CHAPTER LVII

GLEAMS OF RETURNING DAWN

Coventry Patmore.

For many weary days—but youth triumphed, and life won the supremacy, aided by the sound influence of a pure and healthy frame.

Hitherto, since the cruelty to which he had been subjected, he had never awakened to clear thought. It was as if a red mist had ever been floating before his eyes, and for some time nothing but his feeble breath and slight movements had proved that he was alive. But now he began to show signs that he would recover.

One day Aurelian and his wife, Claudia, stood by his bedside with the physician, who was a kindly Christian man. Aurelian was looking at Philip somewhat sadly. ’How changed,’ he said, ‘from the bright youth of six years ago! Will the colour ever return to that pale cheek, or the old strength and swiftness to those suffering limbs?’

‘Yes,’ said the physician, ‘I have expended my best skill upon him, and, with God’s blessing, it has not been in vain. But when he awakes to full consciousness there may be a reaction of despair and mental agony, which I greatly dread.’

‘What do you advise?’

‘He would be better in the country. When he is able to think and to remember, the tramp of soldiers in your courtyard below will trouble him, Præfect; and, assiduous as the Lady Claudia has been in her kindnesses, he will need someone to tend him day and night.’

‘Olympias would gladly nurse him till his recovery,’ said Claudia. ‘She came to see him, not without danger 480 to herself, a few days since. She often used to talk to him in the house of the Patriarch.’

‘Nothing could be better,’ said the physician. ‘In the island-city of Cyzicus, where Olympias now lives, he would breathe the pure air of the Propontis. The Lady Olympias is a skilled and devoted nurse, and it will be good for her, as well as for him, that he should be under her care, and help to dispel her overwhelming melancholy by the pressure of kindly duties to be done.’

The next day Philip woke sane. Claudia was sitting by his bedside. He did not recognise her. His eye wandered round the unfamiliar chamber. He could hardly recall who he was, or form any distinct recollection of the past. Claudia laid her hand on his forehead. ’What place is this?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘It does not look like the prison.’

‘You are in the house of Aurelian, the Prætorian Præfect.’

‘And you, lady?’

‘I am Claudia, the Patrician’s wife. We have been nursing you.’

A long pause followed.

‘And he? Is he alive? Where is he?’

‘Do you mean the Consular Aurelian? He is in the next room.’

‘No! He—the Patriarch John.’

‘He is well; he is at Cucusus.’

‘Oh! I remember; I remember all. And Eutych——?’

His voice was choked as he tried to utter the word.

‘Do not talk or think now, Philip. All you have to do is to get well.’

‘But does he live?’

‘Yes, Philip—he lives in that land where God wipes all tears from off all faces.’

‘He will never wipe them from mine,’ said Philip in a faint whisper; and, indeed, the silent tears which he was too weak to wipe away were coursing each other down his hollow cheeks.

‘Shall I ever rise from this sick-bed?’

‘Yes, Philip, and be strong again, and well, and happy.’

‘Never happy,’ he said, with a low moan.

‘Yes, happy, dear youth,’ said the physician, who entered at that moment—’if only you will now dismiss all trouble from your mind, and rest.’

For a week after that time he talked little; but it was so evident that his mind was working, and that he was sinking deep into a sea of gloom, that they thought it advisable to remove him, with the utmost care and caution, to the villa of Olympias. Accompanied by the physician, and proceeding by easy stages, amid every comfort, he gained rather than suffered by the journey to Cyzicus. In the course of a few days he could lie on his couch in the open air, amid the gardens and groves and orchards which embowered the villa of Olympias; and before long he could walk again, and the tide of youthful life began once more to pour through his veins.

But, as the physician dreaded, the frightful memory of his recent experiences weighed on him like lead. Was it not a hopelessly unaccountable thing that wickedness, and lies, and mean intrigues, and sham religion, could have triumphed, and that the reward of innocence and righteousness should have been defeat, humiliation, exile, torture? Chrysostom was in a bleak and frightful Armenian village, harassed by the raids of brigands, overwhelmed with hatred and victorious calumny; Olympias, Pentadia, Nicarete, exiled, fined, humiliated; the faithful Johannites beaten, imprisoned, tortured; Eutyches barbarously murdered; Michael, David, Miriam absent and silent; he himself racked, buffeted, all but killed, every hope frustrated, every gleam of happiness for ever dead. No one was triumphant but Eudoxia, and Severian, and Theophilus of Alexandria. Had God removed into His infinite blue heaven, far away from the wickedness of the hypocrites and the misery of the good? Did Christ, after all, hear prayer? or—— And there Philip seemed to drown in a subterranean Erebus of doubt and despondency, and did not so much as wish to live.

Slowly but surely hope came back, and God’s consolations increased upon his soul ‘with the gentleness of a sea that caresses the shore it covers.’

He had become very taciturn; and Olympias herself had 482 been so crushed by calamities that her mind, too, was all darkened with clouds, through which no star looked. But one day he asked her: ‘Has he inquired after me? Does he know? Has he written?’

Olympias knew whom he meant, and said: ’Yes, the Patriarch has again and again inquired about you. For his own dear sake we concealed from him all we could; but a sword pierced his heart when we could not but tell him that Eutyches had been martyred, and that you were lying between life and death. He might say, with David, “ All thy waves and storms have gone over me.“ But he has written to you, and now that you are well enough to read his letter, I will hand it to you.’

Philip took the letter with a trembling hand, and retired into the garden to read it by himself.

‘My heart bleeds for you, my Philip,’ so the letter ran. ’I have heard from Olympias what shame and agony God has called on you to endure for my poor sake—let me say, rather, for the sake of truth and duty. When I heard of your sufferings, and of the death of our beloved Eutyches, I wept as if my heart would break, and I found no comfort till I had poured out my soul before God. I cannot weep any more for him, though it is sad to think that we shall see his face and hear his sweet voice no more. But why should we weep for one whom the world can never more stain or torment, and who is now a happy spirit in the nearer presence of his God? For you, whom I have ever loved as a son, I have never ceased to grieve, and no day passes that you are not mentioned in my prayers. Never, never shall I forget you, and all your goodness and love to me—first, in those dear days at Antioch, and then amid the troubles of Constantinople.

Olympias tells me, dear Philip, that your recovery might be complete if it were not retarded by the oppression of sorrow. Your sorrow is most natural. Nevertheless, trust thou still upon God, and hope in Him, for He is, and will be, the light of thy countenance, and thy God. You have often seen the black clouds roll up from the Euxine and obliterate the azure; but did you not always know that they were only the clouds of earth and of our 483 lower atmosphere—that they were themselves created by the sun itself, and that, behind them, the sun was still flaming, though for the time he was hidden? My Philip! God is that sun; and He knows no setting; He is for ever in the zenith. For He is light, and with Him is no darkness at all.

So cheer up, my Philip; God will never leave you nor forsake you, if you put your trust in Him. Write and tell me that your heart is not overwhelmed. Write to me, if you can, in that happy mood which has helped to brighten so many years. Of myself I will say nothing now, for our beloved Olympias knows my concerns, and she will tell you how I fare in this far-distant place of exile.’

The letter comforted him, though he could not yet embrace its deeper topics of consolation. And as the messenger would start the next day with many letters to the banished Patriarch from his friends in Constantinople, Philip entrusted to him a few lines.

‘My father,’ he wrote, ‘I am still too weak, and my right hand shaken too much, to write more than this greeting. Oh! we have gone through dark and cruel times. Pray for me, father, that my faith fail not. By the time that your next letter reaches me I hope to be well again. Bid me come to you to Cucusus, and I will fly as on the wings of the wind. It would be joy indeed to hear your voice once more, to sit at your feet, and serve you, and devote my life to you.’

Another comfort helped to dispel Philip’s gloom. As yet the one horror which constantly overcame him was the thought of Eutyches—first, the memory of so many mirthful and innocent hours spent with him and David in the dear anteroom of the Patriarcheion; and then the indelible spectacle of that face and figure on the bloodstained rack. It was this vision which Philip sometimes thought would drive him mad. One day it had specially tormented him, and had seemed to push him back into drowning whirlpools. He was sitting on a grey, lichened rock under the trees. The tears burst again and again through the fingers of his hands, on which he rested his weary head. And then, in his anguish, he cried to God to exorcise this phantom, and enable him only to think 484 of his lost friend as he was before that cruel scene. As again and again he repeated the cry a sudden conviction came over him that his prayer had been heard. That night he sank to peaceful sleep; and, while he slept, happy dreams waved their light mugs over his head. He seemed to see the golden ladder between heaven and earth, and angels ascending and descending upon it, and over it the face of the Son of Man. He seemed to see the midnight sky bursting open to its depths, and bright spirits, amid the glory, carolling as they carolled on the first Christmas night. He seemed to see the Elders and the Immortalities, the lucent Seraphim of knowledge, the burning Cherubim of Love, casting their cravens of amaranth before the sapphire-coloured throne. And amid all these radiances he saw always the face of Eutyches innocent, beautiful, happy—more innocent, more beautiful, more happy than he had ever seen it in his most joyous hours. Then he thought he had raised his outstretched hands, yearning to speak to him; and in white robes, a palm-branch in his hand, the boy had stood by his bedside, and said to him, ’Philip, why should you grieve so much for me? I am often very near you; and eye hath not seen nor ear heard the blessings of heaven, our home. Grieve no more for me, Philip, and so live that we may all meet in this land, where there are no more tears.’

With these words still sounding like music in his ears Philip woke, and it seemed to him as if the room were still full of light and peace. His prayer had been heard. He never mentioned the dream to anyone but Olympias, but he was inwardly convinced that it was something more than an illusion of the night. Thenceforth, whenever the image of Eutyches recurred to his thoughts, it was as an image, not of horror, but of beauty and of peace.

And then one more blessing exorcised the incubus of his despair.

What, he often thought, was to be his future? As to his means of living he was spared all anxiety, for he was well provided for. Chrysostom had handed over to him and Eutyches his property in Antioch, and that alone would suffice him. A friend of Chrysostom, the good priest Constantius at Antioch, saw that this heredity was 485 duly administered, and had also taken charge of the house and money left by Hermas, Philip’s father. To these two sources of maintenance there had been a gratifying addition from a very exalted quarter.

Ever since Aurelian, the Prætorian Præfect, had interceded with Arcadius for Philip, the Emperor, whose impulses were far from unkindly when he was left to himself, had felt an unwonted interest in the youth. He had encouraged Aurelian to talk about him when Eudoxia was not present, and so had learnt the story of the way in which the quick resource of Philip and Eutyches had devised the masque which terrified the marauding Goths of Gaïnas, who would otherwise, beyond all doubt, have sacked his Palace, and perhaps have sacrificed his own life and that of his Empress, and even have changed the destinies of the Empire. For this service he could not but feel intensely indebted, and he was struck with the nobly modest reticence which had never even mentioned so memorable a proof of loyalty. With what frightful ingratitude had the poor youth been requited, when so many of the corrupt, the worthless, and the disloyal had been crowned with honours which they did but abuse! Arcadius sent for his Count of the Imperial Largesses, and ordered him to see that privately, but without fail, Philip was supplied with a yearly pension of a hundred aurei. He further desired the Count, without mentioning the fact to anyone, to keep an eye on Philip, and to use any opportunity which might occur to further his interests. In case of his complete recovery the Emperor commanded that the young man should be summoned to a private audience.

This was communicated to Philip, and he was now at ease as regards his future sustenance. God, who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, was beginning to show mercy upon him after such heavy strokes of calamity. But, even now, what was a future without friends and without love? Oh! if he could but hope that one day the lot of Miriam would be linked with his!

The return of perfect health was still retarded by these thoughts, when one day one of the slaves of Olympias came to tell him that a friend was asking for him, and awaited him in the tablinum.

‘A friend!’ said Philip, with a sigh. ‘What friend is left me in Constantinople? All whom I loved are dead, or in prison, or in exile.’

‘But the friend, sir, told me to tell you that he came from Palestine.’

‘From Palestine!’ Philip’s heart gave a great leap, and he followed the slave to the room.

A tall, graceful youth was standing with his back to the door, gazing on the boats which furrowed the blue Propontis.

He turned round as Philip entered.

‘David!’ exclaimed Philip; and in one moment their arms were round each other’s neck, their heads on each other’s shoulders.

Philip was the first who found voice to speak.

‘Oh, David!’ he sobbed for joy. ‘Is all well? Is Miriam well—but your smile and your happy face have already told me that all is well.’

‘Yes, Philip, with us all is well, thank God!’

‘Your father? Miriam? Oh, David! does she love me still?’

‘She loves you, Philip, with a love as strong, as pure, as faithful as your own.’

‘David! David! why did none of you write to me?’

‘You cannot think that we did not, Philip. We have written at every opportunity in our power; but you had left no message at the Patriarcheion. I traced you to your lodging by the Chrysoceras; I traced you to the prison. There I learnt that you had been set free by the Emperor’s order, and only from Aurelian did I learn the secret that you were here.’

‘Oh, David! we have gone through awful times and awful scenes. Eutyches——’

‘I know all,’ said David, tears in his voice and in his eyes. ‘Before letting you know that I was here I had seen the Lady Olympias. Ah! God!——’

Philip hung his head. ‘God’s ways are strange,’ he said. ‘We have been scattered as with hot thunderbolts. The happy days are over for ever.’

‘For ever is a very long word, my Philip. But oh! how pinched, how haggard you look—in no wise less beloved, 487 but more tenderly beloved—but oh! how unlike that old, beloved Philip.’

‘I have been cruelly tortured, David; I am but a wreck of my former self. All mirth is quenched, all health gone. Miriam can never wed me now——’ And the poor youth burst into uncontrollable weeping.

‘Nay, nay, my Philip. Cheer up!’ said David. ‘My sister is yours, your betrothed; yours in sickness and in health, in life and in death. Fear not!’

But as Philip would not be comforted, he led him gently by the hand into the garden, and sat down with him under one of the great trees.

‘Listen, Philip,’ he said; you know my father. You know that, perhaps from the holy purity of his faith, God sometimes vouchsafes to him to see what shall be. You will remember that he foresaw these days of anguish. He seemed to be suffering with you in spirit while he prayed for you. His last words to me were, ”David, my son, you will find Philip. Tell him that all will yet be well with him. He will recover perfect health. Miriam, by the traditions always kept among us, is too young to marry, and I would fain have the blessing and the sunlight of her presence a little longer. But Philip is her betrothed, and in two years, if he will come to us, he shall wed Miriam and take her to his home.”’

‘God grant it! God grant it!’ murmured Philip; and hope seemed already to have rekindled a lustre in his eye and a faint flush of colour on his wan cheek.

Olympias invited David to stay at her villa; but duty and work recalled him home, and he could only stay for ten days. Those were Philip’s first happy days since the great disasters, and every day seemed to bring him more of strength and life, as he strolled about or sailed on the Propontis with Miriam’s brother, the friend of his own age whom he loved most on earth. The winter of his life began to melt into the promise of a new spring.