Satisfied with his own conclusions, he began to write, taking up the thread of his theory of religion where he had left it on the previous day. He had a brilliant and convincing style, and was soon deep in an elaborate and eloquent disquisition on the superior scientific reasoning contained in the ancient Eastern faiths, as compared with the modern scheme of Christianity, which limits God’s power to this world only, and takes no consideration of the fate of other visible and far more splendid spheres.
XXIII.
The few days immediately following the visit of the mysterious monk from Cyprus were quiet and uneventful enough. El-Râmi led the life of a student and recluse; Féraz, too, occupied himself with books and music, thinking much, but saying little. He had solemnly sworn never again to make allusion to the forbidden subject of his brother’s great experiment, and he meant to keep his vow. For, though he had in very truth absolutely forgotten the name “Lilith,” he had not forgotten the face of her whose beauty had surprised his senses and dazzled his brain. She had become to him a nameless Wonder,—and from the sweet remembrance of her loveliness he gained a certain consolation and pleasure which he jealously and religiously kept to himself. He thought of her as a poet may think of an ideal goddess seen in a mystic dream,—but he never ventured to ask a question concerning her. And even if he had wished to do so,—even if he had indulged the idea of encouraging Zaroba to follow up the work she had begun by telling him all she could concerning the beautiful tranced girl, that course was now impossible. For Zaroba seemed stricken dumb as well as deaf,—what had chanced to her he could not tell,—but a mysterious silence possessed her; and, though her large black eyes were sorrowfully eloquent, she never uttered a word. She came and went on various household errands, always silently and with bent head,—she looked older, feebler, wearier and sadder, but not so much as a gesture escaped her that could be construed into a complaint. Once Féraz made signs to her of inquiry after her health and well-being—she smiled mournfully, but gave no other response, and, turning away, left him hurriedly. He mused long and deeply upon all this,—and, though he felt sure that Zaroba’s strange but resolute speechlessness was his brother’s work, he dared not speculate too far or inquire too deeply. For he fully recognised El-Râmi’s power,—a power so scientifically balanced, and used with such terrible and unerring precision, that there could be no opposition possible unless one were of equal strength and knowledge. Féraz knew he could no more compete with such a force than a mouse can wield a thunderbolt,—he therefore deemed it best to resign himself to his destiny and wait the course of events.
“For,” he said within himself, “it is not likely one man should be permitted to use such strange authority over natural forces long,—it may be that God is trying him,—putting him to the proof, as it were, to find out how far he will dare to go,—and then—ah then!—what then? If his heart were dedicated to the service of God I should not fear,—but—as it is, I dread the end!”
His instinct was correct in this,—for in spite of his poetic and fanciful temperament he had plenty of quick perception and he saw plainly what El-Râmi himself was not very willing to recognise,—namely, that in all the labour of his life, so far as it had gone, he, El-Râmi, had rather opposed himself to the unseen divine, than striven to incorporate himself with it. He preferred to believe in natural Force only; his inclination was to deny the possibility of anything behind that. He accepted the idea of Immortality to a certain extent, because natural Force was for ever giving him proofs of the perpetual regeneration of life—but that there was a primal source of this generating influence,—One, great and eternal, who would demand an account of all lives, and an accurate summing-up of all words and actions,—in this, though he might assume the virtue of faith, Féraz very well knew he had it not. Like the greater majority of scientists and natural philosophers generally, what Self could comprehend, he accepted,—but all that extended beyond Self,—all that made of Self but a grain of dust in a vast infinitude,—all that forced the creature to prostrate himself humbly before the Creator and cry out “Lord, be merciful to me a sinner!” this he tacitly and proudly rejected. For which reasons the gentle, dreamy Féraz had good cause to fear,—and a foreboding voice for ever whispered in his mind that man without God was as a world without light,—a black chaos of blank unfruitfulness.
With the ensuing week the grand “reception” to which El-Râmi and his brother had been invited by Lord Melthorpe came off with great éclat. Lady Melthorpe’s “crushes” were among the most brilliant of the season, and this one was particularly so, as it was a special function held for the entertainment of the distinguished Crown Prince of a great nation. True, the distinguished Crown Prince was only “timed” to look in a little after midnight for about ten minutes, but the exceeding brevity of his stay was immaterial to the fashionable throng. All that was needed was just the piquant flavour,—the “passing” of a Royal Presence,—to make the gathering socially complete. The rooms were crowded—so much so indeed that it was difficult to take note of any one person in particular, yet, in spite of this fact, there was a very general movement of interest and admiration when El-Râmi entered with his young and handsome brother beside him. Both had a look and manner too distinctly striking to escape observation:—their olive complexions, black melancholy eyes, and slim yet stately figures, were set off to perfection by the richness of the Oriental dresses they wore; and the grave composure and perfect dignity of their bearing offered a pleasing contrast to the excited pushing, waddling, and scrambling indulged in by the greater part of the aristocratic assemblage. Lady Melthorpe herself, a rather pretty woman attired in a very æsthetic gown, and wearing her brown hair all towzled and arranged à la Grecque, in diamond bandeaux, caught sight of them at once, and was delighted. Such picturesque-looking creatures were really ornaments to a room, she thought with much interior satisfaction; and, wreathing her face with smiles, she glided up to them.
“I am so charmed, my dear El-Râmi!” she said, holding out her jewelled hand.—“So charmed to see you—you so very seldom will come to me! And your brother! So glad! Why did you never tell me you had a brother? Naughty man! What is your brother’s name? Féraz? Delightful!—it makes one think of Hafiz and Sadi and all those very charming Eastern people. I must find some one interesting to introduce to you. Will you wait here a minute—the crowd is so thick in the centre of the room that really I’m afraid you will not be able to get through it—do wait here, and I’ll bring the Baroness to you—don’t you know the Baroness? Oh, she’s such a delightful creature—so clever at palmistry! Yes—just stay where you are,—I’ll come back directly!”
And with sundry good-humoured nods her ladyship swept away, while Féraz glanced at his brother with an expression of amused inquiry.
“That is Lady Melthorpe?” he asked.
“That is Lady Melthorpe,” returned El-Râmi—“our hostess, and Lord Melthorpe’s wife; his, ‘to have and to hold, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, honour, and cherish till death do them part,’” and he smiled somewhat satirically.—“It seems odd, doesn’t it?—I mean, such solemn words sound out of place sometimes. Do you like her?”