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Mystery of a Turkish Bath, The

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<h3>Chapter Four.</h3> <h4>Conjectures.</h4> Mrs Ray Jefferson, irrespective of a toilet of ruby velvet cut en coeur, and a display of diamonds calculated to make men thoughtful on the subject of speculation, and women envious on the subject of husbandly generosity (even when connected with Chemicals), was quite the feature of the Hotel drawing-room that night. She was full of her adventure of the morning, and her description of the beautiful stranger lost nothing from the picturesque language in which she clothed her narrative. “It’s very odd the Manager won’t tell us her name,” she rattled on. “I’ve done my level best to find out, but it’s no good. I suppose she pays too well for him to risk betraying her. I’m sure she’s a Russian Princess; she has a suite with her, and carries musicians and sculptors, and heaven knows who else, in her train.” It may be noticed that Mrs Ray Jefferson had only heard of a sculptor and a musician, but she drifted into plurality by force of that irresistible tendency to exaggerate trifles which seems inherent in women who are given to scandal even in its mildest form. People from all parts of the room gathered round her. A few seemed inclined to doubt her description of the stranger’s personal charms, but when she applied to Mrs Masterman for confirmation, that lady, who was known to have a strict regard for truth in its most uncompromising form, emphatically agreed with her. “Beautiful! I should think she was beautiful,” she said, in her usual surly fashion. “But,”—and then came a series of those curious and condemnatory phrases with which a woman invariably finishes her praise of another woman’s beauty, and which are too well known to be repeated. “I did my best to try and persuade her to join us,” continued Mrs Jefferson, after duly agreeing with Mrs Masterman that perhaps the stranger’s hair was a shade too black, and her height too tall, and her complexion too pale—and that there was something uncanny in the expression of the dark wild eyes, “more like the eyes of a horse than a human being,” was Mrs Masterman’s verdict. “But nothing would induce her. She says Society is all a sham. That we don’t really amuse ourselves or enjoy ourselves, however much we pretend to! My word! doesn’t she give it hot to everything. Policy, religion, diplomacy, worldliness, theology, art. It seems to me she knows everything, and has studied human life more accurately than the wisest philosopher I’ve ever heard of.” “And did you discuss all those subjects during the course of a Turkish Bath?” said a voice near her. Mrs Jefferson started. The gentleman who had spoken was a recent arrival. She only knew him as Colonel Estcourt. He was a singularly interesting-looking man, home from India on sick leave, and the maidens, and wives, and widows, of this polyglot assemblage at the Hotel were all inclined to admiration of his physical perfections, and to dissatisfaction at a certain coldness and disdainfulness of themselves, which, to use their mildest form of reproach, was “odd and unmilitary.” Mrs Jefferson started slightly. “Oh, it’s you, Colonel,” she said. “Yes, we did talk about all those subjects, and I surmise if all of you people here heard her carry on against the way you live your lives, you’d feel rather small.” “Did you?” asked Mrs Masterman unkindly. The bath had not improved her complexion, and her left foot was paining her excessively. These two facts had not combined to sweeten the natural acerbity of her temper. Mrs Ray Jefferson did not heed the question, or the smile it provoked on one or two feminine lips. “I should like to know who she is,” she persisted. “She’s been in India too. I suppose you never met her, Colonel Estcourt? No one could forget her who had!” That cold impassive face changed ever so slightly. “India,” he said, “is a somewhat vague term, and covers a somewhat large area for a possible meeting-place. Your description, Mrs Jefferson, is tantalising in the extreme to a male mind, but I fail to recognise its charming original as any personal acquaintance.” “I suppose so,” said the little American, discontentedly. “I’m just dying to know who she is, and therefore no one can tell me. Seems I shall have to call her ‘the Mystery,’ until she condescends to throw off this incognita business.” “But we are sure to see her,” interposed Orval Molyneux, the young poet. “She must go out sometimes, I suppose.” “If you’ll take my advice,” said Mrs Jefferson brusquely, “you won’t try to see her, for it’s my belief that she’s not the woman any man can look at and forget, and you poets are mostly impressionable.” “Such a warning is only adding zest to temptation,” said Colonel Estcourt, with a grave smile. “You really have aroused my curiosity in no small degree. But perhaps the mysterious beauty may not be so obdurate as you imagined. Why should she not show herself among us? It is contrary to all known rules of Nature for a beautiful woman to hide herself from the admiration her charms would exact. When those charms are coupled with mental gifts of so diverse and unusual a nature as Mrs Jefferson has described, the probability is that seclusion is only a whim, unless