Philothea by Lydia Maria Child

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With tearful eyes, Eudora answered, "Oh, Philothea! in the days of my
pride and gayety, I little knew what a treasure I threw from me, when I
lost Philaemon's love. Had it not been for my own perverse folly, I
should at this moment be his happy, honoured wife. The hope of his
forgiveness is now the only gleam of sunshine in a world of gloom; but I
hardly dare to cherish it."

Philothea kissed her affectionately, and said, "Believe me, you will yet
be united. Of this, there is an impression on my mind too strong to
admit of doubt. If at times you are tempted to despond, remember these
words were uttered by your friend, when she drew near the confines of
another world: you will be united to Philaemon."

As she spoke, Milza, who was occupied in the next apartment, sneezed
aloud. The sound was at Eudora's right hand, and she received the
auspicious omen with a sudden thrill of joy.

Philothea observed her emotion with a gentle smile, and added: "When we
were at Elis, I wrote an epistle to Philaemon, in which I spoke of you
as my heart dictated; and Artaphernes found opportunity to send it
directly into Persia."

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 assurance
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 gods."

"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 circumstance
which has doubtless increased the requirements of his passions, 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 assured, whenever it pleases the gods 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 assurance," 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
compassion 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 passed 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 gratitude 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
ambassador 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 Callirhoee.

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 assistance
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 passed along, the little
fish-woman balanced her basket on her head, and began carelessly to sing
some snatches 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 passed
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 pricked 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:

On a rock, amid the roaring water,
Lies Cassiopea's gentle daughter.

Milza had just begun to sing, "Bold Perseus comes," when she perceived a
servant crossing the court, and deemed it prudent to retire in silence.
She carefully preserved the leaf, and immediately after her return
hastened to the apartment of Phoenarete, to obtain an explanation. That
matron, like most Grecian women, was ignorant of her own written
language. The leaf was accordingly placed in a vessel of water, to
preserve its freshness until Clinias returned from the Prytaneum. He
easily distinguished the name of Pandaenus joined with his own; and
having heard the particulars of the story, had no difficulty in
understanding that Milza was directed to apply to them for assistance.
He readily promised to intercede with his profligate kinsman, and
immediately sent messengers in search of Pandaenus.

Geta awaited intelligence with extreme impatience. He was grateful for
many an act of kindness from Eudora; and he could not forget that she
had been the cherished favourite of his beloved and generous master.

At night, Clinias returned from a conference with Alcibiades, in which
the latter denied all knowledge of Eudora; and it seemed hazardous to
institute legal inquiries into the conduct of a man so powerful and so
popular, without further evidence than had yet been obtained. Pandaenus
could not be found. At the house where he usually resided, no
information could be obtained, except that he went out on the preceding
evening, and had not returned as usual.

During that night, and part of the following day, the two faithful
attendants remained in a state of melancholy indecision. At last, Geta
said, "I will go once more in search of Pandaenus; and if he has not yet
returned, I have resolved what to do. To-day I saw one of the slaves of
Artaphernes buying olives; and he said he must have the very best,
because his master was to give a feast to-night. Among other guests, he
spoke of Alcibiades; and he is one that is always sure to stay late at
his wine. While he is feasting, I will go to Salamis. His steward often
bought anchovies of me at Phalerum. He is a countryman of mine; and I
know he is as avaricious as an Odomantian. I think money will bribe him
to carry a message to Eudora, and to place a ladder near the outer wall
for her escape. He is intrusted with all the keys, and can do it if he
will. And if he can get gold enough by it, I believe he will trust
Hermes to help him settle with his master, as he has done many a time
before this. I will be in readiness at the Triton's Cove, and bring her
back to Athens as fast as oars can fly."

"Do so, dear Geta," replied Milza; "but disguise yourself from the other
servants, and take with you the robe and veil that I wear to market.
Then if Eudora could only walk a little more like a fish-woman, she
might pass very well. But be sure you do not pay the steward till you
have her at the boat's edge; for he that will play false games with his
master, may do the same by you."

Necessary arrangements were speedily made. Geta resolved to offer the
earnings of his whole life as a bribe, rather than intrust the secret of
his bold expedition to any of the household of Clinias; and Milza,
fearful that their own store would not prove a sufficient temptation,
brought forth a sum of money found in Eudora's apartment, together with
a valuable necklace, which had been a birth-day present from Phidias.

It was past midnight when three figures emerged from the shadow of the
high wall surrounding the mansion of Alcibiades, and with cautious haste
proceeded toward the cove. Before they could arrive at the beach, a
large and gaily-trimmed boat was seen approaching the shore, from the
direction of the Piraeus. It was flaming with torches; and a band of
musicians poured out upon the undulating waters a rich flood of melody,
rendered more distinct and soft by the liquid element over which it
floated. One of the fugitives immediately turned, and disappeared within
the walls they had left; the other two concealed themselves in a thick
grove, the darkness of which was deepened by the glare of torches along
its borders. A man richly dressed, with several fillets on his head, and
crowned with a garland of violets, ivy, and myrtle, stepped from the
boat, supported by the arm of a slave. His countenance was flushed with
wine, and as he reeled along, he sung aloud:

"Have I told you all my flames,
'Mong the amorous Syrian dames?
Have I numbered every one
Glowing under Egypt's sun!
Or the nymphs, who, blushing sweet,
Deck the shrine of Love in Crete--
Where the God, with festal play,
Holds eternal holiday?"

"Castor and Polydeuces!" whispered Geta, "there goes Alcibiades. He has
returned from his wine earlier than usual; but so blinded by the merry
god, that he would not have known us, if we had faced the glare of his
torches."

"Oh, hasten! hasten!" said Eudora, weeping and trembling, as she spoke.
"I beseech you do not let a moment be lost."

As Alcibiades and his train disappeared, they left the grove, and
hurried toward their boat; keeping as much as possible within the shadow
of the trees. They reached the cove in safety, and Geta rowed with
unwonted energy; but he was single-handed, and Salamis was many stadia
from Athens. Long before he arrived at the place were he had been
accustomed to land, they heard the sound of distant oars plied with
furious rapidity.

They landed, and with the utmost haste proceeded toward the city.
Eudora, fearful of being overtaken, implored Geta to seek refuge behind
the pillars of Poseidon's temple. Carefully concealing themselves in the
dense shadow, they remained without speaking, and almost without
breathing, until their pursuers had passed by. The moment these were out
of hearing, they quitted their hiding-place, and walked swiftly along
the Piraeus. Intense fear imparted a degree of strength, which the
maiden, under other circumstances, would have hardly deemed it possible
to exert. She did not for a moment relax her speed, until they came
within sight of the Areopagus, and heard noisy shouts, apparently not
far distant. Eudora, sinking with fatigue and terror, entreated Geta not
to attempt any approach to the house of Clinias, where her enemies would
certainly be lying in wait for them. With uncertain steps they proceeded
toward the great Gate of the Acropolis, until the helpless maiden,
frightened at the approaching noise, stopped suddenly, and burst into a
flood of tears.

"There is one place of safety, if you have courage to try it," said
Geta: "We are nearly under the Propylaea; and close beside us is the
grotto of Creuesa. Few dare to enter it in the day-time, and no profane
steps will venture to pass the threshold after nightfall; for it is said
the gods often visit it, and fill it with strange sights and sounds.
Shall we enter?"

It was a windy night, and the clouds that occasionally passed over the
face of the moon gave the earth a dreary aspect. The high wall under
which they stood seemed to frown gloomily upon them, and the long flight
of white marble steps, leading from the Propylaea, looked cold and
cheerless beneath the fitful gleamings of the moon.

Eudora hesitated, and looked timidly around; but as the sound of riotous
voices came nearer, she seized Geta's arm, and exclaimed, in hurried
accents, "The gods protect me! Let us enter."

Within the grotto, all was total darkness. Having groped their way a
short distance from the entrance, they found a large rock, on which
they seated themselves. The voices approached nearer, and their
discordant revelry had an awful sound amid the echoes of the grotto.
These gradually died away in the distance, and were heard no more.

When all was perfectly still, Eudora, in whispered accents, informed
Geta that she had been seized, as she stooped to gather flowers within
sight of her own dwelling. Two men suddenly started up from behind a
wall, and one covered her mouth, while the other bound her hands. They
made a signal to a third, who came with two attendants and a curtained
chariot, in which she was immediately conveyed to a solitary place on
the seashore, and thence to Salamis. Two men sat beside her, and held
her fast, so as to prevent any possibility of communication with the few
people passing at that early hour.

Arrived at the place of destination, she was shut up in a large
apartment, luxuriously furnished. Alcibiades soon visited her, with an
affectation of the most scrupulous respect, urging the plea of ardent
love as an excuse for his proceedings.

Aware that she was completely in his power, she concealed her
indignation and contempt, and allowed him to indulge the hope that her
affections might be obtained, if she were entirely convinced of his wish
to atone for the treachery and violence with which she had been treated.

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