 | CHAPTER XV. El Fureidîs |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
Had the Kurdish shepherd been called upon to identify
the stranger whose desperate attitude and fierce demeanor
had overawed him on the mountain-top, he would scarcely
have recognized his man in the erect, self-possessed, well-dressed
individual who presented himself that morning at
Ianthe's breakfast-table. The boy Bachmet, on the other
hand, as he stood behind his master's chair, would unhesitatingly
have taken his oath that the party assembled round
the board was in all respects the same that he had served for
a month past; and even a more discriminating observer than
Bachmet might have been blind to any change that had
passed upon the household. But the simoom of the desert
is not more effectual in withering up the face of nature, than
the events of the last few days had been in blasting the
happy relations that had hitherto subsisted in this domestic
circle.
The frank, easy hospitality of M. Trefoil had given place
to fitful loquacity and fidgety effort; the tender solicitude of
Ianthe's manner, the liquid softness of her eye, as it turned
on her guest, were silent indications of a sympathy which
had far more power to mortify than to soothe. Meredith
was rigidly calm. None could detect the reflection of outward
circumstances or inward wrestlings on his face. Held
firm by the anchor of a determined will, he had put on his
visor down, steeled against every thrust.
Neither, perhaps, among the four, felt the embarrassment
and the pain of the occasion so keenly as Havilah. She
spoke not a word. It was all she could do to repress the
tears which threatened to flow. She kept her eyes cast
down, or, if she raised them for an instant, it was to look
about her with the timorous, half-guilty glance of one who,
conscious of innocence, still feels herself the cause of all
the mischief.
Once only during the meal did she encounter the eye of
Meredith, who sat opposite to her at the table. She had
made sufficient pretence of eating, and had found occupation
for some minutes past in breaking bits of bread into the
leben, or curdled milk, intended for Ayib's breakfast. This
task completed, she gave a low, quick summons to her favorite,
unobservant of the fact that the little animal had that
instant laid its head on Meredith's outstretched hand, and
was receiving his unconscious caress. The young man
looked up, saw her purpose, withdrew his hand as suddenly
as if it had been bitten, and motioned Ayib away. With a
bound, the household pet gained his mistress's side. But he
was too late. Havilah thought she saw reproach in Meredith's
quick glance, and abashed at the mere suspicion of a
heartlessness which sought to rob him of the animal's affection,
she had thrown her napkin hastily over the saucer of
bread and milk, and now feigned abstraction.
Ayib hastened back to his former post, but Meredith was
equally neglectful of him, and the affectionate creature, repulsed
on both sides, and disappointed of his breakfast, was
fain to wander underneath the table in search of crumbs.
It was a trifle, but it was a premonition of what might be
anticipated in Havilah's future intercourse with the Englishman,—blushing
close scrutiny and sensitive reserve on the other.
Henceforward absence alone could lessen that barrier of
mutual constraint which fate had placed between them, and
on this first trying occasion it was a relief to all parties
when Bachmet, returning from an excursion to the kitchen,
whispered in Havilah's ear a courtly message, inviting her
to an interview with a friend who awaited her in the garden.
That friend was Abdoul. Havilah had not met the boy
since his return from the desert. He might have shared the
privilege of the meanest villager, and waited on her steps at
any hour of her going abroad; but such a proceeding would
have been inconsistent with the dignity of which the youth
was so jealous. The formality of his visits was, moreover,
but one expression of the young Oriental's reverence for his
early playmate, whose presence he seldom sought unannounced.
It might be that escape from a painful restraint excited
in Havilah an almost childish sense of freedom; it might be
that Abdoul's wonted shyness was dispelled by the more
than common cordiality of her welcome. Or perhaps the
familiar atmosphere of the garden, the scene of their early
sports, had power to revive in all its simplicity the spontaneous
friendship of childhood. Certain it is that the desert
boy and the mountain girl had not met for many months
with such reciprocal ease and pleasure as on the present
occasion. It is true the young chieftain's sense of decorum
demanded the customary salutations; the Saláam aleikum
(Peace be unto you) was gravely uttered, and was met by
the Scriptural response from Havilah, Allah mâkûm (The
Lord be with you). But when, seating herself beside the
fountain, she questioned him with sisterly interest concerning
his family and his travels, and he, stretched gracefully
mildness, it would have been difficult for either to realize
that six seasons had passed over their heads since the
bronzed boy lay on that same spot with his wounded arm
extended on the marble pavement, and Havilah bent over
him with pitying eye, and soothed his hours of pain.
The hard and strongly aspirated language of the Bedouin
is ill-fitted for the expression of gentle thoughts, and the
face of even a beautiful Arab is most beautiful when in
repose. Abdoul, however, was a poet by nature, and his
versatile features were framed to express the extremes of
fierceness and of pathos. Thus his words seemed to drop
from honeyed lips, and his countenance wore an almost
feminine expression, as, drinking inspiration from Havilah's
presence, he discoursed on the themes most congenial to the
imaginative mind of the Oriental.
“See, Havilah!” he exclaimed, as, holding a richly-tinted
geranium in a cup formed by one small hand, he gently
stroked the velvet leaves with a thin taper finger of the
other,—“see how the sunshine and dew of Lebanon have
painted themselves on the flower! Allah is great in the
desert, but he is beautiful on the mountains. Truly, as Father
Lapierre says, EI Fureidîs is the earth's oasis, and,”
he added, as he raised the blossom to his nostrils, “there is
no smell like the smell of Lebanon.”
“But the desert has its flowers,” said Havilah, “and
when Sheik Zanadeen encamps by the fountains of El Barada,
the mignonette and lupin creep to the very door of
his tent.”
“Thou speakest truth, Havilah. They creep and wither
and die. The sirocco blasts them,—the scorching sun dries
up their fragrance. Only in the shelter of the mulberry-groves
beside the living streams of the rock do the flowers
the heart of man.”
“So faithless to thy race, Abdoul?” exclaimed Havilah,
reproachfully. “Dost thou forget Zaaferan, the tall Palmyrene,
daughter of thine uncle, Sheik Abou-Malek? Dost
thou forget that she waits in her father's harem until her
cousin Abdoul shall bring the bridal ransom?”
“Inshallah! then let her wait!” responded Abdoul, in a
contemptuous tone, and with a wild gesture of impatience.
“ `Waste not your jasmine-oil on a rat's head' is a part of
the wisdom of an Arab. Zaaferan is tall like the palm, and
slender as the thin reed; but can a shadow woo a lover?
Can pale lips and tawny cheeks gladden the eyes which
have gazed on one whose mouth is a branch of coral, and
whose skin is a vessel of milk? The desert maid is the
one-stringed Rubabah which wearies the ear with its monotonous
note; the Mountain Rose is a many-toned lute, and
all the airs of heaven play on it.”
Half shocked, half amused at the young chief's want of
gallantry towards the Arab maid, and carelessly indifferent
to the implied compliments to herself, which were so frequent
on Oriental lips as to be well-nigh meaningless, Havilah
replied with conscious irony: “Abdoul is eloquent in
praise of the mountains; he will return no more to his father's
tent; he will till a vineyard on the slopes of Barûk;
he will yoke the oxen to the plough, and be a faithful subject
of the Emir Said Jimblât.”
“Allah forbid!” exclaimed the young Bedouin, his eye
kindling with proud disdain. “Beauty may flourish in the
mountains and sweetness lurk in the valleys, but glory,
freedom, and power are abroad on the plains. Shall he who
has subdued the wild mare of El Hejaz, and whose swift
dromedary outruns the wind, handle the mean tools of a fellah,
Arab el Araba of the kingdom of Yemen, of the pure race
of the Kahtanide, consent to become a slave?”
“Is not he a slave,” questioned Havilah, “who day after
day follows the toilsome caravan? Would not his straining
eye and throbbing brow find relief in the green shade of the
sycamore? Would not his thirsty lips be refreshed by such
fruits as these?”—and as she finished speaking she held
above the boy's head a rich cluster of grapes and a handful
of golden apricots, which she had selected from the basket
of Bachmet, who was now busily engaged in stripping the
young trees and vines that grew beside the fountain.
