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Mystery of a Turkish Bath, The

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<h3>Chapter Fourteen.</h3> <h4>The Dream Interpreted.</h4> For some days no one in the hotel saw the Princess Zairoff. But her influence seemed to have left a distinct impression, judging from the run on Buddhist literature at the different circulating libraries of the town. The “Occult World,” “Isis Unveiled,” and “Esoteric Buddhism” were in great demand; so were various works on Mesmerism, Clairvoyance, and Occult Science. The poet plunged into “Zanoni,” which he had read in the days of his boyhood as one reads a fairy-tale, and he and Mrs Ray Jefferson, being the greatest enthusiasts, held long and learned and quite unintelligible discussions over these mysterious subjects, with a view to being able to hold their own with the beautiful proselytiser when she should deign to come amongst them all once more. The weather had changed, and kept the invalids indoors, so there was plenty of time for “serious reading,” as Mrs Jefferson called it. They took to calling the Princess “the Eastern mystery,” and were quite certain that she must be gifted with abnormal powers. Mrs Jefferson related the story of her appearance in the doorway, her belief in it having long since been substantiated by Colonel Estcourt’s reluctant admission that the Princess was certainly attired in a white silk gown, bordered and trimmed with white fur, when he went up to her rooms that evening. Mrs Masterman alone held out, and scoffed audibly at the mystic literature, and what she called the “insane jabber” that went on in the drawing-room every evening. “Psychic phenomena, indeed!” the worthy lady would snort. “Don’t talk to me about such rubbish! It’s just as bad as the mediums and the slate writers.” “Dear madam,” pleaded the gentle voice of the enamoured poet, “do not, I pray you, confound these great mysteries with the strain of Human Error running through their attempted explanation—an explanation only intended to bring them down to the level of our material understandings. Let me persuade you to read that most exquisite poem ‘The Light of Asia.’” “Light of your grandmother!” exclaimed Mrs Masterman with sublime contempt. “I fear,” lamented the poet, “it never was granted to her. She lived in a benighted age. She had not our privileges.” “And a very good thing too,” said the purple-visaged dowager wrathfully. “Privileges indeed! Fine privileges, if honest, sober-minded Christians are to learn the way to Heaven from heathens and idolaters. You are all just as bad as those people Saint Paul speaks of, who were always running after some new thing. I’m happy to say my Bible and my Church are good enough for me. I don’t want a new religion at my time of life.” “The teachers in the Church are so very frequently our intellectual inferiors,” murmured the poet, “that they only excite commiseration, or amusement.” “Well, I suppose they know their business,” snapped Mrs Masterman, “I’m sure no man would go into the Church if he didn’t feel a call, and the fact of his doing so and taking up that life should be enough to prevent any right-minded person from ridiculing mere human frailties of voice and manner and appearance.” “Unfortunately,” murmured the poet, “I have been at college with several embryo parsons. But to the best of my recollection the only ‘special’ call they had for the office was the call of some earthly relative or friend who had a comfortable living at his disposal. It seems to me—I may be wrong, of course—but it really does seem to me that we have quite reversed the old order of religious ministration. At first every worldly consideration, even the necessaries of life, were given up by those who undertook the office. Now, the office is only undertaken for the worldly considerations, and the necessities of life—” “Oh,” cried Mrs Masterman, losing her temper, which even at the best of times was exceedingly hard to keep. “You go off, young man, to your ‘Lights of Asia,’ and all your other idolatrous rubbish. The truth is this foreign woman has bewitched you all, and will end in making you heathens like herself. Thank goodness I’ve too much sense to listen to her. It’s my belief she’ll turn out a murderess, or a fire worshipper, or something of that sort before we’ve seen the last of her. I don’t like mysterious persons! If she hadn’t had big eyes, and a straight nose, and a figure like those Venuses and creatures who hold the lamps in the corridors, no one here would have troubled their heads about her!” And she swept away