XXVII. The Prodigal's Return
About ten o'clock the next morning, as Hypatia, worn out with
sleepless sorrow, was trying to arrange her thoughts for the
farewell lecture, her favourite maid announced that a messenger from
Synesius waited below. A letter from Synesius? A gleam of hope
flashed across her mind. From him, surely, might come something of
comfort, of advice. Ah! if he only knew how sorely she was bested!
'Let him send up his letter.'
'He refuses to deliver it to any one but yourself. And I think,'—
added the damsel, who had, to tell the truth, at that moment in her
purse a substantial reason for so thinking—'I think it might be
worth your ladyship's while to see him.'
Hypatia shook her head impatiently.
'He seems to know you well, madam, though he refuses to tell his
name: but he bade me put you in mind of a black agate—I cannot tell
what he meant—of a black agate, and a spirit which was to appear
when you rubbed it.'
Hypatia turned pale as death. Was it Philammon again? She felt for
the talisman—it was gone! She must have lost it last night in
Miriam's chamber. Now she saw the true purpose of the old hag's
plot—. . . .deceived, tricked, doubly tricked! And what new plot was this?
'Tell him to leave the letter, and begone . . . . My father? What? Who is this? Who are you bringing to me at such a moment?'
And as she spoke, Theon ushered into the chamber no other than
Raphael Aben-Ezra, and then retired.
He advanced slowly towards her, and falling on one knee, placed in
her hand Synesius's letter.
Hypatia trembled from head to foot at the unexpected apparition . . . . Well; at least he could know nothing of last night and its disgrace. But not daring to look him in the face, she took the letter and opened it . . . . If she had hoped for comfort from it, her hope was not realised.
'Synesius to the Philosopher:
'Even if Fortune cannot take from me all things, yet what she can
take she will. And yet of two things, at least, she shall not rob
me—to prefer that which is best, and to succour the oppressed. Heaven forbid that she should overpower my judgment, as well as the rest of me! Therefore I do hate injustice; for that I can do: and my will is to stop it; but the power to do so is among the things of which she has bereaved me-before, too, she bereaved me of my children. . . . "Once, in old times, Milesian men were strong." And there was a time when I, too, was a comfort to my friends, and when you used to call me a blessing to every one except myself, as I squandered for the benefit of others the favour with which the great regarded me . . . . My hands they were—then . . . . But now I am left desolate of all: unless you have any power. For you and virtue I count among those good things, of which none can deprive me. But you always have power, and will have it, surely, now—using it as nobly as you do.
'As for Nicaeus and Philolaus, two noble youths, and kinsmen of my
own, let it be the business of all who honour you, both private men
and magistrates, to see that they return possessors of their just
rights.' [Footnote: An authentic letter of Synesius to Hypatia.]
'Of all who honour me!' said she, with a bitter sigh: and then
looked up quickly at Raphael, as if fearful of having betrayed
herself. She turned deadly pale. In his eyes was a look of solemn
pity, which told her that he knew—not all?—surely not all?
'Have you seen the—Miriam?' gasped she, rushing desperately at that
which she most dreaded.
'Not yet. I arrived but one hour ago; and Hypatia's welfare is
still more important to me than my own.'
'My welfare? It is gone!'
'So much the better. I never found mine till I lost it.'
'What do you mean?'
Raphael lingered, yet without withdrawing his gaze, as if he had
something of importance to say, which he longed and yet feared to
utter. At last—
'At least, you will confess that I am better drest than when we met
last. I have returned, you see, like a certain demoniac of Gadara, about whom we used to argue, clothed—and perhaps also in my right mind . . . . God knows!'