Ardath by Marie Corelli (reading in the dark .txt) 📖

am at present engaged, of which more hereafter, … when we meet. Until then think as well of me as you can, and believe me “Ever and most truly your friend, “THEOS ALWYN.”

 

This letter finished, folded, and sealed, Alwyn once more took up his manuscript and meditated anew concerning its title. Stay! …

why not call it by the name of the ideal heroine whose heart-passion and sorrow formed the nucleus of the legend? … a name that he in very truth was all unconscious of having chosen, but which occurred frequently with musical persistence throughout the entire poem. “NOURHALMA!” … it had a soft sound … it seemed to breathe of Eastern languor and love-singing,—it was surely the best title he could have. Straightway deciding thereon, he wrote it clearly at the top of the first page, thus: “Nourhalma; A Love Legend of the Past,” … then turning to the end, he signed his own name with a bold flourish, thus attesting his indisputable right to the authorship of what was not only destined to be the most famous poetical masterpiece of the day, but was also to prove the most astonishing, complex, and humiliating problem ever suggested to his brain. Carefully numbering the pages, he folded them in a neat packet, which he tied strongly and sealed—then addressing it to his friend, he put letter and packet together, and eyed them both somewhat wistfully, feeling that with them went his great chance of immortal Fame. Immortal Fame!—what a grand vista of fair possibilities those words unveiled to his imagination! Lost in pleasant musings, he looked out again on the landscape. The sun had sunk behind the mountains so far, that nothing was left of his glowing presence but a golden rim from which great glittering rays spread upward, like lifted lances poised against the purple and roseate clouds. A slight click caused by the opening of the door disturbed his reverie,—he turned round in his chair, and half rose from it as Heliobas entered, carrying a small richly chased silver casket.

 

“Ah, good Heliobas! here you are at last,” he said with a smile.

“I began to think you were never coming. My correspondence is finished,—and, as you see, my poem is addressed to England—where I pray it may meet with a better fate than has hitherto attended my efforts!”

 

“You PRAY?” queried Heliobas, meaningly, “or you HOPE? There is a difference between the two.”

 

“I suppose there is,” he returned nonchalantly. “And certainly—to be correct—I should have said I HOPE, for I never pray. What have you there?”—this as Heliobas set the casket he carried down on the table before him. “A reliquary? And is it supposed to contain a fragment of the true cross? Alas! I cannot believe in these fragments,—there are too many of them!”

 

Heliobas laughed gently.

 

“You are right! Moreover, not a single splinter of the true cross is in existence. It was, like other crosses then in general use, thrown aside as lumber,—and had rotted away into the earth long before the Empress Helena started on her piously crazed wanderings. No, I have nothing of that sort in here,”—and taking a key from a small chain that hung at his girdle he unlocked the casket. “This has been in the possession of the various members of our Order for ages,—it is our chief treasure, and is seldom, I may say never, shown to strangers,—but the mystic mandate you have received concerning the ‘field of Ardath’ entitles you to see what I think must needs prove interesting to you under the circumstances.” And opening the box he lifted out a small square volume bound in massive silver and double-clasped. “This,” he went on, “is the original text of a portion of the ‘Visions of Esdras,’

and dates from the thirteenth year after the downfall of Babylon’s commercial prosperity.”

 

Alwyn uttered an exclamation of incredulous amazement. “Not possible!” he cried. … then he added eagerly, “May I look at it?”

 

Silently Heliobas placed it in his outstretched hand. As he undid the clasps a faint odor like that of long dead rose-leaves came like a breath on the air, … he opened it, and saw that its pages consisted of twelve moderately thick sheets of ivory, which were covered all over with curious small characters finely engraved thereon by some evidently sharp and well-pointed instrument. These letters were utterly unknown to Alwyn: he had seen nothing like them in any of the ancient tongues, and he examined them perplexedly.

 

“What language is this?” he asked at last, looking up. “It is not Hebrew—nor yet Sanskrit—nor does it resemble any of the discovered forms of hieroglyphic writing. Can YOU understand it?”

 

“Perfectly!” returned Heliobas. “If I could not, then much of the wisdom and science of past ages would be closed to my researches.

It is the language once commonly spoken by certain great nations which existed long before the foundations of Babylon were laid.

Little by little it fell into disuse, till it was only kept up among scholars and sages, and in time became known only as ‘the language of prophecy.’ When Esdras wrote his Visions they were originally divided into two hundred and four books,—and, as you will see by referring to what is now called the Apocrypha,[Footnote: Vide 2 Esdras xiv.44-48.] he was commanded to publish them all openly to the ‘worthy and unworthy’ all except the ‘seventy last,’ which were to be delivered solely to such as were ‘wise among the people.’ Thus one hundred and thirty-four were written in the vulgar tongue,—the remaining seventy in the ‘language of prophecy,’ for the use of deeply learned and scientific men alone. The volume you hold is one of those seventy.”

 

“How did you come by it?” asked Alwyn, curiously turning the book over and over.

 

“How did our Order come by it, you mean,” said Heliobas. “Very simply. Chaldean fraternities existed in the time of Esdras, and to the supreme Chief of these, Esdras himself delivered it. You look dubious, but I assure you it is quite authentic,—we have its entire history up to date.”

 

“Then are you all Chaldeans here?”

 

“Not all—but most of us. Three of the brethren are Egyptians, and two are natives of Damascus. The rest are, like myself, descendants of a race supposed to have perished from off the face of the earth, yet still powerful to a degree undreamed of by the men of this puny age.”

 

Alwyn gave an upward glance at the speaker’s regal form—a glance of genuine admiration.

 

“As far as that goes,” he said, with a frank laugh, “I’m quite willing to believe you and your companions are kings in disguise, —you all have that appearance! But regarding this book,”—and again he turned over the silver-bound relic—“if its authenticity can be proved, as you say, why, the British Museum would give, ah!

… let me see!—it would give …”

 

“Nothing!” declared Heliobas quietly, “believe me, nothing! The British Government would no doubt accept it as a gift, just as it would with equal alacrity accept the veritable signature of Homer, which we also possess in another retreat of ours on the Isle of Lemnos. But our treasures are neither for giving nor selling, and with respect to this original ‘Esdras,’ it will certainly never pass out of our hands.”

 

“And what of the other missing sixty-nine books?” asked Alwyn.

 

“They may possibly be somewhere in the world,—two of them, I know, were buried in the coffin of one of the last princes of Chaldea,—perhaps they will be unearthed some day. There is also a rumor to the effect that Esdras engraved his ‘Last Prophecy’ on a small oval tablet of pure jasper, which he himself secreted, no one knows where. But to come to the point of immediate issue, …

shall I find out and translate for you the allusions to the ‘field of Ardath’ contained in this present volume?”

 

“Do!” said Alwyn, eagerly, at once returning the book to Heliobas, who, seating himself at the table, began carefully looking over its ivory pages—“I am all impatience! Even without the vision I have had, I should still feel a desire to see this mysterious Field for its own sake,—it must have some very strange associations to be worth specifying in such a particular manner!”

 

Heliobas answered nothing—he was entirely occupied in examining the small, closely engraved characters in which the ancient record was written; the crimson afterglow of the now descended sun flared through the window and sent a straight, rosy ray on his bent head and white robes, lighting to a more lustrous brilliancy the golden cross and jeweled star on his breast, and flashing round the silver clasps of the time-honored relic before him. Presently he looked up…

 

“Here we have it!” and he placed his finger on one especial passage—it reads as follows:

 

“‘And the Angel bade me enter a waste field, and the field was barren and dry save of herbs, and the name of the field was ARDATH.

 

“‘And I wandered therein through the hours of the long night, and the silver eyes of the field did open before me and I saw signs and wonders:

 

“‘And I heard a voice crying aloud, Esdras, Esdras.

 

“‘And I arose and stood on my feet and listened and refrained not till I heard the voice again.

 

“‘Which said unto me, Behold the field thou thoughtest barren, how great a glory hath the moon unveiled!

 

“‘And I beheld and was sore amazed: for I was no longer myself but another.

 

“‘And the sword of death was in that other’s soul, and yet that other was but myself in pain;

 

“‘And I knew not those things that were once familiar,—and my heart failed within me for very fear.

 

“‘And the voice cried aloud again saying: Hide thee from the perils of the past and the perils of the future, for a great and terrible thing is come upon thee, against which thy strength is as a reed in the wind and thy thoughts as flying sand …

 

”’ [Footnote: See 2 Esdras x. 30-32.] And, lo, I lay as one that had been dead and mine understanding was taken from me. And he (the Angel) took me by the right hand and comforted me and set me upon my feet and said unto me:

 

“‘What aileth thee? and why art thou so disquieted? and why is thine understanding troubled and the thoughts of thine heart?

 

“‘And I said, Because thou hast forsaken me and yet I did according to thy words, and I went into the field and lo! I have seen and yet see that I am not able to express.’”

 

Here Heliobas paused, having read the last sentence with peculiarly impressive emphasis.

 

“That is all”—he said—“I see no more allusions to the name of Ardath. The last three verses are the same as those in the accepted Apocrypha.”

 

CHAPTER VII.

 

AN UNDESIRED BLESSING.

 

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.