Chapter VI: Part 6

He paused,--his eyes were full, of an ardent light, and Féraz looked at him wonderingly. What a voice he had!--how eloquently he spoke!--how noble and thoughtful were his features!--and what an air of almost pathetic dignity was given to his face by that curiously snow-white hair of his, which so incongruously suggested age in youth! Poor Féraz!--his heart swelled within him; love and secret admiration for his brother contended with a sense of outraged pride in himself,--and yet--he felt his sullen _amour-propre_, his instinct of rebellion, and his distrustful reserve all oozing away under the spell of El-Râmi’s persuasive tongue and fascinating manner,--and to escape from his own feelings, he bent over the mandolin and tried its chords with a trembling hand and downcast eyes.

“You speak of passion,” he said in a low voice--“but you have never known it.”

“Oh, have I not!” and El-Râmi laughed lightly as he resumed his seat--“Nay, if I had not I should be more than man. The lightning has flashed across my path, Féraz, I assure you, only it has not killed me; and I have been ready to shed my blood drop by drop, for so slight and imperfect a production of Nature as--a woman! A thing of white flesh and soft curves, and long hair and large eyes, and a laugh like the tinkle of a fountain in our Eastern courts,--a thing with less mind than a kitten, and less fidelity than a hound. Of course there are clever women and faithful women,--but then we men seldom choose these; we are fools, and we pay for our folly. And I also have been a fool in my time,--why should you imagine I have not? It is flattering to me, but why?”

Féraz looked at him again, and in spite of himself smiled, though reluctantly.

“You always seem to treat all earthly emotions with scorn--” he replied evasively, “And once you told me there was no such thing in the world as love.”

“Nor is there--” said El-Râmi quickly--“Not ideal love--not everlasting love. Love in its highest, purest sense, belongs to other planets--in this its golden wings are clipped, and it becomes nothing more than a common and vulgar physical attraction.”

Féraz thrummed his mandolin softly.

“I saw two lovers the other day--” he said--“They seemed divinely happy.”

“Where did you see them?”

“Not here. In the land I know best--my Star.”

El-Râmi looked at him curiously, but forbore to speak.

“They were beautiful--” went on Féraz. “They were resting together on a bank of flowers in a little nook of that lovely forest where there are thousands of song-birds sweeter than nightingales. Music filled the air,--a rosy glory filled the sky,--their arms were twined around each other,--their lips met, and then--oh, then their joy smote me with fear, because,--because _I_ was alone--and they were--together!”

His voice trembled. El-Râmi’s smile had in it something of compassion.

“Love in your Star is a dream, Féraz--” he said gently--“But love here--here in this phase of things we call Reality,--means,--do you know what it means?”

Féraz shook his head.

“It means Money. It means lands, and houses and a big balance at the bank. Lovers do not subsist here on flowers and music,--they have rather more vulgar and substantial appetites. Love here is the disillusion of Love--there, in the region you speak of, it may perchance be perfect----”

A sudden rush of rain battering at the windows, accompanied by a gust of wind, interrupted him.

“What a storm!” exclaimed Féraz, looking up--“And you are expecting----”

A measured rat-tat-tat at the door came at that moment, and El-Râmi sprang to his feet. Féraz rose also, and set aside his mandolin. Another gust of wind whistled by, bringing with it a sweeping torrent of hail.

“Quick!” said El-Râmi, in a somewhat agitated voice--“It is--you know who it is. Give him reverent greeting, Féraz--and show him at once in here.”

Féraz withdrew,--and, when he had disappeared, El-Râmi looked about him vaguely with the bewildered air of a man who would fain escape from some difficult position, could he but discover an egress,--a slight shudder ran through his frame, and he heaved a deep sigh.

“Why has he come to me!” he muttered, “Why--after all these years of absolute silence and indifference to my work, does he seek me now?”

XIX.

Standing in an attitude more of resignation than expectancy, he waited, listening. He heard the street-door open and shut again,--then came a brief pause, followed by the sound of a firm step in the outer hall,--and Féraz re-appeared, ushering in with grave respect a man of stately height and majestic demeanour, cloaked in a heavy travelling ulster, the hood of which was pulled cowl-like over his head and almost concealed his features.

“Greeting to El-Râmi Zarânos--” said a rich mellow voice, “And so this is the weather provided by an English month of May! Well, it might be worse,--certes, also, it might be better. I should have disburdened myself of these ‘lendings’ in the hall, but that I knew not whether you were quite alone--” and, as he spoke, he threw off his cloak, which dripped with rain, and handed it to Féraz, disclosing himself in the dress of a Carthusian monk, all save the disfiguring tonsure. “I was not certain,” he continued cheerfully--“whether you might be ready or willing to receive me.”

“I am always ready for such a visitor--” said El-Râmi, advancing hesitatingly, and with a curious diffidence in his manner--“And more than willing. Your presence honours this poor house and brings with it a certain benediction.”

“Gracefully said, El-Râmi!” exclaimed the monk with a keen flash of his deep-set blue eyes--“Where did you learn to make pretty speeches? I remember you of old time as brusque of tongue and obstinate of humour,--and even now humility sits ill upon you,--’tis not your favourite practised household virtue.”

El-Râmi flushed, but made no reply. He seemed all at once to have become even to himself the merest foolish nobody before this his remarkable-looking visitor with the brow and eyes of an inspired evangelist, and the splendid lines of thought, aspiration, and endeavour marking the already noble countenance with an expression seldom seen on features of mortal mould. Féraz now came forward to proffer wine and sundry other refreshments, all of which were courteously refused.

