Chapter XI.

Two years have passed; such years! Magas has left Athens, has become a Christian--nay, a Christian preacher. His property has been more for others than himself; for he has renounced wealth, pomp, earthly power, to follow the footsteps of that wondrous convert who was brought to Christ by being struck down to earth by excess of light--blinded by glory--by seeing the heavenly vision with the unprepared eyes of earth. By St. Paul confirmed in the faith, Magas was, through the same apostle, set apart for the ministry through the laying on of hands. Magas has so completely changed his nature, his very features seem altered. The young Athenian noble, proud of a long line of ancestry, but seeks to devote his days to the one Master who shares his undivided heart.

Yet he returned to Athens, and his voice was heard by Chione.

All night she listened; in her short slumbers she dreamed of him; In the morning her wandering senses had returned. Lotis entered her room with her breakfast; and the wild light in Chione's eyes had subsided. She looked around; she inquired, "Where am I? Lotis, why are you here?"

"I am here to tend you, dear Chione; you have been ill."

"Ill!" said Chione, passing her hand over her brow; "Ill! I've, had a long, strange dream! Where's Magas?"

"I do not know," said Lotis.

"He was here last night," said Chione. "I heard his voice; all night I watched for him; why did he keep away?"

"I cannot tell you," answered Lotis.

"Cannot tell! Is not this his house? is he not at home?"

"No! this is not his house," said Lotis; "he has been away from Athens, and he left you here to be taken care of. Now you must ask no more questions, but take your breakfast. I will send to Magas to tell him you are better."

Lotis left the room and summoned another attendant, charging her to be careful of her speech, lest the newly returned reason should again fail, she herself sought the bishop to let him know of the change.

It required some care to break to Chione the tidings that she was in the house of the Lady Damaris; that for two years she had been a prey to a most cruel malady of the brain, during which time Lotis had taken every possible care of her; and that Magas had been, during that time, away. Reawakened reason almost tottered again on its throne. Chione's pride was evidently hurt.

"Two years! two years! was that the end of my triumph? Magas! a mad woman! What has Magas been doing?"

"He will tell you that best himself; he will be here shortly."

"Two years! two long years! O Magas!"

......

{261}

"They met! But is this Magas? is this Chione? The long, lank hair, eyes almost starting from their sockets; and that form, so shrunken, so bereft of its former beauty, can this be the Venus Urania? And Apollo! will you recognize him in that weather-beaten form, coarsely clad, and mien so humble, though an intellectual manliness still sat upon the brow?

"Is this Magas? the same, and yet so changed? Magas, speak to me."

"You are then recovering at last, Chione?"

"At last! yes! I knew not of my illness till I recovered. Strange thing, this mind is, Magas! I lived on you: you were absent--I died; your voice brought me back to life."

"Nay, you were ill before I left you, Chione. It was a higher voice speaking to you, to which you turned a deaf ear, that caused your illness."

"What mean you?"

"That the remorse you felt for your abandoned faith upset your mental energies. Venus Urania should not have been enacted by a Christian."

"You have discovered my secret then; but I am a Christian no longer."

"Oh! do not say that, Chione; say, rather, you will repent, do penance. Chione, you cannot at will cast away faith. The effect those words produced on you show that you still believe."

"The devils believe and tremble," muttered the unfortunate woman; "yet it is not faith they have."

"But you are not yet a reprobate--are not yet beyond recall. Chione, I, Magas, entreat you, do not lie to your God. You cannot deceive him, and for his power, does not your past illness make you tremble for the future?"

"What means this altered tone, Magas?" said Chione bitterly. "Are you turned against me? Ah! I see how it is! Two years of absence, two years of illness, have done their work. Man's constancy is of a summer day; the winter comes, he freezes with the cold; for the love within no longer glows, no longer sends the blood rushing through the veins with a warmth that defies exterior cold. Some other form fresher than this frame impaired by sickness hath replaced Chione in your heart. You come to bid me farewell. Farewell, Magas."

Deceived by her feigned calmness, Magas rose. "Again, Chione, I entreat you to return to the religion you have abandoned."

"And do penance at the church door in sackcloth and ashes? Is that your meaning? Will you be there to see me beg the prayers of the faithful as they pass in to the mysteries from which I am excluded?"

This was said with an inconceivable mixture of sarcasm and bitterness.

"Love could sweeten even such an act as that," said Magas; "surely, even that is better than apostasy."

"And who are you that dare to twit me with apostasy? False one, wearied of thy old love, seeking another," (here she seized the arm of Magas,) "tell me," she said fiercely, "what is the name of the fair one for whom you abandon me?"

"Why would you know?" asked Magas.

"That I might tear her limb from limb!" said the frenzied woman.

"That is beyond your power, Chione. Him I love sits enthroned in the heavens. I have no earthly love. Chione, farewell. Remember, Magas blesses you--blesses you as he leaves you. You will not see him soon again, for Magas is a Christian priest."

{262}

He left her.

No, the energies did not depart as she started to her feet on hearing the last words--"a Christian priest!" "Magas! Oh! had I known, could I have guessed! The love of Magas without losing my religion! Can I regain it? Yes; by penance, Chione, doing penance! Faugh! Chione standing in the cold, clothed in sackcloth, exposed to the derision of the faithful. 'Twould be easy to love, he said. Did he say so? Love must be boiling hot indeed to sweeten such an act as that; and my love, ah! ah! love for religion, such a religion as that, ah! ah! ah!"

The poor woman raved, but alas! there was too much method in her madness. Wilfully she shut out faith; wilfully she turned to hate all that heretofore she had held dear; but she acted for a while with an earthly prudence that deceived those around her.

She staid with the Lady Damaris until she had recovered health and strength, until she had made herself sure of the independence Magas had settled on her. Then she left, and opened a school of philosophy, which was soon filled. Her former reputation did her much service in that respect, and that she had escaped from the enchantments of the Christians, who had tried to destroy her, added to the interest she inspired. She soon recovered her former beauty, and she studied now, studied deeply, how to thwart the Christians, how to demonstrate that whatever was beautiful in their religion they had stolen from the muses; that whatever was mystical came to them from Hindostan, the seat of mysticism; that whatever was reasonable and ethical they had learned from philosophy. It was a splendid success in Athens, that philosophical school of Chione; for it flattered the passions while it shed the grace of eloquence and refinement over them. All beauty, taste, and melody were made to yield their utmost sweetness there. Her disciples were of the rich, the great, the noble. They could practise the elegant course of study alternating with ease that she prescribed: "To enjoy is the aim of existence, refinement, cultivation, a correct system of ethics makes perfect enjoyment. Science gives interest, lifts one above the vulgar. Art ennobles and civilizes, and Athens is still the central point of art, science, and philosophy." So said Chione.