“I shall be most interested and delighted,”—he said—“to make the trial you suggest. I am really curious. As for the present picture or photograph on my brain, I think it will only show you my perplexity as to my position with the Bishop in my wavering state of mind——”
“Or conscience—” suggested El-Râmi—“You said it was a matter of conscience.”
“Quite so—quite so! And conscience is the most powerful motor of a man’s actions, Mr.—Mr. El-Râmi! It is indeed the voice of God!”
“That depends on what it says, and how we hear it—” said El-Râmi rather dryly—“Now if we are to make this ‘demonstration,’ will you put your left hand here, in my left hand? So,—your left palm must press closely upon my left palm,—yes—that will do. Observe the position, please;—you see that my left fingers rest on your left wrist, and are therefore directly touching the nerves and arteries running through your heart from your brain. By this, you are, to use my former simile, pressing me, the sensitive paper, to your photographic negative—and I make no doubt we shall get a fair impression. But to prevent any interruption to the brain-wave rushing from you to me, we will add this little trifle,” and he dexterously slipped a steel band over his hand and that of his visitor as they rested thus together on the table, and snapt it to,—“a sort of handcuff, as you perceive. It has nothing in the world to do with our experiment. It is simply placed there to prevent your moving your hand away from mine, which would be your natural impulse if I should happen to say anything disagreeably true. And to do so would of course cut the ethereal thread of contact between us. Now, are you ready?”
The clergyman grew a shade paler. El-Râmi seemed so very sure of the result of this singular trial that it was a little bit disagreeable. But, having consented to the experiment, he felt he was compelled to go through with it, so he bowed a nervous assent. Whereupon El-Râmi closed his brilliant eyes, and sat for one or two minutes silent and immovable. A curious fidgetiness began to trouble the Reverend Francis Anstruther,—he tried to think of something ridiculous, something altogether apart from himself, but in vain,—his own personality, his own life, his own secret aims seemed all to weigh upon him like a sudden incubus. Presently tingling sensations pricked his arm as with burning needles,—the hand that was fettered to that of El-Râmi felt as hot as though it were being held to a fire. All at once El-Râmi spoke in a low tone, without opening his eyes—
“The shadow-impression of a woman. Brown-haired, dark-eyed,—of a full, luscious beauty, and a violent, unbridled, ill-balanced will. Mindless, but physically attractive. She dominates your thought.”
A quiver ran through the clergyman’s frame,—if he could only have snatched away his hand he would have done it then.
“She is not your wife—” went on El-Râmi—“she is the wife of your wealthiest neighbour. You have a wife,—an invalid,—you have also eight children,—but these are not prominent in the picture at present. The woman with the dark eyes and hair is the chief figure. Your plans are made for her——”
He paused, and again the wretched Mr. Anstruther shuddered.
“Wait—wait!” exclaimed El-Râmi suddenly in a tone of animation—“Now it comes clearly. You have decided to leave the Church, not because you do not believe in a future state,—for this you never have believed at any time—but because you wish to rid yourself of all moral and religious responsibility. Your scheme is perfectly distinct. You will make out a ‘case of conscience’ to your authorities, and resign your living,—you will then desert your wife and children,—you will leave your country in the company of the woman whose secret lover you are——”