YOUNG STEPHEN AND FELIX.

That bland sweet weather changed to truculent

At sunset, and through all the winter night

Raged with wild wind and sleet of rain and hail.

The roofs, the doors, the casements, of the house

Where Felix and Drusilla sojourned, shook

As toward dilapidation of its frame.

Drusilla lay in terror of her life

Tossing upon her couch and could not sleep.

Brief intervals and lulls of tempest came;

But images of distant danger then

Mixed with the imminent menaces of the night.

So with the earliest morning — furious yet

The unabated rack of elements —

Drusilla sent for Simon, rallied now

Out of his low estate, and, tremulous

With weakness, through that very weakness made

More searchingly clairvoyant than his wont.

Untimely roused, and unrefreshed with sleep,

And shaken as still she was with panic fears,

The Jewess, ever conscious of herself

And proudly the more conscious now before

One whom she fain would hold her vassal, sat

Like a queen giving audience, well-arrayed,

Yet artfully in speaking seemed to plead.

“Simon,” she said, “be once more my resource.”

“Not once more, but an hundred hundred times,

Liege lady,” Simon said, “if mine art serve.”

“But, Simon, will it serve for no reward?”

Drusilla, not without some pathos, said;

Yet also not without some scrutiny

Of Simon, which that deep dissembler bore

Flinching, but scarcely flinching, as he said:

“My fortune I account bound up with thine.”

“Yea, Simon, what through thee I gain,” she said,

“Reckon that thou no less gainest through me.

As has been, is, our pact; art thou content?”

“More than content, most thankful,” Simon said;

“I pray thee of conditions now no more,

But speak thy wishes; they shall be commands.”

“Well, faithful Simon,” wheedling now she spoke,

“That proud Drusilla thou once knewest in me,

Is abject in sheer sense of helplessness.

My lord is broken in spirit with lack of hope:

I stay him up, as best I may, to show

The world some front of kingly boldness yet,

But truth is, I am broken with staying him.

What can we do at Rome? How mend our case?

Friends have we few, and on the fallen thou knowest

Enemies swarm like flies on rotting flesh.

All is for sale at Rome, but who can buy

That goes barehanded thither, as do we?

Thou hast the truth; now, Simon, like the rest,

Leave us, as rats forsake a dooméd ship!”

“Thou pleasest to be facetious, O my queen,”

Said Simon; “thou barehanded never art,

Go where thou wilt, with beauty such as thine,

Such beauty, and such wit to use it well.”

With pregnant ambiguity he spoke,

And deeply read the features of her face.

Those features molded nobly fair, but now

Through their disfiguring discomposure wronged,

Slowly regained the aspect clear and calm

Wherein the proud possessor long before

Learned that her sumptuous beauty best prevailed

To make her sovereign of the hearts of men:

Habit, with reminiscence of her past

Triumphs, usurped her mind that she forgot

Simon, the raging storm, her doubts and fears.

Simon considered his mistress at his ease;

He saw she was not flattered by his words

To be a childlike plaything in his hands;

He saw she was too haughty to resent,

Too haughty to acknowledge by word or sign,

Perhaps too haughty even to recognize

In her deep mind, much more in heart to feel,

Hint as conveyed by him in what he said

That in the marriage markets of the world

Such charms as hers were merchantable ware;

And that he Simon abode at her command

Loyally ready to renew for her,

On some august occasion still to seek,

That intermediary office his

Which once from King Azizus parted her

To make her of the Roman Felix spouse.

Drusilla in no manner made response;

But not less Simon knew his wish was sped;

He knew the Venus Victrix heart in her

Was flattering to the height her sense of power.

He could not err by over-audacity

In tempting this presumptuous woman's pride.

