'And its name is friendship!' replied Ione: her answer was innocent, yet
it sounded like the reproof of one conscious of the design of the
speaker.
'Friendship!' said Arbaces, vehemently. 'No; that is a word too often
profaned to apply to a sentiment so sacred. Friendship! it is a tie
that binds fools and profligates! Friendship! it is the bond that unites
the frivolous hearts of a Glaucus and a Clodius! Friendship! no, that is
an affection of earth, of vulgar habits and sordid sympathies; the
feeling of which I speak is borrowed from the stars'--it partakes of
that mystic and ineffable yearning, which we feel when we gaze on
them--it burns, yet it purifies--it is the lamp of naphtha in the
alabaster vase, glowing with fragrant odorous, but shining only through
the purest vessels. No; it is not love, and it is not friendship, that
Arbaces feels for Ione. Give it no name--earth has no name for it--it
is not of earth--why debase it with earthly epithets and earthly
associations?'
Never before had Arbaces ventured so far, yet he felt his ground step by
step: he knew that he uttered a language which, if at this day of
affected platonisms it would speak unequivocally to the ears of beauty,
was at that time strange and unfamiliar, to which no precise idea could
be attached, from which he could imperceptibly advance or recede, as
occasion suited, as hope encouraged or fear deterred. Ione trembled,
though she knew not why; her veil hid her features, and masked an
expression, which, if seen by the Egyptian, would have at once damped
and enraged him; in fact, he never was more displeasing to her--the
harmonious modulation of the most suasive voice that ever disguised
unhallowed thought fell discordantly on her ear. Her whole soul was
still filled with the image of Glaucus; and the accent of tenderness
from another only revolted and dismayed; yet she did not conceive that
any passion more ardent than that platonism which Arbaces expressed
lurked beneath his words. She thought that he, in truth, spoke only of
the affection and sympathy of the soul; but was it not precisely that
affection and that sympathy which had made a part of those emotions she
felt for Glaucus; and could any other footstep than his approach the
haunted adytum of her heart?
Anxious at once to change the conversation, she replied, therefore, with
a cold and indifferent voice, 'Whomsoever Arbaces honors with the
sentiment of esteem, it is natural that his elevated wisdom should color
that sentiment with its own hues; it is natural that his friendship
should be purer than that of others, whose pursuits and errors he does
not deign to share. But tell me, Arbaces, hast thou seen my brother of
late? He has not visited me for several days; and when I last saw him
his manner disturbed and alarmed me much. I fear lest he was too
precipitate in the severe choice that he has adopted, and that he
repents an irrevocable step.'
'Be cheered, Ione,' replied the Egyptian. 'It is true that, some little
time since he was troubled and sad of spirit; those doubts beset him
which were likely to haunt one of that fervent temperament, which ever
ebbs and flows, and vibrates between excitement and exhaustion. But he,
Ione, he came to me his anxieties and his distress; he sought one who
pitied me and loved him; I have calmed his mind--I have removed his
doubts--I have taken him from the threshold of Wisdom into its temple;
and before the majesty of the goddess his soul is hushed and soothed.
Fear not, he will repent no more; they who trust themselves to Arbaces
never repent but for a moment.'
'You rejoice me,' answered Ione. 'My dear brother! in his contentment I
am happy.'
The conversation then turned upon lighter subjects; the Egyptian exerted
himself to please, he condescended even to entertain; the vast variety
of his knowledge enabled him to adorn and light up every subject on
which he touched; and Ione, forgetting the displeasing effect of his
former words, was carried away, despite her sadness, by the magic of his
intellect. Her manner became unrestrained and her language fluent; and
Arbaces, who had waited his opportunity, now hastened to seize it.
'You have never seen,' said he, 'the interior of my home; it may amuse
you to do so: it contains some rooms that may explain to you what you
have often asked me to describe--the fashion of an Egyptian house; not
indeed, that you will perceive in the poor and minute proportions of
Roman architecture the massive strength, the vast space, the gigantic
magnificence, or even the domestic construction of the palaces of Thebes
and Memphis; but something there is, here and there, that may serve to
express to you some notion of that antique civilization which has
humanized the world. Devote, then, to the austere friend of your youth,
one of these bright summer evenings, and let me boast that my gloomy
mansion has been honored with the presence of the admired Ione.'
Unconscious of the pollutions of the mansion, of the danger that awaited
her, Ione readily assented to the proposal. The next evening was fixed
for the visit; and the Egyptian, with a serene countenance, and a heart
beating with fierce and unholy joy, departed. Scarce had he gone, when
another visitor claimed admission.... But now we return to Glaucus.
Chapter V
THE POOR TORTOISE. NEW CHANGES FOR NYDIA.
THE morning sun shone over the small and odorous garden enclosed within
the peristyle of the house of the Athenian. He lay reclined, sad and
listlessly, on the smooth grass which intersected the viridarium; and a
slight canopy stretched above, broke the fierce rays of the summer sun.
When that fairy mansion was first disinterred from the earth they found
in the garden the shell of a tortoise that had been its inmate. That
animal, so strange a link in the creation, to which Nature seems to have
denied all the pleasure of life, save life's passive and dream-like
perception, had been the guest of the place for years before Glaucus
purchased it; for years, indeed which went beyond the memory of man, and
to which tradition assigned an almost incredible date. The house
had been built and rebuilt--its possessors had changed and
fluctuated--generations had flourished and decayed--and still the
tortoise dragged on its slow and unsympathizing existence. In the
earthquake, which sixteen years before had overthrown many of the public
buildings of the city, and scared away the amazed inhabitants, the house
now inhabited by Glaucus had been terribly shattered. The possessors
deserted it for many days; on their return they cleared away the ruins
which encumbered the viridarium, and found still the tortoise, unharmed
and unconscious of the surrounding destruction. It seemed to bear a
charmed life in its languid blood and imperceptible motions; yet it was
not so inactive as it seemed: it held a regular and monotonous course;
inch by inch it traversed the little orbit of its domain, taking months
to accomplish the whole gyration. It was a restless voyager, that
tortoise!--patiently, and with pain, did it perform its self-appointed
journeys, evincing no interest in the things around it--a philosopher
concentrated in itself. There was something grand in its solitary
selfishness!--the sun in which it basked--the waters poured daily over
it--the air, which it insensibly inhaled, were its sole and unfailing
luxuries. The mild changes of the season, in that lovely clime,
affected it not. It covered itself with its shell--as the saint in his
piety--as the sage in his wisdom--as the lover in his hope.
It was impervious to the shocks and mutations of time--it was an emblem
of time itself: slow, regular, perpetual; unwitting of the passions that
fret themselves around--of the wear and tear of mortality. The poor
tortoise! nothing less than the bursting of volcanoes, the convulsions
of the riven world, could have quenched its sluggish spark! The
inexorable Death, that spared not pomp or beauty, passed unheedingly by
a thing to which death could bring so insignificant a change.
For this animal the mercurial and vivid Greek felt all the wonder and
affection of contrast. He could spend hours in surveying its creeping
progress, in moralizing over its mechanism. He despised it in joy--he
envied it in sorrow.
Regarding it now as he lay along the sward--its dull mass moving while
it seemed motionless, the Athenian murmured to himself:
'The eagle dropped a stone from his talons, thinking to break thy shell:
the stone crushed the head of a poet. This is the allegory of Fate!
Dull thing! Thou hadst a father and a mother; perhaps, ages ago, thou
thyself hadst a mate. Did thy parents love, or didst thou? Did thy
slow blood circulate more gladly when thou didst creep to the side of
thy wedded one? Wert thou capable of affection? Could it distress thee
if she were away from thy side? Couldst thou feel when she was present?
What would I not give to know the history of thy mailed breast--to gaze
upon the mechanism of thy faint desires--to mark what hair--breadth
difference separates thy sorrow from thy joy! Yet, methinks, thou
wouldst know if Ione were present! Thou wouldst feel her coming like a
happier air--like a gladder sun. I envy thee now, for thou knowest not
that she is absent; and I--would I could be like thee--between the
intervals of seeing her! What doubt, what presentiment, haunts me! why
will she not admit me? Days have passed since I heard her voice. For
the first time, life grows flat to me. I am as one who is left alone at
a banquet, the lights dead, and the flowers faded. Ah! Ione, couldst
thou dream how I adore thee!'
From these enamoured reveries, Glaucus was interrupted by the entrance
of Nydia. She came with her light, though cautious step, along the
marble tablinum. She passed the portico, and paused at the flowers
which bordered the garden. She had her water-vase in her hand, and she
sprinkled the thirsting plants, which seemed to brighten at her
approach. She bent to inhale their odor. She touched them timidly and
caressingly. She felt, along their stems, if any withered leaf or
creeping insect marred their beauty. And as she hovered from flower to
flower, with her earnest and youthful countenance and graceful motions,
you could not have imagined a fitter handmaid for the goddess of the
garden.
'Nydia, my child!' said Glaucus.
At the sound of his voice she paused at once--listening, blushing,
breathless; with her lips parted, her face upturned to catch the
direction of the sound, she laid down the vase--she hastened to him; and
wonderful it was to see how unerringly she threaded her dark way through
the flowers, and came by the shortest path to the side of her new lord.
'Nydia,' said Glaucus, tenderly stroking back her long and beautiful
hair, 'it is now three days since thou hast been under the protection of
my household gods. Have they smiled on thee? Art thou happy?'
'Ah! so happy!' sighed the slave.
'And now,' continued Glaucus, 'that thou hast recovered somewhat from
the hateful recollections of thy former state,--and now that they have
fitted thee (touching her broidered tunic) with garments more meet for
thy delicate shape--and now, sweet child, that thou hast accustomed
thyself to a happiness, which may the gods grant thee ever! I am about
to pray at thy hands a boon.'
'Oh! what can I do for thee?' said Nydia, clasping her hands.
'Listen,' said Glaucus, 'and young as thou art, thou shalt be my
confidant. Hast thou ever heard the name of Ione?'
The blind girl gasped for breath, and turning pale as one of the statues
which shone upon them from the peristyle, she answered with an effort,
and after a moment's pause:
'Yes! I have heard that she is of Neapolis, and beautiful.'
'Beautiful! her beauty is a thing to dazzle the day! Neapolis! nay, she
is Greek by origin; Greece only could furnish forth such shapes. Nydia,
I love her!'
'I thought so,' replied Nydia, calmly.
'I love, and thou shalt tell her so. I am about to send thee to her.
Happy Nydia, thou wilt be in her chamber--thou wilt drink the music of
her voice--thou wilt bask in the sunny air of her presence!'
'What! what! wilt thou send me from thee?'
'Thou wilt go to Ione,' answered Glaucus, in a tone that said, 'What
more canst thou desire?'
Nydia burst into tears.
Glaucus, raising himself, drew her towards him with the soothing
caresses of a brother.
'My child, my Nydia, thou weepest in ignorance of the happiness I bestow
on thee. She is gentle, and kind, and soft as the breeze of spring. She
will be a sister to thy youth--she will appreciate thy winning
talents--she will love thy simple graces as none other could, for they
are like her own. Weepest thou still, fond fool? I will not force thee,
sweet. Wilt thou not do for me this kindness?'
'Well, if I can serve thee, command. See, I weep no longer--I am calm.'
'That is my own Nydia,' continued Glaucus, kissing her hand. 'Go, then,
to her: if thou art disappointed in her kindness--if I have deceived
thee, return when thou wilt. I do not give thee to another; I but lend.
My home ever be thy refuge, sweet one. Ah! would it could shelter all
the friendless and distressed! But if my heart whispers truly, I shall
claim thee again soon, my child. My home and Ione's will become the
same, and thou shalt dwell with both.'
A shiver passed through the slight frame of the blind girl, but she wept
no more--she was resigned.
'Go, then, my Nydia, to Ione's house--they shall show thee the way. Take
her the fairest flowers thou canst pluck; the vase which contains them I
will give thee: thou must excuse its unworthiness. Thou shalt take,
too, with thee the lute that I gave thee yesterday, and from which thou
