The sands are golden and the rocks appear
Crested with silver; and the breezes play
Snatches of song they hummed when far away,
And then are hush’d as if from sudden fear.”
Flowers bloom luxuriantly, as though the white, blue-veined feet of the goddess had but lately passed by,—there is a suggestive harmony in the subdued low whispering of the trees, accompanied by the gentle murmur of the waves, and “Hieros Kiphos,” or the Sacred Grove, still bends its thick old boughs caressingly towards the greensward as though to remind the dreaming earth of the bygone glories here buried deep in its silent bosom. The poor fragment of the ruined “Temple of Venus” once gorgeous with the gold and precious stones, silks and embroideries, and other offerings brought from luxury-loving Tyre, stands in its desolation among the quiet woods, and no sound of rejoicing comes forth from its broken wall to stir the heated air. Yet there is music not far off,—the sweet and solemn music of an organ chant, accompanying a chorus of mild and mellow voices singing the “Agnus Dei.” Here in this part of the country, the native inhabitants are divided in their notions of religious worship,—they talk Greek, albeit modern Greek, with impurities which were unknown to the sonorous ancient tongue, and they are heroes no more, as the heroic Byron has told us in his superb poesy, but simply slaves. They but dimly comprehend Christianity,—the joyous paganism of the past is not yet extinct, and the Virgin Mother of Christ is here adored as “Aphroditissa.” Perhaps in dirty Famagousta they may be more orthodox,—but among these sea-fronting hills where the sound of the “Agnus Dei” solemnly rises and falls in soft surges of harmony, it is still the old home of the Queen of Beauty, and still the birthplace of Adonis, son of a Cyprian King. Commercial England is now the possessor of this bower of sweet fancies,—this little corner of the world haunted by a thousand poetic memories,—and in these prosy days but few pilgrimages are made to a shrine that was once the glory of a glorious age. To the native Cypriotes themselves the gods have simply changed their names and become a little sadder and less playful, that is all,—and to make up for the lost “Temple of Venus” there is, hidden deep among the foliage, a small monastic retreat with a Cross on its long low roof,—a place where a few poor monks work and pray,—good men whose virtues are chiefly known to the sick, destitute and needy. They call themselves simply “The Brotherhood,” and there are only ten of them in all, including the youngest, who joined their confraternity quite recently. They are very poor,—they wear rough white garments and go barefooted, and their food is of the simplest; but they do a vast amount of good in their unassuming way, and when any of their neighbours are in trouble, such afflicted ones at once climb the little eminence where Venus was worshipped with such pomp in ancient days, and make direct for the plain unadorned habitation devoted to the service of One who was “a Man of Sorrows and acquainted with grief.” There they never fail to find consolation and practical aid,—even their persistent prayers to “Aphroditissa” are condoned with a broad and tender patience by these men who honestly strive to broaden and not confine the road that leads to heaven. Thus Paphos is sacred still,—with the glamour of old creeds and the wider glory of the new,—yet though it is an interesting enough nook of the earth, it is seldom that travellers elect to go thither either to admire or explore. Therefore the sight of a travelling-carriage, a tumble-down sort of vehicle, yet one of the best to be obtained thereabouts, making its way slowly up the ascent, with people in modern fashionable dress sitting therein, was a rare and wonderful spectacle to the ragged Cypriote youth of both sexes, who either stood by the roadway, pushing their tangled locks from their dark eyes and staring at it, or else ran swiftly alongside its wheels to beg for coppers from its occupants. There were four of these,—two ladies and two gentlemen,—Sir Frederick Vaughan and Lady Vaughan (née Idina Chester); the fair and famous authoress, Irene Vassilius, and a distinguished-looking handsome man of about forty or thereabouts, the Duke of Strathlea, a friend of the Vaughans, who had entertained them royally during the previous autumn at his grand old historic house in Scotland. By a mere chance during the season, he had made the acquaintance of Madame Vassilius, with whom he had fallen suddenly, deeply and ardently in love. She, however, was the same unresponsive far-gazing dreamy sibyl as ever, and though not entirely indifferent to the gentle reverential homage paid to her by this chivalrous and honourable gentleman, she could not make up her mind to give him any decided encouragement. He appeared to make no progress with her whatever,—and of course his discouragement increased his ardour. He devised every sort of plan he could think of for obtaining as much of her society as possible,—and finally, he had entreated the Vaughans to persuade her to join them in a trip to the Mediterranean in his yacht. At first she had refused,—then, with a sudden change of humour, she had consented to go, provided the Island of Cyprus were one of the places to be visited. Strathlea eagerly caught at and agreed to this suggestion,—the journey had been undertaken, and had so far proved most enjoyable. Now they had reached the spot Irene most wished to see,—it was to please her that they were making the present excursion to the “Temple of Venus,” or rather, to the small and obscure monastery among the hills which she had expressed a strong desire to visit,—and Strathlea, looking wistfully at her fair thoughtful face, wondered whether after all these pleasant days passed together between sparkling sea and radiant sky, she had any kinder thoughts of him,—whether she would always be so quiet, so impassive, so indifferent to the love of a true man’s heart?
The carriage went slowly,—the view widened with every upward yard of the way,—and they were all silent, gazing at the glittering expanse of blue ocean below them.
“How very warm it is!” said Lady Vaughan at last breaking the dumb spell, and twirling her sunshade round and round to disperse a cloud of gnats and small flies—“Fred, you look absolutely broiled! You are so dreadfully sunburnt!”
“Am I?” and Sir Frederick smiled blandly,—he was as much in love with his pretty frivolous wife as it is becoming for a man to be, and all her remarks were received by him with the utmost docility—“Well, I daresay I am. Yachting doesn’t improve the transparent delicacy of a man’s complexion. Strathlea is too dark to show it much,—but I was always a florid sort of fellow. You’ve no lack of colour yourself, Idina.”
“Oh, I’m sure I look a fright!” responded her ladyship vivaciously and with a slight touch of petulance—“Irene is the only one who appears to keep cool. I believe her aspect would be positively frosty with the thermometer marking 100 in the shade!”
Irene, who was gazing abstractedly out to sea, turned slowly and lifted her drooping lace parasol slightly higher from her face. She was pale,—and her deep-set gray eyes were liquid as though unshed tears filled them.