He ventured: “It were loyal service done

Thy husband, to whom loyal service thou

Already even to sacrifice hast done

In being his consort, thou a queen before,

And he” —‘ but lately raised from servile state,’

Simon would fain have said outright, to ease

The pressure of hate and scorn he felt for Felix,

But knew he must no more than thus arrest

That word upon the point of utterance caught —

“It were I say, well-weighed, a service to him

If thou shouldst wake the matchless power thou hast

Of kindling admiration and desire,

To exercise it in supreme assay

At the tribunal where he must be judged,

Making the judge himself thy willing thrall!”

The subtle sorcerer watched with wary eye

Askance, to see his mistress give at this

Some sign of pleased and startled vanity:

Impassible placidity he saw —

Serene, withdrawn, uninterrupted muse.

A little disconcerted, he bode mute,

Half glad in hope that he had not been heard.

When at length she, that queenly creature, broke,

Herself, with speech the growing spell of awe

He felt upon him cast by her supreme

Beauty suspense in its august repose,

Its silence and reserve and mystery,

Then Simon knew that she had been before

Him with the soaring thought of Nero led —

The emperor of the world in triumph led —

A captive at Drusilla's chariot wheels!

A flash of light invaded Simon's mind:

‘ Were there not hidden here the way long sought

To free himself from the abhorréd yoke

Of Felix? This bold woman would not stick

At putting such an obstacle as was

A husband such as he, out of her path —

This by whatever means — a path that led

Steep to enthronement by the emperor's side.’

Thenceforward Felix's worst foe was one

Of his own household at his table fed.

“The emperor is a bloody man, if true

Be all, be half, that they report of him —”

Drusilla thus, as in soliloquy

Rather than in discourse to ear addressed,

Spoke slowly — “he, the latest story goes

Sped like a shudder of horror around the world,

Has got his mother slain, bunglingly drowned

By accident forsooth, at his command —

Accident such as asks design to chance,

A vessel foundering in a placid sea,

On a serene and starry summer night —

And after all not drowned, even awkwardly,

But rescued to be stabbed, with mother's cry

First from her lips,‘ I never will believe

This of my son!’ but then with,‘ Strike me here!’

Confessing that she knew it was her son!

And his young queen Octavia, silly sweet,

And good, and pure, and fair, and amiable,

And in short all a Roman emperor's spouse

Should not be — she, they say, leads a slave's life,

Or worse, amid her husband's palace scorned,

And happy if at last only with death

And not with shame he rid her from his side.”

Thus speaking, his bold mistress, Simon knew,

Called up deterrent thoughts so formidable,

Not to succumb before them shocked, appalled,

But to confront them fairly, know them well,

Then with defiance triumph over them.

Still, with slant thrust at Felix in his thought,

He dared a word of double-edged reply:

“Emperors, and those however now ill-placed

Yet worthy to be empresses, are free

To seek their consorts, consorts true I mean,

Wherever they can find them in the world;

And obstacles must not be obstacles

To them; their pathway must somehow be cleared.

Such, one may all too easily judge amiss.

Wait till thou see the emperor fitly wed!

That emperor-mother Agrippina balked

Her boy too often of his wish. She would

Be empress of the emperor of the world;

Her blood in him made this impossible:

It was her folly and crime invoked her fall.

As for that young Octavia — thou hast said.”

“Poppæa” — so Drusilla had resumed,

But Simon rashly took the word from her:

“Poppæa is a rival to be weighed

Doubtless — highborn, and beautiful, and deep

In cunning, and sure mistress of herself —

As art not thou too, and full equally?—

But then she has a husband in the way,

And is she of the stuff to deal with him?”

Simon's hatred of his lord had pricked him on

Beyond the mark of prudence; he recoiled

From his own words before Drusilla spoke,

And added, for diversion of her thought:

“But doubtless thou wilt need to buy thy way

To opportunity at Rome; betimes

Prepare thee bribes to drop along thy path.

Our Gentile brethren have a pretty tale” —

And Simon with sarcastic humor leered —

“Of how a runner once upon a time

Won him a famous race by letting fall

Gold apples on the course too tempting bright

Not to delay his rival gathering them.

