XIV.
Time passes swiftly to the happy; ere they realized it a year had gone by.
One day every door in the house was adorned with an olive garland—a son had been born to its owner. Lycon said that the child should be reared. The father was at liberty to expose or even kill it.
The infant was carried by the midwife around the blazing household altar. Parents, relatives, and even slaves gave it a multitude of presents, principally platagai, children’s rattles.
At the great sacrificial banquet on the tenth day after the boy’s birth, Lycon, to Myrtale’s delight, named the child Simonides.
Lycon took pride in enlarging his dead master’s business, but never commenced any great enterprise without having consulted the clever and experienced Polycles. On the day that the latter completed his sixtieth year, Lycon, to his great joy, gave him the vineyard which, in his opinion, produced the best wine in Thessaly.
This present had cost Lycon more than Polycles ever knew. When he first spoke of it to Myrtale, she eagerly opposed the plan and made many objections.
“Polycles is rich enough,” she said.
“But not too rich to have this gift please him.”
“It is a man’s duty to bequeath what he possesses to his children.”
“It is also a man’s duty to show his gratitude to one who has done him many kindnesses and helped make him prosperous.”
“So you will give Polycles the vineyard?”
“I shall.”
“Even against my wish?”
“You forget, dear one, that but for Polycles I should have had nothing.”
The blood rushed into Myrtale’s cheeks and her eyes flashed.
“And you forget,” she said, “that everything you possess is mine.”
The words had scarcely escaped her lips ere she regretted them.
Lycon passed his huge hand over his face, rose, and left her.
Myrtale stole after him. She saw him cross the peristyle and enter a little room where part of the furniture was kept. Through the door, which stood ajar, she watched him open a box and take out something wrapped in cloth. But, as she cautiously pushed the door in order to see better, her shadow fell on Lycon’s arm and he turned.
“What have you there?” asked Myrtale, slightly confused at being discovered.
“What is mine—it belongs to no one else.”
Myrtale understood the reproof. Her eyes filled with tears as she sank at Lycon’s feet and clasped his knees.
“Forgive me,” she whispered humbly, “forget my wicked words.”
“Forget them—I cannot. But I will treat you as if you had never uttered them.”
Myrtale still remained on her knees; Lycon raised her and she pressed her lips upon his shoulder.
“What have you there?” she timidly repeated.
“A peacemaker. The image of a good spirit.”
“Let me see it.”
“No,” replied Lycon, wrapping the cloth closer. “If any one else should look at the image it would lose its power. So promise me that you will never,—either now or in future—ask to see it.”
Myrtale pointed to an ivory couch which stood in the little room; Lycon reclined upon it, and she took her seat on the edge at his side.
“What harm would it do if I, your wife, should see it?” she whispered coaxingly, putting her arm around Lycon’s neck.
“I have told you,” replied Lycon. “Do what I ask.”
“Well then,” murmured Myrtale sighing, “I promise.”
But at the same moment she turned pale, as if she felt a sudden chill.
“Confess!” she cried in a strangely altered tone. “It is the picture of an Athenian woman.”
Lycon shrank from the fierce expression of her face and, ere he could prevent it, she had seized the little article which he had laid on the edge of the couch in front of her.
She tore off the cloth with her teeth. A clumsy square bit of iron appeared. She turned and twisted it in her hands until, on one end, she discovered the letter K formed of three raised lines.
It was the stamp of the brand Lycon bore on his shoulder.
Myrtale instantly understood why he kept the rough bit of iron. To him, as he had said, it was the image of a good spirit.
By keeping this sign of his humiliation, he not only crushed all arrogance, but learned to judge mildly, govern himself, and become a better man. By remembering that he had been a slave, he made others forget it.
Myrtale felt a new emotion. Her heart swelled with affection, and throwing herself into her husband’s arms, she covered his face with tears and kisses.
“The gods be praised for what has happened!” she exclaimed. “To-day you have become doubly dear to me! For the first time I know you wholly.”
* * * * *
Lycon and Myrtale filled the place of children to the lonely Polycles, and he was never happier than when they visited him in the quiet evening hours.
The hillock in the garden, which had been Simonides’ favorite spot and where his monument stood, was the goal of their walks, and when they had offered their homage to the dead man by adorning his grave with flowers, they sat down on a bench among a group of tall plane-trees to gaze over the city and country.
One evening, when the distant, sun-illumined mountains of Pherae were gleaming more brightly than ever through the twilight, Lycon exclaimed:
“Simonides was right! Where is there a spot more beautiful than this?”
Myrtale looked him in the face and suddenly asked:
“Do you never wish yourself back in Athens?”
Polycles raised his eyebrows. In his opinion this was evidently a very difficult question. But Lycon found the answer easy. Clasping Myrtale’s hand, he said:
“How can you ask? In Athens I was gay; here I am happy.”
