Paula went into her nurse’s room, and Perpetua, after a short and vain
search for the crazy girl, abandoned her to her fate, not without some
small scruples of conscience.
A beautifully-polished copper lamp hung from the ceiling and the little
room exactly suited its mistress both were neat and clean, trim and
spruce, simple and yet nice. Snowy transparent curtains enclosed the
bed as a protection against the mosquitoes, a crucifix of delicate
workmanship hung above the head of the couch, and the seats were covered
with good cloth of various colors, fag-ends from the looms. Pretty straw
mats lay on the floor, and pots of plants, filling the little room with
fragrance, stood on the window-sill and in a corner of the room where a
clay statuette of the Good Shepherd looked down on a praying-desk.
The door had scarcely closed behind them when Perpetua exclaimed: “But
child, how you frightened me! At so late an hour!”
“I felt I must come,” said Paula. “I could contain myself no longer.”
“What, tears?” sighed the woman, and her own bright little eyes twinkled
through moisture. “Poor soul, what has happened now?”
She went up to the young girl to stroke her hair, but Paula rushed into
her arms, clung passionately round her neck, and burst into loud and
bitter weeping. The little matron let her weep for a while; then she
released herself, and wiped away her own tears and those of her tall
darling, which had fallen on her smooth grey hair. She took Paula’s chin
in a firm hand and turned her face towards her own, saying tenderly but
decidedly: “There, that is enough. You might cry and welcome, for
it eases the heart, but that it is so late. Is it the old story:
home-sickness, annoyances, and so forth, or is there anything new?”
“Alas, indeed!” replied the girl. She pressed her handkerchief in
her hands as she went on with excited vehemence: “I am in the last
extremity, I can bear it no longer, I cannot--I cannot! I am no longer
a child, and when in the evening you dread the night and in the morning
dread the day which must be so wretched, so utterly unendurable....”
“Then you listen to reason, my darling, and say to yourself that of two
evils it is wise to choose the lesser. You must hear me say once more
what I have so often represented to you before now: If we renounce our
city of refuge here and venture out into the wide world again, what
shall we find that will be an improvement?”
“Perhaps nothing but a hovel by a well under a couple of palm-trees;
that would satisfy me, if I only had you and could be free--free from
every one else!”
“What is this; what does this mean?” muttered the elder woman shaking
her head. “You were quite content only the day before yesterday.
Something must have....”
“Yes, must have happened and has,” interrupted the girl almost beside
herself. “My uncle’s son.--You were there when he arrived--and
I thought, even I firmly believed that he was worthy of such a
reception.--I--I--pity me, for I... You do not know what influence that
man exercises over hearts.--And I--I believed his eyes, his words, his
songs and--yes, I must confess all--even his kisses on this hand! But it
was all false, all--a lie, a cruel sport with a weak, simple heart, or
even worse--more insulting still! In short, while he was doing all in
his power to entrap me--even the slaves in the barge observed it--he was
in the very act--I heard it from Dame Neforis, who is only too glad when
she can hurt me--in the very act of suing for the hand of that little
doll--you know her--little Katharina. She is his betrothed; and yet
the shameless wretch dares to carry on his game with me; he has the
face....”
Again Paula sobbed aloud; but the older woman did not know how to help
in the matter and could only mutter to herself: “Bad, bad--what, this
too!--Merciful Heaven!...” But she presently recovered herself and said
firmly: “This is indeed a new and terrible misfortune; but we have known
worse--much, much worse! So hold up your head, and whatever liking you
may have in your heart for the traitor, tear it out and trample on it.
Your pride will help you; and if you have only just found out what my
lord Orion is, you may thank God that things had gone no further between
you!” Then she repeated to Paula all that she knew of Orion’s misconduct
to the frenzied Mandane, and as Paula gave strong utterance to her
indignation, she went on:
“Yes, child, he is a man to break hearts and ruin happiness, and perhaps
it was my duty to warn you against him; but as he is not a bad man in
other things--he saved the brother of Hathor the designer--you know
her--from drowning, at the risk of his own life--and as I hoped you
might be on friendly terms with him at least, on his return home, I
refrained.... And besides, old fool that I am, I fancied your proud
heart wore a breastplate of mail, and after all it is only a foolish
girl’s heart like any other, and now in its twenty-first year has given
its love to a man for the first time.”
