 | CHAPTER XXX. El Fureidîs |  |
30. CHAPTER XXX.
Abdoul returned no more to the encampment. The boy
had forfeited his own honor, but they whom he had wronged
were true, and no hint of his midnight treachery and assault
ever fell from the lips of Meredith or Havilah. The chivalrous
old sheik, however, was sufficiently mortified at the
escapade of the previous evening, and his son's non-appearance;
and when his guests, in accordance with their previous
intention, urged an early departure, he could only press his
hand on his heart, and with a dejected air profess himself
their grateful and already too much honored servant. Even
to the last moment his spirits continued sadly depressed;
the kind and cordial farewell of his new friends, so far from
soothing, served only to aggravate his shame as a father,
and his sensitiveness as a host; and when the caravan
finally rode off, escorted by Mahmoud, his brother's son,
Zanadeen blessed them with uplifted hands, and eyes that
were streaming with tears.
A day on the desert, a night passed in the dwelling of the
Governor of Jerûd, a second day's diligent journeying under
the protection of a fresh escort, furnished by the Aga, and
our travellers reached Baalbec.
No striking adventure marked or interrupted their progress.
To the lovers only was the journey memorable.
But they, alone with their secret joy, travelling on, amid
unbroken silence, under the great “eye of Heaven,” could
absorption. Rare privilege, in this world of ours, where
events trample upon each other in quick succession, and
busy life is forever at war with meditation!
The illimitable desert, so vast, so unobtrusive, and so still,
was symbolic of that one, all-embracing idea, which filled
the souls of Meredith and Havilah. The world seemed to
have stepped aside, only Heaven looked smiling on, while
her happy children basked in the sunshine.
Sweet, unbroken, and exultant was the calm of those
desert days. Grand, heroic, and full of noble purpose were
the days that succeeded. Baalbec, with its giant record of
the past, broke up the pensive charm in which the great
solitude had wrapped the heart; but the outward and the
real were not less welcome, because the inward and the
ideal had had their day. Standing on the massive temple
platform, beneath the shadow of the six colossal pillars,
Havilah and Meredith first pledged themselves to each other
for the great work of life. In the midst of those magnificent
ruins, which indicate at once man's power and insignificance,
they joined hands in the cause of humanity and
the active service of God, and, with the inspiration and
energy of united hearts, resolved that whatsoever their
hands might find to do, they would do it with their might.
Great structures, whether triumphing in perfection or
reflecting fallen glory, fire the imagination and stir the soul
to generous deeds. But a holier place than ancient Baalbec
sanctified and set the seal to the resolutions enkindled within
sight of the Temple of the Sun.
Beneath the ancient cedars of Lebanon, primeval monarchs
of the primeval world, contemporaries of patriarchs
and prophets, in that holiest of nature's temples, to which
pilgrims of all nations come yearly to hold communion with
in love, poured those hearts out in worship, dedicated their
love to the Source of all love, and felt their life hid with
Christ in God.
Here, too, they made others sharers in their joy. Here,
in the presence of those grand old witnesses which testify
to the truths of all ages, Havilah made a blushing recantation
of the resolve which nearly a year ago had disappointed
the dearest hopes of her father. M. Trefoil, blind
and obtuse to the last, was thunderstruck, incredulous, overwhelmed;
and when the light which shone in the eyes of
his daughter and Meredith, and the touch of their hands
mutually clasping his, convinced him of the truth which
otherwise he could not have believed, his agitation and
bewilderment were such, that Havilah trembled lest the
mind which a shock of sorrow had enfeebled should be
once more paralyzed by a sudden influx of joy. But her
fears were groundless. Such natures as M. Trefoil's assimilate
with happiness and assume prosperity as easily as a
well-fitting garment. He soon smiled with calm complacency
upon the new state of affairs, familiarized himself by
a sort of native instinct with the turn events had taken, and
though the startling character of the communication impressed
him seriously for the time, the good man would
have his joke, and often maintained, in after years, rubbing
his hands complacently together, that his simple daughter
thought she had outwitted her old father, but that his penetration
had never once been in fault,—his mountain-girl
understood coquetry as well as any city belle,—her indifference
to that good fellow Meredith was a girl's affectation,
and he (M. Trefoil) had suspected it all the while.
M. Lapierre made no boast of superior discernment, but
his insight into human nature was as keen as it was silent
Meredith and Havilah came to crave his paternal blessing,
and the serenity of his approving smile witnessed to
them both how truly he had read and interpreted their
hearts.
His benediction was in keeping with the time and the
scene. He laid a hand benignantly on the head of each,
while he said, “He is a worthy mate for you, my daughter.
He has been tried in the furnace of affliction, and has come
forth pure gold. Trust him with your whole heart, repose
undoubtingly in the rest of his love, for `he dwelleth in the
secret place of the Most High, he shall abide in the shadow
of the Almighty.' ”
Havilah turned her eyes confidingly upon her lover, and
the look was an answer.
“Be to her, my son, like the cedar of Lebanon to the
dove that hath built her nest in its shade. Uphold her,
protect her, shelter her from the storms of life.”
And as the young man answered, “I will,” his voice
was deep like the wind among the branches, and solemn as
a response at the altar.
There had been joy in El Fureidis. The voices of the
people had gone up in gladness and thanksgiving,—the
valleys had rung with the nuptial shout and song, the mountains
had echoed the peal, and the marriage-bells had made
music along the heights of Lebanon. The old friars had
descended once more from their convent, bearing simple
offerings in their hands, and fervent benedictions on their
lips. Mustapha had come, laden with rich gifts, from Damascus.
Maysunah had woven the bridal chaplet, and accompanied
the bride to the altar, and the same day which
saw Meredith and Havilah united in holy wedlock had witnessed
Christian font.
There had been sorrow in El Fureidîs. There had been
partings and farewells. Lingering looks had been exchanged,
and last words spoken. The Damascene and his
daughter had turned their steps towards the rising sun,
while their friends had travelled westward. The simple
villagers had followed the wedding-train for miles over
mountain and through valley, proud of their English benefactor,
proud that El Furcidîs had so amply repaid him for
his bounty, but vainly striving to repress the tears which
streamed down their bronzed cheeks as they watched him
depart, bearing away with him their Lebanon Rose.
But as in the villagers' joy at the marriage there had
been a foretaste of their pain in this farewell, so their present
sorrow was not without its promise of future joy. As
they turned their steps homeward, they could solace their
hearts with the thought that El Fureidîs would still be the
frequent summer home of Meredith and Havilah; that M.
Trefoil, who was to accompany his daughter to England,
would return in the following spring; that the villa would
then be repaired, the silk factory arise from its ruins, and
that meanwhile the liberality of the Englishman had insured
themselves and their families from want.
It was a summer morning in Syria. The white walls of
Beyrout, standing out from their background of gardens
and groves, seemed to concentrate the sunlight, and reflect
its heat with redoubled power. The early hours of the day
were past, the hum of city activity had subsided; idlers
had retreated to the shelter of their roofs and gardens, and
only the laborious portion of the population exposed themselves
to the scorching sun. There was no breeze in the
in soft yellow light, and sleeping motionless on the tide.
All things wore an attitude of rest and tranquil expectancy.
Conspicuous among the shipping in the harbor was a
little English brig, whose sharply-cut prow, fresh paint, and
neat rigging, as well as her determined position at the point
where she was certain to catch the first breeze, placed her
in strong contrast with the lazy feluccas and slovenly Greek
craft moored in her vicinity. The captain, a stout-built,
compact British seaman, was giving his final orders, the
neatly-dressed crew were bestowing the last professional
touch upon the vessel's gear, or were standing ready to let
out sail at the slightest provocation. In the cabin a group
of hearty friends were assembled round M. Trefoil. With
a glass of vino d'oro in his hand, and his ruddy face glowing
with pleasure, the honest manufacturer was responding
to the healths and good wishes proffered him by half a
score of native consuls, foreign residents, Armenian bankers,
and jovial Greek merchants. These men had been
M. Trefoil's Syrian contemporaries for many years. They
had flocked now, in the warmth of their hearts, to bid him
an affectionate farewell previous to the several months' absence
which he mediated; and as he grasped their sympathetic
hands, and received their cordial congratulations
upon the marriage of his daughter, it was easy to see that
the old man's satisfaction and pride had reached their
climax.
Seated amidships, M. Lapierre and Meredith were also
engaged in earnest conversation; but their final dialogue
was of a more serious character than that of M. Trefoil
and his convivial friends.
