Part 2 (2/2)

When I looked at my uncle the sad expression on his face had given way to a smile of infinite satisfaction.

”He is pleased--thank G.o.d!” said my uncle, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, sinking into a chair.

I made no answer.

”It was my son,” he continued, with animation. ”Rayel--that was the name she gave him. Rayel, the wonderful. He will love you as he loves me.

Come,” said he, rising, ”the night is nearly gone.”

Taking a lamp from the table, he beckoned me to follow him. Silently we proceeded through a narrow hallway and up one flight of stairs to a s.p.a.cious bedroom which had seemingly been prepared for my use. A candle was burning dimly on a large dressing-case, and by its flickering light, as soon as my uncle had gone, I looked about me and tried to think with calmness on the experience I had pa.s.sed through. Bolting the door securely, I threw open one of the window blinds. To my surprise the first light of dawn was visible in the sky. My room was in the rear of the house. Between me and the high wall was a dense tangle of underbrush, barely visible in the dim light. Hastily undressing, I went to bed without further delay, and was soon in deep sleep. When I awoke it was near midday. Dressing as quickly as possible, I proceeded at once to the library, where my uncle sat waiting for me. He conducted me to the breakfast room--a well-lighted and cheerful apartment--where he served me with his own hands.

”You shall stay, sir--you shall stay,” said he, laying his hand on my shoulder as he sat down beside me, with a smiling face. ”Rayel loves you. He hopes you will stay. He thinks G.o.d sent you to us.”

”I am glad, for I wish to stay,” I said.

”Good!” he exclaimed, in a long whisper. ”You have brought the world to him. Already he has seen it in your eyes. But it is good!”

While I ate he asked me questions touching the changes in our family since he left England.

I told him of my life at home after my father's death; of my hard lot in Liverpool, and of the midnight interviews with his messenger and with Mr. Earl. He listened to me with grave and attentive interest, but stopped me before I had finished, with an impatient gesture.

”Speak out! they meant--they meant to kill you, didn't they?”

I stared at him in amazement, while ideas that were new to me flocked into the empyrean of thought like black birds of prey. Oh, no; I had never suspected that! I would never before have permitted such a hideous suspicion to enter my mind. Was it possible that Mr. Earl had sent me away from England in order to save my life? My hands began to tremble, and I felt my face turning red and pale under the searching eyes of my uncle.

”My boy,” said he, ”if all the murders were done that men conceive, the devil would live alone on earth. We shall know some time--I tell you we shall know! Let us go to Rayel,” he said, rising and leading the way.

The interview had greatly excited him, and his speech seemed even more halting and labored than before. Many of his words were misp.r.o.nounced and separated by long pauses; but his manner was marvelously expressive, and often a peculiar turn of the eye or movement of the hand made his meaning clear when I was in doubt about his words.

I followed him through a long gymnasium and out upon a gra.s.sy courtyard extending along the rear of the grounds parallel with the river wall for a hundred yards or more, and adorned with beds of flowers. It was completely shut off from the eye of the outside world by a thick grove and an impenetrable growth of underbrush that reached beyond the lowest branches of the trees. Nothing but the blue sky, in which the sun was on its downward course, the house, and the walls of living green, were visible. Out of this Eden-like spot we pa.s.sed into another wing of the building with large windows looking out upon it. Rayel met us at the door, dressed in a black robe of silk that hung gracefully from his shoulders. Again he took my hand and kissed it, then looked into my eyes with the same expression of curious interest upon his face that I had noted before. Still holding my hand, he led me across the room. For the first time I noticed that its walls were covered with pictures, unframed, and that an easel stood in the light of each window. We stopped before one of them. On a large canvas that was stretched across it I saw a likeness of myself. The eyes wore a haggard look which seemed unnatural. But there was something strangely real about it, in spite of that.

”Wonderful!” said I.

Rayel started at the sound of my voice, and glanced from one to the other with a puzzled, inquiring look. Turning to his father, he uttered some strange monosyllable in a deep voice. Then he took my hand and walked back and forth across the room with me, smiling in great delight.

I was fascinated by one of the pictures which showed a great gleaming eye with a suggestion of lightning in its fiery depths, as if taken at the keenest flash of fury. To intensify its fierceness a human hand was raised in front of it so as to throw a dark shadow across the canvas.

”It is the lion's eye,” said my uncle, who was standing near me.

There were other paintings--many of them equally strange and wonderful--hanging on the walls, some of which contained material he could not have derived from direct observation. It was easy to discern in his work the fragments of nature that came within the limited command of his own eyes--the falling snow, the changing phases of the sky and of vegetation--for they were presented with a stronger and more vivid touch. Until the fading twilight blended all color into gloom I pa.s.sed from one canvas to another along the wall in silence, oblivious of all save the presence of Rayel, who followed close at my elbow, evidently enjoying my admiration of his work. When I had finished looking at the paintings I turned for some sign to indicate his further pleasure, and discovered that he was gone. My uncle was standing near me.

”It is late,” said he.

We returned at once across the yard to my uncle's retreat among his books and papers. Lighting the lamps he sat down beside me.

”The power of speech is returning,” said he. ”I can talk more easily.”

”Did I not hear you speak to your son?” I asked.

”Yes,” he answered. ”Long ago difficulties arose. Sometimes he could not command my thoughts, nor I his. I had known fifty years of life; he had not--hence an inequality. My physical organism had been neglected. It was an imperfect agent of the mind. Many of my faculties were lost.

These circ.u.mstances stood between us like barriers. It was the beginning of each communication that troubled us, when our minds were working in different channels. Something was needed for a cue--a starting-point.

Ten pregnant words of Sanscrit were all we needed. It was easy then.”

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