Hypatia — or New Foes with an Old Face, Charles Kingsley [thriller novels to read TXT] 📗

‘Servant to that man? What care I for him or his honours? Why do you tantalise me thus? I have no wish on earth but to see my sister!’

‘You will be far more likely to see her if you belong to the court of a great officer—perhaps more than an officer—than if you remain a penniless monk. Not that I believe you. Your only wish on earth, eh? Do you not care, then, ever to see the fair Hypatia again?’

‘I? Why should I not see her? Am I not her pupil?’

‘She will not have pupils much longer, my child. If you wish to hear her wisdom—and much good may it do you—you must go for it henceforth somewhat nearer to Orestes’s palace than the lecture-room is. Ah! you start. Have I found you an argument now? No—ask no questions. I explain nothing to monks. But take these letters; to-morrow morning at the third hour go to Orestes’s palace, and ask for his secretary, Ethan the Chaldee. Say boldly that you bring important news of state; and then follow your star: it is a fairer one than you fancy. Go! obey me, or you see no sister.’

Philammon felt himself trapped; but, after all, what might not this strange woman do for him? It seemed, if not his only path, still his nearest path to Pelagia; and in the meanwhile he was in the hag’s power, and he must submit to his fate; so he took the letters and went out.

‘And so you think that you are going to have her?’ chuckled Miriam to herself, when Philammon went out. ‘To make a penitent of her, eh?—a nun, or a she-hermit; to set her to appease your God by crawling on all fours among the mummies for twenty years, with a chain round her neck and a clog at her ankle, fancying herself all the while the bride of the Nazarene? And you think that old Miriam is going to give her up to you for that? No, no, sir monk! Better she were dead!.... Follow your dainty bait!—follow it, as the donkey does the grass which his driver offers him, always an inch from his nose.... You in my power!—and Orestes in my power!.... I must negotiate that new loan to-morrow, I suppose.... I shall never be paid. The dog will ruin me, after all! How much is it, now? Let me see.’.... And she began fumbling in her escritoire, over bonds and notes of hand. ‘I shall never be paid: but power!—to have power! To see those heathen slaves and Christian hounds plotting and vapouring, and fancying themselves the masters of the world, and never dreaming that we are pulling the strings, and that they are our puppets!—we, the children of the promises—we, The Nation—we, the seed of Abraham! Poor fools! I could almost pity them, as I think of their faces when Messiah comes, and they find out who were the true lords of the world, after all!....He must be the Emperor of the South, though, that Orestes; he must, though I have to lend him Raphael’s jewels to make him so. For he must marry the Greek woman. He shall. She hates him, of course.... So much the deeper revenge for me. And she loves that monk. I saw it in her eyes there in the garden. So much the better for me, too. He will dangle willingly enough at Orestes’s heels for the sake of being near her—poor fool! We will make him secretary, or chamberlain. He has wit enough for it, they say, or for anything. So Orestes and he shall be the two jaws of my pincers, to squeeze what I want out of that Greek Jezebel.. And then, then for the black agate!’

Was the end of her speech a bathos? Perhaps not; for as she spoke the last word, she drew from her bosom, where it hung round her neck by a chain, a broken talisman, exactly similar to the one which she coveted so fiercely, and looked at it long and lovingly—kissed it—wept over it—spoke to it—fondled it in her arms as a mother would a child—murmured over it snatches of lullabies; and her grim, withered features grew softer, purer, grander; and rose ennobled, for a moment, to their long-lost might-have-been, to that personal ideal which every soul brings with it into the world, which shines, dim and potential, in the face of every sleeping babe, before it has been scarred, and distorted, and encrusted in the long tragedy of life. Sorceress she was, pander and slave-dealer, steeped to the lips in falsehood, ferocity, and avarice; yet that paltry stone brought home to her some thought, true, spiritual, impalpable, unmarketable, before which all her treasures and all her ambition were as worthless in her own eyes as they were in the eyes of the angels of God.

But little did Miriam think that at the same moment a brawny, clownish monk was standing in Cyril’s private chamber, and, indulged with the special honour of a cup of good wine in the patriarch’s very presence, was telling to him and Arsenius the following history—

‘So I, finding that the Jews had chartered this pirate-ship, went to the master thereof, and finding favour in his eyes, hired myself to row therein, being sure, from what I had overheard from the Jews, that she was destined to bring the news to Alexandria as quickly as possible. Therefore, fulfilling the work which his Holiness had entrusted to my incapacity, I embarked, and rowed continually among the rest; and being unskilled in such labour, received many curses and stripes in the cause of the Church—the which I trust are laid to my account hereafter. Moreover, Satan entered into me, desiring to slay me, and almost tore me asunder, so that I vomited much, and loathed all manner of meat. Nevertheless, I rowed on valiantly, being such as I am, vomiting continually, till the heathens were moved with wonder, and forbore to beat me, giving me strong liquors in pity; wherefore I rowed all the more valiantly day and night, trusting that by my unworthiness the cause of the Catholic Church might be in some slight wise assisted.’

‘And so it is,’ quoth Cyril. ‘Why do you not sit down, man?’

‘Pardon me,’ quoth the monk, with a piteous gesture; ‘of sitting, as of all carnal pleasure, cometh satiety at the last.’

‘And now’ said Cyril, ‘what reward am I to give you for your good service?’

‘It is reward enough to know that I have done good service. Nevertheless if the holy patriarch be so inclined without reason, there is an ancient Christian, my mother according to the flesh—’

‘Come to me to-morrow, and she shall be well seen to. And mind—look to it, if I make you not a deacon of the city when I promote Peter.’

The monk kissed his superior’s hand and withdrew. Cyril turned to Arsenius, betrayed for once into geniality by his delight, and smiting his thigh—

‘We have beaten the heathen for once, eh?’ And then, in the usual artificial tone of an ecclesiastic—‘And what would my father recommend in furtherance of the advantage so mercifully thrown into our hand?’

Arsenius was silent.

‘I,’ went on Cyril, ‘should be inclined to announce the news this very night, in my sermon.’

Arsenius shook his head.

‘Why not? why not?’ asked Cyril impatiently.

‘Better to keep it secret till others tell it. Reserved knowledge is always reserved strength; and if the man, as I hope he does not, intends evil to the Church, let him commit himself before you use your knowledge