Ardath - Marie Corelli (love story novels in english .txt) 📗

for matins, and as its clear chime struck through the deep silence, the door opened, and Heliobas, accompanied by another monk, whose gentle countenance and fine, soft eyes betokened the serenity of his disposition, entered the apartment. Together they approached the couch, and gazed long and earnestly at the supernaturally slumbering man.

 

“He is still far away!” said Heliobas at last, sighing as he spoke. “So far away that my mind misgives me. … Alas, Hilarion!

how limited is our knowledge! … even with all the spiritual aids of spiritual life how little can be accomplished! We learn one thing, and another presents itself—we conquer one difficulty, and another instantly springs up to obstruct our path. Now if I had only had the innate perception required to foresee the possible flight of this released Immortal. creature, might I not have saved it from some incalculable misery and suffering?”

 

“I think not,” answered in rather musing accents the monk called Hilarion—“I think not. Such protection can never be exercised by mere human intelligence, if this soul is to be saved or shielded in its invisible journeying it will be by some means that not all the marvels of our science can calculate. You say he was without faith?”

 

“Entirely”

 

“What was his leading principle?”

 

“A desire for what he called Truth,” replied Heliobas.

 

“He, like many others of his class, never took the trouble to consider very deeply the inner meaning of Pilate’s famous question, ‘What IS Truth?’ WE know what it is, as generally accepted—a few so called facts which in a thousand years will all be contradicted, mixed up with a few finite opinions propounded by unstable minded men. In brief, Truth, according to the world, is simply whatever the world is pleased to consider as Truth for the time being. ‘Tis a somewhat slight thing to stake one’s immortal destinies upon!”

 

Hilarion raised one of Alwyn’s cold, pulseless hands—it was stiff, and white as marble.

 

“I suppose,” he said, “there is no doubt of his returning hither?”

 

“None whatever,” answered Heliobas decisively. “His life on earth is assured for many years yet,—inasmuch as his penance is not finished, his recompense not won. Thus far my knowledge of his fate is certain.”

 

“Then you will bring him back to-day?” pursued Hilarion.

 

“Bring him back? I? I cannot!” said Heliobas, with a touch of sad humility in his tone. “And for this very reason I feared to send him hence,—and would not have done so,—not without preparation at any rate,—could I have had my way. His departure was more strange than any I have ever known—moreover, it was his own doing, not mine. I had positively refused to exert my influence upon him, because I felt he was not in my sphere, and that therefore neither I nor any of those higher intelligences with which I am in communication could control or guide his wanderings.

He, however, was as positively determined that I SHOULD exert it—

and to this end he suddenly concentrated all the pent up fire of his nature in one rapid effort of Will, and advanced upon me. …

I warned him, but in vain! quick as lightning flash meets lightning flash, the two invisible Immortal Forces within us sprang into instant opposition,—with this difference, that while he was ignorant and unconscious of HIS power, I was cognizant and fully conscious of MINE. Mine was focused, as it were, upon him,—

his was untrained and. scattered,—the result was that mine won the victory: yet understand me well, Hilarion,—if I could have held myself in, I would have done so. It was he,—he who DREW my force out of me as one would draw a sword out of its scabbard—the sword may be ever so stiffly fixed in its sheath, but the strong hand will wrench it forth somehow, and use it for battle when needed.”

 

“Then,” said Hilarion wonderingly, “you admit this man possesses a power greater than your own?”

 

“Aye, if he knew it!” returned Heliobas, quietly. “But he does not know. Only an angel could teach him—and in angels he does not believe.”

 

“He may believe now. … !”

 

“He may. He will—he must, … if he has gone where I would have him go.”

 

“A poet, is he not!” queried Hilarion softly, bending down to look more attentively at the beautiful Antinous-like face colorless and cold as sculptured alabaster.

 

“An uncrowned monarch of a world of song!” responded Heliobas, with a tender inflection in his rich voice. “A genius such as the earth sees but once in a century! But he has been smitten with the disease of unbelief and deprived of hope,—and where there is no hope there is no lasting accomplishment.” He paused, and with a touch as gentle as a woman’s, rearranged the cushions under Alwyn’s heavy head, and laid his hand in grave benediction on the broad white brow shaded by its clustering waves of dark hair. “May the Infinite Love bring him out of danger into peace and safety!”

he said solemnly,—then turning away, he took his companion by the arm, and they both left the room, closing the door quietly behind them. The chapel bell went on tolling slowly, slowly, sending muffled echoes through the fog for some minutes—then it ceased, and profound stillness reigned.

