<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<h1> AYESHA </h1>
<h2> THE RETURN OF SHE <br/> <br/> By H. Rider Haggard </h2>
<p><br/></p>
<p><br/> <br/> DEDICATION</p>
<p>My dear Lang,</p>
<p>The appointed years—alas! how many of them—are gone by,
leaving Ayesha lovely and loving and ourselves alive. As it was promised
in the Caves of Kor <i>She</i> has returned again.</p>
<p>To you therefore who accepted the first, I offer this further history of
one of the various incarnations of that Immortal.</p>
<p>My hope is that after you have read her record, notwithstanding her
subtleties and sins and the shortcomings of her chronicler (no easy
office!) you may continue to wear your chain of "loyalty to our lady
Ayesha." Such, I confess, is still the fate of your old friend</p>
<p>H. RIDER HAGGARD. DITCHINGHAM, 1905. <br/> <br/></p>
<hr />
<hr />
<p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></SPAN> <br/> <br/></p>
<h2> AUTHOR'S NOTE </h2>
<p>Not with a view of conciliating those readers who on principle object to
sequels, but as a matter of fact, the Author wishes to say that he does
not so regard this book.</p>
<p>Rather does he venture to ask that it should be considered as the
conclusion of an imaginative tragedy (if he may so call it) whereof one
half has been already published.</p>
<p>This conclusion it was always his desire to write should he be destined to
live through those many years which, in obedience to his original design,
must be allowed to lapse between the events of the first and second parts
of the romance.</p>
<p>In response to many enquiries he may add that the name Ayesha, which since
the days of the prophet Mahomet, who had a wife so called, and perhaps
before them, has been common in the East, should be pronounced <i>Assha</i>.</p>
<p><SPAN name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"></SPAN></p>
<h2> INTRODUCTION </h2>
<p>Verily and indeed it is the unexpected that happens! Probably if there was
one person upon the earth from whom the Editor of this, and of a certain
previous history, did not expect to hear again, that person was Ludwig
Horace Holly. This, too, for a good reason; he believed him to have taken
his departure from the earth.</p>
<p>When Mr. Holly last wrote, many, many years ago, it was to transmit the
manuscript of <i>She</i>, and to announce that he and his ward, Leo
Vincey, the beloved of the divine Ayesha, were about to travel to Central
Asia in the hope, I suppose, that there she would fulfil her promise and
appear to them again.</p>
<p>Often I have wondered, idly enough, what happened to them there; whether
they were dead, or perhaps droning their lives away as monks in some
Thibetan Lamasery, or studying magic and practising asceticism under the
tuition of the Eastern Masters trusting that thus they would build a
bridge by which they might pass to the side of their adored Immortal.</p>
<p>Now at length, when I had not thought of them for months, without a single
warning sign, out of the blue as it were, comes the answer to these
wonderings!</p>
<p>To think—only to think—that I, the Editor aforesaid, from its
appearance suspecting something quite familiar and without interest,
pushed aside that dingy, unregistered, brown-paper parcel directed in an
unknown hand, and for two whole days let it lie forgotten. Indeed there it
might be lying now, had not another person been moved to curiosity, and
opening it, found within a bundle of manuscript badly burned upon the
back, and with this two letters addressed to myself.</p>
<p>Although so great a time had passed since I saw it, and it was shaky now
because of the author's age or sickness, I knew the writing at once—nobody
ever made an "H" with that peculiar twirl under it except Mr. Holly. I
tore open the sealed envelope, and sure enough the first thing my eye fell
upon was the signature, <i>L. H. Holly</i>. It is long since I read
anything so eagerly as I did that letter. Here it is:—</p>
<p>"My dear sir,—I have ascertained that you still live, and strange to
say I still live also—for a little while.</p>
<p>"As soon as I came into touch with civilization again I found a copy of
your book <i>She</i>, or rather of my book, and read it—first of all
in a Hindostani translation. My host—he was a minister of some
religious body, a man of worthy but prosaic mind—expressed surprise
that a 'wild romance' should absorb me so much. I answered that those who
have wide experience of the hard facts of life often find interest in
romance. Had he known what were the hard facts to which I alluded, I
wonder what that excellent person would have said?</p>
<p>"I see that you carried out your part of the business well and faithfully.
