Ardath by Marie Corelli (best books to read in life .TXT) 📕

She sighed, . . a long, shivering sigh,—and smiled, . . what a strange, wistful, dying smile it was! … but she made no answer.

“Niphrata!”—continued the Laureate, passionately pressing the little, cold fingers that lay so passively in his grasp.. “Look at me! … I have come to save thee! … to take thee home again, . .

home to thy flowers, thy birds, thy harp, . . thy pretty chamber with its curtained nook, where thy friend Zoralin waits and weeps all day for thee! … O ye gods!—how weak am I!”.. and he fiercely dashed away the drops that glistened on his black silky lashes, . . “Come with me, sweet one! …” he resumed tenderly—

“Come!—Why art thou thus silent? … thou whose voice hath many a time outrivalled the music of the nightingales! Hast thou no word for me, thy lord?—Come!”.. and Theos, struggling to repress his own rising tears, heard his friend’s accents sink into a still lower, more caressing cadence … “Thou shalt never again have cause for grief, my Niphrata, never! … We will never part! … Listen!

… am I not he whom thou lovest?”

The poor child’s set mouth trembled,—her beautiful sad eyes gazed at him uncomprehendingly.

“He whom I love is not here!”.. she said in tired, soft tones; “I left him, but he followed me; and now, he waits for me…yonder!”.. And she turned resolutely toward the Sanctuary, as though compelled to do so by some powerful mesmeric attraction, . .

“See you not how fair he is!”…and she pointed with her disengaged hand to the formidable python, through whose huge coils ran the tremors of impatient and eager breathing, . . “How tenderly his eyes behold me! … those eyes that I have worshipped so patiently, so faithfully, and yet that never lightened into love for me till now! O thou more than beloved!—How beautiful thou art, my adored one, my heart’s idol!” and a look of pale exaltation lightened her features, as she fixed her wistful gaze, like a fascinated bird, on the shadowy recess whence the Serpent had emerged—“There,—there thou dost rest on a couch of fadeless roses!—how softly the moonlight enfolds thee with a radiance as of outspread wings!—I hear thy voice charming the silence! …

thou dost call me by my name, . . O once poor name made rich by thy sweet utterance! Yes, my beloved, I am ready! … I come! I shall die in thy embraces, . . nay, I shall not die but sleep! … and dream a dream of love that shall last forever and ever! No more sorrow … no more tears, . . no more heartsick longings …”

Here she stopped in her incoherent speech, and strove to release her hand from Sahluma’s, her blue eyes filling with infinite anxiety and distress.

“I pray thee, good stranger,” she entreated with touching mildness,—“whosoever thou art, delay me not, but let me go! … I am but a poor love-sorrowful maid on whom Love hath at last taken pity!—be gentle therefore, and hinder me not on my way to Sahluma. I have waited for happiness so long! … so long!”

Her young, plaintive voice quavered into a half sob,—and again she endeavored to break away from the Laureate’s hold. But he, overcome by the excess of his own grief and agitation, seized her other hand, and drew her close up to him.

“Niphrata, Niphrata!” he cried despairingly. “What evil hath befallen thee? Where is thy sight.. thy memory? … LOOK! …

Look straight in these eyes of mine, and read there my truth and tenderness! … I am Sahluma, thine own Sahluma! … thy poet, thy lover, thy master, thy slave, . . all that thou wouldst have me be, I am! Whither wouldst thou wander in search of me? Thou hast no further to go, dear heart, than these arms, . . thou art safe with me, my singing bird, . . come! ..Let me lead thee hence, and home!”

She watched him while he spoke, with a strange expression of distrust and uneasiness. Then, by a violent effort, she wrenched her hands from his clasp, and stood aloof, waving him back with an eloquent gesture of amazed reproach.

“Away!” she said, in firm accents of sweet severity,—“Thou art a demon that dost seek to tempt my soul to ruin! THOU Sahluma!”..

and she lifted her lily-crowned head with a movement of proud rejection.. “Nay! … thou mayst wear his look, his smile, . . thou mayst even borrow the clear heaven-lustre of his eyes,—but I tell thee thou art fiend, not angel, and I will not follow thee into the tangled ways of sin! Oh, thou knowest not the meaning of true love, thou! … There is treachery on thy lips, and thy tongue is trained to utter honeyed falsehood! Methinks thou hast wantonly broken many a faithful heart!—and made light jest of many a betrayed virgin’s sorrow! And thou darest to call thyself MY

Poet, . . MY Sahluma, in whom there is no guile, and who would die a thousand deaths rather than wound the frailest soul that trusted him! … Depart from me, thou hypocrite in Poet’s guise! … thou cruel phantom of my love! … Back to that darkness where thou dost belong, and trouble not my peace!”

