Féraz heard her,—and taking up his pencil once more, wrote swiftly—
“You are right,—Christ has claimed Lilith. She was His to claim,—for on this earth we are all His,—He gave His very life to make us so. Let us thank God that we are thus claimed,—for with Christ all things are well.”
He turned away then immediately, and left her alone to her task,—a task she performed with groans and trembling, till every vestige of the delicate ashes, as fine as the dust of flowers, was safely and reverently placed in its pure golden receptacle. Strange to say, one very visible relic of the vanished Lilith’s bodily beauty had somehow escaped destruction,—this was a long, bright waving tress of hair which lay trembling on the glistening satin of the pillows like a lost sunbeam. Over this lovely amber curl, old Zaroba stooped yearningly, staring at it till her tears, the slow, bitter scalding tears of age, fell upon it where it lay. She longed to take it for herself,—to wear it against her own heart,—to kiss and cherish it as though it were a living, sentient thing,—but, thinking of El-Râmi, her loyalty prevailed, and she tenderly lifted the clinging, shining, soft silken curl, and laid it by with the ashes in the antique shrine. All was now done,—and she shut to the picture, which, when once closed, showed no sign of any opening.
Lilith was gone indeed;—there was now no perceptible evidence to show that she had ever existed. And, to the grief-stricken Zaroba, the face and figure of the Christ, as painted on the reliquary at which she gazed, seemed to assume a sudden triumph and majesty which appalled while it impressed her. She read the words “Whom Say Ye That I Am?” and shuddered; this “new god” with His tranquil smile and sorrowful dignity had more terrors for her than any of the old pagan deities.
“I cannot! I cannot!” she whispered feebly; “I cannot take you to my heart, cold Christ,—I cannot think it is good to wear the thorns of perpetual sorrow! You offer no joy to the sad and weary world,—one must sacrifice one’s dearest hopes,—one must bear the cross and weep for the sins of all men, to be at all acceptable to You! I am old—but I keep the memories of joy; I would not have all happiness reft out of the poor lives of men. I would have them full of mirth,—I would have them love where they list, drink pure wine, and rejoice in the breath of Nature,—I would have them feast in the sunlight and dance in the moonbeams, and crown themselves with the flowers of the woodland and meadow, and grow ruddy and strong and manful and generous, and free—free as the air! I would have their hearts bound high for the pleasure of life;—not break in a search for things they can never win. Ah no, cold Christ! I cannot love you!—at the touch of your bleeding Hand the world freezes like a starving bird in a storm of snow;—the hearts of men grow weak and weary, and of what avail is it, O Prince of Grief, to live in sadness all one’s days for the hope of a Heaven that comes not? O Lilith!—child of the sun, where art thou?—Where? Never to have known the joys of love,—never to have felt the real pulse of living,—never to have thrilled in a lover’s embrace,—ah, Lilith, Lilith! Will Heaven compensate thee for such loss? ... Never, never, never! No God, were He all the worlds’ gods in One, can give aught but a desolate Eden to the loveless and lonely soul!”
In such wise as this, she muttered and moaned all day long, never stirring from the room that was called Lilith’s. Now and then she moved up and down with slow restlessness,—sometimes fixing eager eyes upon the vacant couch, with the vague idea that perhaps Lilith might come back to it as suddenly as she had fled; and sometimes pausing by the vase of roses, and touching their still fragrant, but fast-fading blossoms. Time went on, and she never thought of breaking her fast, or going to see how her master, El-Râmi, fared. His mind was gone—she understood that well enough,—and in a strange wild way of her own, she connected this sudden darkening of his intellect with the equally sudden disappearance of Lilith; and she dreaded to look upon his face.
How the hours wore away she never knew; but by and by her limbs began to ache heavily, and she crouched down upon the floor to rest. She fell into a heavy stupor of unconsciousness,—and when she awoke at last, the room was quite dark. She got up, stiff and cold and terrified,—she groped about with her hands,—it seemed to her dazed mind that she was in some sepulchral cave in the desert, all alone. Her lips were dry,—her head swam,—and she tottered along, feeling her way blindly, till she touched the velvet portière that divided the room from its little antechamber, and, dragging this aside in nervous haste, she stumbled through, and out on to the landing, where it was light. The staircase was before her,—the gas was lit in the hall—and the house looked quite as usual,—yet she could not in the least realise where she was. Indistinct images floated in her brain,—there were strange noises in her ears,—and she only dimly remembered El-Râmi, as though he were some one she had heard of long ago, in a dream. Pausing on the stair-head, she tried to collect her scattered senses,—but she felt sick and giddy, and her first instinct was to seek the air. Clinging to the banisters, she tottered down the stairs slowly, and reached the front-door, and, fumbling cautiously with the handle a little while, succeeded in turning it, and letting herself out into the street. The door had a self-acting spring, and shut to instantly, and almost noiselessly, behind her,—but Féraz, sitting in the study with his brother, fancied he heard a slight sound, and came into the hall to see what it was. Finding everything quiet, he concluded he was mistaken, and went back to his post beside El-Râmi, who had been dozing nearly all day, only waking up now and again to mildly accept the nourishment of soup and wine which Féraz prepared and gave him to keep up his strength. He was perfectly tranquil, and talked at times quite coherently of simple things, such as the flowers on the table, the lamp, the books, and other ordinary trifles. He only seemed a little troubled by his own physical weakness,—but when Féraz assured him he would soon be strong, he smiled, and with every appearance of content, dozed off again peacefully. In the evening, however, he grew a little restless,—and then Féraz tried what effect music would have upon him. Going to the piano, he played soft and dreamy melodies, ... but as he did so, a strange sense of loss stole over him,—he had the mechanism of the art, but the marvellously delicate attunement of his imagination had fled! Tears rose in his eyes,—he knew what was missing,—the guiding-prop of his brother’s wondrous influence had fallen,—and with a faint terror he realised that much of his poetic faculty would perish also. He had to remember that he was not naturally born a poet or musician,—poesy and music had been El-Râmi’s fairy gifts to him—the exquisitely happy poise of his mind had been due to his brother’s daily influence and control. He would still retain the habit and the memory of art, but what had been Genius, would now be simple Talent,—no more,—yet what a difference between the two! Nevertheless his touch on the familiar ivory keys was very tender and delicate, and when, distrusting his own powers of composition, he played one of the softest and quaintest of Grieg’s Norwegian folk-songs, he was more than comforted by the expression of pleasure that illumined El-Râmi’s features, and by the look of enraptured peace that softened the piteous dark eyes.
“It is quite beautiful,—that music!” he murmured—“It is the pretty sound the daisies make in growing.”
And he leaned back in his chair and composed himself to rest,—while Féraz played on softly, thinking anxiously the while. True, most true, that for him dreams had ended, and life had begun! What was he to do? ... how was he to meet the daily needs of living,—how was he to keep himself and his brother? His idea was to go at once to the monastery in Cyprus, where he had formerly been a visitor,—it was quiet and peaceful,—he would ask the brethren to take them in,—for he himself detested the thought of a life in the world,—it was repellent to him in every way,—and El-Râmi’s affliction would necessitate solitude. And while he was thus puzzling himself as to the future, there came a sharp knock at the door,—he hastened to see who it was,—and a messenger handed him a telegram addressed to himself. It came from the very place he was thinking about, sent by the Head of the Order, and ran thus—
“We know all. It is the Will of God. Bring El-Râmi here,—our house is open to you both.”