AT EËTÍON’S CALL
What Dryas reported was true. The Delphians were deserting their town,
whether from great faith or great fear, who could say? Their temple guard
could not be called an army. It seemed as vain to wait for the Persian as
to wait for the onsweep of a flood at the breaking of a dam. The dam had
broken at Thermopylæ and the flood was coming.
Men sent their wives and children across the gulf to Corinth and thence
to Achaia, and when there were no more boats others sent them to Amphissa
in Locris. The men of Delphi hurried up into Mount Parnassos, to the
Korykian cave and to other fastnesses known only to themselves.
Only about sixty people were left in Delphi and of course the armed
temple guard.
Nikander sought out Melantho.
“Dear wife,” he said, “I have chartered a little boat to take you and
your own special slaves to Corinth. It will be a long journey for you,
but do not be afraid. You will be safe in Achaia.”
“And Theria?” she asked.
“Would God I could send her!” said Nikander brokenly. “But she is too ill
to be moved. She is weaker than ever since that terrible experience with
the priests. Even were she strong enough, the priests would not allow
her to go. The Pythia is not allowed to go away.”
He looked up, wondering at Melantho’s silence. Melantho was a timid
creature and the most submissive wife in the world.
“Am I like the kegs of cheese that they carry up to the cave?” she asked
huskily.
“Kegs of cheese!” asked Nikander blankly.
“Am I goods and chattels, not even so much alive as the dogs of Delphi?
The dogs stay.”
Great Paian! Melantho was angry. Nikander had never seen her angry in his
life.
She stamped her foot.
“I will not go,” she cried. “I’ll turn over the boat and swamp it if you
put me in it. I will not go when—when all my dear ones stay.”
Then she melted with streaming tears. Poor Melantho! After this little
outburst she would have done anything Nikander required.
But Nikander took her in his arms, loving her as he had never thought to
do.
“My dear Melantho,” he said. “I begin to think I am the stupidest man in
Delphi. Of course you shall stay.”
It was no easy matter to care for two helpless women at such a time, but
Nikander was glad that Melantho was to stay. As for Baltè, nations might
rise or fall, she had one care only, to watch her nurseling. And now
Baltè was busy with new plans. She had long ago given up her sieve and
taken it back to the kitchen where she gave it a kick of scorn.
Theria was steadily growing weaker, but her eyes as Baltè studied them
looked not quite so glassy, not quite so blank as at first. Sometimes
Baltè actually saw in them a great sadness. When any one came into the
door, Theria’s eyes would slowly, painfully direct themselves thither,
seeming to search, and when the search was made this deep sadness or
disappointment would settle upon her face. And once, instead of relapsing
into blankness after their pitiful searching, the dark eyes closed and
tears stole down between the lids.
What did her child want? Baltè asked herself this question. Asked Theria
every question she knew. For while Nikander could not bring himself to
speak to that strange, blank face of Theria, Baltè talked and asked and
crooned as any nurse crooned to her baby.
Though to all her asking Baltè received no reply, yet at last she thought
she knew her darling’s wish.
The next day she met Nikander in the outer aula.
“Master,” she said, “I know now what little mistress wants.”
“Great Heaven! has she spoken?” asked Nikander.
“No, Master, but her eyes speak to me.”
“They do not to me,” said Nikander sorrowfully.
“Oh, Master, ye must not be wroth with little mistress if I tell ye that
she loves that good youth that found her on the mountain. Don’t ye blame
her for it. She is a human child and Eëtíon loves her so dearly. She
wants to see him, Master. She wants to see him.”
“Poor Baltè, you cannot know that.”
Baltè told what she had seen.
“You forget,” said Nikander, “that your little mistress is priestess. It
would be absolutely improper.”
“She’s goin’ soon where there’s no proper nor unproper,” retorted Baltè
in her broadest Doric. “An’ if she goes, what harm to gi’ her this wee
bit of joy beforehand? An’ if she dies for lack of it, then it’s ye will
be her murderer.”
Baltè was determined to supplicate her master with the unrefusable
supplication if she could get consent no other way.
But at this moment came Eëtíon, all excited over what the priests had
done.
“It’s ye I am talkin’ o’, young man,” announced Baltè. “The master here
says ‘no’. But the little mistress is pinin’ away for a sight of ye. She
is thot.”
“Is she better? Did she ask—oh, Nikander——” pleaded Eëtíon.
“Baltè is dreaming. Go back to your little mistress, Baltè.”
But Baltè stood her ground. “If the lad calls her she’ll answer him. Mark
ye that.”
“Will she answer? Do you really believe she will answer?” asked Eëtíon,
his lips quivering with the memory of Theria’s unanswering silence on the
mountain.
“O love o’ Leto, stop askin’! Come!” said Baltè.
And Nikander suddenly consented.
Eëtíon came in with awe as one comes into a death chamber.
He knelt by her couch, laid his brown, trembling hands over her two white
ones, and, leaning close, called her—once, and again.
Then an amazing thing happened: There passed slowly from off the dark
lakes of eyes something as it were a shadow, leaving them sweet and
sensible, leaving in them an ardent, dreamy look.
Then the dream gave place to lovely awakening, which was Theria’s self—a
surprised, outreaching love.
Her lips framed a word: “Eëtíon.”
Eëtíon forgot all about him. He gathered her close, kissing her, calling
her. And now she spoke quite aloud, calling him in return with names and
epithets as dear.
“You have not forgotten me,” he was saying, “Oh, I thought you had
forgotten.”
“Never, never. I could not forget you in Acheron,” was her murmured
answer.
“Speak to me, me, also, my daughter,” pleaded Nikander.
“Yes, Father. Dear, dear Father,” came her answer. No trace of fear or
unaffection for all his angry words which had sent her away. She reached
out her arms to him like a returning child.
Baltè clapped her hands with loud sobs and shoutings. She, too, must kiss
and rejoice over her little one.
“Baltè,” said Nikander solemnly, “may the gods in my age give me such
wisdom as yours. For my part I shall never question yours again. So now,
dear Baltè, go and fetch Melantho.”
Melantho came, and Dryas. One would have thought to hear the rejoicings
in the house that no Persians were anywhere in Greece. Then presently
Baltè was for sending them all away. They must not tire her darling.
Theria clung to her lover’s hands. “Will you come again, Eëtíon?” she
pleaded. “Say you will come again.”
Nikander doubtfully opened his lips but Baltè waved a warning finger.
“Indeed an’ he will, my darlin’,” she said with authority. “Old Baltè
will see that he does.”
And Eëtíon, leaping up, kissed Baltè’s withered cheek, at which Theria’s
first sweet laugh was heard.