Between morning and noon Mary was sitting on a low cane seat under the
sycamores which yesterday had shaded Katharina's brief young happiness;
by her side was her governess Eudoxia, under whose superintendence she
was writing out the Ten Commandments from a Greek catechism.
The teacher had been lulled to sleep by the increasing heat and the
pervading scent of flowers, and her pupil had ceased to write. Her eyes,
red with tears, were fixed on the shells with which the path was strewn,
and she was using her long ruler, at first to stir them about, and then
to write the words: "Paula," and "Paula, Mary's darling," in large
capital letters. Now and again a butterfly, following the motion of the
rod, brought a smile to her pretty little face from which the dark spirit
"Trouble" had not wholly succeeded in banishing gladness. Still, her
heart was heavy. Everything around her, in the garden and in the house,
was still; for her grandfather's state had become seriously worse at
sunrise, and every sound must be hushed. Mary was thinking of the poor
sufferer: what pain he had to bear, and how the parting from Paula would
grieve him, when Katharina came towards her down the path.
The young girl did little credit to-day to her nickname of "the water-
wagtail;" her little feet shuffled through the shelly gravel, her head
hung wearily, and when one of the myriad insects, that were busy in the
morning sunshine, came within her reach she beat it away angrily with her
fan. As she came up to Mary she greeted her with the usual "All
hail!" but the child only nodded in response, and half turning her back
went on with her inscription.
Katharina, however, paid no heed to this cool reception, but said in
sympathetic tones:
"Your poor grandfather is not so well, I hear?" Mary shrugged her
shoulders.
"They say he is very dangerously ill. I saw Philippus himself."
"Indeed?" said Mary without looking up, and she went on writing.
"Orion is with him," Katharina went on. "And Paula is really going
away?"
The child nodded dumbly, and her eyes again filled with tears.
Katharina now observed how sad the little girl was looking, and that she
intentionally refused to answer her. At any other time she would not
have troubled herself about this, but to-day this taciturnity provoked
her, nay it really worried her; she stood straight in front of Mary, who
was still indefatigably busy with the ruler, and said loudly and with
some irritation:
"I have fallen into disgrace with you, it would seem, since yesterday.
Every one to his liking; but I will not put up with such bad manners, I
can tell you!"
The last words were spoken loud enough to wake Eudoxia, who heard them,
and drawing herself up with dignity she said severely:
"Is that the way to behave to a kind and welcome visitor, Mary?"
"I do not see one," retorted the child with a determined pout.
"But I do," cried the governess. "You are behaving like a little
barbarian, not like a little girl who has been taught Greek manners.
Katharina is no longer a child, though she is still often kind enough to
play with you. Go to her at once and beg her pardon for being so rude."
"I!" exclaimed Mary, and her tone conveyed the most positive refusal to
obey this behest. She sprang to her feet, and with flashing eyes, she
cried: "We are not Greeks, neither she nor I, and I can tell you once
for all that she is not my kind and welcome visitor, nor my friend any
more! We have nothing, nothing whatever to do with each other any more!"
"Are you gone mad?" cried Eudoxia, and her long face assumed a
threatening expression, while she rose from her easy-chair in spite of
the increasing heat, intending to capture her pupil and compel her to
apologize; but Mary was more nimble than the middle-aged damsel and fled
down the alley towards the river, as nimble as a gazelle.
Eudoxia began to run after her; but the heat was soon too much for her,
and when she stopped, exhausted and panting, she perceived that
Katharina, worthy once more of her name of "water-wagtail," had flown
past her and was chasing the little girl at a pace that she shuddered to
contemplate. Mary soon saw that no one but Katharina was in pursuit; she
moderated her pace, and awaited her cast-off friend under the shade of a
tall shrub. In a moment Katharina was facing her; with a heightened
color she seized both her hands and exclaimed passionately:
"What was it you said? You--you-- If I did not know what a wrong-headed
little simpleton you were, I could . . . ."
"You could accuse me falsely!--But now, leave go of my hands or I will
bite you. And as Katharina, at this threat, released her she went on
vehemently.
"Oh! I know you now--since yesterday! And I tell you, once for all,
I say thank you for nothing for such friends. You ought to sink into the
earth for shame of the sin you have committed. I am only ten years old,
but rather than have done such a thing I would have let myself be shut up
in that hot hole with poor, innocent Perpetua, or I would have let myself
be killed, as you want poor, honest Hiram to be! Oh, shame!"
Katharina's crimson cheeks bad turned pale at this address and, as she
had no answer ready, she could only toss her head and say, with as much
pride and dignity as she could assume:
"What can a child like you know about things that puzzle the heads of
grown-up people?"
"Grown-up people!" laughed Mary, who was not three inches shorter than
her antagonist. "You must be a great deal taller before I call you grown
up! In two years time, you will scarcely be up to my eyes." At this the
irascible Egyptian fired up; she gave the child a slap in the face with
the palm of her hand. Mary only stood still as if petrified, and after
gazing at the ground for a minute or two without a cry, she turned her
back on her companion and silently went back into the shaded walk.
Katharina watched her with tears in her eyes. She felt that Mary was
justified in disapproving of what she had done the day before; for she
herself had been unable to sleep and had become more and more convinced
that she had acted wrongly, nay, unpardonably. And now again she had
done an inexcusable thing. She felt that she had deeply hurt the child's
feelings, and this sincerely grieved her. She followed Mary in silence,
at some little distance, like a maid-servant. She longed to hold her
back by her dress, to say something kind to her, nay, to ask her pardon.
As they drew near to the spot where the governess had dropped into her
chair again, a hapless victim to the heat of Egypt, Katharina called Mary
by her name, and when the child paid no heed, laid her hand on her
shoulder, saying in gentle entreaty: "Forgive me for having so far
forgotten myself. But how can I help being so little? You know very
well when any one laughs at me for it......"
"You get angry and slap!" retorted the child, walking on. "Yesterday,
perhaps, I might have laughed over a box on the ear--it is not the first
--or have given it to you back again; but to-day!--Just now," and she
shuddered involuntarily, "just now I felt as if some black slave had laid
his dirty hand on my cheek. You are not what you were. You walk quite
differently, and you look--depend upon it you do not look as nice and as
bright as you used, and I know why: You did a very bad thing last
evening."
"But dear pet," said the other, "you must not be so hard. Perhaps I did
not really tell the judges everything I knew, but Orion, who loves me so,
and whose wife I am to be. . . ."
"He led you into sin!--Yes; and he was always merry and kind till
yesterday; but since--Oh, that unlucky day!"
Here she was interrupted by Eudoxia, who poured out a flood of
reproaches and finally desired her to resume her task. The child obeyed
unresistingly; but she had scarcely settled to her wax tablets again when
Katharina was by her side, whispering to her that Orion would certainly
not have asserted anything that he did not believe to be true, and that
she had really been in doubt as to whether a gem with a gold back, or a
mere gold frame-work, had been hanging to Paula's chain. At this Mary
turned sharply and quickly upon her, looked her straight in the eyes and
exclaimed--but in Egyptian that the governess might not understand, for
she had disdained to learn a single word of it:
"A rubbishy gold frame with a broken edge was hanging to the chain, and,
what is more, it caught in your dress. Why, I can see it now! And, when
you bore witness that it was a gem, you told a lie--Look here; here are
the laws which God Almighty himself gave on the sacred Mount of Sinai,
and there it stands written: 'Thou shalt not bear false witness against
thy neighbor.' And those who do, the priest told me, are guilty of
mortal sin, for which there is no forgiveness on earth or in Heaven,
unless after bitter repentance and our Saviour's special mercy. So it is
written; and you could actually declare before the judges a thing that
was false, and that you knew would bring others to ruin?"
The young criminal looked down in shame and confusion, and answered
hesitatingly:
"Orion asserted it so positively and clearly, and then--I do not know
what came over me--but I was so angry, so--I could have murdered her!"
"Whom?" asked Mary in surprise. "You know very well: Paula."
"Paula!" said Mary, and her large eyes again filled with tears. "Is it
possible? Did you not love her as much as I do? Have not you often and
often clung about her like a bur?"
"Yes, yes, very true. But before the judges she was so intolerably
proud, and then.--But believe me, Mary you really and truly cannot
understand anything of all this."
"Can I not?" asked the child folding her arms.
"Why do you think me so stupid?"
"You are in love with Orion--and he is a man whom few can match, over
head and ears in love; and because Paula looks like a queen by the side
of you, and is so much handsomer and taller than you are, and Orion, till
yesterday--I could see it all--cared a thousand times more for her than
for you, you were jealous and envious of her. Oh, I know all about it.
--And I know that all the women fall in love with him, and that Mandaile
had her ears cut off on his account, and that it was a lady who loved him
in Constantinople that gave him the little white dog. The slave-girls
tell me what they hear and what I like.--And after all, you may well be
jealous of Paula, for if she only made a point of it, how soon Orion
would make up his mind never to look at you again! She is the handsomest
and the wisest and the best girl in the whole world, and why should she
not be proud? The false witness you bore will cost poor Hiram his life:
but the merciful Saviour may forgive you at last. It is your affair, and
no concern of mine; but when Paula is forced to leave the house and all
through you, so that I shall never, never, never see her any more--I
cannot forget it, and I do not think I ever shall; but I will pray God to
make me."
She burst into loud sobs, and the governess had started up to put an end
to a dialogue which she could not understand, and which was therefore
vexatious and provoking, when the water-wagtail fell on her knees before
the little girl, threw her arms round her, and bursting into tears,
exclaimed:
"Mary--darling little Mary forgive me.
[The German has the diminutive 'Mariechen'. To this Dr. Ebers
appends this note. "An ignorant critic took exception to the use of
the diminutive form of names (as for instance 'Irenchen', little
Irene) in 'The Sisters,' as an anachronism. It is nevertheless a
fact that the Greeks settled in Egypt were so fond of using the
diminutive form of woman's names that they preferred them, even in
the tax-rolls. This form was common in Attic Greek,"]
Oh, if you could but know what I endured before I came out here! Forgive
me, Mary; be my sweet, dear little Mary once more. Indeed and indeed you
are much better than I am. Merciful Saviour, what possessed me last
evening? And all through him, through the man no one can help loving--
through Orion!--And would you believe it: I do not even know why he led
me into this sin. But I must try to care for him no more, to forget him
entirely, although, although,--only think, he called me his betrothed;
but now that he has betrayed me into sin, can I dare to become his wife?
It has given me no peace all night. I love him, yes I love him, you
cannot think how dearly; still, I cannot be his! Sooner will I go into a
convent, or drown myself in the Nile!--And I will say all this to my
mother, this very day."
The Greek governess had looked on in astonishment, for it was indeed
strange to see the young girl kneeling in front of the child. She
listened to her eager flow of unintelligible words, wondering whether she
could ever teach her pupil--with her grandmother's help if need should
be--to cultivate a more sedate and Greek demeanor.
At this juncture Paula came down the path. Some slaves followed her,
carrying several boxes and bundles and a large litter, all making their
way to the Nile, where a boat was waiting to ferry her up the river to
her new home.
As she lingered unobserved, her eye rested on the touching picture of the
two young things clasped in each other's arms, and she overheard the last
words of the gentle little creature who had done her such cruel wrong.