But Paula interrupted her: “I love the traitor no more! No, I hate him,
hate him beyond words! And the rest of them! I loathe them all!”
“Alas! that it should be so!” sighed the nurse. “Your lot is no doubt a
hard one. He--Orion--of course is out of the question; but I often ask
myself whether you might not mend matters with the others. If you had
not made it too hard for them, child, they must have loved you; they
could not have helped it; but ever since you have been in the house you
have only felt miserable and wished that they would let you go your own
way, and they--well they have done so; and now you find it ill to bear
the lot you chose for yourself. It is so indeed, child, you need not
contradict me. This once we will put the matter plainly: Who can hope
to win love that gives none, but turns away morosely from his
fellow-creatures? If each of us could make his neighbors after his own
pattern--then indeed! But life requires us to take them just as we find
them, and you, sweetheart, have never let this sink into your mind!”
“Well, I am what I am!”
“No doubt, and among the good you are the best--but which of them all
can guess that? Every one to some extent plays a part. And you! What
wonder if they never see in you anything but that you are unhappy? God
knows it is ten thousand times a pity that you should be! But who can
take pleasure in always seeing a gloomy face?”
“I have never uttered a single word of complaint of my troubles to any
one of them!” cried Paula, drawing herself up proudly.
“That is just the difficulty,” replied Perpetua. “They took you in, and
thought it gave them a claim on your person and also on your sorrows.
Perhaps they longed to comfort you; for, believe me, child, there is
a secret pleasure in doing so. Any one who is able to show us sympathy
feels that it does him more good than it does us. I know life! Has it
never occurred to you that you are perhaps depriving your relations
in the great house of a pleasure, perhaps even doing them an injury by
locking up your heart from them? Your grief is the best side of you, and
of that you do indeed allow them to catch a glimpse; but where the pain
is you carefully conceal. Every good man longs to heal a wound when he
sees it, but your whole demeanor cries out: ‘Stay where you are, and
leave me in peace.’--If only you were good to your uncle!”
“But I am, and I have felt prompted a hundred times to confide in
him--but then...”
“Well--then?”
“Only look at him, Betta; see how he lies as cold as marble, rigid and
apathetic, half dead and half alive. At first the words often rose to my
lips...”
“And now?”
“Now all the worst is so long past; I feel I have forfeited the right to
complain to him of all that weighs me down.”
“Hm,” said Perpetua who had no answer ready. “But take heart, my child.
Orion has at any rate learnt how far he may venture. You can hold your
head high enough and look cool enough. Bear all that cannot be mended,
and if an inward voice does not deceive me, he whom we seek...”
“That was what brought me here. Are none of our messengers returned
yet?”
“Yes, the little Nabathaean is come,” replied her nurse with some
hesitation, “and he indeed--but for God’s sake, child, form no vain
hopes! Hiram came to me soon after sun-down...”
“Betta!” screamed the girl, clinging to her nurse’s arm. “What has he
heard, what news does he bring?”
“Nothing, nothing! How you rush at conclusions! What he found out
is next to nothing. I had only a minute to speak to Hiram. To-morrow
morning he is to bring the man to me. The only thing he told me...”
“By Christ’s Wounds! What was it?”
“He said that the messenger had heard of an elderly recluse, who had
formerly been a great warrior.”
“My father, my father!” cried Paula. “Hiram is sitting by the fire with
the others. Fetch him here at once--at once; I command you, Perpetua, do
you hear? Oh best, dearest Betta! Come with me; we will go to him.”
“Patience, sweetheart, a little patience!” urged the nurse. “Ah, poor
dear soul, it will turn out to be nothing again; and if we again follow
up a false clue it will only lead to fresh disappointment.”
“Never mind: you are to come with me.”
“To all the servants round the fire, and at this time of night? I should
think so indeed!--But do you wait here, child. I know how it can be
managed.
“I will wake Hiram’s Joseph. He sleeps in the stable yonder--and then
he will fetch his father. Ah! what impatience! What a stormy, passionate
little heart it is! If I do not do your bidding, I shall have you awake
all night, and wandering about to-morrow as if in a dream.--There, be
quiet, be quiet, I am going.”
