Back Aa

Mystery of a Turkish Bath, The

Close

<h3>Chapter Two.</h3> <h4>The Second Room.</h4> The second room differed in no way from the first, except in the matter of heat. The beautiful stranger floated in—her face all the lovelier for the faint rosy flush that glowed through the clear skin. If Mrs Ray Jefferson’s admiration was envious, at least it was genuine. She had never really believed in perfect feminine beauty before—beauty that shone supreme without the aid of dress and frippery—but here it was—a glowing and palpable fact. The simple white drapery with its border of scarlet floated with the grace of its own perfect simplicity around that perfect form, and never was royal mantle more splendid than the rippling hair that crowned her head and fell in its luxuriance of curls and waves to her feet. As they again seated themselves side by side, Mrs Jefferson remembered that she was not yet acquainted with the nationality of the stranger. She hastened to repair the error of such ignorance. “You speak English wonderfully for a foreigner,” she said; “it would puzzle anyone to make out where you were raised—Russian, I surmise?” “No,” said the stranger, quietly, “though I have lived there a great deal. It was my husband’s country.” Mrs Jefferson looked radiant. She was married, then. That was something to have learnt. “Was,”—she said quickly, “Is he not living then?” “No.” The beautiful face grew a shade paler. “I would rather not talk about it,” she said. “His death was very tragic and terrible.” “I’m sorry,” said the little American, with ready contrition; “don’t think I’m curious,” she added, suddenly, “but one doesn’t see a woman like you every day. I surmise you’ll make a sensation in the hotel.” “I have my own private rooms here,” was the quiet response. “I shall not mix with the other visitors.” “Oh,” cried Mrs Jefferson, her face clouding, “I call that cruel. There are really some very good people here—titles, if you like them—money, if you care for that—one or two geniuses—a musician and a poet who are working for a future generation, because they can’t get appreciated here—and the usual crowd of mediocrities. Oh, you really must come to our evenings; they’d amuse you immensely. We’re quite dependent on ourselves for society. This is the dullest of dull holes, still we manage to get a bit spry not and then. Now, you—why, if you’d only show yourself to be looked at, you’d be doing the whole hotel a good turn.” The stranger shook her head. “Society never amuses me,” she said. “It has nothing to offer that can rival the charms of books, art, and solitude. I possess all three.” Mrs Jefferson opened her eyes wide. “The first and the last,” she said, “are comprehensible as travelling companions, but what about the middle one?” “In my train I have a blind musician, whose equal I have never met, and a boy sculptor whose genius will one day astonish the world. For myself, I paint and I write, and I have a store of books that will outlast the longest limit of companionship. Can you tell me what better things the world will give?” Mrs Ray Jefferson murmured something vaguely about amusement and distraction. She was growing more and more perplexed about this beautiful Mystery. Anyone who travelled about with a train of attendants must surely be a princess at the very least. “Amusement!”—the stranger smiled. “Does society ever really give us that? We have to smile when we are bored—to tell polite falsehoods every hour—to eat and drink when we would rather fast—to awake all sorts of evil passions in other people’s minds if we are better-looking or better dressed, or more admired; and have them aroused in our own if we are not? Does a ball amuse? Does a dinner-party? Does even a comedy, after the first quarter of an hour? I can answer for myself in the negative, at all events.” “Gracious!” exclaimed Mrs Jefferson wonderingly. “You must be a strange person, and you look so young. Why, I should have thought you were just the age for society? Don’t you care to be admired?” “Not in the least. I have learnt the value of men’s passions. A quiet life is more wholesome and infinitely more contenting than anything society can offer.” “For a time, perhaps; but it would become dull and monotonous, I should think.” “Never, if you have the mind to appreciate it. The companionship I value will always come to me. I do not need to seek it in the world.” “You are fortunate,” said Mrs Jefferson, somewhat sarcastically. “Ordinary mortals have to take what they can get. Still, I suppose such things are only a matter of personal disposition. If one has the mood for enjoyment, one can find it anywhere; if not—well, a funeral or a comedy would be equally amusing.” “I suppose,” said the stranger, quietly, “you have the mood.” “Well, I’m blessed with a pretty fair capacity for enjoying all that comes in my way,” said the little American, frankly. “I like studying human nature, even though I’m not clever enough to describe it. It’s like the critics, you know, who find it so powerful easy to cut up a book, yet couldn’t write one themselves to save their lives. Phew–ew! how hot it is here! How do you contrive to look so cool?” “I can stand a great deal of heat,” answered the other, tranquilly. “I have Eastern blood in my veins, on my mother’s side. Is that the hottest room?” she added, nodding in the direction of the third doorway. “Yes. I suppose you won’t go there? I never dare put my nose inside. It’s enough to scorch the skin off you.” “I don’t suppose it can be hotter than the rooms in the East,” answered the stranger, as she rose and moved towards it. She stood for a moment looking in, then turned back and smiled at her late companion. “Oh, I can bear it,” she said, and disappeared from sight. The little American pouted and looked disturbed. “What a shame! I had ever so many more things to ask her,” she said, “and to think, after all, I don’t know her name, or even to what country she belongs, and I did so want the whole story pat for the table d’hôte dinner to-night... Ready to be shampooed?—oh, yes, Morrison; I’m just about ‘done through;’ I’m glad you can take me first.” She rose abruptly and followed the attendant past the flushed and perspiring groups who were still comparing notes as to different ailments and degrees of moisture, occasionally holding out their arms for mutual inspection. “I wonder,” she said to herself, “how that one woman manages to look so different. Why, we get uglier and uglier, and she only more and more beautiful. Perhaps she’s a Rosicrucian!” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2