A Modern Meribah: a novel

Prologue

' CHAP. A I. SANCTUARY 4 II. DAWN . ■ ' • 2I III. A NOVICE ..-•■• 24 IV. THE MONK, PAUL LANGTON AND THE PROFESSOR 43 V. THE PROFESSOR . 53 VI. THE VISION OF THE ROSE 6o VII. ANGELA . VIII. SALVATOR IX. PAUL LANGTON . ■ • • ■ " X. DRAMA '°8 XL TERESA IXI 121 XII. RITA • • • ' ' XIII. A DRAMA OF LIFE '33 XIV. AN EVERYDAY ALLEGORY . ■ H& XV. THE MONK AND THE PROFESSOR . Consents CHAP. PACK XVI. THE MONK AND HIS DISCIPLE 168 XVII. RITA MORILLON ..... 182 XVIII. SALVATOR . ..... 191 XIX. INTERLUDE ..... 202 XX. DESTINY ...... 204 XXI. INTERLUDE ..... 210

Epilogue

A Modern Meribah

PROLOGUE.

. . . . 'Through such souls alone God, stooping, shows sufficient of His Light For us i' the dark to rise by.' Browning. This is a Vision of the Unseen World ! Lo ! there were Four Angels, and they were the Angels of the Four Winds of Heaven ! In their midst stood a man of a wise, noble and beautiful appearance. And the Angel of the North Wind brought unto him a Crown and placed it upon his head. And the Angel of the South Wind brought unto him a Sword ! Then came the Angel of the West Wind and irought unto him a Book, and the Angel of the Last Wind brought unto him a Cloven Tongue of «*; ($ Cttlooern (jneriBoB Then said the man, — • What do these things mean ? ' The First Angel answered, — ' The Crown is an Emblem of thy Power and of thy Victory.' And the Second Angel answered, — 1 The Sword is an Emblem of God's Justice and of thy Ministry.' And the Third Angel answered, — ' The Book is an Emblem of thy Truth and of thy Wisdom.' Then came forward the Fourth Angel, who had given him the Cloven Tongue of Fire, and said, — ' This is an Emblem Of thy Most Beautiful Soul !

See that thou Keep it Pure and Holy Unto the Lord ! God requires much of thy life Earthly Love Is not for thee ! Yet shall a Greater Love Be meted out To thee, And in that Love Thou shalt find An all-sufficient Heaven. Power Is from henceforth bestowed Upon thee rofogue fa Which shall draw the Souls of others From Earthly Unto Heavenly Things In all their Perfectness ! And a New Name shalt Thou have : Thou shalt be called SALVATOR ! ' The face of the man shone as if with the Glory of the Presence of God, and he went forth from amidst the Angels of the Four Quarters of the World to do God's Bidding.

Chapter I Sanctuary

' A man with thc " glimmer os God " upon every feature.' About ten years ago a curious incident took place in the Monastery of S. Michael and the Scales. The brethren were called upon to receive into their midst a man who, in a fit of jealous mad ness, had committed murder. The monastery lay on the outskirts of a Pyre nean forest. The rocky portion of the mountain on which it had its foundation also formed part of the sub stance of the massive and irregular structure itself. Rising loftily from amidst a dark background of trees were two squarely-built towers, that were the most prominent landmarks in that weird region of solitude and silence. As you approached the monastery, the high, en circling wall, that was unmistakably ecclesiastical, presented a severe and chilling aspect. J^qnefuftrg fa This was a necessary protection, however, against the atmospherical depressions common enough in that mountainous district, as well as being an ancient and monastical conventionalism.

In bygone days there were, according to history, ' three great factors in the land, which were the ultimate means of civilisation,' viz., ' The force of the Sword, the force of the Priest hood and the force of Gold.' From age to age these forces, it must be con fessed, have maintained an equalised and influential right throughout the world, with, of course, a natural and an intelligent advancement of the various grades of law and custom, though certainly amongst the superstitious ignorances of the Pyre nean peasantry, as also amongst the deliberate and indolent laxity of the higher and more privileged classes, the force of the Priesthood was one that might have made itself felt to much greater ad vantage both in past and present ages, in spite of the successive interference of political parties with the monastic system, and the ignorant intolerance of the people themselves.

