deeply embowered among arching boughs and covered with the luxuriant foliage of many a climbing and flowering vine, the little monastic refuge appeared at first sight more like the retreat of a poet or painter than a religious house where holy ascetics fasted and prayed and followed the difficult discipline of daily self-denial. when the little party of visitors reached its quaint low door they all paused before ringing the bell that hung visibly aloft among clustering clematis, and looked about them in admiration.
“what a delicious place!” said lady vaughan, bending to scent the odours of a rich musk rose that had pushed its lovely head through the leaves as though inviting attention—“how peaceful! ... and listen! what grand music they are singing!”
she held up her finger,—the others obeyed the gesture, and hushed their steps to hear every note of the stately harmony that pealed out upon the air. the brethren were chanting part of the grand greek “hymn of cleanthes,” a translation of which may be roughly rendered in the following strophes:
“many-named and most glorious of the immortals, almighty for ever,
ruler of nature whose government is order and law,
hail, all hail! for good it is that mortals should praise thee!
“we are thy offspring; we are the image of thy voice,
and only the image, as all mortal things are that live and move by thy power,
therefore do we exalt thy name and sing of thy glory forever!
“thee doth the splendid universe obey
moving whithersoever thou leadest,
and all are gladly swayed by thee.
“naught is done in the earth without thee, o god—
nor in the divine sphere of the heavens, nor in the deepest depths of the sea,
save the works that evil men commit in their hours of folly.
“yet thou knowest where to find place for superfluous things,
thou dost order that which seems disorderly,
and things not dear to men are dear to thee!
“thou dost harmonise into one both good and evil,
for there is one everlasting reason for them all.
“o thou all-giver, dweller in the clouds, lord of the thunder,
save thou men from their own self-sought unhappiness,
do thou, o father, scatter darkness from their souls, and give them light to discover true wisdom.
“in being honoured let them pay thee honour,
hymning thy glorious works continually as beseems mortal men,
since there can be no greater glory for men or gods than this,
to praise for ever and ever the grand and universal law!
amen!—amen!—amen!”
“strange they should elect to sing that”—said strathlea musingly—“i remember learning it off by heart in my student days. they have left out a verse of it here and there,—but it is quite a pagan hymn.”
“it seems to me very good christianity”—said irene vassilius, her eyes kindling with emotion—“it is a grand and convincing act of thanksgiving, and i think we have more cause for thankfulness than supplication.”
“i am not yet quite sure about that myself”—murmured strathlea in her ear—“i shall know better when the day is ended which i need most, prayer or thanksgiving.”
she coloured a little and her eyes fell,—meanwhile the solemn music ceased.
“shall i ring?” inquired sir frederick as the last note died away on the air.
they all silently acquiesced,—and by means of a coarse rope hanging down among the flowers the bell was gently set in motion. its soft clang was almost immediately answered by a venerable monk in white garments, with a long rosary twisted into his girdle and a cross and star blazoned in gold upon his breast.
“benedicite!” said this personage mildly, making the sign of the cross before otherwise addressing the visitors,—then, as they instinctively bent their heads to the pious greeting, he opened the door a little wider and asked them in french what they sought.
for answer madame vassilius stepped forward and gave him an open letter, one which she knew would serve as a pass to obtain ready admission to the monastery, and as the monk glanced it over his pale features brightened visibly.
“ah! friends of our youngest brother sebastian”—he said in fluent english—“enter! you are most heartily welcome.”
he stood aside, and they all passed under the low porch into a square hall, painted from ceiling to floor in delicate fresco. the designs were so beautiful and so admirably executed, that strathlea could not resist stopping to look at one or two of them.
“these are very fine”—he said, addressing the gray-haired recluse who escorted them—“are they the work of some ancient or modern artist?”
the old man smiled and gave a deprecating, almost apologetic gesture.
“they are the result of a few years’ pleasant labour”—he replied—“i was very happy while employed thus.”
“you did them!” exclaimed lady vaughan, turning her eyes upon him in frank wonder and admiration—“why then you are a genius!”
the monk shook his head.
“oh no, madame, not so. we none of us lay claim to ‘genius’; that is for those in the outer world,—here we simply work and do our best for the mere love of doing it.”
here, preceding them a little, he threw open a door, and ushered them into a quaint low room, panelled in oak, and begged them to be seated for a few moments while he went to inform “brother sebastian” of their arrival.
left alone they gazed about in silence, till sir frederick, after staring hard at the panelled walls said—
“you may be pretty sure these fellows have carved every bit of that oak themselves. monks are always wonderful workmen,—laborare est orare, you know. by the way i noticed that monk artist who was with us just now wore no tonsure,—i wonder why? anyhow it’s a very ugly disfigurement and quite senseless; they do well to abjure it.”
“is this man you come to see,—el-râmi—a member of the fraternity?” asked strathlea of irene in a low tone.
she shook her head compassionately.
