“Jesus was proclaimed the Lamb of God, near Cana, by that vehement, self-starving Baptist John. But in habits and manner of living John and Jesus were utterly dissimilar. There was harmony in the great things, faith and charity in all things.”
The mad knight nodded inquiringly.
The student continued:
“Jesus, the organizer of the new kingdom, at Cana, unfolded one part of His policy, for nigh here twain questioned: ‘Where dwellest thou?’ Jesus instantly invited them to His own abode. They dwelt with Him a day, and were won to be His loyal disciples, thus attesting the power of Christ in the home. And they got a home religion, for one of these, Andrew, at once sought to win his brother Peter to discipleship. On the eve of Cana’s wedding feast Jesus won Philip, saying, ‘Follow me,’ and Philip hasted to win Nathaniel, crying, ‘Come and see.’ To these He spoke of a hereafter home with open doors and a holy family. Each of Jesus’s true disciples was impelled to haste and tell salvation’s story to his nearest kin. Christianity is a feast beginning in the home circle and spreading to all the earth.”
The mad knight, as he listened, cast a glance of inquiry over his shoulder at those near him.
“Sir Charleroy applies the lesson to himself,” whispered the Grand Master to Miriamne.
Cornelius went on:
“Cana was the home of Nathaniel. We see this poor man sitting in seclusion under a fig tree. Except his doubts, he was alone. To him Jesus went, and at the door of his own home the Master met him. Because Nathaniel believed, on little evidence, God gave him more, and promised him that he should see heaven open and the angels ascending and descending, as in Jacob’s vision. So are those winged messengers passing back and forth forever, to minister to and comfort needy man. One may be lost to the world, to friends, to himself, but never lost to the Good Shepherd, who is like the one in the parable leaving the ninety and nine to follow the lamb that was straying.”
Sir Charleroy’s head bowed, and Miriamne was glad, for she saw the tears falling thick and fast down his pallid cheeks.
A sign from the attending physicians brought the services quietly to a close. They had seen the emotion of the knight, and desired that the feelings aroused be permitted to quietly ebb.
A few days later, by their advice, the Grand Master summoned the chaplain of the Palestineans to hold another service like the last. “Sir Charleroy was blessed that last day. He evinces interest and natural reasonings. Since the former service he has repeated the story of Cana over and over, together with the substance of thy discourse thereon. Besides that, he never tires of inquiring about the ‘ruddy priest of the sweet words,’” said the physician.
“I obey, my Master, it’s God’s will. What shall be my theme?”
“Oh, Cana continued; De Griffin is constantly inquiring as to when the ruddy priest of the sweet words is to continue the tale of the Cana,” said the Grand Master.
“Praise the Day Spring that hath visited us!”
“You echo the thought of all our souls, Cornelius.”
And it was so that on the day following the chapel of the “House of Rest” was filled with much the same company that met there the last time.
Miriamne arrived early and eagerly questioned Cornelius as he passed her on his way to his robing-room:
“Oh, brother, hast thou a message of grace and hope for me, to-day?”
“The entrance of thy word giveth light,” was his quiet reply; and he passed on, not daring to tarry near the woman that so strangely moved him. He felt very serious, and hence avoided that which might distract his attention.
But Miriamne felt assured, while Cornelius was all faith in the efficacy of the Divine word in working the cure of minds perturbed.
Presently he stood behind his reading-desk and, waiting until the organ tone had died away, commenced by reading these words:
“And the third day there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee; and the mother of Jesus was there:
“And both Jesus was called, and his disciples, to the marriage.”
Sir Charleroy had entered the chapel, and was moving toward a lonely seat; his motions were languid; his action listless, except when at intervals he gazed into the empty air and hissed some incoherent words at imaginary people. But the word “Cana” arrested his attention. He looked up, smiled, and then exclaimed: “Oh, the red-faced! That’s it; tell us more, more of Cana!”
Cornelius complied. “We have here a story of two lives in the most precious tie on earth, marriage.”
Then the chaplain read:
“We see Christ at a Jewish wedding, and the Hebrew marriage was ever an occasion of great joy. Not only so, but the weddings of that people were characterized by very instructive and impressive ceremonies. Let me explain. The day before the wedding both bride and groom fasted, confessed their sins and made ceremonial atonement for the errors of their past lives. They were to be part of each other, and felt that each owed it to the other to be free from burden or taint of the past. Both bride and groom at the wedding wore wreaths of myrtle, the emblem of justice, constantly to typify that virtue as supreme in wedlock.”
“Oh, young priest, thou art an angel!”
The voice startled all but Sir Charleroy. He had spoken, yet his face indicated only placidity and interest. Cornelius proceeded:
“The bride, veiled from head to foot to show that her beauty was to be seen only by him to whom she gave herself, decked with a girdle, emblem of strength and subjection, was led in triumph from the home of her father to the home of him who was to possess her. Before she took her departure, kindly hands anointed her with sweet perfumes and gave her priceless jewels; while on her way she was met by all her friends, singing songs and bearing torches to gladden her journey toward her new abode. Thus they that loved the bride did bestir themselves to bestow bounties and make the maiden most choice. There was no detraction, no defiling, no effort to belittle. Were wives aided like brides there would be fewer broken hearts among wedded women.”
