after this, a long silence fell between them. féraz sat moodily in his chair, conscious of a certain faint sense of shame. he was sorry that he had wilfully trespassed upon his brother’s great secret,—and yet there was an angry pride in him,—a vague resentment at having been kept so long in ignorance of this wonderful story of lilith,—which made him reluctant to acknowledge himself in the wrong. moreover, his mind was possessed and haunted by lilith’s face,—the radiant face that looked like that of an angel sleeping,—and, perplexedly thinking over all he had heard, he wondered if he would ever again have the opportunity of beholding what had seemed to him the incarnation of ideal loveliness. surely yes!—zaroba would be his friend,—zaroba would let him gaze his fill on that exquisite form—would let him touch that little, ethereally delicate hand, as soft as velvet and as white as snow! absorbed in these reflections, he scarcely noticed that el-râmi had moved away from him to the writing-table, and that he now sat there in his ebony chair, turning over the leaves of the curious arabic volume which féraz had had such trouble in deciphering on the previous day. the silence in the room continued; outside there was the perpetual sullen roar of raging restless london,—now and again the sharp chirruping of contentious sparrows, arguing over a crumb of food as parliamentary agitators chatter over a crumb of difference, stirred the quiet air. féraz stretched himself and yawned,—he was getting sleepy, and as he realised this fact he nervously attributed it to his brother’s influence, and sprang up abruptly, rubbing his eyes and pushing his thick hair from his brows. at this hasty movement, el-râmi turned slowly towards him with a grave yet kindly smile.
“well, féraz”—he said—“do you still think me ‘wicked’ now you know all? speak frankly—do not be afraid.”
féraz paused, irresolute.
“i do not know what to think—” he answered hesitatingly,—“your experiment is of course wonderful,—but—as i said before—to me, it seems terrible.”
“life is terrible—” said el-râmi—“death is terrible,—love is terrible,—god is terrible. all nature’s pulses beat to the note of terror,—terror of the unknown that may be,—terror of the known that is!”
his deep voice rang with impressive solemnity through the room,—his eyes were full of that strange lurid gleam which gave them the appearance of having a flame behind them.
“come here, féraz,” he continued—“why do you stand at so cautious a distance from me? with that brave show-dagger at your belt, are you a coward? silly lad!—i swear to you my influence shall not touch you unless i warn you of it beforehand. come!”
féraz obeyed, but slowly and with an uncertain step. his brother looked at him attentively as he came,—then, with a gesture indicating the volume before him, he said—
“you found this book on my table yesterday, and tried to read it,—is it not so?”
“i did.”
“well, and have you learnt anything from it?” pursued el-râmi with a strange smile.
“yes. i learnt how the senses may be deceived by trickery—” retorted féraz with some heat and quickness—“and how a clever magnetiser—like yourself—may fool the eye and delude the ear with sights and sounds that have no existence.”
“precisely. listen to this passage;”—and el-râmi read aloud—“‘the king, when he had any affair, assembled the priests without the city memphis, and the people met together in the streets of the said city. then they (the priests) made their entrance one after another in order, the drum beating before them to bring the people together; and every one made some miraculous discovery of his magick and wisdom. one had, to their thinking who looked on him, his face surrounded with a light like that of the sun, so that none could look earnestly upon him. another seemed clad with a robe beset with precious stones of divers colours, green, red, or yellow, or wrought with gold. another came mounted on a lion compassed with serpents like girdles. another came in covered with a canopy or pavilion of light. another appeared surrounded with fire turning about him, so as that nobody durst come near him. another was seen with dreadful birds perching about his head and shaking their wings like black eagles and vultures. in fine, every one did what was taught him;—yet all was but apparition and illusion without any reality, insomuch that when they came up to the king they spake thus to him:—you imagined that it was so and so,—but the truth is that it was such or such a thing.’[2] the a b c of magnetism is contained in the last words—” continued el-râmi, lifting his eyes from the book,—“the merest tyro in the science knows that; and also realises that the imagination is the centre of both physical and bodily health or disease. and did you learn nothing more?”
féraz made a half-angry gesture in the negative.
“what a pity!”—and his brother surveyed him with good-humoured compassion—“to know how a ‘miracle’ is done is one thing—but to do it is quite another matter. now let me recall to your mind what i previously told you—that from this day henceforth i forbid you to make any allusion to the subject of my work. i forbid you to mention the name of lilith,—and i forbid you to approach or to enter the room where her body lies. you understand me?—i forbid you!”
féraz’s eyes flashed angry opposition, and he drew himself up with a haughty self-assertiveness.
“you forbid me!” he echoed proudly—“what right have you to forbid me anything? and how if i refuse to obey?”
el-râmi rose and confronted him, one hand resting on the big arabic volume.
“you will not refuse—” he said—“because i will take no refusal. you will obey, because i exact your obedience. moreover, you will swear by the most holy name of god, that you will never, either to me, or to any other living soul, speak a syllable concerning my life’s greatest experiment,—you will swear that the name of lilith shall never pass your lips——”
but here féraz interrupted him.
“el-râmi, i will not swear!” he cried desperately—“the name of lilith is sweet to me!—why should i not utter it,—why should i not sing of it—why should i not even remember it in my prayers?”
a terrible look darkened el-râmi’s countenance; his brows contracted darkly, and his lips drew together in a close resolute line.