“This lad has grown, El-Râmi--” said the stranger, surveying Féraz with much interest and kindliness,--“since he stayed with us in Cyprus and studied our views of poesy and song. A promising youth he seems,--and still your slave?”

El-Râmi gave a gesture of deprecation.

“You mistake--” he replied curtly--“He is my brother and my friend,--as such he cannot be my slave. He is as free as air.”

“Or as an eagle that ever flies back to its eyrie in the rocks out of sheer habit--” observed the monk with a smile--“In this case you are the eyrie, and the eagle is never absent long! Well--what now, pretty lad?” this, as Féraz, moved by a sudden instinct which he could not explain to himself, dropped reverently on one knee.

“Your blessing--” he murmured timidly. “I have heard it said that your touch brings peace,--and I--I am not at peace.”

The monk looked at him benignly.

“We live in a world of storm, my boy--” he said gently--“where there is no peace but the peace of the inner spirit. That, with your youth and joyous nature, you should surely possess,--and, if you have it not, may God grant it you! ’Tis the best blessing I can devise.”

And he signed the Cross on the young man’s forehead with a gentle lingering touch,--a touch under which Féraz trembled and sighed for pleasure, conscious of the delicious restfulness and ease that seemed suddenly to pervade his being.

“What a child he is still, this brother of yours!” then said the monk, turning abruptly towards El-Râmi--“He craves a blessing,--while you have progressed beyond all such need!”

El-Râmi raised his dark eyes,--eyes full of a burning pain and pride,--but made no answer. The monk looked at him steadily--and heaved a quick sigh.

“_Vigilate et orate ut non intretis in tentationem!_” he murmured,--“Truly, to forgive is easy--but to forget is difficult. I have much to say to you, El-Râmi,--for this is the last time I shall meet you ‘before I go hence and be no more seen.’”

Féraz uttered an involuntary exclamation.

“You do not mean,” he said almost breathlessly--“that you are going to die?”

“Assuredly not!” replied the monk with a smile--“I am going to live. Some people call it dying--but we know better,--we know we cannot die.”

“We are not sure--” began El-Râmi.

“Speak for yourself, my friend!” said the monk cheerily--“_I_ am sure,--and so are those who labour with me. I am not made of perishable composition any more than the dust is perishable. Every grain of dust contains a germ of life--I am co-equal with the dust, and I contain my germ also, of life that is capable of infinite reproduction.”

El-Râmi looked at him dubiously yet wonderingly. He seemed the very embodiment of physical strength and vitality, yet he only compared himself to a grain of dust. And the very dust held the seeds of life!--true!--then, after all, was there anything in the universe, however small and slight, that could die _utterly_? And was Lilith right when she said there was _no_ death? Wearily and impatiently El-Râmi pondered the question,--and he almost started with nervous irritation when the slight noise of the door shutting told him that Féraz had retired, leaving him and his mysterious visitant alone together.

Some minutes passed in silence. The monk sat quietly in El-Râmi’s own chair, and El-Râmi himself stood close by, waiting, as it seemed, for something; with an air of mingled defiance and appeal. Outside, the rain and wind continued their gusty altercation;--inside, the lamp burned brightly, shedding warmth and lustre on the student-like simplicity of the room. It was the monk himself who at last broke the spell of the absolute stillness.

“You wonder,” he said slowly--“at the reason of my coming here,--to you who are a recreant from the mystic tie of our brotherhood,--to you, who have employed the most sacred and venerable secrets of our Order, to wrest from Life and Nature the material for your own self-interested labours. You think I come for information--you think I wish to hear from your own lips the results of your scientific scheme of supernatural ambition,--alas, El-Râmi Zarânos!--how little you know me! Prayer has taught me more science than Science will ever grasp,--there is nothing in all the catalogue of your labours that I do not understand, and you can give me no new message from lands beyond the sun. I have come to you out of simple pity,--to warn you and if possible to save.”

El-Râmi’s dark eyes opened wide in astonishment.

“To warn me?” he echoed--“To save? From what?--Such a mission to me is incomprehensible.”

“Incomprehensible to your stubborn spirit,--yes, no doubt it is--” said the monk, with a touch of stern reproach in his accents,--“For you will not see that the Veil of the Eternal, though it may lift itself for you a little from other men’s lives, hangs dark across your own, and is impervious to your gaze. You will not grasp the fact that, though it may be given to you to read other men’s passions, you cannot read your own. You have begun at the wrong end of the mystery, El-Râmi,--you should have mastered yourself first, before seeking to master others. And now there is danger ahead of you--be wise in time,--accept the truth before it is too late.”

El-Râmi listened, impatient and incredulous.

“Accept what truth?” he asked somewhat bitterly--“Am I not searching for truth everywhere? and seeking to prove it? Give me any sort of truth to hold, and I will grasp it as a drowning sailor grasps the rope of rescue!”

The monk’s eyes rested on him in mingled compassion and sorrow.

“After all these years--” he said--“are you still asking Pilate’s question?”

“Yes--I am still asking Pilate’s question!” retorted El-Râmi with sudden passion--“See you--I know who you are,--great and wise, a master of the arts and sciences, and with all your stores of learning, still a servant of Christ, which to me is the wildest, maddest incongruity. I grant you that Christ was the holiest man that ever lived on earth,--and if I swear a thing in His name I swear an oath that shall not be broken. But in His Divinity, I cannot, I may not, I dare not believe!--except in so far that there is divinity in all of us. One man, born of woman, destined to regenerate the world!--the idea is stupendous,--but impossible to reason!”

He paced the room impatiently.

“If I could believe it--I say ‘if,’”--he continued, “I should still think it a clumsy scheme. For every human creature living should be a reformer and regenerator of his race.”

“Like yourself?” queried the monk calmly. “What have _you_ done, for example?”

El-Râmi stopped in his walk to and fro.

“What have I done?” he repeated--“Why--nothing! You deem me proud and ambitious,--but I am humble enough to know how little I know. And as to proofs,--well, it is the same story--I have proved--nothing.”

“So! Then are your labours wasted?”

“Nothing is wasted,--according to _your_ theories even. Your theories--many of them--are beautiful and soul-satisfying, and this one of there being no waste in the economy of the universe is, I believe, true. But I cannot accept all you teach. I broke my connection with you because I could not bend my spirit to the level of the patience you enjoined. It was not rebellion,--no! for I loved and honoured you--and I still revere you more than any man alive, but I cannot bow my neck to the yoke you consider so necessary. To begin all work by first admitting one’s weakness!--no!--Power is gained by never-resting ambition, not by a merely laborious humility.”

“Opinions differ on that point”--said the monk quietly--“I never sought to check your ambition--I simply said--Take God with you. Do not leave Him out. He IS. Therefore His existence must be included in everything, even in the scientific examination of a drop of dew. Without Him you grope in the dark--you lack the key to the mystery. As an example of this, you are yourself battering against a shut door, and fighting with a Force too strong for you.”

“I must have proofs of God!” said El-Râmi very deliberately--“Nature proves her existence; let God prove His!”

“And does He not prove it?” inquired the monk with mingled passion and solemnity--“Have you to go farther than the commonest flower to find Him?”

El-Râmi shrugged his shoulders with an air of light disdain.

“Nature is Nature,”--he said--“God--an there be a God--is God. If God works through Nature He arranges things very curiously on a system of mutual destruction. You talk of flowers,--they contain both poisonous and healing properties,--and the poor human race has to study and toil for years before finding out which is which. Is that just of Nature--or God? Children never know at all,--and the poor little wretches die often through eating poison-berries of whose deadly nature they were not aware. That is what I complain of--we are not aware of evil, and we are not made aware. We have to find it out for ourselves. And I maintain that it is wanton cruelty on the part of the Divine Element to punish us for ignorance which we cannot help. And so the plan of mutual destructiveness goes on, with the most admirable persistency; the eater is in turn eaten, and, as far as I can make out, this seems to be the one Everlasting Law. Surely it is an odd and inconsequential arrangement? As for the business of creation, that is easy, if once we grant the existence of certain component parts of space. Look at this, for example”--and he took from a corner a thin steel rod about the size of an ordinary walking cane--“If I use this magnet, and these few crystals”--and he opened a box on the table, containing some sparkling powder like diamond dust, a pinch of which he threw up into the air--“and play with them thus, you see what happens!”

And with a dexterous steady motion he waved the steel rod rapidly round and round in the apparently empty space where he had tossed aloft the pinch of powder, and gradually there grew into shape out of the seeming nothingness a round large brilliant globe of prismatic tints, like an enormously magnified soap-bubble, which followed the movement of the steel magnet rapidly and accurately. The monk lifted himself a little in his chair and watched the operation with interest and curiosity--till presently El-Râmi dropped the steel rod from sheer fatigue of arm. But the globe went on revolving steadily by itself for a time, and El-Râmi pointed to it with a smile--

“If I had the skill to send that bubble-sphere out into space, solidify it, and keep it perpetually rolling,” he said lightly, “it would in time exhale its own atmosphere and produce life, and I should be a very passable imitation of the Creator.”

At that moment the globe broke, and vanished like a melting snowflake, leaving no trace of its existence but a little white dust which fell in a round circle on the carpet. After this display, El-Râmi waited for his guest to speak, but the monk said nothing.

“You see,” continued El-Râmi--“it requires a great deal to satisfy _me_ with proofs. I must have tangible Fact, not vague Imagining.”

The monk raised his eyes,--what searching calm eyes they were!--and fixed them full on the speaker.

“Your Sphere was a Fact,”--he said quietly--“Visible to the eye, it glittered and whirled--but it was not tangible, and it had no life in it. It is a fair example of other Facts,--so called. And you could not have created so much as that perishable bubble, had not God placed the materials in your hands. It is odd you seem to forget that. No one can work without the materials for working,--the question remains, from Whence came those materials?”

El-Râmi smiled with a touch of scorn.

“Rightly are you called Supreme Master!” he said--“for your faith is marvellous--your ideas of life both here and hereafter, beautiful. I wish I could accept them. But I cannot. Your way does not seem to me clear or reasonable,--and I have thought it out in every direction. Take the doctrine of original sin for example--what _is_ original sin, and why should it exist?”

“It does not exist--” said the monk quickly--“except in so far that _we_ have created it. It is we, therefore, who must destroy it.”

El-Râmi paused, thinking. This was the same lesson Lilith had taught.

“If we created it--” he said at last, “and there is a God who is omnipotent, why were we _allowed_ to create it?”

The monk turned round in his chair with ever so slight a gesture of impatience.

“How often have I told you, El-Râmi Zarânos,” he said,--“of the gift and responsibility bestowed on every human unit--Free-Will. You, who seek for proofs of the Divine, should realise that this is the only proof we have in ourselves of our close relation to ‘the image of God.’ God’s Laws exist,--and it is our first business in life to know and understand these--afterwards, our fate is in our own hands,--if we transgress law, or if we fulfil law, we know, or ought to know, the results. If we choose to make evil, it exists till we destroy it--good we cannot _make_, because it is the very breath of the Universe, but we can choose to breathe _in_ it and _with_ it. I have so often gone over this ground with you that it seems mere waste of words to go over it again,--and if you cannot, will not see that you are creating your own destiny and shaping it to your own will, apart from anything that human or divine experience can teach you, then you are blind indeed. But time wears on apace,--and I must speak of other things;--one message I have for you that will doubtless cause you pain.” He waited a moment--then went on slowly and sadly--“Yes,--the pain will be bitter and the suffering long,--but the fiat has gone forth, and ere long you will be called upon to render up the Soul of Lilith.”

