Ardath, Marie Corelli [e ink ebook reader txt] 📗

Dom stood out from its groundwork with microscopically beautiful distinctness. And as his gaze rested on the perfect fairness of the day, a strange and sudden sense of rapturous anticipation possessed his mind,—he felt as one prepared for some high and exquisite happiness,—some great and wondrous celebration or feast of joy! The thoughts of death, on which he had brooded so persistently during the past yester-eve, had fled, leaving no trace behind,—only a keen and vigorous delight in life absorbed him now. It was good to be alive, even on this present earth! it was good to see, to feel, to know! and there was much to be thankful for in the mere capability of easy and healthful breathing!

 

Full of a singular light-heartedness, he hummed a soft tune to himself as he moved about his room,—his desire to view the interior of the Cathedral had not abated with sleep, but had rather augmented,—and he resolved to visit it now, while he had the chance of beholding it in all the impressive splendor of uncrowded tranquillity. For he knew that by the time he was dressed, the first Mass would be over,—the priests and people would be gone,—and he would be alone to enjoy the magnificence of the place in full poet-luxury,—the luxury of silence and solitude. He attired himself quickly, and with a vaguely nervous eagerness,—he was in almost as great a hurry to enter the Dom as he had been to arrive at the Field of Ardath! The same feverish impatience was upon him—impatience that he was conscious of, yet could not account for,—his fancy busied itself with a whole host of memories, and fragments of half-forgotten love-songs he had written in his youth, came back to him without his wish or will,—

songs that he instinctively felt belonged to his Past, when as “Sahluma” he had won golden opinions in Al-Kyris. And though they were but echoes, they seemed this morning to touch him with half-pleasing, half-tender suggestiveness,—two lines especially from the Idyl of Roses he had penned so long,—ah! so very long ago,—

came floating through his brain like a message sent from some other world,—

 

“By the pureness of love shall our glory in loving increase, And the roses of passion for us are the lilies of peace.”

 

The “lilies of peace” and the flowers of Ardath,—the “roses of passion” and the love of Edris, these were all mingled almost unconsciously in his thoughts, as with an inexplicable, happy sense of tremulous expectation,—expectation of he knew not what-he went, walking as one in haste, across the broad Platz and ascended the steps of the Cathedral. But the side-entrance was fast shut, as on the previous night,—he therefore made his rapid way round to the great western door. That stood open,—the bell had long ago ceased,—Mass was over,—and all was profoundly still.

 

Out of the warm sunlit air he stepped into the vast, cool, clear-obscure, white glory of the stately shrine,—with bared head and noiseless, reverent feet, he advanced a little way up the nave, and then stood motionless, every artistic perception in him satisfied, soothed, and entranced anew, as in his student-days, by the tranquil grandeur of the scene. What majestic silence! What hallowed peace! How jewel-like the radiance of the sun pouring through the rich stained glass on those superb carved pillars, that, like petrified stems of forest-trees, bear lightly up the lofty, vaulted roof to that vast height suggestive of a white sky rather than stone!

 

Moving on slowly further toward the altar, he was suddenly seized by an overpowering impression,—a memory that rushed upon him with a sort of shock, albeit it was only the memory of a tune!—a wild melody, haunting and passionate, rang in his eras,—the melody that Sarasate, the Orpheus of Spain, had evoked from the heart of his speaking violin,—the sobbing love-lament of the “Zigeunerweisen”—the weird minor-music that had so forcibly suggested—What? THIS VERY PLACE!—these snowy columns,—this sculptured sanctity—this flashing light of rose and blue and amber,—this wondrous hush of consecrated calm! What next? Dear God! Sweet Christ! what next? The face of Edris?—Would that heavenly countenance shine suddenly though those rainbow-colored beams that struck slantwise down toward him?—and should he presently hear her dulcet voice charming the silence into deeper ecstasy?

 

Overcome by a sensation that was something like fear, he stopped abruptly, and leaning against one of the quaint old oaken benches, strove to control the quick, excited throbbing of his heart,—then gradually, very gradually he become conscious that HE WAS NOT

ALONE,—another besides himself was in the church,—another, whom it was necessary for him to see!

 

He could not tell how he first grew to be certain of this,—but he was soon so completely possessed by the idea, that for a moment he dared not raise his eyes, or move! Some invincible force held him there spellbound, yet trembling in every limb,—and while he thus waited hesitatingly, the great organ woke up in a glory of tuneful utterance,—wave after wave of richest harmony rolled through the stately aisles and … “Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison!” rang forth in loud, full, and golden-toned chorus!

 

Lifting his head, he stared wonderingly around him; not a living creature was visible in all the spacious width and length of the cathedral! His lips parted,—he felt as though he could scarcely breathe,—strong shudders ran through him, and he was penetrated by a pleasing terror that was almost a physical pang,—an agonized entrancement, like death or the desire of love! Presently, mastering himself by a determined effort, he advanced steadily with the absorbed air of one who is drawn along by magnetic power … steadily and slowly up the nave, … and as he went, the music surged more tumultuously among the vaulted arches,—there was a faint echo afar off, as of tinkling crystal bells; and at each onward step he gained a new access of courage, strength, firmness, and untrammelled ease, till every timorous doubt and fear had fled away, and he stood directly in front of the altar railing, gazing at the enshrined Cross, and seeing for the moment nothing save that Divine Symbol alone. And still the organ played, and still the voices sang,—he knew these sounds were not of earth, and he also knew that they were intended to convey a meaning to him,—but WHAT meaning?

 

All at once, moved by a sudden impulse, he turned toward the right hand side of the altar, where the great statue of St. Christopher stands, and where one of the loveliest windows in the world gleams like a great carven gem aloft, filtering the light through a myriad marvellous shades of color, and there he beheld, kneeling on the stone pavement, one solitary worshipper,—a girl. Her hands were clasped, and her face was bent upon them so that her features were not visible,—but the radiance from the window fell on her uncovered golden hair, encircling it with the glistening splendor of a heavenly nimbus,—and round her slight, devotional figure, rays of azure and rose jasper and emerald, flickered in wide and lustrous patterns, like the glow of the setting sun on a translucent sea. How very still she was! … how fervently absorbed in prayer!

 

Vaguely startled, and thrilled by an electric, indefinable instinct, Alwyn went toward her with hushed and reverential tread, his eyes dwelling upon the drooping, delicate outline of her form with fascinated and eager attention. She was clad in gray,—a soft, silken, dove-like gray, that clung about her in picturesque, daintily draped folds,—he approached her still more nearly, and then could scarcely refrain from a loud cry of amazement! What flowers were those she wore at her breast!—so white, so star-like, so suggestive of paradise lilies new-gathered? Were they not the flowers of ARDATH? Dizzy with the sudden tumult of his own emotions, he dropped on his knees beside her,—she did not stir!

Was she REAL?—or a phantom? Trembling violently, he touched her garment—it was of tangible, smooth texture, actual enough, if the sense of touch could be relied upon. In an agony of excitement and suspense he lost all remembrance of time, place, or custom,—her bewildering presence must be explained,—he must know who she was,—he must speak to her,—speak, if he died for it!

 

“Pardon me!” he whispered faintly, scarcely conscious of his own words; “I fancy,—I think,—we have met,—before! May I, . . dare I, . . ask your name?”

 

Slowly she unclasped her gently folded hands; slowly, very slowly, she lifted her bent head, and smiled at him! Oh, the lovely light upon her face! Oh, the angel glory of those strange, sweet eyes!

 

“My name is EDRIS!”—she said, and as the pure bell-like tone of her voice smote the air with its silvery sound, the mysterious music of the organ and the invisible singers throbbed away,—

away,—away,—into softer and softer echoes, that died at last tremulously and with a sigh, as of farewell, into the deepest silence.

 

“EDRIS!”—In a trance of passionate awe and rapture he caught her hand,—the warm, delicate hand that yielded to his strong clasp in submissive tenderness,—pulsations of terror, pain, and wild joy, all commingled, rushed through him,—with adoring, wistful gaze he scanned every feature of that love-smiling countenance,—a countenance no longer lustrous with Heaven’s blinding glory, but only most maiden-like and innocently fair,—dazzled, perplexed, and half afraid, he could not at once grasp the true comprehension of his ineffable delight! He had no doubt of her identity—he knew her well! she was his own heartworshipped Angel,—but on what errand had she wandered out of paradise? Had she come once more, as on the Field of Ardath, to comfort him for a brief space with the beauty of her visible existence, or did she bring from Heaven the warrant for his death?

 

“Edris!” he said, as softly as one may murmur a prayer, “Edris, my life, my love! Speak to me again! make me sure that I am not dreaming! Tell me where I have failed in my sworn faith since we parted; teach me how I must still further atone! Is this the hour appointed for my spirit’s ransom?—has this dear and sacred hand I hold, brought me my quittance of earth?—and have I so soon won the privilege to die?”

 

As he spoke, she rose and stood erect, with all the glistening light of the stained window falling royally about her,—and he obeying her mute gesture, rose also and faced her in wondering ecstasy, half expecting to see her vanish suddenly in the sun-rays that poured through the Cathedral, even as she had vanished before like a white cloud absorbed in clear space. But no! She remained quiet as a tame bird,—her eyes met his with beautiful trust and tenderness,—and when she answered him, her low, sweet accents thrilled to his heart with a pathetic note of HUMAN affection, as well as of angelic sympathy!

 

“Theos, my Beloved, I am ALL THINE!” she said, a holy rapture vibrating through her exquisite voice.—“Thine now, in mortal life as in immortal!—one with thee in nature and condition,—pent up in perishable clay, even as thou art,—subject to sorrow, and pain, and weariness,—willing to share with thee thine earthly lot,—ready to take my part in thy grief or joy! By mine own choice have I come hither,—sinless, yet not exempt from sin, but safe in Christ! Every time thou hast renounced the desire of thine own happiness, so much the nearer hast thou drawn me to thee; every time thou hast prayed God for my peace, rather than thine own, so much the closer has my existence been linked with thine!

And now, O my Poet, my lord, my king!—we are together forever more,—together in the brief Present, as in the eternal Future!—

the solitary heaven-days of Edris are past, and her mission is not Death, but Love!”

 

Oh, the transcendent beauty of