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Mystery of a Turkish Bath, The

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<h3>Chapter Ten.</h3> <h4>Premonition.</h4> When the Princess Zairoff was in the privacy of her own boudoir, she turned to Colonel Estcourt in a sudden appeal: “Why did you make me go, Julian?” she said. “I knew I should only shock them. I can’t ever put up with that languid ignorant curiosity.” “I think it will do them good to be shocked,” he said, with a smile. “Give them something to think of beside their ailments. And I had a special reason,” he went on with a deeper note of tenderness in his voice—“I do not wish you to shut yourself away as you have been doing. You will grow morbid and dissatisfied with life. I want you to take a healthy interest in it once again.” She had thrown herself on a low cushioned lounge before the bright wood fire. He took a chair beside her. She seemed to lapse into profound thought, and he watched her beautiful grave face with adoring eyes. “I wish,” she said suddenly, “one could live a free, simple, uncriticised life. Do you remember the old days among the wild hills? The cool grey dawns... the sharp sweet air... the long gallops over the rough roads by the rice fields... the strange temples... the songs of the snake-charmers? Ah, we were happy then, Julian, happier than we ever realised.” “May we not be still happier?” he said earnestly. “Life has a graver and a wider meaning, it is true, but that should only give us a deeper power of appreciation.” A strange smile touched her lips; a smile of mystery, and of dreamy, unfathomable regret. “We shall never be happier,” she said, “than we were then. I have always felt that... yes, I know what you would ask. Did I love you then? Yes, Julian, with all my heart and soul... and yet—and yet—I could have been nothing more to you than a sister, a friend. There was a purpose in my marriage.” She ceased speaking. For a moment her eyes closed, her head sank back wearily on the soft cushions. Presently she opened them, and met his anxious gaze. “No, I did not faint,” she said. “But, why I know not, that sense of blankness and dizziness always comes over me when I speak on that subject. There is something I wish, yet dread, to remember—but, just as I am on the point of grasping it, there is a blank.” “Do not speak of that time,” he said passionately. “I hate to think you were the wife of that man—it was sacrilege... you—my pure-souled goddess.” “He was a bad man,” she said. “But, up to a certain point, I could always escape and defy him. He was a coward at heart, and he was afraid of me.” Then suddenly she stretched out her arm and touched his shoulder with a timid, caressing movement. “You need not be jealous of those years, my beloved,” she said softly. “No man would, who knew them and valued them for what they were to me.” He sank on his knees, and folded his arms about her. “Ah, queen of mine,” he said, “it is only natural that I should be jealous of the lightest touch, or look, or word, that were once another’s privilege. Therein lies the only sting in my happiness—” “Does not that prove it is of earth—earthly?” she said, as her deep mournful eyes looked back to his own. “I believe, Julian, it would be better, even now, if we were to part. I have always that dread upon my soul, that I am destined to bring you suffering—misfortune—” “Bring me what you will,” he interrupted passionately, “but do not speak of parting! Rather suffering and trial at your hands, oh, my life’s love, than the greatest peace and prosperity from any other woman’s!” “I wish you loved me less,” she said sadly. “But I am not forbidden to accept your love now; only, I have warned you, do not forget. And now—” she added suddenly: “Put me to sleep... it is so long, so long, since I have known real rest, such as you used to give me.” He rose slowly and stood beside her, as she nestled back amidst her cushions. A strange calm and chill seemed to fold him in its peace, and the throbbing fires of pain and longing died slowly out of vein and pulse. He laid one hand gently on the beautiful white brow; his eyes met hers, and the glance seemed like a command. The lids drooped, the long, soft lashes fell like a fringe on the delicate, flushed cheek. One long, sobbing breath left her lips; then a beautiful serenity and calm seemed to enfold her. Like a statue, she lay there, motionless, stirless; lifeless, one would have thought, save for the faint regular breath that stole forth from the parted lips. Julian Estcourt stood for a moment in perfect silence by her side. Then he moved away, and, drawing aside the portières which separated the boudoir from the adjoining room, he called softly