Ziska: The Problem of a Wicked Soul Part 12

"The Egyptian cult I follow is very briefly explained. The Soul begins in protoplasm without conscious individuality. It progresses through various forms till individual consciousness is attained. Once attained, it is never lost, but it lives on, pressing towards perfection, taking upon itself various phases of existence according to the pa.s.sions which have most completely dominated it from the first. That is all. But according to this theory, you might have lived in the world long ago, and so might I: we might even have met; and for some reason or other we may have become re-incarnated now. A disciple of my creed would give you that as the reason why you sometimes imagine you have seen me before."

As she spoke, the dazed and troubled sensation he had once previously experienced came upon him; he laid down the canvas he held and pa.s.sed his hand across his forehead bewilderedly.

"Yes; very curious and fantastic. I've heard a great deal about the doctrine of reincarnation. I don't believe in it,--I can't believe in it! But if I could: if I could imagine I had ever met you in some bygone time, and you were like what you are at this moment, I should have loved you,--I MUST have loved you! You see I cannot leave the subject of love alone; and your re-incarnation idea gives my fancy something to work upon. So, beautiful Ziska, if your soul ever took the form of a flower, I must have been its companion blossom; if it ever paced the forest as a beast of prey, I must have been its mate; if it ever was human before, then I must have been its lover! Do you like such pretty follies? I will talk them by the hour."

Here he rose, and with a movement that was half fierce and half tender, he knelt beside her, taking her hands in his own.

"I love you, Ziska! I cannot help myself. I am drawn to you by some force stronger than my own will; but you need not be afraid of me--not yet! As I said, I can wait. I can endure the mingled torture and rapture of this sudden pa.s.sion and make no sign, till my patience tires, and then--then I will win you if I die for it!"

He sprang up before she could speak a word in answer, and seizing his canvas again, exclaimed gayly:

"Now for the hues of morning and evening combined, to paint the radiance of this wicked soul of love that so enthralls me! First, the raven-black of midnight for the hair,--the l.u.s.tre of the coldest, brightest stars for eyes,--the blush-rose of early dawn for lips and cheeks. Ah! How shall I make a real beginning of this marvel?"

"It will be difficult, I fear," said Ziska slowly, with a faint, cold smile; "and still more difficult, perchance, will be the end!"

CHAPTER VIII.

The table d'hote at the Gezireh Palace Hotel had already begun when Gervase entered the dining-room and sat down near Lady Fulkeward and Dr. Dean.

"You have missed the soup," said her ladyship, looking up at him with a sweet smile. "All you artists are alike,--you have no idea whatever of time. And how have you succeeded with that charming mysterious person, the Princess Ziska?"

Gervase kept his gaze steadily fixed on the table-cloth. He was extremely pale, and had the air of one who has gone through some great mental exhaustion.

"I have not succeeded as well as I expected," he answered slowly. "I think my hand must have lost its cunning. At any rate, whatever the reason may be, Art has been defeated by Nature."

He crumbled up the piece of bread near his plate in small portions with a kind of involuntary violence in the action, and Dr. Dean, deliberately drawing out a pair of spectacles from their case, adjusted them, and surveyed him curiously.

"You mean to say that you cannot paint the Princess's picture?"

Gervase glanced up at him with a half-sullen, half-defiant expression.

"I don't say that," he replied; "I can paint something--something which you can call a picture if you like,--but there is no resemblance to the Princess Ziska in it. She is beautiful, and I can get nothing of her beauty,--I can only get the reflection of a face which is not hers."

"How very curious!" exclaimed Lady Fulkeward. "Quite psychological, is it not, Doctor? It is almost creepy!" and she managed to produce a delicate shudder of her white shoulders without cracking the blanc de perle enamel. "It will be something fresh for you to study."

"Possibly it will--possibly," said the Doctor, still surveying Gervase blandly through his round gla.s.ses; "but it isn't the first time I have heard of painters who unconsciously produce other faces than those of their sitters. I distinctly remember a case in point. A gentleman, famous for his charities and general benevolence, had his portrait painted by a great artist for presentation to the town-hall of his native place, and the artist was quite unable to avoid making him unto the likeness of a villain. It was quite a distressing affair; the painter was probably more distressed than anybody about it, and he tried by every possible means in his power to impart a truthful and n.o.ble aspect to the countenance of the man who was known and admitted to be a benefactor to his race. But it was all in vain: the portrait when finished was the portrait of a stranger and a scoundrel. The people for whom it was intended declared they would not have such a libel on their generous friend hung up in their town-hall. The painter was in despair, and there was going to be a general hubbub, when, lo and behold the 'n.o.ble' personage himself was suddenly arrested for a brutal murder committed twelve years back. He was found guilty and hanged, and the painter kept the portrait that had so remarkably betrayed the murderer's real nature, as a curiosity ever afterwards."

"Is that a fact?" inquired a man who was seated at the other side of the table, and who had listened with great interest to the story.

"A positive fact," said the Doctor. "One of those many singular circ.u.mstances which occur in life, and which are beyond all explanation."

