Part 22 (1/2)
”Tell me, have you won or lost?”
”Lost!” replied Denzil, fiercely, through his set teeth. ”It is your turn now! But, if you win, as sure as there is a G.o.d above us, I will kill you!”
”SOIT! But not till I am ready for killing! AFTER TO-MORROW NIGHT I shall be at your service, not till then!”
And smiling coldly, his dark face looking singularly pale and stern in the moonlight, Gervase turned away, and, walking with his usual light, swift, yet leisurely tread, entered the Princess's apartment by the French window which was still open, and from which the sound of sweet music came floating deliciously on the air as he disappeared.
CHAPTER XIV.
In a half-reclining att.i.tude of indolently graceful ease, the Princess Ziska watched from beneath the slumbrous shadow of her long-fringed eyelids the approach of her now scarcely-to-be controlled lover. He came towards her with a certain impetuosity of movement which was so far removed from ordinary conventionality as to be wholly admirable from the purely picturesque point of view, despite the fact that it expressed more pa.s.sion and impatience than were in keeping with nineteenth-century customs and manners. He had almost reached her side before he became aware that there were two other women in the room besides the Princess,--silent, veiled figures that sat, or rather crouched, on the floor, holding quaintly carved and inlaid musical instruments of some antique date in their hands, the only sign of life about them being their large, dark, glistening almond-shaped eyes, which were every now and then raised and fixed on Gervase with an intense and searching look of inquiry. Strangely embarra.s.sed by their glances, he addressed the Princess in a low tone:
”Will you not send away your women?”
She smiled.
”Yes, presently; if you wish it, I will. But you must hear some music first. Sit down there,” and she pointed with her small jewelled hand to a low chair near her own. ”My lutist shall sing you something,--in English, of course!--for all the world is being Anglicized by degrees, and there will soon be no separate nations left. Something, too, of romantic southern pa.s.sion is being gradually grafted on to English sentiment, so that English songs are not so stupid as they were once. I translated some stanzas from one of the old Egyptian poets into English the other day, perhaps you will like them. Myrmentis, sing us the 'Song of Darkness.'”
An odd sensation of familiarity with the name of ”Myrmentis” startled Gervase as he heard it p.r.o.nounced, and he looked at the girl who was so called in a kind of dread. But she did not meet his questioning regard,--she was already bending over her lute and tuning its strings, while her companion likewise prepared to accompany her on a similar though larger instrument, and in an-other moment her voice, full and rich, with a sobbing pa.s.sion in it which thrilled him to the inmost soul, rang out on the warm silence:
In the darkness what deeds are done!
What wild words spoken!
What joys are tasted, what pa.s.sion wasted!
What hearts are broken!
Not a glimpse of the moon shall s.h.i.+ne, Not a star shall mark The pa.s.sing of night,--or shed its light On my Dream of the Dark!
On the scented and slumbrous air, Strange thoughts are thronging; And a blind desire more fierce than fire Fills the soul with longing; Through the silence heavy and sweet Comes the panting breath Of a lover unseen from the Might-Have-Been, Whose loving is Death!
In the darkness a deed was done, A wild word spoken!
A joy was tasted,--a pa.s.sion wasted,-- A heart was broken!
Not a glimpse of the moon shall s.h.i.+ne, Not a star shall mark The pa.s.sing of night,--or shed its light On my Dream of the Dark!
The song died away in a shuddering echo, and before Gervase had time to raise his eyes from their brooding study of the floor the singer and her companion had noiselessly disappeared, and he was left alone with the Princess Ziska. He drew along breath, and turning fully round in his chair, looked at her steadily. There was a faint smile on her lips--a smile of mingled mockery and triumph,--her beautiful witch-like eyes glittered. Leaning towards her, he grasped her hands suddenly in his own.
”Now,” he whispered, ”shall I speak or be silent?”
”Whichever you please,” she responded composedly, still smiling.
”Speech or silence rest equally with yourself. I compel neither.”
”That is false!” he said pa.s.sionately. ”You do compel! Your eyes drag my very soul out of me--your touch drives me into frenzy! You temptress! You force me to speak, though you know already what I have to say! That I love you, love you! And that you love me! That your whole life leaps to mine as mine to yours! You know all this; if I were stricken dumb, you could read it in my face, but you will have it spoken--you will extort from me the whole secret of my madness!--yes, for you to take a cruel joy in knowing that I AM mad--mad for the love of you! And you cannot be too often or too thoroughly a.s.sured that your own pa.s.sion finds its reflex in me!”
He paused, abruptly checked in his wild words by the sound of her low, sweet, chill laughter. She withdrew her hands from his burning grasp.
”My dear friend,” she said lightly, ”you really have a very excellent opinion of yourself--excuse me for saying so! 'My own pa.s.sion!' Do you actually suppose I have a 'pa.s.sion' for you?” And rising from her chair, she drew up her slim supple figure to its full height and looked at him with an amused and airy scorn. ”You are totally mistaken! No one man living can move me to love; I know all men too well! Their natures are uniformly composed of the same mixture of cruelty, l.u.s.t and selfishness; and forever and forever, through all the ages of the world, they use the greater part of their intellectual abilities in devising new ways to condone and conceal their vices. You call me 'temptress';--why? The temptation, if any there be, emanates from yourself and your own unbridled desires; I do nothing. I am made as I am made; if my face or my form seems fair in your eyes, this is not my fault. Your glance lights on me, as the hawk's lights on coveted prey; but think you the prey loves the hawk in response? It is the mistake all men make with all women,--to judge them always as being of the same base material as themselves. Some women there are who shame their womanhood; but the majority, as a rule, preserve their self-respect till taught by men to lose it.”
Gervase sprang up and faced her, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng dangerously.
”Do not make any pretence with me!” he said half angrily. ”Never tell me you cannot love! ...”