Sahluma recoiled from her, amazed and stupefied. Theos clenched his hands together in a sort of physical effort to keep down the storm of emotions working within him,—for Niphrata’s words burnt into his brain like fire, ..too well, too well he understood their full intensity of meaning! She loved the IDEAL Sahluma, . . the Sahluma of her own pure fancies and desires, . . NOT the REAL man as he was, with all his haughty egotism, vainglory, and vice,—

vice in which he took more pride than shame. Perhaps she had never known him in his actual character,—she, like other women of her lofty and ardent type, had no doubt set up the hero of her life as a god in the shrine of her own holy and enthusiastic imagination, and had there endowed him with resplendent virtues, which he had never once deemed it worth his while to practise. Oh the loving hearts of women!—How much men have to answer for, when they voluntarily break these clear mirrors of affection, wherein they, all unworthy, have been for a time reflected angel-wise, with all the warmth and color of an innocently adoring passion shining about them like the prismatic rays in a vase of polished crystal!

To Niphrata, Sahluma remained as a sort of splendid divinity, for whom no devotion was too vast, too high, or too complete, . .

better, oh surely far better that she should die in her beautiful self-deception, than live to see her elected idol descend to his true level, and openly display all the weaknesses of his volatile, flippant, godless, sensual, yet, alas! most fascinating and genius-gifted nature, . . a nature, which, overflowing as it was with potentialities of noble deeds, yet lacked sufficient intrinsic faith and force to accomplish them! This thought stung Theos like a sharp arrow-prick, and filled him with a strange, indescribable penitence; and he stood in dumb misery, remorsefully eyeing his friend’s consternation, disappointment, and pained bewilderment, without being able to offer him the slightest consolation.

Sahluma was indeed the very picture of dismay, . . if he had never suffered in his life before, surely he suffered now! Niphrata, the tender, the humbly adoring Niphrata, positively rejected him!—

refused to recognize his actual presence, and turned insanely away from him toward some dream-ideal Sahluma whom she fancied could only be found in that unexplored country bordered by the cold river of Death! Meanwhile, the silence in the Temple was intense, —the Priests were like so many wax figures fastened in fixed positions; the King, leaning slightly forward in his chair, had the appearance of a massively moulded image of bronze,—and to Theos’s overwrought condition of mind, the only actually living things present seemed to be the monster Serpent whose scaly folds palpitated visibly in the strong light, . . and the hideous “Eye of Raphon,” that blazed on Lysia’s breast with a menacing stare, as of a wrathful ghoul. All at once a flash of comprehension lightened the Laureate’s sternly perplexed face,—a bitter laugh broke from his lips.

“She has been drugged!” he cried fiercely, pointing to Niphrata’s white and rigid form, . . “Poisoned by some deadly potion devised of devils, to twist and torture the quivering centres of the brain!

Accursed work!—Will none undo it?” and springing forward nearer the Shrine, he raised his angry, impassioned eyes to the dark, inscrutable ones of the High Priestess, who met his troubled look with serene and irresponsive gravity … “Is there no touch of human pity in things divine? … no mercy in the icy fate that rules our destinies? … This child knows naught of what she does; she hath been led astray in a moment of excitement and religious exaltation, . . her mind hath lost its balance,—her thoughts float disconnectedly on a sea of vague illusions, … Ah! … by the gods! … I understand it all now!” and he suddenly threw himself on his knees, his appealing gaze resting, not on the Snake-Deity, but on the lovely countenance of Lysia, fair and brilliant as a summer morn, with a certain waving light of triumph about it, like the reflected radiance of sunbeams, … “She is under the influence of Raphon! … O withering madness! … O cureless misery.. She is ruled by that most horrible secret force, unknown as yet to the outer world of men! … and she hears things that are not, and sees what has no existence! O Lysia, Daughter of the Sun! … I do beseech thee, by all the inborn gentleness of womanhood, unwind the Mystic Spell!”

A serious smile of feigned, sorrowful compassion parted the beautiful lips of the Priestess; but she gave no word or sign in answer,—and the weird Jewel on her breast at that moment shot forth a myriad scintillations as of pointed sharp steel. Some extraordinary power in it, or in Lysia herself, was manifestly at work,—for with a violent start Sahluma rose from his knees, and staggered helplessly backward, . . one hand pressed to his eyes as though to shut out some blinding blaze of lightning! He seemed to be vaguely groping his way to his former place beside the King, and Theos, seeing this, quickly caught him by the arm and drew him thither, whispering anxiously the while: “Sahluma!-Sahluma! … What ails thee?”

The Laureate turned upon him a bewildered, piteous face, white with an intensity of speechless anguish.

“Nothing!”…he faltered,—“Nothing! … ‘tis over, . . the child must die!”…Then all suddenly the hard, drawn lines of his countenance relaxed,—great tears gathered in his eyes, and fell slowly one by one, . . and moving aside, he shrank away as far as possible into the shadow cast by a huge column close by.. “O

Niphrata! … Niphrata!”.. Theos heard him say in a voice broken by despair.. “Why do I love thee only now, . . NOW, when thou art lost to me forever!”

The King looked after him half-compassionately, half-sullenly; but presently paid no further heed to his distress. Theos, however, kept near him, whispering whatever poor suggestions of comfort he could, in the extremity of his own grief, devise, . . a hopeless task,—for to all his offered solace Sahluma made but the one reply:

“Oh let me weep! … Let me weep for the untimely death of Innocence!”

And now the cithern-playing, which had ceased, commenced again, accompanied by the mysterious thrilling bass notes of