Part 16 (1/2)
She rose quickly, and with a quiet dignity held out her hand.
”No, Monsieur Gervase,” she said, ”it is not so. I am not one of those women who take every little idle word said by men in jest au grand serieux! You have always been a kind and courteous friend, and if you ever fancied you had a warmer feeling for me, as you say, I am sure you were mistaken. We often delude ourselves in these matters. I wish, for your sake, I could think the Princess Ziska worthy of the love she so readily inspires. But,--I cannot! My brother's infatuation for her is to me terrible. I feel it will break his heart,--and mine!” A little half sob caught her breath and interrupted her; she paused, but presently went on with an effort at calmness: ”You talk of our leaving Egypt; how I wish that were possible! But I spoke to Denzil about it on the night of the ball, and he was furious with me for the mere suggestion. It seems like an evil fate.”
”It IS an evil fate,” said Gervase gloomily. ”Enfin, my dear Helen, we cannot escape from it,--at least, _I_ cannot. But I never was intended for good things, not even for a lasting love. A lasting love I feel would bore me. You look amazed; you believe in lasting love? So do many sweet women. But do you know what symbol I, as an artist, would employ were I asked to give my idea of Love on my canvas?”
Helen smiled sadly and shook her head.
”I would paint a glowing flame,” said Gervase dreamily. ”A flame leaping up from the pit of h.e.l.l to the height of heaven, springing in darkness, lost in light; and flying into the centre of that flame should be a white moth--a blind, soft, mad thing with beating, tremulous wings,--that should be Love! Whirled into the very heart of the ravening fire,--crushed, shrivelled out of existence in one wild, rus.h.i.+ng rapture--that is what Love must be to me! One cannot prolong pa.s.sion over fifty years, more or less, of commonplace routine, as marriage would have us do. The very notion is absurd. Love is like a choice wine of exquisite bouquet and intoxicating flavor; it is the most maddening draught in the world, but you cannot drink it every day.
No, my dear Helen; I am not made for a quiet life,--nor for a long one, I fancy.”
His voice unconsciously sank into a melancholy tone, and for one moment Helen's composure nearly gave way. She loved him as true women love, with that sublime self-sacrifice which only desires the happiness of the thing beloved; yet a kind of insensate rage stirred for once in her gentle soul to think that the mere sight of a strange woman with dark eyes,--a woman whom no one knew anything about, and who was by some people deemed a mere adventuress,--should have so overwhelmed this man whose genius she had deemed superior to fleeting impressions.
Controlling the tears that rose to her eyes and threatened to fall, she said gently,
”Good-bye, Monsieur Gervase!”
He started as from a reverie.
”Good-bye, Helen! Some day you will think kindly of me again?”
”I think kindly of you now,” she answered tremulously; then, not trusting herself to say any more, she turned swiftly and left him.
”The flame and the moth!” he mused, watching her slight figure till it had disappeared. ”Yes, it is the only fitting symbol. Love must be always so. Sudden, impetuous, ungovernable, and then--the end! To stretch out the divine pa.s.sion over life-long breakfasts and dinners!
It would be intolerable to me. Lord Fulkeward could do that sort of thing; his chest is narrow, and his sentiments are as limited as his chest. He would duly kiss his wife every morning and evening, and he would not a.n.a.lyze the fact that no special thrill of joy stirred in him at the action. What should he do with thrills of joy--this poor Fulkeward? And yet it is likely he will marry Helen. Or will it be the Courtney animal,--the type of man whose one idea is 'to arise, kill, and eat?' ”Ah, well!” and he sighed. ”She is not for me, this maiden grace of womanhood. If I married her, I should make her miserable. I am made for pa.s.sion, not for peace.”
He started as he heard a step behind him, and turning, saw Dr. Dean.
The worthy little savant looked worried and preoccupied.
”I have had a letter from the Princess Ziska,” he said, without any preliminary. ”She has gone to secures rooms at the Mena House Hotel, which is situated close to the Pyramids. She regrets she cannot enter into the idea of taking a trip up the Nile. She has no time, she says, as she is soon leaving Cairo. But she suggests that we should make up a party for the Mena House while she is staying there, as she can, so she tells me, make the Pyramids much more interesting for us by her intimate knowledge of them. Now, to me this is a very tempting offer, but I should not care to go alone.”
”The Murrays will go, I am sure,” murmured Gervase lazily. ”At any rate, Denzil will.”
The Doctor looked at him narrowly.
”If Denzil goes, so will you go,” he said. ”Thus there are two already booked for company. And I fancy the Fulkewards might like the idea.”
”The Princess is leaving Cairo?” queried Gervase presently, as though it were an after thought.
”So she informs me in her letter. The party which is to come off on Wednesday night is her last reception.”
Gervase was silent a moment. Then he said:
”Have you told Denzil?”
”Not yet.”
”Better do so then,” and Gervase glanced up at the sky, now glowing red with a fiery sunset. ”He wants to propose, you know.”
”Good G.o.d!” cried the Doctor, sharply, ”If he proposes to that woman.