Provide thyself with apples of gold to drop,

While thou art speeding featly to thy goal.”

“Gold, Simon!” Drusilla said, “thou teasest me,

Too well thou knowest I have no gold; our store

Was swallowed all in that devouring sea.”

“I speak in figure, my lady,” Simon said;

“I mean neither literal apples nor literal gold.”

“Pray, no more parable to me,” severe

With air resumed once more of queen enthroned,

Drusilla answered, and, with only look,

As haughtily disdaining further word,

Demanded that he make his meaning plain.

Simon, with indirection sly, replied:

“Hast thou remarked the daily opening bloom

Of beauty in the face, and in the form,

Of that Eunicé, our young countrywoman?”

Drusilla gave a fiercely jealous start —

On Simon, eagerly alert, not lost,

Brief though it was, and instantly subdued;

It was as instantly interpreted —

A welcomed effect, though calculated not.

She had recalled what late she overheard

Hinted from Felix to the prisoner Paul,

“Unless indeed thy pretty countrywoman” —

And construed it as meaning that his eye,

Her husband's, had been levying on the maid.

“Women are not like men to note such things,”

Drusilla answered with a frigid air,

Yet not as with unwillingness to learn

What sequel there might be in Simon's thought.

That sequel Simon changed to suit the case

He had now created unexpectedly.

He would torment Drusilla's jealous mind,

And whet her temper to the proper edge

For helpful quarrel with that spouse of hers

So hateful to him.

“Women that are wives,”

Said Simon, “well might condescend to pay

Some heed to such things! But the present need

Is to have bribes in hand of the right sort

To lavish where occasion may arise

When we reach Rome. Try if thou canst not gain

This pretty damsel for our purposes.

Play patroness to her, have her at court

Here — for wherever the true queen is, there

Is court, though in a desert — flatter her,

And ply her to thy will. Arrived at Rome,

Where all is venal yet venal not all for gold,

Offer her as likest seems to serve thy cause.

There is my scheme for thee; and thy lord will,

I doubt not, wink at least to forward it.”

Simon could not forbear the tempting chance

To end, as he began, with what would bait

Further Drusilla's flushed and jealous mind.

‘ Is Simon playing me false in a deep game

To serve lord Felix at his wife's expense?’

Drusilla wondered;‘ would he dare so far?

Does he even seek to make a tool of me?

Of me, Drusilla, make a pliant tool —

I serve their turn forsooth against myself?

Be it so, and let them trow their plotting speeds!

I will try to be as simple as they could wish.’

In secret with herself she wondered thus;

But spoke aloud with cleared and brightened look:

“The storm, I see, which I had quite forgot,

Thanks to the charms of thy society,

Is much abated; let us break our fast,

And then go thou and bid her hither to me,

That pretty child. Tell her I need her much,

For I am deeply sorry for my sins,

And think that, with a little guide like her

To take me by the hand and lead me right,

I could forsake them all and follow with her

Henceforward, a true sister in the faith.

A little lure of harmless simple hope

To win a wicked woman from her ways,

I think thou wilt find useful with the maid,

If, as is likely, she be loth to come.”

Felix, Drusilla, and the sorcerer

That morning at their simple meal reclined

Together in a show of amity;

But inwardly it was a state of feud

Or hollow truce of armed hypocrisy.

Eating in silence with small appetite,

Their breakfast soon they ended; Simon then

Withdrew and did his errand. He did more;

For having perforce to meet the mother too,

Whose daughter was seen ever at her side,

He feigned to be himself a penitent,

Protesting his belief that he was healed,

Unworthy to be healed, because Paul came

But near him where he lay sick in his bed;

And this although he had wickedly refused

To see Paul and to suffer Paul's hands on him.

He said his mistress was afraid, as he

Was too, of Felix; both of them must move

Warily, no suspicion to excite

In one so irritable and so violent.

