The fitful movements on the floor of the room overhead ceased in the
course of a few minutes, and Masthlion knew that his wife was in bed.
During the last hour his nervous agitation had increased, and had been
hard to hide; he now, therefore, hastened to put an end to this painful
state of suspense.
‘Are you too weary to talk now, Cestus; or will you that we should wait?’
he said to his companion.
‘I’d as lieve have a chat with thee now; in fact, I feel in the humour. I
am in rare spirits at finding everybody well and happy,’ replied Cestus
gaily. ‘Bring out the drink, kinsman, and shut the door; what better could
one wish when we are alone together?’
Masthlion quickly made the required dispositions and sat opposite his
brother‐in‐law before the bright fire alluded to. He stretched his arm out
at length upon the table, with his fingers nervously moving and tapping
thereon, whilst he watched the Suburan pour out some wine into two cups.
Cestus’s keen perceptions had already observed the signs of his kinsman’s
inquietude of mind, and he, therefore, became just as deliberate and
phlegmatic in his movements, following a natural bent in his humour,
which, with equal satisfaction, would have watched the torture of a
Sisyphus, or the wriggling of a maimed and terrified insect. The blaze of
the logs threw their countenances into relief—the newly‐grown shaggy beard
of the Roman, and his swarthy stained skin, together with his blunt
features, contrasted with the high, domelike, intellectual forehead,
overhanging the deep‐set, bright eyes of the potter, so anxiously,
thirstily bent on the calm, lazy motions of his companion. No other light
being present, their distorted shadows flickered and moved athwart the
opposite wall in varied and grotesque forms.
‘Kinsman, you are anxious,’ observed Cestus, as he slowly dribbled the
wine into his cup until the liquid bubbled on the very brim.
‘I own it,’ replied Masthlion.
The Suburan raised the brimming cup carefully to his mouth and took a deep
draught, whilst the potter hastily took a sip which barely wet his lips.
‘Yes,’ continued Cestus, ‘you are anxious because you have a very strong
notion that the time has come when that rare girl, who is warming her
pretty limbs in bed upstairs, is beginning to trim her feathers to fly
from the old bird’s nest.’
‘I cannot deny it,’ replied Masthlion briefly.
‘Why, it is the way of the world. You could never hope for such as she to
escape matrimony and go on, as a maiden, all her days?’
‘It would not be likely; she is as good a child as she is fair. The point
is already settled.’
‘Well then, if she is fated to leave you with her husband, why should it
trouble you the more to see me drop in? Did you think I was coming to
carry her off? It would amount to the same thing if I did.’
‘You are trifling, Cestus,’ said the potter somewhat sternly. ‘It is a
sore trial to be bereft of an only child at any time, but that does not
now constitute the whole matter. While she was a child all was well, but
when she found a lover it behoved me to think that she and I were not all
concerned in the matter. Had she been my own flesh and blood she could not
have been more to me. Yet she is only a charge; and, although I thought
you dead, I made the attempt to find you. When that attempt was vain, and
you appeared so strangely and opportunely, I was agitated. I am anxious
now, but in a different way—my load of responsibility has left me. The
child is the dearest thing on earth to me, and what touches her touches me
to the inmost fibre of my heart.’
‘And with a perfect right, Masthlion. You have reared her and tended her,
and she is yours more than anybody else’s,’ replied Cestus, nodding
approvingly; ‘up to a few weeks ago I knew not whether she lived or
not—whether you lived or not. You had her as your own, and you might have
disposed of her according to your own ideas, but for circumstances, which,
unexpectedly, occurring a few weeks ago, as I say, revived in me the
greatest interest in the girl. I want no account of your stewardship,
kinsman, for I cannot claim it—it is not needed; the girl bears it in her
looks. I can neither claim any duty or affection—I want no sentiment—my
concern is of a different nature. Nevertheless it is of sufficient
importance to me to ask you to go into particulars about this gallant who
has found the way to her heart.’
Cestus imbibed another good draught of wine, and after refilling his cup
in readiness for the next, he settled himself to listen to the potter’s
account of Neæra’s lover. When he had heard everything that Masthlion
could tell him he ejaculated ‘Ha!’ and relapsed into deep thought as he
gazed into the fire.