contemptuously, leaving the poet utterly aghast at her last indignant speech. He repeated it to Mrs Ray Jefferson, who was reclining in a rocking-chair, endeavouring to comprehend “The Light of Asia.” The endeavour, however, was not very successful, and she hailed the approach of the poet with delight. His account of the conversation filled her with wrath and indignation. The feelings might have been partially due to Mrs Masterman’s remembered snubs on the matter of “feet,” and “suppressed gout,” at the Turkish Bath. They certainly rose strongly to the occasion, and, with the help of sundry powerful Americanisms, gave a very fair display of vituperative eloquence. The poet was more and more convinced that there was only one perfect woman in the world, and that was the beautiful creature whom he had apostrophised in sonnets as:— <blockquote> “Mysterious Mystery, whose bright sad eyes, Wild as the roe, and deep with undreamt dreams.” Etcetera, etcetera. </blockquote> So he listened and sighed, and in a low and plaintive voice, significant of hidden woe and much “soul suffering,” to quote from another effusion, he read to her fragments of the “Light of Asia,” which she could not in the least comprehend, but which she bluntly criticised as “not half bad to listen to if you felt drowsy.” “Oh, but I do wish the Princess would come down,” she said at last in the intervals of a “selection.” “I’ve such hundreds of questions to ask her. Seems to me she dropped the seed in pretty fruitful soil the other night, for we’re all just ‘gone’ on occultism. Only we don’t know anything about it. Ah, there’s Colonel Estcourt, I’ll ask him if it’s possible to have her down this evening. I don’t mind which body she comes in: the Astral or the ordinary. In fact, I think I should prefer the former. Colonel!” she called out, raising her voice. “Come here, I want to speak to you.” She put her request to him as he obeyed her summons, and put it with an earnestness and fervour that showed it was sincere, and not the formula of idle curiosity. “I don’t know,” he said, “if it will be possible, but, if the princess consents, I will arrange that two or three of you shall have an opportunity of witnessing how really marvellous her powers are. She never makes a display or show of them, for reasons which you cannot yet understand, but, if she consents, I should like you, Mrs Jefferson, and my young friend here (smiling at the poet’s excited face), and one or two other people interested in the matter, to come up to her boudoir this evening. I will just send up a note and ask.” “I could just worship you, Colonel,” cried the little American, ecstatically. “It’s real good of you to offer such a glorious treat to us.” “Do not thank me yet,” he said, smiling; “you do not know whether you will be received.” At the same moment there came a sound in the air above their heads—soft, clear, vibrating—like the faint echo of a silver bell. Mrs Jefferson started, the poet turned pale. Colonel Estcourt looked at them gravely. “It is the answer,” he said. “You may come. She will receive us. Who else do you wish to invite?” “Oh, my husband, if I may,” cried Mrs Jefferson, eagerly, “and Diogenes—he’s so solid and sensible. His imagination never plays tricks with him.” “Very well,” said Colonel Estcourt, “bring them also.” <hr /> The Princess Zairoff was seated in her boudoir reading, as the party filed in, headed by Colonel Estcourt. She rose and greeted them with the same sweet and gracious manner that had so charmed Mrs Jefferson. “I know why you are here,” she said, as the little American burst into vivacious explanations. “I am quite ready to do anything Julian wishes. You know—or, perhaps, you do not know—that he trained my clairvoyante faculties long ago. They are natural to me, I suppose; but you do not require to be told that even natural gifts are capable of training and improving to almost any extent.” She turned to Mrs Jefferson. “You have some power,” she said, “you saw me the other night. No one else did.” Mrs Jefferson looked highly gratified. “Oh, Madame Zairoff,” she cried, “I’d give up everything in the world to have your wonderful gifts.” “Even Worth’s gowns?” said the princess, smiling. “What about the pleasant vanities we talked so much about?” “Oh, bother the vanities. I’ve found out life can be much more interesting than when it’s merely frivolous,” said the American, heartily. “Is there anything I could do to become an occultist?” Colonel Estcourt laughed outright. “My dear Mrs Jefferson,” he said, “the life is not by any means easy, or gratifying. I think you had better