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Ardath

<h2 id="id00303" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER VII.</h2> <h5 id="id00304">AN UNDESIRED BLESSING.</h5> Alwyn had listened with an absorbed yet somewhat mystified air of attention. "The venerable Esdras was certainly a poet in his own way!" he remarked lightly. "There is something very fascinating about the rhythm of his lines, though I confess I don't grasp their meaning. Still, I should like to have them all the same,—will you let me write them out just as you have translated them?" Willingly assenting to this, Heliobas read the extract over again, Alwyn taking down the words from his dictation. "Perhaps," he then added musingly, "perhaps it would be as well to copy a few passages from the Apocrypha also." Whereupon the Bible was brought into requisition, and the desired quotations made, consisting of verses xxiv. to xxvi. in the [Footnote: The reader is requested to refer to the parts of "Esdras" here indicated.] ninth chapter of the Second Book of Esdras, and verses xxv. to xxvi. in the tenth chapter of the same. This done, Heliobas closed and clasped the original text of the Prophet's work and returned it to its casket; then addressing his guest in a kindly, yet serious tone, he said: "You are quite resolved to undertake this journey, Mr. Alwyn?" Alwyn looked dreamily out of the window at the flame of the sunset hues reflected from the glowing sky on the white summit of the mountains. "Yes, … I … I think so!" The answer had a touch of indecision in it. "In that case," resumed Heliobas, "I have prepared a letter of introduction for you to one of our Order known as Elzear of Melyana,—he is a recluse, and his hermitage is situated close to the Babylonian ruins. You will find rest and shelter there after the fatigues of travel. I have also traced out a map of the district, and the exact position of the field you seek, . . here it is," and he laid a square piece of parchment on the table; "you can easily perceive at a glance how the land lies. There are a few directions written at the back, so I think you will have no difficulty. This is the letter to Elzear,"—here he held out a folded paper—"will you take it now?" Alwyn received it with a dubious smile, and eyed the donor as if he rather suspected the sincerity of his intentions. "Thanks very much!" he murmured listlessly. "You are exceedingly good to make it all such plain sailing for me,—and yet … to be quite frank with you, I can't help thinking I am going on a fool's errand!" "If that is your opinion, why go at all?" queried Heliobas, with a slight disdain in his accents. "Return to England instead—forget the name of 'Ardath,' and forget also the one who bade you meet her there, and who has waited for you 'these many thousand days!'" Alwyn started as if he had been stung. "Ah!" he exclaimed. "If I could be certain of seeing her again! … if … good God! the idea seems absurd! … if that Flower-Crowned Wonder of my dream should actually fulfill her promise and keep her tryst …" "Well!" demanded Heliobas—"If so, what then?" "Well then I will believe in anything!" he cried—"No miracle will seem miraculous.. no impossibility impossible!" Heliobas sighed, and regarded him thoughtfully. "You THINK you will believe!" he said somewhat sadly—"But doubts such as yours are not easily dispelled. Angels have ere now descended to men, men have neither received nor recognized them. Angels walk by our side through crowded cities and lonely woodlands,—they watch us when we sleep, they hear us when we pray, … and yet the human eye sees nothing save the material objects within reach of its vision, and is not very sure of those, while it can no more discern the spiritual presences than it can without a microscope discern the lovely living creatures contained in a drop of dew or a ray of sunshine. Our earthly sight is very limited—it can neither perceive the infinitely little nor the infinitely great. And it is possible,—nay, it is most probable, that even as Peter of old denied his Divine Master, so you, if brought face to face with the Angel of your last night's experience, would deny and endeavor to disprove her identity." "Never!" declared Alwyn, with a passionate gesture—"I should know her among a thousand!" For one instant Heliobas bent upon him a sudden, searching, almost pitiful glance, then withdrawing his gaze he said gently: "Well, well! let us hope for the best—God's ways are inscrutable—and you tell me that now—now after your strange so-called 'vision'—you believe in God?" "I did say so, certainly…" and Alwyn's face flushed a little.. "but…" "Ah! … you hesitate! there is a 'but' in the case!" and Heliobas turned upon him with a grand reproach in his brilliant eyes.. "Already stepping backward on the road! … already rushing once again into the darkness! …" He paused, then laying one hand on the young man's shoulder, continued in mild yet impressive accents: "My friend, remember that the doubter and opposer of God, is also the doubter and opposer of his own well-being. Let this unnatural and useless combat of Human Reason, against Divine Instinct cease within you—you, who as a poet are bound to EQUALIZE your nature that it may the more harmoniously fulfil its high commission. You know what one of your modern writers says of life? … that it is a 'Dream in which we clutch at shadows as though they were substances, and sleep deepest when fancying ourselves most awake.'[Footnote: Carlyle's Sartor Resartus.] Believe me, YOU have slept long enough—it is time you awoke to the full realization of your destinies." Alwyn heard in silence, feeling inwardly rebuked and half ashamed—the earnestly spoken words moved him more than he cared to show—his head drooped—he made no reply. After all, he thought, he had really no more substantial foundation for his unbelief than others had for their faith. With all his studies in the modern schools of science, he was not a whit more advanced in learning than Democritus of old—Democritus who based his system of morals on the severest mathematical lines, taking as his starting-point a vacuum and atoms, and who after stretching his intellect on a constant rack of searching inquiry for years, came at last to the unhappy conclusion that man is absolutely incapable of positive knowledge, and that even if truth is in his possession he can never be certain of it. Was he, Theos Alwyn, wiser than Democritus? … or was this stately Chaldean monk, with the clear, pathetic eyes and tender smile, and the symbol of Christ on his breast, wiser than both? … wiser in the wisdom of eternal things than any of the subtle-minded ancient Greek philosophers or modern imitators of their theories? Was there, COULD there be something not yet altogether understood or fathomed in the Christian creed? … as this idea occurred to him he looked up and met his companion's calm gaze fixed upon him with a watchful gentleness and patience. "Are you reading my thoughts, Heliobas?" he asked, with a forced laugh. "I assure you they are not worth the trouble." Heliobas smiled, but made no answer. Just then one of the monks entered the room with a large lighted lamp, which he set on the table, and the conversation thus interrupted was not again resumed. The evening shadows were now closing in rapidly, and already above the furthest visible snow-peak the first risen star sparkled faintly in the darkening sky. Soon the vesper bell began ringing as it had rung on the previous night when Alwyn, newly arrived, had sat alone in the refectory, listlessly wondering what manner of men he had come amongst, and what would be the final result of his adventure into the wilds of Caucasus. His feelings had certainly undergone some change since then, inasmuch as he was no longer disposed to ridicule or condemn religious sentiment, though he was nearly as far from actually believing in Religion itself as ever. The attitude of his mind was still distinctly skeptical—the immutable pride of what he considered his own firmly rooted convictions was only very slightly shaken—and he now even viewed the prospect of his journey to the "field of Ardath" as a mere fantastic whim—a caprice of his own fancy which he chose to gratify just for the sake of curiosity. But notwithstanding the stubbornness of the materialistic principles with which he had become imbued, his higher instincts were, unconsciously to himself, beginning to be aroused—his memory involuntarily wandered back to the sweet, fresh days of his earliest manhood before the poison of Doubt had filtered through his soul—his character, naturally of the lofty, imaginative, and ardent cast, re-asserted its native force over the blighting blow of blank Atheism which had for a time paralyzed its efforts—and as he unwittingly yielded more and more to the mild persuasions of these genial influences, so the former Timon-like bitterness of his humor gradually softened. There was no trace in him now of the dark, ironic, and reckless scorn that, before his recent visionary experience, had distinguished his whole manner and bearing—the smile came more readily to his lips—and he seemed content for the present to display the sunny side of his nature—a nature impassioned, frank, generous, and noble, in spite of the taint of overweening, ambitions egotism which somewhat warped its true quality and narrowed the range of its sympathies. In his then frame of mind, a curious, vague sense of half-pleasurable penitence was upon him,—delicate, undefined, almost devotional suggestions stirred his thoughts with the refreshment that a cool wind brings to parched and drooping flowers,—so that when Heliobas, taking up the silver "Esdras" reliquary and preparing to leave the apartment in response to the vesper summons, said gently, "Will you attend our service, Mr. Alwyn?" he assented at once, with a pleased alacrity which somewhat astonished himself as he remembered how, on the previous evening, he had despised and inwardly resented all forms of religious observance. However, he did not stop to consider the reason of his altered mood, … he followed the monks into chapel with an air of manly grace and quiet reverence that became him much better than the offensive and defensive demeanor he had erewhile chosen to assume in the same prayer-hallowed place,—he listened to the impressive ceremonial from beginning to end without the least fatigue or impatience,—and though when the brethren knelt, he could not humble himself so far as to kneel also, he still made a slight concession to appearances by sitting down and keeping his head in a bent posture—"out of respect for the good intentions of these worthy men," as he told himself, to silence the inner conflict of his own opposing and contradictory sensations. The service concluded, he waited as before to see the monks pass out, and was smitten with a sudden surprise, compunction, and regret, when Heliobas, who walked last as usual, paused where he stood, and confronted him, saying: "I will bid you farewell here, my friend! … I have many things to do this evening, and it is best I should see you no more before your departure." "Why?" asked Alwyn astonished—"I had hoped for another conversation with you." "To what purpose!" inquired Heliobas mildly. "That I should assert … and you deny … facts that God Himself will prove in His own way and at His own appointed time? Nay, we should do no good by further arguments." "But," stammered Alwyn hastily, flushing hotly as he spoke, "you give me no chance to thank you … to express my gratitude." "Gratitude?" questioned Heliobas almost mournfully, with a tinge of reproach in his soft, mellow voice. "Are you grateful for being, as you think, deluded by a trance? … cheated, as it were, into a sort of semi-belief in the life to come by means of mesmerism? Your first request to me, I know, was that you might be deceived by my influence into a state of imaginary happiness,—and now you fancy your last night's experience was merely the result of that pre-eminently foolish desire. You are wrong! … and, as matters stand, no thanks are needed. If I had indeed mesmerized or hypnotized you, I might perhaps have deserved some reward for the exertion of my purely professional skill, but … as I have told you already … I have done absolutely nothing. Your fate is, as it has always been, in your own hands. You sought me of your own accord … you used me as an instrument, an unwilling instrument, remember! … whereby to break open the prison doors of your chafed, and fretting spirit,—and the end of it all is that you depart from hence tomorrow of your own free-will and choice, to fulfill the appointed tryst made with you, as you believe, by a phantom in a vision. In brief"—here he spoke more slowly and with marked emphasis—"you go to the field of Ardath to solve a puzzling problem … namely, as to whether what we call life is not a Dream—and whether a Dream may not perchance be proved Reality! In this enterprise of yours I have no share—nor will I say more than this … God speed you on your errand!" He held out his hand—Alwyn grasped it, looking earnestly meanwhile at the fine intellectual face, the clear pathetic eyes, the firm yet sensitive mouth, on which there just then rested a serious yet kindly smile. "What a strange man you are, Heliobas!" he said impulsively … "I wish I knew more about you!" Heliobas gave him a friendly glance. "Wish rather that you knew more about yourself"—he answered simply—"Fathom your own mystery of being—you shall find none deeper, greater, or more difficult of comprehension!" Alwyn still held his hand, reluctant to let it go. Finally releasing it with a slight sigh, he said: "Well, at any rate, though we part now it will not be for long. We MUST meet again!" "Why, if we must, we shall!" rejoined Heliobas cheerily. "MUST cannot be prevented! In the mean time … farewell!" "Farewell!" and as this word was spoken their eyes met. Instinctively and on a sudden impulse, Alwyn bowed his head in the lowest and most reverential salutation he had perhaps ever made to any creature of mortal mold, and as he did so Heliobas paused in the act of turning away. "Do you care for a blessing, gentle Skeptic!" he asked in a soft tone that thrilled tenderly through the silence of the dimly-lit chapel,—then, receiving no reply, he laid one hand gently on the young man's dark, clustering curls, and with the other slowly traced the sign of the cross upon the smooth, broad fairness of his forehead.—"Take it, my son! … the only blessing I can give thee,—the blessing of the Cross of Christ, which in spite of thy desertion claims thee, redeems thee, and will yet possess thee for its own!" And before Alwyn could recover from his astonishment sufficiently to interrupt and repudiate this, to him, undesired form of benediction, Heliobas had gone, and he was left alone. Lifting his head he stared out into the further corridor, down which he just perceived a distant glimmer of vanishing white robes,—and for a moment he was filled with speechless indignation. It seemed to him that the sign thus traced on his brow must be actually visible like a red brand burnt into his flesh,—and all his old and violent prejudices against Christianity rushed back upon him with the resentful speed of once baffled foes returning anew to storm a citadel. Almost as rapidly, however, his anger cooled,—he remembered that in his vision of the previous night, the light that had guided him through the long, shadowy vista had always preceded him in the form of a Cross,—and in a softer mood he glanced at the ruby Star shining steadily above the otherwise darkened altar. Involuntarily the words "We have seen His Star in the East and have come to worship Him"—occurred to his memory, but he dismissed them as instantly as they suggested themselves, and finding his own thoughts growing perplexing and troublesome he hastily left the chapel. Joining some of the monks who were gathered in a picturesque group round the fire in the refectory he sat chatting with them for about half an hour or so, hoping to elicit from them in the course of conversation some particulars concerning the daily life, character, and professing aims of their superior,—but in this attempt he failed. They spoke of Heliobas as believing men may speak of saints, with hushed reverence and admiring tenderness—but on any point connected with his faith, or the spiritual nature of his theories, they held their peace, evidently deeming the subject too sacred for discussion. Baffled in all his inquiries Alwyn at last said good-night, and retired to rest in the small sleeping-apartment prepared for his accommodation, where he enjoyed a sound, refreshing, and dreamless slumber. The next morning he was up at daybreak, and long before the sun had risen above the highest peak of Caucasus, he had departed from the Lars Monastery, leaving a handsome donation in the poor-box toward the various charitable works in which the brethren were engaged, such as the rescue of travellers lost in the snow, or the burial of the many victims murdered on or near the Pass of Dariel by the bands of fierce mountain robbers and assassins, that at certain seasons infest that solitary region. Making the best of his way to the fortress of Passanaur, he there joined a party of adventurous Russian climbers who had just successfully accomplished the assent of Mount Kazbek, and in their company proceeded through the rugged Aragua valley to Tiflis, which he reached that same evening. From this dark and dismal-looking town, shadowed on all sides by barren and cavernous hills, he dispatched the manuscript of his mysteriously composed poem, together with the letter concerning it, to his friend Villiers in England,—and then, yielding to a burning sense of impatience within himself,—impatience that would brook no delay,—he set out resolutely, and at once, on his long pilgrimage to the "land of sand and ruin and gold"—the land of terrific prophecy and stern fulfilment,—the land of mighty and mournful memories, where the slow river Euphrates clasps in its dusky yellow ring the ashes of great kingdoms fallen to rise no more. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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