The Ravens and the Angels Part 16

Indeed, the temple had been a fortress, so impregnably situated and built that except from within not one stone could ever have been displaced.

This was, in fact, the saddest part of its history. The temple had been desecrated before it had been ruined, and in its ruin it was a temple still, but, alas! no longer sacred to Him in whose honour it had been reared. Many senseless or loathsome idol-images were carved on the walls, strangely contrasting, in their shapelessness or deformity, with the symmetry of every fragment of the original structure. On the broken altar in the centre stood an image of the Priestess herself. This was the earliest idol which had entered there, and with the entrance of this the ruin had begun. The Enemy who had, with subtle flatteries, introduced this idol had ever since had access to the temple, and step by step the Priestess had sunk beneath his power. He had led her into wild orgies, in which she herself had defaced the delicate tracery and torn down the walls; and when she awoke from the frenzy and wept, as sometimes she would, he silenced her tears with blows or with mocking threats of the vengeance of Him to whom the temple had been consecrated.

Sometimes, however, she woke to a moment's full consciousness of the desolation around her, and then she would wail and lament until he seemed to fear some unseen Friend would hear; and at such seasons he grew more gentle, and renewed the old persuasions and flatteries by which he had misled her at first. He would even encourage her at times, when all other methods failed, to try and collect the scattered stones, and repair the breaches in the shattered walls, and restring the broken harp; for he knew well her puny efforts must fail, and that no hands but those of the Builder could ever restore the ruin she had wrought. So, after a few faint endeavours, she, as he expected, would give up in despair, and sit cowering hopelessly on the ground, afraid of him, afraid of Him whose priestess she was, afraid of her own voice.

In such bitter hours he would again grow bold, and mock her with the memory of the past, until the spirit of indignant resistance seemed roused within her, when, once more softening his tone, he would point her with flattering words to her own image on the broken altar. He would show her the beauty still lingering in its marred and weather-worn features, and help her to decorate it with gay colours and tinsel ornaments, placing in her hands the golden censer, with the sweet incense which had been made in happier days for far other uses; and she would wave the fragrant compound before the idol image of herself. But with the pure spices which made it sweet, the Enemy had mixed a narcotic poison, and as she languidly swung the censer to and fro, her brain would become intoxicated with the voluptuous sweetness, until in a dream of vain delight, she would fall asleep, and forget all her miseries; and ever, as she slept, he would rivet faster the chain which, unperceived by her, was being bound around her, every year making her range of action narrower and her movements less free.

Wild beasts, also, made their lair in the desolate temple-chambers, prowling in and out where formerly meek and heavenly beings had ministered, and making the shattered walls echo with their loud howls and sullen roarings, where once had sounded strains of pure and joyous music.

Thus day by day the ruin spread, and the desolation and desecration became more complete.

But it happened one spring that two little singing-birds came back from the sunny clime where they had wintered, and began building their nest above the ancient altar. There was something in the spring-time which often brought tears to the eyes of the fallen Priestess, she scarcely knew why. The world seemed then like one happy temple full of thankful songs; and as, day by day, the sun repaired the ruins of winter, and the choral services of the woods took a fuller tone, on her heart there fell the mournful sense of the ruins around her, which no spring-tide could restore. Yet something of a softer feeling, a melancholy which breathed of hope, stole over her, as she watched those two happy birds building their nest, and warbling as they worked.

At last the nest was finished, the happy mother-bird sat on her eggs, and the pair had much leisure for confidential conversation.

"How desolate this place is," said the mother-bird.

"And it was once so beautiful," replied her mate.

"Why is it not rebuilt?" she asked.

"None can rebuild but the Hand that built," was the mysterious reply.

"But would not the Architect come if asked? He is so good. Was it not He who taught us to build our nest; and I am sure nothing can be better done than that."

"That is the difficulty," was the reply. "The Priestess does not know He is so good, and is afraid to utter His name. If she only called Him, He would come."

"Is He near enough?"

"He is always near."

"Are you sure?" said the mother-bird. "What can we do to help her?"

"I do not know," replied the mate, "except it is to sing His praise.

Perhaps she may listen, and understand one day how good He is."

So all the spring the little happy creatures chirped and sang, until the nestlings were fledged, and the whole family flew away.

But their songs had penetrated deep into the Priestess' heart. And one night, when the Enemy was absent, and the wild beasts prowling far away, she threw herself on the earth before her desecrated altar, and lamented and wept. But for the first time her lamentations, instead of solitary, hopeless wailings, echoing back from the ruined walls, became a broken cry for help.

