VI

“Hermione, my dear, I came as soon as I heard the news. I hope Helen is at home.”

“She isn’t, Charitas—she’s out this afternoon, I’m sorry to say. Come in and let me be a poor substitute.”

“Dear child, not poor at all! But this is the second time I’ve missed her. If I didn’t know your mother so well, I’d suspect she was avoiding me. You’ll tell her how disappointed I am. The moment I heard that Agamemnon was back, I said I must come over at once and tell Helen how glad I was … Dear me! … You’ve heard from your aunt, I suppose?”

“No, we haven’t heard from any of them directly. A man brought the news that Agamemnon is home again. Mother told me. Father has sent him an invitation to spend a few days with us as soon as he’s at leisure.”

“Your uncle, Hermione, is a very distinguished man. You ought to be proud of him. I don’t mean, of course, that your father isn’t distinguished too, but Agamemnon always had … well, there was a certain something about him. It’s hard to define personality. I never could understand why your aunt didn’t appreciate what she had—most women would think themselves well off with such a husband.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t want to be well off,” said Hermione. “Mother always seems annoyed when one speaks respectfully of ordinary comforts and of an established life. They seem to have their own notion of success. But I ought not to speak so of my aunt. I dare say she does appreciate her husband—what she has seen of him. I know nothing to the contrary.”

“My dear child, you don’t mean to pretend you haven’t heard how Clytemnestra’s been going on! Of course you have! It’s the most general subject of conversation among all the friends of the family. I don’t know where women get the courage to do such things. Not that I want that kind of courage! But you can’t say she appreciates Agamemnon if she’s living with Ægisthus.”

“I don’t feel that I know much about such things, Charitas, but I fancy I can understand my aunt’s point of view, at least to a degree. I don’t defend the irregularities in her conduct, but she has her good qualities. Orestes—my cousin, you know—is devoted to her, and I always remind myself that so fine a man wouldn’t care for a person with no virtues whatever.”

“Perhaps he’s merely dutiful,” said Charitas. “In any case, I’m glad to hear that of Orestes; I had thought him perhaps a bit too advanced in his ideas. You know, he didn’t go to Troy, though he is quite formidable, they say, in the field. Some one told me—who was it?—that he stayed at home because he didn’t approve of the war. I feared he might be temperamentally disloyal. But Clytemnestra seems to me undoubtedly—I don’t suppose your uncle will take her back? You said you hadn’t heard.”

“She is back, isn’t she?” said Hermione. “She never was away. I dare say they’ll quarrel, but I repeat, Clytemnestra has some things on her side, and I reserve my judgment till I know much more than at present I do.”

“Has she something on her side? I didn’t know that! Has Agamemnon been—? Well, it’s not to be wondered at; men always are. Do tell me, Hermione! I’ve missed it entirely—I don’t see how.”

“It’s perfectly simple,” said Hermione, “if you know them both. Agamemnon is high-handed, and Clytemnestra is high-spirited. What more do you need for a quarrel? Orestes says his mother resented a little all the excitement over my mother. You might guess she was jealous, but Orestes says not; he says his mother merely thought the expedition to Troy was—well, out of proportion. Then there was Iphigeneia. Haven’t you heard about that? It was long ago, when they were trying to get the boats off. My uncle was at Aulis, and he sent for Iphigeneia to come and marry Achilles. My aunt was naturally delighted with the match, and was packing up to go on with her daughter, when Agamemnon sent word he wanted only the daughter—her mother mustn’t come. That was rather intolerable, don’t you think? Clytemnestra wanted her daughter to be well married, but she counted on being asked to the wedding. You wouldn’t believe how brutal Agamemnon was about it—said that if Clytemnestra appeared, there would be no marriage, and she mustn’t ask questions, but he would explain after he got home. Rather than spoil Iphigeneia’s chance, Clytemnestra sent her on to Aulis alone—and there was no marriage, after all. Clytemnestra thought that such a betrayal ended her obligations to Agamemnon. I’m not prepared to say she was wrong.”

“I don’t see why, because the wedding fell through, she should break up the home,” said Charitas. “If I went off with another man every time my husband failed to do what he promised, I’d—well, I’d not be what I am. Iphigeneia could have found another husband.”

“No, she couldn’t,” said Hermione. “They did a dreadful thing—they offered her as a sacrifice for a favourable wind.”

“Hermione! How awful! And I suppose it wasn’t favourable, after all.”

