Ardath - Marie Corelli (love story novels in english .txt) 📗

two pavilions, she paused…still regarding him steadfastly. An evil smile curved her lips, . . a smile of cold menace and derisive scorn, . . the iris-colored jewel on her breast darted forth vivid flashes of azure, and green and gray, . . the snakes in her hair seemed to rise and hiss at him, . . and then,—

with an awful unspoken threat written resolvedly on every line of her fair features, . . she let the gold draperies fall softly,—and so disappeared, . . leaving him alone with Sahluma! He stood for a moment half amazed, half perplexed,—then, drawing a deep breath, he pushed the clustering hair off his forehead with an unconscious gesture of relief. She was gone! … and he felt as though he had gained a victory over something, though he knew not what. The cold air from the lake blew refreshingly on his heated brow, . . and a thousand odors from orange-flowers and jessamine floated caressingly about him. The night was very still,—and approaching the opening of the tent, he looked out. There, in the soft sky gloom, moved the majestic procession of the Undiscovered Worlds seeming to be no more than bright dots on the measureless expanse of pure ether, . . there, low on the horizon, the yellow moon swooned languidly downwards in a bed of fleecy cloud,—the drowsy chirrup of a dreaming bird came softly now and again from the deep-branched shadows of the heavy foliage,—and the lilies on the surface of the lake nodded mysteriously among the slow ripples, like wise, white elves whispering to one another some secret of fairyland. And Sahluma still slept, . . and still that puzzled and weary frown darkened the fairness of his broad brow, . . and, coming back to his side, Theos stood watching him with a yearning and sorrowful wistfulness. Gathering up the jewels that had fallen out of his dress, he replaced them one by one,—and strove to rearrange the tossed and tumbled garb as best he might. While he was thus occupied his hand happened to touch the tablet that hung by a silver chain from the Laureate’s belt,—he glanced at it, . . it was covered with fine writing, and turning it more toward the light, he soon made out four stanzas, perfectly rhymed and smoothly flowing as a well-modulated harmony. He read them slowly with a faint smile,—he recognized them as HIS OWN!—they were part of a poem he had long ago begun, yet have never finished! And now Sahluma had the same idea! … moreover he had chosen the same rhythm, the same words! … well! … after all, what did it matter? Nothing, he felt, so far as he was concerned,—he had ceased to care for his own personality or interests,—Sahluma had become dearer to him than himself!

 

His immediate anxiety was centered in the question of how to rouse his friend from the torpor in which he lay, and get him out of this voluptuous garden of delights, before any lurking danger could overtake him. Full of this intention, he presently ventured to draw aside the curtain that concealed Lysia’s pavilion, . . and looking in, he saw to his great relief, that she was no longer there. Her couch of crushed roses scented the place with heavy fragrance, and the ruby lamp was still burning, . . but she herself had departed. Now was the time for escape!—thought Theos—now,—

while she was absent,—now, if Sahluma could be persuaded to come away, he might reach his own palace in safety, and once there, he could be warned of the death that threatened him through the treachery of the woman he loved. But would he believe in, or accept, the warning? At any rate some effort must be made to rescue him, and Theos, without more ado, bent above him and called aloud:

 

“Sahluma! … Wake! Sahluma!”

 

CHAPTER XX.

 

THE PASSAGE OF THE TOMBS.

 

Sahluma stirred uneasily and smiled in his sleep.

 

“More wine!” he muttered thickly—“More, . . more I say! What! wilt thou stint the generous juice that warms my soul to song? Pour, . .

pour out lavishly! I will mix the honey of thy luscious lips with the crimson bubbles on this goblet’s brim, and the taste thereof shall be as nectar dropped from paradise! Nay, nay! I will drink to none but Myself,—to the immortal bard Sahluma,—Poet of poets,—named first and greatest on the scroll of Fame! … aye, ‘tis a worthy toast and merits a deeper draught of mellow vintage!

Fill…fill again!—the world is but the drunken dream of a God Poet and we but the mad revellers of a shadow day! ‘Twill pass—

‘twill pass, . . let us enjoy ere all is done,—drown thought in wine, and love, and music, . . wine and music…”

 

His voice broke in a short, smothered sigh,—Theos surveyed him with mingled impatience, pity, and something of repulsion, and there was a warm touch of indignant remonstrance in his tone when he called again:

 

“Sahluma! Rouse thee, man, for very shame’s sake! Art thou dead to the honor of thy calling, that thou dost wilfully consent to be the victim of wine-bibbing and debauchery? O thou frail soul! how hast thou quenched the heavenly essence within thee! … why wilt thou be thus self-disgraced and all inglorious? Sahluma! Sahluma!”—and he shook him violently by the arm—“Up,—up, thou truant to the faith of Art! I will not let thee drowse the hours away in such unseemliness, . . wake! for the night is almost past,—

the morning is at hand, and danger threatens thee,—wouldst thou be found here drunk at sunrise?”

 

This time Sahluma was thoroughly disturbed, and with a half uttered oath he sat up, pushed his tumbled hair from his brows, and stared at his companion in blinking, sleepy wonderment.

