 | CHAPTER XI. El Fureidîs |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
The summer had passed. The silk-worms had spun their
cocoons and perished. The harvests of corn and wheat had
been beaten out on the clay threshing-floor, and gathered
into the garners. The olive-trees had been shaken, the ripe
fruit heaped into the laps of the laughing maidens, and the
portion that still clung to the boughs left for the wayfarer
and the gleaner. The grapes had ripened on the vine, in
clusters as rich and heavy as those which the ancient
Hebrews brought from Eschol to the prophet when they
went to spy out the wealth of the land. The noise of the
vintage-shouting had gone up as the men and boys trod out
the rich wine in the wine-presses. The time of labor was
over, and the short season of rest had come to the husbandman.
Abdoul, according to promise, had returned from the
desert. The noble steeds of pure Arab blood, which the
sheik's son had purchased for the Frank from the best that
his tribe could boast, chafed within their stalls, snuffed the
air with their nostrils, pawed the ground, and panted with
impatience at their new master's long delay. And still the
Englishman lingered in El Fureidis.
It was now the month of October, the annual period, not
of rest only, but of festivity to the peasant of the Lebanon,
and the village of El Fureidîs was rife with mirth and
gayety in honor of the nuptials of Asaad and Hendia,—
Asaad, the native overseer in the factory of M. Trefoil,—
Hendia, the comely daughter of Tyiby (the good).
It was a universal holiday. The factory bells were ringing,
not with the monotonous sound which was wont to
summon the artisans to their work, but with the gleeful
notes of jubilee. The village matrons, clothed in their best,
and proudly bearing on their heads the heavy tantours,—
tokens of their own matrimonial dignity,—were wending
their way to the cottage of Yoosoof, each bearing some
trifling gift to the bride. The young men, with rude instruments
of music in their hands, were already forming the
procession which was to serve as an escort to the bridegroom.
The master's daughter, without whose presence the
ceremony would scarcely have been deemed complete, was
dressed in gala attire, and, followed by her bounding gazelle,
was now roaming through Ianthe's garden, gathering flowers
from which to weave with her own hands the bridal chaplets;
while the master himself, standing on his house-top, gazed
with satisfaction on the groups of gay and prosperous villagers,
then turned to address a remark to Meredith, who
stood beside him.
“It does my heart good,” said the benevolent manufacturer,
“to see my people so happy. I call them mine, and
I assure you I feel like a father to them all. This village
was one of the least thriving of the neighborhood when I
settled here, Mr. Meredith. The siroccos had for several
years in succession injured the crops, the terraces had fallen
into decay, conscription and taxes had depopulated and impoverished
the place, and feuds between the Druses and
Maronites had effected still worse results. But you see
what we have accomplished. I do not speak boastfully.
It is the same wherever among the mountains European
arts and civilization have been introduced,—or, if this is
more fortunate than other villages, it is due chiefly to
Father Lapierre's influence, not to mine.”
“You have every reason to be proud,—the proudest man
I know,” exclaimed Meredith, energetically; responding to
M. Trefoil's general remarks, but with a gaze fixed upon
his daughter, whose figure was discernible from the spot
where the two men stood.
“O no, not proud,” was the prompt and sincere reply;
“only grateful. But, my friend, I am not satisfied yet.
Thanks to your liberal aid, I mean to do far more for myself,
my work-people, and the example of our neighbors.
This introduction of steam into my factory is to be of
essential service. Our supply of water is ample, but irregular,
very irregular. This new agent is to be depended
upon,—it will accomplish wonders.” And while Meredith
listened in a half-absent way, his host proceeded to dilate
upon the advantages of the new and long-desired experiment,
which, through his guest's prompt and generous
advancement of the necessary capital, the manufacturer had
been recently enabled to make.
It had been no slight satisfaction to Meredith accidentally
to discover a method by which he could defray some
portion of his obligation to M. Trefoil, whose expenditure
had so kept pace with his success, that it had never hitherto
been in his power to make the projected improvement
in his machinery. As, however, the wealthy Englishman's
order upon his banker for the necessary amount had been
received by the sanguine manufacturer in the same careless,
unhesitating spirit in which it was offered, it had been
a matter of scarcely any moment to Meredith, who would
have soon ceased to remember both the loan and its object,
had they not been subjects of such engrossing interest to
the adventurous and eager man of business.
It was with feigned interest, therefore, that Meredith
listened to M. Trefoil's speculative schemes, until his attention
apologetic tone, that, owing to the unusual cares which his
new project involved, he feared he should not be able, after
all, to indulge himself in the proposed excursion to Jerusalem.
