CHAPTER II.
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.