University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

As the church, which was the scene of the good father's
priestly labors, constituted the crowning point of the terraced
slope to which clung the mountain village, so at the foot
of the declivity, overhung by the habitations of his flock,
was the spot which the aged man had chosen for the
home of his privacy and repose. El Fureidis, like most villages
of the Lebanon range, was built upon successive
terraces or embanknients, rude walls of stone having been
constructed for the support of the light mould, which was
thus protected from the washing of the mountain torrents
and made subservient to cultivation. Hence many of the
dwellings in their gradation downwards were completely
overshadowed by those of the upper range, it being no
infrequent circumstance for the court-yard of one villager
to form a perfect level with the flat roof of his neighbor
of succeeding terrace.

From this species of oversight, the cottage of Father
Lapierre was happily exempt, being situated at the foot
of an abruptly projecting cliff, and its seclusion rendered
still more complete by a thick grove of olive and mulberry
trees, which skirted the edge of the precipice. So snugly
indeed was the little dwelling located beneath the natural
parapet of rock, that our weary traveller, having cautiously
followed Abdoul down the circuitous bridle-path that led
through the village, and now gained a comparatively level

space of ground, would impatiently have spurred his horse
past the destined resting-place, which he wholly failed to
observe, had he not been arrested by the voice of the old
man, who had already reached the spot, and was awaiting
his guests at the threshold.

As Meredith responded to Father Lapierre's welcoming
ejaculation by reining in his horse, and casting around him
in the dim light a glance of surprise and inquiry, his venerable
host advanced a few steps, and, with dignified hospitaity,
took the Englishman's bridle in one hand, while he
stretched the other towards him, saying, “Alight, my son;
it has been a wild night, and if you encountered the thunder-gust
among the mountains, you must stand in sore need
of rest and refreshment.”

“Thank you, my kind friend,” said Meredith, as he
frankly grasped the old man's hand; “I am indeed exhausted,
and shall be most grateful for your hospitality.”

“You are burning with fever,” said the good missionary,
as he felt his guest's heated palm. “I fear, too, you have
been drenched with the rain,” he continued, as he preceded
Meredith through the doorway which led into the principal
room of his dwelling. “Unless the noise of that telltale
waterfall deceive me, Abdoul, the showers have been heavier
above than for many weeks past;”—and, as he spoke,
he glanced questioningly at the young Arab, who, having
followed them into the cottage, now struck a light, which
sent a feeble glimmer through the apartment.

“The Frank has seen the big clouds burst on Lebanon,
and has heard the rushing of the Barûk fountains, which
will not soon be dry again,” said the boy, as he placed the
iron lamp that he had been trimming in a stone niche in
the wall, and hastened to obey the calls of his own and
Meredith's horses, which were neighing loudly outside.

The old man laid his hand on Meredith's shoulder, felt
the dampness of his garments, then, with an expressive
gesture, stepped quickly into a sort of shed adjoining the
dwelling, and, returning with fuel, busied himself in lighting
a fire, his guest in the mean time leaning heavily against the
rough-plastered wall, and making a curious survey of the
unfamiliar objects around him.

Humble as was the home of Father Lapierre, it nevertheless
combined not a few elements of interest, since the
grandeur of a remote antiquity, the primitive usages of
Eastern life, and the refinements of modern civilization
were all combined in its construction. The classic pillars
and sculptured façade which adorned its portal, no less than
the perfect proportions of its principal apartment, proclaimed
it the ruin of some wayside shrine or ancient sepulchre, the
origin and use of which were buried among the secrets of
the past, and were matters of but little interest to the
Syrian peasant, who, in process of time, had found a home
within its walls, and added to it the few and unostentatious
comforts which his simple life demanded. But if there was
a marked incongruity between the remnants of ancient
architecture and the rough indications of peasant life and
labor, there was a still greater contrast between the Oriental
character evinced in all these objects and those evidences of
ingenuity and convenience which were conspicuous in the
few articles of Western use and luxury which the hand of
affection, rather than any self-seeking on the part of Father
Lapierre, had introduced into the dwelling since he became
its occupant.

Thus, as Meredith took a rapid survey of everything
within the range of his vision, he scarcely knew whether to
feel most astonished at the graceful stone shafts and noble
archway, at the earthen fireplace, primitive cooking utensils,

and hard clay floor, or at the hanging book-shelves,
glazed cabinet of curiosities, and clock of American manufacture,
which hung upon the walls; while his aged host,
with long black robes and snowy beard, seemed more fully
to represent a patriarchal age than anything associated with
the present.

The somewhat severe and monastic character of the little
domicile, as discerned by the dim lamplight, and the damp,
earthy chilliness of the atmosphere within its low stone
walls, gave place to comparative cheerfulness and warmth,
as the fire which Father Lapierre was but a moment in
lighting sent abroad its ruddy glow. And now the old man,
with an alertness of movement which seemed to contradict
his extremely venerable appearance, applied himself to such
other hospitable tasks as the occasion demanded. Lifting a
piece of coarse matting, which served to divide the apartment
from a small dormitory in the rear, he disappeared for
an instant, then, returning with a thick goat-skin burnous
over his arm, invited his guest to exchange the damp frieze
shooting-jacket which he wore, for the ample Arab garment.

Meredith would have resisted, but there was a gentle
authority in the manner of his host which enforced compliance,
and in a moment more the muscular young Englishman,
who would have scorned such propositions if
otherwise recommended, found himself wrapped in the folds
of rough cloth, and seeking temporary repose on the low
divan which ran around the room.

Here, stretched at full length, but with no disposition
to lose himself in sleep, he watched with interest and
curiosity the operations of the missionary and of Abdoul,
who returned after a brief absence.

Preparations for an evening repast were evidently going
forward. It was the work of but a moment for Father

Lapierre to take from his larder the simple articles of
refreshment that it afforded, and a bowl of goat's milk,
a small vessel containing honey, and a remnant of burghol,
or coarse boiled wheat, were soon set forth on the clumsy
tray, which, mounted on a stool, constituted his only table.
Some other cares, however, served to engross him more
fully. Opening a small cupboard in one corner of the
room he took from it several packages, examined their
lables with precision, then, selecting those which suited
his purpose, emptied a portion of their contents into a
small mortar. He now retreated into the inner room,
where Meredith could distinctly hear him diligently pounding
the substance, which, when sufficiently pulverized, was
brought to the fire in an earthen vessel, and, being mingled
with water, was set upon the coals to simmer. The old
man, with lamp in hand, was steadily watching the preparation,
which began to diffuse an agreeable fragrance through
the apartment, and was now and then removing the scum
from its surface, when the heavy door turned noiselessly
on its pivot,[1] and Abdoul entered. He wore an unmistakable
air of triumph, and a smile of self-gratulation
played round his handsome mouth as he took from his
head a flat tray of delicious fruit, and removed from his
arm a quaintly formed basket, which he proceeded to
unpack. The latter contained a cold fowl, a bottle of
transparent wine, and some thin crisp cakes, such as constitute
the ordinary bread of the country.

Father Lapierre looked up as the youth entered, but
offered no inquiries and manifested no surprise as Abdoul
made a tasteful and tempting array of the viands which

he had brought. As if considering that the arrangements
for the meal were now complete, however, and that he
was called upon to serve in his capacity of host, the old
man rose from his stooping posture at the fire, and, drawing
the table into close proximity to Meredith's couch, courteously
invited him to partake of the refreshment thus set
before him. Meredith, who had risen from his recumbent
posture, as he observed his host's intention, hastened to
entreat the latter to be seated and share the repast; but
this he positively declined, and his guest, with a listless
and indifferent air which betrayed but little keenness of
appetite, prepared to do honor to the excellence of the
fare. His efforts were in vain, however. The pure wine
for which the country is justly famed seemed to course
through his veins like burning poison, and he experienced
only loathing at the first mouthful of the tender fowl, which
a few hours earlier he would have devoured with a
sportsman's eagerness. The rich grapes alone offered any
temptation to his parched lips. He ate a few of them,
then leaning his elbow on the table, while his knife and
fork lay idly across his plate, he sat for a moment unconsciously
gazing into vacancy.

