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

the love of others, … NOT to benefit himself! This was his task, . . and the very comprehension of it gave him a rush of vigor and virile energy that at once lifted the cloud of love-loneliness from his soul.

 

“My Edris!” he whispered.. “Thou shalt have no cause to weep for me in Heaven again! … with God’s help I will win back my lost heritage!”

 

As he spoke the words his eyes caught a glimpse of something white on the turf where, but a moment since, his Angel-love had stood,—

he stooped toward it, . . it was one half-opened bud of the wonderful “Ardath-flowers” that had covered the field in such singular profusion on the previous night when she first appeared.

One only! … might he not gather it?

 

He hesitated, . . then very gently and reverently broke it off, and tenderly bore it to his lips. What a beautiful blossom it was! …

its fragrance was unlike that of any other flower,—its whiteness was more pure and soft than that of the rarest edelweiss on Alpine snows, and its partially disclosed golden centre had an almost luminous brightness. As he held it in his hand, all sorts of vague, delicious thoughts came sweeping across his brain, …

thoughts that seemed to set themselves to music wild and strange and NEW, and suggestive of the sweetest, noblest influences! A thrill of expectation stirred in him, as of great and good things to be done,—grand changes to be wrought in the complex web of human destiny, brought about by the quickening and development of a pure, unselfish, spiritual force, that might with saving benefit flow into the perplexed and weary intelligence of man; . . and cheered, invigorated, and conscious of a circling, widening, ever-present Supreme Power that with all-surrounding love was ever on the side of work done for love’s sake, he gently shut the flower within his breast, resolving to carry it with him wheresoever he went as a token and proof of the “signs and wonders” of the Prophet’s Field.

 

And now he prepared to quit the scene of his mystic Vision, in which he had followed with prescient pain the brief, bright career, the useless fame, the evil love-passion, and final fate of his Former Self,—and crossing the field with lingering tread, he looked back many times to the fallen block of stone where he had sat when he had first perceived God’s maiden Edris, stepping softly through the bloom. When should he again meet her? Alas! …

not till Death, the beautiful and beneficent Herald of true Liberty, summoned him to those lofty heights of Paradise where she had habitation. Not till then, unless, … unless, … and his heart beat with a sudden tumult as he recollected her last words, . . “UNLESS THE LONGING OF THY LOVE COMPELS!”

 

Could love COMPEL her, he wondered, to come to him once more while yet he lived on earth? Perhaps! … and yet if he indeed had such power of love, would it be generous or just to exert it? No! …

for to draw her down from Heaven to Earth seemed to him now a sort of sacrilege,—dearer to him was HER joy than his own! But suppose the possibility of her being actually HAPPY with him in mortal existence, … suppose that Love, when absolutely pure, unselfishly mutual, helpful, and steadfast, had it in its gift to make even the Sorrowful Star a Heaven in miniature, what then?

 

He would not trust himself to think of this! … the mere shadowy suggestion of such supreme delight filled him with a strong passion of yearning, to which in his accepted creed of Self-abnegation he dared not yield! Firmly restraining, resisting, and renouncing his own desires, he mentally raised a holy shrine for her in his soul, … a shrine of pure faith, warm with eternal aspirations and bright with truth, wherein he hallowed the memory of her beauty with a sense of devout, love-like gladness. She was safe.. she was content, . . she blossomed flower-like in the highest gardens of God where all things fared well;—enough for him to worship her at a distance, . . to keep the clear reflection of her loveliness in his mind, … and to live, so that he might deserve to follow and find her when his work on earth was done. Moreover, Heaven to him was no longer a vague, mythical realm, ill-defined by the prosy descriptions of church-preachers,—it was an actual WORLD to which HE was linked,—in which HE had possessions, of which HE was a native, and for the perpetuation and enlargement of whose splendor ALL worlds existed!

 

Arrived at the boundary of the field, the spot marked by the broken half-buried pillar of red granite Heliobas had mentioned, he paused—thinking dreamily of the words of Esdras, who in answer to his Angel-visitant’s inquiry: “Why art thou disquieted?” had replied: “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.” Whereupon the Angel had said, “Stand up manfully and I will advise thee!”

 

“Stand up manfully!” Yes! … this is what he, Theos Alwyn, meant to do. He would “stand up manfully” against the howling iconoclasm and atheism of the Age,—he would be Poet henceforth in the true meaning of the word, namely Maker, . . he would MAKE not BREAK the grand ideal hopes and heaven-climbing ambitions of Humanity! …

he would endeavor his utmost best to be that “Hierarch and Pontiff of the world”—as a modern rugged Apostle of Truth has nobly said,—“who Prometheus-like can shape new Symbols and bring new fire from heaven to fix them into the deep, infinite faculties of Man.”

 

With a brief silent prayer, he turned away at last, and walked slowly, in the lovely silence of the early Eastern morning, back to the place from whence he had last night wandered,—the Hermitage of Elzear, near the Ruins of Babylon. He soon came in sight of it, and also perceived Elzear himself, stooping over a small plot of ground in front of his dwelling, apparently gathering herbs. When he approached, the old man looked up and smiled, giving him a silent, expressively courteous morning greeting,—by his manner it was evident that he thought his guest had merely been out for an early stroll ere the heat of the day set in. And yet Al-Kyris! … How real had seemed that dream-existence in that dream-city! The figure of Elzear looked scarcely more substantial than the phantom-forms of Sahluma, Zephoranim, Khosrul, Zuriel, or Zabastes,—while Lysia’s exquisite face and seductive form, Niphrata’s pensive beauty, and all the local characteristics of the place, were stamped on the dreamer’s memory as faithfully as scenes flashed by the sun on the plates of photography! True, the pictures were perhaps now slightly fading into the similitude of pale negatives, . . but still, would not everything that happened in the ACTUAL world merge into that same undecided dimness with the lapse of time?

 

He thought so, . . and smiled at the thought, … the transitory nature of earthly things was a subject for joy to him now,—not regret. With a kindly word or two to his venerable host, he went through the open door of the Hermitage, and entered the little room he had left only a few hours previously. It appeared to him as familiar and UNfamiliar as Al-Kyris itself! … till raising his eyes he saw the great Crucifix against the wall,—the sacred Symbol whose meaning he had forgotten and hopelessly longed for in his Dream,—and from which, before his visit to the field of Ardath, he had turned with a sense of bitter scorn and proud rejection. But NOW! … Now he gazed upon it in unspeakable remorse,—in tenderest desire to atone, … the sweet, grave, patient Eyes of the holy Figure seemed to meet his with a wondrous challenge of love, longing, and most fraternal, sympathetic comprehension of his nature. … he paused, looking, … and the pre-eminently false words of George Herbert suddenly occurred to him, “Thy Saviour sentenced joy!” O blasphemy! … SENTENCED joy?

Nay!—rather recreated it, and invested it with divine certainties, beyond all temporal change or evanishment! …

Yielding to a swift impulse, he threw himself on his knees, and with clasped hands, leaned his brows against the feet of the sculptured Christ. There he rested in wordless peace,—his whole soul entranced in a divine passion of faith, hope, and love …

there with the “Ardath flower” in his breast, he consecrated his life to the Highest Good,—and there in absolute humility, and pure, child-like devotion, he crucified SELF forever!

 

PART III.—POET AND ANGEL.

 

“O Golden Hair! … O Gladness of an Hour Made flesh and blood!”

 

*

 

“Who speaks of glory and the force of love And thou not near, my maiden-minded dove!

With all the coyness, all the beauty sheen Of thy rapt face? A fearless virgin-queen, A queen of peace art thou,—and on thy head The golden light of all thy hair is shed Most nimbus-like, and most suggestive too Of youthful saints enshrined and garlanded.”

 

*

 

“Our thoughts are free,—and mine have found at last Their apt solution; and from out the Past There seems to shine as ‘twere a beacon-fire: And all the land is lit with large desire Of lambent glory; all the quivering sea Is big with waves that wait the Morn’s decree As I, thy vassal, wait thy beckoning smile Athwart the splendors of my dreams of thee!”

 

—“A Lover’s Litanies.”—ERIC MACKAY.

 

CHAPTER XXXI.

 

FRESH LAURELS.

 

It was a dismal March evening. London lay swathed in a melancholy fog,—a fog too dense to be more than temporarily disturbed even by the sudden gusts of the bitter east wind. Rain fell steadily, sometimes changing to sleet, that drove in sharp showers on the slippery roads and pavements, bewildering the tired horses, and stirring up much irritation in the minds of those illfated foot-passengers whom business, certainly not pleasure, forced to encounter the inconveniences of the weather. Against one house in particular—an old-fashioned, irregular building situated in a somewhat out-of-the-way but picturesque part of Kensington—the cold, wet blast blew with specially keen ferocity, as though it were angered by the sounds within,—sounds that in truth rather resembled its own cross groaning. Curious short grunts and plaintive cries, interspersed with an occasional pathetic long-drawn whine, suggested dimly the idea that somebody was playing, or trying to play, on a refractory stringed instrument, the well-worn composition known as Raff’s “Cavatina.” And, in fact, had the vexed wind been able to break through the wall and embody itself into a substantial being, it would have discovered the producer of the half-fierce, half-mournful noise, in the person of the Honorable Frank Villiers, who, with that amazingly serious ardor so often displayed by amateur lovers of music, was persistently endeavoring to combat the difficulties of the violoncello. He adored his big instrument,—the more unmanageable it became in his hands, the more he loved it. Its grumbling complaints at his unskilful touch delighted him,—when he could succeed in awakening a peevish dull sob from its troubled depths, he felt a positive thrill of almost professional triumph,—and he refused to be daunted in his efforts by the frequently barbaric clamor his awkward bowing wrung from the tortured strings. He tried every sort of music, easy and intricate—and his happiest hours were those when, with glass in eye and brow knitted in anxious scrutiny, he could peer his way through the labyrinth of a sonata or fantasia much too complex for any one but a trained artist, enjoying