“Wondrous true, ruddy priest!” It was the mad knight’s voice. Cornelius continued:
“The feast of the wedding lasted seven days. To such a gathering Jesus once went. Probably this was the marriage of a kinsman. Thus, immediately after His temptation and His baptism, with His mighty redemptional work all before Him, our Lord deemed it a leading duty to give proper attention to this wedding ceremonial, one of the lesser things that make up so much of life. With man supreme selfishness, or natural littleness, engenders apathy to all except some pre-occupying purpose, but He, in whom all fullness dwells, entered into and embraced around about all life. He was as glorious when meddling with human joys and making the waters of Cana blush to wine, as when grappling with the sorrows of sin and setting Himself up on Calvary the beacon and light of the ages.”
Miriamne felt the illumination again that first came to her that Easter-day at Bozrah, while Sir Charleroy’s face glowed with intelligence and peace. This was a full, round gospel which Cornelius was proclaiming, and every soul present was fed.
After pausing for an interlude of soothing music he again proceeded with his discoursing as one conversing:
“At Cana, Christ bound as a captive, natural law. How He did so we do not know, but we do know that while destroying no part of nature’s system he mysteriously made it serve for human happiness in a way unusual and marvelous. It seems to me that the story of Cana is a fireside story. No matter how miserable a home may be, it may have faith that in welcoming the Divine guest it welcomes assured miraculous joy. Life’s waters may blush everywhere to heaven’s wine!”
The mad knight murmured: “Oh, ruddy priest! if thou couldst only preach this in Bozrah.”
The Grand Master, who was sitting by Miriamne, pressed her hand and whispered: “Memory is reviving—praise to the Day-Spring!”
Cornelius again read his parchment.
“And when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus saith unto him, They have no wine.
“Jesus saith unto her, Woman, what have I to do with thee? Mine hour is not yet come.”
“So,” said the reader, “these folks were likely poor, the supply meager, though no man ever yet had enough of the wine of joy at his wedding until it was blessed by the God of marriage.”
Just then Sir Charleroy, standing up, solemnly said: “Young man, I’d have thee tell these people why He said ‘Woman, what have I to do with thee?’ He, the man, was master, that was it, eh?”
“Oh, motion to Cornelius not to debate,” whispered Miriamne to the Grand Master; but Cornelius was already adroitly replying:
“True, knight of Saint Mary, but this Master of ceremonies was Divine. Then He was not talking to his wife. He had not wed this woman, hence was not bound by the law of being her other self. Besides that we must not forget that they had often conversed intimately before the wedding; she with all the tenderness of a woman’s heart, which in its love ever naturally outruns all plans, all reasonings, to bestow all it has at once upon the all-beloved. She hurried Christ in the way of giving. This to her credit, if her wisdom is reproved.”
The knight settled back in his seat, his face very pale but not anger-marked.
Cornelius continued: “The term ‘woman’ is often used, as here, in all tenderness. Our rugged language ill translates the original. When a people has not fine moods in its living, its language becomes like sackcloth, unfit to clothe the angel-like thoughts of those who live on more exalted planes. The gross degrade all their companions, whether such be beings or merely words.”
The leader again read:
“His mother saith unto the servants, Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.”
“This shows the good, motherly Mary supplementing the Master’s work. Doubtless, she had her partisans, some who would have sided with her had she chosen to rebuke her Son. But she desired harmony at the feast and in the home. This was the chief end, and for it she was willing to serve and wait.”
“Very true! Our Lady was always right and good.” It was the voice of the mad knight.
Cornelius continued:
“These were the finest words Mary ever spoke; they were the key to her whole life; indeed, the spirit of the ideal woman ever more standing nearer to Christ than any other being; at a wedding, the very climax of fullest human love, the gateway to home, the counterpart of heaven, Mary points all to the Christ, exclaiming, ‘Hear ye Him!’”
“Our Lady was always a wise, brave, loving, submissive woman,” exclaimed Sir Charleroy.
“It is an old tradition,” replied Cornelius, “that this was the wedding of John, the beloved and confidant of Jesus. It is interesting to remember that that blessed disciple, in his Gospel, presents the one whom he loved as a mother but twice—once at this wedding, the other time at the crucifixion; the places of highest joy, and deepest sorrow; a way of saying from the altar to the cross, is woman’s course; a parable-like presentment of the doctrine that the wife and mother are to appear at these two points, so opposite, so common to all; the lowest dip, the highest heaven.”
The mad knight suddenly interrupted them.
“What did Joseph think of all this?”
Perhaps this odd query was fortunate, for it brought smiles to all. The knight laughed out until his eyes were flowing with tears.
Cornelius, self-possessed, quietly replied: “It is said that Joseph was dead long ere this wedding, and that Mary was exhaling the perfumes of her consecrated widowed life to gladdening in pious ministries the people about her. Widowhood has such purposes.”
“Ah, she was the Rose,” cried the knight. “If Joseph were not dead, he might well stand back, behind such a wife!”
The chaplain of the Palestineans closed with a well-worded climax, recalling the fact that this event made a lasting impression on the Son of God, as evinced by the wondrous tropes of the Apocalypse, where eternal goodness and eternal joy are pictured under the similitude of a wedding-feast.
The mad knight cried out: “Grand, grand! Oh, ruddy priest, I worship thee!”
The Grand Master signaled the conclusion. The worshipers and patients were slowly retiring, Sir Charleroy moving toward his lodge seemingly wrapped in contemplation of some engrossing problem.
He passed near the picture of “Rizpah Defending Her Relatives,” which by some mischance had been left near the chapel door. Instantly the knight’s attention was fixed; he became excited, then suddenly turning to an attendant, exclaimed:
“Here, tell me, where am I? Is this London or Bozrah?”
“London, good Teuton.”
Again he gazed at the picture, and his transformation was startling. His face was distorted, his body became rigid and swayed as that of the hooded snake making ready to strike a victim. Then bounding to the Grand Master’s side he snatched the latter’s sword from its hilt, quickly returned to the picture, and before any could prevent him began to hack it to pieces.
One tried to restrain him, but was overpowered, two, then three were flung aside. Presently he was pinioned but not silenced.
“Away! Unhand me!” he shouted. “In the name of the King of Jerusalem, the defenders of the Sepulcher, unhand me! Do you not see? There! they’ve come to make riot at the feast of Cana! Ruddy priest, come quickly. Help! This fearful gang will all be loose in a moment; they be the ghosts of the giants, and war everlastingly against the peace of homes; against our Mary and her Son’s kingdom.”
He was breathless for a moment, and all were anxious lest he be permanently unsettled. Some were praying for him, others holding him. Then he broke forth again as before.
“Unhand me, infidels! God wills it! Let me cut to pieces yon horrible thing fresh from hot hell; painted by the gory and beslimed hands of devils! See! it’s bewitched, and the woman and the hanging men and the vultures are all alive! They’ll be at us! One of those black birds has feasted on my heart for years, and yon woman has nightly beaten my bare brain with her club.”
They tried to calm him; his daughter pressed to his side, and flinging her arms about the knight, beseechingly cried: “Father! father! it is I! Miriamne!”
“Miriamne? Ha! ha!” cried the excited man. “More mockery! More witchery! Miriamne is lost, eternally lost! Yon group of demons tore her from me! Oh, God, if thou lovest a soldier of the cross, hear me, and blast with burning, swift and quenchless lightnings, yon monsters, and with them all who separate hearts and wreck homes!”
“Father, so say we all; let us pray together,” pleaded the girl.
“Father! Who says ‘father’ to me?”
“It is I, your daughter, Miriamne!”
Suddenly, Sir Charleroy became calm and curiously observed the maiden. “Art thou Sir Charleroy’s daughter? I knew him once in Palestine. He died afterward in London and left me his body. But it’s not much use. It’s sick most of the time. I carry it about, though, hoping he’ll come for it. If thou dost want it thou canst have it.”
The daughter humored the fancy, and quickly replied: “I do want it. I love it. I’ll help you take care of it. Let me now hug it to my heart.”
Then he permitted her to twine about him her arms, and when she kissed him the second time he returned the salutation, and tears ran down his hot cheeks.
“Blessed be the God of peace,” fervently ejaculated Cornelius. “The day dawns; after tears, light.”
The knight continued after a time, addressing Miriamne:
“Sir Charleroy was my friend; and thou art his daughter? Thou wouldst not deceive me, I know. Tell me in a few words,” he said, meanwhile furtively glancing about, “Who am I?”
Miriamne again humored him, and pressing her lips nigh his ear, in a whisper replied: “Sir Charleroy, Teutonic knight, my father.”
The old man held her off a little way, gazed at her a moment, doubtfully, then said: “Thou art large for a baby! Miriamne is a little thing.” Then he continued: “But thy eyes, they are Miriamne’s; and so honest! I believe them! Then thou art Miriamne and I Sir Charleroy?”
“Truly.” And again she kissed her father.
“But thou dost not want me—a wreck, a pauper!”
“I do, and the boys do; all Bozrah wants you, needs you.”
“Not thy mother! Oh, no; I murdered her long ago!”
“Not so, dear father.”
“I did, indeed. See,” and he pointed to the painting, “I’ve killed her again, to-day.”
“That’s but a miserable painting, and I hate it as much as you do; but it’s harmless, henceforth.”
“Are all the devils in it dead; the vultures that ate up my heart?”
“Yes, yes; who cares for them?”
“Then I shall get better.”
The mad knight suffered himself to be led away quietly. There was great joy among the Palestineans that night. And so Miriamne carried the spirit of Mary, that presided at Cana’s feast, into the misery of that English asylum. She had given her life to ministering for others, had begun in her own home circle, her life motto: “Hear ye Him”—“Whatsoever He saith unto you, do it.” Now she was rewarded, and began to hope that there would be the renewal of wedding chimes at Bozrah, that the wine of its joy would be renewed and sweetened. She questioned the chaplain for advice. “Tell the Master there is no wine in the old stone house, and ‘whatsoever He saith, do it,’” was the young man’s answer.
CHAPTER XXVII.
“THE STAR OF THE SEA.”
Like the morning dawn on a calm sea, after a night of fierce storm, so came now great peace to Miriamne. The heaviest sorrow of her life was lifting. Her father was recovering; his mind becoming rational; and chief of Miriamne’s joys, was the fact that his convalescence was accompanied by the appearance of a deep trusting love for herself. He seemed to lean on his daughter for help; cling to her for hope and aim, by every way, not only to express his sense of dependence on but his deep and abiding gratitude toward the patient, chief minister, in the mission of his recovery. He seemed for a long time to be haunted by a fear of relapse into some great misery that he but dimly remembered and could not define, beyond a shudder. He dreaded to be alone, and often clung to his daughter with furtive glances of fear, even as a terrified child clings to its mother. One day, months after he had begun to be rational, he addressed Miriamne: “We must soon seek another abiding place, daughter. Our Grand Master has discharged with overflowing payment, every debt of hospitality.”
“True, father, and I’m glad; the thought for weeks in my mind, is now in yours. But where shall we go?”
“I think, to France, and immediately.”
“France?”
“Yes, there I’ll seek out some of the De Griffins. They may be able to mend my shattered fortunes, and if I find none of my kin, I shall not be lacking in any thing, for there are many of our Teutonic knights. While they prosper, no want shall harass me or mine.”
“Father, I do not want to go to France.”
“Why, this is strange?”
“It seems far away, very far, to me.”
“Art thou dreaming, my Syrian Oriole?”
“No, awake! And very earnest.”
“Why, we could walk thither, were it not for the water.”
“But I can not go that way!”
“Well, we can not stay here, so where?”
“Eastward; Bozrah!”
“Wouldst thou ask a spirit, by mercy permitted escape from Tophet to return?”
“Yes, even that, if the spirit had a mission and a safe conduct.”
“Thou art nobler, braver than I. I can’t trust the land of giants and vultures.”
“The giants and vultures we must meet are in human forms, and such are everywhere.”
“There are over many for the population, in Syria and beyond it.”
“But there have been many changes since you left that country, especially, in our city,” persisted the maiden.
“Nothing changes in Palestine or Bozrah, daughter, except wives, and they only one way; from bad to worse.”
The young chaplain seconded Miriamne’s efforts.
Sir Charleroy was spasmodically the stronger, but Miriamne by patience and persistence prevailed. In time, she won her cause, and the three took sail for the Holy Land, the knight protesting that he would go as far as Acre and no further. The journey was slow but not monotonous, for the English trader on which they journeyed stopped at various ports. Cornelius on his part was enjoying a serene delight that had no shadow except when he remembered that voyaging with Miriamne was to have an end; Miriamne on her part had three-fold pleasure; delight in her companionship with the young missionary, delight in the continued improvement of her father’s health, and greater delight still in the glowing hope of the success of her mission of peace to her home-circle. As for Sir Charleroy it suited him well to be sailing. He was ever exhilarated by change; each day brought it. He was in theory a fatalist, and the staunch ship pushing onward day and night to its destination, carrying all along, was an expression of the inexorable. Then the conditions about him rested him, for he was freed from any need of bracing of his will to choose or execute any thing. He went forward because the ship went. That was all and enough. Only once during the voyage did he assert himself or express a desire to change his course. That was when passing Cyprus.
“Here,” he cried, “let me disembark!”
Persuasively, Miriamne protested.
“But I must! I’ve a mission. I want to curse the memory of the recreant Lusignan, the coward ‘King of Jerusalem;’ he that clandestinely stole away from Acre on the eve of those last days!”
“But, father, Cyprus is called the ‘horned island.’ I do not like the name!”
“I’ve heard it better named, ‘the blessed isle.’ There the hospitable knights had a refuge for pilgrims, and it still abides.”
Just then some of the sailors cried, “Olympus!” They had caught sight of that ancient mountain, the fabled home of the gods.
Miriamne adroitly used the cry to divert her father’s mind, saying:
“Let those admire Olympus who will; as for me, I prefer holy, fragrant Lebanon.”
She pointed eastward, and they saw the dim outlines of Palestine’s famous range. The knight’s attention was fixed on Lebanon, and they sailed past Cyprus quietly without further objection on his part.
Miriamne and Cornelius, as the night began to settle down, stood together by the ship’s side, feasting on glimpses of the distant shore. There were signs of a coming storm, perceived intuitively by those accustomed to the sea, by the young watchers best discerned in the anxious looks of the seamen.
“The captain says the sky and sea are preparing for a duel. You noticed how the blue changed to dark brown in the water this afternoon? He says that, and the muddy appearance of the sky, betoken a tempest.”
“How like polished silver the wings of those gulls glisten as they career!” was the maiden’s ecstatic reply.
“The wings are as they always are. They glisten now because they flash against a murky background.”
“An omen, Cornelius, for good! I’ll call the sea-birds hope’s carrier-pigeons with messages for us.”
“I would we had their wondrous power of outriding all storms. It is said they can sleep on the waves, even during a tempest.”
“I’ve the heart of a sea-gull, to-night.”
“And not a dread or pang within?”
“No, no! Oh, come, any power, to hurry us to Acre! I’d give way to the merriment of the becalmed sailors, who whistle for the wind, if I only knew the notes of their call.”
“But the old sea-captain is very grave. See how the men at his command are lashing up almost every stitch of our ship’s dress.”
“Oh, well, I’ll be grave, too, to please you; and yet I pray that Old Boreas, and all the Boreadal, come in racing hurricanes, if need be, that we may be sent gallantly into longed-for Acre!”
“A storm at sea is grand in a picture or in imagination; sometimes, though rarely, in experience. To be enjoyed it must be terrible; there’s the rub; it may come with overmastering fury.”
“Bird of ill omen! Why cry as in requiems? As for me, while you are fearing going down, I’ll be thinking of going forward!”
“And be disappointed, certainly, on your part, as I hope I may be mistaken on mine. We may not go down; we shall certainly not go forward!”
“Now, how like a wayward man! Since you can not have your way, cross me by predicting my frustration!”
“Oh, do not lay the blame on me! there are broader shoulders to bear it. Lay the blame on the Taurus and Lebanon ranges!”
“Well, this is an odd saying, surely!”
“Wait awhile, and you will find it very true, as well. We are to meet to-night, most likely, the Levanter or off-shore gale, Paul’s Euroclydon, charging down from its mountain castles. Taurus and Lebanon together form a cave of the winds!”
“And you seem glad that they are coming to battle us back?” spake the maiden, rebukingly.
“Yes, if they prolong our companionship. I can not rejoice in a speed that hastens our parting.”
The last sentence died on the chaplain’s paling lips with a sigh.
The maiden turned her eyes full on the speaker, then slowly, meditatively answered:
“I shall be sorry, too, at our parting!”
“‘Sorry!’ Ah! that’s no word for me, this time; agonized is better!” was the young missioner’s quick rejoinder.
The maiden was pained, but she mastered her feelings and pleaded:
“The parting must come some time; do not let such repinings make it harder for both. It is wiser, when confronting what one does not desire, but can not help, to court the balm of forgetfulness. So do I ever, especially now.”
“And like all attempted silencings of the heart, by cold philosophy, mocked at last by failure!”
“My philosophy can not mock me, since it accords with the stern facts which confront us. I’ll be as frank now as a sister, Cornelius. Our diverging missions part us. You go to Jerusalem to preach the cross; I, to a narrower field, at Bozrah, to attempt the rekindling of love on one lone altar of wedlock. God orders it thus, and I submit unquestioningly; for it is not for one who can scarcely touch the hem of His garment to challenge His wisdom by a murmur.”
“But time, Miriamne, may leave you free, your work being completed in the Giant City?”
“Even so. There is a gulf between us; we may love across it but not pass it, in body, in this life.”
“And I can not see the gulf?”
“I am in faith, after all, an Israelite; enlightened to be sure, but not likely to renounce the ancient beliefs. You are a Christian; nor would I wish you otherwise. Now, amid the miseries I’ve witnessed in my own home, I can not but be admonished against any attempt at fusing, by the fire of adolescent, transitory loving, two lives guided by faiths so constantly in antagonisms.”
“The faith of Jesus and Mary, truly lived, never failed to fuse hearts sincerely loving. You may call yourself what you like; in substance of faith we are in accord.”
“The chaplain reasons well; better than I can, and yet he does not convince me! I can only plead that he do not persist, and so make the parting harder. It must be; though my heart break, I must suffer the immolation. I’ve asked this question in the awful sincerity of a soul as it were at the bar of judgment: ‘What wilt Thou have me to do?’ I know the answer. I must seek to bring father and mother together.”
“And then?”
“Seek to know if the Messiah has indeed come.”
“And then?”
“If I find He has, some way tell His people Israel, as only a Jewess can, of the Light Everlasting.”
“And then?”
“Why, that’s sufficient to measure the lives of generations; but if I survive beyond that work, I have vaguely passing through my mind the coming of a millennial day when all mankind will be akin; all righteous, all just, and the tears of womankind assuaged.”
“I pray for that, but how can we hasten joy by breaking our own hearts?”
“I do not know what lies beyond; how that day of glory is to come, but this I know, the spirit of Chivalry was from God. It had, and has a deep, impressive meaning. In contact with it at the west, I felt all the time as if it were blind, but a Samson still, feeling for the pillars of some mighty wrong. I wonder if I may not be the giant’s true guide. Or, better still, may I not be, under God, the giantess to do the very work. Perhaps the world awaits a woman Samson!”
“What Miriamne says is to me all mysticism! Explain.”
“I do not know how, beyond this: I’m God’s bride by consecration, and He will keep me for His work.”
“Can’t I share it?” almost piteously, the chaplain asked.
“Truly, yes, wherever you may be, with me or not.”
“Oh, Miriamne, your passionate enthusiasm entrances me. You are an inspiration to me. I fear I shall languish aside from you.”
“I shall love you more, Cornelius, as you are more grandly, heroically self-sacrificing.”
“Any thing to win Miriamne’s constant love!”
“I shall love you, Cornelius, in a deep, holy way, only and forever. I’d be ashamed to be thus frank, but that I have a love that is as pure as the heaven of its birth. Be true to your God, to your mission; a little while and then at the City of Light, life’s brief dream over, the first, after God, I’ll ask for will be the faithful man whom my heart knows.”
“Ah, what can I do? I’m all zeal; willing to go, but the glow of your cheeks, the flash of your eyes, even in the midst of such noble converse, drag me away from my resolves. That that stimulates me, unmans me, or reminds me I am a man and a lover.”
“You ought to teach me, not I you; but you remember you told me of the belief of some in ‘penetrative virginity.’ That is the purity of Mary passing somehow into others. Oh, all I am that’s good, be in you, and more, even all that she was whom you so revere; I mean the mother of the Christ.”
“In my soul I reverently exclaim ‘amen,’ but then again, how strange the question will not down, ‘must we part?’” And so saying he flung his arm about the woman, passionately embracing her. He thought for a moment he had overcome her, but the kiss on her lips not resisted, was the end; for slowly untwining his arms and holding his hands at arm’s length, she questioned: “Will you promise me one thing?”
“Surely, yes, name it.”
“That you will think of me as a friend, sister, henceforth, and let me go my way without further misery?”
The man struggled with himself for a time; then gazed into her eyes with a most piteously appealing gaze.
She was firm.
“Yes—I promise, but say affianced, to be wed in heaven?”
“God bless you,” was her instant response. Their lips met and the debate was ended.
And so for the time they separated, persuading themselves that the whole matter between them had been finally sealed. They had all faith in their pledges mutually given, each to live apart from the other. As yet they had no just conception of the power of a rebel heart constantly uprising. Of course, they both foresaw a measure of wretchedness in the future as a consequence of their decision, but distant pain foreseen by the young, is ever dimmed by hope, and very different from present pain. These twain comforted themselves, at first, by the thought that they were martyrs, and it is always agreeable to feel ourself a martyr, especially when expecting a martyr’s reward; at least it is so until the reality of the martyrdom comes.
The sky grew darker, night shut down about the ship, the winds increased, and that sense of awful loneliness, felt on the eve of an impending night-storm at sea, came to all hearts but those of the sailors. The latter were too busy to think of aught but their duties. Then their captain had his reckonings, and assured them by his bearing that he felt confident that he could outride this storm as he had often before similar ones. Miriamne, yielding not more to the captain’s command, than to the entreaties of Woelfkin, went below to her cabin. She soon courted sleep to help her forget the war of the tempest, praying a prayer most fitting, meanwhile. The prayer was a meditation, like unto this: “He that cares for all will care for helpless me, and come what may, keep me until that last great day.” The storm strengthened, and she began to be anxious for her father, and her friend. She had said to herself the latter title should define Cornelius. But her heart forgot its fear a moment in a mysterious, merry peal of laughter; such laughter is very real, but it is never heard by human ears. We know it only in those exalted moments when we try fine introspections; when there seems to be two of us; the one observing and entering into the other. Miriamne heard that laughter when she meditated, “Cornelius is just a friend.” Presently she became more anxious for those aloft. Then a troop of imperious inner questions came to her: “Might I not stand by him, if the danger increases? Would it be wrong to show him that I am brave and loving?”
“Will he think me cowardly and stony-hearted?” Resolution was being assailed, and weakened. The questionings increased in number and imperiousness: “What if to-night we are all to perish?” Then she let imagination take the rein. She thought of a scene that might be if she and her beloved were as betrothed, soon to be wed, lovers. In the scene she fancied herself, her lover and her father all together in a last embrace, going down into the yawning waves. “Would my lover try to save me?” For the moment there were two of her again, and it was the one that awhile ago laughed so merrily, that now seemed to be saying: “Would my lover try to save me?” The one self heard the question, and by silence, without sign of rebuke, seemed to give the other self plenary indulgence. Then came a free play of her imagination. She saw herself lying in coral palaces, beneath the moaning waves of the Mediterranean, still clasping her lover and her parent. Then she thought of how her friends would receive the news of her demise. Perhaps some poet would embalm the event in deathless poems, and thousands read of the three that perished side by side. Her mind ran back to London. She imagined a memorial service at the chapel of the Palestineans and the Grand Master there saying: “Miriamne de Griffin was lost at sea; in the path of glorious duty, loyally pursued to the end.”
Then she thought of Bozrah and the old stone house, with her mother and her brothers, its sole occupants; the mother in mourning garbs, her spirit subdued, and she often tenderly saying to the fatherless, sisterless boys, “Miriamne was a good girl, a faithful daughter, a noble woman.”
But after all, these excursions were unsatisfactory to the young woman. And naturally so. When she thought of lying a corpse, with weed-winding sheets, for years, in the caves of the sea, she was repelled. Thoughts of her memorials, possibly to transpire at London and Bozrah, were not very comforting. She was too young, too free from morbidness, too deeply enamored, to court, assiduously, posthumous honors.
Then came thought of a wreck and rescue, and it was very welcome. It grew out of the possibility of the youth she loved and she alone, of all on board, being saved. She thought of drifting about for days on a raft! Would she recall her resolutions and his, or would he say to her: “Miriamne, I saved you from the deep; now you are mine entirely and forever!” Would she believe his claim paramount? Would duty’s requirements be satisfied? Then she was as two again. One voice said ‘yes,’ and the other did not concur, neither did it gainsay. She could not pronounce a verdict and there were tears flowing.
The storm grew stronger, but the laboring ship rose and fell on the billows at intervals, and she was lulled to sleep. Her last thoughts, as she passed into dreamland, were that it would have been a useless pain, both endured, if now they were to be lost; the pain of determining, as they had, to live apart. As she so thought she wished almost that they had not resolved as they had. Conscience and desire were in their ceaseless warfare. Then sleeping brought a dream of joy, the blessing that comes often to the heart that is clean. The dream was colored by events preceding.
Cornelius had reminded her the day before, as they were sailing along the coast of Cyprus, that, at Paphos, on that island, there was once a temple to Venus, the fabled goddess of love. That divinity, surrounded by multitudes paying her homage, came before the dreamer’s mind in all those ravishing splendors of person that are so attractive to human desires. Around the goddess, and very close to her, were hosts of young men and maidens, their actions as boisterous and ecstatic as those intoxicated. Outside of the throngs of youths were others older: and outside of these were others still; those far away from the goddess, seemingly bowed with years. The company of youths was constantly increased by new arrivals who crowded back those there before them.
But there was a depletion as well as augmenting of the vast, surging congregation; for anon, as if mad, some nearest the deity rushed away, both of the men and the maidens, nor did those fleeing stop until they found violent deaths by leaping from cliffs or into the sea.
Then the ancients, crowded continually back by the new arrivals, one after another, with expressions of disappointment and disgust on their features, seemed to melt away into a surrounding forest of trees that were very black and very like shadows. The dreamer in her dream betook herself to prayer that the God of mercy might change what she saw.
Then she beheld the Paphian goddess in all the splendor of her form, a perfect triumph of nature, just as depicted by bard and painter, looking out contemptuously, pitilessly, toward her former votaries, now aged and pushed aside. There came then a voice as if from above: “God is love.”
Immediately on the face of the divinity there was an expression as of terror, and she began sinking. Before the mind of the dreamer, the beautiful creature, and her retinue of nude, bold-faced attendants, with all that appertained to them and their queen went down, ingulfed in a foaming, roaring whirlpool. As they went down lightnings from above shot after them. And the dreamer looked aloft to see from whence the voice and the lightning came. As she gazed upward she saw a man of noble form, reverently bowing, as a son might bow in the presence of a mother revered and loved, before a woman of noble mien and beautiful beyond all compare.
But this one’s beauty had no similitude to that of the departed deity. As the maiden gazed she discerned that the man was the one her heart called lover, the woman the one she had enshrined as the ideal of her soul, Mary. The twain stood above her, on a plain, apparently of clouds very bright, rising in graceful curve from the earth and stretching away in measureless vistas, filled with flowered parks, silvery rivers and stately mountains. Along the rivers, amid the flowery plains and on the verdant mountains, there were numerous buildings; but these latter were inviting; not palatial, nor stately. They were homes surrounded by family groups. And the dreamer discerned true love triumphant and fruitful. She lingered in this presence, anon longing for a presentment of her self amid the scenes of pleasure, until all was suddenly dissolved by a mighty lurch of the ship that awakened her. She started from her couch and all immediately before the dream came back to her mind.
“We’re in a storm on the Mediterranean, and the captain is anxious!” Her nerves were now unstrung; a woman’s timorousness was upon her. She could hear confused noises aloft, but no voices. For a moment she questioned: “What if all but myself have been swept away?” Then she thought of herself as drifting about in a ship, sailless, helmless, alone! The thought was suffocating. The noises aloft continued, and she gave strained attention to catch the sound of a voice. There was nothing to be heard but the creaking of timbers, the dashing of waves, the shrieking of winds and vague thumpings, as if parts of the vessel were beating each other to pieces.
“I’ll not lie still in this coffin!” she exclaimed, and with a bound she made her way to the deck. As she arrived there she thought she saw dark forms, some crouching as if for shelter, and others as if engaged in a great struggle. Were these demons, or the crew in a struggle for life? She could not say. Then there came a cry from the direction of the forward part of the ship; she thought it was her father’s voice, but it was very hoarse and scarcely recognizable.
She listened again to the cry: “Ho, ho; ye Olympian demons! tear up the sea, charge now! Ha, ha; have at us!” The cry thrilled her. Again the wild voice rose above the storm:
“Bury her, my darling, if ye dare! What matter! her white soul has eternal wings!”
She was certain it was her father. She longed to rush to his side, but she doubted whether she could find him in the darkness; then, too, even in the terrors of the moment, her maiden modesty asserted itself. She remembered that she was but partly clad.
Again came that voice, wilder than before: “Ye billows, dare ye smite a knight in the face? I’ll meet your challenge, and single-handed, in your midst, fight!”
Miriamne’s heart was almost paralyzed by the thought, “The boisterousness has overcome my father. He’s contemplating leaping into the sea!”
Just then a vivid flash of lightning made every thing visible. It seemed to cut under the clouds, which, rain-charged, were running near the billow crests, and at the same time enswathed the ship from the mast tips to the partially exposed keel, in flame.
The maiden saw by that flash her father standing on the head-rail, one hand clinging to a stay rope, the other with clinched fist, as if menacing the boiling waters that leaped away from the plunging prow. His face was livid, his hair wind-tossed, his eyes glaring. With a scream she bounded toward him; her scream and appearance terrifying the sailors. It was so unexpected and they had forgotten the presence of a woman on board. They only saw a white form, with disheveled hair and with a motion light and swift as a creature on wings, passing from companion-way forward.
But the fright was but momentary. Cornelius, who had been vainly endeavoring to calm the knight, knew the form, and loud enough to be heard by all cried:
“Miriamne de Griffin!”
He was by her side in an instant.
The young woman uttered pleadingly one sentence, but it thrilled all who heard it:
“My father!”
Cornelius exultingly answered:
“Saved! See, the captain holds him and has summoned the watch!” Then he could do no less, forgetting as he did in the present surprise, all old resolves, so he drew the trembling form to his heart as closely as he could. She drew back a little, but he whispered, “Miriamne.” What else he might have said was lost, for she fluttered a little, then rested, but on the bosom of her companion.
She was a woman in peril, in fright, storm-drenched, and in love. What otherwise or less could she have done than nestle in the shelter that gave love for love and promised her all else?
“Are you not alarmed, Cornelius?”
“No.”
“How strange! You have changed places with me. In the evening you trembled when I left you, and I thought I was very brave. Now I tremble; do you not?”
“I cowered a while ago from the cross you presented me; it seemed to bring a lingering death.”
Just then the ship’s prow plunged under a mountainous billow. Miriamne clung to her support and fearfully questioned:
“Shall we be overwhelmed?”
“No; I’ve a token.”
“From the captain?”
“Not from the one who guides this ship alone.”
A flash of lightning revealed the lover’s face to Miriamne. She saw his eyes turned devoutly upward, and she understood his meaning. They had withdrawn to a shelter by the vessel’s side meanwhile. Presently the young missioner spoke again;
“Our Heavenly Father keeps vigil, I think, sometimes with especial care over this highway between the outer world and the desolate habitations of His chosen people.”
“Hark, the sailors are singing! How strange it is to sing in such perils,” spoke the maiden.
“They’re as happy now as the wave-walking petrels. The Levant has done its worst; they know this by the coming of the rain, hence they sing their ‘Lightning Song.’”
“Lightning song?” queried the maiden.
“Listen! How they explode their vocalized breaths in hissings, whizzings, followed by the prolonged crash made by stamping feet and clapping hands at the end of every stanza. That chorus is meant to imitate those heralds of the thunder, the flashing lightnings.”
“But it seems presumptuous to me. The lightning is so dreadful!”
“Not that which comes as ‘a funeral torch to Euroclydon,’ as the sailors say. Some of them call it ‘the winking and blinking of St. Elmo going to sleep.’”
“Oh, Cornelius, the storm is breaking! I see a star; yes two!” rapturously cried the maiden.
“Truly, yes; ‘Castor and Pollux,’ the ‘Twins,’ the ‘Sailor’s Delight!’ They say these stars are storm rulers and friends of the mariner. Now hear how they shout their song! They see the stars!”
Above the subsiding wind and waves, rose the words of the singers: