But though Ænone's sanguinely conceived plan for Cleotos's happiness had
so cruelly failed, it was not in her heart to yield to his passionate,
unreflecting demand, and send him away from her, even to a kinder home
than he would have found at the house of the captain Polidorus. It would
but increase his ill fortune, by enforcing still greater isolation from
every fount of human sympathy. Though the affection of the wily Leta had
been withdrawn from him, her own secret friendship yet remained, and
could be a protection to him as long as he was at her side; and in many
ways she could yet extend her care and favor to him, until such time as
an outward-bound vessel might be found in which to restore him to his
native country.
Whether there was any instinct at the bottom of her heart, telling her
that in the possibility of trying events to come his friendship might be
equally serviceable to her, and that, even in the mere distant
companionship of a slave with his mistress, she might feel a certain
protecting influence, she did not stop to ask. Neither did she inquire
whether she wished to retain him for his own benefit alone, and without
thought of any happiness or comfort to be derived by her from his
presence. Had she been accustomed closely to analyze her feelings, she
might have perceived, perhaps, that, in her growing isolation, it was no
unpleasant thing to look upon the features and listen to the tones which
carried her memory back to her early days of poverty, when, except for a
short interval, her life had been at its happiest. But had she known and
acknowledged all this, it would not have startled her, for she would
have felt that, in her heart, there was not the slightest accompanying
shade of disloyalty. Her nature was not one to admit of sudden transfers
of allegiance. It was rather one in which a real love would last
forever. When the first romantic liking for Cleotos had consumed itself,
from the ashes there had sprung no new passion for him, but merely the
flowers of earnest, true-hearted friendship. And it was her misfortune,
perhaps, that the real love for another which had succeeded would not in
turn consume itself, but would continue to flourish green and perennial,
though now seemingly fated to bask no longer in the sunshine of kindly
words and actions, but only to cower beneath the chill of harsh and
wanton neglect.
Cleotos therefore remained--at first passing weary days of bitter,
heartbreaking despondency. His lost liberty he had borne without much
complaint, for it was merely the fortune of war, and hundreds of his
countrymen were sharing the same fate with him. But to lose that love
upon which he had believed all the happiness of his life depended, was a
blow to which, for a time, no philosophy could reconcile him--the more
particularly as the manner in which that loss had been forced upon him
seemed, to his sensitive nature, to be marked by peculiar severity. To
have had her torn from him in any ordinary way--to part with her in some
quarrel in which either side might be partially right, and thenceforth
never to see her again--or to be obliged to yield her up to the superior
claims of an open, generous rivalry--any of these things would, in
itself, have been sufficient affliction. But it was far worse than all
this to be obliged to meet her at every turn, holding out her hand to
him in pleasant greeting, and uttering words of welcoming import; and
all with an unblushing appearance of friendly interest, as though his
relations with her had never been other than those of a fraternal
character, and as though, upon being allowed her mere friendship, there
could be nothing of which he had a right to complain.
At first, in the agony of his heart, he had no strength to rise above
the weight which crushed him, and to obey the counsels of his pride so
far as to play before her a part of equally assumed indifference. To her
smiling greetings he could return only looks of bitter despair or
passionate entreaty--vainly hoping that he might thereby arouse her
better nature, and bring her in repentance back to him. And at first
sight it seemed not impossible that such a thing might take place; for,
in the midst of all her change of conduct and wilful avoidance of
allusion to the past, she felt no dislike of him. It was merely her love
for him that she had suppressed, and in its place there still remained a
warm regard. If he could have been content with her friendship alone,
she would have granted it all, and would have rejoiced, for the sake of
olden times, to use her influence with others in aid of his upward
progress. Perhaps there were even times when, as she looked upon his
misery and thought of the days not so very far back, in which he had
been all in all to her, her heart may have been melted into something of
its former affection. But if so, it was only for a moment, nor did she
ever allow the weakness to be seen. Her path had been taken, and nothing
now could make her swerve from it. Before her enraptured fancy gleamed
the state and rank belonging to a patrician's wife; and as she wove her
toils with all the resources of her cunning, the prize seemed to
approach her nearer and nearer. Now having advanced so far, she must not
allow a momentary weakness to imperil all. And therefore unwaveringly
she daily met her former lover with the open smile of friendly greeting,
inviting confidence, mingled with the same indescribable glance,
forbidding any renewal of love.
And so days passed by, and Cleotos, arousing from his apathetic despair,
felt more strongly that, if the lapse of love into mere friendship is a
misfortune, the offer of friendship as a substitute for promised love is
a mockery and an insult: his soul rebelled at being made a passive party
to such a bargain; and he began himself to play the retaliatory part
which a wronged nature naturally suggests to itself. Like Leta, he
learned to hold out the limpid hand in careless greeting, or to mutter
meaningless and cold compliments, and, in any communication with her, to
assume all the appearances of indifferent acquaintanceship. At first,
indeed, it was with an aching heart struggling in his breast, and an
agony of wounded spirit tempting him to cast away all such studied
pretences, and to throw himself upon her mercy, and meanly beg for even
the slightest return of her former affection. But gradually, as he
perceived how vain would be such self-abasement, and how its display
would rather tend to add contempt to her indifference, his pride came to
rescue him from such a course; and he began more and more to tune the
temper of his mind to his actions, and to feel something of the same
coldness which he outwardly displayed.
Not but that for a while such a disposition was forced and unnatural;
and however steadily composed he felt, and strongly fortified in his
stubborn pride, a look or a word from her would have brought him again a
willing slave to her feet. But that look or word was not given. Perhaps,
in her eager struggle after the glittering prize which she had held out
before herself, she disdained the love which had once delighted her;
perhaps, actuated by a purer and less selfish motive, her friendship
for Cleotos forbade her, in mere wanton pride, to keep open the wound
which she had made. Whatever the reason, the withdrawal of the
fascinations which had once attracted him, gave his mind leisure and
opportunity to reason with itself in more quietude and composure than
could have been expected. And, as he more and more began to realize how
closely she was wrapped up in her ambition, to the exclusion of any
gentler feeling, and how, under the stimulant of her infatuated hopes,
she was allowing herself each day to act with less guarded resolution,
there were times when he found himself asking whether she had indeed
changed from what she had been, or whether, on the contrary, she had not
always, at heart, been the same as now, and his conception, of her true
character been at fault.
But, in proportion as the veil of error seemed lifted from his soul,
letting calm content once more shine in upon him, so, on the other hand,
did a night of despair slowly settle upon Ænone. By no reasoning could
she longer urge upon herself the belief that the neglect with which her
lord treated her could be traced to any inoffensive cause. Claims of
court--urgency of military duties--exactions of business might easily
account for transitory slights, but not for long-sustained periods of
indifference, unbroken by a single word of kindness. And as days passed
by and this indifference continued, until at times seeming ready to give
place to openly expressed dislike, and her ears became more and more
accustomed to words of hasty petulance, and Sergius grew still deeper
absorbed in the infatuation which possessed him, and less careful to
conceal its influences from her, and the Greek girl glided hither and
thither, ever less anxious, as she believed her triumph more nearly
assured, to maintain the humble guise which she had at first assumed,
Ænone felt that there had indeed come upon her a sorrow from which there
could be no escape. There were a hundred methods of relief from it which
hourly occurred to her agitated mind, but one after another was in turn
laid aside, as she felt that it would but aggravate the evil, or as the
opportunity to employ it was not given her. To make open complaint of
her wrongs and try to drive Leta from the house--to humble herself
before her, and thereby strive to move her pity--to reproach Sergius for
his neglect, and demand that, since he no longer loved her, he would
send her back to her native place, away from the hollow world of
Rome--to assume toward him, by a strong effort of will, a like
indifference--to watch until she could find some season when his better
nature appeared more impressible, and then to throw herself before him,
as she had once before done, and plead for a return of his love--these
and like expedients fruitlessly passed in review before her. All in turn
failed in promise of relief; and at times it seemed as though the only
course left to her was to lie down in her sorrow and die.
It was no uncommon thing then, as now, for the husband to neglect his
wife. All Rome rang with the frequent story of marital wrong. But those
were days in which the matron did not generally accept her desertion
with meekness. Brought up in a fevered, unscrupulous society, she had
her own retaliatory resources; and if no efforts were sufficient to
bring back the wandering affection, she could recompense herself
elsewhere for its loss, secure that her wrongs would be held as a
justification, and that her associates, equally aggrieved and avenged,
would applaud her course. But with Ænone, brought up in a provincial
town, under the shelter of her own native purity and innocence, no such
idea could find countenance. Even the thought which sometimes dimly
presented itself, that by some harmless coquetry she might perhaps
excite her husband's jealousy, and thereby chance to win back his love,
was one which she always stifled in its beginning as weak and unworthy.
But the recompenses of friendship were still left to her, and it was
surely doing no wrong to accept them. Therefore the more she realized
that her source of real happiness was becoming estranged from her, so
much the more did she feel naturally drawn toward the society of
Cleotos. To her, of course, he was not a mere slave, but rather a person
of equal birth with herself, who had been beaten down by the same fate
which had elevated her. And in conversation with him, it was easy to
carry her mind back to her early home, and for a little while forget her
present misery. And he, in turn, having been repulsed where he had
placed his highest hopes of happiness, and imbittered with the
disappointment, was not at all loth to transfer, in all innocence, his
devotion to one who extended such kindly condescension toward him. It
therefore happened that the two were naturally drawn much together, and,
for a time, without attracting invidious notice. Those were days in
which the association between master and slave was often of an intimate
character. To the lower class of slaves, indeed, there could be no
familiar approach. It was sufficient for them that at times they could
look upon the faces of their owners from a distance. But above these,
were converging circles, each rising in rank and responsibility, until
there were those who stood at their owners' right hands, more in the
position of friends and confidants than of menials. Of these was
Cleotos, whose winning face and graceful mien, joined to his natural
abilities and his valued accomplishments, would have insured him a
higher position than that of most captives, even if he had not been
assisted by the partiality of his mistress.
It was his duty to announce her guests, to trim the lamps at which she
read, to read to her when she felt indisposed to do so for herself; to
indite her correspondence--and generally to superintend all those little
elegancies and demands of social life which require grace or mental
ability in their execution. These offices naturally kept him near her
during much of each day--and when Ænone and he were alone, and no task
was before him requiring immediate completion, it was but to be expected
that a mingling of curiosity and friendly interest should lead her to
question him upon his past life, his home, his associates, even his
thoughts. And often it as naturally happened that, while he spoke, the
music of his voice lulled her into forgetfulness of all but the past,
and she would find herself unconsciously relaxing from the somewhat
frigid dignity which she felt called upon to assume, until her features
must have glowed with some expression of her former familiar kindness.
For she would be suddenly startled back into her forced propriety by a
strange and troubled look of puzzled thought flitting across his face--a
look which she could read and analyze better than he could; for it told
her that, without any real suspicion of the truth, he was wondering at
the likeness of that beaming face which bent over him to something which
he had seen elsewhere in the past.
There was one morning that he sat before her by a little table where he
had been writing a letter at her dictation. The letter was folded and
sealed, and then ensued one of those vacant intervals when each, having
no pressing task at hand, remains for a few moments listlessly thinking
what shall be done next. At that instant Leta passed through the
room--bowing low as she moved before her mistress, and throwing out
toward Cleotos from the corner of her dark eye one of those aggravating
looks in which friendly interest in him and pleasure at his sight were
mingled with a certain cruel warning against any renewal of past
memories. Cleotos retorted with a similar careless greeting, expressive
of simple friendliness, unconscious of any warmer emotion. But he had
not yet perfectly learned his part; for, as Leta passed out of the room,
the quiver of his lip showed how difficult had been the task of
mastering his forced smile even for that moment.
'Poor boy!' said, Ænone, as she witnessed the effort. 'You have not yet
learned not to love her.'
'Not yet, indeed, my mistress,' he responded. 'But it seems as though I
knew the task better than last week, and would know it still better a
week hence. What can I say? It is not to be thought that I should lapse
in a moment into real indifference, even though I may find out that she
is unworthy of love. There cannot but be an interval during which the
heart will struggle against the judgment, and lead to foolish longings
after what has passed.'
'True, indeed,' said Ænone.
'And still, in my heart, I sometimes almost think that I have never
loved her,' he continued in a reflective, dreamy tone; 'that I have been
under a spell--have been made the slave of certain outward fascinations,
which have fettered my judgment. Can it be that one will think he loves
and yet does not?'
'It is indeed hard to answer, I suppose.'
'It must be hard; for wherein, after all, is the difference between
being and thinking to be? But yet it seems as though there were times,
even long past and before this captivity, when, being in our own land,
and with nothing to disturb us or make us doubtful of the future, I
looked upon her with a strange kind of fear--wondering whether, though I
loved her with so strong a passion, it might not rather be the passion
of an unlasting, unsatisfying slavery of thought, than of a calm,
lifelong trustfulness. And now it seems to me that if I ever had this
feeling--for I cannot certainly tell whether I ever had or only now
imagine it--it seems to me as though it were an inner instinct warning
me against evil; for day by day I see more clearly that there has been
some veil over my soul, hiding it from a clear perception of what was
suitable for it.'
'And you begin to dislike her?' inquired Ænone.
'Not so,' he said. 'Nor do I know whether I ought to do so, if I could.
I believe now that she does not, and perhaps never has loved me, but I
must forgive her for all that. She may have tried to do so, and for a
time have thought that she did, and the true blame may all the while
have rested with me alone. With her strong, unbending temperament,
fearless of correction, and jealous of all control, how, indeed, could
she long cling to one of such a tranquil and yielding nature as myself?
That she loved me not, proves not that she could love no one; and though
she now seems so coldly heartless and so rashly heedless of her fame,
yet who knows what she might have been if fettered by the love of a
spirit more imperious than her own? Who can tell how the great good that
is within her might then have conquered the evil, and her soul have
spurned its present headstrong course, and gloriously aroused itself to
its sole great duty of love and innocent trustfulness?'
'These, indeed, are very far from being words of dislike,' said Ænone;
'and they only prove that you still love her, or you would not so
readily excuse her.'
'Neither have I denied that I love her yet,' he said. 'But it is not
with as blind an affection as before. Her touch, her words, her
smile--if given with real love--would still please me as of old; and yet
I should feel that there was something gone from me forever. Even if we
were restored to our own isle, with no enemy near or rival to interrupt
us, I could not but henceforth feel that destiny had not meant her for
me, so much would her stronger nature be ill assorted with my own. And
sometimes--'
'Well?'
'Sometimes--now that this thraldom of my spirit is passing off--there
comes back to me the memory of another face, a gentle, loving
face--which, if it were possible ever to see it again, I have too long
forgotten, but which, if I may not see it more, I should, for my own
sake, have forgotten long ago. But all this, honored mistress, can be of
no interest to you, and therefore it were foolish to mention it.'
'Nay, speak to me of it,' murmured Ænone; and, struggle as she would,
the telltale blood began to flow up into her face. 'Is there any woman
who does not care to listen to a love story?' she added, as though in
excuse for her curiosity.
'It is but a common love tale,' he said, 'and the more so that nothing
came of it. A few stolen interviews--a few promises exchanged--and then
a parting forever. That is all.'
'But where and when was this?'
'Six years ago, at Ostia. For, though a Greek, I have been in this land
before now. I was a sailor then, and in that port I met her. Met her and
loved her, and promised to return again. And for a while I meant to do
so; but on our passage back our ship was wrecked. I could not at once
find place upon another, and so took employment on the shore--none the
less, however, intending some day to come back and claim her. What shall
I say? It is the old story. The sea is wide, and I could interchange no
tidings with her. Ill success followed me, and I could not return to
Ostia. Then, little by little, as the months drifted past, and I
believed her lost to me, her image began to fade from my memory. And
then I saw Leta; and under the spell of that new charm, it seemed to me
as though the other one had lost all grasp upon my mind. Not altogether,
though, for even at the height of my later love, I have always borne
about me the last keepsake that she had given me.'
'Let me see it, what it is like,' said Ænone, faintly; and in obedience
to her command, and perhaps wondering a little that she should take such
interest in so simple a story, Cleotos drew from beneath his tunic a
thread with a coin dangling at the end.
The tears struggled into Ænone's eyes as she gazed upon the token. It
was a poor little silver coin of the time of the first Cæsars--one of
the few curiosities of her father's family--and which she had given to
her lover as the most precious thing belonging to her. She remembered
that when, in that last stroll by the shore, she had hung it about his
neck with her own hands, and had made him promise always to keep it, she
had received from him a similar token--a bright silver piece of
Vespasian, and had placed it near her heart, while murmuring similar
vows. He had kept his word, and she had not kept hers. For the moment,
she felt even guilty of bad faith, forgetting that when she afterward
gave her more mature affection to Sergius, it was only her duty to lay
aside all that even whispered of past promises.
'I could not bear to part with it,' he said; 'for it still spoke to me
of her friendship, if not of her love. And a superstitions thought came
into my mind that I might some day see her again, and that, though we
should not meet as lovers, yet she might, perhaps, be pleased to learn
that I had not entirely forgotten her. Would she not, noble lady, do you
think?'
'She does--that is, it surely should so move her,' said Ænone.
'So have I still worn it,' he continued. 'And somehow each day brings
back the recollection of her more faithfully to me. Whether it is
because this other absorbing love is passing from my heart, and leaving
to me greater freedom of thought--or whether it is that Ostia is now so
near to me that I daily hear of it and see its costumes in the streets,
and thus my recollection of the place is kindled anew--or whether it
is--'
'Is what?' said Ænone, encouragingly.
'I know not how to dare say it,' he stammered. 'It is a presumption,
indeed, but I mean it not for such. I would say that there is something
in your face, most noble mistress--a look--a flash of thought--a glance
of the eye--a something I know not what, which reminds me of her whom I
knew so many years ago. So that sometimes, were it not for the
difference of dress and all else around you, so much at variance with
what had been her state, I could almost forget the lapse of years, and
imagine that--Pardon, most noble lady! I meant not to offend!'
For she had arisen; and now, drawn to her full height, was looking down
upon him with all the coldness of patrician dignity that she could
summon to her aid. He, too, arose, and stood trembling opposite her. For
a moment they remained gazing upon each other; he aghast at the apparent
consequences of his remark, reproaching himself for having so
inconsiderately raised her anger by daring to compare, even in feature,
a lowly country girl with her, and despairingly asking himself what he
should do to restore himself to her favor--she more and more wrapping
herself in a disguise of outward pride and haughty bearing, lest by some
chance his unsuspecting eyes might detect the truth, and yet inwardly
bleeding at the heart to think that she could not reveal herself to him
and promise him her friendship, in full confidence that his love for her
would not return and bring new distress upon them. Then suddenly, while
each stood wondering what course to take, a light step was heard in the
outer hall, and the poet Emilius entered.