Philothea Part 21

The maiden blushed deeply and painfully, as she replied, "Nay, my dearest friend--you know that I must appear contemptible in his eyes; and I would not have insulted him with the offer of a heart, which he has reason to believe is so capricious and ungrateful."

"Trust me, I said nothing whereby your modesty might be wounded,"

answered Philothea: "I wrote as I was moved; and I felt strong a.s.surance that my words would waken a response in Philaemon's heart. But there is one subject, on which my mind is filled with foreboding. I hope you will leave Athens as soon as it is safe to return to Elis."

"Do you then fear that I would again dance over a pit, because it was artfully covered with garlands?" said Eudora. "Believe me, I have been tried with too many sorrows, and too long been bowed under a load of shame, to be again endangered by such treacherous snares."

Philothea looked upon her affectionately, as she replied: "You are good and pure; but you have ever been like a loving and graceful vine, ready to cling to its nearest support."

"'Tis you have made me so," rejoined Eudora, kissing her pale cheek: "To you I have always applied for advice and instruction; and when you gave it, I felt confident and happy, as if led by the G.o.ds."

"Then so much the more need that I should caution the weakness I have produced," responded Philothea. "Should Aspasia gain access to you, when I am gone, she will try to convince you that happiness consists not in the duties we perform, but in the distinction we acquire; that my hopes of Elysium are all founded on fable; that my beloved Paralus has returned to the elements of which he was composed; that he nourishes the plants, and forms some of the innumerable particles of the atmosphere.

I have seen him in my dreams, as distinctly, as I ever saw him; and I believe the same power that enabled me to see him when these poor eyes were veiled in slumber, will restore him to my vision when they are closed in eternal sleep. Aspasia will tell you I have been a beautiful but idle dreamer all my life. If you listen to her syren tongue, the secret guiding voice will be heard no more. She will make evil appear good, and good evil, until your soul will walk in perpetual twilight, unable to perceive the real size and character of any object."

"Never," exclaimed Eudora. "Never could she induce me to believe you an idle dreamer. Moreover, she will never again have opportunity to exert influence over me. The conversation I heard between her and Alcibiades is too well impressed upon my memory; and while that remains unforgotten, I shall shun them both, as I would shun a pestilence."

Philothea answered: "I do indeed believe that no blandishments will now make you a willing victim. But I have a secret dread of the character and power of Alcibiades. It is his boast that he never relinquishes a pursuit. I have often heard Pericles speak of his childish obstinacy and perseverance. He was one day playing at dice with other boys, when a loaded wagon came near. In a commanding tone, he ordered the driver to stop; and finding his injunctions disregarded, he laid down before the horses' feet, and told him to go on if he dared. The same character remains with him now. He will incur any hazard for the triumph of his own will. From his youth, he has been a popular idol; a circ.u.mstance which has doubtless increased the requirements of his pa.s.sions, without diminishing the stubbornness of his temper. Milza tells me he has already inquired of her concerning your present residence and future intentions. Obstacles will only increase his eagerness and multiply his artifices.

"I have asked Clinias, whose dwelling is so closely connected with our own, to supply the place of your distant guardian, while you remain in Athens. In Pericles you might likewise trust, if he were not so fatally under the influence of Aspasia. Men think so lightly of these matters, I sometimes fear they might both regard the persecutions of Alcibiades too trivial for their interference. For these reasons I wish you to return to Elis as soon as possible when I am gone."

Eudora's countenance kindled with indignation, as she listened to what Milza had told. In broken and contrite tones, she answered; "Philothea, whatever trials I may suffer, my former folly deserves them all. But rest a.s.sured, whenever it pleases the G.o.ds to remove your counsel and protection, I will not abide in Athens a single hour after it is possible to leave with safety."

"I find consolation in that a.s.surance," replied Philothea; "and I have strong belief that a divine shield will guard you from impending evil.

And now I will go to my couch; for I am weary, and would fain be lulled with music."

Eudora tenderly arranged the pillows, and played a succession of sweet and plaintive tunes, familiar to their childhood. Her friend listened with an expression of tranquil pleasure, slowly keeping time by the motion of her fingers, until she sunk into a peaceful sleep.

