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Ziska

<h2 id="id00568" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER VIII.</h2> The table d'hote at the Gezireh Palace Hotel had already begun when Gervase entered the dining-room and sat down near Lady Fulkeward and Dr. Dean. "You have missed the soup," said her ladyship, looking up at him with a sweet smile. "All you artists are alike,—you have no idea whatever of time. And how have you succeeded with that charming mysterious person, the Princess Ziska?" Gervase kept his gaze steadily fixed on the table-cloth. He was extremely pale, and had the air of one who has gone through some great mental exhaustion. "I have not succeeded as well as I expected," he answered slowly. "I think my hand must have lost its cunning. At any rate, whatever the reason may be, Art has been defeated by Nature." He crumbled up the piece of bread near his plate in small portions with a kind of involuntary violence in the action, and Dr. Dean, deliberately drawing out a pair of spectacles from their case, adjusted them, and surveyed him curiously. "You mean to say that you cannot paint the Princess's picture?" Gervase glanced up at him with a half-sullen, half-defiant expression. "I don't say that," he replied; "I can paint something—something which you can call a picture if you like,—but there is no resemblance to the Princess Ziska in it. She is beautiful, and I can get nothing of her beauty,—I can only get the reflection of a face which is not hers." "How very curious!" exclaimed Lady Fulkeward. "Quite psychological, is it not, Doctor? It is almost creepy!" and she managed to produce a delicate shudder of her white shoulders without cracking the blanc de perle enamel. "It will be something fresh for you to study." "Possibly it will—possibly," said the Doctor, still surveying Gervase blandly through his round glasses; "but it isn't the first time I have heard of painters who unconsciously produce other faces than those of their sitters. I distinctly remember a case in point. A gentleman, famous for his charities and general benevolence, had his portrait painted by a great artist for presentation to the town-hall of his native place, and the artist was quite unable to avoid making him unto the likeness of a villain. It was quite a distressing affair; the painter was probably more distressed than anybody about it, and he tried by every possible means in his power to impart a truthful and noble aspect to the countenance of the man who was known and admitted to be a benefactor to his race. But it was all in vain: the portrait when finished was the portrait of a stranger and a scoundrel. The people for whom it was intended declared they would not have such a libel on their generous friend hung up in their town-hall. The painter was in despair, and there was going to be a general hubbub, when, lo and behold the 'noble' personage himself was suddenly arrested for a brutal murder committed twelve years back. He was found guilty and hanged, and the painter kept the portrait that had so remarkably betrayed the murderer's real nature, as a curiosity ever afterwards." "Is that a fact?" inquired a man who was seated at the other side of the table, and who had listened with great interest to the story. "A positive fact," said the Doctor. "One of those many singular circumstances which occur in life, and which are beyond all explanation." Gervase moved restlessly; then filling for himself a glass of claret, drained it off thirstily. "Something of the same kind has happened to me," he said with a hard, mirthless laugh, "for out of the most perfect beauty I have only succeeded in presenting an atrocity." "Dear me!" exclaimed Lady Fulkeward. "What a disappointing day you must have had! But of course, you will try again; the Princess will surely give you another sitting?" "Oh, yes! I shall certainly try again and yet again, and ever so many times again," said Gervase, with a kind of angry obstinacy in his tone, "the more so as she has told me I will never succeed in painting her." "She told you that, did she?" put in Dr. Dean, with an air of lively interest. "Yes." Just then the handing round of fresh dishes and the clatter of knives and forks effectually put a stop to the conversation for the time, and Gervase presently glancing about him saw that Denzil Murray and his sister were dining apart at a smaller table with young Lord Fulkeward and Ross Courtney. Helen was looking her fairest and best that evening—her sweet face, framed in its angel aureole of bright hair had a singular look of pureness and truth expressed upon it rare to find in any woman beyond her early teens. Unconsciously to himself, Gervase sighed as he caught a view of her delicate profile, and Lady Fulkeward's sharp ears heard the sound of that sigh. "Isn't that a charming little party over there?" she asked. "Young people, you know! They always like to be together! That very sweet girl, Miss Murray, was so much distressed about her brother to-day,—something was the matter with him—a touch of fever, I believe,—that she begged me to let Fulke dine with them in order to distract Mr. Denzil's mind. Fulke is a dear boy, you know—very consoling in his ways, though he says so little. Then Mr. Courtney volunteered to join them, and there they are. The Chetwynd Lyles are gone to a big dinner at the Continental this evening." "The Chetwynd Lyles—let me see. Who are they?" mused Gervase aloud, "Do I know them?" "No,—that is, you have not been formally introduced," said Dr. Dean. "Sir Chetwynd Lyle is the editor and proprietor of the London Daily Dial, Lady Chetwynd Lyle is his wife, and the two elderly-youthful ladies who appeared as 'Boulogne fishwives' last night at the ball are his daughters." "Cruel man!" exclaimed Lady Fulkeward with a girlish giggle. "The idea of calling those sweet girls, Muriel and Dolly, 'elderly-youthful!'" "What are they, my dear madam, what are they?" demanded the imperturbable little savant. "'Elderly-youthful' is a very convenient expression, and applies perfectly to people who refuse to be old and cannot possibly be young." "Nonsense! I will not listen to you!" and her ladyship opened her jewelled fan and spread it before her eyes to completely screen the objectionable Doctor