consider it carefully, and weigh it well in the balance with the ‘creations’ of Worth, and the magnificence of your diamonds, for somehow the two things won’t pull together, and you haven’t even learnt the A B C of occult science yet.” “No,” she said, seating herself, “I suppose not. Well, please begin my lesson.” “This will not be a lesson,” he said, gravely, “only an illustration. May I ask you all to be seated?” They took various chairs and seats, and the princess threw herself on the couch, nestling back among her favourite white bear-skins, with a smile on her lips. Colonel Estcourt removed a rose-shaded lamp from the stand, and placed it behind her, so that the light should not shine directly into her eyes. They were all watching her intently in the full expectation of something to be done or said that was mysterious and awe-inspiring. Colonel Estcourt then seated himself on a chair opposite the couch. For a moment their eyes met and lingered in the gaze, then hers closed softly, and she seemed to sleep as peacefully and gently as a child in its cradle. No one spoke. Suddenly a voice broke the stillness—clear, sweet, and sonorous—the voice of the sleeper, though her lips scarcely moved, nor did the placid expression of her face change. “What you desire to know is the storied wisdom of past ages, the fruits of the deepest and most earnest research of which human minds are capable. These fruits have only been gathered after long and painful study, after severe training of every spiritual faculty, and the repression of all lower material inclinations and desires. There is but one among all who listen to me now, capable of undertaking such study, or undergoing such an ordeal. The day is at hand when he may choose it, if he will. They who bid me speak now, are willing that you should learn some lesson to benefit yourselves, and your fellow men. They say to you, oh Poet, ‘Perfect those gifts of your higher nature—yet be not of them vainglorious, since, humanly speaking, they are not yours, but lent for a purpose, and the brief space of earth-life.’ Look upon every beautiful thought, every gift of expression, as the direction of One who has dowered you with the possibility of opening other eyes to the beauty, and other minds to the understanding of such expression. Remember there is a great truth in your favourite lines that Karma is ‘the total of a soul.’ ‘The things it did, the thoughts it had, the Self it wove, with woof of viewless time, crossed on the warp invisible of acts.’ “There is another listener here—one who has wrestled with the secrets of Nature. To him I say, ‘Be not over vain of the triumph gained by simple accident of discovery. Turn that discovery to better uses than the mere amassing of wealth. Let the poor, the sick, the needy, gain health and happiness from your hands, and let their voices bless you for good wrought amongst them. For nothing is so pitiful and so abhorrent, as the worship of wealth, and the selfishness that eats like a corroding poison into the purer metal of the rich man’s nature. Your wealth will only bring you happiness in so far as you use it to benefit others less fortunate though equally deserving. It is given you as a trial, not as a reward.’—To you, oh Cynic, this message have I also: ‘Your eyes see but through a veil of dulled and vainglorious senses. Some truths you have learned, but in the passage through your mind they take the colour and shape of a distorted and embittered fancy. You have a work to do, and influence to do it; but your will must become humble, and then you will learn the sweets of true knowledge, and be able to disseminate truth and wisdom. Now you absorb it into your own mind, for your own satisfaction, and for the poor triumph of discouraging those of lower mental stature, and of natures lighter and grosser than your own. To the true Prophet and the true Philosopher, he himself is insignificant before the great truths he has learnt, and his personal identity willingly sinks into obscurity, so only that these truths may live.’” For a moment she ceased, and the different faces looked curiously uncomfortable and startled at so keen a vivisection of their inner natures. Mrs Ray Jefferson, however, feeling that she had been left out in the cold, and anxious for a special message to herself, broke the spell of silence. “Have you nothing to say to me, Princess?” she asked beseechingly. Then the beautiful head moved restlessly to and fro, and the face grew less placid and child-like. She began to speak, but now the words came in quick disjointed fragments. “They are standing beside