 | CHAPTER XXIV. El Fureidîs |  |
24. CHAPTER XXIV.
M. Trefoil had, in his eagerness, deceived himself as
to the identity of his friend, Mustapha. The venerable
Turk who rode conspicuously in front of the approaching
troop was not the merchant, but his major-domo and
representative, who had been commanded to sally forth
and meet the travellers, his master, meanwhile, preparing
to receive and welcome them in due state at his own portal.
The ambassador of the rich Damascene was no mean personage,
however. A turban of gigantic dimensions, a gray
head of proportionate size, a richly flowered pelisse, and
an elaborately caparisoned horse, combined to render his
person distinguished, while a solemn countenance and ludicrously
majestic demeanor proclaimed the dignity of his
office.
He was attended by a couple of Abyssinian slaves and
a native interpreter. The latter had been despatched as
a special bearer of hospitable entreaties to his Excellency,
the English Milord, whose arrival in the company M. Trefoil
had not failed to announce to his friend, and who was
presumed by the latter to be ignorant of the Turkish
tongue, the only language the major-domo had at command.
Meredith, who had not dreamed of intruding upon the
hospitalities of Mustapha, politely evaded the solicitations
of the interpreter; but his objections and scruples were
finally overruled by the Turkish master of ceremonies,
language, gravely assured him that the dwelling of
Mustapha Osman was the dwelling of his Excellency; that
if its walls were not sufficiently wide, Mustapha Osman
would himself seek lodgings elsewhere; but that it would
be derogatory to the dignity of the Turkish Effendi, that
the friend of his friend should be dependent on the hospitality
of a hireling.
The matter being set in this light, Meredith, who had
now become versed in Eastern etiquette, realized the necessity
of yielding with a good grace; without further parleying,
he therefore dismissed Abdoul and the other. Bedouin
attendants, and consigned the pack-horses and baggage to
their charge, reserving only his leather portmanteau, which
was transferred to one of M. Trefoil's mules. With a retinue
thus sensibly diminished, the travellers entered the city
gate, and took the direction of the house of Mustapha.
The approach to Damascus had wound through beautiful
gardens and fragrant orchards. The fine old Roman portal
which furnished admittance within the walls gave promise
of grand architectural effects.
The moment the narrow, dark, and dirty streets were
gained, however, the illusion vanished. It was now nearly
nightfall. As the party threaded one tortuous alley after
another, filing between rows of dilapidated buildings, overhanging
projections, and distorted piles of masonry, they all
experienced that sudden depression of spirits consequent
upon a close atmosphere, uncertain lights and shadows, and
the sense of prison-like isolation which one feels on finding
himself encompassed by the windowless exterior walls
of Eastern dwellings. Here a line of loaded camels
blocked up the passage, there a pack of lean dogs were
snarling over a bone. Otherwise, the gutter-like streets
were well-nigh deserted.
Meredith looked from right to left, with an astonishment
not unmixed with disgust. “Fancy and romance have bestowed
many poetical names upon Damascus,” he remarked
to M. Lapierre, who rode beside him. “I should add to
them one more, and style it the Desert Mirage. Can it be
possible that this is the fairy city which we saw yonder?”
“Truly so,” answered Father Lapierre. “But you forget
that the East is the land of enchantment. A genuine
Oriental soon learns to calm his transports, whether of
pleasure or of pain. His philosophy and his experience
teach him that distance and proximity are alike illusive.
The former does not deceive him, nor the latter discourage.
The fickle fortunes of Prince Aladdin, the fabled hero of
youth, were, you remember, but a dream; still they foreshadow
the experiences of many an imaginative traveller.
Patience is the true genius of Eastern climes. Trust to it
in the present instance, and I scarcely think you will be disappointed.”
“Will it convert this old plaster tenement into a palace
for me, think you, good Father,” said Meredith, glancing
upward at an ugly conglomerate of wood and clay, beneath
which they were passing.