The missionary had accompanied the western-bound travellers
to the sea-board; but the period of their setting sail
addition to his pastoral duties, the secular interests of the
little community were, for the present, delegated to his
charge. The best means for securing the welfare of the
peasantry had already been concerted between him and
Meredith; but there were last counsels to be interchanged,
last assurances on the part of M. Lapierre that ample provision
had been made for his flock, last promises on the part
of Meredith to furnish aid in any extremity. There was
paternal advice, also, to be bestowed, and filial gratitude to
be expressed; and in the affectionate tenderness of the old
man's manner, and the responsive glow on the young man's
face, the emotions of a year seemed concentrated into one
parting moment.
Havilah sat alone upon the upper deck, where she was
protected from the sun by a canvas awning. Here, a few
moments before, she had held her little court, and responded
cordially to the kind wishes of her father's friends. But
the latter had gone simultaneously to drink a health below;
M. Lapierre and Meredith had previously withdrawn for
an uninterrupted conference, and Havilah, left to her own
thoughts, had suffered her eyes and her mind to stray in the
direction of her mountain-home.
She was roused from her reverie by a slight plashing of
the water beneath the stern of the brig. The next instant
a thin, tawny hand clasped the rail close beside her, — a
bound, a noiseless flutter of drapery, and a lithe figure had
flung itself over the vessel's side, and knelt motionless as a
stone at her feet. She sprung up, drew a quick breath, and
looked around her like a startled fawn seeking the means of
escape; then, observing the still, submissive attitude of her
muffled visitor, she hesitated, scrutinized him an instant, and
said, with timorous, questioning accent, “Abdoul?”
“Peace be with thee, lady, and fear me not,” said Abdoul,
slowly uncovering his face, and fixing his eyes upon
her with mournful gravity.
She was awed by the solemnity of his address, and still
more by the rigid and melancholy composure of his features.
She stood attentive, and he continued: “When thou sawest
me last, I fled from thee with a fire in my heart; but the
maddening flame of doubt has since been quenched in the
cold waters of certainty. Thou callest the Englishman
lord?”
“He is my husband,” said Havilah.
“Allah has willed it so, and it is well,” responded the
youth, with a tone of one sternly submitting himself to fate.
“I have attained to one of `the two comforts.' Suspense is
a torturing wound to the Arab, but if he be denied success,
he knows how to endure despair. I have only now to crave
pardon for the past, and in view of the future to bid thee a
final farewell.”
“Thy pardon followed quick upon thine offence,” said
Havilah, “and in years to come, my brother, if it please
Heaven, we shall meet again.”
“Thy forgiveness is a balm to my soul,” said Abdoul,
making a profound salutation; “but, lady, we meet no more.
`The Lord goeth between a man and his heart.' The Faithful
One will not make his servant to bear what he has not
strength to bear. The earth is spacious, our paths lie apart,
and I may not look upon thy face again.”
“Be it so,” answered Havilah, “and I say not but thou
art wise. I shall still cherish thy memory, and pray for
thee, my brother.”
“Thou art clothed with piety, and therefore thy prayers
will reach the throne,” said Abdoul. “I am an unworthy
servant of the Prophet, but I will remember thee in the
`the prayer of daybreak is borne witness unto by the angels.'
”
He here made a sudden movement, as if about to rise
and depart; but Havilah checked him by a motion of her
hand, and he continued resting on one knee while she said,
“Stay yet a moment, Abdoul; thou must not leave me
until I have spoken one more parting word, and restored
to thee that which is thine.”
As she spoke, she took from a heap of shawls and light
luggage which lay beside her a roll of silken tissue, and,
commencing at one end, slowly unwound a rich and brilliantly
dyed scarf, disclosing as she did so, first the jewelled
hilt, and gradually the shining blade, of Abdoul's dagger.
The boy's features, inflexible until now, twitched with
nervous agitation, and an eager light gleamed in his eye,
as he caught sight of the weapon; but a subdued and mortified
expression stole over his features as he met the
glance of Havilah, and listened while she said: “This muffled
roll was to have been my last charge to the good
father, and with it a message for thee. But thou art here
to receive both for thyself, which is far better. Take back
thy dagger, Abdoul, and let it be the seal of forgiveness
and friendship between me and thee. Use it as becomes
a servant of God and a chieftain's son. Defend the weak,
maintain the truth, protect the stranger. So shalt thou be
armed with self-respect, and merit the blessing and thanks
of Havilah.”
Abdoul bowed low in acknowledgment of the offering
held out to him, received the dagger, which he hid hastily
in his bosom, and said solemnly, with his hand pressed upon
his heart: “By the morning when it appeareth, by the redness
of the sky after sunset, by the night, and by the moon
the sun shall be folded up, and when the stars shall fall, and
when the seas shall be suffered to join their waters, and
when the mountains shall be made to pass away, and when
the books shall be laid open, and when paradise shall be
brought near, every soul shall know what it hath wrought.
See, then, if Abdoul hath been faithful.”
“I will trust and believe thee, Abdoul,” said Havilah.
“Bless thee, lady,” said the youth, “and farewell. May
Heaven's breezes give thee good voyage, and thy new home
be as fresh soil to the transplanted flower. Salute thy lord
for me, with a respectful salutation. Heaven grant him
long life, and give thee many years' rest in his love; and
if the staff of his strength shall fail thee, may `Allah shadow
thee with his shadow in that day when there shall be no
shade but his shadow.' ”
As he finished speaking, he bent his head to the floor,
and without presuming to take Havilah's outstretched hand,
or even to touch the hem of her robes, he pressed his lips
reverentially upon that spot of the deck on which she had
stood an instant before, then with lightning-like velocity
swung himself over the side of the vessel, and disappeared.
The sudden plash in the water occasioned by his leap
excited a vague fear in Havilah, who, forgetting that he
had departed precisely as he came, uttered a quick exclamation
of alarm, which brought Meredith at once to her
side. As he joined her with an anxious inquiry, and before
she had time to reply, her apprehensions were set at
rest by the sight of a little skiff, which had started out from
beneath the stern of the vessel, and which, rowed by two
skilful oarsmen, was already making for a neighboring
promontory.
“Look there,” she exclaimed, pointing to a figure crouched
and gone like the vision of a dream, but it is well. He has
blessed me, and we have parted in peace.”
“Poor fellow!” soliloquized Meredith, in a tone of tender
sympathy; and as they watched the boat sweep round the
curve of the little promontory, Havilah wiped away a tear.
At the same moment their cheeks were favored by a fresh
breeze from Lebanon. Immediately there was a stir on
board the vessel. The master eagerly issued his orders,
the anchor was raised, sails hoisted, and preparations made
to take advantage of the favorable wind which had already
begun to ripple the surface of the bay. M. Trefoil's
friends embarked hastily on board the boat, which waited
to take them on shore. M. Lapierre, prompt as the youngest
among them, made his last blessing as concise as it was fervent,
with a firm step passed over the vessel's side, and, his
head uncovered and his white hair streaming in the breeze,
took the place reserved for him in the midst of the friendly
throng. A moment more, and amid the waving of hands,
and reiterated farewells, and prayers of “God speed!” the
vessel had put out to sea.
She flew over the waters like a bird. To the friendly
eyes which watched her from the shore, her white sails
soon dipped into the dim horizon, and long ere the sun went
down she was out of sight on the blue Mediterranean; but,
standing beside each other on the deck, Meredith and Havilah
still cast lingering looks behind them. The white
walls of Beyrout had disappeared from their eyes, the
green gardens were no longer discernible against their
mountain background, the bays and promontories of the
Syrian coast had merged into a line of dull uniformity;
day was waning, and the sun was declining towards the west,
but its light still shone on sacred Lebanon.
Thus hope led the voyagers in the way they were going,
but memory cast a fond look behind.
“Land of beauty, land of promise, land of the morning,
farewell!” said Meredith. “Thou hast given me thy best
treasure, thou hast fulfilled to me all thy promises, thou hast
kindled a day-star in my heart,”—and, as he drew his
young wife closer to his side, his face glowed with adoring
gratitude to the Giver of all good.
“The mountains have been my home,” said Havilah;
“but I am content,—my home is here;”—and, leaning
trustingly upon her husband's shoulder, her soul kept company
with his in its soaring flight.
Thus the thoughts of both travelled upward. They
watched the purple light, as it crept up the hill-tops, and
rested awhile on the crest of Lebanon, and when the light
had faded into darkness, and day and night had mingled,
and the mountains had melted into the sky, the hearts of
the watchers were uplifted yet, for above them still was
Heaven and its stars.
| CHAPTER XXX. El Fureidîs | |