the vespers over, the little party of english visitors passed out of the chapel into the corridor. there they waited in silence, the emotions of two of them at least, being sufficiently exalted to make any attempt at conversation difficult. it was not however very long before féraz or “brother sebastian” joined them, and led them as though by some involuntary instinct into the flower-grown quadrangle, where two or three of the monks were now to be seen pacing up and down in the strong red sunset-light with books open in their hands, pausing ever and anon in their slow walk to speak to el-râmi, who sat, as before, alone under the boughs of the cedar-tree. one of the tame doves that had previously been seen nestling at his feet, had now taken up its position on his knee, and was complacently huddled down there, allowing itself to be stroked, and uttering crooning sounds of satisfaction as his hand passed caressingly over its folded white wings. féraz said very little as he escorted all his guests up to within a yard or so of el-râmi’s secluded seat,—but lady vaughan paused irresolutely, gazing timidly and with something of awe at the quiet reposeful figure, the drooped head, the delicate dark hand that stroked the dove’s wings,—and as she looked and strove to realise that this gentle, submissive, meditative, hermit-like man was indeed the once proud and indomitable el-râmi, a sudden trembling came over her, and a rush of tears blinded her eyes.
“i cannot speak to him”—she whispered sobbingly to her husband—“he looks so far away,—i am sure he is not here with us at all!”
sir frederick, distressed at his wife’s tears, murmured something soothing,—but he too was rendered nervous by the situation and he could find no words in which to make his feelings intelligible. so, as before, irene vassilius took the initiative. going close up to el-râmi, she with a quick yet graceful impulsiveness threw herself in a half-kneeling attitude before him.
“el-râmi!” she said.
he started, and stared down upon her amazedly,—yet was careful in all his movements not to disturb the drowsing white dove upon his knee.
“who calls me?” he demanded—“who speaks?”
“i call you”—replied irene, regardless how her quite unconventional behaviour might affect the vaughans as onlookers—“i ask you, dear friend, to listen to me. i want to tell you that i am happy—very happy,—and that before i go, you must give me your blessing.”
a pathetic pain and wonderment crossed el-râmi’s features. he looked helplessly at féraz,—for though he did not recognise him as his brother, he was accustomed to rely upon him for everything.
“this is very strange!” he faltered—“no one has ever asked me for a blessing. make her understand that i have no power at all to do any good by so much as a word or a thought. i am a very poor and ignorant man—quite at god’s mercy.”
féraz bent above him with a soothing gesture.
“dear el-râmi,” he said—“this lady honours you. you will wish her well ere she departs from us,—that is all she seeks.”
el-râmi turned again towards irene, who remained perfectly quiet in the attitude she had assumed.
“i thought,”—he murmured slowly—“i thought you were an angel; it seems you are a woman. sometimes they are one and the same thing. not often, but sometimes. women are wronged,—much wronged,—when god endows them, they see farther than we do. but you must not honour me,—i am not worthy to be honoured. a little child is much wiser than i am. of course i must wish you well—i could not do otherwise. you see this poor bird,”—and he again stroked the dove which now dozed peacefully—“i wish it well also. it has its mate and its hole in the dove-cote, and numberless other little joys,—i would have it always happy,—and ... so—i would have you always happy too. and,—most assuredly, if you desire it, i will say—‘god bless you!’”
here he seemed to collect his thoughts with some effort,—his dark brows contracted perplexedly,—then, after a minute, his expression brightened, and, as if he had just remembered something, he carefully and with almost trembling reverence, made the sign of the cross above irene’s drooping head. she gently caught the hovering hand and kissed it. he smiled placidly, like a child who is caressed.
“you are very good to me”—he said—“i am quite sure you are an angel. and being so, you need no blessing—god knows his own, and always claims them ... in the end.”
he closed his eyes languidly then and seemed fatigued,—his hand still mechanically stroked the dove’s wings. they left him so, moving away from him with hushed and cautious steps. he had not noticed sir frederick or lady vaughan,—and they were almost glad of this, as they were themselves entirely disinclined to speak. to see so great a wreck of a once brilliant intellect was a painful spectacle to good-natured sir frederick,—while on lady vaughan it had the effect of a severe nervous shock. she thought she would have been better able to bear the sight of a distracted and howling maniac, than the solemn pitifulness of that silent submission, that grave patience of a physically strong man transformed, as it were, into a child. they walked round the court, féraz gathering as he went bouquets of roses and jessamine and passiflora for the two ladies.
“he seems comfortable and happy”—sir frederick ventured to remark at last.
“he is, perfectly so”—rejoined féraz. “it is very rarely that he is depressed or uneasy. he may live on thus till he is quite old, they tell me,—his physical health is exceptionally good.”
“and you will always stay with him?” said irene.
“can you ask, madame!” and féraz smiled—“it is my one joy to serve him. i grieve sometimes that he does not know me really, who i am,—but i have a secret feeling that one day that part of the cloud will lift, and he will know. for the rest he is pleased and soothed to have me near him,—that is all i desire. he did everything for me once,—it is fitting i should do everything for him now. god is good,—and in his measure of affliction there is always a great sweetness.”
“surely you do not think it well for your brother to have lost the control of his brilliant intellectual faculties?” asked sir frederick, surprised.
“i think everything well that god designs”—answered féraz gently, now giving the flowers he had gathered, to irene and lady vaughan, and looking, as he stood in his white robes against a background of rosy sunset-light, like a glorified young saint in a picture,—“el-râmi’s intellectual faculties were far too brilliant, too keen, too dominant,—his great force and supremacy of will too absolute. with such powers as he had he would have ruled this world, and lost the next. that is, he would have gained the shadow and missed the substance. no, no—it is best as it is. ‘except ye become as little children, ye shall not enter the kingdom of heaven!’ that is a true saying. in the valley of humiliation the birds of paradise sing, and in el-râmi’s earth-darkness there are gleams of the light divine. i am content,—and so, i firmly and devoutly believe, is he.”
with this, and a few more parting words, the visitors now prepared to take their leave. suddenly irene vassilius perceived an exquisite rose hanging down among the vines that clambered about the walls of the little monastery;—a rose pure white in its outer petals but tenderly tinted with a pale blush pink towards its centre. acting on her own impulsive idea, she gathered it, and hastened back alone across the quadrangle to where el-râmi sat absorbed and lost in his own drowsy dreams.
“good-bye, dear friend,—good-bye!” she said softly, and held the fragrant beautiful bud towards him.
he opened his sad dark eyes and smiled,—then extended his hand and took the flower.
“i thank you, little messenger of peace!” he said—“it is a rose from heaven,—it is the soul of lilith!”