“Yes, it was,” said Hermione. “That’s when they sailed for Troy. But perhaps they didn’t really kill her. I used to believe they did, but no one admits it now, and there’s another story, more recent, about her being still alive, in some obscure place. Why she should be there and not at home, I can’t guess. But whatever happened to her, I hope my uncle has explained it satisfactorily by this time, and I do hope he’ll see that his failure to explain earlier justified Clytemnestra in abandoning her home ties. Orestes says—”

“Hermione, my dear, I doubt if Orestes is a good influence upon you; he seems to talk—and think—as I should expect of his mother’s child. You never would express such disturbing theories if some one had not imposed them on you; it’s not in your sweet nature. I suspect Orestes. I hope you won’t allow yourself to admire him too much!”

“I doubt if I admire him too much,” said Hermione.

“I’m sure you don’t,” said Charitas. “Really, Hermione, it’s a mystery to me how you have kept your ideas of life so steady and so high, with such extraordinary performances going on around you. You know I’m devoted to your mother, but—you won’t mind my saying what even those who love her best agree in—she’s not an ideal parent. She’s too much preoccupied with love, as if that were the whole thing in life. Common sense goes further, I say. And a little skill to plan and contrive. These people who give way to their feelings, Hermione, they’re simply a burden on the rest of us. Such respect as they have for their instincts and their impulses! I hope you’ll never go in for an emotional career. I’ve always tried to suppress Damastor’s impulses, or at least to keep his mind off them. So far I flatter myself I’ve succeeded. Don’t you think he’s a dear boy, Hermione?”

“I haven’t seen enough of him, Charitas, to know whether he’s a dear boy or not. He’s very civil to me when we meet.”

“Civil? Why, Hermione, he’s devoted to you—he’s really in love with you! There’s no reason why you should be coy about it—with his mother, your old friend. I know his feelings on the subject. That child tells me everything. He often stops in my room to talk after he has been over to see you.”

“What does he tell you, Charitas? Because, he never comes to see me. I haven’t had a word with him for weeks and weeks.”

“Hermione! I feel faint! Damastor! … Don’t tell me that—the boy wouldn’t deceive me.”

“Charitas, I’m sorry to tell you, but once before, or several times, you’ve hinted that Damastor was in love with me. I couldn’t discuss a hint of that sort, but it worried me, because Damastor has shown no interest in me at any time. I didn’t like you to have a false impression.”

“He said—he always says—merely that he is coming over here to see you. I thought he meant—”

“I think he meant he was coming over here,” said Hermione. “I don’t doubt he came. And I don’t doubt he’s infatuated with a girl. There’s more than one woman in this house, Charitas.”

“Don’t tell me it’s—your mother!”

“No, for a wonder, it’s not. My guess is—of course I don’t know—it’s Adraste.”

“And who is Adraste?”

“You know—you’ve seen her—the girl who attends my mother.”

“The one who came with Helen to my garden? Hermione! She’s very beautiful.”

“She certainly is—if you like the type.”

“How awful! I dare say she has no character at all. She’s a nobody, at best. And constantly with Helen! … Hermione, why do you think Damastor’s infatuated with her?”

“They’ve been together a good deal—I’ve seen them walking and talking, when they perhaps supposed themselves alone. He’s only a boy, Charitas, and she’s a scheming little thing, if I guess right. She knows her charms, and would rather die than not use them, and I doubt if she has any morals to speak of. I may be wrong, but I imagine Damastor has fallen into her clutches.”

“My poor boy! My poor boy! I might have known. This is your mother’s doings, Hermione! I’d spare your feelings if I could, but I must say that woman has paid me shabbily for my loyalty to her—even when I knew she didn’t deserve it. What right has she to come back among honest women, who have put up with worse husbands, perhaps, than she ever had, and give herself airs as if she were a goddess, beyond human measures of right and wrong—and bring with her this little snake, to charm away our men and poison our lives! If your mother had her just reward, Hermione! Well, I can save Damastor yet. I’ll send him away where that girl can’t get her hands on him. He’ll forget her if he sees a little more of the world. I’ll send him to my brother’s, for a visit. If she ever speaks to him again, it will be at my funeral!”

“On the whole, I think you’re wise,” said Hermione. “Damastor is too nice a boy, I’m sure, to have his life spoiled by the wrong kind of woman. I’d be sorry for any well brought up man who chose Adraste. I’m glad that Orestes, so far as he knows about her, doesn’t like her at all.”