to her maid. “Felicie,” he said, “your mistress will sleep for two hours; see that she is not disturbed.” <hr /> Once out in the cool night-air, Julian Estcourt gave the rein to thought and memory. The march of events had been rapid. It seemed difficult to realise that he really stood in the light of an accepted lover to the woman who, but the previous day, he deemed at the other end of the world... difficult to realise that she loved him—and had loved him through all the blank, desolate years of absence and suffering they had both endured. Her warning came ever and again like a living voice across the fevered train of his thoughts. But he was no whit more inclined to listen to it here, in the calmness and soberness of solitude, than when her own lips had spoken it, and the charm of her own presence had swept away prudence and self-restraint. “It may not be wise,” he said in his heart, “but I have not the strength to deny myself the only happiness I have ever pictured as possible. It is not as if I had frittered away my life on other women—on mere sensual pleasures. From my boyhood up to the present hour her power has been the same—her charm for me the same, I love her. That says all, and yet not half enough. Human nature is weak. I had dreamt of another life—of a higher and nobler field of duty, apart from the selfish joys that are inseparable from mere human ties—but I can yield that dream up without a regret. I can turn back from the threshold I have crossed... May there not be a purpose in our meeting like this—in the prospect of our union? If the time has come to teach, and to speak out boldly what has long been veiled in mysticism and doubt, where could a teacher so eloquent be found, or one whose natural gifts and loveliness could make those teachings of so much weight? and I—I, too, can help and protect her. Our souls need not descend from the spiritual level they have attained—they may meet and touch, and yet expand in the duality of perfect love and perfect comprehension. It is a glorious thought,” and he lifted his eyes to the starry heights, that to him held all the mystery of peopled worlds—and were no mere pin-pricks of light, created to illuminate one. “A beautiful thought—God grant it may be realised!” But even as his eyes rested on the solemn splendour of the heavens—even as the human passions of the senses grew stilled beneath the loftier aspirations of the soul—even as that involuntary prayer sprang from heart to lips, some inner consciousness whispered like a warning voice—“it cannot be.” He started as if that sound were audible. A cold and sudden terror swept over his body like a chilling wind. “Bah,” he cried. “What a nervous fool I am! Is this all my love has done for me—made me like a frightened child, starting at shadows?” He turned abruptly, and went within to seek his own room. It was just midnight. Lights were being extinguished in the public rooms and corridors—silence and sleep were settling down upon the vast building. Colonel Estcourt exchanged his evening clothes for the comfort of dressing-gown and slippers, and then threw himself into an easy chair before the fire which was blazing brightly and cheerfully in the grate. It was the conventional hotel bedroom. A dressing-table stood in the window; the bed, curtained and draped, looked inviting in its corner. A lamp stood on a small table littered with books and papers; an array of pipes and cigar-holders were strewn carelessly on the marble mantelpiece. A sense of brightness and commonplace comfort permeated the atmosphere, and were sensibly soothing after the chill of the cool December night. He took a cigar from his case and lit it, and threw himself back and smoked at his ease. As he did so, he heard a clock in the distance strike the quarter after midnight; mechanically he counted the strokes. “She will wake now,” he said, half aloud. The sound of his voice startled himself in the stillness of the room. As its echoes died away he glanced nervously round. Then his face paled to the hues of death, his eyes dilated. Midway in the room a veiled misty figure seemed to float—transparent and yet distinct—and he saw its arm stretched out towards himself with a sudden impressive gesture. He tossed the cigar into the grate, then bent his head as if in submission. “Is it the summons—at last?” he said, faintly. If answer there was, it was audible only to himself. To anyone looking on, it only seemed as if a sudden dreamy lassitude had overtaken him; his head sank back against the chair, his eyes closed, his face grew calm and peaceful, and, like a tired child, he fell asleep. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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