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

worship is a mere coward instinct—a relic of barbarism which is being gradually eradicated from our natures by the progress of civilization. The world knows by this time that creation is an empty jest; we are all beginning to understand its bathos! And if we must grant that there is some mischievous supreme Farceur who, safely shrouded in invisibility, continues to perpetrate so poor and purposeless a joke for his own amusement and our torture, we need not, for that matter, admire his wit or flatter his ingenuity! For life is nothing but vexation and suffering; are we dogs that we should lick the hand that crushes us?”

 

At that moment, the chanting suddenly ceased. The organ went on, as though musically meditating to itself in minor cords, through which soft upper notes, like touches of light on a dark landscape, flickered ripplingly,—one monk separated himself from the clustered group, and stepping slowly up to the altar, confronted the rest of his brethren. The fiery Cross shone radiantly behind him, its beams seeming to gather in a lustrous halo round his tall, majestic figure,—his countenance, fully illumined and clearly visible, was one never to be forgotten for the striking force, sweetness, and dignity expressed in its every feature. The veriest scoffer that ever made mock of fine beliefs and fair virtues must have been momentarily awed and silenced in the presence of such a man as this,—a man upon whom the grace of a perfect life seemed to have fallen like a royal robe, investing even his outward appearance with spiritual authority and grandeur.

At sight of him, the stranger’s indifferent air rapidly changed to one of eager interest,—leaning forward, he regarded him intently with a look of mingled astonishment and unwilling admiration,—the monk meanwhile extended his hands as though in blessing and spoke aloud, his Latin words echoing through the rocky temple with the measured utterance of poetical rhythm. Translated they ran thus: “Glory to God, the Most High, the Supreme and Eternal!”

 

And with one harmonious murmur of accord the brethren responded: “GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!”

 

“Glory to God, the Ruler of Spirits and Master of Angels!”

 

“GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!”

 

“Glory to God who in love never wearies of loving!”

 

“GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!”

 

“Glory to God in the Name of His Christ our Redeemer!”

 

“GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!”

 

“Glory to God for the joys of the Past, the Present and Future!”

 

“GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!”

 

“Glory to God for the Power of Will and the working of Wisdom!”

 

“GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!”

 

“Glory to God for the briefness of life, the gladness of death, and the promised Immortal Hereafter!”

 

“GLORY FOR EVER AND EVER! AMEN!”

 

Then came a pause, during which the thunder outside added a tumultuous Gloria of its own to those already recited,—the organ music died away into silence, and the monk now turning so that he faced the altar, sank reverently on his knees. All present followed his example, with the exception of the stranger, who, as if in deliberate defiance, drew himself resolutely up to his full height, and, folding his arms, gazed at the scene before him with a perfectly unmoved demeanor,—he expected to hear some long prayer, but none came. There was an absolute stillness, unbroken save by the rattle of the rain-drops against the high oriel window, and the whistling rush of the wind. And as he looked, the fiery Cross began to grow dim and pale,—little by little, its scintillating lustre decreased, till at last it disappeared altogether, leaving no trace of its former brilliancy but a small bright flame that gradually took the shape of a seven-pointed Star which sparkled through the gloom like a suspended ruby. The chapel was left almost in complete darkness—he could scarcely discern even the white figures of the kneeling worshippers,—a haunting sense of the Supernatural seemed to permeate that deep hush and dense shadow,—and notwithstanding his habitual tendency to despise all religious ceremonies, there was something novel and strange about this one which exercised a peculiar influence upon his imagination. A sudden odd fancy possessed him that there were others present besides himself and the brethren,—but who these “others” were, he could not determine. It was an altogether uncanny, uncomfortable impression—yet it was very strong upon him—and he breathed a sigh of intense relief when he heard the soft melody of the organ once more, and saw the oaken doors of the grotto swing wide open to admit a flood of cheerful light from the outer passage. The vespers were over,—the monks rose and paced forth two by two, not with bent heads and downcast eyes as though affecting an abased humility, but with the free and stately bearing of kings returning from some high conquest. Drawing a little further back into his retired corner, he watched them pass, and was forced to admit to himself that he had seldom or never seen finer types of splendid, healthful, and vigorous manhood at its best and brightest. As noble specimens of the human race alone they were well worth looking at,—they might have been warriors, princes, emperors, he thought—anything but monks. Yet monks they were, and followers of that Christian creed he so specially condemned,—for each one wore on his breast a massive golden crucifix, hung to a chain and fastened with a jewelled star.

 

“Cross and Star!” he mused, as he noticed this brilliant and singular decoration, “an emblem of the fraternity, I suppose, meaning … what? Salvation and Immortality? Alas, they are poor, witless builders on shifting sand if they place any hope or reliance on those two empty words, signifying nothing! Do they, can they honestly believe in God, I wonder? or are they only acting the usual worn-out comedy of a feigned faith?”

 

And he eyed them somewhat wistfully as their white apparelled figures went by—ten had already left the chapel. Two more passed, then other two, and last of all came one alone—one who walked slowly, with a dreamy, meditative air, as though he were deeply absorbed in thought. The light from the open door streamed fully upon him as he advanced—it was the monk who had recited the Seven Glorias. The stranger no sooner beheld him than he instantly stepped forward and touched him on the arm.

 

“Pardon!” he said hastily in English, “I think I am not mistaken—

your name is, or used to be Heliobas?”

 

The monk bent his handsome head in a slight yet graceful salutation, and smiled.

 

“I have not changed it,” he replied, “I am Heliobas still.” And his keen, steadfast, blue eyes rested half inquiringly, half compassionately, on the dark, weary, troubled face of his questioner who, avoiding his direct gaze, continued: “I should like to speak to you in private. Can I do so now—tonight—at once?”

 

“By all means!” assented the monk, showing no surprise at the request. “Follow me to the library, we shall be quite alone there.”

 

He led the way immediately out of the chapel, and through a stone-paved vestibule, where they were met by the two brethren who had first received and entertained the unknown guest, and who, not finding him in the refectory where they had left him, were now coming in search of him. On seeing in whose company he was, however, they drew aside with a deep and reverential obeisance to the personage called Heliobas—he, silently acknowledging it, passed on, closely attended by the stranger, till he reached a spacious, well-lighted apartment, the walls of which were entirely lined with books. Here, entering and closing the door, he turned and confronted his visitor—his tall, imposing figure in its trailing white garments calling to mind the picture of some saint or evangelist—and with grave yet kindly courtesy, said: “Now, my friend, I am at your disposal! In what way can Heliobas, who is dead to the world, serve one for whom surely as yet the world is everything?”

 

CHAPTER II.

 

CONFESSION.

 

His question was not very promptly answered. The stranger stood still, regarding him intently for two of three minutes with a look of peculiar pensiveness and abstraction, the heavy double fringe of his long dark lashes giving an almost drowsy pathos to his proud and earnest eyes. Soon, however, this absorbed expression changed to one of sombre scorn.

 

“The world!” he said slowly and bitterly. “You think I care for the world? Then you read me wrongly at the very outset of our interview, and your once reputed skill as a Seer goes for naught!

To me the world is a graveyard full of dead, worm-eaten things, and its supposititious Creator, whom you have so be praised in your orisons tonight, is the Sexton who entombs, and the Ghoul who devours his own hapless Creation! I myself am one of the tortured and dying, and I have sought you simply that you may trick me into a brief oblivion of my doom, and mock me with the mirage of a life that is not and can never be! How can you serve me? Give me a few hours’ respite from wretchedness! that is all I ask!”

 

As he spoke his face grew blanched and haggard, as though he suffered from some painfully repressed inward agony. The monk Heliobas heard him with an air of attentive patience, but said nothing; he therefore, after waiting for a reply and receiving none, went on in colder and more even tones: “I dare say my words seem strange to you—though they should not do so if, as reported, you have studied all the varying phases of that purely intellectual despair which, in this age of excessive over-culture, crushes men who learn too much and think too deeply.

But before going further I had better introduce myself. My name is Alwyn …”

 

“Theos Alwyn, the English author, I presume?” interposed the monk interrogatively.

 

“Why, yes!” this in accents of extreme surprise—“how did you know that!”

 

“Your celebrity,” politely suggested Heliobas, with a wave of the hand and an enigmatical smile that might have meant anything or nothing.

 

Alwyn colored a little. “Your mistake,” he said indifferently, “I have no celebrity. The celebrities of my country are few, and among them those most admired are jockeys and divorced women. I merely follow in the rear-line of the art or profession of literature—I am that always unluckiest and most undesirable kind of an author, a writer of verse—I lay no claim, not now at any rate, to the title of poet. While recently staying in Paris I chanced to hear of you …”

 

The monk bowed ever so slightly—there was a dawning gleam of satire in his brilliant eyes.

 

“You won special distinction and renown there, I believe, before you adopted this monastic life?” pursued Alwyn, glancing at him curiously.

 

“Did I?” and Heliobas looked cheerfully interested. “Really I was not aware of it, I assure you! Possibly my ways and doings may have occasionally furnished the Parisians with something to talk about instead of the weather, and I know I made some few friends and an astonishing number of enemies, if that is what you mean by distinction and renown!”

 

Alwyn smiled—his smile was always reluctant, and had in it more of sadness than sweetness, yet it gave his features a singular softness and beauty, just as a ray of sunlight falling on a dark picture will brighten the tints into a momentary warmth of seeming life.

 

“All reputation means that, I think,” he said, “unless it be mediocre—then one is safe; one has scores of friends, and scarce a foe. Mediocrity succeeds wonderfully well nowadays—nobody hates it, because every one feels how easily they themselves can attain to