‘Well! what is your opinion?’ inquired Masthlion.
‘Opinion!’ echoed Cestus, ‘my opinion is that they have already settled
the matter beyond your interference, or mine. If they have taken such a
strong fancy for each other that is enough for sensible people.’
‘But the youth—the Pretorian—do you approve of him?’ said Masthlion
impatiently.
‘That is a question more of sentiment,’ replied Cestus, ‘and, as the girl
belongs more to yourself than to me, I will leave it with you—if you are
satisfied I am.’
‘One thing troubles me,’ said the potter, knitting his brows and passing
his hand across his forehead, ‘I could wish he had been more on a level
with her station—she has been humbly bred in this house—do you not think,
Cestus, there is great fear of his fancy cooling as time goes on? He will
for ever be contrasting her simple, plain ways with those proud dames of
the city, and he will repent. Ah, Cestus, I fear he will!’
‘Humph!’ said the Suburan, shrugging his shoulders, whilst a grin broke
forth on his face, ‘she must run the chance of that accident. Perhaps
there may not turn out to be such a difference between them after all. To
my eyes she seems as good as he is, and practice will alter her. You have
a fancy that your daughter may some day tire of her elevation and return
to her old ways under the same old roof.’
‘Heaven forbid! I trust she may be happy with husband and children.’
‘Just so. _I_ have no objection whatever,’ observed Cestus calmly, ‘but
there remains _one_ who might, and, until that opinion is obtained, my
tall young Pretorian must practise patience and restrain himself, even
though he burst.’
‘How! What do you mean?’ cried Masthlion. ‘Another—you never told me.’
‘No, I did not; it was not necessary or wise at the time, which I think is
some fourteen or fifteen years ago.’
Masthlion nodded, and his face betrayed the most intense eagerness. Cestus
continued coolly, ‘I brought that child to you as a yellow‐haired brat,
and told you she was an orphan of a poor workman, an old friend of mine.
The story was a lie and I deceived you.’
The blood crimsoned the potter’s face, and he drew up his form.
Indignation glowed in his eyes, but curbing himself, he said with lofty
reproach, ‘A lie, Cestus—that was well indeed.’
‘Nay, don’t fluster yourself, kinsman,’ continued the Suburan, with the
utmost _sang froid_, ‘it was as good a tale to tell you at the time as
any. It did you no harm, for you knew no better; nor did I dream that the
necessity would ever come that you should. You were without a brat, so I
thought you would be glad of this one. I handed it over to you as a stray
helpless fledgeling belonging to nobody, and your mind has consequently
never been uneasy.’
‘Well, and the truth?’
‘Did your mind never suspect as you looked upon the girl shooting up? Did
you never wonder and say to yourself, what kind of poor swinkers were they
from whom sprang such a brave slip? Why, it is the first thought which
would have struck me, had I never known anything about her—a tall clean‐
made lass, like one of their goddesses in their temples. I have watched
her, kinsman, these few hours—she has ripened just to what might have been
expected. I have seen the turn and flash of her eyes, the working of her
thoughts written plainly on her face—her whole bearing. Did they ever
spring out of the den of work‐a‐day folks? No, her breed will show itself.
Common homespun and ignorance cannot hide it from those that know it—but
what can you know, Masthlion, of these proud aristocrats?’
‘Aristocrats!’ exclaimed the potter, springing from his seat. ‘This is
another deception—another of your tales!’
‘That you will discover before very long, I hope,’ replied Cestus drily.
‘And her people yet live, say you?’
‘One at least—that will be quite sufficient.’
Masthlion dropped back into his seat with a suppressed groan. ‘Then if
this be true I have indeed lost her!’ he said, and he buried his face in
his hands.
‘’Tis nought to grieve over,’ remarked Cestus, shrugging his shoulders in
contempt at his companion’s want of shrewdness; ‘on the contrary, you
should be in a dancing mood with joy. You have reared up the youngster to
as fine a filly as one could wish to see, and you may well expect to have
your strong chest well lined—better than ever it was before.’
‘Tell me not of money—who thinks of money!’ cried Masthlion. ‘All the gold
in the proud city of Rome itself would never comfort me one jot for the
taking away of the child. Why did you ever bring her to me, Cestus, and
then I had been spared this?—but then, if you had not, I had missed the
happiness of the child’s presence these fourteen years.’
‘Exactly,’ replied Cestus, seconding that with alacrity, ‘and then,
kinsman, as we have already agreed that you must lose her whichever way it
goes, it is, therefore, best to be rid of her on the best terms. Strike
the balance and you have a great deal to thank me for. Cheer up, man;
things are seldom so black as they are painted at first. You will not be
left out altogether in the cold, maybe.’
‘The Centurion and she have already pressed me to follow them to Rome,’
said Masthlion dejectedly.
‘Good! it is the only place fit for a sensible man to dwell in. You may be
as secret as you wish, or as public as you think proper to make yourself.’
‘I should be nearer to her of a truth,’ muttered the potter to himself,
‘and could get a glimpse of her from time to time.’
‘True again,’ cried Cestus, overhearing; ‘that is to be done quietly at
any corner of a street; but it would be well to avoid possible
disappointment and not build upon any nearer familiarity—knights and
potters don’t match very well.’
‘I know it, Cestus, I know it! But yet it would be strange if she could
forget,’ murmured Masthlion.
Cestus took another pull at his wine, and looking across at his
companion’s troubled face, said briskly, ‘Come, Masthlion, this is only
speculation; let us get to the facts! Have you anything belonging to the
girl which might serve as a token of her early years?’
Masthlion rose up without a word and left the room.
‘That looks well,’ muttered Cestus to himself, and he was once more
addressing his attentions to the wine jar when he stopped himself. ‘No!
no! be careful, Cestus,’ he said; ‘you are only an invalid yet, and only
need what will do you good. You must get strong again as fast as
possible.’
Masthlion re‐entered bearing a small bundle neatly and tightly bound. He
untied and unrolled the package on the table.
‘There, Cestus!’ he said,—‘there are the self‐same things which she had
about her when you left her here. They have been carefully kept.’
The small eyes of the Suburan flashed with joy as they rested on the
contents. He lifted them up one by one and examined them. They consisted,
as the potter said, of the tiny garments of a child two or three years
old; and, in addition, there was a small bag of soft leather, not larger
than the girth of a small‐sized walnut, to which was attached a fine steel
chain to encircle the neck. Pouncing on the bag Cestus extracted a carved
amulet of polished stone. His face fairly beamed with delight as he gazed.
‘Good!’ he said, as he replaced the stone, and put the bag carefully away
in his breast, ‘this is of the highest importance; taken together with
yourself and Tibia they are enough for what I want. And now to let you
into the secret. In the first place, Masthlion, that rare piece of
womankind who is dreaming of her lover upstairs, owes her life directly to
me, the rough bear, whose face she declined to profane her pretty lips
with.’
‘Her life!’ exclaimed the potter.
‘Nothing less, kinsman,’ continued Cestus. ‘The same Balbus whom you knew
as my master, was a man of great estates and wealth. I acted as a kind of
bailiff for him in Rome, and feathered my nest very fairly indeed. There
was a kinsman of this Balbus, a young man, and not very well off as
regards worldly goods. In the course of events this person and myself had
grown to be very intimate and confidential over various little matters in
which I had served him on the sly. He was well born, well spoken, and well
dressed—a gentleman born and bred; but, at heart, as great a scamp as any
footpad and cut‐throat that haunts the roadside. Being only very
moderately supplied with money, in his own right, his mind very naturally
dwelt upon the enormous amount which flowed annually into the coffers of
his kinsman, old Balbus, my master. It is a weakness of human nature,
Masthlion, for a poor man to speculate concerning a rich kinsman. But this
youngster had a subtle brain beyond his years, and was not content to
speculate. To wait on chance, in his case, was, in all probability, to
wait and be no better; for, had he even been the next heir, his kinsman,
Balbus, although got into years, was hale and hearty, and as tough as
leather. That was bad enough; but what made it worse for his hopes, he was
not the direct heir. There was one life between him and what he schemed
for. That one was all the more closely and tenderly watched because it was
all that my old master Balbus had left him. Of all his family nothing
remained to him but this one life—a daughter’s daughter; the mother, the
last of his children, had died in giving it birth, and he was left, like
an old oak, with this young slip budding beside him. That young slip, as I
sit here before you, Masthlion, is the girl who calls you father.’