The head of this Pyrenean monastery was one Salvator by name, and in that name, to a greater portion of the world, lay both hidden and revealed power. He was the founder and also the leader of a small band of men whose united and noble in- «*; $ (tttooern (WeriBslB fluence was already recognised by many, and whose practical efforts had done much for the benefit of their fellow-creatures. Salvator himself had renounced much when he thus started, after methods of his own experience, the Monastic Order of S. Michael. It was yet in its earliest but progressive days. Over the gateway of the monastery he had caused to be erected a massive bronze statue of the symbolic guardian of the Order of the ' Souls of the Just.' The Sword was in one hand and the Scales of Divine Justice in the other, while the Dragon lay in a conquered attitude at his feet.

The monk was the last of one of the sixteen old-established families of grandees known and feared in the land for their power, both civil and ecclesiastical, and for their wealth. His mother had been an Englishwoman of ex ceptional intellect, and the noblest traits of his character were chiefly inherited from her. An only son, he had been brought up to enjoy the enviable position of being able to do exactly as he chose. During his boyhood he had shown signs of extraordinary physical and mental abilities, and this fact had brought him, at an early period, into a special pre-eminence. He was eventually sent to the University of Madrid, where he still maintained the same well-deserved distinction. Jlancfuarg fa On reaching his twentieth year he became liable for the obligatory term of military service, but was permitted, at his own desire, to ' buy himself off.' On leaving the university this position of absolute liberty assumed its less enviable side, though, for a time, he was apparently content to lead the easy and ordinary existence of a young man of enormous wealth and far-famed popularity.

This feeling of contentment, however, did not last long, and the English blood in his veins rebelled against the customary indolence of Spanish temperament ; and as the really grand, strong disposition and character slowly and almost unconsciously developed itself, there came to him prolonged intervals of the deepest thought and meditation, which gave birth to nobler resolves and higher aspirations, all of which resulted in his becoming, in the face of many difficulties, a regular and ardent student at one of the outlying monas teries, famed for its occult sciences, its ancient literature, and the culture of its members. Here it was that Salvator began to study the mysteries of the doctrine of Hope, founded upon Reason, and otherwise called Theosophy, and, under the rigid discipline of a certain ecclesiastical system, he learnt many things that were of great use to him in after years.

After the early death of his parents, the social «••; $ (Yttoocrn (nterifiaB world saw little or nothing of him, and for a time this proceeding was regarded as only natural. A change commenced, however, when he announced his intention of giving up much of what his previous and social life had been, and exchanging it for one of a more permanently serious description. But he was curiously reticent on the subject of his real intentions tor the future, and caused much resentment by quitting the city without having divulged his plans to a single person. Total mystery thus hovered for a considerable time around his movements, and when he returned to Madrid, after a strange and unaccountable absence of ten or twelve years, he was, according to almost universal custom, well-nigh forgotten. But his powerful individuality gradually began to make itself manifest to all those who were fortunate enough to cross his path.

His strength of will and character had seemingly developed in that Land of Mysterious Silence from whence he had returned, and a marvellous in fluence had been bestowed upon his whole person ality with a double force of expression and ability. The old feeling of resentment amongst those who had known him from his earliest years gave way to one of open admiration. His name, some times in awe, sometimes in mere curiosity, was upon every lip, and, without any apparent wish, or Jjancfunrg fa conscious effort on his part, he found himself a man of some importance, and one of whom a great deal was expected. Rising, therefore, to the required occasion, Sal vator was now no longer silent as to his plans and ambitions, which were undoubtedly those of a man deeply in earnest. It was then that he commenced to realise in a more definite manner the dreams and the purposes of his youth, and he gathered about him a faithful little circle of men.