El-Râmi started violently,--flushed a deep red, and then grew deadly pale.

“You speak in enigmas--” he said huskily and with an effort--“What do you know--how have you heard----”

He broke off,--his voice failed him, and the monk looked at him compassionately.

“Judge not the power of God, El-Râmi Zarânos!” he said solemnly--“for it seems you cannot even measure the power of man. What!--did you think your secret experiment safely hid from all knowledge save your own?--nay! you mistake. I have watched your progress step by step--your proud march onward through such mysteries as never mortal mind dared penetrate before,--but even these wonders have their limits--and those limits are, for you, nearly reached. You must set your captive free!”

“Never!” exclaimed El-Râmi passionately. “Never, while I live! I defy the heavens to rob me of her!--by every law in nature, she is mine!”

“Peace!” said the monk sternly--“Nothing is yours,--except the fate you have made for yourself. _That_ is yours; and that must and will be fulfilled. That, in its own appointed time, will deprive you of Lilith.”

El-Râmi’s eyes flashed wrath and pain.

“What have you to do with my fate?” he demanded--“How should you know what is in store for me? You are judged to have a marvellous insight into spiritual things, but it is not insight after all so much as imagination and instinct. These may lead you wrong,--you have gained them, as you yourself admit, through nothing but inward, concentration and prayer--_my_ discoveries are the result of scientific exploration,--there is no science in prayer!”

“Is there not?”--and the monk, rising from his chair, confronted El-Râmi with the reproachful majesty of a king who faces some recreant vassal--“Then with all your wisdom you are ignorant,--ignorant of the commonest laws of simple Sound. Do you not yet know--have you not yet learned that Sound vibrates in a million million tones through every nook and corner of the Universe? Not a whisper, not a cry from human lips is lost--not even the trill of a bird or the rustle of a leaf. All is heard--all is kept,--all is reproduced at will for ever and ever. What is the use of your modern toys, the phonograph and the telephone, if they do not teach you the fundamental and eternal law by which these adjuncts to civilisation are governed? God--the great, patient, loving God--hears the huge sounding-board of space re-echo again and yet again with rough curses on His Name,--with groans and wailings; shouts, tears, and laughter send shuddering discord through His Everlasting Vastness, but amid it all there is a steady strain of music,--full, sweet, and pure--the music of perpetual prayer. No science in prayer! Such science there is, that by its power the very ether parts asunder as by a lightning stroke--the highest golden gateways are unbarred,--and the connecting-link ’twixt God and Man stretches itself through Space, between and round all worlds, defying any force to break the current of its messages.”

He spoke with fervour and passion,--El-Râmi listened silent and unconvinced.

“I waste my words, I know--” continued the monk--“For you, Yourself suffices. What your brain dares devise,--what your hand dares attempt, that you will do, unadvisedly, sure of your success without the help of God or man. Nevertheless--you may not keep the Soul of Lilith.”

His voice was very solemn yet sweet; El-Râmi, lifting his head, looked full at him, wonderingly, earnestly, and as one in doubt. Then his mind seemed to grasp more completely his visitor’s splendid presence,--the noble face, the soft commanding eyes,--and instinctively he bent his proud head with a sudden reverence.

“Truly you are a god-like man--” he said slowly--“God-like in strength, and pure-hearted as a child. I would trust you in many things, if not in all. Therefore,--as by some strange means you have possessed yourself of my secret,--come with me,--and I will show you the chiefest marvel of my science--the life I claim--the spirit I dominate. Your warning I cannot accept, because you warn me of what is impossible. Impossible--I say, impossible!--for the human Lilith, God’s Lilith, _died_--according to God’s will; _my_ Lilith lives, according to My will. Come and see,--then perhaps you will understand how it is that I--I, and not God any longer,--claim and possess the Soul I saved!”

With these words, uttered in a thrilling tone of pride and passion, he opened the study door and, with a mute inviting gesture, led the way out. In silence and with a pensive step, the monk slowly followed.

XX.

Into the beautiful room, glowing with its regal hues of gold and purple, where the spell-bound Lilith lay, El-Râmi led his thoughtful and seemingly reluctant guest. Zaroba met them on the threshold and was about to speak,--but at an imperative sign from her master she refrained, and contented herself merely with a searching and inquisitive glance at the stately monk, the like of whom she had never seen before. She had good cause to be surprised,--for, in all the time she had known him, El-Râmi had never permitted any visitor to enter the shrine of Lilith’s rest. Now he had made a new departure,--and in the eagerness of her desire to know why this stranger was thus freely admitted into the usually forbidden precincts she went her way downstairs to seek Féraz, and learn from him the explanation of what seemed so mysterious. But it was now past ten o’clock at night, and Féraz was asleep,--fast locked in such a slumber that, though Zaroba shook him and called him several times, she could not rouse him from his deep and almost death-like torpor. Baffled in her attempt, she gave it up at last, and descended to the kitchen to prepare her own frugal supper,--resolving, however, that as soon as she heard Féraz stirring she would put him through such a catechism that she would find out, in spite of El-Râmi’s haughty reticence, the name of the unknown visitor and the nature of his errand.