They therefore could not ask for Paul to come,

Or indeed any man among Paul's friends.

But Ruth might safely come and bring the maid

Her daughter. Simon begged the matron would

Kindly indulge Drusilla's preference,

Caprice perhaps it was, for making her child

And not herself — senior, and so more wise

Doubtless — her chosen guide and confidant.

Eunicé's youth had won Drusilla's heart.

All Simon's plausible art could not prevail

To gain from Ruth the promise he desired;

She only told him she would ponder well

What he had said and do as wisest seemed.

But Simon, cheering himself that in the end

Ruth by the tempting bait held out to her,

The hope of doing good, would be enticed,

Went straight to Felix, and with many a wink

Of sly salacious import hinted to him

That he, his master, had quite unawares,

With just his manly martial front and port,

Taken captive a fair Hebrew damsel who,

If all sped as he hoped, would soon appear

There at the mansion, by her mother led,

To feed her fancy on his noble looks.

The simple mother, she knew nothing of it,

But came to visit Drusilla in the hope,

Which, naughty child! the daughter had inspired

Of gaining my lady over to the faith.

Should Felix condescend to speak to her

The maid would be all blushes, that of course,

She coyly would insist she only came

Bearing her mother company to wait

Upon the mistress of the house with her.

Felix would understand how much was meant,

Or rather how little, by the pretty airs

And arch pretexts of feminine coquetry.

It was as Simon hoped: Ruth, overcome

In prudence by her generous desire

To serve a soul in need; some natural zeal

Perhaps commingling to bring home such spoil

Of her Eunicé's winning, a surprise

And joy to Paul and all the rest — so led,

Ruth with Eunicé to Drusilla went.

But not alone; Stephen their counsel shared,

And he, deeply misdoubting of it all,

Went with them. In the inner court he stayed,

Awaiting watchful, eye and ear, while they,

Having with all obeisance been received

And ushered inward by the instructed slave,

Should do their errand with the mistress there.

He was disturbed, when Felix, with a scowl

Askance at him, crossing the court in haste

Followed the women through the selfsame door,

Scarce shut behind them ere he entered too.

It was of her astute design and art,

Drusilla's, that her husband should have scope

To show at full in act before her eyes

What ground of truth there was for Simon's hints

Against his faith to her. She had hid herself,

Not to be seen but see, while in the room

Whither the women were ushered Felix might,

Were such his mind, waylay the pretty maid,

Proving himself what Simon would have him be.

“Thou with thy daughter, madam, art well come;

These are dull days in Melita for us,”

So, with a gross familiar air ill masked

In mock of supercilious courtesy,

Felix to Ruth; who noticed with dismay

That servitor and servitress at once,

As if at silent signal unperceived,

Vanished from presence and left her alone,

Her and Eunicé, no Drusilla seen,

With Felix and his bristling insolence.

Her fears were not allayed when Felix said

Further: “My lady will be glad to see

Thee, madam, for she dies of weariness

In this insufferable place, with naught

Of new to while the endless hours away;

But as for this our pretty little maid,

She shall accept my awkward offices

To entertain her, while her mother waits

Apart on dame Drusilla and chats with her.”

So saying, he stepped to the half-open door

And clapped his hands in summons for a slave.

One quickly answered, and the master said:

“Where is thy mistress? Take this madam to her,”

Pointing to Ruth.

Ruth in a whirl of thought

Wondered,‘ Are these things all a wicked wile

Of Simon's to entrap us here? Does she,

Drusilla, too, collude? Or does she know

Nothing of all? Or, knowing, does she fear

Felix, and therefore leave us helpless thus?

How far may I abiding true to her

Involve Drusilla in a plea to him?’

She stood, not stirring at the servant's beck,

And spoke in tones held clear and firm with will:

“It is my daughter, sir, the errand has

With dame Drusilla. She shall go to her,

And as the custom is between us twain

We will together go, for twain with us

Is one. Dismiss us, then, I pray, to go.”

“Thou art hard-hearted, madam,” Felix said;

“One surely is enough to meet the dame

Drusilla, and the other might solace me.

I pay my lady's taste a compliment

In myself choosing for my company,

As seems she chose for hers, thy daughter fair

Rather than thee; for, without prejudice

To thine own comeliness, thy daughter is,

Thou wilt confess it, madam, nay, with pride,

A trifle fresher in her youthful bloom.”

Eunicé standing by her mother glowed

With an indignant shame sublimely fair;

It kindled up her beauty into flame

Dreadful to see, had he who saw it been

But capable of awe from virtue shown

Lovelier with noble wrath; Felix admired

Only more fiercely and was not afraid.

A flash of movement instant changed the scene.

Stephen, who, through the door left open, caught

Felix's first ominous words of insolence,

Had, winging his feet with his suspicious fears,

Fled out into the open — whither, scarce thought —

Yet with instinctive wish that went to Paul.

He chanced on Aristarchus walking nigh,

In solitary muse, after his wont;

Him, with such instance as spared needless words,

He hurried forth to find and fetch back Paul.

Returning he dashed swiftly through the court,

Avoiding who perhaps with servile sloth

Reluctant might have moved to stay him there,

And through the door where his Eunicé was

Defenceless in that ruthless robber's den.

The youth's ear, quivering quick with jealous love,

Snatched Felix's last words, his ravening eye

Seized on the splendid vision of his bride

Betrothed, gleaming there in her loveliness

Illumined so with virtue and with shame

Beside her mother, facing such a foe!

His instinct was far swifter than his thought;

Counting not odds, not deeming there was odds,

He like an arrow from a bow that twanged

Shot into place between his bride and him,

That spoiler, and there stood. His face he turned

Defiantly on Felix, lightning of scorn

In sheafs of flashes shooting from his eyes,

Distended his fine nostrils with disdain,

His right arm raised in gesture to forefend,

And his light frame a-quiver with repose

Of purpose to dare all and to prevail.

It was a duel of silence betwixt those twain,

That slender youth through whose translucent flesh

Blushed the bright blood of innocence and truth.

That burly man corrupt in every vein

With the thick foecal currents of debauch.

Ruth and Eunicé would not cower or cry:

Eunicé's spirit partook of that high strain

Which was her martyr father's, and she now

Triumphed to see transfigured to more fair

Than ever with his glorious hardihood

The youth that worthily bore her father's name

And worthily held the empire of her heart.

In confidence of Stephen which subtly too

Wrought to make him more confident of himself,

Eunicé stood confronting the event.

Felix succumbed and was the first to speak:

“Well, youngster, thou hast struck an attitude!

What wilt thou? And what doest thou here? Knowest not

Thou beardest thus the lion in his lair?”

Felix's air of pride and lordliness

Was ever such flatulent swell of windy words.

Stephen some space disdained him loftily

With dumb and blank refusal of reply;

Then grudged him this: “I into the wolf's den

Enter to rend the ravin from his paw.”

The youth thus having spoken half-way turned

Toward the two women and with instant voice,

Low-toned yet less to be inaudible

To Felix than for intimate passion of love,

Said: “Haste, fly! I will follow as I may.”

Ruth with Eunicé had not reached the door

When, frantic to be balked of his desire,

Felix lunged after them with lusty stride

Seeking to stay the damsel in her flight.

For all her fear she still forbore to cry,

But could not check her impulse of appeal

To Stephen, and she uttered forth his name.

The eager agile stripling had no need

To hear that call from his belovéd; he,

Already at her side, had, with clenched fist,

Which flashing like a scimitar came down,

Smitten Felix on the forearm with such might

That for the moment it was numbed with pain,

And dropped as palsied from its reach for her.