 

“Now, by my soul! … thou art a most unmannerly ruffian!” he said pettishly, yet with a vacant smile,—“what question didst thou bawl unmusically in mine ear? Will I be drunk at sunrise? Aye! …

and at sunset too, Sir Malapert, if that will satisfy thee! Hast thou been grudged sufficient wine that thou dost envy me my slumber? What dost thou here? … where hast thou been?”.. and, becoming more conscious of his surroundings he suddenly stood up, and catching hold of Theos to support himself, gazed upon him suspiciously with very dim and bloodshot eyes … “Art thou fresh from the arms of the ravishing Nelida? … is she not fair? a choice morsel for a lover’s banquet? … Doth she not dance a madness into the veins? … aye, aye!—she was reserved for thee, my jolly roysterer! but thou art not the first nor wilt thou be the last that hath revelled in her store of charms! No matter!”—

and he laughed foolishly … “Better a wild dancer than a tame prude!” Here he looked about him in confused bewilderment.. “Where is Lysia? Was she not here a moment since? …” and he staggered toward the neighboring pavilion, and dashed the dividing curtain aside … “Lysia! … Lysia! …” he shouted noisily,—then, receiving no answer, he flung himself down on the vacant couch of roses, and gathering up a handful of the crumpled flowers, kissed them passionately,—“The witch has flown!” he said, laughing again that mirthless, stupid laugh as he spoke—“She doth love to tantalize me thus! … Tell me! what dost thou think of her? Is she not a peerless moon of womanhood? … doth she not eclipse all known or imaginable beauty? … Aye! … and I will tell thee a secret,—she is mine!—mine from the dark tresses down to the dainty feet! … mine, all mine, so long as I shall please to call her so! …—notwithstanding that the foolish people of Al-Kyris think she is impervious to love, self-centered, holy and ‘immaculate’! Bah! … as if a woman ever was ‘immaculate’! But mark you! … though she loves me,—me, crowned Laureate of the realm, she loves no other man! And why? Because no other man is found half so worthy of love! All men must love her, . . Nirjalis loved her, and he is dead because of overmuch presumption, . . and many there be who shall still die likewise, for love of her, but I am her chosen and elected one,—her faith is mine!—her heart is mine,—her very soul is mine!—mine I would swear though all the gods of the past, present, and future denied her constancy!”

 

Here his uncertain, wandering gaze met the grave, pained, and almost stern regard of Theos. “Why dost thou stare thus owl-like upon me?”—he demanded irritably.. “Art thou not my friend and worshipper? Wilt preach? Wilt moralize on the folly of the time,—

the vices of the age? Thou lookest it,—but prithee hold thy peace an thou lovest me!—we can but live and die and there’s an end, . .

all’s over with the best and wisest of us soon,—let us be merry while we may!”

 

And he tossed a cluster of roses playfully in the air, catching them as they fell again in a soft shower of severed fluttering pink and white petals. Theos listened to his rambling, unguarded words with a sense of acute personal sorrow. Here was a man, young, handsome, and endowed with the rarest gift of nature, a great poetic genius,—a man who had attained in early manhood the highest worldly fame together with the friendship of a king, and the love of a people, . . yet what was he in himself? A mere petty Egoist, . . a poor deluded fool, the unresisting prey of his own passions, . . the besotted slave of a treacherous woman and the voluntary degrader of his own life! What was the use of Genius, then, if it could not aid one to overcome Self, . . what the worth of Fame, if it were not made to serve as a bright incentive and noble example to others of less renown? As this thought passed across his mind, Theos sighed, . . he felt curiously conscience-stricken, ashamed, and humiliated, THROUGH Sahluma, and solely for Sahluma’s sake! At present, however, his chief anxiety was to get his friend safely out of Lysia’a pavilion before she should return to it, and his spirit chafed within him at each moment of enforced delay.

 

“Come, come, Sahluma!” he said at last, gently, yet with persuasive earnestness.. “Come away from this place, . . the feast is over,—the fair ones are gone, . . why should we linger? Thou art half-asleep,—believe me ‘tis time thou wert home and at rest.

Lean upon me, … so! that is well!”—this, as the other rose unsteadily to his feet and lurched heavily against him, . . “Now let me guide thee,—though of a truth I know not the way through this wondrous woodland maze, . . canst tell me whither we should turn?

… or hast thou no remembrance of the nearest road to thine own dwelling?”—

 

Thus speaking, he managed to lead his stupefied companion out of the tent into the cool, dewy garden, where, feeling somewhat refreshed by the breath of the night wind blowing on his face, Sahluma straightened himself, and made an absurd attempt to look exceedingly dignified.

 

“Nay, an thou wilt depart with such scant ceremony”—he grumbled peevishly—“get thee thence and find out the road as best thou mayest! … why should I aid thee? For myself I am well contented here to remain and sleep,—no better couch can the Poet have than this violet-scented moss”—and he waved his arm with a grandiloquent gesture,—“no grander canopy than this star-besprinkled heaven! Leave me,—for my eyes are wondrous heavy, and I would fain slumber undisturbed till the break of day! By my soul, thou art a rough companion! …” and he