These men were intellectual and enterprising, eager to unite their work and vigorous influence with his, and to share his desire of doing some lasting good in the world. In this small but earnest circle lay the founda tion of true and zealous work, and thus was established the Monastery of S. Michael, of which Salvator was the moving spirit and supreme head. Salvator's doctrines may be described as theo sophical in their nature. This creed or system of Divine and Mystical Development, and of direct intercourse with Higher Powers, encircled all religions in its unceasing search for Truth, a word synonymous with that of Theo sophy itself, and identified everything, both animate and inanimate, with an Universal God. His ' Regula Monachorum,' with regard to this belief, was a severe one. Mysticism, therefore, with its trinity of spiritual ■o-; @ (Utooern (ntenBaB communication, intellectual force, and practical wisdom, was the ruling principle of the monastery, and was a doctrine daily enunciated with effect by the brethren and their leader.

This knowledge of Salvator's, coupled with his marvellous mind, seemingly capable not merely of grasping great and profound truths, but also of expounding those truths with ease and simplicity, gave rise to much discussion, favourable and un favourable. Amongst his colleagues there was a little natural envy, not unmingled with a savouring of scornful contempt, and ecclesiastical distrust as to the actual good he was aiming at. Salvator, however, knew the task he had under taken when he had established the Monastic and Theosophic Order of S. Michael, realising to the fullest extent all the responsibilities he had thus incurred. During the early days of his work, opposition met him on every side. His reticence was ob jected to, and his doctrines of Mysticism cavilled at, though the eventual outcome of those doctrines was a widely-spread code of Free-Masonic and charitable laws.

The rigour of his early training, and ten years of the evident and self-imposed discipline he had undergone, now came promptly to his aid, and this methodical organisation of work Jlancfuarg fa bound the brethren together by rules of a thoroughly practical system as well as by those of a more ascetic nature. Salvator was at this time a man of about forty, as powerful in stature as he was in character, with a kingly look about him and with the face of one who had been permitted to lift the ' veil ' from some of the Mysteries of God and gaze beyond into the Light, a Light that had left visible traces upon its surface, reveal ing a grand nobility of intellect and a simple purity of soul. Can we describe him further? I think not. A man with a ' glimmer of God ' upon every feature must suffice.

Late one evening he was disturbed by the un ceremonious entrance of a stranger, who looked travel -worn and agitated. He had evidently made his way in with some difficulty, regardless of the protests of two or three of the brethren. ' This is no time for rules or regulations,' he said hastily ; ' I must see you alone. I — I want your help.' Salvator regarded him in silence, and appar ently satisfied with what he saw, he quickly gave the desired order that no one was to be admitted. Once alone, the young man flung himself upon his knees and covered his face with his hands. «••; @ (TTlooern (HtertBoB There was nothing dramatic about the action ; it was one of great and overpowering misery, that brought a deeper expression of thought into Salvator's eyes. ' What is it you have done ? ' he asked very briefly. ' You know most things, I have been told,' was the reply. ' Perhaps you know who I am.' Taking his arm, the monk raised him from his kneeling position, and the two men stood and gazed at each other in silence.

The power of Salvator's eye was as keen as it was benevolent, and it was not everyone who cared to meet his quiet glance of mystic pene tration. Sinner though he may have been, this stranger had at least the courage to do so, and the look on his face evidently satisfied Salvator. It showed him to what extent sin had blackened the man's soul, and everything that was made manifest by that look appealed to all his natural sympathies. He made few mistakes ; though, when he did, the truths he learnt from so doing amply suf ficed for the momentary failure of what can only be termed a God-like and a God-given power. ' You are an Englishman — Paul Langton, I think,' said the monk, gravely, 'and you have fa come to tell me that you have killed the Count de Valera. I am not surprised.' Langton gave a curious breath of relief at this most unexpected avowal of what was in fact the absolute truth.

He could find no words to answer him. ' But why have you come to me ? ' added Salvator, giving him another of his keen and soul-penetrating glances. ' How can I give you any help ? ' ' You can if you will only exert your power,' cried Paul, in a low voice of earnest entreaty. ' It is true I killed De Valera in a fit of pas sionate jealousy, and Heaven only knows what is to become of me, unless you give me some thing more than pity.' 4 You have my sincerest pity,' replied Sal vator. ' Then show it in some practical form,' cried Paul again, ' and receive me into your brother hood.' Diplomatist though he undoubtedly was, Sal vator could not conceal the astonishment he felt at this proposal. ' I do not think you have any idea of what you are suggesting as a practical form of pity,' he said, very distinctly and firmly. ' Ah ! indeed I have,' replied Langton, with a deeper earnestness of manner, and his pleading was «•? gt (mooern (mcnBnfi that of a man who was in the very depths of misery — and one who had lost all consciousness of thc impression he was making, either favourable or otherwise. ' There were no witnesses to the horrible deed that all the Powers of Darkness urged me to commit.

De Valera was supposed to be in Paris, though, in reality, he was living disguised as a gipsy, for certain reasons best known to himself, in a gambling hell in the city. . . . Only a few people, however, knew of this fact, I being amongst the number. . . . We met one night ... he must have been drinking or losing money heavily, for his manners and speech were both offensive. He began to talk of Senorita Teresa in a way that excited my anger and disgust. ... I had already suffered much on her account, and I had known for some time that De Valera was my rival, and one who would, in all probability, win the day. ... I had not learnt even then to disbelieve a woman's word, or doubt a woman's love and loyalty, and when he spoke with all the taunting insinuations of a man who had nothing good in his heart with regard to Teresa or to any other woman, I lost my self-control . . . that mighty force which keeps us men. ...

In a single moment the deed was done. ... I stabbed him . . . he had no time to utter a cry for help . it would have been of no avail, for we were in a lonely spot, and the hour was late. . . . Then > JSancfuatE fa with all the strength of the mere beast I seemed to have become, I managed to carry the body and throw it into the deserted river. . . . Oh ! the awful horror of the sound of the splash. ... I put my hands to my ears and fled from the place, but I was not able to silence the voices of a thou sand devils . . . and oh ! the horrible darkness. . . . I forgot who I was, and knew not where I was going. ... I stumbled on here and there, and my eyes could see nothing except the ghastly, staring face of the man whom I had murdered. . . . In some strange way I found my way back to my rooms in the city. ...

I lay like a log for some hours, caring little what became of me. . . . Gradu ally my manhood returned, and with it a sense of having lost something . . . something that is seldom prized until it is lost. ... As you see, it is impossible for me to return to Madrid or to meet Sefiorita Teresa again. . . . The crime I have committed lies now and for ever between me and any woman I love, or may love in the future. My love for Teresa has almost turned to hatred, because she alone has driven me to a deed of desperation and madness,' and he gripped Salva tor's arm, and spoke in low, passionate tones. . . . ' May few men know what it is to love a woman who is capable of playing with that love as if it were a bauble, and laughs at the demon of jealousy within one as if it were a thing merely to sport -♦<; ($■ rfflobern (fflerifiaB with and not to fear. . . .

You say yourself you are not surprised at my having killed De Valera ! What makes you say that? How is it you know anything about him or myself or Seiiorita Teresa ? ' Salvator smiled rather sadly at the astonished eagerness with which the young man spoke . . . it was a smile that was comprehensive of many things. 1 1 happen to know a great deal that takes place in Madrid,' he replied quietly. ' It is a city of the deepest interest to me, and where I spend much of my time, so, perhaps, it is not strange that I should have heard many things concerning three somewhat notable people in it. The rules of our Order permit us to mix with our fellow-creatures when occasion demands it. Seiiorita Teresa is a beautiful but unscrupulous woman, who has numerous lovers, and is a heartless coquette. . . .

Paul Langton is an honest-hearted but hot-headed Englishman, who has lost most of his money and many of his so-called friends. As to De Valera, he is, or rather was, a scheming profligate.' ' You are right,' said Langton, eagerly, 'And De Valera is dead. . . . Teresa will marry one of her many admirers. . . . And Paul Langton ? What is to become of him ? I am tired of the uselessness of life and the awful other side of everything. ... I ask your help and advice ! ' ' You shall have both,' said Salvator, listening Jlancfuarg fa very quietly to all he said, ' if you are honest hearted enough to know the meaning and the value of penitence.' ' Under many circumstances a man is apt to lose his self-control,' was the evasive reply. 'Under no circumstances should he lose it,' replied the monk, with stern emphasis. 'Everything was bitterly and cruelly against me,' pleaded Langton ; ' and as for the value of penitence . . . ' ' When did this happen ? ' asked Salvator. ' A week ago.

I have suffered tortures since then, and every hour has seemed a year. ... I have suffered as only men can,' he added, with a first attempt at any kind of self-justification, ' who are not originally intended to lead bad lives.' ' I understand,' and there was the truest and deepest sympathy in Salvator's voice and manner. ' At last I remembered having been told of the brethren of the Monastery of S. Michael — of their mystic creed, and of their wonderful, self-denying courage and goodness. The description I received was too graphic a one for me to easily forget, though at the time I little thought that I should ever stand in need of their mercy. ... In my awful state of desperation I determined to lay the whole facts of my case before the head of this community. . . . Your name, Salvator, is held in awe and reverence amongst all classes on account «•■; ($.

(Woocm (HUnfinB of your marvellous powers — your nobility of con duct and your sense of justice. . . .' 'Also of my intolerance of vice which is more or less deliberate,' said the monk, with a quiet ness that was certainly awe-inspiring, and conveyed a requisite though merciful rebuke to his companion. It was felt and accepted in silence and humility. ' I have found my way here only after great difficulty, danger and much fatigue,' he added after a slight pause. ' You know everything now, and must judge me accordingly. You must often have listened to stranger confessions.' None, perhaps, that appealed so strongly to all the help and guidance he could give. ' For God's sake help me ! ' cried Paul once again. ' By receiving you into the monastery ? ' inquired Salvator, in his composed manner that now and then seemed to lack even the smallest interest in his suppliant. ' Such a life would contrast oddly with the gay and careless one you have so lately been leading.' ' It is one I have no wish to return to,' said Paul, and the monk continued, — ' The code of rules for a novice is not so strict, I admit, as those of other orders, but the restraint and the necessary self-denial are greater than you can have any idea of.' JJcrncfuorg fa ' What is then to become of me ? ' Paul asked despairingly. ' I cannot return to Madrid.' ' Have you no English home ? ' asked Salvator. ' Not now. ...

I was banished from it. My relatives regard me with disfavour. . . . My parents died when I was a boy, and I was left to the tender mercies of a puritanical guardian, who has long ago disowned me. He blurted out these statements in short sentences and without a trace of any feeling, though the following moment he added, sincerely enough to satisfy his listener, — ' I am sick to death of the life I have been leading. It has been a mere speculation, and all went well while the money lasted. . . . When that was gone, the smash came and all went wrong. These last days have taught me more than I have ever learnt in my whole life, and that has been from first to last a turbulent one. You see before you now a desperate, miserable and ruined man. Take pity on me, for a while, at least, and save me from myself.

God knows you will never have cause to regret your goodness to me and your mercy.' ' You are pleading now on the mere impulse of the moment,' said Salvator. ' To become a member of the Order of S. Michael requires much thought — much study and much deliberation. I will, however, give you sanctuary. Spare me your thanks. It is the chief aim of every religious ■y <*•; (ft (ntooern smcriBstB order to help those who are in trouble. You have asked me to do a responsible and most unusual thing, but I am going to do it — I am going to stretch out to you the hand of fellowship, because I happen to know more about you than you have ever been aware of, and because I believe you worthy of help.' Langton was silent, and the monk continued, — ' Have you thought of what your friends will say to your curious and unaccountable dis appearance ? ' There was the sound of a short, unnatural laugh, not pleasant to hear. ' I have few friends left, now that my money has gone.

It will be a case of " out of sight, out of mind." Teresa will marry, and I shall be very soon forgotten,' he added, with a deep-rooted bitter ness. ' As for De Valera, no one will look for him in the river. There are many also who would kiss the hand of him who stabbed him.' Salvator made no reply, but summoning one of the brethren, gave Paul into his charge. He was then silently conducted into a small, cell like room, and there left to pass the remainder of the night in a weird and sleepless bewilderment. It was sanctuary.

Chapter II Dawn

'The glory thereof was great.' The electric gleams of moonlight were growing dim under the influence of an approaching dawn. There was an absolute silence in the air ! The complete stillness as of a suspended creation made itself felt as it very often does during that weird hour which divides the night from the day. Every leaf of the forest trees ceased their per petual rustling, every vibrating force of the natural world was quieted. It seemed as if God Himself was holding back from all around the very breath of life until the quivering opal lights gradually emerged from the darker masses of clouds, and the whole heavens became imbued with them and glorified. Salvator often watched this transformation of the world of night into that of day. ... It was «*; (ft stttooern (TstertBafi as a rule an hour of profound and inexpressible significance, being one of those subtle agencies through which Nature appeals in all the mute eloquence of her beauty and her grandeur to the soul of man.

To the silent and deeply contemplative watcher it brought the divinest of all realisations — that of the supremacy and the nearness of one great spiritual force which seemed to visibly summon sleeping creation to re-awake ... to move ... to feel once again. ... It was, in fact, the hour that lay, so to speak, in the very hollow of God's hand to suit His own divine purposes. And when this reign of mystery and of silence held a supreme sway over the mountains and the forests, and as the darkness emerged more definitely into the light, there came from amidst the silence the sound of a voice, which said, — ' Salvator, I am sent hither unto thee with a message from the Most High and Holy One ! Listen, therefore, and let the light of understanding come unto thee. See that thou doest all that now lies within thy power. ...

It is for thee, and thee alone, to save the struggling and suffering soul of this earthly wanderer ... to free it from its prison-house of sin and sorrow ... to lift it out of the mire and the dust, and to draw it nearer unto the God whose messenger I am nearer to the Master whom thou servest.' ©awn fa And Salvator looked up and saw the form of an angel with a drawn sword in his hand, and the angel gave him the sword, saying, — ' This is the emblem of God's infinite mercy and justice, also of thy ministry. See, therefore, that thou fight for the soul of the man who has now come unto thee claiming thy help and guidance.' Salvator, taking the sword, bowed low his head and said simply and reverently, — 'I obey.' And when he lifted his eyes again, he saw no longer the form of the angel, but instead the full splendour of another day that had dawned upon the world of God, and the glory thereof was great.

Chapter III

A NOVICE Miserere mci Dcus, secundum magnam miscricordiam tuam.' Harmonious vibrations on the air, an indistinct melody of voices . . . the resounding chords of an organ and the chanting of some solemn, rolling anthem, aroused Paul Langton the following morning at an early hour. The sensation that he was in some strange and unreal world took hold of him, and a considerable time elapsed before he could recollect where he actually was. The night had passed in an exhausting restlessness. He had been too excited to sleep for any de finite while, now and again falling into a brief unconsciousness, though only to feel as if some heavy and unsoothing hand had been laid across his eyes. The cold and strange surroundings were bright ened by the first streaks of an early dawn, and (& sj^optce fa the warmer gleams of sunlight that came gently slanting in through the narrow window. . . .