Meanwhile, El-Râmi himself and his grave companion stood by the couch of Lilith, and looked upon her in all her peaceful beauty for some minutes in silence. Presently El-Râmi grew impatient at the absolute impassiveness of the monk’s attitude and the strange look in his eyes--a look which expressed nothing but solemn compassion and reverence.

“Well!” he exclaimed almost brusquely--“Now you see Lilith, as she is.”

“Not so!” said the monk quietly--“I do not see her as she is. But I _have_ seen her,--whereas, ... you have not!”

El-Râmi turned upon him somewhat angrily.

“Why will you always speak in riddles?” he said--“In plain language, what do you mean?”

“In plain language I mean what I say”--returned the monk composedly--“And I tell you I have seen Lilith. The Soul of Lilith _is_ Lilith;--not this brittle casket made of earthly materials which we now look upon, and which is preserved from decomposition by an electric fluid. But--beautiful as it is--it is a corpse--and nothing more.”

El-Râmi regarded him with an expression of haughty amazement.

“Can a corpse breathe?” he inquired--“Can a corpse have colour and movement? This Body was the body of a child when first I began my experiment,--now it is a woman’s form full grown and perfect--and you tell me it is a corpse!”

“I tell you no more than you told Féraz,” said the monk coldly--“When the boy transgressed your command and yielded to the suggestion of your servant Zaroba, did you not assure him that Lilith was _dead_?”

El-Râmi started;--these words certainly gave him a violent shock of amazement.

“God!” he exclaimed--“How can you know all this? Where did you hear it? Does the very air convey messages to you from a distance?--Does the light copy scenes for you, or what is it that gives you such a superhuman faculty for knowing everything you choose to know?”

The monk smiled gravely.

“I have only one method of work, El-Râmi”--he said--“And that method you are perfectly aware of, though you would not adopt it when I would have led you into its mystery. ‘No man cometh to the Father, but by Me.’ You know that old well-worn text--read so often, heard so often, that its true meaning is utterly lost sight of and forgotten. ‘Coming to the Father’ means the attainment of a superhuman intuition--a superhuman knowledge,--but, as you do not believe in these things, let them pass. But you were perfectly right when you told Féraz that this Lilith is dead;--of course she is dead,--dead as a plant that is dried but has its colour preserved, and is made to move its leaves by artificial means. This body’s breath is artificial,--the liquid in its veins is not blood, but a careful compound of the electric fluid that generates all life,--and it might be possible to preserve it thus for ever. Whether its growth would continue is a scientific question; it might and it might not,--probably it would cease if the Soul held no more communication with it. For its growth, which you consider so remarkable, is simply the result of a movement of the brain;--when you force back the Spirit to converse through its medium, the brain receives an impetus, which it communicates to the spine and nerves,--the growth and extension of the muscles is bound to follow. Nevertheless, it is really a chemically animated corpse; it is not Lilith. Lilith herself I know.”

“Lilith herself you know!” echoed El-Râmi, stupefied, “You know ...! What is it that you would imply?”

“I know Lilith”--said the monk steadily, “as you have never known her. I have seen her as you have never seen her. She is a lonely creature,--a wandering angel, for ever waiting,--for ever hoping. Unloved, save by the Highest Love, she wends her flight from star to star, from world to world,--a spirit beautiful, but incomplete as a flower without its stem,--a bird without its mate. But her destiny is changing,--she will not be alone for long,--the hours ripen to their best fulfilment,--and Love, the crown and completion of her being, will unbind her chains and send her soaring to the Highest Joy in the glorious liberty of the free!”

While he spoke thus, softly, yet with eloquence and passion, a dark flush crept over El-Râmi’s face,--his eyes glittered and his hand trembled--he seemed to be making some fierce inward resolve. He controlled himself, however, and asked with a studied indifference--

“Is this your prophecy?”

“It is not a prophecy; it is a truth;” replied the monk gently--“If you doubt me, why not ask Her? She is here.”

“Here?” El-Râmi looked about vaguely, first at the speaker, then at the couch where the so-called “corpse” lay breathing tranquilly--“Here, did you say? Naturally,--of course she is here.”

And his glance reverted again to Lilith’s slumbering form.

“No--not _here_--” said the monk with a gesture towards the couch--“but--_there_!”

And he pointed to the centre of the room where the lamp shed a mellow golden lustre on the pansy-embroidered carpet, and where, from the tall crystal vase of Venice ware, a fresh branching cluster of pale roses exhaled their delicious perfume. El-Râmi stared, but could see nothing,--nothing save the lamp-light and the nodding flowers.

“There?” he repeated bewildered--“Where?”

“Alas for you, that you cannot see her!” said the monk compassionately. “This blindness of your sight proves that for you the veil has not yet been withdrawn. Lilith is there, I tell you;--she stands close to those roses,--her white form radiates like lightning--her hair is like the glory of the sunshine on amber,--her eyes are bent upon the flowers, which are fully conscious of her shining presence. For flowers are aware of angels’ visits, when men see nothing! Round her and above her are the trailing films of light caught from the farthest stars,--she is alone as usual,--her looks are wistful and appealing,--will you not speak to her?”

El-Râmi’s surprise, vexation, and fear were beyond all words as he heard this description,--then he became scornful and incredulous.

“Speak to her!” he repeated--“Nay--if you see her as plainly as you say--let _her_ speak!”

“You will not understand her speech--” said the monk--“Not unless it be conveyed to you in earthly words through that earthly medium there--” and he pointed to the fair form on the couch--“But, otherwise you will not know what she is saying. Nevertheless--if you wish it,--she shall speak.”

“I wish nothing--” said El-Râmi quickly and haughtily--“If you imagine you see her,--and if you can command this creature of your imagination to speak, why, do so; but Lilith, as _I_ know her, speaks to none save me.”

The monk lifted his hands with a solemn movement as of prayer--

“Soul of Lilith!” he said entreatingly--“Angel-wanderer in the spheres beloved of God--if, by the Master’s grace, I have seen the vision clearly--speak!”

Silence followed. El-Râmi fixed his eyes on Lilith’s visible recumbent form; no voice could make reply, he thought, save that which must issue from those lovely lips curved close in placid slumber,--but the monk’s gaze was fastened in quite an opposite direction. All at once a strain of music, soft as a song played on the water by moonlight, rippled through the room. With mellow richness the cadence rose and fell,--it had a marvellous sweet sound, rhythmical and suggestive of words,--unimaginable words, fairies’ language,--anything that was removed from mortal speech, but that was all the same capable of utterance. El-Râmi listened perplexed;--he had never heard anything so convincingly, almost painfully sweet,--till suddenly it ceased as it had begun, abruptly, and the monk looked round at him.

“You heard her?” he inquired--“Did you understand?”

“Understand what?” asked El-Râmi impatiently--“I heard music--nothing more.”

The monk’s eyes rested upon him in grave compassion.

“Your spiritual perception does not go far, El-Râmi Zarânos--” he said gently--“Lilith spoke;--her voice was the music.”

El-Râmi trembled;--for once his strong nerves were somewhat shaken. The man beside him was one whom he knew to be absolutely truthful, unselfishly wise,--one who scorned “trickery” and who had no motive for deceiving him,--one also who was known to possess a strange and marvellous familiarity with “things unproved and unseen.” In spite of his sceptical nature, all he dared assume against his guest was that he was endowed with a perfervid imagination which persuaded him of the existence of what were really only the “airy nothings” of his brain. The irreproachable grandeur, purity, and simplicity of the monk’s life as known among his brethren were of an ideal perfection never before attempted or attained by man,--and as he met the steady, piercing _faithful_ look of his companion’s eyes,--clear fine eyes such as, reverently speaking, one might have imagined the Christ to have had when in the guise of humanity He looked love on all the world,--El-Râmi was fairly at a loss for words. Presently he recovered himself sufficiently to speak, though his accents were hoarse and tremulous.

“I will not doubt you;--” he said slowly--“But if the Soul of Lilith is here present as you say,--and if it spoke, surely I may know the purport of its language!”

“Surely you may!” replied the monk--“Ask her in your own way to repeat what she said just now. There--” and he smiled gravely as he pointed to the couch--“there is your human phonograph!”

Perplexed, but willing to solve the mystery, El-Râmi bent above the slumbering girl, and, taking her hands in his own, called her by name in his usual manner. The reply came soon--though somewhat faintly.

“I am here!”

“How long have you been here?” asked El-Râmi.

“Since my friend came.”

“Who is that friend, Lilith?”

“One that is near you now--” was the response.

“Did you speak to this friend a while ago?”

“Yes!”

The answer was more like a sigh than an assent.

“Can you repeat what you said?”

Lilith stretched her fair arms out with a gesture of weariness.

“I said I was tired--” she murmured--“Tired of the search through Infinity for things that are not. A wayward will bids me look for evil--I search, but cannot find it;--for Hell, a place of pain and torment,--up and down, around and around the everlasting circles I wend my way, and can discover no such abode of misery. Then I bring back the messages of truth,--but they are rejected, and I am sorrowful. All the realms of God are bright with beauty save this one dark prison of Man’s fantastic Dream. Why am I bound here? I long to reach the light!--I am tired of the darkness!” She paused--then added--“This is what I said to one who is my friend.”

Vaguely pained, and stricken with a sudden remorse, El-Râmi asked:

“Am not I your friend, Lilith?”

A shudder ran through her delicate limbs. Then the answer came distinctly, yet reluctantly:

“No!”

El-Râmi dropped her hands as though he had been stung;--his face was very pale. The monk touched him on the shoulder.

“Why are you so moved?” he asked--“A spirit cannot lie;--an angel cannot flatter. How should she call you friend?--you, who detain her here solely for your own interested purposes?--To you she is a ‘subject’ merely,--no more than the butterfly dissected by the naturalist. The butterfly has hopes, ambitions, loves, delights, innocent wishes, nay, even a religion,--what are all these to the grim spectacled scientist who breaks its delicate wings? The Soul of Lilith, like a climbing flower, strains instinctively upward,--but you (for a certain time only)--according to the natural magnetic laws which compel the stronger to subdue the weaker, have been able to keep this, her ethereal essence, a partial captive under your tyrannical dominance. Yes--I say ‘tyrannical,’--great wisdom should inspire love,--but in you it only inspires despotism. Yet with all your skill and calculation you have strangely overlooked one inevitable result of your great experiment.”

El-Râmi looked up inquiringly, but said nothing.

“How it is that you have not foreseen this thing I cannot imagine”--continued the monk--“The body of Lilith has grown under your very eyes from the child to the woman by the merest material means,--the chemicals which Nature gives us, and the forces which Nature allows us to employ. How then should you deem it possible for the Soul to remain stationary? With every fresh experience its form expands--its desires increase,--its knowledge widens,--and the everlasting necessity of Love compels its life to Love’s primeval source. The Soul of Lilith is awakening to its fullest immortal consciousness,--she realises her connection with the great angelic worlds--her kindredship with those worlds’ inhabitants, and, as she gains this glorious knowledge more certainly, so she gains strength. And this is the result I warn you of--her force will soon baffle yours, and you will have no more influence over her than you have over the highest Archangel in the realms of the Supreme Creator.”

“A woman’s Soul!--only a woman’s soul, remember that!” said El-Râmi dreamily--“How should it baffle mine? Of slighter character--of more sensitive balance--and always prone to yield,--how should it prove so strong? Though, of course, you will tell me that Souls, like Angels, are sexless.”

“I will tell you nothing of the sort”--said the monk quietly. “Because it would not be true. All created things have sex, even the angels. ‘Male and Female created He them’--recollect that,--when it is said God made Man in ‘His Own Image.’”

El-Râmi’s eyes opened wide in astonishment.

“What! Is it possible you would endow God Himself with the Feminine attributes as well as the Masculine?”

“There are two governing forces of the Universe,” replied the monk deliberately--“One, the masculine, is Love,--the other, feminine, is Beauty. These Two, reigning together, are GOD;--just as man and wife are One. From Love and Beauty proceed Law and Order. You cannot away with it--it is so. Love and Beauty produce and reproduce a million forms with more than a million variations--and when God made Man in His Own Image it was as Male and Female. From the very first growths of life in all worlds,--from the small, almost imperceptible beginning of that marvellous evolution which resulted in Humanity,--evolution which to us is calculated to have taken thousands of years, whereas in the eternal countings it has occupied but a few moments, Sex was proclaimed in the lowliest sea-plants, of which the only remains we have are in the Silurian formations,--and was equally maintained in the humblest _lingula_ inhabiting its simple bivalve shell. Sex is proclaimed throughout the Universe with an absolute and unswerving regularity through all grades of nature. Nay, there are even male and female Atmospheres which when combined produce forms of life.”

“You go far,--I should say much too far in your supposed law!” said El-Râmi wonderingly and a little derisively.

“And you, my good friend, stop short,--and oppose yourself against all law, when it threatens to interfere with your work”--retorted the monk--“The proof is, that you are convinced you can keep the Soul of Lilith to wait upon your will at pleasure like another Ariel. Whereas the law is, that at the destined moment she shall be free. Wise Shakespeare can teach you this,--Prospero had to give his ‘fine spirit’ liberty in the end. If you could shut Lilith up in her mortal frame again, to live a mortal life, the case might be different; but that you cannot do, since the mortal frame is too dead to be capable of retaining such a Fire-Essence as hers is now.”

“You think that?” queried El-Râmi,--he spoke mechanically,--his thoughts were travelling elsewhere in a sudden new direction of their own.

The monk regarded him with friendly but always compassionate eyes.

“I not only think it--I know it!” he replied.

El-Râmi met his gaze fixedly.

“You would seem to know most things,”--he observed--“Now in this matter I consider that I am more humble-minded than yourself. For I cannot say I ‘know’ anything,--the whole solar system appears to me to be in a gradually changing condition,--and each day one set of facts is followed by another entirely new set which replace the first and render them useless----”

“There is nothing useless,” interposed the monk--“not even a so-called ‘fact’ disproved. Error leads to the discovery of Truth. And Truth always discloses the one great unalterable fact,--GOD.”

“As I told you, I must have proofs of God”--said El-Râmi with a chill smile--“Proofs that satisfy _me_, personally speaking. At present I believe in Force only.”

“And how is Force generated?” inquired the monk.

“That we shall discover in time. And not only the How, but also the Why. In the meantime we must prove and test all possibilities, both material and spiritual. And as far as such proving goes I think you can scarcely deny that this experiment of mine on the girl Lilith is a wonderful one?”

“I cannot grant you that;”--returned the monk gravely--“Most Eastern magnetists can do what you have done, provided they have the necessary Will. To detach the Soul from the body, and yet keep the body alive, is an operation that has been performed by others and will be performed again,--but to keep Body and Soul struggling against each other in unnatural conflict requires cruelty as well as Will. It is, as I before observed, the vivisection of a butterfly. The scientist does not think himself barbarous--but his barbarity outweighs his science all the same.”

“You mean to say there is nothing surprising in my work?”

“Why should there be?” said the monk curtly--“Barbarism is not wonderful! What is truly a matter for marvel is Yourself. You are the most astonishing example of self-inflicted blindness I have ever known!”

El-Râmi breathed quickly,--he was deeply angered, but he had self-possession enough not to betray it. As he stood, sullenly silent, his guest’s hand fell gently on his shoulder--his guest’s eyes looked earnest love and pity into his own.

“El-Râmi Zarânos,” he said softly--“You know me. You know I would not lie to you. Hear then my words;--As I see a bird on the point of flight, or a flower just ready to break into bloom, even so I see the Soul of Lilith. She is on the verge of the Eternal Light--its rippling wave,--the great sweet wave that lifts us upward,--has already touched her delicate consciousness,--her aerial organism. You--with your brilliant brain, your astonishing grasp and power over material forces--you are on the verge of darkness,--such a gulf of it as cannot be measured--such a depth as cannot be sounded. Why will you fall? Why do you choose Darkness rather than Light?”

“Because my ‘deeds are evil,’ I suppose,” retorted El-Râmi bitterly--“You should finish the text while you are about it. I think you misjudge me,--however, you have not heard all. You consider my labour as vain, and my experiment futile,--but I have some strange results yet to show you in writing. And what I have written I desire to place in your hands that you may take all to the monastery, and keep my discoveries,--if they _are_ discoveries, among the archives. What may seem the wildest notions to the scientists of to-day may prove of practical utility hereafter.”

He paused, and, bending over Lilith, took her hand and called her by name. The reply came rather more quickly than usual.

“I am here!”

“Be here no longer, Lilith”--said El-Râmi, speaking with unusual gentleness,--“Go home to that fair garden you love, on the high hills of the bright world called Alcyone. There rest, and be happy till I summon you to earth again.”

