FAILURE.
Not the example and influence of Raphael alone tended to ripen good
resolutions in the mind of the captive; much resulted from the effect
of the long hours of solitude in which reflection was forced upon him.
To one of Horace's lively temper and active disposition, meditation had
appeared to be of all occupations the most tedious and unprofitable, as
long as study or amusement could fill up each waking hour.
It was thus that little wisdom had been gained while a good deal of
knowledge had been acquired, and that even the lessons of experience
had made but small impression upon Horace Cleveland. He had had his
day-dreams, it is true, and his schemes of ambition, but neither had
been calmly reviewed in the sober light of truth. Now, having nothing
else to do, Horace perforce must think; and the result of reflection
was that the proud lad, who, exalted by conscious superiority over
his companions, had feared comparison with no one, now felt mortified
and even disgusted himself. He recalled circumstances that had once
elated him; he remembered the trophies won by intellectual or physical
efforts; all their glitter and glory seemed gone.
When the youth recollected how utterly he had ignored "the only object
in life worthy of an immortal soul," he felt little cause to exult at
having won the prize at the examination, or the honors at foot-ball or
the boat race. These things were good in themselves, but what were they
compared to the crown of life towards which the solders of the cross
were pressing?
Horace thought of the heroes of old to emulate whom had been
his ambition: he compared Cæsar and Alexander with Marino the
galley-slave—they, sweeping like a pestilence over the earth; he,
employing his dying breath in leading his fellow-sufferer to God.
What were the different results of their labors? The warriors had, as
it were, sent up a blazing rocket to startle the world, falling in a
shower of dazzling sparks that glittered awhile, and then expired. The
galley-slave had been the instrument in God's hand of lighting a star
that should shine in the firmament of bliss when sun and moon should be
seen no more. What are all human trophies compared to the trophy of a
rescued soul, what all earthly glory compared to the glory which cometh
from God?
"Raphael has been given a difficult, a perilous post of duty," thought
Horace; "was none allotted to me? He tries to influence for good the
lowest and worst his kind; have I had no power to influence, and if I
had, what use did I ever make of it? Was not I also a soldier of the
cross?"
The youth resolved that, if ever permitted to see his mother and
his country, he would pursue a less selfish course than that which
he had hitherto followed. His heart grew heavy as he thought of
the possibility—at that moment it almost presented itself as a
probability—that he would never be granted an opportunity of redeeming
the past. Very bitter was it to him now to recall how his petulance and
pride had distressed his mother, to know that he had added weight to
the widow's cross, instead of helping her to support it.
"You have planted many a thorn in my pillow!" Were not these almost the
last words that he had heard from her loving lips? Had he not seen her
weep for the undutifulness of her only son? If a brother's blood was
once said to cry from the earth, would not a mother's tears do so also?
Horace arose from his seat, restless and miserable; he must find
something, do something to drive him distracting thoughts. Raphael left
his guitar leaning against the rock. Horace took it up, and swept his
hand over the strings; he could produce sound but not music. No melody
came from the strong but objectless touch. He put down the instrument
again; it only brought back again the theme of his painful reflections.
Had he not struck life's chords with the same careless hand, and had
they not given forth jarring discord?
Unable to play, the prisoner attempted to sing in order to while away
the wearisome hours. He tried to wake the mountain echoes with some of
the bold, spirited lays which he had sung with his comrades at school.
Then a plaintive strain came to his remembrance; Horace had often heard
his mother sing it, and he associated her voice with each word. It
seemed so well suited to his own sad estate, his fallen hopes, once
so bright and gladsome, that giving utterance to his feelings in the
poet's appropriate lines, he sang Moore's well-known lay:
"All that's bright must fade,
The brightest still the fleetest.
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest!
Stars that shine and fall.
The flower that drops in springing.
These, alas, are types of all
To which our hearts are clinging!
"Who would seek or prize
Delights that end in aching?
Who would trust to ties
That every hour are breaking?
Better far to be
In utter darkness lying,
Than be blest with light, and see
That light for ever flying!"
"Beautiful, but not true!" exclaimed a voice beside him.
Horace started and turned round; he had been so much absorbed in the
train of ideas awakened by the words, that he had not heard Raphael
ascending the rocks, nor been aware that the mournful song had reached
any ear but his own.
"Sing it again," said the improvisatore.
Horace felt some reluctance to comply with the request from one who
was himself a master of the musical art; he would rather have listened
than sung. At Raphael's desire, however, he repeated the strain, the
improvisatore listening intently, and keeping time to the music with
his hand.
"And now let me hear you," said Horace; "and let us have something more
cheerful."
Raphael took up his guitar, and struck a few chords full of harmony
and tone in a different and far richer key than that in which Horace
had been singing. He afterwards remained for several minutes silent,
gathering and arranging his thoughts.
"I will be your echo," he then said with a smile; "but I will give back
your notes in more joyous strain, less meet for the poet, but more for
the Christian;" and catching up the air, Raphael sang in Italian as
follows:—
"Earth's bright hopes must fade
Not those which grace hath given;
Joys were fleeting made,
But not the joys of heaven!
Stars that shine above,
And flowers that cannot wither,
These are types of peace and love
That shall abide for ever!
"Who that seeks the skies
Would mourn earth's pleasures blighted.
Weep o'er broken ties
Soon to be re-united!
Blest e'en awhile to be
In darkness and in sorrow,
Assured we soon the dawn shall see
Of an eternal morrow!"
Raphael did not lay down his guitar. The last thought seemed to link
itself on to another, and changing the mournful air to a burst of
triumphant melody which appeared to well up fresh from a deep spring
of joy within him, the Rossignol poured forth in his richest tones the
following:
SONG OF HOPE.
"Now in the east Hope's trembling light
Proclaims a brighter dawning;
Though woe endureth for a night,
Joy cometh in the morning!
"For many weary ages past
Hath sin's dark night prevailing
A gloom o'er all the nations cast,
Whence rose the sounds of wailing!
The idol-gods have many a shrine
Where, bound in chains of error,
Myriads, shut out from light divine,
Crouch down in shame and terror!
But in the cast Hope's rosy light
Proclaims a brighter dawning;
Though woe endureth for a night,
Joy cometh in the morning!
"Like Cynthia from her silvery car,
The Church could darkness lighten;
Each high example, like a star,
Shone forth to cheer and lighten.
But I shall need not star nor moon
In that clear day before me,
The sun of righteousness shall soon
Burst forth in cloudless glory!
Yes, in the east, Hope's kindling light
Proclaims a brighter dawning;
Though woe endureth for a night,
Joy cometh in the morning."
"Hark!" exclaimed Horace suddenly. "The robbers are in the wood!"
The music had scarcely died on the lips of Raphael. His eyes were
fixed upon the sky as if already beholding in its blue depths the
signs of the coming triumph. He turned them now towards the forest,
and something of the brightness of hope lingered in them as he said,
leaning over the rocky parapet to gaze:
"They bring no prisoners, I see no spoil. They have been disappointed
again of their prey."
The gang of robbers wore a very different air from what they had
done in the morning, as slowly and sullenly, one by one, they swung
themselves up to the platform in front of the cave. On Enrico's face
alone, Horace fancied that he could detect an expression of relief, as
his eye met that of his brother.
"They never came, though we watched for them from sunrise till sunset!"
cried one of the band. "I take it they've put off their journey till
the morrow. Some woman's whim, I'll be bound, for we heard there's a
signora in the party."
"We'll make them pay dear for our lost time," growled Matteo with an
oath, as with the back of his rough hand he wiped his heated brow.
"I say," exclaimed Beppo, with a malignant scowl at Raphael, "we'll
never have luck with such a preaching, praying heretic amongst us.
What's the use of our burning candles to the Madonna, or vowing what
best we can spare to the saints, if we've him praying hard against us?"
"The saints and the blessed Virgin Mary wouldn't listen to him," cried
Marco, crossing himself as he mentioned the Madonna's name.
"I take it that his prayers go higher and straighter than ours go,
Marco," said Beppo; "and they can do something down here below, or
Enrico would not have hung back as he did to-day."
"I did not hang back," fiercely retorted Enrico.
"You'll prove but a hollow reed at the pinch," said Beppo, who looked
quite ready to defend his opinions with something harder than words.
"Did not that psalm singing brother of yours do all that he could to
prevent you from going about your business this very day?"
"He did not," stammered forth Enrico, avoiding meeting the gaze of
Raphael.
"Did you not?" cried Beppo, turning to the improvisatore, upon whom
every eye was now bent.
Horace was almost startled at the short affirmative "si," which was the
only reply of Raphael.
"You did—did you?" exclaimed Matteo, striding up to the speaker, while
his hand fumbled in his leathern belt.
"And you prayed that our quarry might escape us!" cried Beppo.
"You did—did you?" repeated Matteo, more savagely than before.
Raphael met his fierce gaze with unblenching eye, and again briefly
answered "si."
Horace held his breath, as one who sees a wild beast crouching for his
deadly spring on a defenseless victim; he expected every moment to
see Raphael laid dead at his feet. When Matteo contented himself with
growling out a curse and a threat, and with the other robbers sauntered
into the cave, the youth could hardly believe that the improvisatore
bore not indeed a charmed life, and that some invisible circle of
protection had been drawn around him by a hand unseen.
"How could you dare to brave so his fury?" exclaimed Horace to
Rossignol. "I thought that he would have struck you to the earth."
"He that speaks for the truth must hold to the truth," replied Raphael,
as, taking up his instrument, he followed the banditti into their dark
retreat.