“Will you come with me, Madame?” he said, addressing himself solely to Irene— “It is better perhaps that you should see him first alone. But he will not distress you...he is quite harmless...poor El-Râmi!”
In spite of himself his voice trembled, — and Irene’s warm heart swelled for sympathy.
“I will come at once” — she said, and as she prepared to leave the room Strathlea whispered: “Let me go with you!”
She gave a mute sign of assent, — and Féraz leading the way, they quietly followed, while Sir Frederick and his wife remained behind. They passed first through a long stone corridor, — then into a beautiful quadrangular court with a fountain in its centre, and wooden benches set at equal distances under its moss-grown vine-covered colonnades. Flowers grew everywhere in the wildest, loveliest profusion, — tame doves strutted about on the pavement with peaceful and proud complacency, and palms and magnolias grew up in tall and tangled profusion wherever they could obtain root-hold, casting their long, leafy trembling shadows across the quadrangle and softening the too dazzling light reflected from the brilliant sky above. Up in a far corner of this little garden paradise, under the shade of a spreading cedar, sat the placid figure of a man, — one of the brethren at first he seemed, for he was clothed in the garb of the monastic order, and a loose cowl was flung back from his uncovered head on which the hair shone white and glistening as fine spun silver. His hands were loosely clasped together, — his large dark eyes were fixed on the rays of light that quivered prismatically in the foam of the tossing fountain, and near his feet a couple of amorous snowy doves sat brooding in the sun. He did not seem to hear the footsteps of his approaching visitors, and even when they came close up to him, it was only by slow degrees that he appeared to become conscious of their presence.
“El-Râmi!” said his brother with tender gentleness— “El-Râmi, these are friends who have journeyed hither to see you.”
Then, like a man reluctantly awaking from a long and pleasant noonday dream, he rose and stood up with singularly majestic dignity, and for a moment looked so like the proud, indomitable El-Râmi of former days, that Irene Vassilius in her intense interest and compassion for him, half fancied that the surprise of seeing old acquaintances had for a brief interval brought back both reason and remembrance. But no, — his eyes rested upon her unrecognisingly, though he greeted her and Strathlea also, with the stateliest of salutations.
“Friends are always welcome” — he said, “But friends are rare in the world, — it is not in the world one must look for them. There was a time I assure you,...when I...even I,...could have had the most powerful of all friends for the mere asking, — but it is too late now — too late.”
He sighed profoundly, and seated himself again on the bench as before.
“What does he mean?” asked Strathlea of Féraz in a low tone.
“It is not always easy to understand him” responded Féraz gently— “But in this case, when he speaks of the friend he might have had for the mere asking, he means, — God.”
The warm tears rushed into Irene’s eyes.
“Nay, God is his friend I am sure” — she said with fervour— “The great Creator is no man’s enemy.”
Féraz gave her an eloquent look.
“True, dear Madame” — he answered,— “But there are times and seasons of affliction when we feel and know ourselves to be unworthy of the Divine friendship, and when our own conscience considers God as one very far off.”
Yielding to the deep impulse of pity that swayed her, she advanced softly, and sitting down beside El-Râmi, took his hand in her own. He turned and looked at her, — at the fair delicate face and soft ardent eyes, — at the slight dainty figure in its close-fitting white garb, — and a faint wondering smile brightened his features.
“What is this?” he murmured, then glancing downward at her small white ringless hand as it held his— “Is this an angel? Yes, it must be, — well then, there is hope at last. You bring me news of Lilith?”
Irene started, and her heart beat nervously, — she could not understand this, to her, new phase of his wandering mind. What was she to say in answer to so strange a question? — for who was Lilith? She gazed helplessly at Féraz, — he returned her look with one so earnest and imploring, that she answered at once as she thought most advisable —
“Yes!”
A sudden trembling shook El-Râmi’s frame, and he seemed absorbed. After a long pause, he lifted his dark eyes and fixed them solemnly upon her.
“Then, she knows all now?” he de — mended— “She understands that I am patient? — that I repent? — that I believe? — and that I love her as she would have me love her, — faithfully and far beyond all life and time?”
Without hesitation, and only anxious to soothe and comfort him, Irene answered at once —
“Yes — yes — she understands. Be consoled — be patient still — you will meet her soon again.”
“Soon again?” he echoed, with a pathetic glance upward at the dazzling blue sky— “Soon? In a thousand years? — or a thousand thousand? — for so do happy angels count the time. To me an hour is long — but to Lilith, cycles are moments.”
His head sank on his breast, — he seemed to fall suddenly into a dreamy state of meditation, — and just then a slow bell began to toll to and fro from a wooden turret on the monastery roof.
“That is for vespers” — said Féraz— “Will you come, Madame, and hear our singing? You shall see El-Râmi again afterwards.”
Silently she rose, but her movement to depart roused El-Râmi from his abstraction, and he looked at her wistfully.
“They say there is happiness in the world” — he said slowly— “but I have not found it. Little messenger of peace, are you happy?”
The pathos of his rich musical voice as he said the words “little messenger of peace,” was indescribably touching. Strathlea found his eyes suddenly growing dim with tears, and Irene’s voice trembled greatly as she answered —
“No, not quite happy, dear friend; — we none of us are quite happy.”
“Not without love,” — said El-Râmi, speaking with sudden firmness and decision— “Without love we are powerless. With it, we can compass all things. Do not miss love; it is the clue to the great Secret, — the only key to God’s mystery. But you know this already, — better than I can tell you, — for I have missed it, — not lost it, you understand, but only missed it. I shall find it again, — I hope,...I pray I shall find it again! God be with you, little messenger! Be happy while you can!”
He extended his hand with a gesture which might have been one of dismissal or benediction or both, and then sank into his former attitude of resigned contemplation, while Irene Vassilius, too much moved to speak, walked across the court between Strathlea and the beautiful young “Brother Sebastian,” scarcely seeing the sunlight for tears. Strathlea too was deeply touched; — so splendid a figure of a man as El-Râmi he had seldom seen, and the ruin of brilliant faculties in such a superb physique appeared to him the most disastrous of calamities.
“Is he always like that?” he inquired of Féraz, with a backward compassionate glance at the quiet figure sitting under the cedar-boughs.
“Nearly always,” replied Féraz— “Sometimes he talks of birds and flowers, — sometimes he takes a childish delight in the sunlight — he is most happy, I think, when I take him alone into the chapel and play to him on the organ. He is very peaceful, and never at any time violent.”
“And,” pursued Strathlea hesitatingly, “who is, or who was the Lilith he speaks of?”
“A woman he loved” — answered Féraz quietly— “and whom he loves still. She lives — for him — in Heaven.”
No more questions were asked, and in another minute they arrived at the open door of the little chapel, where Sir Frederick and Lady Vaughan, attracted by the sound of music, were already awaiting them. Irene briefly whispered a hurried explanation of El-Râmi’s condition, and Lady Vaugh
an declared she would go and see him after the vesper-service was over.
“You must not expect the usual sort of vespers” — said Féraz then— “Our form is not the Roman Catholic.”
“Is it not?” queried Strathlea, surprised— “Then, may one ask what is it?”
“Our own,” — was the brief response. Three or four white-cowled, white-garmented figures now began to glide into the chapel by a side-entrance, and Sir Frederick Vaughan asked with some curiosity:
“Which is the Superior?”
“We have no Superior” — replied Féraz— “There is one Master of all the Brotherhoods, but he has no fixed habitation, and he is not at present in Europe. He visits the different branches of our Fraternity at different intervals, — but he has not been here since my brother and I came. In this house we are a sort of small Republic, — each man governs himself, and we are all in perfect unity, as we all implicitly follow the same fixed rules. Will you go into the chapel now? I must leave you, as I have to sing the chorale.”
They obeyed his gesture, and went softly into the little sacred place, now glowing with light, and redolent of sweet perfume, the natural incense wafted on the air from the many flowers which were clustered in every nook and corner. Seating themselves quietly on a wooden bench at the end of the building, they watched the proceedings in mingled wonder and reverence, — for such a religious service as this they had assuredly never witnessed. There was no altar, — only an arched recess, wherein stood a large, roughly carved wooden cross, the base of which was entirely surrounded with the rarest flowers. Through the stained glass window behind, the warm afternoon light streamed gloriously, — it fell upon the wooden beams of the Sign of Salvation, with a rose and purple radiance like that of newly-kindled fire, — and as the few monks gathered together and knelt before it in silent prayer, the scene was strangely impressive, though the surroundings were so simple. And when, through the deep stillness an organ-chord broke grandly like a wave from the sea, and the voice of Féraz, deep, rich, and pathetic exclaimed as it were, in song —
“Quare tristis es anima mea?
Quare conturbas me?”
Giving the reply in still sweeter accents —
“Spera in Deo!”
Then Irene Vassilius sank on her knees and hid her face in her clasped hands, her whole soul shaken by emotion and uplifted to heaven by the magic of divinest harmony. Strathlea looked at her slight kneeling figure and his heart beat passionately, — he bent his head too, close beside hers, partly out of a devotional sense, partly perhaps to have a nearer glimpse of the lovely fair hair that clustered in such tempting little ripples and curls on the back of her slim white neck. The monks, prostrating themselves before the Cross, murmured together some indistinct orisons for a few minutes, — then came a pause, — and once more the voice of Féraz rang out in soft warm vibrating notes of melody; — the words he sang were his own, and fell distinctly on the ears as roundly and perfectly as the chime of a true-toned bell —
O hear ye not the voice of the Belovëd?
Through golden seas of starry light it falls.
And like a summons in the night it calls.
Saying,— ‘Lost children of the Father’s House
Why do ye wander wilfully away?
Lo, I have sought ye sorrowing every day, —
And yet ye will not answer, — will not turn
To meet My love for which the angels yearn!
In all the causeless griefs wherewith your hearts are movëd
Have ye no time to hear the Voice of the Belovëd?
O hearken to the Voice of the Belovëd!
Sweeter it is than music, — sweeter far
Than angel-anthems in a happy star!
O wandering children of the Father’s House.
Turn homeward ere the coming of the night.
Follow the pathway leading to the light!
So shall the sorrows of long exile cease
And tears be turned to smiles and pain to peace.
Lift up your hearts and let your faith be provëd; —
Answer, oh answer the Voice of the Belovëd!
Very simple stanzas these, and yet, sung by Féraz as only he could sing, they carried in their very utterance a singularly passionate and beautiful appeal. The fact of his singing the verses in English implied a gracefully intended compliment to his visitors, — and after the last line “Answer, oh answer the voice of the Belovëd!” a deep silence reigned in the little chapel. After some minutes, this silence was gently disturbed by what one might express as the gradual flowing-in of music, — a soft, persuasive ripple of sound that seemed to wind in and out as though it had crept forth from the air as a stream creeps through the grasses. And while that delicious harmony rose and fell on the otherwise absolute stillness, Strathlea was thrilled through every nerve of his being by the touch of a small soft warm hand that stole tremblingly near his own as the music stole into his heart; — a hand, that after a little hesitation placed itself on his in a wistfully submissive way that filled him with rapture and wonder. He pressed the clinging dainty fingers in his own broad palm —
“Irene!” he whispered, as he bent his head lower in apparent devotion— “Irene, — is this my answer?”
She looked up and gave him one fleeting glance through eyes that were dim with tears; a faint smile quivered on her lips, — and then, she hid her face again, — but — left her hand in his. And as the music, solemn and sweet, surged around them both like a rolling wave, Strathlea knew his cause was won, and for this favour of high Heaven, mentally uttered a brief but passionately fervent “Laus Deo.” He had obtained the best blessing that God can give — Love, — and he felt devoutly certain that he had nothing more to ask for in this world or the next. Love for him was enough, — as indeed it should be enough for us all if only we will understand it in its highest sense. Shall we ever understand? — or never?
CHAPTER XII.
THE vespers over, the little party of English visitors passed out of the chapel into the corridor. There they waited in silence, the emotions of two of them at least, being sufficiently exalted to make any attempt at conversation difficult. It was not however very long before Féraz or “Brother Sebastian” joined them, and led them as though by some involuntary instinct into the flower-grown quadrangle, where two or three of the monks were now to be seen pacing up and down in the strong red sunset-light with books open in their hands, pausing ever and anon in their slow walk to speak to El-Râmi, who sat, as before, alone under the boughs of the cedar-tree. One of the tame doves that had previously been seen nestling at his feet, had now taken up its position on his knee, and was complacently huddled down there, allowing itself to be stroked, and uttering crooning sounds of satisfaction as his hand passed caressingly over its folded white wings. Féraz said very little as he escorted all his guests up to within a yard or so of El-Râmi’s secluded seat, — but Lady Vaughan paused irresolutely, gazing timidly and with something of awe at the quiet reposeful figure, the drooped head, the delicate dark hand that stroked the dove’s wings, — and as she looked and strove to realize that this gentle, submissive, meditative, hermit-like man was indeed the once proud and indomitable El-Râmi, a sudden trembling came over her, and a rush of tears blinded her eyes.
“I cannot speak to him” — she whispered sobbingly to her husband— “He looks so far away, — I am sure he is not here with us at all!”
Sir Frederick, distressed at his wife’s tears, murmured something soothing, — but he too was rendered nervous by the situation and he could find no words in which to make his feelings intelligible. So, as before, Irene Vassilius took the initiative. Going close up to El-Râmi, she with a quick yet graceful impulsiveness threw herself in a half-kneeling attitude before him.
“El-Râmi!” she said.
He started, and stared down upon her amazedly, — yet was careful in all his movements not to disturb the drowsing white dove upon his knee.
“Who calls me?
” he demanded— “Who speaks?”
“I call you” — replied Irene, regardless how her quite unconventional behaviour might affect the Vaughans as onlookers— “I ask you, dear friend, to listen to me. I want to tell you that I am happy — very happy, — and that before I go, you must give me your blessing.”
A pathetic pain and wonderment crossed El-Râmi’s features. He looked helplessly at Féraz, — for though he did not recognise him as his brother, he was accustomed to rely upon him for everything.
“This is very strange!” he faltered— “No one has ever asked me for a blessing. Make her understand that I have no Power at all to do any good by so much as a word or a thought. I am a very poor and ignorant man — quite at God’s mercy.”
Féraz bent above him with a soothing gesture.
“Dear El-Râmi,” he said— “this lady honours you. You will wish her well ere she departs from us, — that is all she seeks.”
El-Râmi turned again towards Irene, who remained perfectly quiet in the attitude she had assumed.
“I thought,” — he murmured slowly— “I thought you were an angel, — it seems you are a woman. Sometimes they are one and the same thing. Not often, but sometimes. Women are wronged, — much wronged, — when God endows them, they see further than we do. But you must not honour me, — I am not worthy to be honoured. A little child is much wiser than I am. Of course I must wish you well — I could not do otherwise. You see this poor bird,” — and he again stroked the dove which now dozed peacefully— “I wish it well also. It has its mate and its hole in the dove-cote, and numberless other little joys, — I would have it always happy, — and...so — I would have you always happy too. And, — most assuredly, if you desire it, I will say— ‘God bless you!’”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 284