After long and sweet repose, she awoke suddenly, and looking up with a beaming glance, exclaimed, "I shall follow him soon!"

Eudora leaned over the couch, to inquire why she had spoken in such delighted accents.

Philothea answered: "I dreamed that I sat upon a bank of violets, with Paralus by my side; and he wove a garland and placed it on my head.

Suddenly, golden sounds seemed floating in the air, melting into each other with liquid melody. It was such a scene as Paralus often described, when his soul lived apart from the body, and only returned at intervals, to bring strange tidings of its wanderings. I turned to tell him so; and I saw that we were both clothed in garments that shone like woven sunbeams. Then voices above us began to sing:

'Come hither, kindred spirits, come!

Hail to the mystic two in one!'

"Even after I awoke, I seemed to hear the chorus distinctly. It sounded like the voice of Paralus in his youth, when we used to sing together, to please my grandfather, as he sat by the side of that little sheltered brook, over whose bright waters the trees embrace each other in silent love. Dearest Eudora, I shall soon follow him."

The maiden turned away to conceal her tears; for resignation to this bereavement seemed too hard a lesson for her suffering heart.

For several weeks, there was no apparent change in Philothea's health or spirits. The same sad serenity remained--perpetually exciting the compa.s.sion it never seemed to ask. Each day the children of the neighbourhood brought their simple offering of flowers, with which she wove fresh garlands for the tomb of Paralus. When no longer able to visit the sepulchre herself, she intrusted them to the youthful Pericles, who reverently placed them on his brother's urn.

The elder Pericles seemed to find peculiar solace in the conversation of his widowed daughter. Scarcely a day pa.s.sed without an interview between them, and renewed indications of his affectionate solicitude.

He came one day, attended by his son, on whom his desolated heart now bestowed a double portion of paternal love. They remained a long time, in earnest discourse; and when they departed, the boy was in tears.

Philothea, with feeble steps, followed them to the portico, and gazed after them, as long as she could see a fold of their garments. As she turned to lean on Eudora's arm, she said, "It is the last time I shall ever see them. It is the last. I have felt a sister's love for that dear boy. His heart is young and innocent."

For a few hours after, she continued to talk with unusual animation, and her eyes beamed with an expression of inspired earnestness. At her request, Geta and Milza were called; and the faithful servants listened with mournful grat.i.tude to her parting words of advice and consolation.

At evening twilight, Eudora gave her a bunch of flowers, sent by the youthful Pericles. She took them with a smile, and said, "How fragrant is their breath, and how beautiful their colours! I have heard that the Persians write their music in colours; and Paralus spoke the same concerning music in the spirit-world. Perchance there was heavenly melody written on this fair earth in the age of innocence; but mortals have now forgotten its language." Perceiving Eudora's thoughtful countenance, she said: "Is my gentle friend disturbed, lest infant nymphs closed their brief existence when these stems were broken?"

"Nay;" replied Eudora: "My heart is sad; but not for the perished genii of the flowers."

Philothea understood the import of her words; and pressing her hand affectionately, said, "Your love has been as balm to my lonely heart; and let that remembrance comfort you, when I go hence. Listen in stillness to the whispered warnings of your attendant spirit, and he will never leave you. I am weary; and would fain repose on your affectionate bosom."

Eudora gently placed her head as she desired; and carefully supporting the precious burden, she began to sing, in low and soothing tones.

After some time, the quiet and regular respiration of the breath announced that the invalid had fallen into tranquil slumber. Milza came, to ask if the lamps were wanted; but receiving a silent signal from Eudora, she crept noiselessly away.

For more than an hour, there was perfect stillness, as the shades of evening deepened. All at once, the room was filled with soft, clear light! Eudora turned her head quickly, to discover whence it came; but could perceive no apparent cause for the sudden radiance.

With an undefined feeling of awe, she looked in the countenance of her friend. It was motionless as marble; but never had she seen anything so beautiful, and so unearthly.

As she gazed, doubting whether this could indeed be death, there was a sound of music in the air--distinct, yet blended, like the warbling of birds in the spring-time.

It was the tune Paralus had learned from celestial harps; and even after the last note floated away, Eudora seemed to hear the well-remembered words:

Come hither, kindred spirit, come!