from view. "Don't you know your theories are quite out of date? Nobody is old,—we all utterly refuse to be old! Why," and she shut her fan with a sudden jerk, "I shall have you calling ME old next." "Never, madam!" said Dr. Dean gallantly laying his hand upon his heart. "You are quite an exception to the rule. You have passed through the furnace of marriage and come out unscathed. Time has done its worst with you, and now retreats, baffled and powerless; it can touch you no more!" Whether this was meant as a compliment or the reverse it would have been difficult to say, but Lady Fulkeward graciously accepted it as the choicest flattery, and bowed, smiling and gratified. Dinner was now drawing to its end, and people were giving their orders for coffee to be served to them on the terrace and in the gardens, Gervase among the rest. The Doctor turned to him. "I should like to see your picture of the Princess," he said,—"that is if you have no objection." "Not the least in the world," replied Gervase,—"only it isn't the Princess, it is somebody else." A faint shudder passed over him. The Doctor noticed it. "Talking of curious things," went on that irrepressible savant, "I started hunting for a particular scarabeus to-day. I couldn't find it, of course,—it generally takes years to find even a trifle that one especially wants. But I came across a queer old man in one of the curiosity-shops who told me that over at Karnak they had just discovered a large fresco in one of the tombs describing the exploits of the very man whose track I'm on—Araxes …" Gervase started,—he knew not why. "What has Araxes to do with you?" he demanded. "Oh, nothing! But the Princess Ziska spoke of him as a great warrior in the days of Amenhotep,—and she seems to be a great Egyptologist, and to know many things of which we are ignorant. Then you know last night she adopted the costume of a dancer of that period, named Ziska-Charmazel. Well, now it appears that in one part of this fresco the scene depicted is this very Ziska-Charmazel dancing before Araxes." Gervase listened with strained attention,—his heart beat thickly, as though the Doctor were telling him of some horrible circumstance in which he had an active part; whereas he had truly no interest at all in the matter, except in so far as events of history are more or less interesting to everyone. "Well?" he said after a pause. "Well," echoed Dr. Dean. "There is really nothing more to say beyond that I want to find out everything I can concerning this Araxes, if only for the reason that the charming Princess chose to impersonate his lady-love last night. One must amuse one's self in one's own fashion, even in Egypt, and this amuses ME." Gervase rose, feeling in his pocket for his cigarette-case. "Come," he said briefly, "I will show you my picture." He straightened his tall, fine figure and walked slowly across the room to the table where Denzil Murray sat with his sister and friends. "Denzil," he said,—"I have made a strange portrait of the Princess Ziska, and I'm going to show it to Dr. Dean. I should like you to see it too. Will you come?" Denzil looked at him with a dark reproach in his eyes. "If you like," he answered shortly. "I do like!" and Gervase laid his hand on the young fellow's shoulder with a kind pressure. "You will find it a piece of curious disenchantment, as well as a proof of my want of skill. You are all welcome to come and look at it except …" here he hesitated,—"except Miss Murray. I think—yes, I think it might possibly frighten Miss Murray." Helen raised her eyes to his, but said nothing. "Oh, by Jove!" murmured Lord Fulkeward, feeling his moustache as usual. "Then don't you come, Miss Murray. We'll tell you all about it afterwards." "I have no curiosity on the subject," she said a trifle coldly. "Denzil, you will find me in the drawing-room. I have a letter to write home." With a slight salute she left them, Gervase watching the disappearance of her graceful figure with a tinge of melancholy regret in his eyes. "It is evident Mademoiselle Helen does not like the Princess Ziska," he observed. "Oh, well, as to that," said Fulkeward hastily, "you know you can't expect women to lose their heads about her as men do. Beside, there's something rather strange in the Princess's manner and appearance, and perhaps Miss Murray doesn't take to her any more than I do." "Oh, then you are not one of her lovers?" queried Dr. Dean smiling. "No; are you?" "I? Good heavens, my dear young sir, I was never in love with a woman in my life! That is, not what YOU would call in love. At the age of sixteen I wrote verses to a mature young damsel of forty,—a woman with a remarkably fine figure and plenty of it; she rejected my advances with scorn, and I have never loved since!" They all laughed,—even Denzil Murray's sullen features cleared for the moment into the brightness of a smile. "Where did you paint the Princess's picture?" inquired Ross Courtney suddenly. "In her own house," replied Gervase. "But we were not alone, for the fascinating fair one had some twenty or more armed servants within call." There was a movement of surprise among his listeners, and he went on: "Yes; Madame is very well protected, I assure you,—as much so as if she were the first favorite in a harem. Come now, and see my sketch." He led the way to a private sitting-room which he had secured for himself in the hotel at almost fabulous terms. It was a small apartment, but it had the advantage of a long French window which opened out into the garden. Here, on an easel, was a canvas with its back turned towards the spectator. "Sit down," said Gervase abruptly addressing his guests, "and be prepared for a curiosity unlike anything you have ever seen before!" He paused a moment, looking steadily at Dr. Dean. "Perhaps, Doctor, as you are interested in psychic phenomena, you may be able to explain how I got such a face on my canvas, for I cannot explain it to myself." He slowly turned the canvas round, and, scarcely heeding the exclamation of amazement that broke simultaneously from all the men present, stared at it himself, fascinated by a singular magnetism more potent than either horror or fear. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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