 

The monastery was always a very silent habitation,—situated as it was on so lofty and barren a crag, it was far beyond the singing-reach of the smaller sweet-throated birds—now and then an eagle clove the mist with a whirr of wings and a discordant scream on his way toward some distant mountain eyrie—but no other sound of awakening life broke the hush of the slowly widening dawn. An hour passed—and Alwyn still remained in the same position,—as pallidly quiescent as a corpse stretched out for burial. By and by a change begin to thrill mysteriously through the atmosphere, like the flowing of amber wine through crystal—the heavy vapors shuddered together as though suddenly lashed by a whip of flame,—

they rose, swayed to and fro, and parted asunder. … then, dissolving into thin, milk-white veils of fleecy film, they floated away, disclosing as they vanished, the giant summits of the encircling mountains, that lifted themselves to the light, one above another, in the form of frozen billows. Over these a delicate pink flush flitted in tremulous wavy lines—long arrows of gold began to pierce the tender shimmering blue of the sky—

soft puffs of cloud tinged with vivid crimson and pale green were strewn along the eastern horizon like flowers in the path of an advancing hero,—and then all at once there was a slight cessation of movement in the heavens—an attentive pause as though the whole universe waited for some great splendor as yet unrevealed. That splendor came, in a red blaze of triumph the Sun rose, pouring a shower of beamy brilliancy over the white vastness of the heights covered with perpetual snow,—jagged peaks, sharp as scimetars and sparkling with ice, caught fire, and seemed to melt away in an absorbing sea of radiance, … the waiting clouds moved on, redecked in deeper hues of royal purple—and the full Morning glory was declared. As the dazzling effulgence streamed through the window and flooded the couch where Alwyn lay, a faint tinge of color returned to his face,—his lips moved,—his broad chest heaved with struggling sighs,—his eyelids quivered,—and his before rigid hands relaxed and folded themselves together in an attitude of peace and prayer. Like a statue becoming slowly and magically flushed with life, the warm hues of the naturally flowing blood deepened through the whiteness of his skin,—his breathing grew more and more easy and regular,—his features gradually assumed their wonted appearance, and presently …

without any violent start or exclamation … he awoke! But was it a real awakening? or rather a continuation of some strange impression received in slumber?

 

He rose to his feet, pushing back the hair from his brow with an entranced look of listening wonderment—his eyes were humid yet brilliant—his whole aspect was that of one inspired. He paced once or twice up and down the room, but he was evidently unconscious of his surroundings—he seemed possessed by thoughts which absorbed his whole being. Presently he seated himself at the table, and absently fingering the writing materials that were upon it, he appeared meditatively to question their use and meaning.

Then, drawing several sheets of paper toward him, he began to write with extraordinary rapidity and eagerness—his pen travelled on smoothly, uninterrupted by blot or erasure. Sometimes he paused—but when he did it was always with an upraised, attentively listening expression. Once he murmured aloud “ARDATH!

Nay, I shall not forget!—we will meet at ARDATH!” and again he resumed his occupation. Page after page he covered with close writing-no weak, uncertain scrawl, but a firm bold, neat caligraphy,—his own peculiar, characteristic hand. The sun mounted higher and higher in the heavens, … hour after hour passed, and still lie wrote on, apparently unaware of the flitting time. At mid-day the bell, which had not rung since early dawn, began to swing quickly to and fro in the chapel turret,—the deep bass of the organ breathed on the silence a thunderous monotone, and a bee-like murmur of distant voices proclaimed the words: “Angelas Domine nuntiavit Mariae”

 

At the first sound of this chant, the spell that enchained Alwyn’s mind was broken; drawing a quick dashing line under what he had written, he sprang up erect and dropped his pen.

 

“Heliobas!” he cried loudly, “Heliobas! WHERE IS THE FIELD OF

ARDATH?”

 

His voice seemed strange and unfamiliar to his own ears,—he waited, listening, and the chant went on—“Et Verbo caro factus est, et habitavit in nobis.”

 

Suddenly, as if he could endure his solitude no longer, he rushed to the door and threw it open, thereby nearly flinging himself against Heliobas, who was entering the room at the same moment. He drew back, … stared wildly, and passing his hand across his forehead confusedly, forced a laugh.

 

“I have been dreaming!” he said, … then with a passionate gesture he added, “God! if the dream were true!”

 

He was strongly excited, and Heliobas, slipping one arm round him in a friendly manner, led him back to the chair he had vacated, observing him closely as he did so.

 

“You call THIS dreaming,” he inquired with a slight smile, pointing to the table strewn with manuscript on which the ink was not yet dry. “Then dreams are more productive than active exertion! Here is goodly matter for printers! … a fair result it seems of one morning’s labor!”

 

Alwyn started up, seized the written sheets, and scanned them eagerly.

 

“It is my handwriting!” he muttered in a tone of stupefied amazement.

 

“Of course! Whose handwriting should it be?” returned Heliobas, watching him with scientifically keen, yet kindly interest.

 

“Then it IS true!” he exclaimed. “True—by the sweetness of her eyes,—true, by the love-lit radiance of her smile!—true, O thou God whom I dared to doubt! true by the marvels of Thy matchless, wisdom!”

 

And with this strange outburst, he began to read in feverish haste what he had written. His breath came and went quickly,—his cheeks flushed, his eyes dilated,—line after line he perused with apparent wonder and rapture,—when suddenly interrupting himself he raised his head and recited in a half whisper: “With thundering notes of song sublime I cast my sins away from me—On stairs of sound I mount—I climb! The angels wait and pray for me!

 

“I heard that stanza somewhere when I was a boy … why do I think of it now? SHE has waited,—so she said,—these many thousand days!”

 

He paused meditatively,—and then resumed his reading, Heliobas touched his arm.