"Thou, if Thou art indeed so good--if Thou art indeed near, come and help me," she sobbed; "repair my ruins, and save me."

And for the first time, as she wept and implored, she felt the weight of her fetters binding hand and foot; and, clasping her chained hands, she cried more earnestly, "Come and set me free!"

And before the day dawned a voice came softly through the silence--

"I will come."

But with the morning light how bitter was the sight which burst on her aching eyes! All, indeed, had been as desolate long before; but she had never seen it as she saw it now:--Noisome beasts, which prowled fearlessly around her; skulls and ghastly skeletons of their murdered prey strewn about; on the ground the broken, rusted harp; on her hands the heavy chain; and, worse than all, the door she had opened to the Enemy ever open, and inviting his approach!

Too surely he came. He mocked her hope until it appeared baseless as a dream; and nothing seemed real but the ruin to which he scornfully directed her gaze, and the chain which now, for the first time without concealment, he held up triumphantly, dragging her by it to every corner of the polluted and ruined temple, to show her how complete and hopeless the ruin was. Then drawing the links tighter than before, so that they galled and wounded her wrists, he led her to the image of herself, which he had adorned, and painted, and so often flattered. He dragged off the tinsel ornaments, and effaced the delusive colouring, and left her, at last, face to face with the defaced and broken idol, saying,--

"This is the wors.h.i.+p you yourself have chosen. Pursue it still. There is no other for you."

She could not bear to gaze on it; and as he went she fell prostrate on the altar steps, and hid her face on the stones. Yet still, though with but a feeble hope, she sobbed out--

"If Thou art good--if Thou canst help me, come--oh, come, and set me free!"

Weariness at last brought sleep; and in her dreams she saw a lovely vision of the temple as it once had been. White columns gleamed, sweet and solemn music sounded, and she herself ministered in white robes at the altar, before a Radiant Form, on which she could scarcely for a moment gaze.

The awaking from this dream to the desolation around her was more terrible than all she had felt before. It must have bereft her of reason, but for the echo of three cheering words which seemed to have awakened her--"_I will come._"

The next day, with the light of that radiant vision on her heart, she dragged her fettered limbs to the altar, and strove with her feeble and trembling hands to tear that marred image from the shrine. But in vain.

It was too firmly embedded there; and she could only turn her face from it, and weep, and cry for help. And before the next morning's dawn help came. In the night a heavenly visitant descended; and with human words, in a language she had not spoken for years, but every word of which melted her heart like the accents of her mother-tongue, He touched her chains, and they fell off; He spoke, and the wild beasts fled, howling; He touched her broken harp, and it was restrung and tuned; He touched the dry and choked-up channel of the sacred spring, and it welled forth pure and fresh from beneath the altar; He touched the idol on the shrine, and it fell, and in its stead shone that wondrous Radiance which she had seen in her dream; then He poured on her head the fragrant oil of consecration, and clothed her in a white vestal priestly garment, and placed the restrung harp in her hand, and rose again to heaven.

At first her joy knew no measure. She gazed on the sacred shrine, and in the glory above it at times she perceived the lineaments of the form of Him who had done all this for her. She touched her harp, and the sweet strings responded as if they knew her hand; she sang holy songs in that old, long-forgotten, yet familiar tongue, so heavenly and happy that the wild beasts would not venture near, and the morning birds were silent to listen. She bathed in the newly-opened fountain and drank of it; and as she drank, her strength and her youth came back.

For a time her joy was without cloud or measure; but as the daylight returned, the desolation of the ruined temple struck sadly on her heart. It was, indeed, a sacred place once more, and she its consecrated Priestess; but was this ruin never to be repaired?

She began to cleanse the sacred vessels and to sweep the earth of all the refuse and dry bones which had been gathered there; and then, with her renewed strength, she set herself to collect the broken fragments of the columns, and tried to piece together the shattered tracery and the delicate carvings of flower and foliage. But it was in vain. She could indeed bring the shattered fragments together, and see what they had been, but she could not join them, or replace one prostrate shaft or capital; and as she sat down mournfully before her shrine, tears dimmed her eyes, so that she could scarcely see the Radiance there, and, falling on her harp-strings, would have rusted them and marred their sweetness; whilst in the silence a voice, too long and bitterly familiar, was heard at the door. Turning round, she perceived the form of the Enemy there, whilst behind him glared fierce and hungry eyes; and in her terror the harp almost fell from her hands.

But she threw herself on her knees before the altar, pressed the harp convulsively to her heart, and cried, "Will these ruins never be repaired, these doors never closed against my enemy and Thine?" The pressure of her trembling fingers drew forth some plaintive strains, like the wind on aeolian strings; but low and plaintive as they were, the Enemy disappeared, and the wild beasts fled howling from them. Then she began to perceive the power of her harp, and drew from it a song of joy and triumph; and as she still gazed on the radiant shrine a veil seemed to be withdrawn from it; and she perceived that it was a window, so that the light streamed through it, not from it. Wondering she gazed, until, penetrating further and further through the light, she saw in the depths of heaven a Temple like her own, only perfect, glorious beyond comparison, and full--full of wors.h.i.+ppers robed and singing like herself, and full of that wondrous radiance which streamed from the heavenly form she had seen. She laid her harp upon the shrine, and to her surprise the strings began to quiver of their own accord! An electric current united them to the harps in the heavenly temple, and they vibrated in exquisite harmonies the echo of the harmonies above.

And with the heavenly strains came a voice divine and human, mighty as the sound of many waters, yet soft and near as a whisper in her ear:--

"Here all ruins are repaired: the Enemy cannot enter here, but here thou shalt dwell for ever."

And softly floated down these other words:--

"For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of G.o.d, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."

_The Clock-Bell and the Alarm-Bell._

"We have lived a long time here together," said the ponderous Alarm-bell to the little brisk bell in the clock-tower of the Orphan-house, "and a useful life yours has been! I have watched carefully, and never once during these hundred years that we have stood side by side have you failed to tell the hours and half-hours by day and night. I have plenty of leisure for thought; but it would be beyond my powers to calculate how often your voice has been heard in the service of man. I observe, too, how much attention is paid you by all, and with how much well-deserved respect you are regarded. Nothing is done in house or field without your sanction. At your early call this little busy hive begins to stir in the morning. At your mid-day invitation the boys gather from the fields where they have been working, and the girls from the laundries and work-rooms, to the noonday meal. At your evening summons the doors are closed at night, and not a sound is heard afterwards in house or field until your steady voice wakens our little world again. Yours is, indeed, a useful, honoured life; but as for me, who can tell what I was made for? Since I was placed here first, a hundred years ago, lifted up with enormous trouble and labour, and safely roofed in my belfry, not a creature has heard my voice, or been the better for my existence. I might as well have been lying still a lump of unsmelted ore in the depths of the mines. I feel so stiff and rusty, that I sometimes question if they could move me if they tried.

For you, daily, hourly usefulness! for me, a hundred years of silence!

And who can say how many more? I do not complain; but our destinies are very different. It must be wonderfully happy to be so useful, and to be looked on by every one with such attention and regard. Of course, I could not expect to be as serviceable as you--I, with my c.u.mbrous, ponderous ma.s.s of heavy metal, and you, hung so lightly, so graceful in your shape, so brisk in all your movements, so cheery and pleasant in your voice. But I should like to be of some use once in my life, even if it were only to know for what purpose I was made, and set on high."

"Wait!" said the Clock-bell; "there must be some work for you. It would have taken a hundred such as I am to make one like you. Think of the trouble there must have been in getting a mould large enough for you,--of the labour it was to raise you so high. You must be set there for some end, although we do not yet know what. Wait!" said the Clock-bell cheerily, and struck nine.

Then there was a sound from within the house, as of many childish voices singing an evening hymn. A few minutes after, all was still, and ten o'clock echoed over the silent fields to the sleeping city near at hand.

But that night there was an unusual stir in the Orphan-house. Feet were heard rus.h.i.+ng hither and thither; and from every window poured forth the cry, "Fire! fire!--the Orphan-house is on fire!" And, through the darkness, lurid smoke began to rise from an outhouse attached to the main building. Then came another cry:--"The Alarm-bell!--ring the Alarm-bell!" And feet were heard on the steps of the belfry-tower; and hands began pulling vigorously at the ropes, and in a moment, for the first time, the deep tones of the long-silent bell pealed heavily on the midnight air. They awoke the city. In a short time fire-engines were on the way. Streams of water played on the flames, and quenched them; and the children and the Orphan-house were saved.

The next morning all was silent again, as if nothing had happened; the outhouse lay in ashes, but the Orphan-house was uninjured. At eight the Clock-bell called the children to their morning prayer; whilst the Alarm-bell had relapsed into silence, perhaps for another century.

But the Clock-bell said, "You have done in an hour the service of a century. Had it not been for you, I should never have struck another hour."