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Page 7
Provoking! The uneasy sleeper has moved again, and disorganized,
beyond remedy, the events of a whole year. Judging from such fragments
as reach us, it must have been a momentous epoch in our history. From
the beginning, a handsome, stalwart, blue-eyed man, with a great beard
like a sheaf of straw, shoulders upon the scene, and thenceforth
becomes inextricably mixed up with dark-eyed Helen. We recognize in
him an old acquaintance; he was on the lateen-sailed boat that went up
the Nile; it was he who swung himself from the vessel's side, and
pulled Manetho out of the jaws of death,--a fact, by the way, of which
Manetho remained ignorant until his dying day. With this new arrival,
Helen's supremacy in the household ends. Thor--so they call
him--involuntarily commands her, and so her subjects. Against him, the
Reverend Manetho has not the ghost of a chance. To his credit is it
that he conceals whatever emotions of disappointment or jealousy he
might be supposed to feel, and is no less winning towards Thor than
towards the rest of the world. But is it possible that the talisman
still hides in Helen's bosom? Does the conflict which it symbolizes
beset her heart?
The enchanted mirror is still again, and a curious scene is reflected
from it. A large and lofty room, windowless, lit by flaring lamps hung
at intervals round the walls; the panels contain carvings in
bas-relief of Egyptian emblems and devices; columns surround the
central space, their capitals carved with the lotos-flower, their
bases planted amidst papyrus leaves. A border of hieroglyphic
inscription encircles the walls, just beneath the ceiling. In each
corner of the room rests a red granite sarcophagus, and between each
pair of pillars stands a mummy in its wooden case. At that end
farthest from the low-browed doorway--which is guarded by two great
figures of Isis and Osiris, sitting impassive, with hands on knees--is
raised an altar of black marble, on which burns some incense. The
perfumed smoke, wavering upwards, mingles with that of the lamps
beneath the high ceiling. The prevailing color is ruddy Indian-red,
relieved by deep blue and black, while brighter tints show here and
there. Blocks of polished stone pave the floor, and dimly reflect the
lights.
In front of the altar stands a ministerial figure,--none other than
Manetho, who must have taken orders,--and joins together, in holy
matrimony, the yellow-bearded Thor and the dark-haired Helen. Master
Hiero, his round, snub-nosed face red with fussy emotion, gives the
bride away; while Salome, dressed in white and looking very pretty and
lady-like, does service as bridesmaid,--such is her mistress's whim.
She seems in even better spirits than the pale bride, and her black
eyes scarcely wander from the minister's rapt countenance.
But a few hours later, when bride and groom are gone, Salome,--who,
on some plausible pretext of, her own, has been allowed to remain with
brother Hiero until her mistress returns from the wedding-tour,---
Salome appears in the secret chamber, where the Reverend Manetho sits
with his head between his hands. We will not look too closely at this
interview. There are words fierce and tender, tears and pleadings,
feverish caresses, incoherent promises, distrustful bargains; and it
is late before they part. Salome passes out through the great
tomb-like hall, where all the lamps save one are burnt out; and the
young minister remains to pursue his holy meditations alone.
We are too discreet to meddle with the honeymoon; but, passing over
some eight months, behold the husband and wife returned, to plume
their wings ere taking the final flight. Another strange scene
attracts us here.
The dusk of a summer evening. Helen, with a more languid step and air
than before marriage, saunters along a path through the trees, some
distance from the house. She is clad in loose-flowing drapery, and has
thrown a white shawl over her head and shoulders. Reaching a bench of
rustic woodwork, she drops weariedly down upon it.
Manetho comes out all at once, and stands before her; he seems to have
darkened together from the shadow of the surrounding trees. Perhaps a
little startled at his so abrupt appearance, she opens her eyes with a
wondering haughtiness; but, at the same time, the light pressure of
the enchanted ring against her bosom feels like a dull sting, and her
heart beats uncomfortably. He begins to speak in his usual tone of
softest deference; he sits down by her, and now she is paler, glances
anxiously up the path for her delaying husband, and the hand that
lifts her handkerchief to her lips trembles a little. Is it at his
words? or at their tone? or at what she sees lurking behind his dusky
eyes, curdling beneath his thin, dark skin, quivering down to the tips
of his long, slender fingers?
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