Читать книгу Fabiola; Or, The Church of the Catacombs - Nicholas Patrick Wiseman - Страница 13

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URING the latter part of the conversation just recorded, Fabius had been quite abstracted, speculating upon his conversation with Agnes. How quietly she had kept her secret to herself! But who could this favored person be, who had already won her heart? He thought over many, but could find no answer. The gift of rich jewels particularly perplexed him. He knew no young Roman nobleman likely to possess them; and sauntering, as he did, every day into the great shops, he was sure to have heard if any such costly order had been given. Suddenly the bright idea flashed through his mind, that Fulvius, who daily exhibited new and splendid gems, brought from abroad, could be the only person able to make her such presents. He moreover noticed such occasional looks darted towards his cousin by the handsome foreigner, as left him no doubt that he was deeply enamored of her; and if Agnes did not seem conscious of the admiration, this of course was part of her plan. Once convinced of this important conclusion, he determined to favor the wishes of the two, and astonish his daughter one day by the sagacity he had displayed.

But we must leave our nobler guests for more humble scenes, and follow Syra from the time that she left her young mistress’s apartment. When she presented herself to Euphrosyne, the good-natured nurse was shocked at the cruel wound, and uttered an exclamation of pity. But immediately recognizing in it the work of Fabiola, she was divided between two contending feelings. “Poor thing!” she said, as she went on first washing, then closing and dressing, the gash; “it is a dreadful cut! What did you do to deserve it? How it must have hurt you, my poor girl! But how wicked you must have been to bring it upon yourself! It is a savage wound, yet inflicted by the gentlest of creatures! (You must be faint from loss of blood; take this cordial to support you): and no doubt she found herself obliged to strike.”

“No doubt,” said Syra, amused, “it was all my fault; I had no business to argue with my mistress.”

“Argue with her!—argue!—O ye gods! who ever heard before of a slave arguing with a noble mistress, and such a learned one! Why, Calpurnius himself would be afraid of disputing with her. No wonder, indeed, she was so—so agitated as not to know that she was hurting you. But this must be concealed; it must not be known that you have been so wrong. Have you no scarf or nice veil that we could throw round the arm, as if for ornament? All the others I know have plenty, given or bought; but you never seem to care for these pretty things. Let us look.”

She went into the maid-slave’s dormitory, which was within her room, opened Syra’s capsa or box, and after turning over in vain its scanty contents, she drew forth from the bottom a square kerchief of richest stuff, magnificently embroidered, and even adorned with pearls. Syra blushed deeply, and entreated not to be obliged to wear this most disproportioned piece of dress, especially as it was a token of better days, long and painfully preserved. But Euphrosyne, anxious to hide her mistress’s fault, was inexorable; and the rich scarf was gracefully fastened round the wounded arm.

This operation performed, Syra proceeded to the little parlor opposite the porter’s room, where the higher slaves could see their friends. She held in her hand a basket covered with a napkin. The moment she entered the door a light step came bounding across the room to meet her. It was that of a girl of about sixteen or seventeen, dressed in the poorest attire, but clean and neat, who threw her arms round Syra’s neck with such a bright countenance and such hearty glee, that a bystander would hardly have supposed that her sightless eyes had never communed with the outer world.

“Sit down, dear Cæcilia,” said Syra, with a most affectionate tone, and leading her to a seat; “to-day I have brought you a famous feast; you will fare sumptuously.”

“How so? I think I do every day.”

“No, but to-day my mistress has kindly sent me out a dainty dish from her table, and I have brought it here for you.”

“How kind of her; yet how much kinder of you, my sister! But why have you not partaken of it yourself? It was meant for you and not for me.”

“Why, to tell the truth, it is a greater treat to me, to see you enjoy any thing, than to enjoy it myself.”

“No, dear Syra, no; it must not be. God has wished me to be poor, and I must try to do His will. I could no more think of eating the food, than I could of wearing the dress, of the rich, so long as I can obtain that of the poor. I love to share with you your pulmentum,[30] which I know is given me in charity by one poor like myself. I procure for you the merit of alms-deeds; you give me the consolation of feeling that I am, before God, still only a poor blind thing. I think He will love me better thus, than if feeding on luxurious fare. I would rather be with Lazarus at the gate, than with Dives at the table.”

“How much better and wiser you are than I, my good child! It shall be as you wish. I will give the dish to my companions, and, in the meantime, here I set before you your usual humble fare.”

“Thanks, thanks, dear sister; I will await your return.”

Syra went to the maids’ apartment, and put before her jealous but greedy companions the silver dish. As their mistress occasionally showed them this little kindness, it did not much surprise them. But the poor servant was weak enough to feel ashamed of appearing before her comrades with the rich scarf round her arm. She took it off before she entered; then, not wishing to displease Euphrosyne, replaced it as well as she could with one hand, on coming out. She was in the court below, returning to her blind friend, when she saw one of the noble guests of her mistress’s table alone, and, with a mortified look, crossing towards the door, and she stepped behind a column to avoid any possible, and not uncommon, rudeness. It was Fulvius; and no sooner did she, unseen, catch a glimpse of him, than she stood for a moment as one nailed to the spot. Her heart beat against her bosom, then quivered as if about to cease its action; her knees struck against one another, a shiver ran through her frame, while perspiration started on her brow. Her eyes, wide open, were fascinated, like the bird’s before the snake. She raised her hand to her breast, made upon it the sign of life, and the spell was broken. She fled in an instant, still unnoticed, and had hardly stepped noiselessly behind a curtain that closed the stairs, when Fulvius, with downcast eyes, reached the spot on which she had stood. He started back a step, as if scared by something lying before him. He trembled violently; but recovering himself by a sudden effort, he looked around him and saw that he was alone. There was no eye upon him—except One which he did not heed, but which read his evil heart in that hour. He gazed again upon the object, and stooped to pick it up, but drew back his hand, and that more than once. At last he heard footsteps approaching, he recognized the martial tread of Sebastian, and hastily he snatched up from the ground the rich scarf which had dropped from Syra’s arm. He shook as he folded it up; and when, to his horror, he found upon it spots of fresh blood, which had oozed through the bandages, he reeled like a drunken man to the door, and rushed to his lodgings.

Pale, sick, and staggering, he went into his chamber, repulsing roughly the officious advances of his slaves; and only beckoned to his faithful domestic to follow him, and then signed to him to bar the door. A lamp was burning brightly by the table, on which Fulvius threw the embroidered scarf in silence, and pointed to the stains of blood. That dark man said nothing; but his swarthy countenance was blanched, while his master’s was ashy and livid.

“It is the same, no doubt,” at length spoke the attendant in their foreign tongue; “but she is certainly dead.”

“Art thou quite sure, Eurotas?” asked the master, with the keenest of his hawk’s looks.

“As sure as man can be of what he has not seen himself. Where didst thou find this? And whence this blood?”

“I will tell thee all to-morrow; I am too sick to-night. As to those stains, which were liquid when I found it, I know not whence they came, unless they are warnings of vengeance—nay, a vengeance themselves, deep as the Furies could meditate, fierce as they could launch. That blood has not been shed now.”

“Tut, tut! this is no time for dreams or fancies. Did any one see thee pick the—the thing up?”

“No one, I am sure.”

“Then we are safe; better in our hands than in others’. A good night’s rest will give us better counsel.”

“True, Eurotus; but do thou sleep this night in my chamber.”

Both threw themselves on their couches; Fulvius on a rich bed, Eurotus on a lowly pallet, from which, raised upon his elbow, with dark but earnest eye, he long watched, by the lamp’s light, the troubled slumbers of the youth—at once his devoted guardian and his evil genius. Fulvius tossed about and moaned in his sleep, for his dreams were gloomy and heavy. First he sees before him a beautiful city in a distant land, with a river of crystal brightness flowing through it. Upon it is a galley weighing anchor, with a figure on deck, waving towards him, in farewell, an embroidered scarf. The scene changes; the ship is in the midst of the sea, battling with a furious storm, while on the summit of the mast the same scarf streams out, like a pennant, unruffled and uncrumpled by the breeze. The vessel is now dashed upon a rock, and all with a dreadful shriek are buried in the deep. But the topmast stands above the billows, with its calm and brilliant flag; till, amidst the sea-birds that shriek around, a form with a torch in her hand, and black flapping wings, flies by, snatches it from the staff, and with a look of stern anger displays it, as in her flight she pauses before him. He reads upon it, written in fiery letters, Nemesis.[31]

But it is time to return to our other acquaintances in the house of Fabius.

After Syra had heard the door close on Fulvius she paused to compose herself, offered up a secret prayer, and returned to her blind friend. She had finished her frugal meal, and was waiting patiently the slave’s return. Syra then commenced her daily duties of kindness and hospitality; she brought water, washed her hands and feet in obedience to Christian practice, and combed and dressed her hair, as if the poor creature had been her own child. Indeed, though not much older, her look was so tender, as she hung over her poor friend, her tones were so soft, her whole action so motherly, that one would have thought it was a parent ministering to her daughter, rather than a slave serving a beggar. And this beggar, too, looked so happy, spoke so cheerily, and said such beautiful things, that Syra lingered over her work to listen to her, and gaze on her.

It was at this moment that Agnes came for her appointed interview, and Fabiola insisted on accompanying her to the door. But when Agnes softly raised the curtain, and caught a sight of the scene before her, she beckoned to Fabiola to look in, enjoining silence by her gesture. The blind girl was opposite, and her voluntary servant on one side, unconscious of witnesses. The heart of Fabiola was touched; she had never imagined that there was such a thing as disinterested love on earth between strangers; as to charity, it was a word unknown to Greece or Rome. She retreated quietly, with a tear in her eye, and said to Agnes, as she took leave:

“I must retire; that girl, as you know, proved to me this afternoon that a slave may have a head; she has now shown me that she may have a heart. I was amazed, when, a few hours ago, you asked me if I did not love a slave. I think, now, I could almost love Syra. I half regret that I have agreed to part with her.”

As she went back into the court, Agnes entered the room, and laughing, said:

“So, Cæcilia, I have found out your secret at last. This is the friend whose food you have always said was so much better than mine, that you would never eat at my house. Well, if the dinner is not better, at any rate I agree that you have fallen in with a better hostess.”

“Oh, don’t say so, sweet Lady Agnes,” answered the blind girl: “it is the dinner indeed that is better. You have plenty of opportunities for exercising charity; but a poor slave can only do so by finding some one still poorer, and helpless, like me. That thought makes her food by far the sweetest.”

“Well, you are right,” said Agnes, “and I am not sorry to have you present, to hear the good news I bring to Syra. It will make you happy too. Fabiola has allowed me to become your mistress, Syra, and to take you with me. To-morrow you shall be free, and a dear sister to me.”

Cæcilia clapped her hands with joy, and throwing her arms round Syra’s neck, exclaimed: “Oh, how good! How happy you will now be, dear Syra!”

But Syra was deeply troubled, and replied with faltering voice, “O good and gentle lady, you have been kind indeed, to think so much about one like me. But pardon me if I entreat you to remain as I am; I assure you, dear Cæcilia, I am quite happy here.”

“But why wish to stay?” asked Agnes.

“Because,” rejoined Syra, “it is most perfect to abide with God, in the state wherein we have been called.[32] I own this is not the one in which I was born; I have been brought to it by others.” A burst of tears interrupted her for a moment, and then she went on. “But so much the more clear is it to me, that God has willed me to serve Him in this condition. How can I wish to leave it?”

“Well then,” said Agnes, still more eagerly, “we can easily manage it. I will not free you, and you shall be my bondwoman. That will be just the same.”

“No, no,” said Syra, smiling, “that will never do. Our great Apostle’s instructions to us are: ‘Servants be subject to your masters with all fear, not only to the good and gentle, but also to the froward.’[33] I am far from saying that my mistress is one of these; but you, noble Lady Agnes, are too good and gentle for me. Where would be my cross, if I lived with you? You do not know how proud and headstrong I am by nature; and I should fear for myself, if I had not some pain and humiliation.”

Agnes was almost overcome; but she was more eager than ever to possess such a treasure of virtue, and said, “I see, Syra, that no motive addressed to your own interest can move you, I must therefore use a more selfish plea. I want to have you with me, that I may improve by your advice and example. Come, you will not refuse such a request.”

“Selfish,” replied the slave, “you can never be. And therefore I will appeal to yourself from your request. You know Fabiola, and you love her. What a noble soul, and what a splendid intellect she possesses! What great qualities and high accomplishments, if they only reflected the light of truth! And how jealously does she guard in herself that pearl of virtues, which only we know how to prize! What a truly great Christian she would make!”

“Go on, for God’s sake, dear Syra,” broke out Agnes, all eagerness. “And do you hope for it?”

“It is my prayer day and night; it is my chief thought and aim; it is the occupation of my life. I will try to win her by patience, by assiduity, even by such unusual discussions as we have held to-day. And when all is exhausted, I have one resource more.”

“What is that?” both asked.

“To give my life for her conversion. I know that a poor slave like me has few chances of martyrdom. Still, a fiercer persecution is said to be approaching, and perhaps it will not disdain such humble victims. But be that as God pleases, my life for her soul is placed in His hands. And oh, dearest, best of ladies,” she exclaimed, falling on her knees and bedewing Agnes’s hand with tears, “do not come in thus between me and my prize.”

“You have conquered, sister Syra (oh! never again call me lady),” said Agnes. “Remain at your post; such single-hearted, generous virtue must triumph. It is too sublime for so homely a sphere as my household.”

“And I, for my part,” subjoined Cæcilia, with a look of arch gravity, “say that she has said one very wicked thing, and told a great story, this evening.”

“What is that, my pet?” asked Syra, laughing.

“Why, you said that I was wiser and better than you, because I declined eating some trumpery delicacy, which would have gratified my palate for a few minutes, at the expense of an act of greediness; while you have given up liberty, happiness, the free exercise of your religion, and have offered to give up life itself, for the salvation of one who is your tyrant and tormentor. Oh, fie! how could you tell me such a thing!”