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

and tame circumstance now. But I was not thinking of myself,—I was wondering whether, after all, the slight power I have attained can be of much use to others. I am only one against many.”

 

“Nevertheless, there is an old maxim which says that one hero makes a thousand”—said Villiers quietly—“And it is an undeniable fact that the vastest number ever counted, begins at the very beginning with ONE!”

 

Alwyn met his smiling, earnest eyes with a quick, responsive light in his own, and the two friends walked the rest of the way home in silence.

 

CHAPTER XXXVI.

 

HELIOBAS.

 

Some few days after the Duchess’s dinner-party, Alwyn was strolling one morning through the Park, enjoying to the full the keen, fresh odors of the Spring,—odors that even in London cannot altogether lose their sweetness, so long as hyacinths and violets consent to bloom, and almond-trees to flower, beneath the too often unpropitious murkiness of city skies. It had been raining, but now the clouds had rolled off, and the sun shone as brightly as it ever CAN shine on the English capital, sending sparkles of gold among the still wet foliage, and reviving the little crocuses, that had lately tumbled down in heaps on the grass, like a frightened fairy army put to rout by the onslaught of the recent shower. A blackbird, whose cheery note suggested melodious memories drawn from the heart of the quiet country, was whistling a lively improvisation on the bough of a chestnut-tree, whereof the brown shining buds were just bursting into leaf,—and Alwyn, whose every sense was pleasantly attuned to the small, as well as great, harmonies of nature, paused for a moment to listen to the luscious piping of the feathered minstrel, that in its own wild woodland way had as excellent an idea of musical variation as any Mozart or Chopin. Leaning against one of the park benches, with his back turned to the main thoroughfare, he did not observe the approach of a man’s tall, stately figure, that, with something of his own light, easy, swinging step, had followed him rapidly along for some little distance, and that now halted abruptly within a pace or two of where he stood,—a man whose fine face and singular distinction of bearing had caused many a passer-by to stare at him in vague admiration, and to wonder who such a regal-looking personage might possibly be. Alwyn, however, absorbed in thought, saw no one, and was about to resume his onward walk, when suddenly, as though moved by some instinctive impulse, he turned sharply around, and in so doing confronted the stranger, who straightway advanced, lifting his hat and smiling. One amazed glance,—and then with an ejaculation of wonder, recognition, and delight, Alwyn sprang forward and grasped his extended hand.

 

“HELIOBAS!” he exclaimed. “Is it possible YOU are in London!—YOU, of all men in the world!”

 

“Even so!”—replied Heliobas gayly—“And why not? Am I incongruous, and out of keeping with the march of modern civilization?”

 

Alwyn looked at him half-bewildered, half-incredulous,—he could hardly believe his own eyes. It seemed such an altogether amazing thing to meet this devout and grave Chaldean philosopher, this mystic monk of the Caucasus, here in the very centre, as it were, of the world’s business, traffic, and pleasure; one might as well have expected to find a haloed saint in the whirl of a carnival masquerade! Incongruous? Out of keeping?—Yes, certainly he was,—

for though clad in the plain, conventional garb to which the men of the present day are doomed by the fiat of commerce and custom, the splendid dignity and picturesqueness of his fine personal appearance was by no means abated, and it was just this that marked him out, and made of him as wonderful a figure in London as though some god or evangelist should suddenly pass through a wilderness of chattering apes and screaming vultures.

 

“But how and when did you come?”—asked Alwyn presently, recovering from his first glad shock of surprise—“You see how genuine is my astonishment,—why, I thought you were a perpetually vowed recluse,—that you never went into the world at all, …”

 

“Neither I do”—rejoined Heliobas—“save when strong necessity demands. But our Order is not so ‘inclosed’ that, if Duty calls, we cannot advance to its beckoning, and there are certain times when both I and those of my fraternity mingle with men in common, undistinguished from the ordinary inhabitants of cities either by dress, customs, or manners,—as you see!”—and he laughingly touched his overcoat, the dark rough cloth of which was relieved by a broad collar and revers of rich sealskin,—“Would you not take me for a highly respectable brewer, par example, conscious that his prowess in the making of beer has entitled him, not only to an immediate seat in Parliament, but also to a Dukedom in prospective?”

 

Alwyn, smiled at the droll inapplicability of this comparison,—

and Heliobas cheerfully continued—“I am on the wing just now,—

bound for Mexico. I had business in London, and arrived here two days since,—two days more will see me again en voyage. I am glad to have met you thus by chance, for I did not know your address, and though I might have obtained that through your publishers, I hesitated about it, not being quite certain as to whether a letter or visit from me might be welcome.”

 

“Surely,”—began Alwyn, and then he paused, a flush rising to his brow as he remembered how obstinately he had doubted and suspected this man’s good faith and intention toward him, and how he had even received his farewell benediction at Dariel with more resentment than gratitude.

 

“Everywhere I hear great things of you, Mr. Alwyn,”—went on Heliobas gently, taking no notice of his embarrassment—“Your fame is now indeed unquestionable! With all my heart I congratulate you, and wish you long life and health to enjoy the triumph of your genius!”

 

Alwyn smiled, and turning, fixed his clear, soft eyes full on the speaker.

 

“I thank you!” he said simply,—“But, … you, who have such a quick instinctive comprehension of the minds and characters of men,—judge for yourself whether I attach any value to the poor renown I have won,—renown that I once would have given my very life to possess!”

 

As he spoke, he stopped,—they were walking down a quiet side-path under the wavering shadow of newly bourgeoning beeches, and a bright shaft of sunshine struck through the delicate foliage straight on his serene and handsome countenance. Heliobas gave him a swift, keen, observant glance,—in a moment he noticed what a marvellous change had been wrought in the man who, but a few months before, had come to him, a wreck of wasted life,—a wreck that was not only ready, but willing, to drift into downward currents and whirlpools of desperate, godless, blank, and hopeless misery. And now, how completely he was transformed!—Health colored his cheeks and sparkled in his eyes; health, both of body and mind, gave that quick brilliancy to his smile, and that easy, yet powerful poise to his whole figure,—while the supreme consciousness of the Immortal Spirit within him surrounded him with the same indescribable fascination and magnetic attractiveness that distinguished Heliobas himself, even as it distinguishes all who have in good earnest discovered and accepted the only true explanation of their individual mystery of being.

One steady, flashing look,—and then Heliobas silently held out his hand. As silently Alwyn clasped it,—and the two men understood each other. All constraint was at an end,—and when they resumed their slow sauntering under the glistening green branches, they were mutually aware that they now held an almost equal rank in the hierarchy of spiritual knowledge, strength, and sympathy.

 

“Evidently your adventure to the Ruins of Babylon was not altogether without results!” said Heliobas softly—“Your appearance indicates happiness,—is your life at last complete?”

 

“Complete?—No!”—and Alwyn sighed somewhat impatiently—“It cannot be complete, so long as its best and purest half is elsewhere! My fame is, as you can guess, a mere ephemera,—a small vanishing point, in comparison with the higher ambition I have now in view. Listen,—you know nothing of what happened to me on the Field of Ardath,—I should have written to you perhaps, but it is better to speak—I will tell you all as briefly as I can.”

 

And talking in an undertone, with his arm linked through that of his companion, he related the whole strange story of the visitation of Edris, the Dream of Al-Kyris, his awakening on the Prophet’s Field at sunrise, and his final renunciation of Self at the Cross of Christ. Heliobas listened to him in perfect silence, his eyes alone expressing with what eager interest and attention he followed every incident of the narrative.

 

“And now,” said Alwyn in conclusion,—“I always try to remember for my own comfort that I LEFT my dead Self in the burning ruin of that dream built city of the past,—or SEEMED to leave it, . . and yet I feel sometimes as if its shadow presence clung to me still!

I look in the mirror and see strange, faint reflections of the actual personal attributes of the slain Sahluma,—occasionally these are so strong and distinctly marked that I turn away in anger from my own image! Why, I loved that Phantasm of a Poet in my dream as I must for ages have loved myself to my own utter undoing!—I admired his work with such extravagant fondness, that, thinking of it, I blush for shame at my own thus manifest conceit!—In truth there is only one thing in that pictured character of his, I can for the present judge myself free from,—

namely, the careless rejection of true love for false,—the wanton misprisal of a faithful heart, such as Niphrata’s, whose fair child-face even now often flits before my remorseful memory,—and the evil, sensual passion for a woman whose wickedness was as evident as her beauty was paramount! I could never understand or explain this wilful, headstrong weakness in my Shadow-Self—it was the one circumstance in my vision that seemed to have little to do with the positive Me in its application,—but now I thoroughly grasp the meaning of the lesson conveyed, which is that NO MAN

EVER REALLY KNOWS HIMSELF, OR FATHOMS THE DEPTHS OF HIS OWN

POSSIBLE INCONSISTENCIES. And as matters stand with me at the present time, I am hemmed in on all sides by difficulties,—for since the modern success of that very anciently composed poem, ‘Nourhalma’”—and he smiled—“my friends and acquaintances are doing their best to make me think as much of myself as if I were, —well! all that I am NOT. Do what I will, I believe am still an egoist,—nay, I am sure of it,—for even as regards my heavenly saint, Edris, I am selfish!”

 

“How so?” asked Heliobas, with a grave side-glance of admiration at the thoughtful face and meditative earnest eyes of this poet, this once bitter and blasphemous skeptic, grown up now to a majesty of faith that not all the scorn of men or devils could ever shake again.

 

“I want her!”—he replied, and there was a thrill of pathetic yearning in his voice—“I long for her every moment of the day and night! It seems, too, as if everything combined to encourage this craving in me,—this fond, mad desire to draw her down from her own bright sphere of joy,—down to my arms, my heart, my life!

See!”—and he stopped by a bed of white hyacinths, nodding softly in the faint breeze—“Even those flowers remind me of her! When I look up at the blue sky I think of the radiance of her eyes,—they were the heaven’s own color,—when I see light clouds floating together half gray, half tinted by the sun, they seem to me to resemble the soft and noiseless garb she wore,—the birds