Philothea by Lydia Maria Child

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Milza's voice had been recognized the moment she began to sing; and she
at once conjectured the object that led her thither. But when hour after
hour passed without any tidings from Pandaenus or Clinias, she was in a
state of anxiety bordering on distraction; for she soon perceived
sufficient indication that the smooth hypocrisy of Alcibiades was
assumed but for a short period.

She had already determined on an effort to bribe the servants, when the
steward came stealthily to her room, and offered to convey her to the
Triton's Cove, provided she would promise to double the sum already
offered by Geta. To this she eagerly assented, without even inquiring
the amount; and he, fearful of detection, scarcely allowed time to throw
Milza's robe and veil over her own.

Having thus far effected her escape, Eudora was extremely anxious that
Pandaenus and Clinias should be informed of her place of retreat, as soon
as the morning dawned. When Geta told her that Pandaenus had disappeared
as suddenly as herself, and no one knew whither, she replied, "This,
too, is the work of Alcibiades."

Their whispered conversation was stopped by the barking of a dog, to
which the echoes of the cavern gave a frightful appearance of nearness.
Each instinctively touched the other's arm, as a signal for silence.
When all was again quiet, Geta whispered, "It is well for us they were
not witty enough to bring Hylax with them; for the poor fellow would
certainly have betrayed us." This circumstance warned them of the danger
of listeners, and few more words were spoken.

The maiden, completely exhausted by the exertions she had made, laid her
head on the shoulder of her attendant, and slept until the morning
twilight became perceptible through the crevices of the rocks.

At the first approach of day, she implored Geta to hasten to the house
of Clinias, and ask his protection: for she feared to venture herself
abroad, without the presence of some one whose rank and influence would
be respected by Alcibiades.

"Before I go," replied Geta, "let me find a secure hiding-place for you;
for though I shall soon return, in the meantime those may enter whose
presence may be dangerous."

"You forget that this is a sacred place," rejoined Eudora, in tones that
betrayed fear struggling with her confidence.

"There are men, with whom nothing is sacred," answered Geta; "and many
such are now in Athens."

The cavern was deep, and wide. As they passed along, the dawning light
indistinctly revealed statues of Phoebus and Pan, with altars of pure
white marble. At the farthest extremity, stood a trophy of shields,
helmets, and spears, placed there by Miltiades, in commemoration of his
victory at Marathon. It was so formed as to be hollow in the centre, and
Geta proposed that the timid maiden should creep in at the side, and
stand upright. She did so, and it proved an effectual screen from head
to foot. Having taken this prudent precaution, the faithful attendant
departed, with a promise to return as soon as possible. But hour after
hour elapsed, and he came not. As Eudora peeped through the chinks of
the trophy, she perceived from the entrance of the cave glowing streaks
of light, that indicated approaching noon. Yet all remained still, save
the echoed din of noises in the city; and no one came to her relief.

Not long after the sun had begun to decline from its meridian, two men
entered, whom she recognized as among the individuals that had seized
and conveyed her to Salamis. As they looked carefully all around the
cave, Eudora held her breath, and her heart throbbed violently.
Perceiving no one, they knelt for a moment before the altars, and
hastily retreated, with indications of fear; for the accusations of
guilty minds were added to the usual terrors of this subterranean abode
of the gods.

The day was fading into twilight, when a feeble old man came, with a
garland on his head, and invoked the blessing of Phoebus. He was
accompanied by a boy, who laid his offering of flowers and fruit on the
altar of Pan, with an expression of countenance that showed how much he
was alarmed by the presence of that fear-inspiring deity.

After they had withdrawn, no other footsteps approached the sacred
place. Anxiety of mind, and bodily weariness, more than once tempted
Eudora to go out and mingle with the throng continually passing through
the city. But the idea that Geta might arrive, and be perplexed by her
absence, combined with the fear of lurking spies, kept her motionless,
until the obscurity of the grotto gave indication that the shadows of
twilight were deepening.

During the day, she had observed near the trophy a heap of withered
laurel branches and wreaths, with which the altar and statue of Phoebus
had been at various times adorned. Overcome with fatigue, and desirous
to change a position, which from its uniformity had become extremely
painful, she resolved to lie down upon the rugged rock, with the sacred
garlands for a pillow. She shuddered to remember the lizards and other
reptiles she had seen crawling, through the day; but the universal fear
of entering Creuesa's grotto after nightfall, promised safety from human
intrusion; and the desolate maiden laid herself down to repose, in such
a state of mind that she would have welcomed a poisonous reptile, if it
brought the slumbers of death. It seemed to her that she was utterly
solitary and friendless; persecuted by men, and forsaken by the gods.

By degrees, all sounds died away, save the melancholy hooting of owls,
mingled occasionally with the distant barking and howling of dogs.
Alone, in stillness and total darkness, memory revealed herself with
wonderful power. The scenes of her childhood; the chamber in which she
had slept; figures she had embroidered and forgotten; tunes that had
been silent for years; thoughts and feelings long buried; Philaemon's
smile; the serene countenance of Philothea; the death-bed of Phidias;
and a thousand other images of the past, came before her with all the
vividness of present reality. Exhausted in mind and body, she could not
long endure this tide of recollection. Covering her face with her hands,
she sobbed convulsively, as she murmured, "Oh, Philothea! why didst thou
leave me? My guide, my only friend! oh, where art thou!"

A gentle strain of music, scarcely audible, seemed to make reply. Eudora
raised her head to listen--and lo! the whole grotto was filled with
light; so brilliant that every feather in the arrow of Phoebus might be
counted, and the gilded horns and star of Pan were radiant as the sun.

Her first thought was that she had slept until noon. She rubbed her
eyes, and glanced at the pedestal of a statue, on which she distinctly
read the inscription: "Here Miltiades placed me, Pan, the goat-footed
god of Arcadia, who warred with the Athenians against the Medes."

Frightened at the possibility of having overslept herself, she started
up, and was about to seek the shelter of the trophy, when Paralus and
Philothea stood before her! They were clothed in bright garments, with
garlands on their heads. His arm was about her waist, and hers rested on
his shoulder. There was a holy beauty in their smile, from which a
protecting influence seemed to emanate, that banished mortal fear.

In sweet, low tones, they both said, as if with one voice, "Seek
Artaphernes, the Persian."

"Dearest Philothea, I scarcely know his countenance," replied the
maiden.

Again the bright vision repeated, "Seek Artaphernes, nothing doubting."

The sounds ceased; the light began to fade; it grew more and more dim,
till all was total darkness. For a long time, Eudora remained intensely
wakeful, but inspired with a new feeling of confidence and hope, that
rendered her oblivious of all earthly cares. Whence it came, she neither
knew nor asked; for such states preclude all inquiry concerning their
own nature and origin.

After awhile, she fell into a tranquil slumber, in which she dreamed of
torrents crossed in safety, and of rugged, thorny paths, that ended in
blooming gardens. She was awakened by the sound of a troubled, timid
voice, saying, "Eudora! Eudora!"

She listened a moment, and answered, "Is it you, Milza?"

"Oh, blessed be the sound of your voice," replied the peasant. "Where
are you? Let me take your hand; for I am afraid in this awful place."

"Don't be frightened, my good Milza. I have had joyful visions here,"
rejoined the maiden. She reached out her arms as she spoke, and
perceived that her companion trembled exceedingly. "May the gods protect
us!" whispered she; "but it is a fearful thing to come here in the
night-time. All the gold of Croesus would not have tempted me, if Geta
had not charged me to do it, to save you from starving."

"You are indeed kind friends," said Eudora; "and the only ones I have
left in this world. If ever I get safely back to Elis, you shall be to
me as brother and sister."

"Ah, dear lady," replied the peasant, "you have ever been a good friend
to us;--and there is one that sleeps, who never spoke an ungentle word
to any of us. When her strength was almost gone, she bade me love
Eudora, even as I had loved her; and the gods know that for her sake
Milza would have died. Phoebus protect me, but this is an awful place to
speak of those who sleep. It must be near the dawn; but it is fearfully
dark here. Where is your hand? I have brought some bread and figs, and
this little arabyllus of water mixed with Lesbian wine. Eat; for you
must be almost famished."

Eudora took the refreshment, but ere she tasted it, inquired, "Why did
not Geta come, as he promised?" Milza began to weep.

"Has evil befallen him?" said Eudora, in tones of alarm.

The afflicted wife sobbed out, "Poor Geta! Poor, dear Geta! I dreaded to
come into this cavern; but then I thought if I died, it would be well,
if we could but die together."

"Do tell me what has happened," said Eudora: "Am I doomed to bring
trouble upon all who love me? Tell me, I entreat you."

Milza, weeping as she spoke, then proceeded to say that Alcibiades had
discovered Eudora's escape immediately after his return from the feast
of Artaphernes. He was in a perfect storm of passion, and threatened
every one of the servants with severe punishment, to extort confession.
The steward received a few keen lashes, notwithstanding his
protestations of innocence. But he threatened to appeal to the
magistrates for another master; and Alcibiades, unwilling to lose the
services of this bold and artful slave, restrained his anger, even when
it was at its greatest height.

To appease his master's displeasure, the treacherous fellow acknowledged
that Geta had been seen near the walls, and that his boat had been lying
at the Triton's Cove.

In consequence of this information, men were instantly ordered in
pursuit, with orders to lie in wait for the fugitives, if they could not
be overtaken before morning. When Geta left Creuesa's Grotto, he was
seized before he reached the house of Clinias.

Milza knew nothing of these proceedings, but had remained anxiously
waiting till the day was half spent. Then she learned that Alcibiades
had claimed Eudora and Geta as his slaves, by virtue of a debt due to
him from Phidias, for a large quantity of ivory; and notwithstanding the
efforts of Clinias in their favour, the Court of Forty Four, in the
borough of Alcibiades, decided that he had a right to retain them, until
the debt was paid, or until the heir appeared to show cause why it
should not be paid. "The gods have blessed Clinias with abundant
wealth," said Eudora; "Did he offer nothing to save the innocent?"

"Dear lady," replied Milza, "Alcibiades demands such an immense sum for
the ivory, that he says he might as well undertake to build the wall of
Hipparchus, as to pay it. But I have not told you the most cruel part of
the story. Geta has been tied to a ladder, and shockingly whipped, to
make him tell where you were concealed. He said he would not do it, if
he died. I believe they had the will to kill him; but one of the young
slaves, whose modesty Alcibiades had insulted, was resolved to make
complaint to the magistrates, and demand another master. She helped Geta
to escape: they have both taken refuge in the Temple of Theseus. Geta
dared trust no one but me to carry a message to Clinias. I told him he
supped with Pericles to-night; and he would not suffer me to go there,
lest Alcibiades should be among the guests."

"I am glad he gave you that advice," said Eudora; "for though Pericles
might be willing to serve me, for Philothea's sake, I fear if he once
learned the secret, it would soon be in Aspasia's keeping."

"And that would be all the same as telling Alcibiades himself," rejoined
Milza. "But I must tell you that I did not know of poor Geta's
sufferings until many hours after they happened. Since he went to
Salamis in search of you, I have not seen him until late this evening.
He is afraid to leave the altar, lest he should fall into the hands of
his enemies; and that is the reason he sent me to bring you food. He
expects to be a slave again; but having been abused by Alcibiades, he
claims the privilege of the law to be transferred to another master."

Eudora wept bitterly, to think she had no power to rescue her faithful
attendant from a condition he dreaded worse than death.

Milza endeavoured, in her own artless way, to soothe the distress her
words had excited. "In all Geta's troubles, he thinks more of you than
he does of himself," said she. "He bade me convey you to the house of a
wise woman from Thessalia, who lives near the Sacred Gate; for he says
she can tell us what it is best to do. She has learned of magicians in
foreign lands. They say she can compound potions that will turn hatred
into love; and that the power of her enchantments is so great, she can
draw the moon down from the sky."

"Nevertheless, I shall not seek her counsel," replied the maiden; "for I
have heard a better oracle."

When she had given an account of the vision in the cave, the peasant
asked, in a low and trembling voice, "Did it not make you afraid?"

"Not in the least," answered Eudora; "and therefore I am doubtful
whether it were a vision or a dream. I spoke to Philothea just as I used
to do; without remembering that she had died. She left me more composed
and happy than I have been for many days. Even if it were a vision, I
do not marvel that the spirit of one so pure and peaceful should be less
terrific than the ghost of Medea or Clytemnestra."

"And the light shone all at once!" exclaimed Milza, eagerly. "Trust to
it, dear lady--trust to it. A sudden brightness hath ever been a happy
omen."

Two baskets, filled with Copaic eels and anchovies, had been deposited
near the mouth of the cavern; and with the first blush of morning, the
fugitives offered prayers to Phoebus and Pan, and went forth with the
baskets on their heads, as if they sought the market. Eudora, in her
haste, would have stepped across the springs that bubbled from the
rocks; but Milza held her back, saying, "Did you never hear that these
brooks are Creuesa's tears? When the unhappy daughter of Erectheus left
her infant in this cave to perish, she wept as she departed; and
Phoebus, her immortal lover, changed her tears to rills. For this
reason, the water has ever been salt to the taste. It is a bad omen to
wet the foot in these springs."

