Philammon hesitated. Something within warned him, as the Daemon used to warn Socrates, that his errand would be bootless. He thought of the theatre, and of that firm, compressed lip; and forgot the hollow eye of misery which accompanied it, in his wrath against his lately-worshipped idol.
“Oh, go! go! I tell you it was against her will. She felt for me—I saw it—Oh, God! when I did not feel for myself! And I hated her, because she seemed to despise me in my fool’s triumph! She cannot despise me now in my misery. … Go! Go! or you will drive me to the agony of going myself.”
There was but one thing to be done.
“You will wait, then, here? You will not leave me again?”
“Yes. But you must be quick! If he finds out that I am away, he may fancy. … Ah, heaven! let him kill me, but never let him be jealous of me! Go now! this moment! Take this as an earnest—the cestus which I wore there. Horrid thing! I hate the sight of it! But I brought it with me on purpose, or I would have thrown it into the canal. There; say it is an earnest—only an earnest—of what I will give her!”
In ten minutes more Philammon was in Hypatia’s hall. The household seemed full of terror and disturbance; the hall was full of soldiers. At last Hypatia’s favourite maid passed, and knew him. Her mistress could not speak with anyone. Where was Theon, then? He, too, had shut himself up. Never mind. Philammon must, would speak with him. And he pleaded so passionately and so sweetly, that the softhearted damsel, unable to resist so handsome a suppliant, undertook his errand, and led him up to the library, where Theon, pale as death, was pacing to and fro, apparently half beside himself with terror.
Philammon’s breathless message fell at first upon unheeding ears.
“A new pupil, sir! Is this a time for pupils; when my house, my daughter’s life, is not safe? Wretch that I am! And have I led her into the snare? I, with my vain ambition and covetousness! Oh, my child! my child! my one treasure! Oh, the double curse which will light upon me, if—”
“She asks for but one interview.”
“With my daughter, sir? Pelagia! Will you insult me? Do you suppose, even if her own pity should so far tempt her to degrade herself, that I could allow her so to contaminate her purity?”
“Your terror, sir, excuses your rudeness.”
“Rudeness, sir? the rudeness lies in your intruding on us at such a moment!”
“Then this, perhaps, may, in your eyes at least, excuse me in my turn.” And Philammon held out the cestus. “You are a better judge of its value than I. But I am commissioned to say, that it is only an earnest of what she will give willingly and at once, even to the half of her wealth, for the honour of becoming your daughter’s pupil.” And he laid the jewelled girdle on the table.
The old man halted in his walk. The emeralds and pearls shone like the galaxy. He looked at them; and walked on again more slowly. … What might be their value? What might it not be? At least, they would pay all his debts. … And after hovering to and fro for another minute before the bait, he turned to Philammon.
“If you would promise to mention the thing to no one—”
“I will promise.”
“And in case my daughter, as I have a right to expect, shall refuse—”
“Let her keep the jewels. Their owner has learnt, thank God, to despise and hate them! Let her keep the jewels—and my curse! For God do so to me, and more also, if I ever see her face again!”
The old man had not heard the latter part of Philammon’s speech. He had seized his bait as greedily as a crocodile, and hurried off with it into Hypatia’s chamber, while Philammon stood expectant; possessed with a new and fearful doubt. “Degrade herself!” “Contaminate her purity!” If that notion were to be the fruit of all her philosophy? If selfishness, pride, Pharisaism, were all its outcome? Why—had they not been its outcome already? When had he seen her helping, even pitying, the poor, the outcast? When had he heard from her one word of real sympathy for the sorrowing; for the sinful? … He was still lost in thought when Theon reentered, bringing a letter.
“From Hypatia to her well-beloved pupil.
“I pity you—how should I not? And more. I thank you for this your request, for it shows me that my unwilling presence at the hideous pageant of today has not alienated from me a soul of which I had cherished the noblest hopes, for which I had sketched out the loftiest destiny. But how shall I say it? Ask yourself whether a change—apparently impossible—must not take place in her for whom you plead, before she and I can meet. I am not so inhuman as to blame you for having asked me; I do not even blame her for being what she is. She does but follow her nature; who can be angry with her, if destiny have informed so fair an animal with a too gross and earthly spirit? Why weep over her? Dust she is, and unto dust she will return: while you, to whom a more divine spark was allotted at your birth,
