the hair’s-breadth balance of a thought,—the wrong or right control of will;—on these things hang the world, life, time, and all eternity. such slight threads!—imperceptible, ungraspable,—and yet withal strong,—strong enough to weave the everlasting web of good or evil, joy or woe. on some such poise, as fine, as subtly delicate, the whole majestic universe swings round in its appointed course,—never a pin’s point awry, never halting in its work, never hesitating in the fulfilment of its laws, carrying out the divine command with faithful exactitude and punctuality. it is strange,—mournfully strange,—that we never seem able to learn the grand lessons that are taught us by this unvarying routine of natural forces,—submission, obedience, patience, resignation, hope. preachers preach the doctrine,—teachers teach it,—nature silently and gloriously manifests it hourly; but we,—we continue to shut our ears and eyes,—we prefer to retreat within ourselves,—our little incomplete ignorant selves,—thinking we shall be able to discover some way out of what has no egress, by the cunning arguments of our own finite intellectual faculties. we fail always;—we must fail. we are bound to find out sooner or later that we must bend our stubborn knees in the presence of the positive eternal. but till the poor brain gives way under the prolonged pressure and strain of close inquiry and analysis, so long will it persist in attempting to probe the impenetrable,—so long will it audaciously attempt to lift the veil that hides the beyond instead of resting content with what nature teaches. “wait”—she says—“wait till you are mentally able to understand the explanation. wait till the voice which is as a silver clarion, proclaims all truth, saying ‘awake, soul, for thy dream is past! look now and see,—for thou art strong enough to bear the light.’”
alas! we will not wait,—hence our life in these latter days of analysis is a mere querulous complaint, instead of what it should be, a perpetual thanksgiving.
four seasons have passed away since the “soul of lilith” was caught up into its native glory,—four seasons,—summer, autumn, winter and spring—and now it is summer again,—summer in the isle of cyprus, that once most sacred spot, dear to historic and poetic lore. up among the low olive-crowned hills of baffo or paphos, there is more shade and coolness than in other parts of the island, and the retreat believed to have been the favourite haunt of venus is still full of something like the mystical glamour that hallowed it of old. as the singer of “love-letters of a violinist” writes:
“there is a glamour all about the bay
as if the nymphs of greece had tarried here.
the sands are golden and the rocks appear
crested with silver; and the breezes play
snatches of song they hummed when far away,
and then are hush’d as if from sudden fear.”
flowers bloom luxuriantly, as though the white, blue-veined feet of the goddess had but lately passed by,—there is a suggestive harmony in the subdued low whispering of the trees, accompanied by the gentle murmur of the waves, and “hieros kiphos,” or the sacred grove, still bends its thick old boughs caressingly towards the greensward as though to remind the dreaming earth of the bygone glories here buried deep in its silent bosom. the poor fragment of the ruined “temple of venus” once gorgeous with the gold and precious stones, silks and embroideries, and other offerings brought from luxury-loving tyre, stands in its desolation among the quiet woods, and no sound of rejoicing comes forth from its broken wall to stir the heated air. yet there is music not far off,—the sweet and solemn music of an organ chant, accompanying a chorus of mild and mellow voices singing the “agnus dei.” here in this part of the country, the native inhabitants are divided in their notions of religious worship,—they talk greek, albeit modern greek, with impurities which were unknown to the sonorous ancient tongue, and they are heroes no more, as the heroic byron has told us in his superb poesy, but simply slaves. they but dimly comprehend christianity,—the joyous paganism of the past is not yet extinct, and the virgin mother of christ is here adored as “aphroditissa.” perhaps in dirty famagousta they may be more orthodox,—but among these sea-fronting hills where the sound of the “agnus dei” solemnly rises and falls in soft surges of harmony, it is still the old home of the queen of beauty, and still the birthplace of adonis, son of a cyprian king. commercial england is now the possessor of this bower of sweet fancies,—this little corner of the world haunted by a thousand poetic memories,—and in these prosy days but few pilgrimages are made to a shrine that was once the glory of a glorious age. to the native cypriotes themselves the gods have simply changed their names and become a little sadder and less playful, that is all,—and to make up for the lost “temple of venus” there is, hidden deep among the foliage, a small monastic