Ardath by Marie Corelli (reading in the dark .txt) 📖

>all the day long I have tormented myself concerning the silly maiden’s absence, while she, seized by some crazed idea of new adventure, has gone forth heedlessly, scarce knowing whither. Her letter is the exalted utterance of an overwrought, excited brain, —she has in all likelihood caught the contagion of superstitious alarm that seems just now to possess the whole city, and she knows naught of what she writes or what she means to do. To leave me forever, as she says, is out of her power,—for I will demand her back at the hands of Lysia or the King,—and no demand of mine has ever been refused. Moreover, with Lysia’s aid, her hiding-place is soon and easily discovered!”

 

“How?” asked Theos mechanically, still surveying the beautiful, calm features of the charming egotist whose nature seemed such a curious mixture of loftiness and littleness.. “She may have left the city!”

 

“No one can leave the city without express permission,”—rejoined Sahluma tranquilly—“Besides, . . didst thou not see the Black Disc last night in Lysia’s palace?”

 

Theos nodded assent. He at once remembered the strange revolving thing that had covered itself with brilliant letters at the approach of the High Priestess, and he waited somewhat eagerly to hear the meaning of so singular an object explained.

 

“The Priest of the Temple of Nagaya,”—went on Sahluma—“are the greatest scientists in the world, with the exception of the lately formed Circle of Mystics, who it must he confessed exceed them in certain new lines of discovery. But setting aside the Mystic School, which it behoves us not to speak of, seeing it is condemned by law,—there are no men living more subtly wise in matters pertaining to aerial force and light-phenomena, than the Servants of the Secret Doctrine of the Temple. All seeming-marvellous things are to them mere child’s play,—and the miracles by which they keep the multitude in awe are not by any means vulgar, but most exquisitely scientific. As, for instance, at the great New Year Festival, called by us ‘The Sailing-Forth of the Ship of the Sun,’—which takes place at the commencement of the Spring solstice, a fire is kindled on the summit of the highest tower, and a Ship of gold rises from the centre of the flames, carrying the body of a slain virgin eastwards, . . ‘tis wondrously performed! … and I, like others, have gaped upon the splendor of the scene half-credulous, and wholly dazzled! For the Ship doth rise aloft with excellent stateliness, plowing the air with as much celerity as sailing-vessels plow the seas; departing straightway from the watching eyes of thousands of spectators, it plunges deep, or so it seems, into the very heart of the rising Sun, which doth apparently absorb it in devouring flames of glory, for never again doth it return to earth, . . and none can solve the mystery of its vanishing! ‘Tis a graceful piece of jugglery and perfectly accomplished, . . while as for Oracles [Footnote: The Phonograph was known and used for the utterance of Oracles by one Savan the Asmounian, a Priest-King of ancient Egypt.] that command and repeat their commands in every shade of tone, from mild to wrathful, there are only too many of these, . . moreover the secret of their manufacture is well known to all students of acoustic science. But concerning the Black Disc in Lysia’s hall, it is a curiously elaborate piece of workmanship. It corresponds with an electric wheel in the Interior Chamber of the Temple, where all the priests and flamens meet and sum up the entire events of the day, both public and private, condensing the same into brief hieroglyphs. Setting their wheel in motion, they start a similar motion in the Disc, and the bright characters that flash upon it and disappear like quicksilver, are the reflection of the working electric wires which write what only Lysia is skilled to read.

From sunset to midnight these messages keep coming without intermission,—and all the most carefully concealed affairs of Al-Kyris are discovered by the Temple Spies and conveyed to Lysia by this means. Whatever the news, it is repeated again and again on the Disc, till she, by rapidly turning it with a peculiar movement of her own, causes a small bell to ring in the Temple, which signifies to her informers that she has understood all their communications, and knows everything. Her inquisitorial system is searching and elaborate, . . there is no secret so carefully guarded that the Black Disc will not in time reveal!”

 

Theos listened wonderingly and with a sense of repugnance and fear, … he felt as though the beautiful Priestess, with her glittering robes and the dreadful jewelled Eye upon her breast, were just then entering the room stealthily and rustling hither and thither like a snake beneath covering leaves. She was an ever-present Temptation,—a bewildering snare and distracting evil,—

was it not possible to shake her trail off the life of his friend-and also to pluck from out his own heart the poison-sting of her fatal, terrible fascination? A red mist swam before his eyes—his lips were dry and feverish,—his voice sounded hoarse and faint in his own ears when he forced himself to speak again.

 

“So thou dost think that, wheresoever Niphrata hath strayed, Lysia can find her?” he said.

 

“Assuredly!” returned Sahluma with easy complacency—“I would swear that, even at this very moment, Lysia could restore her to my arms in safety.”

 

“Then why” … suggested Theos anxiously—“why not go forth and seek her now?”

 

“Nay, there is time!” … and Sahluma half closed his languid lids and stretched himself lazily. “I would not have the child imagine I vexed myself too greatly for her unkind departure, . . she must have space wherein to weep and repent her of her folly. She is the strangest maiden!” … and he brushed his lips lightly against the golden curl he held,—She loves me, . . and yet repulses all attempted passion,—I remember” … here his face grew more serious—“I remember one night in the beginning of summer,—the moon was round and high in heaven,—we were alone together in this room,—the lamps burned low,—and she.. Niphrata, . . sang to me.

Her voice was full, and withal tremulous,—her form, bent to her ebony harp was soft and yielding as an iris stem, her eyes turned upon mine seemed wonderingly to question me as to the worth of love! … or so I fancied. The worth of love! … I would have taught it to her then in the rapture of an hour!—but seized with sudden foolish fear she fled, leaving me dissatisfied, indifferent, and weary! No matter! when she returns again her mood will alter, . . and though I love her not as she would fain be loved, I shall find means to make her happy.”

 

“Nay, but she speaks of dying”.. said Theos quickly … “Wilt thou constrain her back from death?”

 

“My friend, all women speak of dying when they are love-wearied”

… replied Sahluma with a slight smile … “Niphrata will not die, … she is too young and fond of life, … the world is as a garden wherein she has but lately entered, all ignorant of the pleasures that await her there. ‘Tis an odd notion that she has of danger threatening me,—thou also, good Theos, art become full of omens,—and yet, . . there is naught of visible ill to trouble the fairness of the day.”

 

He stepped out as he spoke on the terrace and looked up at the intense calm of the lovely sky. Theos followed him, and stood leaning on the balustrade among the clambering vines, watching him with earnest, half-regretful half-adoring eyes. He, meanwhile, gathered a scarcely opened white rosebud and loosening the tress of Niphrata’s hair from his fingers, allowed it to hang to its full rippling length,—then laying the flower against it, he appeared dreamily to admire the contrast between the snowy blossom and shining curl.

 

“Many strange men there are in the world,” he said softly—“lovers and fools who set priceless store on a rose and a lock of woman’s hair! I have heard of some who, dying, have held such trifles as chiefest of all their worldly goods, and have implored that whereas their gold and household stuff can be bestowed freely on him who first comes to claim it, the faded flower and senseless tress may be laid on their hearts to comfort them in the cold and dreamless sleep from which they shall not wake again!” He sighed and his eyes darkened into deep and musing tenderness. “Poets there have been too and are, who would string many a canticle on this soft severed lock and gathered blossom,—and many a quaint conceit could I myself contrive concerning it, did I not feel more prone to tears to-day than minstrelsy. Canst thou believe it, Theos”—

and he forced a laugh, though his lashes were wet, . . “I, the joyous Sahluma, am for once most truly sad! … this tress of hair doth seem to catch my spirit in a chain that binds me fast and draws me onward.. onward.. to some mournful end I may not dare to see!”

 

And as he spoke he mechanically wound the golden curl round and about the stem of the rosebud in the fashion of a ribbon, and placed the two entwined together in his breast. Theos looked at him wistfully, but was silent, . . he himself was too full of dull and melancholy misgivings to be otherwise than sad also.

Instinctively he drew closer to his friend’s side, and thus they remained for some minutes, exchanging no words, and gazing dreamily out on the luxurious foliage of the trees and the wealth of bright blossoms that adorned the landscape before them.

 

“Thou art confident Niphrata will return?” questioned Theos presently in a low tone.

 

“She will return,”.. rejoined Sahluma quietly—“because she will do anything for love of me.”

 

“For love’s sake she may die!” said Theos. Sahluma smiled.

 

“Not so, my friend! … for love’s sake she will live!”

 

CHAPTER XXVI.

 

THE PRIEST ZEL.

 

As he uttered the last word the sound of an approaching light step disturbed the silence. It was one of the young girls of the household, . . a dark, haughty-looking beauty whom Theos remembered to have seen in the palace-hall when he first arrived, lying indolently among cushions, and playing with a tame bird which flew to and fro at her beckoning. She advanced now with an almost imperial stateliness,—her salute to Sahluma was grateful, yet scarcely submissive,—while he, turning eagerly toward her, seemed gladdened and relieved at her appearance, his face assuming a gratified expression like that of a child who, having broken one toy, is easily consoled with another.

 

“Welcome, Irenya!” he exclaimed gayly—“Thou art the very bitter-sweetness I desire. Thy naughty pout and coldly mutinous eyes are pleasing contrasts to the overlanguid heat and brightness of the day! What news hast thou, my sweet? … Is there fresh havoc in the city? … more deaths? … more troublous tidings? … nay, then hold thy peace, for thou art not a fit messenger of woe—

thou’rt much too fair!”

 

Irenya’s red lips curled disdainfully, . . the “naughty pout” was plainly visible.

 

“My lord is pleased to flatter his slave!” she said with a touch of scorn in her musical accents, . . “Certes, of ill news there is more than enough,—and evil rumors have never been lacking these many months, as my lord would have known, had he deigned to listen to the common talk of those who are not poets but merely sad and suffering men. Nevertheless, though I may think, I speak not at all of matters such as