As she spoke she wrapped her kerchief round her head and hurried out;
Paula fell on her knees before the crucifix over the bed, and prayed
fervently till her nurse returned, Soon after she heard a man’s steps on
the stairs and Hiram came in.
He was a powerful man of about fifty, with a pair of honest blue eyes in
his plain face. Any one looking at his broad chest would conclude that
when he spoke it would be in a deep bass voice; but Hiram had stammered
from his infancy; and from constant companionship with horses he had
accustomed himself to make a variety of strange, inarticulate noises in
a high, shrill voice. Besides, he was always unwilling to speak. When
he found himself face to face with the daughter of his master and
benefactor, he knelt at her feet, looked up at her with faithful,
dog-like eyes full of affection, and kissed first her dress, and then
her hand which she held out to him. Paula kindly but decidedly cut
short the expressions of delight at seeing her again which he painfully
stammered out; and when he at length began to tell his story his words
came far too slowly for her impatience.
He told her that the Nabathaean who had brought the rumor that had
excited her hopes, was not unwilling to follow up the trace he had
found, but he would not wait beyond noon the next day and had tried to
bid for high terms.
“He shall have them--as much as he wants!” cried Paula. “But Hiram
entreated her, more by looks and vague cries than by articulate words,
not to hope for too much. Dusare the Nabathaean--Perpetua now took up
the tale--had heard of a recluse, living at Raithu on the Red Sea, who
had been a great warrior, by birth a Greek, and who for two years
had been leading a life of penance in great seclusion among the pious
brethren on the sacred Mount of Sinai. The messenger had not been able
to learn what his name in the world had been, but among the hermits he
was known as Paulus.”
“Paulus!” interrupted the girl with panting breath. “A name that must
remind him of my mother and of me, yes, of me! And he, the hero of
Damascus, who was called Thomas in the world, believing that I was dead,
has no doubt dedicated himself to the service of God and of Christ, and
has taken the name of Paulus, as Saul, the other man of Damascus did
after his con version,--exactly like him! Oh! Betta, Hiram, you will
see: it is he, it must be! How can you doubt it?”
The Syrian shook his head doubtfully and gave vent to a long-drawn
whistle, and Perpetua clasped her hands exclaiming distressfully: “Did
I not say so? She takes the fire lighted by shepherds at night to warm
their hands for the rising sun--the rattle of chariots for the thunders
of the Almighty!--Why, how many thousands have called themselves Paulus!
By all the Saints, child, I beseech you keep quiet, and do not try to
weave a holiday-robe out of airy mist! Be prepared for the worst; then
you are armed against failure and preserve your right to hope! Tell her,
tell her, Hiram, what else the messenger said; it is nothing positive;
everything is as uncertain as dust in the breeze.”
The freedman then explained that this Nabathaean was a trustworthy man,
far better skilled in such errands than himself, for he understood both
Syriac and Egyptian, Greek and Aramaic; and nevertheless he had failed
to find out anything more about this hermit Paulus at Tor, where
the monks of the monastery of the Transfiguration had a colony.
Subsequently, however, on the sea voyage to Holzum, he had been informed
by some monks that there was a second Sinai. The monastery there--but
here Perpetua again was the speaker, for the hapless stammerer’s
brow was beaded with sweat--the monastery at the foot of the peaked,
heaven-kissing mountain, had been closed in consequence of the heresies
of its inhabitants; but in the gorges of these great heights there
were still many recluses, some in a small Coenobium, some in Lauras and
separate caves, and among these perchance Paulus might be found. This
clue seemed a good one and she and Hiram had already made up their minds
to follow it up; but the warrior monk was very possibly a stranger,
and they had thought it would be cruel to expose her to so keen a
disappointment.
Here Paula interrupted her, crying in joyful excitement:
“And why should not something besides disappointment be my portion for
once? How could you have the heart to deprive me of the hope on which my
poor heart still feeds?--But I will not be robbed of it. Your Paulus
of Sinai is my lost father. I feel it, I know it! If I had not sold my
pearls, the Nabathaean.... But as it is. When can you start, my good
Hiram?”