“I fear I have been very selfish in this matter,” continued
the simple-minded man, as he observed the expression
of regret which crossed Meredith's countenance. “I have
allowed you to linger in this neighborhood an unreasonable
length of time, awaiting my movements, only to disappoint
you in the end. I was perfectly frank in my intentions,—
that you will not doubt,—but, to be candid with you, I do
not see—”
“M. Trefoil,” cried Meredith, abruptly interrupting him,
while the color mounted into the Englishman's face, and
his eyes were for an instant turned away from the garden
on which they had hitherto been fastened, “do not mortify
me by apologies. Your frankness challenges mine.
It is I only who have been selfish in this delay. I have
trespassed most unconscionably on your hospitality. I have
had it in my mind to depart a hundred times; I am
ashamed of my own weakness, for I dare not stay,—and
yet”—he paused, then concluded with the vehement utterance
of one from whom the truth is wrung in spite of
himself—“I cannot go.”
M. Trefoil looked confounded, less at the young man's
words than at his manner, for he had withdrawn a few
steps as he finished speaking, and stood leaning over the
parapet to protect himself from the puzzled and questioning
gaze which the manufacturer fixed upon him. But the
simplicity of M. Trefoil was not diminished, however his
equanimity might be disturbed by his guest's impetuous outburst;
and, preferring to give to it the most natural and
Meredith's shoulder, and exclaimed with affectionate warmth:
“You are not a man of the world, Mr. Meredith. You like
our simple ways: so much the better. El Fureidis has
charms for you. In this you and I sympathize. Your
English friends may perhaps be wondering what keeps you
here, but I—”
He had proceeded thus far, when he was checked by the
sound of a musical voice and laugh, and, obedient both to this
and to the fixedness of the Englishman's gaze, he gave a quick
glance over the parapet into the garden below. A glow
of loving pride overspread the father's face as he beheld
Havilah, her graceful throat arched and her head slightly
thrown back, as she looked upward, not to the height of
the parapet, but to the latticed window where the invalid
Ianthe reclined, watching the motions of her daughter. The
garlands of flowers were completed, and the gazelle, standing
erect beside his mistress, triumphantly supported one
around his neck, while Havilah, laughing at the little creature's
air of participation in the display, held up the other
also for her mother's inspection.
Never had the mountain-girl appeared, either in her fond
father's or her admiring lover's eyes, so sweetly yet royally
beautiful. The latter now saw her for the first time in her
mother's national dress,—the modern Greek costume,—
which she wore only on festive occasions. If anything
could have added to the dignity of her erect carriage, it
was the little embroidered cap, beneath which were looped
the massive braids of her dark hair, and whose heavy gold
tassels nearly swept her shoulders. The gold bordering of
her velvet jacket, and the threads of the same rich material
interwoven in her broad Persian sash, glistened in the
sunshine, and the silken pattern wrought upon her full
But more than all the aids of a becoming toilette, the glow
of an innocent heart lent loveliness to her features, and
sympathy with others' joy gave animation and vivacity to
every movement. She did not see her father or his companion,
and the smiles which lit up her face were meant
only for her mother.
M. Trefoil gazed upon her a moment in silence, then
turned towards Meredith, and, the latter looking up at the
same instant, their eyes met. Meredith attempted no concealment;
his countenance spoke volumes. With an emphatic
glance in the direction of Havilah, he took up the
conversation where it had dropped, and said impressively,
“Can you wonder?”
The light which suddenly shone into the honest mind of
M. Trefoil was as complete as had been his previous blindness.
For one moment he looked bewildered, almost overwhelmed,
with astonishment. Then, as Meredith was about
to turn away, with that air of reserve, and even of mortification,
which a haughty and sensitive man feels when he has
humbled himself to the confession of a secret, the sympathetic
heart of M. Trefoil was moved; he started forward,
grasped both the young man's hands in his, and exclaimed:
“No, I cannot wonder; nor need you be ashamed to confess
it, if, as I suspect, you but share the weakness of us all,—
the mother, Father Lapierre, the village peasants, those old,
gray monks, that wild boy of the desert, and even the little
gazelle, if”—he hesitated, looked searchingly in Meredith's
face, then concluded abruptly—“if you love the child.”
“I do,” was the proud Englishman's answer.
“Does she know it?” asked M. Trefoil, earnestly, a shade
of paternal anxiety marking the countenance usually so carelessly
confiding.
“She does not,” replied Meredith; “nor have I any
knowledge of her sentiments. Until this moment, indeed,
I have never fully understood my own.”
“That is well,” rejoined the father, in a relieved tone, at
the same time withdrawing his hands from Meredith's, clasping
them behind his back, and giving several affirmative
nods. “That is well, Mr. Meredith. She is such a child,
such a mere child, what should she know of love and matrimony?
