The Woman Who Vowed (The Demetrian). Ellison Harding
I became painfully conscious of my bare white legs. The young man with the guitar stepped down from his chair and came to me.
"Welcome to Tyringham," said he. "We don't know how you got here or where you come from, but we are ready to answer questions and willing to ask none."
I stammered something in answer and was led to a table where two places had been left for us. Cleon and I sat down and food was brought. Lydia asked me a few conventional questions to put me at my ease; but hardly succeeded, for seemingly some hundreds were engaged in staring at me. At last some one pushed the soloist by the arm. "One more verse, Ariston," said he, and Ariston jumped on the chair again, and, twanging his guitar, resumed:
"Of swarthy skins she tires soon
To her new things must cater,
So now she's found a pantaloon—
The Lightning Calculator."
My legs were well under the table so I could join in the laugh, secretly satisfied to be associated with her even in the jingling nonsense of a comic song.
"Boobies!" exclaimed Lydia, "and Babies!" she added. "Boobies and Babies!" She ran to the door and they all followed her, boisterously laughing, and leaving me alone with Cleon.
"I didn't understand much of it," said I. "Who is Chairo?"
"Chairo is a great man; one of our great men; the youngest of them; he may become anything; but he is not popular because he is so dictatorial."
"And he is in love with Lydia?"
"Frightfully in love."
"And Lydia?"
"Ah! no one knows; she's very sly, Lydia"; and Cleon chuckled to himself.
"And why did everybody look at one another when Ariston sang about Demeter?"
"Well, the women don't like to have it talked about."
I was puzzled.
"Do tell me about it," I said, "for I know nothing about Demeter except what I have read in my classics."
"Well, Demeter, you see"—but he blushed and stammered—"I really never had it altogether explained to me; the women never talk of it, and yet the Cult, as they call it, 'the Cult of Demeter,' is the most important thing to them in the world."
I went on eating my breakfast and trying to guess what Cleon was driving at, but altogether failed.
"What does this Cult of Demeter have to do with your sister?" I asked at last.
"Why," answered Cleon, looking round cautiously and lowering his voice, "Lydia is a Demetrian."
"What does that mean—'Demetrian'?"
"It means that she has been selected by Demeter."
"Do try to remember," I said a little impatiently, "that I know nothing about your Demeter and can make neither head nor tail of what you are saying."
The irritation I felt made me aware that I was jealous of Chairo, jealous of Demeter, and infatuated with Lydia. Cleon's half explanations seemed to be putting Lydia out of my reach, and I was exasperated at not being able to understand just how far.
"Well," answered Cleon, "I don't know whether I ought to tell you, but it's this way: Lydia is awfully clever at figures. She can square any ten of them; add any number of columns; multiply any number by any number all in a flash. And so she's been selected by Demeter; that is to say, I suppose, they are going to marry her to some great mathematician."
"What!" exclaimed I, indignantly. "They are going to sacrifice her to a mathematician?"
"Sacrifice!" retorted Cleon with open eyes. "Why, it isn't a sacrifice! It is the greatest honor a woman can have!"
"And what does Lydia say to it?"
"She hasn't made up her mind."
"Oh, then, she has to be consulted," said I, relieved. "She cannot be compelled."
"Oh, no," answered Cleon, "she is selected—that is to say, the honor is offered to her; she may not accept it if she does not like; but a girl seldom refuses. She is no more likely to refuse the mission of Demeter than Chairo would be to refuse the Presidency. It is very hard work being President—very wearing; in fact, I should think it would be an awful bore; but nobody ever refuses it, because of the honor. I suppose it is the same thing with the mission of Demeter."
I was more and more puzzled, but despaired of getting satisfaction from Cleon.
CHAPTER II
HARVESTING AND HARMONY
We had finished breakfast now, and my hunger satisfied, I was free to look about me a little. The hall was lofty, and the roof supported by Gothic arches, sculptured by hands that had enjoyed the work; for although the design of the building was simple and dignified it was covered with ornaments of bewildering complexity. We were waited on by women who could not be distinguished from those upon whom they waited; of every age and of every type, most of them were glowing with health and cheerfulness. They laughed a great deal with one another, and offered me advice as to what they put before me; warned me when a dish was hot, and recommended the cream as particularly fresh and sweet. They made me feel as though I had been there for years and knew every one of them intimately. Just as we were finishing, a fine old man with a white beard and a patriarchal countenance joined us:
"You come from a couple of centuries ago," he said.
"Is it two centuries, or a thousand years?" asked I.
"I have been looking at your clothes; you don't mind, do you? they indicate the end of the nineteenth or beginning of the twentieth century."
"You have guessed right," said I; "and what year are you?"
"We count from the last Constitution which was voted ninety-three years ago, in 2011 of your reckoning. So we call the present year 93."
"So you have given up the old Constitution," I said with a touch of sentiment in my voice.
"Yes, it had to be changed when we advanced to where we are now in methods of manufacture and distribution of profits."
"Can you give your methods a name?"
"You used to call it Collectivism; we call it Solidarity."
"You mean to say you actually practise Collectivism!"
The patriarch smiled.
"Your writers used to say it was impossible," he said; "just as the English engineers once said the building of the Suez Canal was impossible, and our own engineers the building of the Panama Canal was impossible. As a matter of fact, Collectivism is as much easier than your old plan as mowing with a reaper is easier than mowing with a scythe. You will see this for yourself—and you will see" here his brow darkened—"that the real problem—the as yet unsolved problem—is a very different one. But Cleon must join the haymakers; what would you like to do?"
I was much interested in the old man and was anxious to hear what he had to say about the "as yet unsolved problem," which I already guessed. But I was still more anxious to be with Lydia, so I asked:
"Does Cleon work with his sister?"
"Yes," said Cleon, "on the slope, a few minutes from here."
"Perhaps I had better make myself useful," said I hypocritically.
I thought I detected a little smile behind the big white beard as the old man said to Cleon, "Well, hurry off now; you are late."
I followed Cleon up the hill. He explained to me on the way that the meadows were all cut by machinery, but that the slopes had still to be cut by hand. We soon came upon a group in which I recognized