“Not before a fort--a fortnight at--at--at--soonest,” said the man. “I
am in the governor’s service now, and the day after to-morrow is the
great horse-fair at Niku. The young master wants some stallions bought
and there are our foals to....”
“I will implore my uncle to-morrow, to spare you,” cried Paula. “I will
go on my knees to him.”
“He will not let him go,” said the nurse. “Sebek the steward told him
all about it from me before the hour of audience and tried to have Hiram
released.”
“And he said...?”
“The lady Neforis said it was all a mere will-o’-the-wisp, and my lord
agreed with her. Then your uncle forbade Sebek to betray the matter to
you, and sent word to me that he would possibly send Hiram to Sinai
when the horse-fair was over. So take patience, sweetheart. What are two
weeks, or at most three--and then....”
“But I shall die before then!” cried Paula. “The Nabathaean, you say, is
here and willing to go.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Then we will secure him,” said Paula resolutely. Perpetua, however, who
must have discussed the matter fully with her fellow-countryman, shook
her head mournfully and said: “He asks too much for us!”
She then explained that the man, being such a good linguist, had already
been offered an engagement to conduct a caravan to Ctesiphon. This
would be a year’s pay to him, and he was not inclined to break off his
negotiations with the merchant Hanno and search the deserts of Arabia
Petraea for less than two thousand drachmae.
“Two thousand drachmae!” echoed Paula, looking down in distress
and confusion; but she presently looked up and exclaimed with angry
determination: “How dare they keep from me that which is my own? If my
uncle refuses what I have to ask, and will ask, then the inevitable must
happen, though for his sake it will grieve me; I must put my affairs in
the hands of the judges.”
“The judges?” Perpetua smiled. “But you cannot lay a complaint without
your kyrios, and your uncle is yours. Besides: before they have settled
the matter the messenger may have been to Ctesiphon and back, far as it
is.”
Again her nurse entreated her to have patience till the horse-fair
should be over. Paula fixed her eyes on the ground. She seemed quite
crushed; but Perpetua started violently and Hiram drew back a step when
she suddenly broke out in a loud, joyful cry of “Father in Heaven, I
have what we need!”
“How, child, what?” asked the nurse, pressing her hand to her heart. But
Paula vouchsafed no information; she turned quickly to the Syrian:
“Is the outer court-yard clear yet? Are the people gone?” she asked.
The reply was in the affirmative. The freed servants had retired when
Hiram left them. The officials would not break up for some time yet, but
there was less difficulty in passing them.
“Very good,” said the girl. “Then you, Hiram, lead the way and wait for
me by the little side door. I will give you something in my room
which will pay the Nabathaean’s charges ten times over. Do not look so
horrified, Betta. I will give him the large emerald out of my mother’s
necklace.” The woman clasped her hands, and cried out in dismay and
warning.
“Child, child! That splendid gem! an heirloom in the family--that stone
which came to you from the saintly Emperor Theodosius--to sell that of
all things! Nay-to throw it away; not to rescue your father either,
but merely--yes child, for that is the truth, merely because you lack
patience to wait two little weeks!”
“That is hard, that is unjust, Betta,” Paula broke in reprovingly. “It
will be a question of a month, and we all know how much depends on
the messenger. Do you forget how highly Hiram spoke of this very man’s
intelligence? And besides--must I, the younger, remind you?--What is the
life of man? An instant may decide his life or death; and my father is
an old man, scarred from many wounds even before the siege. It may make
just the difference between our meeting, or never meeting again.”
“Yes, yes,” said the old woman in subdued tones, “perhaps you are right,
and if I...” But Paula stopped her mouth with a kiss, and then desired
Hiram to carry the gem, the first thing in the morning, to Gamaliel the
Jew, a wealthy and honest man, and not to sell it for less than twelve
thousand drachmae. If the goldsmith could not pay so much for it at
once, he might be satisfied to bring away the two thousand drachmae for
the messenger, and fetch the remainder at another season.
The Syrian led the way, and when, after a long leave-taking, she quitted
her nurse’s pleasant little room, Hiram had done her bidding and was
waiting for her at the little side door.