He was roused by the old man's hand placed gently upon
his forehead. “It is as I feared,” said Father Lapierre;
“you are in no condition to prove your ability as a trencherman.
It is but poor hospitality which urges food upon one
who has no inward promptings;”—and as he spoke, he
made a motion to the watchful Abdoul, who silently removed
the tray. “You have been exposed to the fever of the
country; indeed, you are already affected by it, as you and
I can both perceive,” added the considerate host, laying his
fingers on Meredith's pulse. The speaker paused a moment;
then as if alarmed by the evident severity of his

guest's symptoms, exclaimed, “You must take my advice,
my son, and go at once to bed. My little cell yonder boasts
no luxuries, and my couch is a hard one; but I have prepared
you a soothing draught, and I trust you will find
your best remedy in sleep.”

“Your couch, my excellent friend?” said Meredith, rising
with a quick movement, then staggering back, while the
dizziness of his brain rendered the objects about him indistinct,—“I
cannot think of robbing you of the only bed
your house affords; we must seek lodgings elsewhere.”

“My couch,” said Father Lapierre, in reply, “is any spot
where I have space to spread my burnous and stretch my
limbs; habit has made me independent of what other men
call ease. For yourself, the same chance, or rather Providence,
which made you my guest, makes me your medical
adviser; and the hakeem of an Eastern village is wont to
be implicitly obeyed.”

As he spoke, he raised the strip of matting and looped it
firmly against the ceiling, thereby disclosing an inner room
or closet, which contained only a narrow iron bedstead, a
large oaken chest, and a few garments hanging from the
walls. “Abdoul will bring your saddle-bags hither,” continued
he, “and for the present you must content yourself
with these narrow quarters, and the assurance that, if you
cannot enjoy the comforts of an English home, you shall
have every care which could be rendered you in your own
father's house.”

There was something in the old man's dignified and paternal
tone of command which bore down all opposition, and
Meredith, in his weak and prostrate condition, could only
thank him and submit. The traveller's luggage, therefore,
was instantly brought, and while he took possession of his
unpretending bedroom Father Lapierre returned to the

preparation of that healing medicament of which he had so
truly foreseen the use, and which was still steeping over the
fire.

Some hours passed on. The not unpalatable dose had
been administered, and had brought to the senses and limbs
of the patient a certain degree of repose, though sleep was
still far from his eyelids. The fire burned low in the sunken
fireplace, diffusing now and then a flickering light through
the outer apartment, but leaving the inner in complete
shadow. The solemn hush of night was undisturbed save
by the monotonous plashing of the neighboring waterfall,
the barking of a village dog, or the sharp cry of a jackal
in the distance. But though all within doors was studiously
quiet, it was not the quiet of slumber; for Father Lapierre
had devoted the night to watching, his anxiety concerning
his patient being quickened by the fact that the narcotic
had taken only partial effect, and Abdoul had wakened from
his first sound sleep to creep near the fire, crouch over it
for greater warmth, and spread his thin, slender hands in
front of the decaying embers. Thus as Meredith lay
motionless on his little pallet, gazing with strained and
feverish intensity into the room beyond, the picture which
it presented was that of a noble, hermit-like figure, kneeling
beside the low divan of the opposite wall, his long, white
beard sweeping the pages of an open Bible, and his hoary
head resting on his hands, while his heart was engaged in
midnight devotion, and—the more striking from his striking from his utter
contrast with the venerable missionary—the lithe, wiry
form of the Arab boy, drawn up so that his arms embraced
his knees, his small white turban, gay red vest, and striped
abaya brought out in strong relief against a dark background,
while now and then the light flame played over his
swarthy face, revealing the intense brightness of his eyes,

and more than once a fierce scowl, perhaps of malice, perhaps
of defiance, shot across his expressive countenance, as
he peered eagerly in the direction of the dormitory.

It was but one of many visions which passed before
the eyes of Meredith during the succeeding weeks that he
lay imprisoned on that little couch, and, as now the form of
the grave old man constituted the calm, strong background
to the picture, while Abdoul's keen face and savage glances
gave a startling wildness to the scene, so through days of
weariness and nights of delirium the presence of the good
old priest invariably imparted a sweet sense of repose and
serenity to the sufferer, whom the sight of the Arab boy, or
the mere sound of his voice, never failed to agitate or disturb.
To the excited and feverish brain of Meredith it
was as if the one were the herald of sleep and refreshment,
the other, the harbinger of restlessness and pain; the one,
a soothing angel of peace, the other, a disturbing spirit of
nnrest.

The nerves which had become irritated, and the pulse
which had been quickened by the old man's occasional
absence, were quieted and subdued from the moment that
he re-entered his dwelling; the eyes, which had glared with
unnatural intensity, while watching the motions of the agile
youth, were closed in gentle slumber when the calm old
man quietly assumed at the bedside the offices of a nurse.
On one occasion, when Meredith's fever was at its height,
and Father Lapierre had been peremptorily summoned from
home, a troop of village children, attracted by curiosity, and
unprohibited by Abdoul, took possession of the outer room
of the dwelling, and by their juvenile pranks and licensed
stares excited the Englishman almost to frenzy. At the
return of the pastor, and at his brief expostulation, they
readily dispersed; but the harmless little band continued

for several days to haunt the brain of the sick man, in
whose eyes Father Lapierre was glorified as an angel of
light, whose power had put to flight those imps of evil
which Abdoul, the prince of darkness, had maliciously conjured
up.

And once, once only, when the boy had been sent on a
distant mission, when Father Lapierre was reading in his
outer room, and when the sick man, who had been all day
under the influence of a powerful opiate, was supposed to
be still asleep, the outer door turned gently on its stone
pivot, the glow of the Syrian twilight gushed in at the
aperture, and there, amid the golden halo, stood the slender
form of a young girl,—the same whom Meredith had seen
in the church on the first evening of his arrival, who had
seemed to him more than humanly lovely then, and who
appeared to him now less a woman than a seraph. She
spoke, and though her words and her modern Greek accent
were unintelligible to the Englishman, her voice charmed
all his senses; she smiled, and he read in her face all the
heavenly beatitudes. A moment more, and she was gone,
and with her went the western sunlight, and gloom overspread
the room again.

Day after day, at the selfsame hour, the sick man
watched the door-way; but it opened no more to give
admittance to the young girl, whose solitary visit became
at length to the invalid like one of the visions of his
fancy. And as such it was treasured up, and cherished
in his memory. Henceforth she mingled in his dreams,
and lived in the world of his imagination. She was the
spirit of good, walking hand in hand with the old man,
adding beauty to his strength. He was a wand of power,
she a garment of light; he was a healing influence, she
an angel of grace. Against them both, Abdoul and all

the agents of darkness were powerless indeed; and, as
gradually the fever was allayed, and the invalid progressed
in his convalescence, the spectres of evil which had haunted
his pillow gave place to the images of sweetness and repose
which now had full possession of his soul.

Thus, with Father Lapierre for his physician and nurse,
with Havilah for the companion of his thoughts, and the
constant, though unknown, minister to his wants, and with
God's blessing on the efforts of them both, the stranger
in this Syrian land found repose in the place of delirium,
exchanged sickness for health, and felt his burning fever
quenched by the dew of healing.

Was it not typical of a deeper, holier ministry, under whose
sacred influence the spirit long tossed with doubt should
find a truer rest, the soul sick with vain longings should
be satisfied, and life's varied ills should all find their
cure at the hand of God's faithful servants, and under the
blessing of Him who has promised, “Unto them that fear
my name shall the Sun of righteousness arise, with healing
on his wings”?