O Zeus! why hast thou given us certain proof
To know adulterate gold, but stamped no mark,
Where it is needed most, on man's base metal?
EURIPIDES.
When Philothea returned to her grandfather's apartment, she found the
good old man with an open tablet before him, and the remainder of a rich
cluster of grapes lying on a shell by his side.
"I have wanted you, my child," said he, "Have you heard the news all
Athens is talking of, that you sought your friend so early in the day?
You are not wont to be so eager to carry tidings."
"I have not heard the rumours whereof you speak," replied Philothea.
"What is it, my father?"
"Hipparete went from Aspasia's house to her brother Callias, instead of
the dwelling of her husband," rejoined Anaxagoras: "by his advice she
refused to return; and she yesterday appealed to the archons for a
divorce from Alcibiades, on the plea of his notorious profligacy.
Alcibiades, hearing of this, rushed into the assembly, with his usual
boldness, seized his wife in his arms, carried her through the crowd,
and locked her up in her own apartment. No man ventured to interfere
with this lawful exercise of his authority. It is rumoured that
Hipparete particularly accused him of promising marriage to Electra the
Corinthian, and Eudora, of the household of Phidias."
For the first time in her life, Philothea turned away her face, to
conceal its expression, while she inquired in a tremulous tone whether
these facts had been told to Philæmon, the preceding evening.
"Some of the guests were speaking of it when he entered," replied
Anaxagoras; "but no one alluded to it in his presence. Perhaps he had
heard the rumour, for he seemed sad and disquieted, and joined little in
the conversation."
Embarrassed by the questions which her grandfather was naturally
disposed to ask, Philothea briefly confessed that a singular change had
taken place in Eudora's character, and begged permission to silent on a
subject so painful to her feelings. She felt strongly inclined to return
immediately to her deluded friend; but the hopelessness induced by her
recent conversation, combined with the necessity of superintending Milza
in some of her household occupations, occasioned a few hours' delay.
As she attempted to cross the garden for that purpose, she saw Eudora
enter hastily by the private gate, and pass to her own apartment.
Philothea instantly followed her, and found that she had thrown herself
on the couch, sobbing violently. She put her arms about her neck, and
affectionately inquired the cause of her distress.
For a long time the poor girl resisted every soothing effort, and
continued to weep bitterly. At last, in a voice stifled with sobs, she
said, "I was indeed deceived; and you, Philothea, was my truest friend;
as you have always been."
The tender-hearted maiden imprinted a kiss upon her hand, and asked
whether it was Hipparete's appeal to the archons, that had so suddenly
convinced her of the falsehood of Alcibiades.
"I have heard it all," replied Eudora, with a deep blush; "and I have
heard my name coupled with epithets never to be repeated to your pure
ears. I was so infatuated that, after you left me this morning, I sought
the counsels of Aspasia, to strengthen me in the course I had determined
to pursue. As I approached her apartment, the voice of Alcibiades met my
ear. I stopped and listened. I heard him exult in his triumph over
Hipparete; I heard my name joined with Electra, the wanton Corinthian. I
heard him boast how easily our affections had been won; I heard--"
She paused for a few moments, with a look of intense shame, and the
tears fell fast upon her robe.
In gentle tones Philothea said, "These are precious tears, Eudora. They
will prove like spring-showers, bringing forth fragrant blossoms."
With sudden impulse, the contrite maiden threw her arms around her neck,
saying, in a subdued voice, "You must not be so kind to me--it will
break my heart."
By degrees the placid influence of her friend calmed her perturbed
spirit. "Philothea," she said, "I promise with solemn earnestness to
tell you every action of my life, and every thought of my soul; but
never ask me to repeat all I heard at Aspasia's dwelling. The words went
through my heart like poisoned arrows."
"Nay," replied Philothea, smiling; "they have healed, not poisoned."
Eudora sighed, as she added, "When I came away, in anger and in shame, I
heard that false man singing in mockery:
"Count me on the summer trees
Every leaf that courts the breeze;
Count me on the foamy deep
Every wave that sinks to sleep;
Then when you have numbered these,
Billowy tides and leafy trees,
Count me all the flames I prove,
All the gentle nymphs I love."
Philothea, how could you, who are so pure yourself, see so much clearer
than I did the treachery of that bad man?"
The maiden replied, "Mortals, without the aid of experience, would
always be aware of the presence of evil, if they sought to put away the
love of it in their own hearts, and in silent obedience listened to the
voice of their guiding spirit. Flowers feel the approach of storms, and
birds need none to teach them the enmity of serpents. This knowledge is
given to them as perpetually as the sunshine; and they receive it fully,
because their little lives are all obedience and love."
"Then, dearest Philothea, you may well know when evil approaches. By
some mysterious power you have ever known my heart better than I myself
have known it. I now perceive that you told me the truth when you said I
was not blinded by love, but by foolish pride. If it were not so, my
feelings could not so easily have turned to hatred. I have more than
once tried to deceive you, but you will feel that I am not now speaking
falsely. The interview you witnessed was the first and only one I ever
granted to Alcibiades."
Philothea freely expressed her belief in this assertion, and her joy
that the real character of the graceful hypocrite had so soon been made
manifest. Her thoughts turned towards Philæmon; but certain
recollections restrained the utterance of his name. They were both
silent for a few moments; and Eudora's countenance was troubled. She
looked up earnestly in her friend's face, but instantly turned away her
eyes, and fixing them on the ground, said, in a low and timid voice, "Do
you think Philæmon can ever love me again?"
Philothea felt painfully embarrassed; for when she recollected how
deeply Philæmon was enamoured of purity in women, she dared not answer
in the language of hope.
While she yet hesitated, Dione came to say that her master required the
attendance of Eudora alone in his apartment.
Phidias had always exacted implicit obedience from his household, and
Eudora's gratitude towards him had ever been mingled with fear. The
consciousness of recent misconduct filled her with extreme dread. Her
countenance became deadly pale, as she turned toward her friend, and
said, "Oh, Philothea, go with me."
The firm-hearted maiden took her arm gently within her own, and
whispered, "Speak the truth, and trust in the Divine Powers."