The potter sat still. His gaze was concentrated with painful intensity on
the speaker. His fingers clenched the table like a vice, and his breast
heaved and fell in a tumult of emotion.
‘You can easily supply the rest,’ continued Cestus.
Masthlion nodded without speaking, and his head fell on his breast. His
heart swelled to bursting. He dare not trust himself to open his mouth to
utter a sound. If this was true, and he felt it was, the figure of his
Neæra’s grandparent rose in his mind’s eye—a haughty, stern, and
aristocratical old man, extending a proffered reward and polite thanks
with a lofty condescension which could not be mistaken for anything but a
final dismissal; and there, beside him, the child herself, in her rich
robes, seeming too full of delight at the novelty and pleasure of her new
position to think very seriously of her separation from the old. He
pictured himself refusing the proffered gold, and turning away to go back
to his desolate and darkened hearth, far away and forgotten for ever.
His fancy was warm, and his sensibilities as keen as a sensitive woman’s.
The probability of such a scene as this, which leaped so swiftly and
vividly across his brain, was almost too much for his nature to bear. His
throat pained him, and the water seemed to burn its way into his eyes; so
he sank his head gradually lower until his brow rested on the table.
‘Well, the rest comes naturally enough after what I have said,’ continued
Cestus, seemingly taking no heed of his companion. ‘The young man I speak
of could act the hypocrite to a nicety. He was clever‐tongued, sociable,
and took great pains to make himself agreeable to his kinsman, old Balbus,
who was, in many things, as simple as a child, so that they were always
very great friends and companions, which was a great help to the plan
which had to be carried out. It was very simple, and the first step was,
as I need hardly tell you, the making away of the child which stood in his
path. I know I cannot set myself up as a model of a man, but what follows
will show that my heart was considerably softer in the grain than this
young serpent’s, which, if it exists at all—which I doubt—is like granite.
It was bad enough to rob the old man of the only brat remaining, for he
was so wrapped up in it—used to sport with it and tend it like a woman,
and was scarcely able to allow it out of his sight. You remember the child
then, potter—a yellow‐haired big‐eyed youngster, and enough to make a fool
of any man who cared for such toys. Well, kinsman, I take no credit to
myself for the part I acted. No doubt it was rascally enough, but I have
no doubt in my mind whatever, that what I did, although unconsciously, was
the means of saving the girl’s life and position. Had I refused the
temptation of his bribe, some other tool would have taken my place, and
would have carried out his instructions to the letter, which were to
strangle the youngster, drown it, cut its throat, smother it, or anything
to silence it for ever.’
‘The monster!’ exclaimed Masthlion, raising his head and shuddering with
horror; ‘and but a youth too?’
