But here Lysistra interposed with all good intent.
“You are fond and foolish, Hermione, and like all young mothers are enraged if all the world does not see his father’s image in their first-born.”
“Democrates knows what I would say,” said the younger woman, soberly.
“Since your Ladyship is pleased to speak in riddles and I am no seer nor oracle-monger, I must confess I cannot follow. But we will contend no more concerning little [pg 258]Phœnix. Enough that he will grow up fair as the Delian Apollo and an unspeakable joy to his mother.”
“Her only joy,” was Hermione’s icy answer. “Wrap up the child, Cleopis. My father is coming. It is a long walk home to the city.”
With a rustle of white Hermione went down the slope in advance of her mother. Hermippus and Lysistra were not pleased. Plainly their daughter kept all her prejudice against Democrates. Her cold contempt was more disappointing even than open fury.
Once at home Hermione held little Phœnix long to her heart and wept over him. For the sake of her dead husband’s child, if for naught else, how could she suffer them to give her to Democrates? That the orator had destroyed Glaucon in black malice had become a corner-stone in her belief. She could at first give for it only a woman’s reason—blind intuition. She could not discuss her conviction with her mother or with any save a strange confidant—Phormio.
She had met the fishmonger in the Agora once when she went with the slaves to buy a mackerel. The auctioneer had astonished everybody by knocking down to her a noble fish an obol under price, then under pretext of showing her a rare Bœotian eel got her aside into his booth and whispered a few words that made the red and white come and go from her cheeks, after which the lady’s hand went quickly to her purse, and she spoke quick words about “the evening” and “the garden gate.”
Phormio refused the drachma brusquely, but kept the tryst. Cleopis had the key to the garden, and would contrive anything for her mistress—especially as all Athens knew Phormio was harmless save with his tongue. That evening for the first time Hermione heard the true story of Glaucon’s escape by the Solon, but when the fishmonger paused she hung down her head closer.
“You saved him, then? I bless you. But was the sea more merciful than the executioner?”