A MINISTERING ANGEL.
Pathema, the eldest daughter of a prosperous merchant, walked with her
servant Miriam through the crowded street, heedless or unconscious of
danger; then passing two pairs of eyes directed towards her veiled
face, she turned at right angles into the Stenos, a short quiet street
leading towards the river Xanthus.
Without haste, yet her progress was steady and good, with a natural
grace set free by the loose Ionic dress--a cream-coloured _chiton_,
girdled at the waist and falling from the shoulders to the feet in many
folds, and above it a short mantle in gold-brown, bordered with white.
Full of work of a high order, her dark eyes and finely carved mouth
spoke beneficent purpose, while her fair countenance showed an Oriental
seriousness and thought.
Pathema might have spared herself a life of labour and risk and
self-sacrifice. She might have enjoyed a life of fashion and pleasure
and ease. Besides this, her beauty and accomplishments could have
easily secured for her a home and affluence, had she so desired. But
she had cast in her lot with One who had lived a higher life, which in
working-out had made him a man of "no reputation." Pathema was a
Christian, and as such had made herself a set of determined and
malicious enemies. Her Christianity could not be mistaken. There was
no mere form about it, no casual acts of duty, no hysterical nights, no
insipidity, and no compromise,--the gods must go. It was a clear,
steady, every-day light, peeping up in childhood, and burning brighter
and brighter thro' the years. Though a lover of knowledge and fond of
reasoning, she wasted no time in a vain jangle about faith and works,
but illustrated both in her daily life. Encouraged by her parents, and
acting as their medium, and that of other benefactors, she attended to
the wants of a wide circle of sick and poor, both heathen and
Christian. Like her Lord himself, she went about doing good. No one
cheered and comforted the members of the Christian community more, no
one was a greater inspiration, and no one was more unassuming.
On the left bank of the Xanthus stood a large residence belonging to a
man of wealth, a business friend of Pathema's father. In front there
was no altar to Apollo Agyieus, and no statue of any god, the owner
having distinct leanings toward Christianity. All that met the eye was
a Victor's Laurel tree, behind the house, which was much greater in
depth than width, was a garden, containing such trees as pomegranate,
orange, and fig.
To that house Pathema went. Ascending the steps and knocking at the
door, she was met by a porter (with his dog), who led her and Miriam
past his lodge and along the narrow passage to the first peristyle--a
partly open courtyard. Here they awaited the appearance of the
mistress. On all four sides were colonnades, under which were a
banqueting room, a picture gallery, a library, servants' office,
sitting rooms, and several bed-chambers. The visitors had not long to
wait.
"Peace be with you!" said the mistress, with a gracious smile.
"Joy to thee!" was the reply.
Entering a chamber on the right, Pathema was gently conducted to the
bedside of Crito, an invalid boy, his parents' pride and tender care.
Crito had received a good education, and, when well, was active, witty
and intelligent. But he had been hurt internally while wrestling in
the gymnasium with an older lad, and for a time his life hung in the
balance. Several days had elapsed since Pathema saw him, and he was
now fast asleep. She did not speak, but looked on him awhile with
earnest anxious eyes. At length a gleam of hope lit up her face, and
she was about to leave softly when Crito, as if conscious of some
departing force, suddenly opened his eyes.
"Hail! Pathema; steal not thyself away," said he smiling.
"I steal but a gem of hope--surely a lighter load," was the laughing
answer.
"And yet thou hast left it in my breast, thou absent-minded robber."
Bending down, Pathema kissed his bosom, saying, "And I am glad to leave
it there."
"And go forth hopeless?" queried he.
"Yes," said she, shaking her head in feigned solemnity, and Crito
laughed.
Leaving figures of speech, Pathema expressed her joy that there
appeared to be good ground for hope. Then they entered into an
animated conversation about the Iliad and the Odyssey, books that the
Hellenic people used as we do Robinson Crusoe, Shakespeare, and the
Bible. Before parting they conversed about the Memoirs of the
Apostles, called in our day the Gospels.
"I love the Nazarene's moral courage," said Crito.
"Yes," replied Pathema, "to be invited, for instance, to dine with a
number of the learned, and without personal provocation to feel
compelled to denounce them as hypocrites, must have been a severe trial
of his courage."
"It seems easier to face wounds and the loss of blood than the loss of
reputation," rejoined Crito.
"It is, but, of course, the full test is to face both. The applause of
his comrades, of the whole army and of his nation, fires the spirit of
the brave soldier that climbs the frowning walls of a besieged city;
but the Nazarene had not the applause of a single soul when He faced
the certainty of cruel death upon the cross; worse, there was derision,
and He himself even cried out that God had forsaken Him."
"The cross means a great deal," said Crito reflectively.
"It was endured in love for us," was the reply.
"The love was great," remarked the boy.
Pathema now rose up to go, and Crito was very sorry; but he knew that
there were many other poor and tried ones waiting to welcome her, and
he urged himself to resignation.
"Come back on the morrow," said he, "and stay with me longer; I weary
much for thee."
Having kissed her hand respectfully, the boy looked after her wistfully
as she departed like a heavenly angel.
Going next into the humble abode of an old man, whose only attendant
was a little granddaughter, Pathema with her maid proceeded at once to
put the place in thorough order, aiding the slender one with the
heaviest work, such as it was. The child had always done well, but
stronger arms could of course do better, and everything was soon in
special dress. Then Pathema had a comforting talk with the grandfather
and with his faithful little servant-maid, ending by telling her a
charming tale of a Forest Nymph. Before leaving she placed a silver
coin in the old man's trembling hand; and as she departed, he could
only say, "God bless thee," while the child clung to her sympathetic
hand for some distance along the street.