“Perhaps so,—we will see,” replied Father Lapierre,
meaningly; and as he spoke, Meredith observed that their
escort had halted in front of the plain Saracenic archway,
which alone interrupted the uniformity of the bare white
surface-wall,—that the Turkish major-domo had alighted,
and was holding the bridle of M. Trefoil's horse, while one
of the Abyssinian slaves was assisting the awkward rider to
dismount.
In a moment more, a horse-block, covered with crimson
velvet, was brought forward for the use of Havilah and
Geita; and the chief dignitary of the establishment was at
meanwhile on his heart: “Behold the dwelling of my master,
the Effendi. Will it please your Excellency to alight,
and honor by your presence the Salamlik of Mustapha
Osman?”
“Blessed be Allah, who has conducted you hither in
safety, O my brethren!” said the Turkish merchant, as,
presenting himself at the door-way, he received M. Trefoil
with a fraternal embrace. “Welcome and salutation to
thee, O fair Rose of Lebanon!” he continued, addressing
himself to Havilah, and bending low, as if about to kiss
the hem of her garment. She frankly offered her hand,
which the venerable Moslem touched reverentially with
his lips.
Meredith, meanwhile, took an observation of his host.
He was not a large man; but there was a staid majesty
in his carriage, which rendered his presence, and even his
figure, imposing. He borrowed no dignity from his dress,
except as the spotlessness of his white turban and the
sober tints of his pelisse harmonized with the repose and
solemnity of his features; and if richness of costume
had furnished the test of rank, the major-domo might have
been mistaken for the master, the master for the major-domo.
But independently of that Eastern ceremonial,
which instantly marks and determines each man's grade
in the social circle, there was that in the countenance and
air of Mustapha which gave unmistakable evidence of superiority.
The stately gravity of the major-domo was partly
constitutional, partly assumed; that of his master was the
result of thoughtful wisdom; the former was proud, in virtue
of his office; the latter was serene in his own simple
self-respect. The extreme melancholy of the Effendi's mild
blue eye was tempered by its kindly expression; the grave,
than strength of will. His whole countenance evinced that
calm determination which makes cowards shrink and base
men tremble, but which the weak and the dependent learn
to lean upon, and friends and equals trust instinctively.
Meredith conceived a friendship and admiration for Mustapha
at a glance, a sentiment which was to some degree
reciprocated by the Moslem, who greeted the Englishman
at first by a distant salaam, then, as if reading a recommendation
in his face, advanced and cordially offered a
welcoming hand, saying in a tone of perfect sincerity: “Our
nations are allies, O servant of the Great Queen! My
brother is thy friend. Let Mustapha then be thy brother.”
Meredith responded with the frankness of an Englishman,
agreeably tinctured with that Oriental grace of diction
which had become familiar to him.
Mustapha now caught sight of M. Lapierre, who was in
the act of dismounting. Advancing to meet him, the merchant
exclaimed, “Praise be to Allah, who has sent thee
hither, O mighty man of healing! I have begged assistance
of God with patience and prayer, and he has heard me, for
God is with the patient. My dwelling is thine, O worthy
physician! and I am thy grateful servant.”
He then waved his hand, and preceded his guests through
the narrow passage which conducted to the outer court or
reception-room of his dwelling. As they emerged from
the dark and winding entrance-way into the marble-paved
hall, where fresh air, sweet perfumes, and the sound of rippling
water greeted their weary senses, Meredith began to
experience the dawning of a new vision of enchantment.
It was but the dawn, however,—a mere foreshadowing of
what awaited him. It was now nearly dark. Only a
feeble glimmer of light lingered in the apartment, revealing
of a central fountain, and the uncertain outlines of the tall
orange and pomegranate trees, which threw the corners of
the court into deep shadow. Servants with noiseless tread
were moving in different directions, marshalling the attendants
of the travellers to their quarters, or transferring the
luggage to its appropriate destination, performing these offices
with that dumb rapidity which makes all the operations
of a Turkish household seem the effect of magic. To one
accustomed to the noise and bustle which ordinarily attends
an arrival, there was something bewildering in the
stillness and harmonious regularity of this reception. A
single gesture on the part of the master served for the
issuing of his orders. A fluttering of white veils at the farther
extremity of the court announced the vicinity of Maysunah
and her attendants; a profound obeisance on the part
of a swarthy Abyssinian, and Havilah and Geita disappeared,
wafted away as if on the breath of a perfume.
