Ardath, Marie Corelli [e ink ebook reader txt] 📗

but just then could find nothing appropriate to say, . . and when he had selected a fine peach from the heaped-up dainties offered for his choice, he still watched her as she turned to Sahluma, who smiled, and bade her set down her salver on a low, bronze stand at his side. She did so, and then with the warm blood burning in her cheeks, stood waiting and silent. Sahluma, with a lithe movement of his supple form, lifted himself into a half-sitting posture, and throwing one arm round her waist, drew her close to his breast and kissed her.

 

“My fairest moonbeam!” he said gayly—“Thou art as noiseless and placid as thy yet unembodied sisters that stream through heaven and dance on the river when the world is sleeping! Myrtle! …”

and he detached a spray from the bosom of her dress—“What hast thou to do with the poet’s garland? By my faith, thou art like Theos yonder, and hast chosen to wear a sprig of my faded crown for thine adornment—is’t not so?” A hot and painful blush crimsoned Niphrata’s face,—a softness as of suppressed tears glistened in her eyes,—she made no answer, but looked beseechingly at the little twig Sahluma held. “Silly child!” he went on laughingly, replacing it himself against her bosom, where the breath seemed to struggle with such panting haste and fear—

“Thou art welcome to the dead leaves sanctified by song, if thou thinkest them of value, but I would rather see the rosebud of love nestled in that pretty white breast of thine, than the cast-off ornaments of fame!”

 

And filling himself a cup of wine he raised it aloft, looking at Theos smilingly as he did so.

 

“To your health, my noble friend!” he cried, “and to the joys of the passing hour!”

 

“A wise toast!” answered Theos, placing his lips to his own goblet’s rim,—“For the past is past,—‘twill never return,—the future we know not,—and only the present can be called our own!

To the health of the divine Sahluma, whose fame is my glory!—

whose friendship is dear to me as life!”

 

And with this, he drained off the wine to the last drop. Scarcely had he done so, when the most curious sensation overcame him—a sensation of bewildering ecstasy as though he had drunk of some ambrosian nectar or magic drug which had suddenly wound up his nerves to an acute tension of indescribable delight. The blood coursed more swiftly through his veins,—he felt his face flush with the impulsive heat and ardor of the moment,—he laughed as he set the cup down empty, and throwing himself back on his luxurious couch, his eyes flashed on Sahluma’s with a bright, comprehensive glance of complete confidence and affection. It was strange to note how quickly Sahluma returned that glance,—how thoroughly, in so short a space of time, their friendship had cemented itself into a more than fraternal bond of union! Niphrata, meanwhile, stood a little aside, her wistful looks wandering from one to the other as though in something of doubt or wonder. Presently she spoke, inclining her fair head toward Sahluma.

 

“My lord goes to the Palace tonight to make his valued voice heard in the presence of the King?” she inquired timidly.

 

“Even so, Niphrata!” responded the Laureate, passing his hand carelessly through his clustering curls—“I have been summoned thither by the Royal command. But what of that, little one? Thou knowest ‘tis a common occurrence,—and that the Court is bereft of all pleasure and sweetness when Sahluma is silent.”

 

“My lord’s guest goes with him?” pursued Niphrata gently.

 

“Aye, most assuredly?” and Sahluma smiled at Theos as he spoke—

“Thou wilt accompany me to the King, my friend?” he went on—“He will give thee a welcome for my sake, and though of a truth His Majesty is most potently ignorant of all things save the arts of love and warfare, nevertheless he is man as well as monarch, and thou wilt find him noble in his greeting and generous of hospitality.”

 

“I will go with thee, Sahluma, anywhere!” replied Theos quickly—

“For in following such a guide, I follow my own most perfect pleasure.”

 

Niphrata looked at him meditatively, with a melancholy expression in her lovely eyes.

 

“My lord Sahluma’s presence indeed brings joy!” she said softly and tremulously—“But the joy is too sweet and brief—for when he departs, none can fill the place he leaves vacant!”

 

She paused,—Sahluma’s gaze rested on her intently, a half-amused, half-tender light leaping from under the drooping shade of his long, silky black lashes,—she caught the look, and a little shiver ran through her delicate frame,—she pressed one hand on her heart, and resumed in steadier and more even tones,—“My lord has perhaps not heard of the disturbances of the early morning in the city?”—she asked—“The riotous crowd in the marketplace—the ravings of the Prophet Khosrul? … the sudden arrest and imprisonment of many,—and the consequent wrath of the King?”

 

“No, by my faith!” returned Sahluma, yawning slightly and settling his head more comfortably on his pillows—“Nor do I care to heed the turbulence of a mob that cannot guide itself and yet resists all guidance. Arrests? … imprisonments? … they are common,—but why in the name of the Sacred Veil do they not arrest and imprison the actual disturbers of the peace,—the Mystics and Philosophers whose street orations filter through the mind of the disaffected, rousing them to foolish frenzy and disordered action?—Why, above all men, do they not seize Khosrul?—a veritable madman, for all his many years and seeming wisdom! Hath he not denounced the faith of Nagaya and foretold the destruction of the city times out of number? … and are we not all weary to death of his bombastic mouthing? If the King deemed a poet’s counsel worth the taking, he would long ago have shut this bearded ranter within the four walls of a dungeon, where only rats and spiders would attend his lectures on approaching Doom!”

 

“Nay, but my lord—” Niphrata ventured to say timidly—“The King dare not lay hands on Khosrul …”

 

“Dare not!” laughed Sahluma lazily stretching out his hand and helping himself to a luscious nectarine from the basket at his side—“Sweet Niphrata! … settest thou a limit to the power of the King? As well draw a boundary-line for the imagination of the poet! Khosrul may be loved and feared by a certain number of superstitious malcontents who look upon a madman as a sort of sacred wild animal,—but the actual population of Al-Kyris,—the people who are the blood, bone, and sinew of the city,—these are not in favor of change either in religion, laws, manners, or customs. But Khosrul is old,—and that the King humors his vagaries is simply out of pity for his age and infirmity, Niphrata,—not because of fear! Our Monarch knows no fear.”

 

“Khosrul prophesies terrible things!” … murmured the girl hesitatingly—“I have often thought … if they should come true.

…”

 

“Thou timid dove!” and Sahluma, rising from his couch, kissed her neck lightly, thus causing a delicate flush of crimson to ripple through the whiteness of her skin—“Think no more of such folly—

thou wilt anger me. That a doting graybeard like Khosrul should trouble the peace of Al-Kyris the Magnificent, … by the gods—

the whole thing is absurd! Let me hear no more of mobs or riots, or road-rhetoric,—my soul abhors even the suggestion of discord.

Tranquillity! … Divinest calm, disturbed only by the flutterings of winged thoughts hovering over the cloudless heaven of fancy!

… this, this alone is the sum and centre of my desires.—and today I find that even thou, Niphrata—” here his voice took upon itself an injured tone,—“thou, who art usually so gentle, hast somewhat troubled the placidity of my mind by thy foolish talk concerning common and unpleasant circumstances, … “He stopped short and a line of vexation and annoyance made its appearance between his broad, beautiful brows, while Niphrata seeing this expression of almost baby-petulance in the face she adored threw herself suddenly at his feet, and raising her lovely eyes swimming in tears, she exclaimed:

 

“My lord! Sahluma! Singing-angel of Niphrata’s soul!—Forgive me!

It is true, … thou shouldst never hear of strife or contention among the coarser tribe of men,—and I, … I, poor Niphrata, would give my life to shield thee from the faintest shadow of annoy! I would have thy path all woven sunbeams,—thou shouldst live like a fairy monarch embowered ‘mid roses, sheltered from rough winds, and folded in loving arms, fairer maybe, hut not more fond than mine!” … Her voice broke,—stooping, she kissed the silver fastening of his sandal, and springing up, rushed from the room before a word could be uttered to bid her stay.

 

Sahluma looked after her with a pretty, half-pleased perplexity.

 

“She is often thus!” he said in a tone of playful resignation,—

“As I told thee, Theos,—women are butterflies, hovering hither and thither on uneasy pinions, uncertain of their own desires.

Niphrata is a woman-riddle,—sometimes she angers me,—sometimes she soothes, … now she prattles of things that concern me not,—

and anon converses with such high and lofty earnestness of speech, that I listen amazed, and wonder where she hath gathered up her store of seeming wisdom.”

 

“Love teaches her all she knows!” interrupted Theos quickly and with a meaning glance.

 

Sahluma laughed languidly, a faint color warming the clear olive pallor of his complexion.

 

“Aye,—poor tender little soul, she loves me,”.. he said carelessly—“That is no secret! But then all women love me,—I am more like to die of a surfeit of love than of anything else” He moved towards the open window “Come!—” he added—“It is the hour of sunset,—there is a green hillock in my garden yonder from whence we can behold the pomp and panoply of the golden god’s departure. ‘Tis a sight I never miss,—I would have thee share its glory with me.”

 

“But art thou then indifferent to woman’s tenderness?” asked Theos half banteringly, as he took his arm—“Dost thou love no one?”

 

“My friend”—replied Sahluma seriously—“I love Myself! I see naught that contents me more than my own Personality,—and with all my heart I admire the miracle and beauty of my own existence!

There is nothing even in the completest fairness of womanhood that satisfies me so much as the contemplation of my own genius,—

realizing as I do its wondrous power and perfect charm! The life of a poet such as I am is a perpetual marvel!—the whole Universe ministers to my needs,—Humanity becomes the merest bound slave to the caprice of my imperial imagination,—with a thought I scale the stars,—with a wish I float in highest ether among spheres undiscovered yet familiar to my fancy—I converse with the spirits of flowers and fountains,—and the love of women is a mere drop in the deep ocean of my unfathomed delight! Yes,—I adore my own Identity! … and of a truth Self-worship is the only Creed the world has ever followed faithfully to the end!”

 

He glanced up with a bright, assured smile,—Theos met his gaze wonderingly, doubtfully,—but made no reply,—and together they paced slowly across the marble terrace, and out into the glorious garden, rich with the riotous roses that clambered and clustered everywhere, their hues deepening to flame-like vividness in the burning radiance of the sinking sun.

 

CHAPTER XIV.

 

THE SUMMONS OF THE SIGNET.

 

They walked side by side for some little time without speaking, through winding paths of alternate light and shade, sheltered by the latticework of crossed and twisted green boughs where only the amorous chant of charming birds now and then broke the silence with fitful and tender sweetness. All the air about them was fragrant and delicate,—tiny rainbow-winged midges