Every instruction has been obeyed, nothing has been added or taken away.
Therefore, to you, to whom some twenty years ago I entrusted the beginning
of the history, I wish to entrust its end also. You were the first to
learn of <i>She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed</i>, who from century to century sat
alone, clothed with unchanging loveliness in the sepulchres of Kor,
waiting till her lost love was born again, and Destiny brought him back to
her.</p>
<p>"It is right, therefore, that you should be the first to learn also of
Ayesha, Hesea and Spirit of the Mountain, the priestess of that Oracle
which since the time of Alexander the Great has reigned between the
flaming pillars in the Sanctuary, the last holder of the sceptre of Hes or
Isis upon the earth. It is right also that to you first among men I should
reveal the mystic consummation of the wondrous tragedy which began at Kor,
or perchance far earlier in Egypt and elsewhere.</p>
<p>"I am very ill; I have struggled back to this old house of mine to die,
and my end is at hand. I have asked the doctor here, after all is over, to
send you the Record, that is unless I change my mind and burn it first.
You will also receive, if you receive anything at all, a case containing
several rough sketches which may be of use to you, and a <i>sistrum</i>,
the instrument that has been always used in the worship of the Nature
goddesses of the old Egyptians, Isis and Hathor, which you will see is as
beautiful as it is ancient. I give it to you for two reasons; as a token
of my gratitude and regard, and as the only piece of evidence that is left
to me of the literal truth of what I have written in the accompanying
manuscript, where you will find it often mentioned. Perhaps also you will
value it as a souvenir of, I suppose, the strangest and loveliest being
who ever was, or rather, is. It was her sceptre, the rod of her power,
with which I saw her salute the Shadows in the Sanctuary, and her gift to
me.</p>
<p>"It has virtues also; some part of Ayesha's might yet haunts the symbol to
which even spirits bowed, but if you should discover them, beware how they
are used.</p>
<p>"I have neither the strength nor the will to write more. The Record must
speak for itself. Do with it what you like, and believe it or not as you
like. I care nothing who know that it is true.</p>
<p>"Who and what was Ayesha, nay, what <i>is</i> Ayesha? An incarnate
essence, a materialised spirit of Nature the unforeseeing, the lovely, the
cruel and the immortal; ensouled alone, redeemable only by Humanity and
its piteous sacrifice? Say you! I have done with speculations who depart
to solve these mysteries.</p>
<p>"<i>I</i> wish you happiness and good fortune. Farewell to you and to all.</p>
<p>"L. Horace Holly."</p>
<p>I laid the letter down, and, filled with sensations that it is useless to
attempt to analyse or describe, opened the second envelope, of which I
also print the contents, omitting only certain irrelevant portions, and
the name of the writer as, it will be noted, he requests me to do.</p>
<p>This epistle, that was dated from a remote place upon the shores of
Cumberland, ran as follows:—</p>
<p>"Dear sir,—As the doctor who attended Mr. Holly in his last illness
I am obliged, in obedience to a promise that I made to him, to become an
intermediary in a some what strange business, although in truth it is one
of which I know very little, however much it may have interested me. Still
I do so only on the strict understanding that no mention is to be made of
my name in connexion with the matter, or of the locality in which I
practise.</p>
<p>"About ten days ago I was called in to see Mr. Holly at an old house upon
the Cliff that for many years remained untenanted except by the
caretakers, which house was his property, and had been in his family for
generations. The housekeeper who summoned me told me that her master had
but just returned from abroad, somewhere in Asia, she said, and that he
was very ill with his heart—dying, she believed; both of which
suppositions proved to be accurate.</p>
<p>"I found the patient sitting up in bed (to ease his heart), and a
strange-looking old man he was. He had dark eyes, small but full of fire
and intelligence, a magnificent and snowy-white beard that covered a chest
of extraordinary breadth, and hair also white, which encroached upon his
forehead and face so much that it met the whiskers upon his cheeks. His
arms were remarkable for their length and strength, though one of them
seemed to have been much torn by some animal. He told me that a dog had
done this, but if so it must have been a dog of unusual power. He was a
very ugly man, and yet, forgive the bull, beautiful. I cannot describe
what I mean better than by saying that his face was not like the face of
any ordinary mortal whom I have met in my limited experience. Were I an
artist who wished to portray a wise and benevolent, but rather grotesque
spirit, I should take that countenance as a model.</p>
<p>"Mr. Holly was somewhat vexed at my being called in, which had been done
without his knowledge. Soon we became friendly enough, however, and he
expressed gratitude for the relief that I was able to give him, though I
could not hope to do more. At different times he talked a good deal of the
various countries in which he had travelled, apparently for very many
years, upon some strange quest that he never clearly denned to me. Twice
also he became light-headed, and spoke, for the most part in languages
that I identified as Greek and Arabic; occasionally in English also, when
he appeared to be addressing himself to a being who was the object of his
veneration, I might almost say of his worship. What he said then, however,
I prefer not to repeat, for I heard it in my professional capacity.</p>
<p>"One day he pointed to a rough box made of some foreign wood (the same
that I have now duly despatched to you by train), and, giving me your name
and address, said that without fail it was to be forwarded to you after
his death. Also he asked me to do up a manuscript, which, like the box,
was to be sent to you.</p>
<p>"He saw me looking at the last sheets, which had been burned away, and
said (I repeat his exact words)—</p>
<p>"'Yes, yes, that can't be helped now, it must go as it is. You see I made
up my mind to destroy it after all, and it was already on the fire when
the command came—the clear, unmistakable command—and I
snatched it off again.'</p>
<p>"What Mr. Holly meant by this 'command' I do not know, for he would speak
no more of the matter.</p>
<p>"I pass on to the last scene. One night about eleven o'clock, knowing that
my patient's end was near, I went up to see him, proposing to inject some
strychnine to keep the heart going a little longer. Before I reached the
house I met the caretaker coming to seek me in a great fright, and asked
her if her master was dead. She answered No; but he was <i>gone</i>—had
got out of bed and, just as he was, barefooted, left the house, and was
last seen by her grandson among the very Scotch firs where we were
talking. The lad, who was terrified out of his wits, for he thought that
he beheld a ghost, had told her so.</p>
<p>"The moonlight was very brilliant that night, especially as fresh snow had
fallen, which reflected its rays. I was on foot, and began to search among
the firs, till presently just outside of them I found the track of naked
feet in the snow. Of course I followed, calling to the housekeeper to go
and wake her husband, for no one else lives near by. The spoor proved very
easy to trace across the clean sheet of snow. It ran up the slope of a
hill behind the house.</p>
<p>"Now, on the crest of this hill is an ancient monument of upright
monoliths set there by some primeval people, known locally as the Devil's
Ring—a sort of miniature Stonehenge in fact. I had seen it several
times, and happened to have been present not long ago at a meeting of an
archaeological society when its origin and purpose were discussed. I
remember that one learned but somewhat eccentric gentleman read a short
paper upon a rude, hooded bust and head that are cut within the chamber of
a tall, flat-topped cromlech, or dolmen, which stands alone in the centre
of the ring.</p>
<p>"He said that it was a representation of the Egyptian goddess, Isis, and
that this place had once been sacred to some form of her worship, or at
any rate to that of a Nature goddess with like attributes, a suggestion
which the other learned gentlemen treated as absurd. They declared that
Isis had never travelled into Britain, though for my part I do not see why
the Phoenicians, or even the Romans, who adopted her cult, more or less,
should not have brought it here. But I know nothing of such matters and
will not discuss them.</p>
<p>"I remembered also that Mr. Holly was acquainted with this place, for he
had mentioned it to me on the previous day, asking if the stones were
still uninjured as they used to be when he was young. He added also, and
the remark struck me, that yonder was where he would wish to die. When I
answered that I feared he would never take so long a walk again, I noted
that he smiled a little.</p>
<p>"Well, this conversation gave me a clue, and without troubling more about
the footprints I went on as fast as I could to the Ring, half a mile or so
away. Presently I reached it, and there—yes, there—standing by
the cromlech, bareheaded, and clothed in his night-things only, stood Mr.