Mustapha waved his hand to his friends, who, by some unconscious
process, found themselves stretched on the wide
divan that ran around the room. Then, with the humility
of an inferior addressing dignitaries, the host asked permission
to order coffee and pipes.
Had he asked leave to order pistols and poison, Meredith
would unhesitatingly have assented, so completely had he
already become subjected to the influence of the place. M.
Lapierre was weary, and could hardly resist the impulse to
enjoy the opportunity for immediate rest. But the active
temperament of M. Trefoil was not so impressible to the
soothing and slumbering effects of an Oriental reception.
He knew his own wants, and felt completely at home. So,
in the name of himself and the others of the party, he
promptly declined any other refreshment for the present
chief luxury after a journey.
With the composure of one whose chosen duty it is to
wait and serve, Mustapha at once issued orders in conformity
with M. Trefoil's suggestion; and almost before the
customary and mutual inquiries had been interchanged regarding
the health and welfare of the Damascene and his
guests, the latter were gravely summoned to take possession
of the bath, and its luxurious appliances.
“I shall have the honor of supping with you in the inner
court,” said Mustapha, rising from his seat, and politely attending
his friends to the door, where he saluted each as
they passed through.
The solemn mysteries of the bath had been complied
with; the ecstatic sense of repose had supervened. Transported,
almost without conscious volition, to the superb inner
court,—the deserted harem of the widowed host, who, despite
the license of his creed, was still true to the memory of the
lost Fatimah,—the male members of M. Trefoil's party had
feasted on viands of aromatic odor, and been soothed by the
drink which the Arabic poet styles, in his extravagance,
“the beverage of the people of God.” The velvet-shod
servants had advanced and retreated, with as much precision
as if to the sound of music; the hands of the guests
had been dipped in rose-water, then folded in snowy napkins,
embroidered with gold; graceful pipe-bearers, dropping on
one knee, had presented the jewelled mouth-pieces within
reach of the lips, and the elysium of the Oriental was
attained.
The elysium of Father Lapierre, however, was duty,
moderation, and healthful rest. He had eaten sparingly,
declined coffee and the narghileh, and withdrawn for the
night. Meredith had complied with the suggestion of his
that opened upon the court. M. Trefoil and Mustapha Osman,
reclining upon the dais of the central apartment, where
supper had been served to them, dish by dish, were engaged
in friendly converse. But the Turk never wastes words;
the manufacturer was weary, and the dialogue was desultory,
dreamy, and slow. Soothed by its monotony, by the
rippling play of numerous fountains, and by the indistinct
sounds of distant music, Meredith fell asleep. He slept
awhile a dreamless sleep,—then he awoke, and dreamed.
He dreamed that M. Trefoil and the Effendi were gone,
and that he was alone in the enchanted palace which Eastern
Genii, subject to the will of Mustapha, had decorated for
Fatimah, the merchant's youthful and beloved bride. From
the canopied alcove where he lay, he looked up at a domed
ceiling, whose azure tint was relieved by panelling of gorgeous
arabesque, and draped with a fretwork of gold. A
gilded cornice, with delicately carved pendents, ran around
the walls of the court, which was divided into an upper and
lower apartment, connected together by a noble archway.
From the former branched off various alcoves and recesses,
similar to that on whose cushioned divan the Englishman
was reposing. As his eye ranged up and down the lofty
walls, he felt himself lost amid mazes of coloring, and bewildered
by architectural forms. Arches with fluted pillars,
niches from which streamed a subdued light, slabs of marble
and porphyry, on which inscriptions from the Koran were
engraved in graceful Arabic characters, light galleries and
colonnades festooned with the passion-flower and jessamine
in full bloom,—all these elements of beauty assailed his
senses at a glance, and, reflected in innumerable little mirrors
inserted in the wainscoting, were repeated in endless perspective.
In vain did the imagination attempt to trace the pattern
the rich satin of the divans, or to evolve the designs of variegated
marble which constituted the mosaic pavement. It
was enough to gaze in dreamy wonder, sunk in an apathy
of Oriental delights. Nor was the eye alone filled and satisfied.
Numerous fountains, emptying themselves into a
central basin, diffused coolness through the atmosphere;
tropical plants, grouped at the angles of the walls, scattered
intoxicating odors; and a bird—a nightingale, perchance
—uttered melodious music.
Was it the rippling of a new fountain, just starting into
play, which now chimed in with the other sounds, or was it
the light patter of youthful feet? Was it the answering
note of the bird's mate, which now met the Englishman's
ear, or was it girlish laughter? Was it a picture, such as
artist never painted before, or was it a living ideal, which
had come to perfect the scene?
He looked in the direction whence the sounds proceeded,
but saw nothing. Opposite to him, however, mirrored in
glass, or possibly in fancy, were two figures, whose loveliness,
grace, and picturesque attire harmonized so perfectly
with their fairy-like surroundings, that they seemed an indispensable
part of the whole. They were not mere models
of form and coloring, for they were endued with life and
motion. Now they paced slowly along the railed gallery
which ran around the court, then paused to pluck a passion-flower
or smell a rose, then idled on. Meredith watched
them breathlessly for a moment, then they were gone.
With a sudden sense of loss, he looked vacantly around
him, and as suddenly they reappeared. It was a narrow
strip of mirror set in an angle of the alcove which revealed
them now, and this time Meredith knew that he saw only
the reflection of objects,—distant or near, he could not tell.
what direction, and why flee from a dream?
They were descending a winding staircase, whose balusters,
wreathed with the gilded foliage of art and the green
twigs of creeping vines, half concealed their figures. The
one was glowing in the radiance of healthful bloom. The
soft richness of the Indian, the pure element of the Greek,
the nervous fibre of the Anglo-Saxon race, all revealed
themselves in her lineaments and motions. She bore herself
with that careless ease, half child-like and half queenly,
which was her mountain birthright; she looked around her
with the naive curiosity of a nature, which, untainted by
envy or selfish craving, feels that all the treasures of earth
and heaven are hers,—hers in fee simple through her power
to enjoy.
The vivid colors of her striped Persian skirt, her Zouave
jacket, and her velvet cap, contrasted strongly with the deep
but softly blended hues of the frescos and mosaics which
lined the apartment; her rich complexion and lustrous eyes
made the scene luminous with her presence,—too luminous,
but for the sweet feminine grace which subdued and
sanctified it.
Her companion was diminutive, feeble, and pale. Her
dim blue eye had that faded aspect which we might expect
to see in one who had been long imprisoned from the light.
Her hair, of the lifeless color of desert sand, was so thin
as barely to cover her temples, far less to shadow her
high, angular brow. Her face would have been prematurely
old, but for the sweet, infantile expression of the
mouth, which, whether the lips were in motion or repose,
always awakened tenderness by its beseeching, pathetic
appeal. She seemed encumbered and oppressed by the
richness and weight of her costume. The cumbrous folds
figure, and to the miniature feet which peeped from beneath
them. Her stiffly embroidered vest appeared to
contract her narrow chest, her slender shoulders bent beneath
her caftan of heavy Persian silk, closely interwoven
with gold. The strings of glittering trinkets and jewels
bound around her head challenged pity for the frail wearer,
and the taper fingers and blue-veined arms, which leaned on
the stair-rail for support, looked more wan and wasted for
the jewelled rings and bracelets which zoned them.
“Lean on me, Maysunah,” said her stronger friend,
drawing the feeble girl closer to her. Maysunah's head
sank on the offered shoulder, and her low words of thanks,
uttered in the melodious and modulated accent of her native
tongue, were like a minor chord, filling in the music of
Havilah's pure contralto.
So, with loving attitude and words, these playmates of
childhood, mutually happy in reunion, came down the stairway
together, and crossed the marble-paved court. Lost
once more to the Englishman's sight, as they passed beyond
the mirror's narrow scope, he only beheld them again, as,
gliding within a few feet of his sheltered alcove, they
approached a heap of cushions, just outside the margin of
the fountain. And now, when it was too late for him to retreat,
he became conscious that the vision was no illusion,
and that he beheld both maidens, face to face.
“Rest here, my drooping lily, my panting dove,” said
Havilah, as, seating herself amid the cushions, she pillowed
Maysunah's head upon her lap. “We have wandered
round the house too long. The mountain roe forgot that
her mate had been reared within painted walls, and that
her feet were not trained to run and to climb. So, so! lie
still. Ah! the sweet bird, yonder! Listen, Maysunah.”
And Maysunah lay still and listened,—but not long.
Rest and song were less soothing to her than the face of her
friend; and presently, raising herself on one elbow, she looked
up at Havilah, that she might drink in the refreshment of
her smile, as the child, who has found a long-lost toy, feasts
his eye on the recovered treasure, and cannot suffer it out
of his sight.
There are some flowers which, wanting in beauty,
waste themselves in fragrance. Such was Maysunah. The
deep affectionateness of her mature exhaled with every
breath. Undeveloped, unreasoning, untaught, she could
only love. The lonely child, reared in the desolate harem,
which, since her mother's death, had been such only in
name, had found nothing in her narrow experience to foster
envy, vanity, or pride. Never conscious of an outward
want, but knowing no society save that of her grave father,
and servants of like years, her heart alone had craved nourishment.
Havilah's visit in Damascus, five years ago, had
been the one living episode in her lifeless life. All her
clinging memories twined round that solitary event, and
the return of her mountain friend was like a breeze from
Lebanon to a desert wayfarer.
Such guileless worship, such unaffected admiration as
she bestowed upon Havilah! It actually made Havilah
blush; but the blush melted into a smile when Maysunah,
with unhesitating freedom, put up her hand to stroke her
friend's temples, and feel the soft bloom on her cheek. It
was an infantile token of love, and the smile which responded
to it was tender and compassionate, like that
with which a mother receives a babe's caress. So, too, it
was with wondering yet patient submission that Havilah
watched the motions of the child-maiden, as, slowly unwinding
the long strings of pearls which adorned her thin arms,
fingers interwove them with the black shining braids of
hair which were looped beneath the mountain-girl's Greek
cap. And when the becoming toilet was completed, and
Havilah saw herself reflected in the basin of the fountain,
and acknowledged her friend's services with a kiss, Maysunah
clasped her hands, and gazed with an ecstasy of satisfaction
which almost lent a glow to her own dim eye and
sunken cheek.
And she had achieved signal success. Meredith had
almost forgotten that Havilah was so beautiful.
Penetrating beyond and behind those external charms
which had first captivated his senses, and learning something
of the secret of that spiritual life which constituted
her inner beauty, he had become less sensitively alive to
that outward radiance which was but the reflection of a
purer light; but now that she had burst suddenly upon his
sight, like the central jewel of an Oriental crown, he realized
that, whether in palace or cot, alone with nature on sacred
Lebanon or decked with the costliest gems of Persia and
of Ind, Havilah's loveliness could not be rivalled, nor her
lustre dimmed. It was the triumph of youth and beauty.
It was to him what the loadstar is to the lost mariner, a
sight to thrill the heart with sudden joy. But the emotion
did not end here. As truth is better than beauty, as soul
masters sense, as the mariner looks to his pole-star, then,
cheered by its ray, plunges boldly into the darkness, so
Meredith's throb of homage soon gave place to a resolute
calm; a beam of holy light shone upon the night of his
spirit, and the star which he worshipped became to him a
guiding star.
“She speaks,” said he to himself; “lie still, my heart, and
listen.”
“My dove is pining in its gilded cage,” said Havilah,
compassionately, as, drawing Maysunah's head once more to
her bosom, she observed the quick breath that betrayed the
girl's feeble frame. “Thou must go with me to my mountains,
Maysunah. Thou must sit beneath the fig-tree's
shade, and drink the pure wine of our native vines, and
smell the smell of Lebanon. That is the medicine that
thou needest, my caged bird. O say, then, wilt thou go?”
“I should like it,” murmured Maysunah, but without
looking up.
“We will wander among old ruins,” said Havilah, “and
rest on flowery banks, and trace the shadows on the valleys,
and watch the sun sink into the sea at nightfall. We will
fling thy muffling veil to the winds. The blue sky will not
be jealous of thine eyes. We shall be free as the mountain
breeze, Maysunah. Wilt thou go?”
“Ah, how sweet it were to go!” whispered Maysunah,
pressing Havilah's hand.
“Thou shalt fly with me, then, thou tender fledgling,”
said Havilah. “The parent bird will not forbid. We will
promise him that thine eye shall grow bright with health,
and thy pale cheek bloom like the rose. Ah, how happy
we will be together! I will sing to thee, and talk to thee,
and cherish thee, my love. I will tell thee old stories of
the past, such as the good father tells to me. Already I
seem to be bidding thee welcome to my home, and my
heart to bound with the thought, Maysunah, Maysunah is
come.”
Warmed by her fresh impulse and her generous sympathy,
Havilah's heart was truly aglow; but no responsive hopes
were awakened in Maysunah's breast. The latter, slightly
changing her position, so as once more to command a view
of Havilah's face, scanned her friend's mobile features with
cannot, cannot be. The bird whose wings have long
been clipt has no strength to soar. I may not drink in
health with the mountain breeze; I may not listen to thy
stories or thy songs; I may not come to thy Lebanon
home; but, O Havilah!” and Maysunah, rising with a
suddenness for which Havilah was wholly unprepared,
threw herself on her knees, and, half buried in the cushions,
with hands clasped, and every feature of her white
face strained with the intensity of her appeal, exclaimed,
“Tell me, O tell me of Him who has said, `Let little children
come unto me'!”
Startled by the plaintive, yearning cry, Havilah was silent
for an instant; then answered, “Dost thou remember
Him so well, Maysunah?”
“Remember Him? Ah! how could I forget?” was the
reply, uttered in tones at once passionate and childish.
“Has He not been with me all these years? have I not
found in Him mother, sister, brother, friend? When Mustapha
was absent on the weary pilgrimage, and Fatimah
was in the arms of Azrael,[1]
and there was none to answer
the child's lonely cry, O how then could she be deaf to the
tender call, `Maysunah, come unto me'?”
“And thou camest?” asked Havilah.
“Ah! how could I come? and what could I do?” said
Maysunah, with a mournful shake of the head. “He was
my treasure; but what was I? His voice has been to me
like a song in the night, but I have had no power to answer.
Could Maysunah pay honor to Him, who was a stranger
to all else beside? Could the feeble one exalt the Friend
whom the rich and the strong held in light esteem?”
“How wouldst thou exalt Him, and what honors wouldst
thou pay?” questioned Havilah, with thoughtful interest.
“My father has engraved the commands of his Prophet
in letters of gold upon the wall,” said Maysunah, pointing
to the tablets above her head, on which the precepts of the
Koran were inscribed. “He has performed the sacred pilgrimage
to Mecca, and risked his life that he might kiss the
blessed Kaaba. His balances in the day of reckoning will
be found heavy with good works. He prayeth with face
turned toward the holy shrine. He bestoweth his alms
freely; seeking to attain, by means of the wealth which
God hath given him, the future mansion of Paradise. But
I,” she continued, in a sad, apologetic tone, as if humbled by
a sense of the mortifying contrast,—“I can raise no altar to
my Lord, for I know not even where he lies entombed;”—
and her eyes wandered from side to side, like one mazed
in a wilderness. “I have no riches to bestow upon his servants,
and she dropped her empty hands upon her lap;
I have no strength to labor in his cause, no power to add
honor to his name, no offerings to lay at his feet. Poor, solitary,
sinful child that I am, I have nothing to give him but
my heart;”—and as she spoke tears gushed from her eyes,
and, covering her face with her thin hands, she once more
dropped her head upon Havilah's bosom.
“It is all he asks,—it is all he asks, my precious one,” said
Havilah, folding her arms tightly around Maysunah, who
was trembling with agitation. Havilah herself was deeply
moved, and it was only after some minutes that she could
compose herself sufficiently to add: “Be comforted, Maysunah,
sweet sister in the Lord. Thou art his by the seal of
thine own confession. Pet lamb of his flock, O doubt not
that the Good Shepherd will take thee in his arms, and bear
thee in his bosom.”
“Lead me to him, O lead me to him, Havilah!” said
Maysunah, between her sobs.
“I will,” said Havilah; “the distance is not far. It is
not hard to find and to follow the master that one loves,
and thou lovest him already, Maysunah.”
“He first loved me,” was the expressive response.
“And how knewest thou of his love?”
“Was I not with thee in the lonely fruit-orchard, beside
the sacred Albana, when the old man called us from our
play, and we knelt at his feet, and he laid his hand on our
heads and blessed us, and told us of Him who has said,
`Let little children come unto me, for of such is the kingdom
of Heaven'?”
“And was this all?”
“Yes, all; but it was much to Maysunah. The learned
and the wise might trust to Mohammed, the Meccan lawgiver;
but he had no welcome and no promise for a weak,
ignorant child. Jesus called, and I answered. He spoke
once only, but my heart answers still.”
“And he hears thee, Maysunah.”
“Ah, could I believe it!” said Maysunah, her features
kindling at the thought. “But, Havilah, he knows me not.
I hear his voice, but I cannot follow him; he is near me,
but I cannot see his face. He has passed by me, but I
have only clung to the skirts of his robe. I have but kissed
the hem of his garment.”
“And so shalt thou be made whole,” exclaimed Havilah,
with enthusiasm. “Poor, longing, bleeding soul, fear not
but he will bind up all thy wounds.”
“I ask no other healing,” said Maysunah. “They have
studied my disease in vain, for its root lies here,”—and she
laid her hand upon her heart. They have given me vile
drugs, but each was more bitter than the last; they have
have sought to cheer me, but I drooped the more. And
then, when my father wept, I cried: `There is a balm for
me in Lebanon, a spring among the mountains, for which I
thirst,—an old man there, who alone can save Maysunah.
Send for him, ere I die.' ”
“Dear wanderer, long parched by the desert breath,”
said Havilah, “thou shalt thirst no more, for Jesus himself
has promised that to them that are athirst he will give the
water of life freely.”
“I have wandered in the desert,” said Maysunah, “but
thou art my oasis. I have found thee at last, Havilah.
Let me rest now beneath thy shade. Thou hast within
thee the well-spring for which my spirit pants. Bathe me
in its flood, my beautiful one. Tell me, as thou didst promise,
the stories that the good father has told to thee; but let
them all be of Jesus, the Heavenly One, the Comforter.”
She now composed herself into a listening attitude, folded
her little hands meekly together, and lifted up her dim
eyes, as the scorched flower lifts its cup to the night-dew.
And Havilah filled the thirsty cup to its brim,—filled it
gently, drop by drop, from her own crystal spring of truth,
and child poured out to child the knowledge of that love
which embraces all the families of the earth, which triumphs
over sin and the grave, and which the humblest
soul may purchase with a prayer. And Maysunah drank
the heavenly draught, and the drooping soul felt the truth
of the promise, “Thou shalt never thirst again. For the
water that I shall give thee shall be within thee a well of
water springing up into everlasting life.”
And Meredith,—the once haughty-souled Meredith,—
what of him? How did he receive the truth which is
mighty to save?
He listened, as the child that is lost listens to the voice
that calls him home; and when the voice had ceased, and
his dream—if it were a dream—was over, he sunk upon
his knees, and there, under the roof of Mahomet's disciple,
the man reared in a Christian land first bowed his proud
spirit in a Christian's prayer, and laid the required gift on
the altar of Him who had softly whispered to his soul that
night, “My son, give me thy heart.”
| CHAPTER XXIV. El Fureidîs | |