 | CHAPTER VII. El Fureidîs |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
Born beneath an Indian sun, but with the fresh life of
the West glowing in her veins, Havilah was at once the imaginative,
impassioned child of the Orient, and the active,
intelligent representative of a race as diverse to the Asiatic
type as is the point of the sun's rising to that of his going
down. Abroad upon the mountains, in the cottages of the
peasantry, or in the mission school, she emulated her father
in rapidity of thought and nervous energy of will; at home,
the meditative repose, the gentle grace, the intense sensibility,
of the maternal character were reflected in that of the
child. In her outer life she was light and free as the bird
of the air, but within, the hidden current of her young being
possessed a strange, mysterious depth, which none might
fathom. In this young nature, existence might be said to
be twofold,—the life of reality and the life of thought, the
actual and the ideal.
The early surroundings of Havilah's singular lot had not
a little favored this double development of character. In
the domain of the village, where M. Trefoil was carrying
forward the work of improvement and reform, unwearied
activity and systematic labor were the watchwords of success.
In the sphere of domestic influence, however, there
prevailed that undisturbed quiet, that serene atmosphere,
that luxurious sense of repose, which is peculiar to Eastern
households, and which Ianthe especially loved.
Thus from childhood Havilah's experience had alternated
between scenes of energetic usefulness and hours of unbroken
privacy,—the one giving play to all her active powers,
the other favoring in a like degree reflection, study, and
self-communing. Those then who had seen her in gay attire,
bounding lightly across the mountain passes, chatting
with the village matrons, or playing with the childish throng
that attended on her steps, would scarcely have recognized
her fairy form in the pensive figure which half sat, half
reclined amid a heap of cushions within a latticed window
of her father's villa, and, with her head resting on her hand,
gazed abstractedly upon the prospect, or lost herself in the
attentive perusal of one among the many books which lay
scattered around her.
Not such books are they as those with which a Western
belle is wont to beguile an idle hour. Near at hand, and
still open, as if reference had lately been made to its pages,
is the most precious of all,—a large Greek Bible, bound in
heavy vellum, with massive gold clasps and richly illuminated
margins; on her lap is a time-worn volume containing
the life of one of the early Christian fathers; or, perhaps,
a curious old Syriac manuscript holds the prominent place;
or, perchance, it is a French scientific work, by aid of
which she is learning to classify a newly discovered mineral
or flower; or, more probably still, her eager gaze is fixed
and her whole mind bent on one of those rare treasures
which she dearly loves to ponder, filled with wild Eastern
legend and strange Arabic lore, its figurative language and
rapt illustration chiming with and warming her own vivid
fancies. Whatever may be the theme, she draws from it
only elevated thought and pure instruction, if one may judge
from the earnest glow of feeling which overspreads her face
as he reads, and the aspiration with which she at length
own thoughts.
From such a reverie she is roused by the sudden starting
up of the gazelle at her feet, and by the approach of the
little handmaiden Geita, who, with a word, a smile, and a
motion of her hand towards the outer alcove, whence she
has come, at once dispels the train of meditation in which
her young mistress is indulging.
It could have been no unwelcome summons which Geita
brought, for Ayib, by some quick instinct comprehending its
import, speeds away in the direction indicated, in advance
of his mistress, and a pleasurable smile succeeds the pensive
expression of Havilah's face as she rises hastily from her
cushions, stoops to pick up the heavy golden arrow which
has dropped from her hair, binds up with it the long braided
bands which hang around her shoulders, then slips her feet
into the little silken slippers which stand side by side on the
Turcoman carpet, and, having thus adjusted her toilet without
the aid of a mirror, hastens to the principal saloon or alcove,
which constitutes the reception-room of the family.
In accordance with invariable custom in the East, this
saloon, the same in which Meredith had dined a few days
before, was enclosed on three sides only, the fourth presenting
an open archway, leading directly to the garden.
The apartment consisted of an upper and lower platform,
the former richly carpeted and encircled by a divan, the
latter paved with marble, and embellished with a rippling
fountain. A couple of steps served to connect these two
divisions of the alcove, and at the moment when Havilah
entered, the guest, who had come to crave an audience,
stood on the lower stair, pride forbidding him to take his
place on the platform reserved for visitors of inferior rank,
— modesty excluding him from a position parallel with the
desert, but the humble vassal of her to whom he paid
an almost worshipping homage.
Most kind and encouraging was her reception of the
sheik's son, whom Ayib was already acknowledging by
stretching out his graceful head for the youth's caress.
“You have come at last, Abdoul,” she exclaimed, holding
out her hand, over which the Arab boy bowed low, without
presuming to touch it. “I feared you had forgotten
Havilah.”
“When the night-wanderer on the mountains forgets to
watch for the morning star, then will Abdoul forget Havilah,”
was the grave reply, spoken in a tone of mingled
sweetness and reproach.
“Then why have you stayed away so long? Ayib and I
have sought in vain for the eagle's nest on the mountain, and
the white asphodels and blue-eyed campanulas have faded
long ago in my mother's china vase. Can Abdoul have
learned to feel himself a stranger in the Mother Ianthe's
home? Can he doubt that Havilah is his friend?”
“The child of the free air has longed to pursue the
mountain birds, and gather the flowers that grow on the
topmost crags. He has thought in the lonely night of the
orange-trees beside the fountain, and his soul has pined for
the touch of the healing hand. Does Havilah remember
the day when the vile Turk struck the Arab boy to the
ground, and they brought him bleeding hither?” The fire
of mingled emotions flashed in the Ishmaelite's eye as he
thus spoke, and, flinging black the sleeve of his embroidered
jacket, he displayed a scar which stretched from his elbow
to his wrist, gazed at it a moment, then, changing from a
tone of wild excitement to a gentle and subdued utterance,
said eloquently, at the same time gazing with grateful
and its healing slow; but the arm should be gladly bared
once more to the sabre, if the boy might call back the long,
sunny days when Ianthe poured balm on his wound, and his
heart was comforted, and the rose of Lebanon smiled on
him, and he felt no pain.”
