MARTIANUS.
The little community that remained in the neighbourhood of the villa after
the departure of the Count and his household had plenty to occupy their
thoughts and hands. The Count had behaved with a liberality and a
discretion that were both equally characteristic of him. All the stock of
what may be called the home farm, all the agricultural implements, the
cattle, sheep, and pigs, and as much of the stores of corn that he could
spare, he had made over to the priest and two other principal persons in
the settlement for the benefit of the community at large. This was an
excellent start, and removed all immediate anxiety for the future. The
stores of provisions had been increased by opportune purchases before the
resolution to go had been taken, and enough was left to last, if managed
with due economy, over the coming winter.
Carna found plenty of employment of the kind in which she found her
greatest pleasure. There was indeed a terrible gap in her life; not only
had she lost those whom she had loved all her life as father and sister,
but her intellectual interests had dropped away from her. Many of the
books at the villa had indeed been left with her, but then there was no
one to whom to talk about them. The old priest never opened a volume
except it was a service book; his wife could not even read. But the time
never hung heavily upon her hands, for there was plenty of work to do
among the sick and sorry. As the autumn went on an epidemic, which a
modern doctor would probably have described as measles, broke out among
the children, and Carna spent her days and nights in ministering to the
little sufferers. The one relief that she allowed herself—and there was no
little sadness mixed with the pleasure which it gave her—was to spend an
hour, when she could snatch one from her many cares, in the deserted rooms
of the villa. The indulgence was rare, not only because her leisure was
infrequent, but because she was conscious of feeling somewhat relaxed
after it for the effort of her daily life; but when it came it was
precious. Not a room, not a picture on the walls, not a pattern in the
tesselated pavements, that did not call up a hundred associations, and
make the past in which she had enjoyed so much happiness live again in her
fancy. The dwelling was under the charge of an old couple, who gladly kept
it clean in exchange for the shelter of two or three of the rooms, and
Carna was free to wander about it as she would, while she felt a certain
security in the knowledge that the place was not wholly deserted.
The autumn and winter passed without any incident of importance. News from
the Continent had never been very regular during that season of the year,
and now it came only at the rarest intervals. All that the settlement
heard went to show that there was but little chance of the return of the
legions. Constantine, after some changes of fortune, had made himself
master of Gaul and Spain, and had established a kingdom which looked so
much as if it might last, that he had been regularly acknowledged by
Honorius as a partner in the Empire. But it would be long before he could
spare money or men for adding Britain to his dominions. From Britain
itself the news was mostly of the most dismal kind. The Picts, indeed,
were not as troublesome as usual. Happily for their neighbours on the
south, their attention had been occupied by the tribes on the north, who
had been driven by a season of unusual scarcity to forage for themselves.
The robbers, in fact, had been obliged to defend themselves against being
robbed, and Britain had had in consequence a quiet time. But the people
used it to quarrel among themselves. There were scores of chiefs who had
each his pedigree, by which he traced his lineage to some king of the
pre-Roman days, and which gave him, he fancied, a title to rule over his
neighbours. And besides these personal jealousies, there was a great
division which split the nation into two hostile factions. There were
Britons, who held to Roman ways, and among them, to the religion which
Rome had given, and there were Britons who looked back to the old
independent days, and to the faith which their fore-fathers had held long
before the name of Christ had been heard out of or in the land of His
birth. The former party was by far the more numerous, but its adherents
were those who had suffered most by Britain’s four centuries of servitude;
in the latter the virtues of freedom had been kept alive by a carefully
cherished tradition. They were few in number; but they were vigorous and
enthusiastic, even fanatical. It was clear that this strife within would
cause at least as much trouble as would come from enemies without.
It was about seven months after the Count’s departure when Carna paid one
of her customary visits to the villa. She had been unusually busy for
three or four weeks previously, and had not found time to come. As she
passed through the garden, on her way to the house, she noticed that the
place looked somewhat neater and less neglected than usual. This, however,
did not surprise her, as she had gently remonstrated with the old keeper
for doing so little, and, in her usual kindly way, had followed up her
reproof with a little present. Accordingly she passed on without thinking
more of the matter to the little sitting-room which she had once shared
with Ælia, and prepared to spend an hour of quiet enjoyment with a book.
Her books, indeed, she kept for these visits to the villa. Not only was
her time elsewhere closely occupied, but her hostess, kindly and
affectionate as she generally was, could not conceal her dislike of the
volumes which Carna loved so dearly.
In the midst of her reading she was startled by the unaccustomed sound of
footsteps. She lifted her eyes from the page and saw a sight so unexpected
that for a few moments she could not collect her thoughts or believe her
eyes.
The British chief Martianus stood before her.
She had seen him last at the Great Temple, and the recollections of those
days and nights of horror, her capture, her hurried journey, and the
interrupted sacrifice, crowded upon her, and almost overpowered her. Nor
could she help giving one thought to the question—if this man’s presence
recalls such horrors in the past, what does it not mean for the future?
Still, the courage which had supported her so bravely before did not fail
her now. She rose from her seat and calmly faced the intruder, while she
waited for him to speak.
Martianus began in a tone of the deepest respect. “Lady, I am truly glad
that you condescend to honour this poor house of mine with your presence.”
“This house of yours!” repeated the girl, with astonishment.
“Lady, doubtless you do not know that this villa was built by its former
owner on land which belonged to my family, and which was taken from them
by force. I do not speak of the Count—he was too honourable a man to do
anything of the kind—I speak of the former owner, or so-called owner, from
whom he purchased it. In the Count’s time I said nothing of my claim. I
would not have troubled him for the world. But now that he has gone, and
practically given up the place, I am justified, I think, in asserting my
ownership.”
“I know nothing of these matters,” said Carna, coldly, “but I will take
care not to intrude again.”
“Intrusion!” said the chief. “Did I not say that there is no one who would
be more welcome here? We were friends once, in the good Count’s time; why
should we not be so again? and more,” he added in a whisper.
“Friends with you! Surely that is impossible. You cannot wish it yourself,
after what has happened. You seem to forget.”
“Lady, Carna—I used to call you Carna when you were a child—I do try to
forget that dreadful night. I was overborne by those double-dyed villains,
Carausius and Ambiorix. Believe me, it was against my will that I took any
part in that dreadful business. And you will remember I never lifted a
hand against you, no, nor against that base champion of yours. You will do
me that justice. Carausius, thank Heaven! has got his deserts, and I have
broken with Ambiorix.”
[Illustration: Carna and Martianus.]
Carna remained silent.
Martianus resolved to try another appeal, and, presuming that the girl’s
recollections of the scene might be confused by fear, did not scruple to
depart considerably from the truth.
“I implore you to believe that I could not have allowed that horrible deed
to be accomplished. If that base fellow who had the privilege of saving
you had not appeared, I was ready myself to interfere. I know that I ought
to have done so before; it has been a ceaseless regret to me that I did
not. But I wanted to keep on terms with those two, and I held back till
the last moment. Forgive me my irresolution, Carna, but do not believe
that I could have been one of the murderers.”
The girl’s recollections of the scene, which were quite free from the
confusion which Martianus had imagined, did not agree with this account of
his behaviour, but she did not think it worth while to argue the point.
“Let it be as you will,” she said, with a cold dignity, “but you can
imagine that these recollections are not pleasing to me. And now I will
bid you farewell.”
She stepped forward as she spoke with the intention of at once leaving the
room, but Martianus barred the way. Dropping on one knee, he caught her
hand. For a moment Carna, who had still something of the child in her,
felt a strong impulse to use the hand that was still free in dealing him a
vigorous blow. But her womanly dignity prevailed: she only wrenched her
hand away with something like violence. There was something in the foppish
appearance and insincere manner of Martianus that set her more decidedly
against him than even the recollection of the plot in which he had been
concerned.
“I will listen to what you have to say, but do not touch me.”
“You give me little encouragement,” Martianus began, “but still I will
speak. I say nothing about myself, only about my country—your country and
mine. I know how you love it. We have all heard what sacrifices you have
made for it, how you gave up home and friends sooner than leave it. Make,
if I must put it so, one sacrifice more. You are the heiress of the great
Caradoc, the noblest king that Britain ever had, whom even the Romans were
compelled to admire. I can reckon among my ancestors Cunobelin. Apart our
claims might be disputed; together they will make a title which no one can
dispute to the crown of Britain. Yes, Carna, it is nothing less than
that—the crown of Britain that is in question.”
“A crown does not tempt me,” said Carna, looking the speaker straight in
the face.
“Ah! it is not that,” replied the suitor; “you mistake me. I never dreamed
of tempting you. I know only too well that it would be impossible. But
think what a British crown really means. It means a united Britain, strong
against the Picts, strong against the Saxons; and without it—think what
that would mean. Every tribe—for we should split up into tribes again—for
itself; every chief working for his own hand; the Picts plundering the
inland, the Saxons harrying the coast. Oh, Carna! as you love your
country—I don’t speak of myself, though that, too, might come in time, if
a man’s devotion is of any avail—but if you love your country, do not say
no.”
It was a powerful appeal, and touched Carna’s heart at the point where it
was most accessible. And she was so candid and transparent a soul that
what she felt in her heart she soon showed in her face.
Martianus saw his advantage, but, happily for Carna, did not press it as
he might have done. The fact was that he was so conscious of his own
insincerity and falsehood that his courage failed him, and he dared not
press his suit any further. Had he gone on, he might have entangled the
girl in a promise which her feeling for truth would not have permitted her
to break, which would have made her even shut her eyes to the truth. As it
was, he thought it his best policy to rest content with the progress that
he had made. He raised Carna’s hand respectfully to his lips, and, with a
low salutation, opened the door.