Hypatia by Charles Kingsley (phonics story books txt) 📖

secretary, prostrating himself upon the floor, and kissing his master’s feet in an agony of fear….

‘Remember, that if you touch one Jew you touch all! Remember the bonds! remember the—the—your own most august reputation, in short.’

‘Get up, brute, and don’t grovel there, but tell me what you mean, like a human being. If old Miriam is once dead, her bonds die with her, don’t they?’

‘Alas, my lord, you do not know the customs of that accursed folk. They have a damnable practice of treating every member of their nation as a brother, and helping each freely and faithfully without reward; whereby they are enabled to plunder all the rest of the world, and thrive themselves, from the least to the greatest. Don’t fancy that your bonds are in Miriam’s hands. They have been transferred months ago. Your real creditors may be in Carthage, or Rome, or Byzantium, and they will attack you from thence; while all that you would find if you seized the old witch’s property, would be papers, useless to you, belonging to Jews all over the empire, who would rise as one man in defence of their money. I assure you, it is a net without a bound. If you touch one you touch all …. And besides, my diligence, expecting some such command, has already taken the liberty of making inquiries as to Miriam’s place of abode; but it appears, I am sorry to say, utterly unknown to any of your Excellency’s servants.’

‘You lie!’ said Orestes …. ‘I would much sooner believe that you have been warning the hag to keep out of the way.’

Orestes had spoken, for that once in his life, the exact truth.

The secretary, who had his own private dealings with Miriam, felt every particular atom of his skin shudder at those words; and had be had hair on his head, it would certainly have betrayed him by standing visibly on end. But as he was, luckily for him, close shaven, his turban remained in its proper place, as he meekly replied-

‘Alas! a faithful servant can feel no keener woe than the causeless suspicion of that sun before whose rays he daily prostrates his—’

‘Confound your periphrases! Do you know where she is?’

‘No!’ cried the wretched secretary, driven to the lie direct at last; and confirmed the negation with such a string of oaths, that Orestes stopped his volubility with a kick, borrowed of him, under threat of torture, a thousand gold pieces as largess to the soldiery, and ended by concentrating the stationaries round his own palace, for the double purpose of protecting himself in case of a riot, and of increasing the chances of the said riot, by leaving the distant quarters of the city without police.

‘If Cyril would but make a fool of himself, now that he is in the full-blown pride of victory—the rascal!—about that Ammonius, or about Hypatia, or anything else, and give me a real handle against him! After all, truth works better than lying now and then. Oh, that I could poison him! But one can’t bribe those ecclesiastics; and as for the dagger, one could not hire a man to be torn in pieces by monks. No; I must just sit still, and see what Fortune’s dice may turn up. Well, your pedants like Aristides or Epaminondas— thank Heaven, the race of them has died out long ago!—might call this no very creditable piece of provincial legislation; but after all, it is about as good as any now going, or likely to be going till the world’s end; and one can’t be expected to strike out a new path. I shall stick to the wisdom of my predecessors, and—oh, that Cyril may make a fool of himself to-night!’

And Cyril did make a fool of himself that night, for the first and last time in his life; and suffers for it, as wise men are wont to do when they err, to this very day and hour: but how much Orestes gained by his foe’s false move cannot be decided till the end of this story; perhaps not even then.

CHAPTER XXIV: LOST LAMBS

And Philammon?

For a long while he stood in the street outside the theatre, too much maddened to determine on any course of action; and, ere he had recovered his self-possession, the crowd began to pour from every outlet, and filling the street, swept him away in its stream.

Then, as he heard his sister’s name, in every tone of pity, contempt, and horror, mingle with their angry exclamations, he awoke from his dream, and, bursting through the mob, made straight for Pelagia’s house.

It was fast closed; and his repeated knocks at the gate brought only, after long waiting, a surly negro face to a little wicket.

He asked eagerly and instinctively for Pelagia; of course she had not yet returned. For Wulf he was not within. And then he took his station close to the gateway, while his heart beat loud with hope and dread.

At last the Goths appeared, forcing their way through the mob in a close column. There were no litters with them. Where, then, were Pelagia and her girls? Where, too, was the hated figure of the Amal? and Wulf, and Smid? The men came on, led by Goderic and Agilmund, with folded arms, knitted brows, downcast eyes: a stern disgust, not unmingled with shame, on every countenance, told Philammon afresh of his sister’s infamy.

Goderic passed him close, and Philammon summoned up courage to ask for Wulf …. Pelagia he had not courage to name.

‘Out, Greek hound! we have seen enough of your accursed race to-day! What? are you trying to follow us in?’ And the young man’s sword flashed from its sheath so swiftly, that Philammon had but just time enough to spring back into the street, and wait there, in an agony of disappointment and anxiety, as the gates slid together again, and the house was as silent as before.

For a miserable hour he waited, while the mob thickened instead of flowing away, and the scattered groups of chatterers began to form themselves into masses, and parade the streets with shouts of ‘Down with the heathen!’ ‘Down with the idolaters!’ ‘Vengeance on all blaspheming harlots!’

At last the steady tramp of legionaries, and in the midst of the glittering lines of armed men—oh, joy!—a string of litters!

He sprang forward, and called Pelagia’s name again and again. Once he fancied he heard an answer: but the soldiers thrust him back.

‘She is safe here, young fool, and has seen and been seen quite enough to-day already. Back!’

‘Let me speak to her!’

‘That is her business. Ours is now to see her home safe.’

‘Let me go in with you, I beseech!’

‘If you want to go in, knock for yourself when we are gone. If you have any business in the house, they will open to you, I suppose. Out, you interfering puppy!’

And a blow of the spear-butt in his chest sent him rolling back into the middle of the street, while the soldiers, having delivered up their charge, returned with the same stolid indifference. In vain Philammon, returning, knocked at the gate. Curses and threats from the negro were all the answer which he received; and at last, wearied into desperation, he wandered away, up one street and down another, struggling in vain to form some plan of action for himself, until the sun was set.

Wearily he went homewards at last. Once the thought of Miriam crossed his mind. It was a disgusting alternative to ask help of her, the very author of his sister’s shame: but yet she at least could obtain for him a sight of Pelagia; she had promised as much. But then—the condition which she had appended to her help! To see his sister, and yet to leave her as she was!—Horrible contradiction! But could he not employ Miriam for his own ends?— outwit her?—deceive her?—for it came to that. The temptation was intense: but it lasted only a moment. Could he defile so pure a cause by falsehood? And hurrying past the Jewess’s door, hardly daring to look at it, lest the temptation should return, he darted upstairs to his own little chamber, hastily flung open the door, and stopped short in astonishment.

A woman, covered from head to foot in a large dark veil, stood in the centre of the chamber.

‘Who are you? This is no place for you!’ cried he, after a minute’s pause. She replied only by a shudder and a sob …. He caught sight, beneath the folds of the veil, of a too well-known saffron shawl, and springing upon her like the lion on the lamb, clasped to his bosom his sister.

The veil fell from her beautiful forehead. She gazed into his eyes one moment with a look of terrified inquiry, and saw nothing there but love …. And clinging heart to heart, brother and sister mingled holy kisses, and strained nearer and nearer still, as if to satisfy their last lingering doubts of each other’s kin.

Many a minute passed in silent joy …. Philammon dare not speak; he dare not ask her what brought her thither—dare not wake her to recollect the frightful present by questions of the past, of his long forgotten parents, their home, her history …. And, after all, was it not enough for him that he held her at last?—her, there by her own will—the lost lamb returned to him?—and their tears mingled as their cheeks were pressed together.

At last she spoke.

‘I ought to have known you,—I believe I did know you from the first day! When they mentioned your likeness to me, my heart leapt up within me; and a voice whispered …. but I would not hear it! I was ashamed—ashamed to acknowledge my brother, for whom I had sought and longed for years …. ashamed to think that I had a brother …. Ah, God! and ought I not to be ashamed?’

And she broke from him again, and threw herself on the floor.

‘Trample upon me; curse me!—anything but part me from him!’

Philammon had not the heart to answer her; but he made an involuntary gesture of sorrowful dissent.

‘No! Call me what I am!—what he called me just now!—but do not take me away! Strike me, as he struck me!—anything but parting!’

‘Struck you? The curse of God be on him!’

‘Ah, do not curse him!—not him! It was not a blow, indeed!—only a push—a touch—and it was my fault—all mine. I angered him—I upbraided him;—I was mad …. Oh, why did he deceive me? Why did he let me dance?—command me to dance?’

‘Command you?’

‘He said that we must not break our words. He would not hear me, when I told him that we could deny having promised. I said that promises made over the wine need never be kept. Who ever heard of keeping them? And Orestes was drunk, too. But he said that I might teach a Goth to be what I liked, except a liar …. Was not that a strange speech? .... And Wulf bade him be strong, and blest him for it.’

‘He was right,’ sobbed Philammon.

‘Then I thought he would love me for obeying him, though I loathed it!—Oh, God, how I loathed it! .... But how could I fancy that he did not like my doing it? Who ever heard of any one doing of their own will what they