Ziska: The Problem of a Wicked Soul Part 15

"G.o.d! What ails me!" he muttered, supporting himself with one hand against the black and crumbling wall near which he stood. "Why should that melody steal away my strength and make me think of things with which I have surely no connection! What tricks my imagination plays me in this city of the Orient--I might as well be hypnotized! What have I to do with dreams of war and triumph and rapine and murder, and what is the name of Ziska-Charmazel to me?"

He shook himself with the action of a fine brute that has been stung by some teasing insect, and, mastering his emotions by an effort, walked away. But he was so absorbed in strange thoughts, that he stumbled up against Denzil Murray in a side street on the way to the Gezireh Palace Hotel without seeing him, and would have pa.s.sed him altogether had not Denzil somewhat fiercely said:

"Stop!"

Gervase looked at him bewilderedly.

"Why, Denzil, is it you? My dear fellow, forgive me my brusquerie! I believe I have got a stroke of the sun, or something of the sort; I a.s.sure you I hardly know what I am doing or where I am going!"

"I believe it!" said Denzil, hoa.r.s.ely. "You are as mad as I am--for love!"

Gervase smiled; a slight incredulous smile.

"You think so? I am not sure! If love makes a man as thoroughly unstrung and nervous as I am to-day, then love is a very bad illness."

"It is the worst illness in the world," said Denzil, speaking hurriedly and wildly. "The most cruel and torturing! And there is no cure for it save death. My G.o.d, Gervase! You were my friend but yesterday! I never should have thought it possible to hate you!"

"Yet you do hate me?" queried Gervase, still smiling a little.

"Hate you? I could kill you! You have been with HER!"

Quietly Gervase took his arm.

"My good Denzil, you are mistaken! I confess to you frankly I should have been with HER--you mean the Princess Ziska, of course--had it been possible. But she has fled the city for the moment--at least, according to the corpse-like Nubian who acts as porter."

"He lies!" exclaimed Denzil, hotly. "I saw her this morning."

"I hope you improved your opportunity," said Gervase, imperturbably.

"Anyway, at the present moment she is not visible."

A silence fell between them for some minutes; then Denzil spoke again.

"Gervase, it is no use, I cannot stand this sort of thing. We must have it out. What does it all mean?"

"It is difficult to explain, my dear boy," answered Gervase, half seriously, half mockingly. "It means, I presume, that we are both in love with the same woman, and that we both intend to try our chances with her. But, as I told you the other night, I do not see why we should quarrel about it. Your intentions towards the Princess are honorable--mine are dishonorable, and I shall make no secret of them.

If you win her, I shall ..."

He paused, and there was a sudden look in his eyes which gave them a sombre darkness, darker than their own natural color.

"You shall--what?" asked Denzil.

"Do something desperate," replied Gervase. "What the something will be depends on the humor of the moment. A tiger balked of his prey is not an agreeable beast; a strong man deprived of the woman he pa.s.sionately desires is a little less agreeable even than the tiger. But let us adopt the policy of laissez-faire. Nothing is decided; the fair one cares for neither of us; let us be friends until she makes her choice."

"We cannot be friends," said Denzil, sternly.

"Good! Let us be foes then, but courteous, even in our quarrel, dear boy. If we must kill each other, let us do it civilly. To fly at each other's throats would be purely barbaric. We owe a certain duty to civilization; things have progressed since the days of Araxes."

Denzil stared at him gloomily.

"Araxes is Dr. Dean's fad," he said. "I don't know anything about Egyptian mummies, and don't want to know. My matter is with the present, and not with the past."

They had reached the hotel by this time, and turned into the gardens side by side.

"You understand?" repeated Denzil. "We cannot be friends!"

Gervase gave him a profoundly courteous salute, and the two separated.

Later on in the afternoon, about an hour before dinner-time, Gervase, strolling on the terrace of the hotel alone, saw Helen Murray seated at a little distance under some trees, with a book in her hand which she was not reading. There were tears in her eyes, but as he approached her she furtively dashed them away and greeted him with a poor attempt at a smile.

"You have a moment to spare me?" he asked, sitting down beside her.

She bent her head in acquiescence.

"I am a very unhappy man, Mademoiselle Helen," he began, looking at her with a certain compa.s.sionate tenderness as he spoke. "I want your sympathy, but I know I do not deserve it."

Helen remained silent. A faint flush crimsoned her cheeks, but her eyes were veiled under the long lashes--she thought he could not see them.

"You remember," he went on, "our pleasant times in Scotland? Ah, it is a restful place, your Highland home, with the beautiful purple hills rolling away in the distance, and the glorious moors covered with fragrant heather, and the gurgling of the river that runs between birch and fir and willow, making music all day long for those who have the ears to listen, and the hearts to understand the pretty love tune it sings! You know Frenchmen always have more or less sympathy with the Scotch--some old a.s.sociation, perhaps, with the romantic times of Mary Queen of Scots, when the light and changeful fancies of Chastelard and his brother poets and lutists made havoc in the hearts of many a Highland maiden. What is that bright drop on your hand, Helen?--are you crying?" He waited a moment, and his voice was softer and more tremulous. "Dear girl, I am not worthy of tears. I am not good enough for you."

He gave her time to recover her momentary emotion and then went on, still softly and tenderly:

"Listen, Helen. I want you to believe me and forgive me, if you can. I know--I remember those moonlight evenings in Scotland--holy and happy evenings, as sweet as flower-scented pages in a young girl's missal; yes, and I did not mean to play with you, Helen, or wound your gentle heart. I almost loved you!" He spoke the words pa.s.sionately, and for a moment she raised her eyes and looked at him in something of fear as well as sorrow. "'Yes,' I said to my self, 'this woman, so true and pure and fair, is a bride for a king; and if I can win her--if!' Ah, there my musings stopped. But I came to Egypt chiefly to meet you again, knowing that you and your brother were in Cairo. How was I to know, how was I to guess that this horrible thing would happen?"

Helen gazed at him wonderingly.

"What horrible thing?" she asked, falteringly, the rich color coming and going on her face, and her heart beating violently as she put the question.

His eyes flashed.

"This," he answered. "The close and pernicious enthralment of a woman I never met till the night before last; a woman whose face haunts me; a woman who drags me to her side with the force of a magnet, there to grovel like a brain-sick fool and plead with her for a love which I already know is poison to my soul! Helen, Helen! You do not understand--you will never understand! Here, in the very air I breathe, I fancy I can trace the perfume she shakes from her garments as she moves; something indescribably fascinating yet terrible attracts me to her; it is an evil attraction, I know, but I cannot resist it. There is something wicked in every man's nature; I am conscious enough that there is something detestably wicked in mine, and I have not sufficient goodness to overbalance it. And this woman,--this silent, gliding, glittering-eyed creature that has suddenly taken possession of my fancy--she overcomes me in spite of myself; she makes havoc of all the good intentions of my life. I admit it--I confess it!"

"You are speaking of the Princess Ziska?" asked Helen, tremblingly.

"Of whom else should I speak?" he responded, dreamily. "There is no one like her; probably there never was anyone like her, except, perhaps, Ziska-Charmazel!"

As the name pa.s.sed his lips, he sprang hastily up and stood amazed, as though some sudden voice had called him. Helen Murray looked at him in alarm.

"Oh, what is it?" she exclaimed.

He forced a laugh.

"Nothing--nothing--but a madness! I suppose it is all a part of my strange malady. Your brother is stricken with the same fever. Surely you know that?"

"Indeed I do know it," Helen answered, "to my sorrow!"

He regarded her intently. Her face in its pure outline and quiet sadness of expression touched him more than he cared to own even to himself.

"My dear Helen," he said, with an effort at composure, "I have been talking wildly; you must forgive me! Don't think about me at all; I am not worth it! Denzil has taken it into his head to quarrel with me on account of the Princess Ziska, but I a.s.sure you I will not quarrel with him. He is infatuated, and so am I. The best thing for all of us to do would be to leave Egypt instantly; I feel that instinctively, only we cannot do it. Something holds us here. You will never persuade Denzil to go, and I--I cannot persuade myself to go. There is a clinging sweetness in the air for me; and there are vague suggestions, memories, dreams, histories--wonderful things which hold me spell-bound! I wish I could a.n.a.lyze them, recognize them, or understand them. But I cannot, and there, perhaps, is their secret charm. Only one thing grieves me, and that is, that I have, perhaps, unwittingly, in some thoughtless way, given you pain; is it so, Helen?"