There was neither admiration nor wistfulness in the face
of Abdoul as he gazed on the fruit, and it was with the
proud air of one superior to every temptation of the appetite
and the senses that he replied: “The traveller on the desert,
Havilah, cares little for luxury and repose; to him hardship
is enjoyment, and action rest. Mohammed, best beloved of
Allah, has promised Paradise at last to him who is victorious
over pain, but the faithful followers of the Prophet
look not for a heaven below.”
Despite the inconsistencies of Abdoul's religious zeal,
Havilah well knew his capacity of patient endurance and
self-sacrifice. She was touched by that profession of heroic
submission which might well have become a Christian, and
with a shade of gentle pity on her face continued silent.
But pity was not the sentiment which Abdoul desired to
inspire, and, the expression of his face changing from resignation
to enthusiasm, he resumed: “But think not that the
desert is dreary, Havilah. To inhale its breezes is a joy,
to bound over its sands is freedom, to hail the distant watch-fire
is to feel the kindling hope. Zanadeen, prince of his
tribe, rides at the head of five hundred spears; as many
wilderness is a safe highway, and under the shadow of his
tent they need fear neither Turk nor robber. Would
Havilah but journey thither, would she trust the hospitality
of the white-bearded Emir, the young men would vie
with each other to do her honor, the maidens would sit at
her feet, the desert would salute its queen.”
Havilah smiled as the boy indulged these fanciful chimeras.
It would seem that he drew encouragement from the
smile, for, his imaginative ardor fully roused, he eagerly pursued
the theme; his eye dilated and his small hand waved
emphatic gestures, as, with the boastfulness peculiar to his
race, he declimed on the greatness and valor of his tribe,
and the honors they had it in their power to bestow; not omitting
to intersperse among his narratives a few vain allusions
to his own feats of horsemanship and prowess, and the influence
they had gained for him over the Bedouin hordes.
It was a picturesque scene which the centre terrace of the
garden afforded at this crisis, so romantic indeed in its
grouping and effect as to rivet the momentary gaze of
Meredith, who, descending the upper flight of steps, was
compelled to pass within a few feet of the fountain on his
way from the breakfast-saloon to his own apartment. Havilah,
while lending an attentive ear to her companion's eager
recital, was bending over a huge tray of fruit which Bachmet
had deposited on the stone coping of the fountain, and
her diligent fingers were sorting and arranging the heavy
clusters of purple and gold. The hood of her burnous had
half fallen from her head, suffering the sunlight to play on
her hair, and the snowy lamb's-wool garment, of a breadth
sufficient to envelope her whole person, was thrown in heavy
folds over one shoulder, revealing the tight-fitting sleeve of
her crimson jacket, and contrasting with her full skirt of
the verge of the shade afforded by a little thicket of shrubbery,
and her figure, defined in the intense morning light,
and relieved by a background of clear blue sky, formed the
prominent object in the picture. The form of Abdoul was
partially concealed by his lowly posture, and by the branches
of the oleander and orange trees which arched above the
spot where he lay. One slender limb was extended to its
full length on the grass, the other bent beneath his body,
in an attitude possible only to the supple-jointed Arab; the
fragment of an ancient stone entablature, which sometimes
filled the office of a rustic seat, afforded support to the
youth's left arm, and his chin rested on his hand as he
gazed upward at Havilah. His face only was lit by the
sunbeams that were now and then sifted through the foliage,
and as his impulsive nature warmed and called his
features into play, the glow that overspread them seemed
the more intense from the obscurity in which he otherwise
lay hid. A minor figure in the party assembled around the
fountain might be seen in the form of Geita, who as usual
was busy in the garden at this hour, and who, as she
stooped to fill her watering-pot at the dripping basin, or
passed from one to another of Ianthe's flowers, added not a
little to the picturesque character of the scene. Nor was
Bachmet a wholly insignificant object; for every now and
then his gay red turban gleamed from the fruit-trees and
trellises, looking like some mammoth poppy which had
attained a gigantic height.
The Englishman neither started nor changed color, but a
twinge, as if the effect of sudden pain, shot across his countenance
as he passed between this picture and the sunlight.
Nor was his presence without its effect on the group. His
passage had left a shadow deeper than the shadow of the
sunshine.
There was something in his slow step and dejected air,
before he became conscious that he was perceived, there was
something afterwards in his silence and his passing on, which
caused Havilah to shrink with nervous dread, and cast down
her eyes like one rebuked. Geita dropped her watering-pot,
sighed, and looked inquiringly at her mistress. Even
Bachmet drew his head within the shelter of a tree, and
from his secret post of observation watched his master's
guest, until he had entered his own apartment and closed
the door. Nor was Abdoul exempt from the shadow. It is
true that, as without turning his head he scanned the Englishman
from a corner of his eye, and, with the quick interpretation
of a savage, read Meredith's face as if it had been
an open book, the young Bedouin's countenance glowed with
sudden triumph,—but it was a fearful, a startling, a malignant
triumph,—it was the lightning that cometh out of the
cloud.
His whole nature seemed illuminated. His eyes flashed
vividly; his voice took an exultant tone. Nor was the effect
merely outward and momentary. His excitable mind was
fixed, and the new turn given to his thoughts immediately
betrayed itself in his conversation and gestures. Flattering
reminiscences of his own prowess and power were superseded
by the stronger passions of his race, and, either forgetful
or unappreciative of the character of his listener, he
now launched upon tales of war and blood, the provocation
of the enemy, the pursuit, the combat, the revenge.
His accent became deep, guttural, and harsh, as, with rapid
words and highly-wrought figures of speech, he dwelt on
these fierce topics; his brow was darkened by a heavy scowl,
as he showered imprecations on the foes of his race; his head
was bent eagerly forward, and his eyes glowed with a lurid
light, as he seemed to strain his vision for the detection of
climax, his long white teeth were firmly set, and his right
hand clutched the hilt of his dagger, while he affirmed that
sooner or later, in spite of obstacles, the steel of the avenging
Arab was sure to reach the victim's heart.
“Hush! Abdoul, hush!” cried Havilah, in a commanding
tone, and starting up from her seat. “Cease from such
wicked words,” she added, with a shudder. “Hast thou forgotten
that thou speakest to one whose religion is a religion
of forgiveness and peace?”
The scowl melted from the forehead of the boy, his hand
was slowly withdrawn from his weapon, and his eyes shone
with a milder light as he meekly bowed himself before the
rebuke expressed in Havilah's countenance and manner no
less than her sudden words.
There was contrition even in his expression, and something
of the mute pathos of rebuked ignorance. Havilah
saw and comprehended it, for she resumed promptly, in a
gentle, persuasive tone: “Leave such stories, Abdoul, for
the cowardly and the mean. They do not belong to princes
or to heroes. The noblest victor is he who can master himself.
Such tales of revenge and blood cannot be real and
true. They are the legends of the old Arab poets,—the
fictions of the brain. They are not fit for Abdoul's lips or
Havilah's ears.”
With meek patience Abdoul listened, his eyes fastened
upon her face like one under the influence of a spell. Loath
to suffer in her good opinion, he was glad to escape her displeasure
under any pretence, and the pensive smile which
had now superseded his fierce frown seemed to imply that
his recent tempest of passion had been only feigned.
Havilah was but half deceived. His invectives and threats
had been too unmistakably real. It was with a sad, therefore,
wields his tongue after the same fashion as his spear
and dagger. He runs a wild tilt and makes savage thrusts,
but it is only to show his skill at the game; he only seeks
to try the courage and to test the nerves. I thought he
could not be in earnest. I would not believe he could so
soon have forgotten all the gentle teachings of the Mother
Ianthe.”
As Havilah finished speaking, she turned to leave the
garden, the grave, unconscious dignity of her manner imparting
to her something of the air of a youthful princess.
Abdoul, perceiving her intention, rose from the ground,
and, wearing the respectful air of a subject whose interview
with royalty is ended, he saluted her with more than customary
formality, and stood with his eyes cast down, and his
hand upon his heart, until she had passed up the steps and
re-entered the villa.
| CHAPTER XV. El Fureidîs | |