 | CHAPTER XXII. El Fureidîs |  |
22. CHAPTER XXII.
In a certain sense Meredith spoke the truth when he
pronounced his resolution to farm the land to be the
whim of an idle man, for the benevolent purpose doubtless
had its source in emotions which forbade him, the
strong, the rich, the independent, to look idly on while
the poor were starving, and the old and the feeble were
spending their strength in vain. But, however much caprice
might have influenced the man with whom impulse
was always action, Meredith was not one to put his hand
to the plough and then turn back, and he soon became
a farmer in good earnest.
It was not enough to furnish money to the peasant,
and stand as a nominal barrier betwixt him and his oppressors.
The Lebanon mountaineers, though physically
fearless and brave, and capable as all mountain races are
of making forcible resistance to any attack upon their
personal liberty, are nevertheless children in their simplicity
and trustfulness of character. Exposed to political
fraud and duplicity, they have long been accustomed to
seek shelter under the wing of some feudal protector; and,
though often deceived and betrayed, they are glad to purchase
immunity from risk at the price of a faithful allegiance.
El Fureîdis, more fortunate than its neighbors,
had for years enjoyed prosperity and peace under the
honest guardianship of M. Trefoil; in the incompetency
and finding in Meredith at once a benefactor and a mediator,
it hailed him, in Eastern parlance, not only as
“father of riches,” but as “parent of wisdom,” and “strong
arm of safety and power.”
Thus the Englishman found himself brought into individual
relations with the peasantry, such as he never
had foreseen, such indeed as his reserved nature would
have repelled, had they been other than the gradual growth
of circumstances.
Each householder felt himself responsible to the Howadji
for the just use of his borrowed capital, each petty
husbandman claimed a right to the Howadji's advice in
respect to tillage and crops. The ploughman of the Bekaa
would postpone buying a yoke of oxen until the animals
had been inspected by the English eye; even the village
matrons anticipated with no little anxiety the tall young
Frank's encomiums upon their vegetable-gardens and poultry-yards.
He became the arbiter of disputes, the judge from whose
decision there was no appeal, and in the occasional visits
which he made to the cities of the sea-board he found himself,
to his surprise, the commissioned agent for the purchase
of farming tools, provisions, and household utensils.
In all this he asked for no recompense,—he hoped for
none. He nevertheless found his reward, not in Havilah's
approbation or encouragement,—for they labored in different
spheres, met but seldom, and betrayed no consciousness
of each other's pursuits,—but occupation was medicine to
his soul, and Father Lapierre's prescription was already
working the patient's cure.
Not that Meredith carried a light heart into his labors,
not that he became, in any degree, oblivious of the past.
and sad. But life had become to him more earnest, his
deeper sympathies were aroused, his human instincts quickened.
Each day brought duties which could not be postponed
or delegated to another; the welfare of a whole
community was involved in them. The cry for help
appealed first to his purse, then to his time, finally to his
heart.
Havilah met him one morning outside the door of Tyiby's
cottage. The young girl carried in her hand a basin
of broth for Tyiby's sick son, who had rallied from the fever
of the previous season only to waste with slow decline.
“You will be welcome,” said Meredith, as, having touched
his hat and courteously wished her good morning, he stepped
back a pace or two, and held open the heavy door through
which he had just passed, and which he had left swinging
on its pivot. “The boy is faint with long fasting, and the
house affords no suitable food. I was about to send a message
to you.”
“He has watched beside my boy's bed ever since the
shadows of nightfall,” said Tyiby, as she took the basin
from Havilah's hand, and looked after the retreating Englishman.
“A mother's blessing rest on his English hearth
and home.”
“He is the last of his race, Tyiby,” said Havilah, solemnly.
“His father and sister have died in his absence.
The tidings have come to him over the sea. Father Lapierre
told me yesterday.”
“Ah! the unfortunate one! May the Lord compassionate
him!” exclaimed Tyiby, with feeling. “But truly, O
child of Ianthe!” she continued, in a tone which had
changed from that of sympathy to Christian triumph, “the
Righteous One has not afflicted him in vain. Trouble has
gesture, drew her finger in horizontal lines across
her own forehead,—“but sorrow is good seed sown here,”
—and she touched her heart. “Sunshine is beautiful on
young heads, Havilah, but it is the soft rain which ripens
the harvests.”
Havilah was deeply struck with the truth, and its phraseology.
Tyiby had unconsciously drawn the reverse side
of that picture which Havilah had painted for her mother
several months before.
On another occasion, when Havilah was returning from
Barûk on one of her father's donkeys, and accompanied
only by Abou, she met in a narrow mountain-pass a young
man leading a camel. The unwieldy “ship of the desert”
was on an outward passage, laden merely with an axe, a
clumsy saw, and a few iron wedges. It was destined to
make the return voyage freighted with freshly-cut timber;
for its master, son of Saad the miller, was a vigorous wood-cutter,
and the repairs going forward at El Fureidîs had
given an impetus to men of his craft.
Havilah stopped to exchange salutations, and inquire
after his children, who, having lost their mother within a
year past, were ordinarily intrusted to the old miller's
care during their father's absence on the mountain.
“My fledglings are well,” answered the young man,
dropping upon one knee, and kissing Havilah's hand with
a grace which belongs to the Oriental of every grade.
“Blessings, lady, on those who saved their innocent lives!”
“The Englishman was prompt in rescuing the sufferers
that night,” said Havilah. “You are going to cut wood
on—”
She desired to give a new turn to the dialogue, but the
young man interrupted her.
“The stately deer,” exclaimed he, “is sure to follow
where the young doe leads the way; but a father's blessing
on you both. The master's daughter has the first place in
the people's heart, but we know how to be grateful to the
Englishman. I beheld him an hour ago, smoking a pipe,
in my father's court-yard. Kassim was playing with the
white hound of the Howadji; little Blossom was sitting
on his knee. The old man's face was a fountain of gladness,
for the Frank has pledged his word, that, before the
olives are ripe in the orchards, the mill shall stand in its
place again, and be ready to press out the oil.”
“How generous he is!” said Havilah, with enthusiasm.
“He is a prince in his bounty. I hope the people are loyal
to him.”
“The Howadji was a prince, O daughter of Trefoil,”
said the woodman, “when he sat erect on his horse, and
scattered paras to the poor; but now he is something less
than a prince, and something more, for the peasants have
found in him a brother. We admire and fear the proud
eagle which soars afar off and looks at the sun; but the
swallow which hears our children's call and nestles under
our roof-tree, is the bird which we love.”
“How that proud English heart has melted! How the
stranger has won the people's love!” thought Havilah, as
she journeyed homeward. She was musing thus, as she
drew near the village.
“Behold the Howadji,” cried Abou, who was riding in
the rear.
“Where?” exclaimed Havilah, starting from her reverie.
The old steward pointed to a figure at a little distance,
approaching by the same path they were pursuing. A
broad-brimmed hat concealed his face, his eyes were fixed
on the ground.
“This way, Abou,” said Havilah, giving a nervous twitch
to her rein, and diverging into a side path, overshadowed
with shrubbery. “Go on, Abou; your donkey is fresher
than mine.”
The old man went past his mistress at a trot. She loitered
a moment under the shade of a clustering vine. The
Englishman came up the steep pathway, absent-minded,
thoughtful, and slow. With his cane he marked little circles
on the ground, a melancholy habit always. He never
once raised his eyes. Ignorantly, he passed within a few
feet of Havilah. It would have diverted, perhaps, the current
of his meditations, had he known that she lingered
there, watched his coming, traced the lines of sadness on
his face, and sighed, went on a few paces, paused, looked
back, and sighed again.
Meredith had become a conscientious laborer, but his
temperament was not one which could be satisfied with slow
results; and, fortunately for his yet unschooled patience,
evidences of success were not long wanting. In the genial
climate and fruitful soil of Lebanon the disasters of a season,
and the loss of a few weeks' spring-time, are not so
fatal to vegetation as in lands where the entire summer can
scarcely ripen a single crop of grain. Industry rather
than skill sufficed to repair all damages to the simple dwellings
and rough terrace-walls of the peasants of El Fureîdis;
man, inspired by hope, wrought early and late, and nature
did the rest.
Thus El Fureidîs soon rose upon its ruins; shrubs, herbs,
and vines grew, stretched, and clambered, as if striving to
atone for past delay; flowers re-carpeted the earth, and
gardens of promise smiled where desolation had darkly
frowned. Thus the Scripture promise was literally fulfilled
to the villagers. They had “beauty for ashes, the oil of
heaviness.”
One source of past prosperity, however, was wanting to
El Fureidîs, nor did there seem to be any prospect of its
revival. The factory, which had furnished the peasants
with regular employment, and provided a sure market for
their silk produce, remained precisely as it fell on the night
of the catastrophe, as hopeless a ruin, apparently, as those
of the Canaanitish temples on the mountain-top.
The loss of this life-spring of industry and revenue, with
its bearing upon the fortunes of both people and master, was
naturally a subject of speculation to all who cherished an
interest in the common welfare, and it furnished a subject
for much deliberation between M. Lapierre and Meredith,
who might deservedly be styled, one the counsellor, the
other the financier of the district.
These two men, at this time, shared a common dwelling.
With the freakishness of a clouded mind, M. Trefoil, once
domiciled in M. Lapierre's cottage, proved loath to quit it
for any other abode. Simple as were its arrangements, it
afforded, on the whole, more comforts than remained in the
dilapidated house of the manufacturer, and it was therefore
decided that he should continue to occupy it for the present.
Havilah, making light of her privations, cheerfully took possession
of the little inner apartment, and Father Lapierre
found in the least shattered rooms at the villa all the accommodation
which his hardy habits demanded. For a while
the convent continued to be Meredith's nominal home; but
gradually, as the demands upon his time made a nearer
residence to the village desirable, he became domesticated
in the very apartment which had formerly been allotted him
in the dwelling of M. Trefoil. Its walls, indeed, were rent,
its carpet and divans soiled and disfigured, its furniture
in the matter of luxuries; the perfection of nature, and the
unrivalled atmosphere without, atoned for every in-door discomfort,
and the missionary and the Englishman experienced
no conscious wants in their household.
They were sitting together one afternoon in the central
saloon, which was the portion of the villa that had sustained
least injury from the shock. It was evident that their conversation
had been neither desultory nor languid; for though
the day was warm, and the hour one usually devoted to
repose, their attitude and expression betrayed the earnestness
of men engaged in mutual counsel. It would seem
that Meredith had been giving an account of his stewardship,
for he held in his hand a long memorandum of rents
and charges, which he finally folded and replaced in his
pocket, saying as he did so: “I have made it as simple as
possible, and have so managed that I believe each land-holder
will be able to meet his payments as they fall due.
If not, I leave it with you, my dear sir, to grant any reprieves
you see fit. The business is simple; I have been
gradually initiating Asaad into all its details, and know no
reason why he cannot henceforth represent me here.”
“And you will leave us then?” said Father Lapierre.
“Yes. There are those in England whom my father
cared for and befriended, and who now have claims on
me,—claims which I might selfishly have overlooked or
slighted, but for the lesson taught me here. My presence
is no longer needed in El Fureidîs. In England, I believe
I can be of use.”
“Go, then, my son,” said Father Lapierre, “and God go
with you. Heaven's breezes are sure to fill the sails of
him who has duty for his rudder.”
“There is still one subject on which I would speak with
you,” said Meredith, hesitatingly.
“Speak on, my son.”
“M. Trefoil,—his resources, his future means of support.
Have you penetrated the mystery which clouds his affairs?”
“Not at all. Our friend's usual apathy in respect to the
business which recently engrossed him is only equalled by
the inconsistency of the statements which he has from time
to time made to me. On most subjects his mind has to a
great degree recovered its tone, but I almost despair of
ever obtaining any clear insight into his pecuniary condition.
I know of but one man who could throw any light
upon this obscurity, and that is Mustapha Osman, the rich
Turkish merchant at Damascus. He is the agent to whom
M. Trefoil's merchandise has been regularly consigned.
Some surplus funds may yet remain in his hands. I
strongly suspect, however, that the balance is in Mustapha's
favor. In the latter case, I fear M. Trefoil and his
child are worse than beggared.”
“They must not want,” said Meredith, in a tone of resolve;
“nor need they. M. Trefoil's state of mind is child-like
and unquestioning. Havilah is ignorant of her father's
insolvency. Both will accept your guardianship. You will
labor among your flock; Havilah, as ever, will second all
your efforts. It is a mission which those who cannot actively
aid should at least be proud to maintain. Let that
be my care. Do not forbid me this small privilege, this
sole consolation,” he continued, with passionate eagerness,
as he already saw denial written on the features of M. Lapierre.
“What you refuse to friendship you will at least
let me lay on the altar of duty. You forget what I owe
to your ministry and her example. Here I might not,
perhaps, be your almoner; but if I go away,—if I put two
thousand miles betwixt myself and El Fureidîs,—if I am
unknown in the matter to all but yourself,—there need be
his plea by a boyish urgency of tone and gesture, “I only
ask to be a silent partner in your labors. Do you understand
me?”
“Too well, my son,” said M. Lapierre, smiling kindly
on the young man, but at the same time shaking his head
in slow, emphatic negative to his appeal. “Havilah must
not be deceived. If she serve Christ for hire, she must
not do it in ignorance; she must not engage even in Christian
warfare, without knowing at whose charges. The
free child of the mountain must not be trammelled even
by secret obligations. Do not chafe at the term,” he continued,
silencing, by a wave of his hand, the expostulation
which Meredith was about to utter. “I do not misunderstand
you. I know you would be the last to esteem them
obligations, but such they would nevertheless be. Havilah
is a courageous girl,—she will not fear to meet the
truth.”
“But the truth is cruel,—it will not spare,” cried Meredith,
in tones of positive anguish. “I see written on its
face famine, cold, and want,—a roofless home, an empty
storehouse, a childish father, an unprotected child. M. Lapierre,”
subjoined he, peremptorily, “I was Havilah's mother's
friend. I have a right to befriend Havilah.”
“Your right shall not be disputed,” he answered, soothingly.
“But whatever you do must be done openly, and
with Havilah's consent.”
“That can never be,” exclaimed Meredith, with abruptness.
“To be frank with you, I doubt if it can, in the form to
which you have alluded,” responded M. Lapierre. “But
do not despair as to the future fortunes of M. Trefoil. You
may yourself aid in opening his pathway to better days. It
discovering some clew to his embarrassments. Have you
ever questioned him in reference to pecuniary matters?”
“I have not presumed to do so.”
“Under the circumstances, it would be no presumption.
Follow up the hint I have given you regarding Mustapha
Osman. Obtain what information you can. I will reflect
upon the subject of our friend's affairs, and speak with you
again. Meanwhile, do not question, my son, that, whatever
be the lot of Havilah and her father, it will be well,—for is
it not of the Lord's appointing?”
The pastor's hour of leisure was ended, and, taking up
his staff, he went out. Meredith looked at his watch. It
was near the time when Havilah usually met the missionary
at the village school, and, thinking it probable that he should
find M. Trefoil alone, Meredith sallied forth for the visit,
which it had become customary with him to take this opportunity
of paying the afflicted man.
The door of the primitive parsonage stood open, and
Meredith had gained the threshold, when he was arrested
by the sound of Havilah's voice from within. She seemed
to be reading aloud, and Meredith hastily retreated. But
he was too late. His shadow had fallen across the floor.
M. Trefoil recognized his figure as he withdrew, and called
to him in a tone so much more cheerful than was his wont,
that Meredith was arrested less by the words, “Hey! my
friend, come in!” than by surprise at the heartiness of the
salutation.
Thus summoned, he entered the dwelling, the inner obscurity
of which contrasted so strongly with the midday
glare outside, that his eye could only gradually distinguish
the occupants of the apartment. M. Trefoil himself was
the most prominent object. Wrapped in a flowered dressing-gown,
tarboosh pushed back from his forehead, he sat upright
upon the centre of the divan, and Meredith saw at a
glance that his countenance wore an expression of animation
which had been wanting for many weeks past. Havilah,
with Ayib beside her, was seated on a cushion at her
father's feet. An open letter was on her lap. Meredith
did not see her until the gazelle rubbed its head against his
hand to attract attention. He then looked down at the little
creature, perceived its mistress also, and bowed.
Havilah met his glance, bent her head in acknowledgment,
and kept her eyes fixed upon the written page, from
which she had been reading. At the same moment there
was a slight movement in a remote part of the room; a
dark figure in loose drapery rose from the corner, in which
it had hitherto been concealed, and came forward a pace or
two.
“Ah, Abdoul, my boy! is that you?” exclaimed Meredith,
with a start of surprise as he recognized his Arab
guide, of whom he had heard and seen nothing since the
youth disappeared, unnoticed by any one, on the day of
Ianthe's burial.
Abdoul answered only by a silent obeisance; and, retreating
into his corner, with one hand pressed upon his heart,
slunk back against the wall, drew his turban over his
brow, and folded his long, supple arms, or rather intertwined
them, like a cable, across his breast.
“Sit down, Mr. Meredith, sit down,” cried M. Trefoil,
with something of that clear ring to his voice which had
formerly lent cordiality to his hospitable entreaties. Meredith
took the seat to which his friend pointed. “We have
news,” continued the latter, in a tone at once elated and
confidential,—“news from an unexpected quarter, and very
sees the world for all that. Abdoul is fresh from the Paris
of the Orient. He brings us the latest news from Damascus;
and, what is best of all, a letter from my friend, Mustapha
Osman. Mustapha Osman has been my friend for
years, Mr. Meredith, ever since I have been in El Fureidis;
he is my consignee, my business agent, the framer of
my fortunes, I may say. His own fortune is large,—large,
sir, it is gigantic. So is his heart; he has the heart of an
emperor. He has written me a letter full of sympathy;
not a word of business, but sympathy,—yes, real sympathy;”—and
with that quick transition of feeling which betrayed
the still enfeebled mind, M. Trefoil, as he repeated
the last word, became suddenly subdued, in his transitory
flow of spirits; and added, in a broken voice, wiping the
tears from his eyes: “But you must hear what he says.
Havilah, read the letter to Mr. Meredith. Begin at the beginning,
my daughter, I shall like to hear it again;”—and
M. Trefoil threw his handkerchief over his face, and settled
himself on the divan, preparatory to listening, for the third
time, to the grateful contents of the epistle.
The letter which Havilah read, in distinct, though now
and then trembling utterance, ran thus:—
“Peace be with thee, O Augustine, brother of my heart,
and widowed husband of Ianthe! peace be with thee,
O man, greatly bereaved! and may He that pitieth and
comforteth shower upon thee and upon thy household the
choicest blessings with which He blesses. I extend my
hand unto thee, O my brother, and embrace thee in my heart
of hearts. I can take the measure of thy consuming sorrow,
for did not the angel of Death snateh from my bosom the
faithful Fatimah, and bear her to the Paradise of the Prophet.
Time, the consoler, has lifted up the head that was bowed
my youth, Fatimah, chief among women. Thus I hail
thee, O man of sorrow! and salute thee as a companion
who has drunk with me from the bitter wells of affliction.
Peace be with the dove-eyed daughter of thine house, who
reposes no longer on the maternal breast; peace and benediction
on the dark-haired Havilah, who came hither with
thee a bud of promise, and whom Abdoul, son of Zanadeen,
styles the Lebanon Rose. Say to the blooming maiden,
that Maysunah, sole child of my affection, has ripened but
to fade. She droops like a flower whose stem no longer
drinks in the dew.
“Tell him of the snowy beard, dwelling beside thee on
the sacred mount, that the aching soul of Mustapha remembers
the gifts of his healing hand, and craves them for his
child.
“Come hither, I pray thee, O Augustine, my brother.
Damascus, a throned queen, sits among her gardens. Her
fragrant breezes woo the sick at heart. The doors of Mustapha
stand open wide, his spirit welcomes thee from afar.
Come hither, and bring with thee a fair mate to Maysunah's
loneliness, and him to whom Allah has given power to read
disease and apply the remedy. Farewell; may thy soul
take refuge with the Highest. The Ancient of benefits be
thy protector, and so fulfil the prayer of Mustapha.
“Written in the name of Allah, and in the faith of Allah's
Prophet.”
There was a short silence as Havilah finished reading.
It was broken by M. Trefoil, who, suddenly snatching away
the handkerchief from his face, exclaimed, energetically,
“Havilah, we must go to Damascus! Father Lapierre
never refuses the call of the unfortunate, I must see my
friend, Mustapha. The journey will invigorate us all; we
will go!”
With a startled expression, Havilah rose, and leaned
on her father's shoulder, out of reach of his eye. His
sudden resolution and announcement alarmed her, and not
without reason. It was difficult to judge whether they
were the result of restored powers, or of an excitement
more unnatural and painful than his previous dulness and
apathy. She made no answer to his proposition.
“What say you, my child?” he asked, looking up into
her face.
“As you think best,” she answered, dutifully, though with
effort. Her heart trembled, not for herself, but for him.
Already she foresaw and dreaded the perils of the way.
But M. Trefoil dreaded nothing. His elastic spirit was
on the rebound. In a tone of exhilaration he now addressed
himself to Meredith. “You will go with us, my friend,”
he said, in a tone of confident assertion.
Meredith, unprepared for such a challenge, hesitated, and
glanced at Havilah. Her eye was fixed upon him, as if in
his answer was her only hope. “I will,” he responded,
with decision.
“It is settled then, and we all go to Damascus in company,”
proclaimed M. Trefoil, rubbing his hands together,
in his characteristic way, as a token of satisfaction; and, a
new and welcome turn thus given to his thoughts, he exhausted
an hour of conversation in forming plans and making
suggestions concerning the journey so abruptly determined
on. But he alone was at ease. Havilah looked
distressed and anxious; Meredith, doubtful of the part he
was expected to play.
As he rose to go, and M. Trefoil preceded him through
the door-way, the young man, resolved to make sure of his
position, stepped back, and said, in a low and apologetic
tone, “Have I offended Havilah by my promise to her
father?”
“Offended? O, no!” she answered, her eyes glistening
through tears. “You are our best friend. You are like a
father to the villagers; you are like a son to my father.”
As she inadvertently spoke the last words, and their import
flashed upon her; the beautiful face, which a moment
before had been unnaturally pale, became deeply tinged
with crimson.
But Meredith, if he observed, mistook the cause of her
confusion. In his manly simplicity he gave only the most
natural interpretation to her words, and replied, as if reassured
on a mere point of doubt: “Thank you; you are
too kind. I do not deserve your praise; but, with your permission,
I shall be proud and happy to travel with you to
Damascus;”—and, his resolution thus confirmed, he bade
her farewell.
In the corner, meanwhile, sat one who needed no such
confirmation of the truth. He could not hear the last, low-spoken
words of the Englishman and Havilah, nor did his
quick instincts demand any such literal medium of intercourse.
With that keenness unknown to the civilized man,
the young savage had marked that mutual play of feature
which was to him an open book. His flashing eyes, like
electric balls, had intercepted the subtile fluid which was
transmitted along the line of thought, and with unerring
accuracy he read the import of the telegraphic message.
| CHAPTER XXII. El Fureidîs | |