“there are a thousand reasons why—” he said in low fierce accents,—“one is, that the soul of lilith and the body of lilith are mine, and that you have no share in their possession. she does not need your songs—still less has she need of your prayers. rash fool!—you shall forget the name of lilith—and you shall swear, as i command you. resist my will if you can,—now!—i warn you in time!”
he seemed to grow in height as he spoke,—his eyes blazed ominously, and féraz, meeting that lightning-like glance, knew how hopeless it would be for him to attempt to oppose such an intense force as was contained in this man’s mysterious organisation. he tried his best,—but in vain,—with every second he felt his strength oozing out of him—his power of resistance growing less and less.
“swear!” said el-râmi imperatively—“swear in god’s name to keep my secret—swear by christ’s death!—swear on this!”
and he held out a small golden crucifix.
mechanically, but still devoutly, féraz instantly dropped on one knee, and kissed the holy emblem.
“i swear!” he said—but, as he spoke, the rising tears were in his throat, and he murmured—“forget the name of lilith!—never!”
“in god’s name!” said el-râmi.
“in god’s name!”
“by christ’s death!”
féraz trembled. in the particular form of religion professed by himself and his brother, this was the most solemn and binding vow that could be taken. and his voice was faint and unsteady as he repeated it—
“by christ’s death!”
el-râmi put aside the crucifix.
“that is well;—” he said, in mild accents which contrasted agreeably with his previous angry tone—“such oaths are chronicled in heaven, remember,—and whoever breaks his sworn word is accursed of the gods. but you,—you will keep your vow, féraz,—and ... you will also forget the name of lilith,—if i choose!”
féraz stood mute and motionless,—he would have said something, but somehow words failed him to express what was in his mind. he was angry, he said to himself,—he had sworn a foolish oath against his will, and he had every right to be angry—very angry,—but with whom? surely not with his brother—his friend,—his protector for so many years? as he thought of this, shame and penitence and old affection grew stronger and welled up in his heart, and he moved slowly towards el-râmi, with hands outstretched.
“forgive me;”—he said humbly. “i have offended you—i am sorry. i will show my repentance in whatever way you please,—but do not, el-râmi—do not ask me, do not force me to forget the name of lilith,—it is like a note in music, and it cannot do you harm that i should think of it sometimes. for the rest i will obey you faithfully,—and, for what is past, i ask your pardon.”
el-râmi took his hands and pressed them affectionately in his own.
“no sooner asked than granted—” he said—“you are young, féraz,—and i am not so harsh as you perhaps imagine. the impulsiveness of youth should always be quickly pardoned—seeing how gracious a thing youth is, and how short a time it lasts. keep your poetic dreams and fancies—take the sweetness of thought without its bitterness,—and, if you are content to have it so, let me still help to guide your fate. if not, why, nothing is easier than to part company,—part as good friends and brethren always,—you on your chosen road and i on mine,—who knows but that after all you might n be happier so?”
féraz lifted his dark eyes, heavy with unshed tears.
“would you send me from you?” he asked falteringly.
“not i! i would not send you,—but you might wish to go.”
“never!” said féraz resolutely—“i feel that i must stay with you—till the end.”
he uttered the last words with a sigh, and el-râmi looked at him curiously.
“till the end?”—he repeated—“what end?”
“oh, the end of life or death or anything;” replied féraz with forced lightness—“there must surely be an end somewhere, as there was a beginning.”
“that is rather a doubtful problem!” said el-râmi—“the great question is, was there ever a beginning? and will there ever be an end?”
féraz gave a languid gesture.
“you inquire too far,”—he said wearily—“i always think you inquire too far. i cannot follow you—i am tired. do you want anything?—can i do anything? or may i go to my room? i want to be alone for a little while, just to consider quietly what my life is, and what i can make of it.”
“a truly wise and philosophical subject of meditation!” observed el-râmi, and he smiled kindly and held out his hand. féraz laid his own slender fingers somewhat listlessly in that firm warm palm;—then—with a sudden start, looked eagerly around him. the air seemed to have grown denser,—there was a delicious scent of roses in the room, and hush! ... what entrancing voices were those that sang in the distance? he listened absorbed;—the harmonies were very sweet and perfect—almost he thought he could distinguish words. loosening his hand from his brother’s clasp, the melody seemed to grow fainter and fainter,—recognising this, he roused himself with a quick movement, his eyes flashing with a sudden gleam of defiance.
“more magic music!” he said—“i hear the sound of singing, and you know that i hear it! i understand!—it is imagined music—your work, el-râmi,—your skill. it is wonderful, beautiful,—and you are the most marvellous man on earth!—you should have been a priest of old egypt! yes—i am tired—i will rest;—i will accept the dreams you offer me for what they are worth,—but i must remember that there are realities as well as dreams,—and i shall not forget the name of—lilith!”
he smiled audaciously, looking as graceful as a pictured adonis in the careless yet proud attitude he had unconsciously assumed,—then with a playful yet affectionate salutation he moved to the doorway.
“call me if you want me,” he said.
“i shall not want you;”—replied his brother, regarding him steadily.
the door opened and closed again,—féraz was gone.
shutting up the great volume in front of him, el-râmi rested his arms upon it, and stared into vacancy with darkly-knitted brows.
“what premonition of evil is there in the air?” he muttered—“what restless emotion is at work within me? are the fates turning against me?—and am i after all nothing but the merest composition of vulgar matter—a weak human wretch capable of being swayed by changeful passions? what is it? what am i that i should vex my spirit thus—all because lilith smiled at the sound of a voice that was not mine?”