“Those were happy days,” said Havilah, “when Ianthe's
little daughter found a pleasant playmate in Sheik Zanadeen's
son. But he has become a man since then; he rides
proudly upon his white mare, and hunts with his good
falcon. Ianthe's garden is not broad enough for him now
that he has spread his wings, else why comes he not
hither?”
“Sheik Zanadeen's son has not been his own master,”
replied the youth; “he has been in the service of the
Frank; and whom Abdoul serves, he serves. He comes
now to say farewell. To-morrow he departs for the
desert. Will Havilah think, when he is far away, of him
who is unworthy to kiss the soil on which she treads?”
“Havilah will not forget to pray to her God for the
playmate of her childhood, when he is guiding the Englishman
through distant lands.”
“The Englishman remains in El Fureidîs,” said the
Arab, slowly, and with emphasis, at the same time fixing on
Havilah an eye whose keenness scanned every line of her
countenance.
Apparently it satisfied him, for the scrutinizing frown
passed away from his face when she replied, with apparent
indifference, to his announcement: “Why, then, hastens
Abdoul hence?”
“To pursue the desert winds, to chase the fleet gazelle,
to spur the Khádhere across the soft sands which are as
cushions to her feet. Abdoul has been absent too long.
his son's embrace. In the morning he says, `Inshallah!
but he will come to-day;' in the evening he sighs, `Allah!
alas! why comes he not?' The arrow of the desert hears
the sigh which comes to him on the night breeze, and he
must speed him from the bow.”
“May the blessing of Heaven go with you!” said Havilah
with feeling. “May you find Sheik Zanadeen and
your little brothers well; may your coming bring joy to the
old chief's heart; and when his eyes are satisfied with the
presence of his son, may some kind errand send you once
more to El Fureidîs.”
The youth bowed low, touching his head, lips, and heart,
in the same expressive and dignified manner that had
marked his demeanor more than once during the interview,
then answered: “When the husbandman puts his sickle to
the yellow corn, and the olive-trees drop their ripe fruits
into the laps of the maidens, Abdoul will return to guide
the Frank into southern lands; meanwhile, Allah protect
this house, and send his gentlest breezes to blow on the
Mother Ianthe.”
“My mother,” said Havilah, “would gladly give a parting
blessing to him whom she used fondly to call the son
of her adoption; but she has been weary, and now she
sleeps.”
“Say to her,” said the boy, with enthusiasm, “that Abdoul
loves her image, and bears it with him in his heart,—that
he hears her voice when the turtle-dove coos to its mate,
and feels the soft pressure of her hand on his head when
the south-wind blows from Araby. For Havilah, Abdoul
has brought this casket of sweets, and bids it whisper
what he fain would say.” As he spoke, he produced from
amid the voluminous folds of his silken abayah an exquisite
of Damascene taste and skill,—and, gracefully bending
on one knee, laid it on the step at her feet.
With mingled hesitation and pleasure, Havilah stooped,
lifted the fragrant box, and, herself assuming a careless,
half-kneeling attitude beside the boy, exclaimed on the
beauty of its workmanship; then, archly raising its lid,
could not resist an almost childish ejaculation of delighted
surprise, as she found the contents of the box to consist of
layer upon layer of the choicest and most tempting of
Eastern sweetmeats.
“All this for Havilah?” she cried. “And has Abdoul
brought it through the desert and over the mountains to
please the taste which he remembers so well?”
“Were the distance ten times as great, and the casket as
heavy as its weight in gold, the way would have seemed
short and the burden light to Abdoul,” replied the boy, with
a gravity unmoved by the playful demeanor of Havilah,
who was meanwhile inhaling the mingled perfumes of the
casket and its rich fruits, and eagerly offering them to the
inspection of Ayib, then laughingly snatching them away,
as the little animal, who, like his mistress, was fond of
sweets, ventured to intrude his nose too far.
Equally unmoved was the donor of the gift at the sincere
and profuse thanks with which Havilah now acknowledged
her acceptance of it,—rising from her lowly posture, and
expressing herself with half-girlish, half-womanly grace, as
if she dimly realized that the Abdoul of her childhood was
scarcely one with the proud son of the desert chief.
“Thank me not,” said Abdoul; “I merit no thanks. I
would but make the casket the mouthpiece of that which
the soul would say. What perfume is to the smell, and
sugar to the lip, may life be always to Havilah. May every
bring sweetness to the heart, of the Lebanon Rose. Farewell.”
She held out her hand with the same cordiality as on
first greeting him. He forbore to press it to his lips,
though he bowed so low as to sweep it with his soft, curling
moustache; then, with a silent, expressive glance upward
into her face, he turned, and, wrapping his flowing mantle
around him, strode quickly away.
Havilah stood for a moment, leaning on the slender
railing which ran round the fountain, and watched his retreating
figure as he glided through the shrubbery of the
garden; then looking down at Ayib,—the youth's gift less
than a year before,—she caressed the little creature, saying
fondly, “Do not look so mournful, Ayib. Abdoul is gone,
but he will come back at harvest-time.” In a moment
more she had resumed her place among the cushions, and,
with the languor of contentment and repose, had become
lost in her book,—the casket at her side, and the gazelle,
as usual, at her feet.
And while she read, and mused on her reading, her
temples fanned by the cool breeze that made its way through
the lattice, and her innocent mind at rest, Abdoul mounted
his steed, and, defying a scorching sun, went out with
throbbing heart into the desert.
| CHAPTER VII. El Fureidîs | |