She could only guess at what had occurred, but she did not like to be a
listener, so she called Mary; and when the child started up and flew to
throw her arms round her neck with vehement and devoted tenderness, she
covered her little face and hair with kisses. Then she freed herself
from the little girl's embrace, and said, with tearful eyes:
"Good-bye, my darling! In a few minutes I shall no longer belong here;
another and a strange home must be mine. Love me always, and do not
forget me, and be quite sure of one thing: you have no truer friend on
earth than I am."
At this, fresh tears flowed; the child implored her not to go away, not
to leave her; but Paula could but refuse, though she was touched and
astonished to find that she had reaped so rich a harvest of love, here
where she had sown so little. Then she gave her hand at parting to the
governess, and when she turned to Katharina, to bid farewell, hard as it
was, to the murderer of her happiness, the young girl fell at her feet
bathed in tears of repentance, covered her knees and hands with kisses,
and confessed herself guilty of a terrible sin. Paula, however, would
not allow her to finish; she lifted her up, kissed her forehead, and said
that she quite understood how she had been led into it, and that she,
like Mary, would try to forgive her.
Standing by the governor's many-oared barge, to which the young girls now
escorted her, she found Orion. Twice already this morning he had tried
in vain to get speech with her, and he looked pale and agitated. He had
a splendid bunch of flowers in his hand; he bestowed a hasty greeting on
Mary and his betrothed, and did not heed the fact that Katharina returned
it hesitatingly and without a word.
He went close up to Paula, told her in a low voice that Hiram was safe,
and implored her, as she hoped to be forgiven for her own sins, to grant
him a few minutes. When she rejected his prayer with a silent shrug,
and went on towards the boat he put out his hand to help her, but she
intentionally overlooked it and gave her hand to the physician. At this
he sprang after her into the barge, saying in her ear in a tremulous
whisper:
"A wretch, a miserable man entreats your mercy. I was mad yesterday. I
love you, I love you--how deeply!--you will see!"
"Enough," she broke in firmly, and she stood up in the swaying boat.
Philippus supported her, and Orion, laying the flowers in her lap, cried
so that all could hear: "Your departure will sorely distress my father.
He is so ill that we did not dare allow you to take leave of him. If you
have anything to say to him. . ."
"I will find another messenger," she replied sternly.
"And if he asks the reason for your sudden departure?"
"Your mother and Philippus can give him an answer."
"But he was your guardian, and your fortune, I know. . ."
"In his hands it is safe."
"And if the physician's fears should be justified?"
"Then I will demand its restitution through a new Kyrios."
"You will receive it without that! Have you no pity, no forgiveness?"
For all answer she flung the flowers he had given her into the river;
he leaped on shore, and regardless of the bystanders, pushed his fingers
through his hair, clasping his hands to his burning brow.
The barge was pushed off, the rowers plied their oars like men; Orion
gazed after it, panting with laboring breath, till a little hand grasped
his, and Mary's sweet, childish voice exclaimed:
"Be comforted, uncle. I know just what is troubling you."
"What do you know?" he asked roughly.
"That you are sorry that you and Katharina should have spoken against her
last evening, and against poor Hiram."
"Nonsense!" he angrily broke in. "Where is Katharina?"
"I was to tell you that she could not see you today. She loves you
dearly, but she, too, is so very, very sorry."
"She may spare herself!" said the young man. "If there is anything to
be sorry for it falls on me--it is crushing me to death. But what is
this!--The devil's in it! What business is it of the child's? Now, be
off with you this minute. Eudoxia, take this little girl to her tasks."
He took Mary's head between his hands, kissed her forehead with impetuous
affection, and then pushed her towards her governess, who dutifully led
her away.
When Orion found himself alone, he leaned against a tree and groaned like
a wounded wild beast. His heart was full to bursting.
"Gone, gone! Thrown away, lost! The best on earth!" He laid his hands
on the tree-stem and pressed his head against it till it hurt him. He
did not know how to contain himself for misery and self-reproach. He
felt like a man who has been drunk and has reduced his own house to ashes
in his intoxication. How all this could have come to pass he now no
longer knew. After his nocturnal ride he had caused Nilus the treasurer
to be waked, and had charged him to liberate Hiram secretly. But it was
the sight of his stricken father that first brought him completely to his
sober senses. By his bed-side, death in its terrible reality had stared
him in the face, and he had felt that he could not bear to see that
beloved parent die till he had made his peace with Paula, won her
forgiveness, brought her whom his father loved so well into his presence,
and besought his blessing on her and on himself.
Twice he had hastened from the chamber of suffering to her room, to
entreat her to hear him, but in vain; and now, how terrible had their
parting been! She was hard, implacable, cruel; and as he recalled her
person and individuality as they had struck him before their quarrel,
he was forced to confess that there was something in her present behavior
which was not natural to her. This inhuman severity in the beautiful
woman whose affection had once been his, and who, but now, had flung his
flowers into the water, had not come from her heart; it was deliberately
planned to make him feel her anger. What had withheld her, under such
great provocation, from betraying that she had detected him in the theft
of the emerald? All was not yet lost; and he breathed more freely as he
went back to the house where duty, and his anxiety for his father,
required his presence. There were his flowers, floating on the stream.
"Hatred cast them there," thought he, "but before they reach the sea many
blossoms will have opened which were mere hard buds when she flung them
away. She can never love any man but me, I feel it, I know it. The
first time we looked into each other's eyes the fate of our hearts was
sealed. What she hates in me is my mad crime; what first set her against
me was her righteous anger at my suit for Katharina. But that sin was
but a dream in my life, which can never recur; and as for Katharina--I
have sinned against her once, but I will not continue to sin through a
whole, long lifetime. I have been permitted to trifle with love
unpunished so often, that at last I have learnt to under-estimate its
power. I could laugh as I sacrificed mine to my mother's wishes; but
that, and that alone, has given rise to all these horrors. But no, all
is not yet lost! Paula will listen to me; and when she sees what my
inmost feelings are--when I have confessed all to her, good and evil
alike--when she knows that my heart did but wander, and has returned to
her who has taught me that love is no jest, but solemn earnest, swaying
all mankind, she will come round--everything will come right."
A noble and rapturous light came into his face, and as he walked on, his
hopes rose:
"When she is mine I know that everything good in me that I have inherited
from my forefathers will blossom forth. When my mother called me to my
father's bed-side, she said: 'Come, Orion, life is earnest for you and me
and all our house, your father. . .' Yes, it is earnest indeed, however
all this may end! To win Paula, to conciliate her, to bring her near to
me, to have her by my side and do something great, something worthy of
her--this is such a purpose in life as I need! With her, only with her I
know I could achieve it; without her, or with that gilded toy Katharina,
old age will bring me nothing but satiety, sobering and regrets--or,
to call it by its Christian designation: bitter repentance. As Antaeus
renewed his strength by contact with mother earth, so, father do I feel
myself grow taller when I only think of her. She is salvation and honor;
the other is ruin and misery in the future. My poor, dear Father, you
will, you must survive this stroke to see the fulfilment of all your
joyful hopes of your son. You always loved Paula; perhaps you may be the
one to appease her and bring her back to me; and how dear will she be to
you, and, God willing, to my mother, too, when you see her reigning by my
side an ornament to this house, to this city, to this country--reigning
like a queen, your son's redeeming and guardian angel!"
Uplifted, carried away by these thoughts, he had reached the viridarium.
He there found Sebek the steward waiting for his young master: "My lord
is asleep now," he whispered, "as the physician foretold, but his face...
Oh, if only we had Philippus here again!"
"Have you sent the chariot with the fast horses to the Convent of St.
Cecilia?" asked Orion eagerly; and when Sebek had replied in the
affirmative and vanished again indoors, the young man, overwhelmed with
painful forebodings, sank on his knees near a column to which a crucifix
was hung, and lifted up his hands and soul in fervent prayer.