you,” she said. “I must go. You may come with us, but not Julian. Keep Julian away... keep Julian away—” “What does she mean?” cried Mrs Jefferson, turning pale. “And—oh gracious!” she cried to her husband, “look at Colonel Estcourt. Is he going to faint?” All eyes turned on the Colonel. He lay back on his chair white and gasping. “My God,” he cried in a stifled voice. “My power is gone. I can’t hold her. I can’t keep her back.” “She is speaking again,” cried Mrs Jefferson, in low, terrified accents. “Oh, I don’t half like this. I wish we had never come.” Then a great awe and stillness fell upon them, and, despite their terror and their dread, every ear strained to catch the quick disjointed words that fell from those strange lips. “I am there... How still the streets are, and the snow—how fast it falls. How they crowd round the palace gate to-night. Stay the horses, Ivan, I will speak... Do not fear, my friends, your lives are safe. I promise it... What is this? My rooms? How lonely they seem to-night. ‘Alone?’ Yes, I am always alone. No lover’s step has ever echoed through this cloistered silence. Alone and sad. Ah! how I have suffered here... What do they say? It will be over soon, it will be over—soon. One more battle to win. Let me summon all my courage now. I have faced ordeals before. I have forgotten woman’s fears, and laid aside woman’s scruples. Am I not pure? Am I not brave? Yet why do I tremble? One weakness is still unconquered, one human love burns true and deep and steadfast in my heart. I cannot cast it out. I will not; not even at your bidding; not even to make my task easier. “A step in the silence... Who dares to cross my chambers? Courage, my heart. There on the threshold stand my White Guard. Why should I fear? Courage! courage—” Like one carved in stone Julian Estcourt sat and listened. The dumb misery of a terrible expectance held every faculty in its iron grasp. Was his dread to be realised? It seemed so, for all control was gone; a higher power had seized the reins. She had escaped him, and an awful horror was upon him lest he, in his folly and shortsightedness, had assembled these people here only to be witnesses of the degradation of the peerless creature he had so worshipped and so loved. Spell-bound they sat and listened. The rose-light from the lamps falling upon their white, set faces, and the quivering tension of their silent lips. The voice of the sleeper went ruthlessly on. Scene for scene, word for word, Julian Estcourt lived over again through the wild dread and horror of his Dream. Scene for scene, word for word, those wondering startled listeners saw it reproduced, though to them it was scarce intelligible. At last, she reached the point where his endurance had snapped beneath the strain of terror, but now his every force was numbed—his will seemed paralysed. One feeble helpless effort he made to lock those lips into silence, to chain back the self-betrayal of that unconscious speech. But love had made him weak, and passion had stifled the acute, unerring faculties that once had bent her to his will. He was powerless. He could only sit there dumbly—stupidly—listening for what he felt was sure as the death stroke of the headsman to his doomed victim. Again she spoke. “The steps approach—yet what is this? They are no longer on the threshold. I am alone—alone—yet what new power is mine! My brain seems to dilate! Space can scarce confine me! All fear has gone! And it is thus you would have me yield to your brutal force, your drunken, degraded senses! Back, rash intruder, touch me not if you value life!” Then, while still they gazed and listened, the beautiful figure rose slowly from its nest of snowy furs; rose and stood in its wonderful, indolent, voluptuous grace, upright before those dazed and awe-struck eyes. But a change came over the quiet beauty of the face. It seemed as if some hidden flame had sprung to life and flashed and quivered in the wide-opened eyes and convulsed features. They saw a shiver, such as shakes the sea before the blast of the coming tempest, bend and sway the perfect form... Once, twice, her lips opened, but no words came. At last she seemed to force the channels of speech, but the low sweet music of her voice was harsh and jangled with passion. “My answer? Take it, ravisher and murderer of innocence and youth! Die! in your crimes—Die!” She stretched out her arm. There came a hoarse cry, a crash, a heavy fall. Julian Estcourt lay upon the floor, white and senseless as the dead. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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