XIX.
Maira did not sleep much that night. The next morning she was surprised not to see Doris flitting about the house, and having found Clytie’s room empty, she did not doubt that her daughter was in the garden with her favorite attendant. She went there and called repeatedly; but, when silence was the only reply, a presentiment of misfortune darted through her mind. She hurried back to Clytie’s chamber, searched it, found the papyrus note on the pillow, and read its contents with breathless haste.
“Merciful Gods!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands. “Gone—fled in the night!... Clytie, Clytie, how could you cause me such sorrow? Make our house the scorn of envious neighbors—What will your father say? He will rage and curse you....”
Suddenly a revulsion of feeling came over her.
“Well, let him rage,” she murmured, “let him rage and call down curses.... To drive my Clytie to this! How she must have suffered! But, by Hera, he shall hear the truth.”
She was already on her way to her chamber, when she paused.
“What am I doing!” she exclaimed. “The first thing is to conceal Clytie’s flight. No one must suspect that her room is empty.”
Calling Eunoa, the oldest female slave in the house, she said to her: “Clytie is ill. Sit down here outside of her door and let no one enter, not even her nurse. Do exactly as I tell you.”
Eunoa opened her eyes in astonishment; she had never heard her mistress speak in so curt and imperious a tone.
When Maira entered her bed-room, there was a certain solemnity in her manner that attracted Xenocles’ attention. Stretching himself on the couch, he beckoned to her.
But, instead of taking her seat on the edge, Maira remained standing before him, gazing steadily into his face. Xenocles scarcely believed his eyes. It was the first time during the twenty years of their married life that his wife had not instantly done whatever he requested.
“Sit down,” he repeated, again pointing to the seat.
Maira did not seem to hear.
“I have evil tidings,” she said coldly. “A misfortune has happened to us during the night.”
“What is it? What is it?” cried the excitable little man, and pointing to the strip of papyrus she held in her hand, he asked: “Is this the misfortune?”
“It is from Clytie,” replied Maira, and read the contents in a tone which seemed to imply that the matter was no concern of hers.
At the words: “Forgive me, I must fly,” Xenocles started and, with a stiff movement, as though both his limbs had suddenly become one, he swung himself up from his reclining posture and put his feet on the floor so that he sat erect on the couch. He seemed to have been struck speechless, and his hands fumbled with his belt, which he had not yet buckled.
He was thinking of Clytie’s childhood, of her pretty, gentle face, her innocent caresses. His eyes filled with tears—he could not believe that she had gone.
Maira was a good wife and loved her husband tenderly; but she was not more generous than the majority of the female sex. Deeply as Xenocles was moved, it did not occur to her to spare him. All that she had silently endured for years must be uttered.
“Now we have no daughter,” she said, as a sort of preamble.
Xenocles was silent, the muscles around his mouth twitched convulsively.
A pause ensued. At that early hour of the morning the house was so still that the flies were heard buzzing in the sunshine on the rush carpet inside the door.
“It would have been better,” Maira continued, “if you had not always had your head filled with your plans and measurements for buildings. Whole days passed without your saying a word to Clytie or me, and if I spoke to you about anything that disturbed you, I was so harshly rebuffed that I often dared not address you. Doris the slave-girl knew ten times as much about Clytie’s affairs. By Adrasteia, it’s an easy matter to be a father, if a man considers it enough to give his daughter home and clothes and food. But, if you had had any love for your child, had you suspected what she hoped and longed for, had you known what she feared more than death—this misfortune would not have befallen us.”
Xenocles gazed at Maira as though she were a stranger. He understood that it was maternal affection which made her so strong, and at the same time dimly felt that perhaps he had some reason to reproach himself.
He bent his head.
“What is to be done?” he murmured. “Tell me, Maira. You have always been a good wife to me.”
At these simple words all Maira’s wrath vanished. She involuntarily sat down beside her husband and, as their eyes met, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
“First,” she whispered, “we must conceal Clytie’s flight. Then you must—better now than later—go to Acestor and tell him that Clytie is ill and the wedding must be postponed. You can say she is delirious and no one is allowed to see her.”
Xenocles rose.
“It will be a hard task,” he said.
Fortunately Acestor’s house stood in the Melitan quarter so Xenocles, while on his way to it, had time to clear his brain.
As he had feared, he found the slaves in the act of decorating the building with garlands and green branches.
“Take all this down!” said the impetuous little man. “The bride is ill. There will be no wedding.”
The door-keeper, who was standing at the half-open door watching the slaves, heard these words and hurrying to his master, repeated them while announcing the visitor.
Xenocles was not a man to stand waiting at an open door, especially in the house of his future son-in-law. He followed close behind, but while crossing the peristyle he started at the sound of a blow, and distinctly heard the words:
“Take that, bird of misfortune, for your evil tidings.”
Acestor received Xenocles with a sullen face and frowning brow.
“Is what this blockhead says true?” he asked, without letting Xenocles have time to speak.
“The gods have given me a bitter cup to drain,” replied the little man with dignity. “My daughter has had a sudden attack of illness. She is delirious, and no one is permitted to see her. The wedding must be deferred.”
Acestor made no reply, but stared angrily into vacancy.
“Strange!” he muttered, “A bride who falls ill on her wedding day—who ever heard of such a thing? By Zeus, this or something else seems to me a bad omen. Do not forget that you owe me compensation and, by the gods, a double one. In the first place the girl is beautiful enough for many to desire to wed her, even without a dowry, and secondly I had calculated on the amount agreed upon as a sum of which I was sure.”
“I will think of it,” replied Xenocles coldly, and went away even more displeased with Acestor than with himself.
On the walk home he recalled the events of the morning and, as Clytie’s flight, Maira’s reproaches, and Acestor’s greed passed through his mind, he sighed heavily and exclaimed:
“The gods know where all this will end.”