He released her hand,--it fell limply in its usual position on her breast,--and her face became white and rigid as sculptured marble. He watched her lying so for a minute or two, then turning to the monk, observed--

“She has left us at once, as you see. Surely you will own that I do not grudge her her liberty?”

“Her liberty is not complete”--said the monk quietly--“Her happiness therefore is only temporary.”

El-Râmi shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

“What does that matter if, as you declare, her time of captivity is soon to end? According to your prognostications she will ere long set herself free.”

The monk’s fine eyes flashed forth a calm and holy triumph.

“Most assuredly she will!”

El-Râmi looked at him and seemed about to make some angry retort, but, checking himself, he bowed with a kind of mingled submissiveness and irony, saying--

“I will not be so discourteous as to doubt your word! But--I would only remind you that nothing in this world is certain----”

“Except the Law of God!” interrupted the monk with passionate emphasis--“That is immutable,--and against that, El-Râmi Zarânos, you contend in vain! Opposed to that, your strength and power must come to naught,--and all they who wonder at your skill and wisdom shall by and by ask one another the old question--‘_What went ye out for to see?_’ And the answer shall describe your fate--‘_A reed shaken by the wind!_’”

He turned away as he spoke and, without another look at the beautiful Lilith, he left the room. El-Râmi stood irresolute for a moment, thinking deeply,--then, touching the bell which would summon Zaroba back to her usual duty of watching the tranced girl, he swiftly followed his mysterious guest.

XXI.

He found him quietly seated in the study, close beside the window, which he had thrown open for air. The rain had ceased,--a few stars shone out in the misty sky, and there was a fresh smell of earth and grass and flowers, as though all were suddenly growing together by some new impetus.

“‘The winter is past,--the rain is over and gone!--Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away!’” quoted the monk softly, half to himself and half to El-Râmi as he saw the latter enter the room--“Even in this great and densely-peopled city of London, Nature sends her messengers of spring--see here!”

And he held out on his hand a delicate insect with shining iridescent wings that glistened like jewels.

“This creature flew in as I opened the window,” he continued, surveying it tenderly. “What quaint and charming stories of Flower-land it could tell us if we could but understand its language! Of the poppy-palaces, and rose-leaf saloons coloured through by the kindly sun,--of the loves of the ladybirds and the political controversies of the bees! How dare we make a boast of wisdom!--this tiny denizen of air baffles us--it knows more than we do.”

“With regard to the things of its own sphere it knows more, doubtless,” said El-Râmi--“but concerning _our_ part of creation it knows less. These things are equally balanced. You seem to me to be more of a poet than either a devotee or a scientist.”

“Perhaps I am!” and the monk smiled, as he carefully wafted the pretty insect out into the darkness of the night again--“Yet poets are often the best scientists, because they never _know_ they are scientists. They arrive by a sudden intuition at the facts which it takes several Professors Dry-as-Dust years to discover. When once you feel you are a scientist, it is all over with you. You are a clever biped who has got hold of a crumb out of the universal loaf, and for all your days afterwards you are turning that crumb over and over under your analytical lens. But a poet takes up the whole loaf unconsciously, and hands portions of it about at haphazard and with the abstracted behaviour of one in a dream,--a wild and extravagant process,--but then, what would you?--his nature could not do with a crumb. No--I dare not call myself ‘poet’; if I gave myself any title at all, I would say, with all humbleness, that I am a sympathiser.”

“You do not sympathise with _me_,” observed El-Râmi gloomily.

“My friend, at the immediate moment, you do not need my sympathy. You are sufficient for yourself. But, should you ever make a claim upon me, be sure I shall not fail.”

He spoke earnestly and cheerily, and smiled,--but El-Râmi did not return the smile. He was bending over a deep drawer in his writing-table, and after a little search he took out two bulky rolls of manuscript tied and sealed.

“Look there!” he said, indicating the titles with an air of triumph.

The monk obeyed and read aloud:

“‘The Inhabitants of Sirius. Their Laws, Customs and Progress.’ Well?”

“Well!” echoed El-Râmi.--“Is such information, gained from Lilith in her wanderings, of _no_ value?”

The monk made no direct reply, but read the title of the second MS.

“‘The World of Neptune. How it is composed of One Thousand Distinct Nations, united under one reigning Emperor, known at the present era as Ustalvian the Tenth.’ And again I say--well? What of all this, except to hazard the remark that Ustalvian is a great creature, and supports his responsibilities admirably?”

El-Râmi gave a gesture of irritation and impatience.

“Surely it must interest you?” he said.--“Surely you cannot have known these things positively----”

“Stop, stop, my friend!” interposed the monk--“Do _you_ know them _positively_? Do you accept any of Lilith’s news as _positive_? Come,--you are honest--confess you do not! You cannot believe her, though you are puzzled to make out as to where she obtains information which has certainly nothing to do with this world, or any external impression. And that is why she is really a sphinx to you still, in spite of your power over her. As for being interested, of course I am interested. It is impossible not to be interested in everything, even in the development of a grub. But you have not made any discovery that is specially new--to _me_. I have my own messenger!” He raised his eyes one moment with a brief devout glance--then resumed quietly--“There are other ‘detached’ spirits, besides that of your Lilith, who have found their way to some of the planets, and have returned to tell the tale. In one of our monasteries we have a very exact description of Mars obtained in this same way--its landscapes, its cities, its people, its various nations--all very concisely given. These are but the beginnings of discoveries--the feeling for the clue,--the clue itself will be found one day.”

“The clue to what?” demanded El-Râmi. “To the stellar mysteries, or to Life’s mystery?”