Thus Pathema, accompanied by her servant, went from house to house a
messenger of mercy. The harvest-field of suffering and privation was
then, as ever, white; but the reapers were few, and of modern reaping
instruments--hospitals and "homes"--there were none. How much
Christianity has done, yet how much to do!
Partaking of a plain mid-day meal of _maza_, barley bread, and figs,
with a venerable heathen widow whose heart was opening to Christianity,
she also supplied this poor one's need, and resumed her journey
refreshed.
The afternoon was well advanced when they passed underneath the Triple
Arch of the city wall on their way outward to a sheltered spot not far
beyond. In a clump of olive trees and beside a limpid spring, they
came upon a hut occupied by motherless children, alone and unprotected,
the hireling having left the day before. Sadder still, the only one
old enough to give material help, and who did help as long as she was
able, Biona, a girl of twelve, was dying of consumption. The sight to
Pathema was very distressing, but she attended promptly to the wants of
the sick one, laving her face and hands, and giving her a little
nourishment, while Miriam looked after the younger children and the
house.
Biona was somewhat revived, and Pathema sat down beside her to whisper
just a consoling word or two at intervals. The girl expressed heir
gratitude briefly, showing it more in her large, hollow but brilliant
eyes, which rested for a time in peace on her visitor's tender face.
The peace was of short duration, for Biona was very feeble. She moved
her head and hands uneasily in the hot air of the little room, and at
last exclaimed in a low plaintive voice--"Oh! for breath and rest,
rest."
"Let me carry thee out, my dear, as thy father does, and lay thee among
the olive trees," said Pathema, feeling keenly, while she held the
invalid's thin, white hand bearing the marks of toil.
"Thou art not able," replied Biona huskily, and with grateful tears,
adding to herself in a dreamy whisper--"My father, poor father!"
But Pathema was wiry and enduring, easily fit for the fragile burden,
and having by a word persuaded the sufferer she wrapped her in a long
white _chiton_, and carried her with great tenderness out into the
cooler welcome air, beside the refreshing spring.
"How delightful is rest!" said the dying girl, as she gazed up through
the olive branches into the clear blue sky.
"There is abundance of rest in store, my beloved, even the rest that
remaineth for the people of God."
Biona lay quietly, enjoying a measure of peace. Her pet white dove,
flying from an overhanging branch, came down beside her; it hopped upon
the pillow, and with gentle wing softly brushed her pallid cheek. She
turned her head toward it, and gazing fondly upon the affectionate
creature, forgot her weariness for a time--a little time. Then she
began to move her head restlessly, whispering often and with yearning
look the word father.
The watchful attendant changed the weary one's position, and gave her
rest again. This was done as often as it was needed, and the need had
no end. Pathema prayed earnestly for the sufferer's recovery or
release. Her voice was the heart's melody, soft and soothing, if to
soothe were possible.
The father, a big sympathetic man, had by this time reached the
bordering olive trees, on his way home from a brief search for aid.
His clothing was very simple and plain: a dark _exomis_ (a short
sleeveless frock), and shoes of leather, studded with nails. As was
common, he was bareheaded. He had a melancholy foreboding that
calamity was near at hand. His oxen stood idle in their stall from
early morning. Noticing with surprised relief that his child was
already out in the grove, with some merciful one reclining by her side,
he stole up a little nearer and halted unobserved.
"Oh! for rest, rest," his daughter faintly cried; and the strong man
shook with emotion. "Oh! that I might be at rest!" she cried again, as
if a last feeble effort, "but how hard it is, how hard! to leave my
little brothers and my poor lonely father."
Creeping closer, Pathema raised Biona's weary head and placed it
tenderly in her own bosom. Feeling that the spark of life was low (for
the little hands were getting cold), and that words were unavailing,
she closed her eyes and became absorbed in silent prayer.
A little interval and then, with pleading face, the simple words of the
child--
"Father in heaven, take into thy kind care my father and brothers;"
And then, with a peaceful smile--
"Oh mother, I come!"
The father came forward delicately and softly behind and looked down,
his eyes full of tears. The child raised her languid eyes and smiled,
a strange, yearning heavenly smile; then she drew a deep breath and
fell asleep--her rest, the long last rest, had come.
Let the veil lie drawn tenderly over the poor father's sorrow. It is
sufficient to say that everything was done for his beloved one and his
home that could be done before Pathema and her faithful servant left.
The mourner's gratitude, deep and full, was their comfort and reward.
"My mistress," said Miriam, in an entreating respectful voice as they
turned towards the city in weary sad silence, "thou art much in need of
rest; wilt thou not proceed home, for the gathering of our people will
be well-nigh broken up ere we pass by?" Miriam was wise and good, she
loved her mistress fervently, and was trusted and treated as a
companion, not as a liberated slave.
"We pass the door, my Miriam, and it would be a rest to turn aside and
listen to the life-giving Word," answered Pathema, looking tenderly
into the devoted woman's tired face; "yet for thy sake, thy needful
release, I shall go on with thee."
"No, my mistress, no,--thy desire is good and right."
The Church of the Triple Arch was not far away, and the two plodded
patiently and trustfully back into the city, thinking not of any danger
that might come. Their day's work was done--hard and heart-trying, yet
beautiful, and as an exercise of mercy, beneficial to subject as well
as object, for "there is that scattereth and yet increaseth." Good
were it for the world if all mankind did their possible and necessary
share. The moon shone high and clear in the star-lit temple of the
sky. The night was calm, and nothing broke the stillness save the
discordant, mocking cry of a laughing hyena far behind, with an
occasional, distant shout rising from the city in front. As they
emerged from the olive-grove, the pet white dove, pursued by a
swift-winged night-hawk, swept like an arrow across their track, as if
an omen of coming trouble.