were being extinguished in the public
rooms and corridors--silence and sleep were settling down upon the vast
building.
Colonel Estcourt exchanged his evening clothes for the comfort of
dressing-gown and slippers, and then threw himself into an easy chair
before the fire which was blazing brightly and cheerfully in the grate.
It was the conventional hotel bedroom. A dressing-table stood in the
window; the bed, curtained and draped, looked inviting in its corner. A
lamp stood on a small table littered with books and papers; an array of
pipes and cigar-holders were strewn carelessly on the marble
mantelpiece. A sense of brightness and commonplace comfort permeated
the atmosphere, and were sensibly soothing after the chill of the cool
December night.
He took a cigar from his case and lit it, and threw himself back and
smoked at his ease.
As he did so, he heard a clock in the distance strike the quarter after
midnight; mechanically he counted the strokes. "She will wake now," he
said, half aloud. The sound of his voice startled himself in the
stillness of the room. As its echoes died away he glanced nervously
round. Then his face paled to the hues of death, his eyes dilated.
Midway in the room a veiled misty figure seemed to float--transparent
and yet distinct--and he saw its arm stretched out towards himself with
a sudden impressive gesture.
He tossed the cigar into the grate, then bent his head as if in
submission.
"Is it the summons--at last?" he said, faintly.
If answer there was, it was audible only to himself. To anyone looking
on, it only seemed as if a sudden dreamy lassitude had overtaken him;
his head sank back against the chair, his eyes closed, his face grew
calm and peaceful, and, like a tired child, he fell asleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
THE DREAM.
As Julian Estcourt's eyes closed, it seemed to him that with a sudden
sharp spasm of pain he tore himself away from that sleeping sentient
portion of humanity which was his representation, and then, without
effort or consciousness of his own, he seemed floating swiftly along
over a dark and misty space. A great sea tossed and moaned beneath him.
He felt that someone was beside him, but he had no desire to question
its personality. Now and then lights flashed through the dusky shadows
which enveloped him, and as they flashed he saw vivid pictures of plains
and cities and mountains.
Over one such city, bathed in the clear lucid flame of the full moon, he
seemed to pause. He saw bridges, piles of buildings, dark flowing
canals, a strange medley of streets, some broad and beautiful, others
dark, narrow and pestilential, reeking with the fumes of dram-shops.
There was snow on the ground, sleighs were gliding swiftly to and fro.
People spoke but seldom; an air of restraint, of fear, of rebellion
impressed him, as the furtive glances and brief whispers became pregnant
with meaning.
Gradually, as he moved through the hurrying crowd, he was conscious of a
name constantly on their lips. It was muttered by the voices of tipsy
men reeling from their vile dens of intoxication, by the lips of painted
women as they drew their furs around their tawdry finery, by the
artisans with their pinched faces and hungry eyes, by all the classes to
whom life is a bitter struggle with poverty and necessity.