indeed—” He broke off abruptly. A certain look of disturbance and perplexity came into his deep grey eyes. “Unless what?” queried Mrs Jefferson, sharply. “You look as if you saw a vision. Unless she’s committed a crime, were you going to say? She talked of some tragedy—something that had upset her life, and affected her mental equilibrium.” “She said—that?” His face grew suddenly very pale. The firm mouth quivered beneath the fair thick moustache that shaded it. “Yes,” said Mrs Jefferson. “Do tell, Colonel. What is it you suspect? A mystery—a secret crime? My, that would be interesting.” “Suspect!” he said, almost fiercely. “How should I suspect? What do you mean? I was only wondering if indeed she possessed one of those rare minds, sufficient for their own happiness, and living an inner life of which the world knows nothing, and which, even if it knew, it could not comprehend.” “Ah,” said Mrs Jefferson, quickly. “Now this gets interesting. That’s just the sort of way she talked, and I confess I got a bit out of my depth. But you, Colonel, you’ve come from the very land of it all. Do sit down and explain. Is the world going to be turned upside down? Are we to have a new religion, or rather an old one brought to light, that will upset what we’ve been hugging as truth for the last eighteen hundred years. We’ve been pretty crazy over spiritualism on our side of the water, but I guess this new philosophy can just make our mediums and séance-givers take a back seat. Isn’t that so?” “My dear madam,” answered Colonel Estcourt, gravely, “you really must not call upon me to expound the doctrines of the East to the scoffers of the West. I know a little—a very little—of this school of philosophy; but I am not vain enough to attempt an explanation of its profound wisdom. The mysteries of Nature demand the deepest and most earnest consideration of the human mind. Do you think I could presume to rattle off a few explanations or give the key to certain problems just to satisfy the vague curiosity of an idle hour. I will only say one thing—it is a thing that cannot be too often repeated and thoroughly kept in memory. Every life has to live out itself, and work out for itself the higher mysteries that are shut within its own consciousness. No one can do that for it, any more than they could take its love, or its sorrows, or its misfortunes away, and bear them in its place. If humanity took that truth to heart, and lived according to the higher instead of the lower instincts, the world would be a very different place.” “But,” objected a pretty feminine voice in the back-ground, “what about the obligations of position and society? I suppose the ‘higher instinct’ would tell us that amusements are a waste of time—vanity and vexation in fact—yet even they have a good result, they give employment, and help other folk to live. And it’s a pleasant relief to be gay and frivolous. It’s awfully fatiguing to be grave and good. Just look at us on Sundays. We’re all more or less cross and disagreeable, and I’m sure no clergyman could honestly say that he wasn’t heartily sick of droning and intoning that same eternal form embodied in the Church Service.” “The higher life,” said Colonel Estcourt, gravely, “is not a matter of form. Far from it. It is an unceasing and inexhaustible pursuit; it has infinite gradations, and is full of infinite possibilities. Its tendency is to elevate all that is best, and eliminate all that is worst, in man.” “Oh!” cried Mrs Jefferson with rapture, “I’m sure you ought to meet my ‘Mystery.’ That’s just her sort of talk. I must say it sounds beautiful; but I shouldn’t think it was practicable. It’s a very hard thing to change people’s ideas. When they’ve held them a certain time they get used to them, and don’t like the trouble of altering.” “True,” said Colonel Estcourt, “and therein lies the secret of all the misery and mistakes that have made the world what it is. The few enthusiasts and propagandists have always been confronted by that mountain of inertness, prejudice, and indolence, which the aggregate portion of all nations oppose to anything newer, or wiser, or better than the sloth and ignorance of the past.” “Well,” laughed Mrs Jefferson, “let’s see what this new era will bring about. There’s a grand opening for it, and it has this advantage—people are much more dissatisfied with old creeds, and much more eager for new, than they have ever been. The reins are slack, if only there’s a firm and judicious hand to seize them.” “Suppose,” drawled Mr Ray Jefferson, who had the rare virtue of being an admirable listener to any controversy or discussion. “Suppose, my dear, we have a game of poker.” “Agreed,” laughed his wife. “This meeting’s adjourned, Colonel Estcourt. Will you join us.” He shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’m going out on the terrace to smoke.” “And meditate on the Unknown?” queried the little American. “Perhaps you’ll see her at her window. I wish you luck.” He did not answer, but his brow clouded and his face grew anxious and absorbed. In his heart those light words echoed with a thrill of mingled pain and dread. “If it should be,” he said to himself. “My God—if it should be she?” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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