“This, I imagine must be the fair dancer’s portrait,”—he said, holding it up to the view of all the eager and exclaiming spectators—“Quite a treasure-trove! An admirable piece of [p 452] ancient workmanship, besides being the picture of a very lovely woman. Do you not think so, Geoffrey?”
He handed me the medallion,—and I examined it with deadly and fascinated interest,—the face was exquisitely beautiful,—but assuredly it was the face of Sibyl!
I never remember how I lived through the rest of that day. At night, as soon as I had an opportunity of speaking to Rimânez alone, I asked him ...
“Did you see,——did you not recognize? ...”
“That the dead Egyptian dancer resembled your late wife?” he quietly continued—“Yes,—I noticed it at once. But that should not affect you. History repeats itself,—why should not lovely women repeat themselves? Beauty always has its double somewhere, either in the past or future.”
I said no more,—but next morning I was very ill,—so ill that I could not rise from my bed, and passed the hours in restless moaning and irritable pain that was not so much physical as mental. There was a physician resident at the hotel at Luxor, and Lucio, always showing himself particularly considerate for my personal comfort, sent for him at once. He felt my pulse, shook his head, and after much dubious pondering, advised my leaving Egypt immediately. I heard his mandate given with a joy I could scarcely conceal. The yearning I had to get quickly away from this ‘land of the old gods’ was intense and feverish,—I loathed the vast and awful desert silences, where the Sphinx frowns contempt on the puny littleness of mankind,—where the opened tombs and coffins expose once more to the light of day, faces that are the very semblances of those we ourselves have known and loved in our time,—and where painted history tells us of just such things as our modern newspapers chronicle, albeit in different form. Rimânez was ready and willing to carry out the doctor’s orders,—and arranged our return to Cairo and from thence to Alexandria, with such expedition as left me nothing to desire, and filled me with gratitude for his apparent sympathy. In as short a time as abundance of cash could make possible, we had rejoined ‘The Flame,’ and were en [p 453] route, as I thought, for France or England. We had not absolutely settled our destination, having some idea of coasting along the Riviera,—but my old confidence in Rimânez being now almost restored, I left this to him for decision, sufficiently satisfied in myself that I had not been destined to leave my bones in terror-haunted Egypt. And it was not till I had been about a week or ten days on board, and had made good progress in the recovery of my health, that the beginning of the end of this never-to-be-forgotten voyage was foreshadowed to me in such terrific fashion as nearly plunged me into the darkness of death,—or rather let me now say, (having learned my bitter lesson thoroughly) into the fell brilliancy of that Life beyond the tomb which we refuse to recognise or realize till we are whirled into its glorious or awful vortex!
One evening, after a bright day of swift and enjoyable sailing over a smooth and sunlit sea, I retired to rest in my cabin, feeling almost happy. My mind was perfectly tranquil,—my trust in my friend Lucio was again re-established,—and I may add, so was my old arrogant and confident trust in myself. My access to fortune had not, so far, brought me either much joy or distinction,—but it was not too late for me yet to pluck the golden apples of Hesperides. The various troubles I had endured, though of such recent occurrence, began to assume a blurred indistinctness in my mind, as of things long past and done with,—I considered the strength of my financial position again with satisfaction, to the extent of contemplating a second marriage—and that marriage with—Mavis Clare! No other woman should be my wife, I mentally swore,—she, and she only should be mine! I foresaw no difficulties in the way,—and full of pleasant dreams and self-delusions I settled myself in my berth, and dropped easily off to sleep. About midnight I awoke, vaguely terrified, to see the cabin full of a strong red light and fierce glare. My first dazed impression was that the yacht was on fire,—the next instant I became paralysed and dumb with horror. Sibyl stood before me! ... Sibyl, a wild, strange, tortured writhing figure, half nude, waving beckoning arms, and making desperate gestures,—her face [p 454] was as I had seen it last in death, livid and hideous, ... her eyes blazed mingled menace, despair, and warning upon me! Round her a living wreath of flame coiled upwards like a twisted snake, ... her lips moved as though she strove to speak, but no sound came from them,——and while I yet looked at her, she vanished! I must have lost consciousness then,—for when I awoke it was broad day. But this ghastly visitation was only the first of many such,—and at last, every night I saw her thus, sheeted in flame, till I grew well-nigh mad with fear and misery. My torment was indescribable,—yet I said nothing to Lucio, who watched me, as I imagined, narrowly,—I took sleeping-draughts in the hope to procure unbroken rest, but in vain,—always I woke at one particular moment, and always I had to face this fiery phantom of my dead wife, with despair in her eyes and an unuttered warning on her lips. This was not all. One day in the full sunlight of a quiet afternoon, I entered the saloon of the yacht alone, and started back amazed to see my old friend John Carrington seated at the table, pen in hand, casting up accounts. He bent over his papers closely,—his face was furrowed and very pale,—but so life-like was he, so seemingly substantial that I called him by name, whereat he looked up,—smiled drearily, and was gone! Trembling in every limb I realized that here was another spectral terror added to the burden of my days; and sitting down, I tried to rally my scattered forces and reason out what was best to be done. There was no doubt I was very ill;—these phantoms were the warning of brain-disease. I must endeavour, I thought, to keep myself well under control till I got to England,—there I determined to consult the best physicians, and put myself under their care till I was thoroughly restored.
“Meanwhile”—I muttered to myself—“I will say nothing, ... not even to Lucio. He would only smile, ... and I should hate him! ...”
I broke off, wondering at this. For was it possible I should ever hate him? Surely not!
That night by way of a change, I slept in a hammock on [p 455] deck, hoping to dispel midnight illusions by resting in the open air. But my sufferings were only intensified. I woke as usual, ... to see, not only Sibyl, but also to my deadly fear, the Three Phantoms that had appeared to me in my room in London on the evening of Viscount Lynton’s suicide. There they were,—the same, the very same!—only this time all their livid faces were lifted and turned towards me, and though their lips never moved, the word ‘Misery!’ seemed uttered, for I heard it tolling like a funeral bell on the air and across the sea! ... And Sibyl, with her face of death in the coils of a silent flame, ... Sibyl smiled at me!——a smile of torture and remorse! ... God!—I could endure it no longer! Leaping from my hammock, I ran towards the vessel’s edge, ... one plunge into the cool waves, ... ha!—there stood Amiel, with his impenetrable dark face and ferret eyes!