I shuddered a little, as with cold. 'The women who have loved Rafel Santoris!' This phrase seemed to darken the very recollection of the handsome face and form of the man I had, almost unconsciously to myself, begun to idealise—something coarse and common suggested itself in association with him, and my heart sank within me, deprived of hope. Voices, merely!—yet how they tortured me! If I could only know the truth, I thought!—if Aselzion would only come and tell me the worst at once! In a kind of stupor of unnameable grief I stood in the little purple-hung shrine so suddenly opened to me, and began to dreamily consider the unkindness and harshness of those voices!—Ah! so like the voices of the world! Voices that sneer and mock and condemn!—voices that would rather utter a falsehood than any word that should help and comfort—voices that take a cruel pleasure in saying just the one thing that will wound and crush an aspiring spirit!—voices that cannot tune themselves to speak of love without grudging bitterness and scorn—voices—ah God!—if only all the harsh and calumniating voices of humanity were stilled, what a heaven this earth would be!
And yet—why should we listen to them? What have they really to do with us? Is the Soul to be moved from its centre by casual opinion? What is it to me that this person or that person approves or disapproves my actions? Why should I be disturbed by rumours, or frightened by ill report?
Absorbed in these thoughts, I hardly realised the almost religious peace of my surroundings,—and it was only when the voices ceased for a few minutes that I saw what was contained in this small room I had half unwittingly entered,—an exquisite little table, apparently made of crystal which shone like a diamond—and on the table, an open book. A chair was placed in position for the evident purpose of reading—and as I approached, at first indifferently and then with awakening interest, I saw that the open book showed an inscription on its fly-leaf—"To a faithful student.—From Aselzion." Was I 'a faithful student'? I asked myself the question doubtingly. There was no 'faithfulness' in fears and depressions! Here was I, shaken in part from self-control from the mere hearing of voices behind a wall! I, who had said that "God ordains nothing that is not for good"—was suddenly ready to believe that He had ordained the death of the lover to whom His laws had guided me! I, to whom had been vouchsafed the beatific vision of an Angel—an Angel who had said—"God thinks no evil of thee—desires no wrong towards thee—has no punishment in store for thee—give thyself into His Hand, and be at peace!" was already flinching and turning away from the Faith that should keep me strong! A sense of shame stole over me—and almost timidly I approached the table on which the open book lay, and sat down in the chair so invitingly placed. I had scarcely done this when the voices began again, in rather louder and angrier tones.
"She imagines she can learn the secret of life! A woman, too! The brazen arrogance of such an attempt!"
"No, no! It is not the secret of life she wants to discover so much as the secret of perpetual youth! That, to a woman, is everything! To be always young and always fair! What feminine thing would not 'adventure for such merchandise'!"
A loud laugh followed this observation.
"Santoris was well on his way to the goal"—said a voice that was suave and calm of accent—"Certainly no one would have guessed his real age."
"He had all the ardour and passion of youth"—said another voice—"The fire of love ran as warmly in his veins as though he were a Romeo! None of the coldness and reluctance of age affected him where the fair sex was concerned!"
More laughter followed. I sat rigidly in the chair by the crystal table, listening to every word.
"The woman here is the latest victim of his hypnotic suggestions, isn't she?"