‘Only a youth,’ replied Cestus, ‘but with a serpent’s head. As I said, we
had grown to be very confidential on account of some commissions I had
quietly done for him, and he gradually began to sound me with a view to
getting my help in his operations. He found me willing, and we soon came
to terms. I was to kill the child, and he was to give me a very handsome
sum. Where he raised it I don’t know, but that did not matter. It required
no small amount of patience and skill to get the child away without
notice, and weeks passed ere I was able to do it to my satisfaction. There
was no use in doing the thing desperately so as to leave the least
suspicion. A favourable time came at last, and I managed to take the child
away without attracting the least attention; but I could never make up my
mind to kill it, so I left it in secret and safe hands for a few weeks,
and then begged leave of absence to make a visit. That visit was to you,
and it was to bring the child here, where I never thought to see or hear
of her again. I told a tale to my young master—how I drowned the child out
of sight in a marsh, and he was satisfied; and remains so, as far as she
is concerned, to this day. So far all was well. There was not the
slightest suspicion attaching to us. Balbus went nearly out of his mind,
and money, without end, was spent in searching after the lost brat. My
young master was foremost in the hunt, of course, and I have heard the old
man bless him many a time. Not a little of the wasted money went, as I
know, into his purse at last; for it grew to be a common practice for
cunning rogues to say they had found the whereabouts of the child, and
then demand a price. It was freely given, and of course ended in nothing
but disappointment. After some time my young master got this business
transferred entirely into his own hands, and all such discoveries were
left to him to deal with. I have reason to believe he invented a good many
of them himself, and always took the best part of the money into his own
fingers. And so he waited until the old man should die; and has waited
until now, because he has not the pluck to finish the business promptly,
and get the old man out of the way as well as the child. Had he had as
much courage as cunning, he might have been rolling in the wealth of
Balbus these ten years; but he cannot screw up his pluck, so he dallies
on, and hopes for old Saturn and his scythe to help him—the fool! His
prudent farming of the funds spent in searching for the lost one has
considerably improved his stock of money; but the matter of late years has
almost died out. Balbus went to dwell on his country estates, and took me
with him. About six months ago I received a letter from my young master,
begging me to repair to Rome to see him. I readily got leave and went to
his house. He gave me a commission to execute, which he professed to be
very secret. Whilst on my way one night late, in a lonely part of the
city, whither I had gone on his account, I was beset by a gang of
ruffians, and left for dead. There was life, however, left in me when they
had done, and, as luck would have it, I was picked up and taken charge of.
I since have discovered that the whole was only a cunning plot to remove
me and my knowledge out of the world. I have been all this time
recovering, and here I am. Balbus is a saddened old man, but hale. My
young master walks about, relieved in the thought that he has cleverly got
rid of me, who knew enough to utterly confound him. He shall be
disagreeably surprised. You, kinsman, will befriend me, as well as my
sister Tibia. These few traps will confirm the matter. The girl will get
her own again, and I shall be revenged on a paltry, white‐livered knave as
ever stepped the earth.’
Cestus ceased, and a long pause ensued.
‘Is all this truth, kinsman?’ said Masthlion at length.
‘That you shall presently know beyond all doubt,’ replied the Suburan.
‘It seems all so strange to think that my Neæra should prove to be nobly
born.’
‘The grandchild of a senator, no less!’
‘Ah me!’ sighed the potter dejectedly; ‘then are we parted indeed.’
‘That question of difference, between the Centurion and her, will trouble
you no longer, kinsman,’ said Cestus.
‘Nothing will trouble me now concerning her, except that I shall never see
her more; she has passed beyond my care, alas!’ said Masthlion, with deep
emotion.
‘Take a draught of wine, kinsman,’ observed Cestus; ‘it is a wonderful
balm for scratched feelings.’
Masthlion, with a sad smile, filled up his cup—‘I drink to the child’s
happy restoration and her future welfare;’ and he added, after a pause,
‘May she be tended as lovingly and tenderly as she has been under this
humble roof.’
‘I will drink to that with pleasure,’ cried the other; ‘restored she shall
be, without doubt, but, for the rest, I cannot say.’
They both drank and set down their cups, and Cestus remarked that it was
time he was in bed.
‘Enough for to‐night; it has given you something to ponder over, and we
can have some more to say presently. But, until the time is ripe to act,
potter, you must keep all this secret. Not a word to the child, or to your
wife, until fit time.’
‘I will not,’ answered Masthlion.
‘Swear it, kinsman, for we may have to wait long yet.’
‘I never broke my word,’ said Masthlion proudly.
‘Enough; then I will trust to you,’ said Cestus. ‘Roll up those traps and
keep them safe; and, on your life, breathe not a word to a living soul.
Good‐night!’
Cestus departed to his pallet bed upstairs, but Masthlion remained sitting
before the fire for a long time in deep reflection. The small hours
arrived, and his wife awoke to find her husband still missing from her
side. She stole downstairs to find him musing and sighing, deeply and
heavily, from time to time. The fire had smouldered down to a few red
embers, and the room was chilly; but the heartsore man did not know. His
wondering wife’s hand on his shoulder roused him, and he followed quietly
to bed, but not to sleep. Tibia saw instinctively that something was
wrong, and she, just as swiftly, ascribed that something to her brother;
but, failing to gain anything satisfactory by her inquiries, she wisely
allowed the matter to slumber the while.