Hail to the mystic two in one!

CHAPTER XVIII.

Take courage I no vain dream hast thou beheld, But in thy sleep a truth.

HOMER.

At the time of Philothea's death, Pandaenus, the nephew of Phidias, was in Athens, intending soon to return to Elis, in company with an amba.s.sador bound to Lacedaemon; and Eudora resolved to avail herself of this opportunity to follow the farewell advice of her friend. As the time for departure was near at hand, no change was made in household arrangements; and though the desolate maiden at times experienced sensations of extreme loneliness, the near vicinity of Clinias and Phoenarete left her no fears concerning adequate protection.

This confidence seemed well grounded; yet not many days after the funeral solemnities, Eudora suddenly disappeared. She had gone out, as usual, to gather flowers for the tomb of the beloved sleeper; and not rinding sufficient variety in the garden, had wandered into a small field adjoining. Milza was the first to observe that her absence was unusually protracted. She mentioned her anxiety to Geta, who immediately went out in search of his young mistress; but soon returned, saying she was neither in the house of Clinias, nor in the neighbouring fields, nor at the Fountain of Callirhoe.

The faithful attendants at once suspected treachery in Alcibiades. "I never rightly understood what was the difficulty, when Eudora was locked up in her chamber, and Lucos chained to the door," said Geta; "but from what I could hear, I know that Phidias was very angry with Alcibiades.

Many a time I've heard him say that he would always have his own way, either by a straight course or a crooked one."

"And my good old master used to say he had changed but little since he was a boy, when he made the wagoner turn back, by lying down in front of his horses," rejoined Milza: "I thought of that, when Alcibiades came and drank at the Fountain, while I was filling my urn. You remember I told you that he just tasted of the water, for a pretence, and then began to inquire where Eudora was, and whether she would remain in Athens."

After some further consultation, it was deemed best for Milza to request a private interview with Phoenarete, during which she freely expressed her fears. The wife of Clinias, though connected by marriage with the house of Alcibiades, was far from resenting the imputation, or pretending that she considered it groundless. Her feelings were at once excited for the lonely orphan girl, whose beauty, vivacity, and gentleness, had won upon her heart; and she readily promised a.s.sistance in any plan for her relief, provided it met the approbation of her husband.

There was in Salamis a large mansion built by Eurysaces, the ancestor of Alcibiades, by whom it had been lately purchased, and repaired for a summer residence. Report said that many a fair maiden had been decoyed within its walls, and retained a prisoner. This place was guarded by several powerful dogs, and vigilant servants were always stationed at the gates. Milza proposed to disguise herself as much as possible, and, with a basket on her head, go thither to offer fish for sale. Geta, being afraid to accompany her, hired an honest boatman to convey her to the island, and wait till she was ready to return to Athens.

As she approached the walls of the mansion, the dogs began to growl, but were soon silenced by the porters. Without answering the indecent jibes, with which they greeted her ears as she pa.s.sed along, the little fish-woman balanced her basket on her head, and began carelessly to sing some s.n.a.t.c.hes of a hymn to Amphitrite. It was a tune of which Eudora was particularly fond; and often when Milza was humming it over her work, her soft and sonorous voice had been heard responding from the inner apartment.

She had scarcely finished the first verse, ere the chorus was repeated by some one within the dwelling; and she recognized the half-suppressed growl of Hylax, as if his barking had been checked by some cautious hand. Afraid to attract attention by a prolonged stay, Milza pa.s.sed along and entered the servants' apartment. Having sold a portion of her fish, and lingered as long as she dared in conversation with the cooks, she returned slowly in the same direction, singing as she went, and carefully observing everything around her. She was just beginning to fear the impossibility of obtaining any solution of her doubts, when she saw a leaf fluttering near the ground, as if its motions were impelled by some other cause than the wind. Approaching nearer, she perceived that it was let down from a grated opening in the wall above, by a small thread, with a little ball of wax attached to it for a weight. She examined the leaf, and discovered certain letters p.r.i.c.ked upon it; and when the string was pulled gently, it immediately dropped upon her arm.

At the same time, a voice, which she distinctly recognized as Eudora's, was heard singing: