“And yet,” said Féraz meditatively,—“though I cannot reason it out, I am sure of what I feel. My ‘dream’ is more life-like than life itself,—and as for my beloved people yonder, I tell you I have heard them singing the harvest-home.”
And with a quick soft step he went to the piano, opened it, and began to play. El-Râmi leaned back in his chair mute and absorbed,—did ever common keyed instrument give forth such enchanting sounds? Was ever written music known that could, when performed, utter such divine and dulcet eloquence? There was nothing earthly in the tune, it seemed to glide from under the player’s fingers like a caress upon the air,—and an involuntary sigh broke from El-Râmi’s lips as he listened. Féraz heard that sigh, and turned round smiling.
“Is there not something familiar in the strain?” he asked. “Do you not see them all, so fair and light and lithe of limb, coming over the fields homewards as the red Ring burns low in the western sky? Surely—surely you remember?”
A slight shudder shook El-Râmi’s frame,—he pressed his hands over his eyes, and seemed to collect himself by a strong effort,—then, walking over to the piano, he took his young brother’s hands from the keys and held them for a moment against his breast.
“Keep your illusions”—he said in a low voice that trembled slightly. “Keep them,—and your faith,—together. It is for you to dream, and for me to prove. Mine is the hardest lot. There may be truth in your dreams,—there may be deception in my proofs—Heaven only knows! Were you not of my own blood, and dearer to me than most human things, I should, like every scientist worthy of the name, strive to break off your spiritual pinions and make of you a mere earth-grub even as most of us are made,—but I cannot do it,—I have not the heart to do it,—and if I had the heart”—he paused a moment,—then went on slowly—“I have not the power. Good-night!”
He left the room abruptly without another word or look,—and the beautiful young Féraz gazed after his retreating figure doubtfully and with something of wondering regret. Was it worth while, he thought, to be so wise, if wisdom made one at times so sad?—was it well to sacrifice Faith for Fact, when Faith was so warm and Fact so cold? Was it better to be a dreamer of things possible, or a worker-out of things positive? And how much was positive after all? and how much possible? He balanced the question lightly with himself,—it was like a discord in the music of his mind, and disturbed his peace. He soon dismissed the jarring thought, however, and, closing the piano, glanced round the room to make sure that nothing more was required for his brother’s service or comfort that night, and then he went away to resume his interrupted slumbers,—perchance to take up the chorus of his “people” singing in what he deemed his native star.
IV.
El-Râmi meanwhile slowly ascended the stairs to the first floor, and there on the narrow landing paused, listening. There was not a sound in the house,—the delicious music of the strange “harvest-song” had ceased, though to El-Râmi’s ears there still seemed to be a throb of its melody in the air, like perfume left from the carrying by of flowers. And with this vague impression upon him he listened,—listened as it were to the deep silence; and as he stood in this attentive attitude, his eyes rested on a closed door opposite to him,—a door which might, if taken off its hinges and exhibited at some museum, have carried away the palm for perfection in panel-painting. It was so designed as to resemble a fine trellis-work, hung with pale clambering roses and purple passion-flowers,—on the upper half among the blossoms sat a meditative cupid, pressing a bud against his pouting lips, while below him, stretched in full-length desolation on a bent bough, his twin brother wept childishly over the piteous fate of a butterfly that lay dead in his curled pink palm. El-Râmi stared so long and persistently at the pretty picture that it might have been imagined he was looking at it for the first time and was absorbed in admiration, but truth to tell he scarcely saw it. His thoughts were penetrating beyond all painted semblances of beauty,—and,—as in the case of his young brother Féraz,—those thoughts were speedily answered. A key turned in the lock,—the door opened, and a tall old woman, bronze-skinned, black-eyed, withered, uncomely yet imposing of aspect, stood in the aperture.
“Enter, El-Râmi!” she said in a low yet harsh voice—“The hour is late,—but when did ever the lateness of hours change or deter your sovereign will! Yet, truly as God liveth, it is hard that I should seldom be permitted to pass a night in peace!”
El-Râmi smiled indifferently, but made no reply, as it was useless to answer Zaroba. She was stone-deaf, and therefore not in a condition to be argued with. She preceded him into a small ante-room, provided with no other furniture than a table and chair;—one entire side of the wall, however, was hung with a magnificent curtain of purple velvet bordered in gold. On the table were a slate and pencil, and these implements El-Râmi at once drew towards him.