Gervase moved restlessly; then filling for himself a gla.s.s of claret, drained it off thirstily.

"Something of the same kind has happened to me," he said with a hard, mirthless laugh, "for out of the most perfect beauty I have only succeeded in presenting an atrocity."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Lady Fulkeward. "What a disappointing day you must have had! But of course, you will try again; the Princess will surely give you another sitting?"

"Oh, yes! I shall certainly try again and yet again, and ever so many times again," said Gervase, with a kind of angry obstinacy in his tone, "the more so as she has told me I will never succeed in painting her."

"She told you that, did she?" put in Dr. Dean, with an air of lively interest.

"Yes."

Just then the handing round of fresh dishes and the clatter of knives and forks effectually put a stop to the conversation for the time, and Gervase presently glancing about him saw that Denzil Murray and his sister were dining apart at a smaller table with young Lord Fulkeward and Ross Courtney. Helen was looking her fairest and best that evening--her sweet face, framed in its angel aureole of bright hair had a singular look of pureness and truth expressed upon it rare to find in any woman beyond her early teens. Unconsciously to himself, Gervase sighed as he caught a view of her delicate profile, and Lady Fulkeward's sharp ears heard the sound of that sigh.

"Isn't that a charming little party over there?" she asked. "Young people, you know! They always like to be together! That very sweet girl, Miss Murray, was so much distressed about her brother to-day,--something was the matter with him--a touch of fever, I believe,--that she begged me to let Fulke dine with them in order to distract Mr. Denzil's mind. Fulke is a dear boy, you know--very consoling in his ways, though he says so little. Then Mr. Courtney volunteered to join them, and there they are. The Chetwynd Lyles are gone to a big dinner at the Continental this evening."

"The Chetwynd Lyles--let me see. Who are they?" mused Gervase aloud, "Do I know them?"

"No,--that is, you have not been formally introduced," said Dr. Dean.

"Sir Chetwynd Lyle is the editor and proprietor of the London Daily Dial, Lady Chetwynd Lyle is his wife, and the two elderly-youthful ladies who appeared as 'Boulogne fishwives' last night at the ball are his daughters."

"Cruel man!" exclaimed Lady Fulkeward with a girlish giggle. "The idea of calling those sweet girls, Muriel and Dolly, 'elderly-youthful!'"

"What are they, my dear madam, what are they?" demanded the imperturbable little savant. "'Elderly-youthful' is a very convenient expression, and applies perfectly to people who refuse to be old and cannot possibly be young."

"Nonsense! I will not listen to you!" and her ladyship opened her jewelled fan and spread it before her eyes to completely screen the objectionable Doctor from view. "Don't you know your theories are quite out of date? n.o.body is old,--we all utterly refuse to be old! Why," and she shut her fan with a sudden jerk, "I shall have you calling ME old next."

"Never, madam!" said Dr. Dean gallantly laying his hand upon his heart.

"You are quite an exception to the rule. You have pa.s.sed through the furnace of marriage and come out unscathed. Time has done its worst with you, and now retreats, baffled and powerless; it can touch you no more!"

Whether this was meant as a compliment or the reverse it would have been difficult to say, but Lady Fulkeward graciously accepted it as the choicest flattery, and bowed, smiling and gratified. Dinner was now drawing to its end, and people were giving their orders for coffee to be served to them on the terrace and in the gardens, Gervase among the rest. The Doctor turned to him.

"I should like to see your picture of the Princess," he said,--"that is if you have no objection."

"Not the least in the world," replied Gervase,--"only it isn't the Princess, it is somebody else."

A faint shudder pa.s.sed over him. The Doctor noticed it.

"Talking of curious things," went on that irrepressible savant, "I started hunting for a particular scarabeus to-day. I couldn't find it, of course,--it generally takes years to find even a trifle that one especially wants. But I came across a queer old man in one of the curiosity-shops who told me that over at Karnak they had just discovered a large fresco in one of the tombs describing the exploits of the very man whose track I'm on--Araxes ..."

Gervase started,--he knew not why.

"What has Araxes to do with you?" he demanded.

"Oh, nothing! But the Princess Ziska spoke of him as a great warrior in the days of Amenhotep,--and she seems to be a great Egyptologist, and to know many things of which we are ignorant. Then you know last night she adopted the costume of a dancer of that period, named Ziska-Charmazel. Well, now it appears that in one part of this fresco the scene depicted is this very Ziska-Charmazel dancing before Araxes."

Gervase listened with strained attention,--his heart beat thickly, as though the Doctor were telling him of some horrible circ.u.mstance in which he had an active part; whereas he had truly no interest at all in the matter, except in so far as events of history are more or less interesting to everyone.

"Well?" he said after a pause.

"Well," echoed Dr. Dean. "There is really nothing more to say beyond that I want to find out everything I can concerning this Araxes, if only for the reason that the charming Princess chose to impersonate his lady-love last night. One must amuse one's self in one's own fashion, even in Egypt, and this amuses ME."

Gervase rose, feeling in his pocket for his cigarette-case.