retreat with a cross on its long low roof,—a place where a few poor monks work and pray,—good men whose virtues are chiefly known to the sick, destitute and needy. they call themselves simply “the brotherhood,” and there are only ten of them in all, including the youngest, who joined their confraternity quite recently. they are very poor,—they wear rough white garments and go barefooted, and their food is of the simplest; but they do a vast amount of good in their unassuming way, and when any of their neighbours are in trouble, such afflicted ones at once climb the little eminence where venus was worshipped with such pomp in ancient days, and make direct for the plain unadorned habitation devoted to the service of one who was “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.” there they never fail to find consolation and practical aid,—even their persistent prayers to “aphroditissa” are condoned with a broad and tender patience by these men who honestly strive to broaden and not confine the road that leads to heaven. thus paphos is sacred still,—with the glamour of old creeds and the wider glory of the new,—yet though it is an interesting enough nook of the earth, it is seldom that travellers elect to go thither either to admire or explore. therefore the sight of a travelling-carriage, a tumble-down sort of vehicle, yet one of the best to be obtained thereabouts, making its way slowly up the ascent, with people in modern fashionable dress sitting therein, was a rare and wonderful spectacle to the ragged cypriote youth of both sexes, who either stood by the roadway, pushing their tangled locks from their dark eyes and staring at it, or else ran swiftly alongside its wheels to beg for coppers from its occupants. there were four of these,—two ladies and two gentlemen,—sir frederick vaughan and lady vaughan (née idina chester); the fair and famous authoress, irene vassilius, and a distinguished-looking handsome man of about forty or thereabouts, the duke of strathlea, a friend of the vaughans, who had entertained them royally during the previous autumn at his grand old historic house in scotland. by a mere chance during the season, he had made the acquaintance of madame vassilius, with whom he had fallen suddenly, deeply and ardently in love. she, however, was the same unresponsive far-gazing dreamy sibyl as ever, and though not entirely indifferent to the gentle reverential homage paid to her by this chivalrous and honourable gentleman, she could not make up her mind to give him any decided encouragement. he appeared to make no progress with her whatever,—and of course his discouragement increased his ardour. he devised every sort of plan he could think of for obtaining as much of her society as possible,—and finally, he had entreated the vaughans to persuade her to join them in a trip to the mediterranean in his yacht. at first she had refused,—then, with a sudden change of humour, she had consented to go, provided the island of cyprus were one of the places to be visited. strathlea eagerly caught at and agreed to this suggestion,—the journey had been undertaken, and had so far proved most enjoyable. now they had reached the spot irene most wished to see,—it was to please her that they were making the present excursion to the “temple of venus,” or rather, to the small and obscure monastery among the hills which she had expressed a strong desire to visit,—and strathlea, looking wistfully at her fair thoughtful face, wondered whether after all these pleasant days passed together between sparkling sea and radiant sky, she had any kinder thoughts of him,—whether she would always be so quiet, so impassive, so indifferent to the love of a true man’s heart?
the carriage went slowly,—the view widened with every upward yard of the way,—and they were all silent, gazing at the glittering expanse of blue ocean below them.
“how very warm it is!” said lady vaughan at last breaking the dumb spell, and twirling her sunshade round and round to disperse a cloud of gnats and small flies—“fred, you look absolutely broiled! you are so dreadfully sunburnt!”
“am i?” and sir frederick smiled blandly,—he was as much in love with his pretty frivolous wife as it is becoming for a man to be, and all her remarks were received by him with the utmost docility—“well, i daresay i am. yachting doesn’t improve the transparent delicacy of a man’s complexion. strathlea is too dark to show it much,—but i was always a florid sort of fellow. you’ve no lack of colour yourself, idina.”
“oh, i’m sure i look a fright!” responded her ladyship vivaciously and with a slight touch of petulance—“irene is the only one who appears to keep cool. i believe her aspect would be positively frosty with the thermometer marking 100 in the shade!”
irene, who was gazing abstractedly out to sea, turned slowly and lifted her drooping lace parasol slightly higher from her face. she was pale,—and her deep-set gray eyes were liquid as though unshed tears filled them.
“did you speak to me, dear?” she inquired gently. “have i done something to vex you?”
lady vaughan laughed.
“no, of course you haven’t. the idea of your vexing anybody! you look irritatingly cool in this tremendous heat,—that’s all.”
“i love the sun,”—said irene dreamily—“to me it is always the visible sign of god in the world. in london we have so little sunshine,—and, one might add, so little of god also! i was just then watching that golden blaze of light upon the sea.”
strathlea looked at her interrogatively.
“and what does it suggest to you, madame?” he asked—“the glory of a great fame, or the splendour of a great love?”
“neither”—she replied tranquilly—“simply the reflex of heaven on earth.”
“love might be designated thus,” said strathlea in a low tone.
she coloured a little, but offered no response.
“it was odd that you alone should have been told the news of poor el-râmi’s misfortune,” said sir frederick, abruptly addressing her,—“none of us, not even my cousin melthorpe, who knew him before you did, had the least idea of it.”
“his brother wrote to me”—replied irene; “féraz, that beautiful youth who accompanied him to lady melthorpe’s reception last year. but he gave me no details,—he simply explained that el-râmi, through prolonged overstudy, had lost the balance of his mind. the letter was very short, and in it he stated he was about to enter a religious fraternity who had their abode near baffo in cyprus, and that the brethren had consented to receive his brother also and take charge of him in his great helplessness.”
“and their place is what we are going to see now”—finished lady vaughan—“i daresay it will be immensely interesting. poor el-râmi! who would ever have thought it possible for him to lose his wits! i shall never forget the first time i saw him at the theatre. hamlet was being played, and he entered in the very middle of the speech ‘to be or not to be.’ i remember how he looked, perfectly. what eyes he had!—they positively scared me!”
her husband glanced at her admiringly.
“do you know, idina”—he said, “that el-râmi told me on that very night—the night of hamlet that i was destined to marry you?”
she lifted her eyelids in surprise.
“no! really! and did you feel yourself compelled to carry out the prophecy?”—and she laughed.
“no, i did not feel myself compelled,—but somehow, it happened—didn’t it?” he inquired with naïve persistency.
“of course it did! how absurd you are!” and she laughed again—“are you sorry?”
he gave her an expressive look,—he was really very much in love, and she was still a new enough bride to blush at his amorous regard. strathlea moved impatiently in his seat;—the assured happiness of others made him envious.
“i suppose this prophet,—el-râmi, as you call him, prophesies no longer, if his wits are lacking”—he said—“otherwise i should have asked him to prophesy something good for me.”
no one answered. lady vaughan stole a meaning glance and smile at irene, but there was no touch of embarrassment or flush of colour on that fair, serene, rather plaintive face.
“he always went into things with such terrible closeness, did el-râmi,—” said sir frederick after a pause—“no wonder his brain gave way at last. you know you can’t keep on asking the why, why, why of everything without getting shut up in the long run.”
“i think we were not meant to ask ‘why’ at all,” said irene slowly—“we are made to accept and believe that everything is for the best.”
“there is a story extant in france of a certain philosopher who was always asking why—” said strathlea—“he was a taciturn man as a rule, and seldom opened his lips except to say ‘pourquoi?’ when his wife died suddenly, he manifested no useless regrets—he merely said ‘pourquoi?’ one day they told him his house in the country was burned to the ground,—he shrugged his shoulders and said ‘pourquoi?’ after a bit he lost all his fortune,—his furniture was sold up,—he stared at the bailiffs and said ‘pourquoi?’ later on he was suspected of being in a plot to assassinate the king,—men came and seized his papers and took him away to prison,—he made no resistance,—he only said ‘pourquoi?’ he was tried, found guilty and condemned to death; the judge asked him if he had anything to say? he replied at once ‘pourquoi?’ no answer was vouchsafed to him, and in due time he was taken to the scaffold. there the executioner bandaged his eyes,—he said ‘pourquoi?’—he was told to kneel down; he did so, but again demanded ‘pourquoi?’—the knife fell, and his head was severed from his body—yet before it rolled into the basket, it trembled on the block, its eyes opened, its lips moved, and for the last time uttered that final, never-to-be answered query ‘pourquoi?’!”
they all laughed at this story, and just then the carriage stopped. the driver got down and explained in very bad french that he could go no farther,—that the road had terminated, and that there was now only a footpath which led through the trees to the little monastic retreat whither they were bound. they alighted, therefore, and found themselves close to the ruin supposed to have once been the “temple of venus.” they paused for a moment, looking at the scene in silence.
“there must have been a great joyousness in the old creeds,” said strathlea softly, with an admiring glance at irene’s slight, slim, almost fairy-like figure clad in its close-fitting garb of silky white—“at the shrine of venus for example, one could declare one’s love without fear or shame.”
“that can be done still,” observed sir frederick laughingly, “and is done, pretty often. people haven’t left off making love because the faith in venus is exploded. i expect they’ll go on in the same old abandoned way to the end of the chapter.”
and, throwing his arm round his wife’s waist, he sauntered on with her towards the thicket of trees at the end of which their driver had told them the “refuge” was situated, leaving strathlea and madame vassilius to follow. strathlea perceived and was grateful for the opportunity thus given, and ventured to approach irene a little more closely. she was still gazing out to the sea, her soft eyes were dreamy and abstracted,—her small ungloved right hand hung down at her side,—after a moment’s hesitation, he boldly lifted it and touched its delicate whiteness with a kiss. she started nervously—she had been away in the land of dreams,—and now she met his gaze with a certain vague reproach in the sweet expression of her face.
“i cannot help it—” said strathlea quickly, and in a low eager tone—“i cannot, irene! you know i love you,—you have seen it, and you have discouraged and repelled me in every possible way,—but i am not made of stone or marble—i am mere flesh and blood, and i must speak. i love you, irene! i love you—i will not unsay it. i want you to be my wife. will you, irene? do not be in a hurry to answer me—think long enough to allow some pity for me to mingle with your thoughts. just imagine a little hand like this”—and he kissed it again—“holding the pen with such a masterful grip and inditing to the world the thoughts and words that live in the minds of thousands,—is it such a cold hand that it is impervious to love’s caress? i cannot—i will not believe it. you cannot be obdurate for ever. what is there in love that it should repel you?”
she smiled gravely; and gently, very gently, withdrew her hand.
“it is not love that repels me—” she said, “it is what is called love, in this world,—a selfish sentiment that is not love at all. i assure you i am not insensible to your affection for me, my dear duke, ... i wish for your sake i were differently constituted.”
she paused a moment, then added hastily, “see, the others are out of sight—do let us overtake them.”
she moved away quickly with that soft gliding tread of hers which reminded one of a poet’s sylph walking on a moonbeam, and he paced beside her, half mortified, yet not altogether without hope.
“why are you so anxious to see this man who has lost his wits,—this el-râmi zarânos?” he asked, with a touch of jealousy in his accents—“was he more to you than most people?”
she raised her eyes with an expression of grave remonstrance.
“your thoughts wrong me—” she said simply—“i never saw el-râmi but twice in my life,—i only pitied him greatly. i used to have a strong instinct upon me that all would not be well with him in the end.”
“why?”
“first, because he had no faith,—secondly, because he had an excess of pride. he dismissed god out of his calculations altogether, and was perfectly content to rely on the onward march of his own intellect. intellectual egoism is always doomed to destruction,—this seems to be a law of the universe. indeed, egoism, whether sensual or intellectual, is always a defiance of god.”
strathlea walked along in silence for a minute, then he said abruptly:
“it is odd to hear you speak like this, as if you were a religious woman. you are not religious,—every one says so,—you are a free-thinker,—and also, pardon me for repeating it, society supposes you to be full of this sin you condemn—intellectual egoism.”
“society may suppose what it pleases of me”—said irene, “i was never its favourite, and never shall be, nor do i court its good opinion. yes, i am a free-thinker, and freely think without narrow law or boundary, of the majesty, beauty and surpassing goodness of god. as for intellectual egoism,—i hope i am not in any respect guilty of it. to be proud of what one does, or what one knows, has always seemed to me the poorest sort of vanity,—and it is the stumbling block over which a great many workers in the literary profession fall, never to rise again. but you are quite right in saying i am not a ‘religious’ woman; i never go to church and i never patronise bazaars.”
the sparkle of mirth in her eyes was infectious, and he laughed. but suddenly she stopped, and laid her hand on his arm.