Thus warned, Eudora turned aside, and took a more circuitous path.

It happened, fortunately, that the residence of Artaphernes stood behind
the temple of Asclepius, at a short distance from Creuesa's Grotto; and
they felt assured that no one would think of searching for them within
the dwelling of the Persian stranger. They arrived at the gate without
question or hindrance; but found it fastened. To their anxious minds,
the time they were obliged to wait seemed like an age; but at last the
gate was opened, and they preferred a humble request to see
Artaphernes. Eudora, being weary of her load, stooped to place the
basket of fish on a bench, and her veil accidentally dropped. The porter
touched her under the chin, and said, with a rude laugh, "Do you
suppose, my pretty dolphin, that Artaphernes buys his own dinner?"

Eudora's eyes flashed fire at this familiarity; but checking her natural
impetuosity, she replied, "It was not concerning the fish that I wished
to speak to your master. We have business of importance."

The servant gave a significant glance, more insulting than his former
freedom. "Oh, yes, business of importance, no doubt," said he; "but do
you suppose, my little Nereid, that the servant of the Great King is
himself a vender of fish, that he should leave his couch at an hour so
early as this?"

Eudora slipped a ring from her finger, and putting it in his hand, said,
in a confidential tone, "I am not a fish-woman. I am here in disguise. Go
to your master, and conjure him, if he ever had a daughter that he
loved, to hear the petition of an orphan, who is in great distress."

The man's deportment immediately changed; and as he walked away, he
muttered to himself, "She don't look nor speak like one brought up at
the gates; that's certain."

Eudora and Milza remained in the court for a long time, but with far
less impatience than they had waited at the gate. At length the servant
returned, saying his master was now ready to see them. Eudora followed,
in extreme agitation, with her veil folded closely about her; and when
they were ushered into the presence of Artaphernes, the embarrassment
of her situation deprived her of the power of utterance. With much
kindness of voice and manner, the venerable stranger said: "My servant
told me that one of you was an orphan, and had somewhat to ask of me."

Eudora replied: "O Persian stranger, I am indeed a lonely orphan, in the
power of mine enemies; and I have been warned by a vision to come hither
for assistance."

Something in her words, or voice, seemed to excite surprise, mingled
with deeper feelings; and the old man's countenance grew more troubled,
as she continued: "Perhaps you may recollect a maiden that sung at
Aspasia's house, to whom you afterwards sent a veil of shining texture?"

"Ah, yes," he replied, with a deep sigh: "I do recollect it. They told
me she was Eudora, the daughter of Phidias."

"I am Eudora, the adopted daughter of Phidias," rejoined the maiden. "My
benefactor is dead, and I am friendless."

"Who were your parents?" inquired the Persian.

"I never knew them," she replied. "I was stolen from the Ionian coast by
Greek pirates. I was a mere infant when Phidias bought me."

In a voice almost suffocated with emotion, Artaphernes asked, "Were you
_then_ named Eudora?"

The maiden's heart began to flutter with a new and strange hope, as she
replied, "No one knew my name. In my childish prattle, I called myself
Baby Minta."

The old man started from his seat--his colour went and came--and every
joint trembled. He seemed to make a strong effort to check some sudden
impulse. After collecting himself for a moment, he said, "Maiden, you
have the voice of one I dearly loved; and it has stirred the deepest
fountains of my heart. I pray you, let me see your countenance."

As Eudora threw off the veil, her long glossy hair fell profusely over
her neck and shoulders, and her beautiful face was flushed with eager
expectation.

The venerable Persian gazed at her for an instant, and then clasped her
to his bosom. The tears fell fast, as he exclaimed, "Artaminta! My
daughter! My daughter! Image of thy blessed mother! I have sought for
thee throughout the world, and at last I believed thee dead. My only
child! My long-lost, my precious one! May the blessing of Oromasdes be
upon thee."

CHAPTER XIX.

Whate'er thou givest, generous let it be.
EURIPIDES

When it was rumoured that Artaphernes had ransomed Eudora and Geta, by
offering the entire sum demanded for the ivory, many a jest circulated
in the agoras, at the expense of the old man who had given such an
enormous price for a handsome slave; but when it became known, that he
had, in some wonderful and mysterious manner, discovered a long-lost
daughter, the tide of public feeling was changed.

