 | CHAPTER XVIII. El Fureidîs |  |
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
It was at the close of a sultry April day that our travellers
once more approached El Fureidis. Here and there
a familiar object close to the bridle-path indicated their
vicinity to the village, but no glimpse of church or hamlet
cheered their gaze, or encouraged their weary animals to
speed, for every distant object was veiled beneath a thick
cloud of mist. Their journey had been shorter than on
the preceding days, and neither men nor horses had been
exposed to any extraordinary fatigue. And yet the riders
bent in their saddles, the tired steeds stretched their necks,
and, at times, almost refused to proceed; even the trees
overhead and the flowers that lined the road hung their
leaves listlessly, as if deprived of life and motion.
All nature drooped, for the sirocco was abroad, that blasting
wind which brings with it a thick atmosphere, covers
the sky with vapor, and saps the vitality alike of the animal
and vegetable world. So noxious is the effect of this visitation,
that one needs not to be the owner of a mulberry plantation
or an olive orchard to dread its fatal influence. The
husbandman and the vine-dresser may have most reason,
indeed, to mourn over their blighted harvests; but during
the prevalence of the sirocco, the mental and physical depression
consequent upon it is almost universal.
Meredith required no such climatic agency to shroud his
spirits in gloom; but its action upon his muscular system
were creeping over him, while Abdoul's eye lost its
accustomed fire, and in unresisting feebleness he bent over
his saddle-bow, until his head almost rested upon the neck
of his mare. The stillness, too, was oppressive. It would
have been refreshing to catch some natural sound, something
which might betoken a welcome. But all nature was
silent. The Syrian peasant usually sings cheerily at his
work; but not only was the ploughman's voice unheard,—the
plough itself seemed to be forsaken. Even when the travellers
had gained the precincts of the village, and its cottages
were glimmering through the haze, one might almost have
believed that a deep sleep had fallen upon the place, the
stillness was so unbroken. But all do not sleep, for hark!
surely there is the sound of the bell. Yes, the church-bell,
and it is not the Sabbath. Is it the density of the atmosphere
which makes the sound so muffled? is it faintness of
heart which makes it seem to the listener so hollow, funereal,
and cold? No, it is the tolling bell,—and the convent
bell tolls too,—and across the opposite valley comes the toll
of some other sympathetic chime.
And what is that just glimmering through the fog, and
gliding ghost-like around the tower of the church? How
noiselessly it moves on, like some opaque mass, borne along
by the mist! how like a long, dark wreath of smoke it
winds up the curving pathway, and melts into the distance!
It is difficunt to distinguish any object in the dim procession,
but now and then the fog lifts a little, and the floating body
takes substance and form. What a contrast does it present
to the bridal train which, only a few months ago, made the
village gay with its music, its shouts, and its decorations
glistening in the sunshine! Now one may see, darkly as
through a cloud, figures that move slowly, keeping time to
sturdy artisans, strong-limbed and firm, marching gravely in
single file. A group of children follow, huddled together,
clinging to each other's hands, and looking back over their
shoulders; they watch the approach of an old man, who,
with bare head and snowy locks, precedes a company of rustic
youths, moving in double line, and bending as if in their
midst they bore a burden. A strongly-built man and a frail
girl come next; he totters, but she moves like one who
treads the clouds beneath her feet; he leans heavily on her
arm, but she bears him bravely up: it is the weak supporting
the strong. Sweeping robes and white veils mingle
with the fog, as the village matrons in their turn file past,
the muslin folds that hang suspended from their tall tantours
falling heavily, like the melancholy sails which in a calm at
sea cling idly to the masts. Dark and sombre is the column
that brings up the rear of this sad procession. It consists
of the Maronite friars, whose withered faces, black robes,
and monkish cowls, no less than their dejected air, make
them worthy representatives of the mournful scene in which
they bear a part.
Seated upright in his saddle, at the point where he and
Abdoul had made a simultaneous halt, Meredith gazed upon
this shadowy panorama with the bewilderment of one in a
trance, until, as the last figure in the train disappeared, leaving
a blank behind it, the Englishman was roused by a
sharp cry, succeeded by a deep guttural sob. He turned
suddenly round, just in time to catch sight of his Arab companion,
from whom the outburst of distress had proceeded,
and who at the same instant had slipped from his horse, and,
indifferent to the fate of the beast, had darted away in
the direction that the villagers had taken. The wailing
cry of the boy and his rapid flight sent conviction to the
himself in a horrid dream, and finding it a reality, he made
haste to imitate the youth's example, and, wrapped in the
voluminous folds of a meshlak, and hidden by the fog, he in
a few moments found himself one of the throng that were
gathered around the grave of Ianthe. “Earth to earth,
ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” said the aged preacher, while
the young men lowered the coffin. His voice, though subdued,
was sonorous and clear. It filled the space around
Ayn el Bered, near which Ianthe had asked to be laid; it
could be heard by the outermost in the ring gathered
about the freshly dug grave. But few realized the sense of
the words, few watched the solemn act of the young men, for
all eyes were turned in anxious pity on the master. As the
first shovelful of earth fell with heavy sound, he started forward,
exclaiming in a tone of moaning and expostulation:
“No, no, I cannot leave her here,—tell them to stop. She
cannot sleep in the cold ground.”
He would have interrupted the labor, but a tender hand
restrained him. “Hush, dear! hush!” a persuasive voice
at the same time whispered in his ear. “She will not sleep;
she will wake in the beautiful heaven.”
“I loved her, O how I loved her!” he murmured;
“how can they take her away from me?” and he broke
into a prolonged cry, much like that of an infant.
“Don't cry, father, don't cry,” said Havilah, in a beseeching
tone, at the same time drawing him close to her. She
had mounted a rough stone at the foot of the fountain, so
that, as she put her arm around his neck, his head rested on
her shoulder, and her mouth was close to his ear. “Remember
what she said to you,” continued the encouraging
voice, the service meanwhile going forward uninterrupted
by the half-articulate dialogue between father and child,—
bear it like a man, and the Lord will help you.' ”
“O, she said many things,” said the mourner, in a piteous
tone, “many things,—and all her words were kind; but
she will never speak to me again. Why need they put her
under the ground? She did not look as if she were dead.”
And he once more endeavored to break from Havilah's hold,
and interrupt what seemed to him the cruel work of burial.
“Don't leave me, dear,” said Havilah, soothingly, and
laying her cheek against his; “we will stand here together,
and be very quiet, and listen to what the good father says.
There, that is right. Hark! now he is telling us of Jesus,
—the compassionate one,—the Comforter.”
The poor man stood still and listened; but he heard only
the sound of the falling clods, and his tempest of sorrow,
lulled for an instant, burst forth again with renewed vehemence.
Every moaning wave, however, broke upon her
breast; her breath assuaged the storm; and now by the
force of a loving word, now by the power of a will superior
to his own, she contrived to hold his spirit in check, until the
grave was filled and the service ended.
The young men took up the empty bier and turned to
depart. The crowd held back and hesitated, waiting for the
bereaved husband and child to precede them; but M. Lapierre,
who foresaw some difficulty in withdrawing M. Trefoil
from the spot, made a sign to the villagers to move on in
advance. They went as they came, the Maronite monks
last. The convent group had been respectfully allotted the
space close around the grave. Their knees shook, and their
long beards were sprinkled with the tears that fell from
their dimmed eyes, as they perambulated the mound of earth,
and sealed the ritual, each with his muttered Ave. In this
mountain-seat of religious freedom, none dreamed of expressing
no sacrilegious hand had ventured to remove the rude cross,
mutual emblem of faith, which the Superior had dropped
upon the coffin. The simple fathers came in charity, and
would fain leave behind them a blessing.
M. Trefoil leaned forward with a stupefied air, and
watched the motions of the retreating company. Havilah's
countenance, mean while, was that of one who is invoking
aid in view of some difficult task.
“Come, now!” she said, gently, when all but the pastor
of the flock had vanished down the pathway,—“come!”
and she held out her hand to her father.
“Come where?” and he looked at her with a vacant
eye.
“Home,” she faltered; “see, they have all gone home.”
“No, not all,” he answered, in the tone of a grieved
child. “She has not gone,” and he pointed to the grave;
“it will not be home without her. Don't let us go there,”
he added, beseechingly, “let us stay here with her, Havilah,—you
and I.”
“She is not here, dear,” said Havilah; “we can hardly
see the grave now through the thick fog. We will go and
sit in her room, where her couch is. It will seem then as
if we saw her and heard her speak. I will sing you the
evening song. Do you remember she used to say, `Havilah
will sing the evening song to you, Augustine, when I am
gone?' I always sang it at sunset, you know. Come, or it
will be too late.”
He glanced at the western sky, put his hand trustingly in
hers, but seemed unwilling to move from the spot.
“Who will take care of her?” he muttered, “if I leave
her here alone? Will Father Lapierre stay and watch
beside her, as he used to do?”—and he anxiously scanned
Havilah's persuasive efforts.
“She does not need him any more,” said Havilah, in a
confident tone. “She always wished that her body might
sleep at Ayn el Bered, and her spirit is safe in the bosom of
the Almighty Father. We will come here again to-morrow,
when perhaps the sun will be shining on the place;
but we must go home now. See! Father Lapierre is waiting
for us; and good Father Lapierre is tired.”
They led him away. Now and then he looked back as if
reluctant to proceed. Once he stopped, sat down on a step
in the rocky pathway, and covered his face with his hands;
but they were patient with him, and lured him gently on,
through the village and beyond the mulberry orchard, to
experience in his home the bitter desolation of those who
have burried their dead out of their sight.
But the grave was not deserted yet. A tall figure,
wrapped in a cloak, emerged from behind the clumsy masonry
of the fountain, and he who had stood sentry for many
a night at Castle Belfort now paced up and down beside the
newly-made grave, like one set there to watch.
And when the darkness had become blackness, and the
fog had shut close down upon the earth, and the Englishman
had departed to seek shelter for the night, it seemed only as
if he had been relieved at his post; for, as his retreating
footstep died away, a lithe form darted from the thicket, and
threw itself, face downwards, upon the damp grave, which
it strove to embrace in its long arms. And there, with
turban drawn low over his head, and body stretched on the
narrow bed of earth, the son of Ishmael mourned with
frantic grief over the friend and comforter of his childhood;
wearying the night with a shrill, pitiful cry, like that
to which the camel of the desert gives utterance when its
burden is greater than it can bear.
Meredith had journeyed to El Fureidis like one bent on
a purpose. This purpose, however, had found its fulfilment
in the moment of his arrival; for beyond this, he had formed
no plan, even in his thought, leaving himself wholly to the
direction of impulse, or, as he would perhaps have termed it,
destiny.
Nor, trusting to guidance, did he find himself disappointed.
His best conceived plan of action would doubtless
have been frustrated by the unforeseen calamity which had
plunged the neighborhood into mourning; but in the circumstances
attendant upon this event, a course had suggested
itself less open to objection than any that might otherwise
have occurred to him.
He would not have intruded upon his friends on any
terms, much less in their hour of sorrow; he could not
haunt the village as a spy; to betray his presence to the
peasantry would be to expose himself at once to those hospitable
solicitations which he was anxious to avoid; but as
he reviewed the retreating band of mourners, his eye
marked one who combined all the requisites he desired in
a host, and he unhesitatingly resolved to follow the little
company of Maronite friars, and seek to be installed as the
guest of the convent Superior. In the sacred retreat of the
monastery he would find repose and privacy; morning might
reveal the news of his return, but he should be beyond the
reach of curiosity or comment. Abdoul even would be
ignorant of his hiding-place; and here, a recluse among recluses,
he might, himself unseen, overlook the village of El
Fureidis, and from time to time gain tidings of his afflicted
friends.
Had he known how impenetrable the fog would become
at nightfall, he would have realized the importance of following
close upon the footsteps of the brethren; but disregarding
have seen, at the grave, then made a wide circuit to avoid
passing through the village, and when he finally turned into
the pathway leading down the wady, the darkness and the
mist were such that he could not distinguish a single step in
advance. The path was familiar, however, for he had trod
it many times since the day of his first excursion to the convent
in the company of Havilah, and, undismayed by the
night and the fog, he pressed forward with a rapid step, and
gained the foot of the ravine in safety. But here his progress
was suddenly arrested. The little stream which Havilah
had crossed dry-shod, increased by the winter rains and
the thawing of the snow on the mountains, had swelled into
a rapid and powerful torrent, many feet in depth, while the
cascade alone had become a heavy waterfall, which almost
deafened Meredith with its roar. It was impossible to cross
the flood as formerly. Even had its depth been less, the
force of the current would have swept him away, and he
was reluctantly compelled to abandon the attempt. He
now bethought him of a small stone-arched bridge, located
higher up the stream; and following the noise of the
rushing water, and making his way as well as he could
through the tangled brushwood on the banks, he toiled
on for more than an hour, and at length gained the desired
point. As he placed his foot on the bridge he felt
it totter beneath him; he drew back and hesitated for a moment.
He knew by the sound, that the water, the surface
of whose channel was ordinarily many feet beneath the spot
where he stood, had risen to a height equal to that of the
bridge. He could even hear the waves now and then
dashing over the rough logs which were placed transversely
across the arch, and constituted the flooring of the structure.
It was an unpleasant crisis, but there seemed to
His first step reassured him. The wood-work, it was
true, heaved with the pressure of the flood, but the supports
were evidently firm. Unconscious of danger, he had
nearly gained the opposite bank when he encountered an
insidious pitfall, bringing down his foot at the point where
a single log had been displaced and carried down the stream.
One leg was instantly immersed in the cold torrent, the other
barely escaped being fractured by the shock, and the whole
man was violently precipitated against the rock-lined shore.
With some difficulty he recovered his footing, and clambered
up the bank. At the same instant a severe twinge,
from wrist to shoulder, convinced him of some serious injury
to his right arm, which had received the full force of
his fall.
Painfully now did he struggle forward. The water had
splashed over his whole person, and drenched him to the
skin; his hat had been carried down the stream, and the
pain of his wounded limb became every moment more
intense. The power of his will, however, was in no degree
weakened. It borrowed strength rather from his physical
sufferings. He felt himself disabled. He really longed for
rest and shelter. It was a satisfaction to long for anything,
and the motive spurred him on. With his left arm he
parted the thick shrubbery; the hair of his bare head now
and then became entangled in the brushwood; his clothes
were torn; but he retraced his course down the stream to
the usual fording-place in safety, struck into the direct path
to the convent, and at length caught sight of a light which
glimmered within the court-yard, and, reflected in the fog,
guided him in safety to the portal.
It was with difficulty that he gained admittance. Visitors
at the monastery, unusual at all times, were unknown at
that he made himself heard. Even then the entrance
was cautiously unbarred; nor did old Ambrose dare present
himself alone; and when the gate at last vibrated slowly on
its hinges, and disclosed a few inches of space, no less than
three withered faces peered through the narrow aperture.
The monks had prudently left a door of communication
open between themselves and the other brethren, and the
light from the inner court-yeard fell full on the face of Meredith;
but, disguised as he was by his torn garments, the
pallor of his complexion, his dishevelled hair, and the unnatural
manner in which he was compelled to carry his
bruised arm, they wholly failed to recognize him, and would
have shut the door in his face had he not made haste to
reassure them by the words in which he craved their
hospitality.
“The blessed Lady Mary have compassion on us!” cried
Father Ambrose, as his dull ear caught the Saxon accent,—
“it is the Englishman!” And immediately the gate was
suffered to swing wide, six bony hands were simultaneously
extended for the guest's reception, and with a profusion of
blessings and welcomes the friars ushered the traveller
within the portal.
Dreary as the old stone court-yard might look at noon
on a summer's day, it presented now to the wayfarer, who
contrasted it only with the cold and darkness which he had
left behind him, a cheering picture of warmth and comfort.
A fire of logs blazed in the centre, and sent forth a ruddy
glow upon the faces of the fraternity, whose benches were
drawn in a circle around their primitive hearthstone, and
who, leisurely smoking their pipes, were engaged meanwhile
in congenial intercourse. It is true, their theme was
a sad one, for they discoursed of Ianthe; but they had
of the past, and all had the attitude of men reposing
after the fatigues of the day. They rose simultaneously as
Ambrose announced their guest, and the Superior, coming
forward with alacrity, greeted Meredith as a father might
greet a son returned from his wanderings.
“Have you a vacant cell, good father?” asked Meredith,
“and a place in your fold for one who is astray upon the
mountains?”
“The best that we have is yours,” responded the Superior,
promptly, at the same time heaping wood upon the
fire, as he observed the Englishman's shivering condition.
“You have met with disaster; you have been in peril from
the freshet; you have injured your arm,” affirmed the
Superior, gravely, as his eye ran over Meredith's person.
“We must undertake your cure. It is a part of our office.”
“I place myself wholly in your hands,” answered Meredith,
“and will begin, as in duty bound, by confession.”
He then related, in a few words, his adventures since
leaving the village. The monks gathered round, peeping
over each other's shoulders, and expressing commiseration,
especially at sight of the wounded arm, which the Superior
bared upon the spot. As Meredith finished his tale, and
stood silently looking on while the Father examined the
sprain, and felt the already swollen and discolored flesh, the
convent brethren dispersed in different directions, each on
the alert to perform such hospitable office as belonged to
his peculiar department. One brought soothing herbs, and
bruised them under the direction of his chief; another hastened
to procure dry garments; a third uncorked a bottle
of choice vino d'oro; a fourth prepared a simple meal of
wheaten cakes, dibs, and lentils; and ere an hour had
elapsed he found himself seated among the venerable circle,
fare, and, saving his youthful features, and the arm that
hung in a sling, scarcely distinguishable from the members
of the fraternity.
Less in awe of their visitor than formerly, and encouraged
perhaps by his exterior conformity with themselves,
the simple fathers even ventured to resume their discourse.
The theme was still Ianthe. Each had some tale to tell of
her kindness, her forethought, and the wonderful cures she
had effected; and as Meredith listened to these memorial
tales, the outpouring of grateful hearts, and called up similar
reminiscences of his own, he almost believed himself
one with these ancient relies of humanity, the oil of whose
life was nearly spent, who dwelt in the annals of the
past, ignored all hopes of worldly advantage, and patiently
awaited their end.
He felt that such serenity would be cheaply purchased
at the sacrifice of whatever earthly aspirations remained to
him; and, for the time at least, was glad to feel the world
shut out, and to dream a dream of contentment, sad indeed,
but sure.
| CHAPTER XVIII. El Fureidîs | |