“listen,” she said, with a slight tremor in her voice—“you love me, you say ... and i—i am not altogether indifferent to you—i confess that much. wait!” for in an excess of delight he had caught both her hands in his own, and she loosened them gently—“wait—you do not know me, my dear friend. you do not understand my nature at all,—i sometimes think myself it is not what is understood as ‘feminine.’ i am an abnormal creature—and perhaps if you knew me better you would not like me ...”
“i adore you!” said strathlea impetuously, “and i shall always adore you!”
she smiled rather sadly.
“you think so now,”—she said—“but you cannot be sure,—no man can always be sure of himself. you spoke of society and its opinion of me;—now, as a rule, average people do not like me,—they are vaguely afraid of me,—and they think it is strange and almost dangerous for a ‘writing woman’ to be still young, and not entirely hideous. literary women generally are so safely and harmlessly repellent in look and bearing. then again, as you said, i am not a religious woman,—no, not at all so in the accepted sense of the term. but with all my heart and soul i believe in god, and the ultimate good of everything. i abhor those who would narrow our vision of heavenly things by dogma or rule—i resent all ideas of the creator that seem to lessen his glory by one iota. i may truly say i live in an ecstasy of faith, accepting life as a wondrous miracle, and death as a crowning joy. i pray but seldom, as i have nothing to ask for, being given far more than i deserve,—and i complain of nothing save the blind, cruel injustice and misjudgment shown by one human unit to another. this is not god’s doing, but man’s—and it will, it must, bring down full punishment in due season.”
she paused a moment,—strathlea was looking at her admiringly, and she coloured suddenly at his gaze.
“besides”—she added with an abrupt change of tone, from enthusiasm to coldness, “you must not, my dear duke, think that i feel myself in any way distinguished or honoured by your proposal to make me your wife. i do not. this sounds very brusque, i know, but i think as a general rule in marriage, a woman gives a great deal more than she ever receives. i am aware how very much your position and fortune might appeal to many of my sex,—but i need scarcely tell you they have no influence upon me. for, notwithstanding an entire lack of log-rollers and press ‘booms’”—and she smiled—“my books bring me in large sums, sufficient and more than sufficient for all my worldly needs. and i am not ambitious to be a duchess.”
“you are cruel, irene”—said strathlea—“should i ever attaint you with worldly motives? i never wanted to be a duke—i was born so,—and a horrid bore it is! if i were a poor man, could you fancy me?”
he looked at her,—and her eyes fell under his ardent gaze. he saw his advantage, and profited by it.
“you do not positively hate me?” he asked.
she gave him one fleeting glance through her long lashes, and a faint smile rested on her mouth.
“how could i?” she murmured—“you are my friend.”
“well, will you try to like me a little more than a friend?”—he continued eagerly—“will you say to yourself now and then—‘he is a big, bluff, clumsy englishman, with more faults than virtues, more money than brains, and a stupid title sticking upon him like a bow of ribbon on a boar’s head, but he is very fond of me, and would give up everything in the world for me’—will you say that to yourself, and think as well as you can of me?—will you, irene?”
she raised her head. all coldness and hauteur had left her face, and her eyes were very soft and tender.
“my dear friend, i cannot hear you do yourself wrong”—she said—“and i am not as unjust as you perhaps imagine. i know your worth. you have more virtues than faults, more brains than money,—you are generous and kindly, and in this instance, your title sets off the grace of a true and gallant gentleman. give me time to consider a little,—let us join the vaughans,—i promise you i will give you your answer to-day.”
a light flashed over his features, and stooping, he once more kissed her hand. then, as she moved on, a gracefully gliding figure under the dark arching boughs, he followed with a firm joyous step such as might have befitted a knight of the court of king arthur who had, after hard fighting, at last won some distinct pledge of his “ladye’s” future favour.