Alcibiades at once remitted his claim, which in fact never had any
foundation in justice; he having accepted two statues in payment for the
ivory, previous to the death of Phidias. He likewise formally asked
Eudora in marriage; humbly apologizing for the outrage he had committed,
and urging the vehemence of his love as an extenuation of the fault.

Artaphernes had power to dispose of his daughter without even making any
inquiry concerning the state of her affections; but the circumstances of
his past life induced him to forbear the exercise of his power.

"My dear child," said he, "it was my own misfortune to suffer by an
ill-assorted marriage. In early youth, my parents united me with
Artaynta, a Persian lady, whose affections had been secretly bestowed
upon a near kinsman. Her parents knew of this fact, but mine were
ignorant of it. It ended in wretchedness and disgrace. To avoid the
awful consequences of guilt, she and her lover eloped to some distant
land, where I never attempted to follow them.

Some time after, the Great King was graciously pleased to appoint me
Governor of the sea-coast in Asia Minor. I removed to Ephesus, where I
saw and loved your blessed mother, the beautiful Antiope, daughter of
Diophanes, priest of Zeus. I saw her accidentally at a fountain, and
watched her unobserved, while she bathed the feet of her little sister.
Though younger than myself, she reciprocated the love she had inspired.
Her father consented to our union; and for a few years I enjoyed as
great happiness as Oromasdes ever bestows on mortals. You were our only
child; named Artaminta, in remembrance of my mother. You were scarcely
two years old, when you and your nurse suddenly disappeared. As several
other women and children were lost at the same time, we supposed that
you were stolen by pirates. All efforts to ascertain your fate proved
utterly fruitless. As moon after moon passed away, bringing no tidings
of our lost treasure, Antiope grew more and more hopeless. She was a
gentle, tender-hearted being, that complained little and suffered much.
At last, she died broken-hearted."

After remaining in silent thoughtfulness for a few moments, he added:
"Of my two sons by Artaynta, one died in childhood; the other was killed
in battle, before I came to Athens. I had never ceased my exertions to
discover you; but after I became childless, it was the cherished object
of existence. Some information received from Phoenician sailors led to
the conclusion that I owed my misfortune to Greek pirates; and when the
Great King informed me that he had need of services in Athens, I
cherfully undertook the mission."

"Having suffered severely in my own marriage, I would not willingly
endanger your happiness by any unreasonable exercise of parental
authority. Alcibiades is handsome, rich, and of high rank. How do you
regard his proposal of marriage?"

The colour mounted high in Eudora's cheek, and she answered hastily, "As
easily could I consent to be the wife of Tereus, after his brutal
outrage on the helpless Philomela. I have nothing but contempt to bestow
on the man who persecuted me when I was friendless, and flatters me when
I have wealthy friends."

Artaphernes replied, "I knew not how far you might consider violent love
an excuse for base proceedings; but I rejoice to see that you have pride
becoming your noble birth. For another reason, it gives me happiness to
find you ill-disposed toward this match; for duty will soon call me to
Persia, and having just recovered you in a manner so miraculous, it
would be a grievous sacrifice to relinquish you so soon. But am I so
fortunate as to find you willing to return with me? Are there no strong
ties that bind your heart to Athens?"

Perceiving that Eudora blushed deeply, he added, in an inquiring tone,
"Clinias told me to-day, that Phidias wished to unite you with that
gifted artist, his nephew Pandaenus?"

The maiden replied, "I have many reasons to be grateful to Pandaenus;
and it was painful to refuse compliance with the wishes of my
benefactor; but if Phidias had commanded me to obey him in this
instance, my happiness would have been sacrificed. Of all countries in
the world, there is none I so much wish to visit as Persia. Of that you
may rest assured, my father."

The old man looked upon her affectionately, and his eyes filled with
tears, as he exclaimed, "Oromasdes be praised, that I am once more
permitted to hear that welcome sound! No music is so pleasant to my ears
as that word--father. Zoroaster tells us that children are a bridge
joining this earth to a heavenly paradise, filled with fresh springs and
blooming gardens. Blessed indeed is the man who hears many gentle voices
call him father! But, my daughter, why is it that the commands of
Phidias would have made you unhappy? Speak frankly, Artaminta; lest
hereafter there should be occasion to mourn that we misunderstood each
other."

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