The Mother of St. Nicholas Part 1

The Mother of St. Nicholas.

by Grant Balfour.

CHAPTER I.

WATCHING FOR THE PREY.

Go back into the third century after Christ, travel east into the famous Mediterranean Sea, survey the beautiful south-west coast of Asia Minor, and let your eyes rest on the city of Patara. Look at it well.

Full of life then, dead and desolate now, the city has wonderful a.s.sociations in sacred and legendary lore--it saw the great reformer of the Gentiles, and gave birth to the white-haired man of Christmas joy.

Persecution had beforetime visited Patara, in common with other parts of the Roman Empire; and there were ominous signs, like the first mutterings of an earthquake, that a similar calamity might come again.

The prejudice and malice of the common people were dangerously stirred up to fight the quiet, persistent inroads of aggressive Christianity.

The authorities, perplexed and exasperated, were disposed to wink at a.s.sault upon individual Christians, to try them on any plausible pretext, and to shew them little quarter. If they could arrest the ringleaders, especially people of rank or wealth, whether men or women, in anything wrong or strongly suspicious, that they might apply exemplary punishment, then the irritated majority might be satisfied, and peace in the city restored.

In a recess at the corner of a busy street, leading towards the market place, two men stood, waiting and watching for some particular person to pa.s.s by. They were Demonicus and Timon, whose office or duty was something like that of a modern detective.

Demonicus, clad in a brown _chiton_ or tunic reaching down to the knees, was a powerfully built, dark man, with great bison-like shoulders and thick neck, bristling eyebrows, and fierce, covetous eyes. To him nothing was too perilous or too mean where there was strife or the chance of gold. He was a wrestler and mighty swordsman, he had often fought in the stadium or circus, and his fame had travelled as far as Rome, to which he went at last, and greatly distinguished himself for a time.

Timon, similarly clad, was only a man of ordinary strength; but he was lithe, self-willed and shrewd, with a streak of courtesy and sympathy.

Camels, bullocks, horses, mules and wagons were pa.s.sing by--a picturesque train of noisy, dusty movement on an unpaved street--while now and again a carriage or a litter appeared, whose occupants were considered either arrogant, or effeminate.

"Her carriage must have pa.s.sed," said Demonicus savagely.

"It cannot be," replied Timon civilly; "the lady, though unfettered by custom, rarely takes her carriage; she usually pa.s.ses on foot shortly after the morning meal, and I came here to watch in ample time."

"We must arrest her to-day on some pretext or other," muttered Demonicus. "I shall dog her steps everywhere, and if I cannot get a good excuse I shall invent one. The bribe," added he with an impatient gesture, "is too tempting for more delay."

Timon, though also grasping, was not heart and soul with Demonicus.

When on the watch alone he had had time to reflect, and his better nature would now and again a.s.sert itself, as there stole over his vision a beautiful figure with a n.o.ble work in hand. He wanted the prize but was not in hot haste to win it, and while it seemed judicious it also felt agreeable to suggest delay. After a brief silence he remarked--

"There is to be a special gathering of the Christians in the Church of the Triple Arch to-night. The bishop is away at Myra. But Orestes, the shepherd, is to be present, and I promise thee something will be said that will give us a plausible backing; his words are plain, ay even bold as the cliffs of Mount Taurus, where he dwells. Should we not wait till then, Demonicus?"

"I shall not," answered he, stamping his heavy, sandalled foot viciously; "it would be our last chance, and the woman might not be there."

"The lady is sure to be," rejoined Timon, "she is the spirit of the whole movement."

Demonicus paced about reflecting, and having cooled down, he mumbled,--"I shall see, but I shall miss no chance before."

Timon now stepped out and looked along the street, then turning immediately round to his companion with a hesitating, half-regretful look, he whispered--

"She is coming!"

The face of Demonicus glowed with an evil flame, as he went forward quickly to a.s.sure himself. The lady with her attendant, a liberated female slave, was seen approaching on foot, and both men retreated into the recess and waited.

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 pa.s.sing 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 G.o.ds 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 ill.u.s.trated 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 una.s.suming.

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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sage 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 h.e.l.lenic 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 G.o.d had forsaken Him."

"The cross means a great deal," said Crito reflectively.

"It was endured in love for us," was the reply.