Eunicé with backhanded movement quick

Seized, as she flew following her mother forth,

On Stephen's girdle behind her and drew him,

Willingly led in that captivity,

To share their flight and rescue from their foe.

Beside himself with rage at his defeat,

And aching still with pain from Stephen's blow,

Felix now stamped and shouted: “Slaves! What, ho!

Rascals, where are ye all?” Some, trembling, came,

But ere their master could possess his wits

To give them orders, Paul before him stood.

Worse crazed at that sight, Felix fiercely cried:

“Him! Him! Are ye all blind? Seize him, I say!”

Betwixt their terror of Felix and their awe

Of Paul, august in his unmovéd calm

And venerable with virtue and with age,

Well-known to them besides as one who wrought

With other power than mortal, the poor slaves

Hung helpless to perform their master's hest.

“These do not need to seize me, here I am,”

Said Paul, “and of no mind to fly; I came

Hastily summoned as to some distress

Here, what I know not, that I might relieve.”

“Smite him upon the mouth,” Felix broke forth,

“And make him feel distress to need relief!”

The freedman's truculence waxed with every word,

And swaggering forward he his hand upraised

As if himself to strike the blow he bade;

When, with a maniple of soldiers armed

Accompanied, Julius the centurion stood

Abruptly at the door.

Stephen with his charge

Had met the band of soldiers on their way

Just as, with circumspection looking back,

He saw Paul, by a different path arrived,

And earlier, enter at Felix's abode.

He quickly acted on a counsel new.

For, with a farewell of, “Now ye are safe,

Yet hie ye to the uttermost remove

From Felix,” to the women spoken, he

Turning walked back with Julius who his pace

Now slacked to listen while the stripling told

What had befallen and how he feared for Paul

Imperilled in that violent house alone.

“Come in good time, however hither called,”

Felix to Julius said, with such a tone

As seemed to ask how he was thither called.

“Thy servant Syrus begged that I would come,”

Said Julius, “for the safety of thy house

Endangered by two women and a boy,

Who had found entrance and were threatening thee.”

In truth, that sly young slave of Felix's —

For reason ill-affected toward his lord,

As much enamored of the Christian folk

For their fair manners, and the comely looks

Of some of them, and the beneficent

Working of wonders seen or heard from Paul —

Had summoned Julius in the true behoof

Of Ruth with her Eunicé and of Stephen;

This, shrewdly under guise of service shown

His master. Julius understood the guile

And humored it, while Felix's thick wits

Spread ample cover to render Syrus safe.

“Of course,” so Julius added, “it had not seemed

Needful to come, but that I also heard

A prisoner of my charge would here be found,

For whose safe keeping I am answerable.”

Then glancing in a kindly neutral way

At Stephen, he, with show of grave rebuke

That could not wholly hide his lively sense

Of whimsical humor in the part he played

As mediator in such case, went on:

“This Hebrew youth confesses that, in haste

Of spirit, he offered thee some disrespect.”

With language purposely made light and vague

Thus the centurion glozed Stephen's offence,

Discreetly shunning to let Felix know

That he knew from the offender's own report

How, for good cause, as to a happy end,

The indignant youth inflicted on him there

The shame and anguish of that timely blow.

“What wilt thou, my lord Felix,” Julius asked,

“Wilt thou forgive the lad outright? Or pleasest

Thou rather I condignly deal with him?”

It was astutely so proposed, to save

Appearances to Felix and for him.

Gross-witted as he was, he yet was proud,

And such end of the incident appeared

At once some homage to his dignity

And an escape unhoped from threatened shame.

He condescended loftily to leave

The case of Stephen in the centurion's hands;

And the centurion presently retired

With Paul and Stephen both. Stephen he bade

See to it that he never thenceforth act

Less worthily of himself than he that day

Had done, and with no other reprimand

Dismissed him to rejoin his company.

As for Drusilla, she now had her proof;

And seeing his purpose prosper Simon was glad.