Holly in the snow, the strangest figure, I think, that ever I beheld.</p>
<p>"Indeed never shall I forget that wild scene. The circle of rough, single
stones pointing upwards to the star-strewn sky, intensely lonely and
intensely solemn: the tall trilithon towering above them in the centre,
its shadow, thrown by the bright moon behind it, lying long and black upon
the dazzling sheet of snow, and, standing clear of this shadow so that I
could distinguish his every motion, and even the rapt look upon his dying
face, the white-draped figure of Mr. Holly. He appeared to be uttering
some invocation—in Arabic, I think—for long before I reached
him I could catch the tones of his full, sonorous voice, and see his
waving, outstretched arms. In his right hand he held the looped sceptre
which, by his express wish I send to you with the drawings. I could see
the flash of the jewels strung upon the wires, and in the great stillness,
hear the tinkling of its golden bells.</p>
<p>"Presently, too, I seemed to become aware of another presence, and now you
will understand why I desire and must ask that my identity should be
suppressed. Naturally enough I do not wish to be mixed up with a
superstitious tale which is, on the face of it, impossible and absurd. Yet
under all the circumstances I think it right to tell you that I saw, or
thought I saw, something gather in the shadow of the central dolmen, or
emerge from its rude chamber—I know not which for certain—something
bright and glorious which gradually took the form of a woman upon whose
forehead burned a star-like fire.</p>
<p>"At any rate the vision or reflection, or whatever it was, startled me so
much that I came to a halt under the lee of one of the monoliths, and
found myself unable even to call to the distraught man whom I pursued.</p>
<p>"Whilst I stood thus it became clear to me that Mr. Holly also saw
something. At least he turned towards the Radiance in the shadow, uttered
one cry; a wild, glad cry, and stepped forward; then seemed to fall <i>through
it</i> on to his face.</p>
<p>"When I reached the spot the light had vanished, and all I found was Mr.
Holly, his arms still outstretched, and the sceptre gripped tightly in his
hand, lying quite dead in the shadow of the trilithon."</p>
<p>The rest of the doctor's letter need not be quoted as it deals only with
certain very improbable explanations of the origin of this figure of
light, the details of the removal of Holly's body, and of how he managed
to satisfy the coroner that no inquest was necessary.</p>
<p>The box of which he speaks arrived safely. Of the drawings in it I need
say nothing, and of the <i>sistrum</i> or sceptre only a few words. It was
fashioned of crystal to the well-known shape of the <i>Crux-ansata</i>, or
the emblem of life of the Egyptians; the rod, the cross and the loop
combined in one. From side to side of this loop ran golden wires, and on
these were strung gems of three colours, glittering diamonds, sea-blue
sapphires, and blood-red rubies, while to the fourth wire, that at the
top, hung four little golden bells.</p>
<p>When I took hold of it first my arm shook slightly with excitement, and
those bells began to sound; a sweet, faint music like to that of chimes
heard far away at night in the silence of the sea. I thought too, but
perhaps this was fancy, that a thrill passed from the hallowed and
beautiful thing into my body.</p>
<p>On the mystery itself, as it is recorded in the manuscript, I make no
comment. Of it and its inner significations every reader must form his or
her own judgment. One thing alone is clear to me—on the hypothesis
that Mr. Holly tells the truth as to what he and Leo Vincey saw and
experienced, which I at least believe—that though sundry
interpretations of this mystery were advanced by Ayesha and others, none
of them are quite satisfactory.</p>
<p>Indeed, like Mr. Holly, I incline to the theory that She, if I may still
call her by that name although it is seldom given to her in these pages,
put forward some of them, such as the vague Isis-myth, and the wondrous
picture-story of the Mountain-fire, as mere veils to hide the truth which
it was her purpose to reveal at last in that song she never sang.</p>
<p>The Editor.</p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />