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

the dead Sahluma’s eyes grew into the semblance of his own eyes! … the dead Sahluma’s face smiled spectrally back at him in the image of his own face! … it was as though he beheld the Picture of himself, slain and reflected in a magician’s mirror!

Round him the very heavens seemed given up to fire,—but he heeded it not,—the world might be at an end and the day of Judgment, proclaimed,—nothing would have stirred him from where he knelt, in that dreadful stillness of mystic martyrdom, drinking in the gradual, glimmering consciousness of a terrific Truth, . . the amazing, yet scarcely graspable solution of a supernatural Enigma, … an enigma through which, like a man lost in the depths of a dark forest, he had wandered up and down, seeking light, yet finding none!

 

“O God!” he dumbly prayed. “Thou, with whom all things are possible, give eyes to this blind trouble of my heart! I am but as a grain of dust before thee, . . a poor perishable atom, devoid of simplest comprehension! … Do Thou of Thy supernal pity teach me what I must know!”

 

As he thought out this unuttered petition, a tense cord seemed to snap suddenly in his brain, . . a rush of tears came to his relief, and through their salt and bitter haze the face of Sahluma appeared to melt into a thin and spiritual brightness,—a mere aerial outline of what it had once been, . . the glazed dark eyes seemed to flash living lightning into his, . . the whole lost Personality of the dead Poet seemed to environ him with a mysterious, potent, incorporeal influence.. an influence that he felt he must now or never repel, reject, and utterly RESIST! …

With a shuddering cry, he tore his reluctant arms away from the beloved corpse, . . with trembling, tender fingers he closed and pressed down the white eyelids of those love-expressive eyes, and kissed the broad poetic brow!

 

“Whatever thou WERT or ART to me, Sahluma, “he murmured in sobbing haste,—“thou knowest that I loved thee, though now I leave thee! Farewell!”—and his voice broke in its strong agony—

“O how much easier to divide body from soul than part myself from thee! Sahluma, beloved Sahluma! God give thee rest! … God pardon thy sins,—and mine!”

 

And he pressed his lips once more on the folded rigid hands; . . as he did so, he inadvertently touched the writing-tablet that hung from the dead Laureate’s girdle. The red glow of the fire around him enabled him to see distinctly what was written on it, . . there were about twenty lines of verse, in exquisitely clear and fine caligraphy, … and, as he read, he knew them well, . . they were the last lines of the poem “Nourhalma”!

 

He dared trust his own strength no longer, . . one wild, adoring, lingering, parting look at his dead rival in song, whom he had loved better than himself,—and then,—full of a nameless fear, he fled! … fled recklessly, and with swift, mad fury as though demons followed in pursuit, . . fled through the burning city, as a lost and frenzied spirit might speed through the deserts of Hell!

Everywhere about him resounded the crackling hiss of the flames, and the crash of falling buildings, . . mighty pinnacles and lofty domes melted and vanished before is eyes in a blaze of brilliant destruction! … on—on he went, meeting confused, scattered crowds of people, whose rushing, white-garmented figures looked like ghosts flying before a storm, . . the cries and shrieks of women and children, and the groans of men were mingled with the restless roaring of lions and other wild beasts burnt out of their dens in the Royal Arena, the distant circle of which could be dimly seen, surrounded by fountain-like jets of fire. Some of these maddened animals ran against him, as he sped along the blazing thoroughfares,—but he made no attempt to avoid them, nor was he sensible of any other terror than that which was WITHIN

HIMSELF and was purely mental. On! … On!—Still on he went,—a desperate, lonely man, lost in a hideous nightmare of flame and fury, . . seeing nothing but one vast flying rout of molten red and gold, . . speaking to none, . . utterly reckless as to his own fate, . .

only impelled on and on, but whither he knew not, nor cared to know!

 

All at once his, strength gave way…his nerves seemed to break asunder like so many over-wound harp-strings, . . a sudden silvery clanging of bells rang in his ears, and with them came a sound of multitudinous soft, small voices: “Kyrie Eleison! Kyrie Eleison!”

 

Hush! … What was that? … What did it mean? … Halting abruptly, he gave a wild glance round him,—up to the sky, where the flaring flames spread in tangled lengths and webs of light, . .

then, straight before him to the City of Al-Kyris, now a wondrous vision of redly luminous columns and cupolas, with the wet gleam of the river enfolding its blazing streets and towers: . . and while he yet beheld it, lo! IT RECEDED FROM HIS VIEW! Further, . .

further!—further away, till it seemed nothing but the toppling and smoldering of heavy clouds after the conflagration of the sunset!

 

Hark, hark again! … “Kyrie, Eleison! … Kyrie, Eleison!” With a sense of reeling rapture and awe he listened, . . he understood! …

he found the NAME he had so long forgotten! “CHRIST, have mercy upon me!”…he cried, and in that one urgent supplication he uttered all the pent-up anguish of his soul! Blind and dizzy with the fevered whirl of his own emotions, he stumbled forward and fell! … fell heavily over a block of stone, . . stunned by the shock, he lost consciousness, but only for a moment; . . a dull aching in his temples roused him,—and making a faint effort to rise, he turned slowly and languidly on his arm, . . and with a long, deep, shuddering sigh…AWOKE!

 

He was on the Field of Ardath. Dawn had just broken. The east was one wide, shimmering stretch of warm gold, and over it lay strips of blue and gray, like fragments of torn battle-banners. Above him sparkled the morning star, white and glittering as a silver lamp, among the delicate spreading tints of saffron and green, . . and beside him,—her clear, pure features flushed by the roseate splendor of the sky, her hands clasped on her breast, and her sweet eyes full of an infinite tenderness and yearning, knelt EDRIS!—Edris, his flower-crowned Angel, whom last he had seen drifting upward and away like a dove through the glory of the Cross in Heaven!

 

CHAPTER XXX.

 

SUNRISE.

 

Entranced in amazed ecstasy he lay quite quiet, . . afraid to speak or stir! This gentle Presence,—this fair, beseeching face, might vanish if he moved! So he dimly fancied, as he gazed up at her in mute wonder and worship, his devout eyes drinking in her saintly loveliness, from the deep burnished gold of her hair to the soft, white slimness of her prayerfully folded hands. And while he looked, old thoughts like home-returning birds began to hover round his soul,—sweet and dear remembrances, like the sunset lighting up the windows of an empty house, began to shine on the before semi-darkened nooks and crannies of his brain. Clearer and clearer grew the reflecting mirror of his consciousness,—trouble and perplexity seemed passing away forever from his mind, . . a great and solemn peace environed him, . . and he began to believe he had crossed the boundary of death and had entered at last into the Kingdom of Heaven! O let him not break this holy silence! … Let him rest so, with all the glory of that Angel-visage shed like summer sunbeams over him! … Let him absorb into his innermost being the exquisite tenderness of those innocent, hopeful, watchful, starry eyes whose radiance seemed to steal into the golden morning and give it a sacred poetry and infinite marvel of meaning! So he mused, gravely contented, … while all through the brightening skies overhead, came the pale, pink flushing of the dawn, like a far fluttering and scattering of rose-leaves.

Everything was so still that he could hear his own heart beating forth healthful and regular pulsations, . . but he was scarcely conscious of his own existence,—he was only aware of the vast, beautiful, halcyon calm that encircled him shelteringly and soothed all care away.

 

Gradually, however, this deep and delicious tranquillity began to yield to a sweeping rush of memory and comprehension, … he knew WHO he was and WHERE he was,—though he did not as yet feel absolutely certain of life and life’s so-called realities. For if the City of Al-Kyris, with all its vivid wonders, its distinct experiences, its brilliant pageantry, had been indeed a DREAM, then sorely it was possible he might be dreaming still! …

Nevertheless he was able to gather up the fragments of lost recollection consecutively enough to realize, by gentle degrees, his actual identity and position in the world, . . he was Theos Alwyn, . . a man of the nineteenth century after Christ. Ah! thank God for that! … AFTER Christ! … not one who had lived five thousand years BEFORE Christ’s birth! … And this quiet, patient Maiden at his side, . . who was she? A vision? … or an actually existent Being? Unable to resist the craving desire of his heart, he spoke her name as he now remembered it, . . spoke it in a faint, awed whisper.

 

“Edris!”

 

“Theos, my Beloved!”

 

O sweet and thrilling voice! more musical than the singing of birds in a sun-filled Spring!

 

He raised himself a little, and looked at her more intently:—she smiled,—and that smile, so marvellous in its pensive peace and lofty devotion, was as though all the light of an unguessed paradise had suddenly flashed upon his soul!

 

“Edris!” he said again, trembling in the excess of mingled hope and fear … “Hast thou then returned again from heaven, to lift me out of darkness? … Tell me, fair Angel, do I wake or sleep? …

Are my senses deceived? Is this land a dream? … Am I myself a dream, and thou the only manifest sweet Truth in a world of drifting shadows! … Speak to me, gentle Saint! … In what vast mystery have I been engulfed? … in what timeless trance of soul-bewilderment? … in what blind uncertainty and pain? … O Sweet!

… resolve my wordless wonder! Where have I strayed? … what have I seen? … Ah, let not my rough speech fright thee back to Paradise! … Stay with me! … comfort me! … I have lost thee so long! let me not lose thee now!”

 

Smiling still, she bent over him, and pressed her warm, delicate ringers lightly on his brow and lips. Then softly she rose and stood erect.

 

“Fear nothing, my beloved!” she answered, her silvery accents sending a throb of holy triumph through the air.. “Let no trouble disquiet thee, and no shadow of misgiving dim the brightness of thy waking moments! Thou hast slept ONE night on the Field of Ardath, in the Valley of Vision!—but lo! the Night is past!”..

and she pointed toward the eastern horizon now breaking into waves of rosy gold, “Rise! and behold the dawning of thy new Day!”

 

Roused by her touch, and fired by her tone and the grand, unworldly dignity of her look and bearing, he sprang up, . . but as he met the full, pure splendor of her divine eyes, and saw, wavering