AN ARMENIAN WEDDING
"'Till death us part'--oh, words to be
Our best for love the deathless."
--_E. B. Browning._
At Biridjik, in the house of Hohannes Meneshian, and in the very room
where John Grayson had caught his first glimpse of Armenian domestic
life, two women sat at work. Mariam, looking old and careworn, was
behind her wheel as usual; Shushan was bending over her beautiful
embroidery. The room looked much barer than in the olden days, most of
the curtains and rugs had disappeared, and there was no sign of any
cooking in progress. This mattered the less however since grapes were in
season now, and a basket of great, luscious clusters lay in the corner,
destined to form, with rye bread, the evening meal of the family.
The villagers with whom Shushan had been staying had brought her home
the day before. She was no longer safe with them. A Kourd, who had
shown them a little friendliness, and to whom they had given backsheesh,
had called to one of their men over the wall of the vineyard where he
was working, "Take care! you have got a lily our sheikh wants to
gather." So they acted on the hint. Shushan was once more with her
kindred, and in the place of her birth. But little joy had she, or they,
in the meeting.
Her presence was a danger to her friends. She was hunted from place to
place, like a partridge the dogs start from its cover that it may fall
by the gun of the sportsman. Happy partridge, that would fall at once,
gasp its little life out on the grass, and rest! No such rest for the
Moslem's victim!
More than once indeed, across the sad texture of Shushan's life, there
had shot a gleam of gold. She had been a happy girl in Urfa, when she
went with her cousins to the Mission school, and learned beautiful
things from the dear foreign ladies there. Afterwards in Biridjik, for a
little while, she had been still happier, though with a different kind
of happiness. The brave, strong, splendid English youth had come into
her life and transfigured it. He had saved her from the savage dogs; he
had done a still more wonderful thing than that. He had come to her help
in her direst need, choosing her, claiming her for his own. Her heart
throbbed yet with the fearful rapture of that day, the wonder-day of
her short life--the day of her betrothal.
But now Yon Effendi was gone from her. All her joy seemed to have melted
from her like the snow on the mountains, like the dreams of the night.
It had left instead a yearning, painful in its sweetness, an "aching,
unsatisfied longing," for him who was its core and its centre. Yon
Effendi was gone; but Mehmed Ibrahim, whom she had never seen, yet
regarded with unutterable dread and loathing, seemed by his agents and
instruments to be ever present, all around her, pressing her in on every
side. She feared death far less than she feared him; but she was not yet
quite sixteen, and since she had known Yon Effendi, she would have liked
to live.
The well-taught pupil of the Mission school thought more clearly and
felt more keenly than her simple-hearted mother, who had never had her
chances; but the more capacious vessel only held in larger measure the
bitter wine of pain. She had once or twice to turn her head aside, lest
her tears should fall upon the work she was doing and spoil it.
"Mother," she said at last, "I think, if God willed it, it were better I
should die. There seems no place in the world for me."
"Child, it is wrong to speak so," Mariam answered. "We must live in the
world as long as God pleases. To go out of it by our own act were a
sin."
"Except it were to avoid a sin," said Shushan gravely, raising her sad
eyes to her mother's.
Both were silent for a moment. Then the mother spoke again.
"Daughter, before you went away you used to tell me the good words you
learned in the school. I liked them, and they often came back to me when
I was anxious and frightened. You remember how sore afraid I was that
day the zaptiehs came for the taxes? Thy father had Gabriel's tax and
Hagop's all right, but he thought Kevork's would be paid in Aintab, and
never thought of getting ready to pay it here. But they demanded it all
the same, and I thought--'Now surely they will beat or torture him or
your grandfather, because we have it not.' But I remembered that word
you told me from the letter of the holy St. Peter, 'Casting all your
care upon Him, for He careth for you.' So I said, 'Jesus, help us!' with
all my heart,--and He did. For though they found and took away all our
rice, they never saw the barley, or the bulghour, so we have that to
live upon. And they went away content."
Shushan put a few stitches in her embroidery before she answered. She
was working, with crimson silk, the deep red heart of a rose. Richly the
colours glowed beneath the skilful touch of her slight brown fingers,
but out of her own life all the colour seemed to have gone. And now it
was the strong that failed, and leaned upon the weaker for support; it
was the better taught that turned wistfully to the simpler for words of
cheer.
"Oh, my mother," she said, "my heart is weary, my heart is sad!
Sometimes even it asks of me, and gets no answer: 'Does He care for us
Armenians?"
Does He care for Armenians? Not only from the trampled land herself has
that cry gone up in the ears of the Lord of Sabaoth,--from many a quiet
home in countries far away, wherever the tale of her woes has come, it
has echoed and re-echoed. "Strong spirits have wrestled over it with
God" in the silent watches of the night, even until the breaking of the
day; "tender spirits have borne it as a terrible and undefined secret
anguish." Is there any answer, _yet_, except this one, "What I do thou
knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter"?
Mariam had no wise words of comfort to give her child; but she had the
mother's secret of love, which so often is better than wisdom. She
folded Shushan tenderly in her arms and kissed her. Then the girl
recovered a little.
"I ought not to talk so to you, mother," she said. "We know He does
care."
"Amaan! God is good," Mariam said. "He cares for every one; even, I
suppose, for the Turks."
There was a silence during which Mariam resumed her spinning, and
Shushan her embroidery.
"I am not easy about the grandfather," Mariam said presently. "I wish we
could get him to eat a little more. Since the fright about thee, and the
loss of his flocks and herds, he has scarcely been his own man. And that
last visit of the zaptiehs did him no good--What is that noise in the
court? Some one has come."
The whirr of the spinning wheel ceased, and Shushan dropped her work,
growing very pale. Neither thought of going forth to see, for neither
expected any good thing to come to them. Shushan would have hidden
herself, but there did not seem time; so they sat in silence, listening
to a confused Babel of sounds outside. But presently both cried at
once,--
"The voice of Kevork, my son."
"The voice of Yon Effendi, my betrothed."
"Cover yourself, my daughter," said Mariam hastily. And Shushan veiled
her face, and sat still where she was, while the mother went forth to
welcome her son, whom she had not seen for more than eighteen months.
That night, for once, the voice of joy and thankfulness was heard in the
house of Hohannes Meneshian.
Jack had taken Kevork into council over the communication made to him by
the wife of Thomassian. The two young men had agreed that no time was to
be lost in returning to Biridjik and bringing Shushan back with them to
Urfa, even if they had to disguise her for the purpose as a boy.
Thinking the knowledge of their plan might imperil the Vartonians, they
did not tell them of it. They told no one in fact except Miss Celandine,
whose promise to receive and shelter Shushan was readily given.
Jack went to Muggurditch Thomassian, and asked him to lend him a sum of
money. To this the merchant made no objection, for he felt certain the
young Englishman would eventually have funds at his command. Jack gave
him a written acknowledgment and promised him good interest, requesting
him at the same time not to mention the matter to the Vartonians, who
might be hurt at his not applying to them in the first instance. There
was indeed little danger of his doing so, for the cousins, at the time,
were not upon friendly terms. The Vartonians, like other Armenians,
rich and poor, had contributed liberally to the needs of the unfortunate
fugitives from Rhoumkali, even taking some of them into their house.
They were indignant with their wealthy kinsman, who had given a handsome
subscription to the cause, but seemed to be recouping himself by heavy
charges upon the drugs and medicines supplied to the sufferers; and the
younger members of the family expressed very freely their opinion of his
conduct.
With part of Thomassian's money Jack bought Kourdish dresses for himself
and for Kevork, and also a smaller one, fit for a boy of about fourteen.
He had still the good horses upon which he and Gabriel had ridden to
Urfa. After a sharp conflict with himself, he decided not to wait for
the Consul's communication. Shushan could be still his betrothed; as
such he and Kevork could bring her to Urfa, and place her under Miss
Celandine's protection. The marriage could take place afterwards.
However, to his great delight, just as they were starting, the necessary
papers arrived. Miss Celandine's influence had obtained them, and she
also procured for the travellers a zaptieh to guard them on their
journey. They took an affectionate farewell of the Vartonians, whom they
told simply that they were returning to Biridjik, and of Gabriel, now
an ardent and delighted pupil in the Missionary School.
Their journey to Biridjik was without adventure. On the way they agreed
together that they would not say much to their friends about the
massacres. But the precaution was a needless one, for already they knew
enough.
As it was September and very hot, they travelled by night, arriving in
Biridjik on the morning of the second day. The remaining hours were
given up to talk, to rest, and to making arrangements for the future.
In spite of all the dangers that surrounded them, Kevork could not be
unhappy as he sat with his mother's hand in his, his father looking on
with interest, and his brother Hagop with adoring admiration, while he
told of his wonderful eighteen months in the Missionary School at
Aintab. And if the name of Elmas Stepanian slipped sometimes into his
story, was there anything wrong in that? Did he not see her every Sunday
in church, and did he not hear of her splendid answering at the
examinations, and of the prizes she gained? Had not his teacher told him
and the other youths about it, that they might be stirred to emulation
by the grand achievements of the girls?
For Jack there were even sweeter joys that day. It is true that he was
only permitted to see Shushan veiled, and in the company of her mother,
or of some of the other women. Still, he could whisper a few words of
cheer about the home they hoped to have by-and-by in free, happy
England. And when she murmured doubtfully, "But my people, Yon Effendi?"
he said the whole household must follow them to England. There Kevork
could find a career, the younger boys an education, and all of them
peace and safety, and bread enough and to spare. It is true the
difficulties in the way of these arrangements would have seemed to him,
in his sober moments, almost insurmountable; but in certain moods of
mind we take small account of difficulties.
There was much to be done that day in arranging for the wedding, which
all agreed should take place the next morning. According to custom, Jack
ought to have provided the dress of the bride; but this, under the
circumstances, he could not do. Avedis however came to him privately,
bringing a beautiful robe of blue satin with long sleeves, trimmed with
gold embroidery. "You know," he said, "I was to have married Alà
Krikorian. Sometimes I think it was well she died, for she has escaped
the woes that are coming on our people. But I had the bridal robe all
ready; and I shall never marry any one else. Take it as my gift to you;
give it yourself to Shushan; and God bless you both."
His own best garments Jack laid ready, with care, for the morning.
Rising very early, he put on his ordinary clothes, and went forth to
meet Der Garabed, who came by appointment to bless the bridegroom's
apparel. This ceremony accomplished, Jack arrayed himself for the
wedding, and, with Hohannes and the other men of the family, went to the
church. He sat in his own place on the men's side, Shushan coming in
afterwards with her mother and other female relatives, and sitting among
the women. The service proceeded as usual, until, at the appointed time,
Jack, with a beating heart, stepped out of his place, and came and stood
before the altar. Shushan also was led to the spot, and stood there
beside him. Neither dared to look up.
Der Garabed read from the Holy Book of the first bridal in Paradise; and
again, from its later pages, of how Christian wives and husbands ought
to love and cherish one another. Then, as they turned and stood face to
face, each for one instant looked into the other's eyes, and read there
the secret of the love that is more strong than death. They had to clasp
hands, and to bow their heads until each forehead touched the other.
Old Hohannes took a cross from the hand of the priest, and, his own
trembling with many emotions, laid it on the two bowed heads. The priest
recited a few prayers, and put the solemn questions that the ritual of
every Christian Church prescribes. Then, raising their bowed heads they
stood together, with the right, before God and man, to stand together
until death should part them. The psalm was sung, and the benediction
given; and John Grayson led forth his Lily--all his at last. There was
deep, solemn gladness in his heart; he felt as if, in the expressive
Scottish phrase, "his weird was won."
Peril might be behind them, before them, all around them, yet this one
hour must be given to joy. It is true he had no mother to "crown him in
the day of his espousals," no father to breathe the blessing his filial
heart missed so sorely. Still he believed in blessing, Divine and human.
His faith was strong, his hope was high. He thought it would be no hard
task to bring his bride in safety to his English home--and hers. Once
there, they could both work together for the deliverance of her
people--"_our_ people" was what John Grayson thought, with a throb of
joy, of sympathy, and--is it strange to say it?--of _pride_.