“oh no—poor creature,—he would not understand their rules or their discipline. he is simply in their charge, as one who must for all his life be weak and helpless.”
at that moment the door opened, and a tall slim figure appeared, clad in the trailing white garments of the brotherhood; and in the dark poetic face, brilliant eyes and fine sensitive mouth there was little difficulty in recognising féraz as the “brother sebastian” for whom they waited. he advanced towards them with singular grace and quiet dignity,—the former timidity and impetuosity of, youth had entirely left him, and from his outward aspect and, bearing he looked like a young saint whose thoughts were always set on the highest things, yet who nevertheless had known what it was to suffer in the search for peace.
“you are most welcome, madame”—he said, inclining himself with a courteous gentleness towards irene,—“i expected you,—i felt sure that you would one day come to see us. i know you were always interested in my brother ...”
“i was, and am still”—replied irene gently, “and in yourself also.”
féraz, or “brother sebastian” as he was now called, made another gentle salutation expressive of gratitude, and then turned his eyes questioningly on the other members of the party.
“you will not need to be reminded of sir frederick vaughan and lady vaughan,”—went on irene,—then as these exchanged greetings, she added—“this gentleman whom you do not know is the duke of strathlea,—we have made the journey from england in his yacht, and——” she hesitated a moment, the colour deepening a little in her fair cheeks—“he is a great friend of mine.”
féraz glanced at her once,—then once at strathlea, and a grave smile softened his pensive face. he extended his hand with a frank cordiality that was charming, and strathlea pressed it warmly, fascinated by the extreme beauty and dignity of this youthful ascetic, sworn to the solitariness of the religious life ere he had touched his manhood’s prime.
“and how is el-râmi?” asked sir frederick with good-natured bluffness—“my cousin melthorpe was much distressed to hear what had happened,—and so were we all,—really—a terrible calamity—but you know overstudy will upset a man,—it’s no use doing too much——”
he broke off his incoherent remarks abruptly, embarrassed a little by the calmly mournful gaze of “brother sebastian’s” deep dark eyes.
“you are very good, sir frederick,”—he said gently—“i am sure you sympathise truly, and i thank you all for your sympathy. but—i am not sure that i should be sorrowful for my brother’s seeming affliction. god’s will has been made manifest in this, as in other things,—and we must needs accept that will without complaint. for the rest, el-râmi is well,—and not only well, but happy. let me take you to him.”
they hesitated,—all except irene. lady vaughan was a nervous creature,—she had a very vivid remembrance of el-râmi’s “terrible eyes”—they looked fiery enough when he was sane,—but how would they look now when he was ... mad? she moved uneasily,—her husband pulled his long moustache doubtfully as he studied her somewhat alarmed countenance,—and féraz, glancing at the group, silently understood the situation.
“will you come with me, madame?” he said, addressing himself solely to irene—“it is better perhaps that you should see him first alone. but he will not distress you ... he is quite harmless ... poor el-râmi!”
in spite of himself his voice trembled,—and irene’s warm heart swelled for sympathy.
“i will come at once”—she said, and as she prepared to leave the room strathlea whispered: “let me go with you!”
she gave a mute sign of assent,—and féraz leading the way, they quietly followed, while sir frederick and his wife remained behind. they passed first through a long stone corridor,—then into a beautiful quadrangular court with a fountain in its centre, and wooden benches set at equal distances under its moss-grown vine-covered colonnade. flowers grew everywhere in the wildest, loveliest profusion,—tame doves strutted about on the pavement with peaceful and proud complacency, and palms and magnolias grew up in tall and tangled profusion wherever they could obtain root-hold, casting their long, leafy trembling shadows across the quadrangle and softening the too dazzling light reflected from the brilliant sky above. up in a far corner of this little garden paradise, under the shade of a spreading cedar, sat the placid figure of a man,—one of the brethren at first he seemed, for he was clothed in the garb of the monastic order, and a loose cowl was flung back from his uncovered head on which the hair shone white and glistening as fine spun silver. his hands were loosely clasped together,—his large dark eyes were fixed on the rays of light that quivered prismatically in the foam of the tossing fountain, and near his feet a couple of amorous snowy doves sat brooding in the sun. he did not seem to hear the footsteps of his approaching visitors, and even when they came close up to him, it was only by slow degrees that he appeared to become conscious of their presence.
“el-râmi!” said his brother with tender gentleness—“el-râmi, these are friends who have journeyed hither to see you.”
then, like a man reluctantly awaking from a long and pleasant noonday dream, he rose and stood up with singularly majestic dignity, and for a moment looked so like the proud, indomitable el-râmi of former days, that irene vassilius in her intense interest and compassion for him, half fancied that the surprise of seeing old acquaintances had for a brief interval brought back both reason and remembrance. but no,—his eyes rested upon her unrecognisingly, though he greeted her and strathlea also, with the stateliest of salutations.
“friends are always welcome”—he said, “but friends are rare in the world,—it is not in the world one must look for them. there was a time i assure you, ... when i ... even i, ... could have had the most powerful of all friends for the mere asking,—but it is too late now—too late.”
he sighed profoundly, and seated himself again on the bench as before.
“what does he mean?” asked strathlea of féraz in a low tone.
“it is not always easy to understand him,” responded féraz gently—“but in this case, when he speaks of the friend he might have had for the mere asking, he means,—god.”
the warm tears rushed into irene’s eyes.
“nay, god is his friend i am sure”—she said with fervour, “the great creator is no man’s enemy.”
féraz gave her an eloquent look.
“true, dear madame”—he answered,—“but there are times and seasons of affliction when we feel and know ourselves to be unworthy of the divine friendship, and when our own conscience considers god as one very far off.”
yielding to the deep impulse of pity that swayed her, she advanced softly, and sitting down beside el-râmi, took his hand in her own. he turned and looked at her,—at the fair delicate face and soft ardent eyes,—at the slight dainty figure in its close-fitting white garb,—and a faint wondering smile brightened his features.
“what is this?” he murmured, then glancing downward at her small white ringless hand as it held his—“is this an angel? yes, it must be,—well then, there is hope at last. you bring me news of lilith?”
irene started, and her heart beat nervously,—she could not understand this, to her, new phase of his wandering mind. what was she to say in answer to so strange a question?—for who was lilith? she gazed helplessly at féraz,—he returned her look with one so earnest and imploring, that she answered at once as she thought most advisable—
“yes!”
a sudden trembling shook el-râmi’s frame, and he seemed absorbed. after a long pause, he lifted his dark eyes and fixed them solemnly upon her.
“then, she knows all now?” he demanded—“she understands that i am patient?—that i repent?—that i believe?—and that i love her as she would have me love her,—faithfully and far beyond all life and time?”
without hesitation, and only anxious to soothe and comfort him, irene answered at once—
“yes—yes—she understands. be consoled—be patient still—you will meet her soon again.”
“soon again?” he echoed, with a pathetic glance upward at the dazzling blue sky—“soon? in a thousand years?—or a thousand thousand?—for so do happy angels count the time. to me an hour is long—but to lilith, cycles are moments.”
his head sank on his breast,—he seemed to fall suddenly into a dreamy state of meditation,—and just then a slow bell began to toll to and fro from a wooden turret on the monastery roof.
“that is for vespers”—said féraz—“will you come, madame, and hear our singing? you shall see el-râmi again afterwards.”
silently she rose, but her movement to depart roused el-râmi from his abstraction, and he looked at her wistfully.
“they say there is happiness in the world”—he said slowly, “but i have not found it. little messenger of peace, are you happy?”
the pathos of his rich musical voice, as he said the words “little messenger of peace,” was indescribably touching. strathlea found his eyes suddenly growing dim with tears, and irene’s voice trembled greatly as she answered—
“no, not quite happy, dear friend;—we are none of us quite happy.”
“not without love,”—said el-râmi, speaking with sudden firmness and decision—“without love we are powerless. with it, we can compass all things. do not miss love; it is the clue to the great secret,—the only key to god’s mystery. but you know this already,—better than i can tell you,—for i have missed it,—not lost it, you understand, but only missed it. i shall find it again,—i hope, ... i pray i shall find it again! god be with you, little messenger! be happy while you can!”
he extended his hand with a gesture which might have been one of dismissal or benediction or both, and then sank into his former attitude of resigned contemplation, while irene vassilius, too much moved to speak, walked across the court between strathlea and the beautiful young “brother sebastian,” scarcely seeing the sunlight for tears. strathlea, too, was deeply touched;—so splendid a figure of a man as el-râmi he had seldom seen, and the ruin of brilliant faculties in such a superb physique appeared to him the most disastrous of calamities.
“is he always like that?” he inquired of féraz, with a backward compassionate glance at the quiet figure sitting under the cedar-boughs.
“nearly always,” replied féraz—“sometimes he talks of birds and flowers,—sometimes he takes a childish delight in the sunlight—he is most happy, i think, when i take him alone into the chapel and play to him on the organ. he is very peaceful, and never at any time violent.”
“and,” pursued strathlea, hesitatingly, “who is, or who was the lilith he speaks of?”
“a woman he loved”—answered féraz quietly—“and whom he loves still. she lives—for him—in heaven.”
no more questions were asked, and in another minute they arrived at the open door of the little chapel, where sir frederick and lady vaughan, attracted by the sound of music, were already awaiting them. irene briefly whispered a hurried explanation of el-râmi’s condition, and lady vaughan declared she would go and see him after the vesper-service was over.
“you must not expect the usual sort of vespers”—said féraz then—“our form is not the roman catholic.”
“is it not?” queried strathlea, surprised—“then, may one ask what is it?”
“our own,”—was the brief response.
three or four white-cowled, white-garmented figures now began to glide into the chapel by a side-entrance, and sir frederick vaughan asked with some curiosity:
“which is the superior?”
“we have no superior”—replied féraz—“there is one master of all the brotherhoods, but he has no fixed habitation, and he is not at present in europe. he visits the different branches of our fraternity at different intervals,—but he has not been here since my brother and i came. in this house we are a sort of small republic,—each man governs himself, and we are all in perfect unity, as we all implicitly follow the same fixed rules. will you go into the chapel now? i must leave you, as i have to sing the chorale.”
they obeyed his gesture, and went softly into the little sacred place, now glowing with light, and redolent of sweet perfume, the natural incense wafted on the air from the many flowers which were clustered in every nook and corner. seating themselves quietly on a wooden bench at the end of the building, they watched the proceedings in mingled wonder and reverence,—for such a religious service as this they had assuredly never witnessed. there was no altar,—only an arched recess, wherein stood a large, roughly-carved wooden cross, the base of which was entirely surrounded with the rarest flowers. through the stained-glass window behind, the warm afternoon light streamed gloriously,—it fell upon the wooden beams of the sign of salvation, with a rose and purple radiance like that of newly-kindled fire,—and as the few monks gathered together and knelt before it in silent prayer, the scene was strangely impressive, though the surroundings were so simple. and when, through the deep stillness an organ-chord broke grandly like a wave from the sea, and the voice of féraz, deep, rich, and pathetic exclaimed as it were, in song,
“quare tristis es anima mea?
quare conturbas me?”
giving the reply in still sweeter accents,
“spera in deo!”
then irene vassilius sank on her knees and hid her face in her clasped hands, her whole soul shaken by emotion and uplifted to heaven by the magic of divinest harmony. strathlea looked at her slight kneeling figure and his heart beat passionately,—he bent his head too, close beside hers, partly out of a devotional sense, partly perhaps to have a nearer glimpse of the lovely fair hair that clustered in such tempting little ripples and curls on the back of her slim white neck. the monks, prostrating themselves before the cross, murmured together some indistinct orisons for a few minutes,—then came a pause,—and once more the voice of féraz rang out in soft warm vibrating notes of melody;—the words he sang were his own, and fell distinctly on the ears as roundly and perfectly as the chime of a true-toned bell—
o hear ye not the voice of the belovëd?
through golden seas of starry light it falls,
and like a summons in the night it calls,
saying,—“lost children of the father’s house
why do ye wander wilfully away?
lo, i have sought ye sorrowing every day,—
and yet ye will not answer,—will not turn
to meet my love for which the angels yearn!
in all the causeless griefs wherewith your hearts are movëd
have ye no time to hear the voice of the belovëd?”
o hearken to the voice of the belovëd!
sweeter it is than music,—sweeter far
than angel-anthems in a happy star!
o wandering children of the father’s house,
turn homeward ere the coming of the night,
follow the pathway leading to the light!
so shall the sorrows of long exile cease
and tears be turned to smiles and pain to peace.
lift up your hearts and let your faith be provëd;—
answer, oh answer the voice of the belovëd!
very simple stanzas these, and yet, sung by féraz as only he could sing, they carried in their very utterance a singularly passionate and beautiful appeal. the fact of his singing the verses in english implied a gracefully-intended compliment to his visitors,—and after the last line “answer, oh answer the voice of the belovëd!” a deep silence reigned in the little chapel. after some minutes this silence was gently disturbed by what one might express as the gradual flowing-in of music,—a soft, persuasive ripple of sound that seemed to wind in and out as though it had crept forth from the air as a stream creeps through the grasses. and while that delicious harmony rose and fell on the otherwise absolute stillness, strathlea was thrilled through every nerve of his being by the touch of a small soft warm hand that stole tremblingly near his own as the music stole into his heart;—a hand that after a little hesitation placed itself on his in a wistfully submissive way that filled him with rapture and wonder. he pressed the clinging dainty fingers in his own broad palm—
“irene!” he whispered, as he bent his head lower in apparent devotion—“irene,—is this my answer?”
she looked up and gave him one fleeting glance through eyes that were dim with tears; a faint smile quivered on her lips,—and then, she hid her face again,—but—left her hand in his. and as the music, solemn and sweet, surged around them both like a rolling wave, strathlea knew his cause was won, and for this favour of high heaven, mentally uttered a brief but passionately fervent “laus deo.” he had obtained the best blessing that god can give—love,—and he felt devoutly certain that he had nothing more to ask for in this world or the next. love for him was enough,—as indeed it should be enough for us all if only we will understand it in its highest sense. shall we ever understand?—or never?