You did right to speak to me first. You have
acted like a man of honor, as you are. And you shall have
her, my good friend; I give you my hand on that. I did
not realize that my little rose-bud had ripened into a rose.
I had not dreamed”—and he breathed a deep sigh—
“of a stranger from another land seeking to pluck my blossom
from the parent tree. I never would have believed”—
and the broad chest heaved convulsively, while the voice
grew choked and husky—“that I would have given my
darling to the first man that asked for her; but I can't
refuse you, Mr. Meredith,—no, on my soul, I can't. You
have stolen the father's heart, and you shall have the
child.”
“But the child's heart?” said Meredith, speaking in a
tone that was far from elated, and which would have acted
as a check upon a less sanguine man than M. Trefoil.
“You forget that I have neither stolen nor won that.”
“Tut, tut, man, don't disparage yourself,” said M. Trefoil,
laying his hand familiarly on the shoulder of the Englishman,
and resuming his wonted air of easy unconcern. “Is such a
face and figure as yours to go a begging for a wife? Why,
if I were a girl, I'd marry you myself, my fine fellow; and
is Havilah blind, deaf, and cold as a stone, that she should
close her tender little heart against the man whom even her
doting old father considers worthy of his child? No, no,
vain, Mr. Meredith. At all events, we'll soon come at the
truth; for the mother must know, and I'll speak of the
matter to her to-night.”
“By no means, I beg of you,” entreated Meredith, with a
distressed countenance and a startled, deprecating gesture.
“You are not in earnest, then?” said M. Trefoil, with
frank simplicity.
“Never was man more so,” replied Meredith, in an impatient
tone; “but give me time, I beseech of you. Let
me discover the truth for myself.”
“What! talk of love to the child! Impossible! That is
not our Oriental fashion. She would be as much shocked
and startled as a desert fawn at the whizzing of an arrow.
You would destroy your own hopes. So, not a word to
Havilah. Let me speak to the mother; and if you wish
for an advocate, let it be Ianthe.”
Meredith bit his lip. His face was dark with an uneasy
frown. He felt that he had committed himself, and was
bound to submit to the dictation of this unsophisticated man.
He had no positive wish to retract his words, to recall his
confession; and yet all the sentiment and romance, as well
as all the fastidious reserve of his character, rebelled against
the position in which he found himself placed.
His dissatisfaction and annoyance, however, were either
imputed simply to thoughtful earnestness, or were wholly
unobserved by M. Trefoil, who, having now recovered from
his first bewilderment of surprise, and having given a definite
and practical form to Meredith's involuntary acknowledgment,
proceeded to indulge in the characteristic exultations
and hopes to which the occasion gave rise.
Good, easy, obtuse soul! He little suspected that the
flattering protest with which he hesitated not to assure his
have chosen for a son-in-law, caused the aspirant for this near
relationship to wince more painfully than he would have
done at the closest inquisition of his character and claims.
The elated parent could not have imagined that when, with
artless garrulity, he indulged fond visions of the future,
the fastidious Englishman shrunk from them as uncalled
for and premature. The simple pleasure-schemer failed
to observe that, at his jocular allusion to the day when the
village bells should ring a louder and a merrier peal in
honor of the handsome Frank and his Lebanon bride, the
features of the handsome Frank were crossed by a nervous
thrill, as if the merry bells had suddenly rung out a discord.
Yet so it was. For strangely enough, the deepest emotion
Meredith had ever known—an emotion the depth of
which he himself had not yet fathomed—was so overlaid
with habitual and even morbid sensitiveness, that when a
less haughty and fastidious nature would have glowed triumphantly,
he only felt irritated, trifled with, and repelled.
Meredith was not a vain man. Half an hour before, he
would have drawn encouragement from the belief that any
person living entertained of him so high an opinion as
Havilah's father hesitated not to express. He was not a
sanguine man. In the deeper crises of his life, he had ever
been one who apprehended failure rather than success; but
now the proud, dreamy, poetic heart, which had secretly invoked
hope to its aid, chafed under and well-nigh disclaimed
the prompt paternal acceptance, which robbed him even of
the pleasures of pursuit; and if anything could have taught
him to undervalue the object for which he was striving, it
was the undisguised readiness with which the prize was
stripped of its romance, and thrust upon him almost before
he could be said to have sought it.
So while the light-hearted manufacturer rattled carelessly
on, his graver companion stood by him in dignified silence,
too honest to feign sympathy in M. Trefoil's excessive exultation,
too proudly courteous to interrupt him by look or
gesture, or venture to set limits to the schemes which had
sprung from the confessions of an unguarded moment.
But our hero's natural impetuosity was not proof against
the imperturbable coolness with which M. Trefoil presumed
to refer the young couple's fate to arbitration; and this point
being once more emphatically alluded to, the restraint which
Meredith had imposed upon himself suddenly gave way, and
he broke forth in an earnest and even vehement expostulation,
inveighing against further suspense in a matter which
had gone so far, protesting against submitting his destiny to
any one save Havilah herself, and claiming the right to plead
his own cause.
“There is no occasion for suspense at all,” responded M.
Trefoil, with a persistency none the less provoking because
it was wholly compounded of good humor; “I will speak to
Ianthe this very day, and as to pleading your own cause,”
he continued in a persuasive tone, “you have had opportunity
enough, for this month past, and shall have again.”
He would have pursued his argument, but Meredith interrupted
him, and with a gesture of intense irritation exclaimed:
“You acknowledge that I have had every opportunity;
you must also acknowledge, that I have honorably
forborne to make use of it. Why not, then, trust to my discretion
for the future? I hate suspense, to be sure, but this
haste, this interference is—is—” He stammered a little,
turned very red, then added abruptly, “To tell the truth,
I was not prepared for it,—I have been accustomed to rule
my own actions.”
He had forgotten himself, and gone too far. The man of
was wounded. His injured feelings were betrayed in the
apologetic yet self-respectful modesty with which he instantly
responded in the words: “I am sorry I have seemed in
haste, Mr. Meredith. I assure you I am in no haste to part
with my child. Perhaps you wish to retract. In that case
we will consider the past conversation unsaid.”
It was now Meredith's turn to be mortified and abashed.
He was a gentleman, the descendant of a long line of gentlemen;
he began to fear he was deporting himself like a
trifler and a clown. He lost no time, therefore, in renewing
his warm protestations and hopes. The injured father was
reassured by the unmistakable earnestness with which the
young man disclaimed any hesitation in his choice or the
pursuit of its object; and this little misunderstanding resulted,
as such contre-temps not unfrequently do, in the most
amiable and most yielding of the parties carrying his point.
For, as if to atone for his doubts, M. Trefoil's next movement
was to lay his hand affectionately on Meredith's shoulder,
accompanying the action with the words, “Forgive me,
my dear friend; I did not mean to wrong you,—it was only
a father's sensitive pride. You own that I have reason to
be proud of my child; and as to the interference, since
you term it such, I wish only to give your suit the sanction
of our approval. Havilah is a dutiful girl, and habituated
to Eastern customs. So let her mother have the first word.
I do not ask it for myself,” he continued, persuasively, “only
for Ianthe's sake. Hark, that is little Geita's voice, calling
to let me know that the procession is moving.” Then, as if
taking it for granted that a full submission to his wishes had
been conceded, he added, “I will whisper a word in Ianthe's
ear before I go to meet the villagers. Remember, my good
fellow, until you hear from me again, not a word to the
hand, and pressing his own finger meaningly to his
lips, as if to enforce silence, hastened down the staircase.
Meredith turned on his heel, folded his arms, drew his
hat over his brow, and commenced walking rapidly up and
down the terrace. His countenance was far from that of a
favored suitor, furnished with full credentials by the father
of his mistress. Aggrieved, dissatisfied, indignant, he felt
himself robbed of his prerogative, both as an Englishman
and a lover. The hot blood mounted to his temples as he
contemplated the sacred, and until now well-guarded, secret
of his passion for the mountain-girl, held up to the light of
common day to be weighed, discussed, and criticised; his
pride was stung to the quick by the thought that he had
involuntarily suffered himself to become a puppet in a love
drama; and the heart which had been all aglow with fervor
while in pursuit of his fairy bride, was chilled by the suspicion
that the hand so confidently promised him might be
placed in his, not by choice, but by the flat of a family
council.
Let it be said, in justice to the candor of Meredith's disposition,
that his vague sense of injury was in no degree
aggravated by his imagining himself the dupe or tool of
any preconcerted matrimonial stratagem. He did not for a
moment doubt the single-mindedness of his honest host.
The good man's simplicity might even have been a source
of amusement to the young Englishman, had it been exercised
in any other matter than one which affected his own
dearest interests.
Still, despite his generosity,—and he was generous to a
fault,—it cannot be denied that, as he paced restlessly up
and down the narrow terrace, his thoughts insensibly wandered
to those broad acres, that princely rent-roll, destined
to M. Trefoil. Meredith knew the weight it had exercised
in many a matrimonial scheme vainly projected for him
heretofore. Could he be sure that in the present instance
it would not bias the inclinations of an ambitious parent,—
possibly those of his child?
With inward misgivings the young man for the first time
strove to picture the mountain-girl amid the scenes of his
English home. Would the gay wild-flower of the Lebanon
bear transplanting to stern British soil? Might not the
bright bird of the Orient pine amid the stately decorum of
an old, baronial hall?
Before him, in this moment of self-questioning, rose the
image of his dignified, aristocratic father. He had ever
been lenient towards the son whose contradictory tastes had
thus far disappointed him at every step. But would he be
likely to smile approval on the foreign alliance which he
would naturally deem the crowning and least pardonable
eccentricity of all?
With a deeper prophetic instinct still, Meredith called to
mind his stately sister, proud as himself, and far more conventional.
Would not her cold and unsisterly greeting send
a chill to the heart of her brother's sunny bride?
Unwelcome visions were they all,—the offspring of an
imagination heated and ruffled by the events of the morning.
Still, for the moment they exercised their sway, and
it was with a self-accusing, half-repentant pang, rather than
with an ecstatic hope, that Meredith dreamed himself the
successful suitor of Havilah.
Fie on him for a presumptuous, cold-hearted lover! Yet
stay! Let us remember, ere we condemn him, that lovers
are but men. Let us have patience too. These prudential
considerations float only on the surface. We have not yet
the true man. He does not yet know himself.
But hark! what sound is that which breaks in upon his
meditation, checks his restless step, and transfixes him at the
extremity of the parapet? It is merely the harsh music of
a drum and fife, accompanied by the shouts of a village
crowd. What sight is it which causes a sudden kindling in
his clear blue eye, and banishes from his mind every other
object save that to which he directs his straining vision? It
is simply the reflection of the sunlight on the gold tassels of
a little Greek cap; it is nothing but the flutter of a muslin
robe, which vanished from the garden a half-hour ago, to reappear
in the foreground of the nuptial procession now winding
slowly up the steep bridle-path which skirts the mulberry
grove. There is a moment's struggle between pride and
passion; for a moment the aristocrat and the lover are at
war; for a moment the indignant Englishman leans moodily
over the parapet, strives to still the beating of his heart, and
vows himself an alien to the scene. A moment more, and
where are the harassing visions which so lately disturbed
his mind? They have melted as the mountain mist flees
before the sunshine of morning. Where are his hesitations
and his doubts? Scattered to the four winds of heaven.
Obedient to an impulse stronger than them all, he has
bounded down the staircase, crossed the garden, and gained
the topmost terrace of the mulberry grove, which commands
a prospect of the rocky pathway up which the procession is
slowly filing. For an instant they are hid behind a huge
boulder which causes an abrupt angle in the narrow pass,
then suddenly they emerge into view, led by M. Trefoil and
his daughter, who are closely followed by the gay and noisy
train of villagers. In the midst of them walks the bride,
modestly bending low her head, which is covered by a long
white veil.
Straightening his tall figure to its full height, Meredith lifts
his hat and waves it in the air in token of welcome. The
simple peasantry, gratified by so unexpected an act of condescension,
sent up a simultaneous shout. Availing himself
of the momentary excitement, M. Trefoil adroitly slips his
hand from that of his daughter, and with an arch look and
an expressive gesture motions to Meredith to take his place.
Quick to comprehend and prompt to obey, the young man
leaps down the terrace, eager to assume the office of the
manufacturer, who, heated and breathless, stations himself
on the lower stone of a flight of steps which leads upward to
his own premises; and here, rejoicing in his little feat of
diplomacy, reviews the procession, and salutes each couple
as they pass. Havilah, smiling with innocent amusement at
the impromptu manner in which M. Trefoil has summoned
a substitute and beaten a retreat, places her hand unhesitatingly
and confidingly in that of her father's guest. With
throbbing heart he clasps the little hand in his, holds it as
firmly as he dares, and, triumphing in the coveted possession,
outdoes the gayest of the throng in the elation of spirit with
which he conducts his lovely partner, and marshals the
peasant band over the heights leading to the village church.
It is a merry festival. All hearts are light and happy, all
faces bright with smiles,—all save one,—and that one unobserved
by all. It is the bronzed visage of the Arab boy,
who, as the bridal train moves on, slides stealthily down
from the boulder whence he has watched the scene, and with
scowling brow, clenched fist, and menacing gesture creeps
away, with noiseless, cat-like tread, to secure some other vantage-point
where unperceived he may play the jealous spy,
and whet the growing hatred which he secretly nourishes in
his wild and untamed breast.
| CHAPTER XI. El Fureidîs | |