Persuasive is the voice of Vice,
That spreads the insidious snare.
ÆSCHYLUS.
Early the next morning, painful as the task was, Philothea went to
Eudora's room; for she felt that if she ever hoped to save her, she must
gain influence now.
The maiden had risen from her couch, and was leaning her head on her
hand, in an attitude of deep thought. She raised her eyes as Philothea
entered, and her face was instantly suffused with the crimson flush of
shame. She made no reply to the usual salutations of the morning, but
with evident agitation twisted and untwisted some shreds that had fallen
from her embroidery.
For a moment her friend stood irresolute. She felt a strong impulse to
put her arm around Eudora's neck and conjure her, even for her own sake,
to be frank and confiding; but the scene in the garden returned to her
memory, and she recoiled from her beloved companion, as from something
polluted.
Still ignorant how far the deluded girl was involved, she felt that the
manner in which she deported herself toward her, might perhaps fix her
destiny for good or evil. With a kind, but trembling voice, she said,
"Eudora, will you tell me whether the interview I witnessed last night
was an appointed one?"
Eudora persevered in silence, but her agitation obviously increased.
Her friend looked earnestly in her excited countenance for a moment,
and then said, "Eudora, I do entreat you to tell me the whole truth in
this matter."
"I have not yet learned what right you have to inquire," replied the
misguided maiden.
Philothea's eyes were filled with tears, as she said, "Does the love we
have felt for each other from our earliest childhood, give me no claim
to your confidence? Had we ever a cake, or a bunch of grapes, of which
one did not reserve for the other the largest and best portion? I well
remember the day when you broke the little marble kid Phidias had given
you. You fairly sobbed yourself to sleep in my lap, while I smoothed
back the silky curls all wet with your tears, and sung my childish songs
to please you. You came to me with all your infant troubles--and in our
maturer years, have we not shared all our thoughts? Oh, still trust to
the affection that never deceived you. Believe me, dear Eudora, you
would not wish to conceal your purposes and actions from your earliest
and best friend, unless you had an inward consciousness of something
wrong. Every human being has, like Socrates, an attendant spirit; and
wise are they who obey its signals. If it does not always tell us what
to do, it always cautions us what not to do. Have you not of late
struggled against the warnings of this friendly spirit? Is it safe to
contend with him, till his voice recedes, like music in the distance,
and is heard no more?"
She looked earnestly in Eudora's face for a moment, and perceiving that
her feelings were somewhat softened, she added, "I will not again ask
whether the meeting of last night was an appointed one; for you surely
would repel the suspicion, if you could do so with truth. It is too
evident that this insinuating man has fascinated you, as he already has
done hundreds of others; and for the sake of his transient flattery, you
have thrown away Philæmon's pure and constant love. Yet the passing
notice of Alcibiades is a distinction you will share with half the
maidens of Athens. When another new face attracts his fancy, you will be
forgotten; but you cannot so easily forget your own folly. The friends
you cast from you can never be regained; tranquillity of mind will
return no more; conscious innocence, which makes the human countenance a
tablet for the gods to write upon, can never be restored. And for what
will you lose all this? Think for a moment what is the destiny of those
women, who, following the steps of Aspasia, seek happiness in the homage
paid to triumphant beauty--youth wasted in restless excitement, and old
age embittered by the consciousness of deserved contempt. For this, are
you willing to relinquish the happiness that attends a quiet discharge
of duty, and the cheerful intercourse of true affection?"
In a tone of offended pride, Eudora answered: "Philothea, if I were what
you seem to believe me, your words would be appropriate; but I have
never had any other thought than that of being the acknowledged wife of
Alcibiades."
"Has he then made you believe that he would divorce Hipparete?"
"Yes--he has solemnly sworn it. Such a transaction would have nothing
remarkable in it. Each revolving moon sees similar events occur in
Athens. The wife of Pericles had a destiny like that of her namesake; of
whom the poets write that she was beloved for awhile by Olympian Zeus,
and afterward changed into a quail. Pericles promised Aspasia that he
would divorce Asteria and marry her; and he has kept his word. Hipparete
is not so very beautiful or gifted, as to make it improbable that
Alcibiades might follow his example."
"It is a relief to my heart," said Philothea, "to find that you have
been deluded with hopes, which, however deceitful, render you
comparatively innocent. But believe me, Eudora, Alcibiades will never
divorce Hipparete. If he should do so, the law would compel him to
return her magnificent dowry. Her connections have wealth and influence;
and her brother Callias has promised that she shall be his heir. The
paternal fortune of Alcibiades has all been expended, except his estate
near Erchia; and this he knows full well is quite insufficient to
support his luxury and pride."
Eudora answered warmly, "If you knew Alcibiades, you would not suspect
him of such sordid motives. He would throw money into the sea like dust,
if it stood in the way of his affections."
"I am well aware of his pompous wastefulness, when he wishes to purchase
popularity by lavish expenditure," replied Philothea. "But Alcibiades
has found hearts a cheap commodity, and he will not buy with drachmæ,
what he can so easily obtain by flattery. Your own heart, I believe, is
not really touched. Your imagination is dazzled with his splendid
chariots of ivory inlaid with silver; his unrivalled stud of Phasian
horses; his harnesses of glittering brass; the golden armour which he
loves to display at festivals; his richly-coloured garments, fresh from
the looms of Sardis, and redolent with the perfumes of the East. You are
proud of his notice, because you see that other maidens are flattered by
it; because his statue stands among the Olympionicæ, in the sacred
groves of Zeus, and because all Athens rings with the praises of his
beauty, his gracefulness, his magnificence, and his generosity."
"I am not so weak as your words imply," rejoined Eudora. "I believe that
I love Alcibiades better than I ever loved Philæmon; and if the consent
of Phidias can be obtained, I cannot see why you should object to our
marriage."
For a few moments, Philothea remained in hopeless silence; then, in a
tone of tender expostulation, she continued: "Eudora, I would the power
were given me to open your eyes before it is too late! If Hipparete be
not beautiful, she certainly is not unpleasing; her connections have
high rank and great wealth; she is virtuous and affectionate, and the
mother of his children. If, with all these claims, she can be so lightly
turned away for the sake of a lovelier face, what can you expect, when
your beauty no longer has the charm of novelty? You, who have neither
wealth nor powerful connections, to serve the purposes of that ambitious
man? And think for yourself, Eudora, if Alcibiades means as he says, why
does he seek stolen interviews at midnight, in the absence of Phidias?"
"It is because he knows that Phidias has an uncommon regard for
Philæmon," replied Eudora; "but he thinks he can, in time, persuade him
to consult our wishes. I know, better than you possibly can, what
reasons I have to trust the strength of his affection. Aspasia says she
has never seen him so deeply in love as he is now."
"It is as I feared," said Philothea; "the voice of that siren is luring
you to destruction."
Eudora answered, in an angry tone, "I love Aspasia; and it offends me to
hear her spoken of in this manner. If you are content to be a slave,
like the other Grecian women, who bring water and grind corn for their
masters, I have no objection. I have a spirit within me that demands a
wider field of action, and I enjoy the freedom that reigns in Aspasia's
house. Alcibiades says he does not blame women for not liking to be shut
up within four walls all their life-time, ashamed to show their faces
like other mortals."
Quietly, but sadly, Philothea replied: "Farewell, Eudora. May the powers
that guide our destiny, preserve you from any real cause for shame. You
are now living in Calypso's island; and divine beings alone can save you
from the power of her enchantments."
Eudora made no response, and did not even raise her eyes, as her
companion left the apartment.
As Philothea passed through the garden, she saw Milza standing in the
shadow of the vines, feeding a kid with some flowers she held in her
hand, while Geta was fastening a crimson cord about its neck. A glad
influence passed from this innocent group into the maiden's heart, like
the glance of a sunbeam over a dreary landscape.
"Is the kid yours, Milza?" she asked, with an affectionate smile.
The happy little peasant raised her eyes with an arch expression, but
instantly lowered them again, covered with blushes. It was a look that
told all the secrets of her young heart more eloquently than language.
Philothea had drank freely from those abundant fountains of joy in the
human soul, which remain hidden till love reveals their existence, as
secret springs are said to be discovered by a magic wand. With
affectionate sympathy she placed her hand gently on Milza's head, and
said, "Be good--and the gods will ever provide friends for you."
The humble lovers gazed after her with a blessing in their eyes; and in
the consciousness of this, her meek spirit found a solace for the wounds
Eudora had given.