Things were changed in the small household of Masthlion. The same daily
routine proceeded, but it was carried on under the depressing shadow of a
cloud which darkened the brow of the potter. He was no more than human,
and transient shadows had been there before; but, in the memory of the two
females who shared his home, never such an unwelcome symptom of abiding
care as that which now haunted their eyes.
He was their self‐imposed autocrat, and it was natural that the gloom of
his mind should be reflected on their own, just as the landscape takes its
hue from the skies. Their sleepless solicitude, rooted in tender love,
outweighed even the fear‐quickened service of the trembling slaves of
Caesar; and never was man less exacting in his demands upon such a
boundless store of devotion to his needs, or yet more innocent of direct
effort or intention to deserve it. It was the simple tribute to his
nature, which bore not a ripple of vanity or self‐sufficiency to break the
unruffled flow of his cheerful serenity.
Living in the full gratification and contentment of mutual affection, he
yet never suspected the depth of reverence which lay rooted in the minds
of the two women and sanctified their love. He was incapable, by nature,
of arriving at such a pitch of self‐consciousness. His was the disposition
which would have been the touchstone of a termagant’s foul humours, and a
standing invitation to her persecutions. Fate had blessed him in averting
such misery by giving him the companionship of two gentle natures the
reflex of his own. The current of existence in his own nest had,
therefore, been uniformly calm and quietly happy, even through his early
struggles. Bitter reproach, the frequent adjunct of poverty and privation,
had no existence in his poor house, for Tibia, his wife, was too devoted
and worshipping to harbour an adverse thought. Nor was there any ground,
had she been so minded, for he had toiled like a Titan, and ever
maintained his native cheerfulness. The trial of those days had long
passed, and, with a surer footing and a better competence, the child Neæra
had come to fill the void in their childless home. She needed little of
the example and training of her supposed mother to follow in the same path
of devotion to the potter. His nature asserted its sway over her mind and
heart, and they were inseparable companions from the first. Indeed she
cared for no other when he was by, and even in her childish ailments would
suffer no other nurse than the rough‐handed, toil‐worn man. Often he had
been brought out of his workshop to the side of the child’s pallet, after
his wife had exhausted all arts and contrivances to soothe her
fretfulness; and it was strange to see the sudden composure steal over her
as, begrimed with clay and the furnace, he took up his place beside her
and clasped her tiny hand in his. And yet, perhaps, not so much to wonder
at, when one perceived the tenderness which welled in his dark, deep‐set
eyes, and crooned in the soft, soothing tones of his voice, as it poured
into her eager ears some tale of wonderland. Of such superlative divinity
is the gentleness of strength.
The trouble of Masthlion’s mind was borne, in obedience to his nature,
silently and patiently, but was none the less evident to the keen anxious
eyes of the women. Always devoted to his workshop, he now passed more time
than ever in its smoky walls, rarely appearing save for meals. He spoke
little and his look was absorbed; but, many times, Neæra caught his glance
resting upon her with a haggard expression which smote her with poignant
pain.
All this upon the simplest reasoning was ascribed to the influence of
Cestus—because the change was simultaneous with his appearance in their
midst. It was hardly possible to make a mistake in the matter. Tibia, at
least, was certain. We have seen her stealing downstairs, to find her
husband sitting, steeped in grief, before the cold ashes in the brazier,
after his first interview with his brother‐in‐law. She had subsequently
endeavoured to obtain an explanation from him, but, though his heart ached
as well as feared to tell her, he was obliged to preserve his promise to
Cestus, and undergo the additional pain of bearing his trouble in secret.
Nor was she any more successful when she applied to Cestus himself, who,
with his usual readiness, disclaimed all knowledge, and in fact looked
rather surprised. Thus she was constrained to remain with a disagreeable
shadow of a mystery hanging between her and her husband—the first
experience of the kind since their companionship; and, perforce, in such a
position as rendered her painfully helpless to give him any sympathy and
help whatever. Neæra’s concern for her father, on the other hand, was
mixed with a guilty feeling which pricked her sorely and would not be
argued away. Those glances, which she caught at times fixed upon her,
seemed full of reproach, and were well‐nigh insupportable. To her
exaggerated fancy they seemed to say, ‘Look what you have done! Thus have
you repaid my love and care by your wilfulness.’ In this way she connected
his trouble with her relation to Martialis, and no more bitter conclusion
could be arrived at, since it placed in direct antagonism the two beings
she most loved on earth. She reflected how gradually and reluctantly the
potter had given way to her betrothal. How, at first, he had almost
absolutely refused to listen at all; his journey to Rome, and final, tardy
assent—given, as she felt sure, not because he approved, but because he
had not been able to discover any tangible ground or excuse for objection.
But, she further reflected, even then, at the worst, his anxiety took no
such dark shape as at present. He never avoided her, as he appeared to do
now, to her unspeakable sorrow. Then he conversed freely and without
restraint on the matter, and, if more anxious and earnest at times, he
never entirely lost his customary cheerfulness. It was with the arrival of
her uncle from Rome the change had at once become manifest, and one day,
when alone with the Suburan, she taxed him with it, and desired him to
explain the coincidence, if possible.
Now it happened that Cestus, in the course of his sojourn in the house,
had yielded to a feeling of admiration for the beautiful girl, which was
really sincere; and the feeling of respect which accompanied it was not
only derived from consideration for the future, but actually due to her
qualities themselves. He had very early changed his customary, bold,
impudent manner of address in her presence, and relieved it of as much
vulgarity as possible, with the effect of gradually lessening the aversion
with which she at first had regarded him. He took pains to still improve
the position, and with success. His fluency of tongue and natural ability
for description stood him in good stead; and Neæra began to incline very
readily to hear him talk to her about the great city and its people—a
subject of which he was a profound master. One day he made her a gift,
and, as he had the tact to make it unostentatious as well as seasonable,
it was very well received. Thus, artfully, and by degrees, her early
repugnance to the Roman was conquered, to the latter’s genuine
satisfaction. He secretly took a profound interest in her, and was never
tired of observing her ways. It gave him pride to reflect what an
important factor he was in her career, and to think that, save for him,
such a beautiful creature had been entirely lost to the world. These
feelings were inspired and lifted beyond mere mercenary and selfish
considerations by the same native superiority, which seemed to command his
deference, and assign her to a higher sphere. Nor did the effect of his
intercourse with her end here. Her beauty and purity were unconsciously
leavening the dark depths of his mind, and quickening unaccustomed
thoughts with a new spirit of nobility and refinement.
With these influences silently at work, the time which the Suburan was
spending, in his sojourn under the roof of his relatives, was productive
of more good, even morally than physically; whilst Neæra’s presence easily
reconciled him to the lapse of time which, as day after day passed on,
seemed to bring him no nearer to the proper accomplishment of his great
end. Whatever kindly metamorphosis was taking place in his thoughts and
disposition, that one resolution which had brought him hither suffered no
change or modification. It rose superior to the rest—the gloomy, immovable
mountain of his mind, to the dark bosom of which all meditations tended
and circled, and beyond which speculation never ventured a step, as if
existence had there an end. One of his favourite excursions was to the
nearest headland on the western coast, whence the island of Capreae could
be seen afar resting in the waters. There he would sit and gaze upon its
rugged outline; amusing himself by imagining the movements of his patron,
hugging himself with delight, and chuckling audibly, as he conjured before
his mind’s eye the fancy picture, oft‐repeated, of the confusion, the rage
and despair of the knight, on that joyous day of revenge, which was
hurrying on. At such moments, which were very frequent, the Suburan’s
blood would tingle in his veins, and his spirit chafe in vehement
impatience at the tardy approach of his wished‐for opportunity. He would
stretch forth his fist and shake it, in helpless wrath, at the rocky isle
which afforded his enemy an asylum, and where he himself was unable to
enter,—nor dared, had he the opportunity. So often as he felt impelled,
though against his reason, to the same fruitless survey, so often the
island seemed to mock him with its changeless form, its very sloth amid
the waters, its silence, its impenetrable rocks and impervious mystery. It
emitted nothing from which he might glean a reliable idea of the
disposition of affairs within its jealous bosom. He could do nothing but
gaze at the irritating sight with a kind of fascination, and anathematise
it, with all it contained, from Caesar downward. His cunning and vigilance
were helpless, and he was compelled to realise that nothing was left to
him but patience and watchfulness. As long as Afer remained in Capreae he
could not work out his plan. He was, therefore, eager and anxious for
every appearance of Martialis from the island, in the hope of learning of
the early departure of the Prefect and his friends for Rome.
He was revolving the possibilities of such an appearance one afternoon,
whilst lending Neæra some assistance in carrying a basket of new
earthenware into the front shop, and arranging them on the shelves. When
he had finished, he leisurely swung his cloak around him before he set
forth on his usual stroll to the Marina, and admiringly watched the
graceful movements of the maiden’s tall figure, as she put the finishing
touches of arrangement to the wares on the shelf above her head. With a
final, critical glance, she turned round and met his gaze.
‘Well,’ she said smilingly, ‘are you not gone?’
‘I was doubtful which way to take,’ he replied; ‘but if you have anything
more for me to help you with I would as lieve stay.’
‘No, nothing at all; but wait one moment, uncle,’ she added quickly and
softly, whilst her face at the same time assumed an earnest look as if
struck by a sudden thought. ‘Tell me what ails my father?’
As she stood upright, with her head poised a little backward, her stature
equalled his, and her calm, gray eyes looked full into his own. With
another questioner, those small orbs of his would have twinkled keenly, as
his tongue rapped out a ready evasion or bantering retort. But now they
wandered to the pots on the shelves, during a moment of unwonted
embarrassment and silent indecision. It was only for a brief moment,
however, and his glance met hers again.
‘What ails your father, Neæra?’ he said quietly; ‘I don’t see that he ails
anything. He seems as sound in health as ever, to my eyes. Why, what is
the matter with him?’
‘That I am asking you—not as regards his bodily health; that is sound
enough, as you say, thank the gods. But there is some trouble—something
preying on his mind: have you not noticed it?’
‘I am sorry to hear you say it,’ replied Cestus, slowly shaking his head;
‘but I am not so well acquainted with his ways and humours as you are.’
‘He has no ways and humours,’ she retorted swiftly, with a slight but
significant rearing of her form—‘at least no strange ways or humours. He
is ever open, cheerful, and light‐hearted, without a shadow of ill‐humour.
Now he is silent and gloomy, and hides away from us—what is it?’
There was a tremor in her voice, and in the eyes, which still were
steadfastly fixed on his face, he saw the trembling gleam of tears.
‘Nay, how should I know better than his daughter?’ he said, looking
uncomfortably at the pots once more.
‘His daughter knows nothing save this, that this trouble, whatever it may
be, which weighs upon him, began at the time you came here from Rome.’
‘Ah, then,’ said Cestus, shrugging his shoulders and drawing a deep breath
as if relieved, ‘if that is but the measure of the evil, it is easily
mended by my shouldering my wallet and tramping back to Rome. You should
have told me this before. I wouldn’t be a burden to the house, and be the
cause of bringing a shadow on your pretty brow for all Surrentum.’
‘Ah! I meant not that,’ she said hastily, with a delicate colour flushing
her cheeks.
He shook his head, and his broad face expanded still more with a grin.
‘I’ve noticed that you usually say what you mean, Neæra; so tell me now
plainly to go, nor shall I be offended at your plain speaking.’
‘If you put that meaning on my words you are wrong, and I ought not to
have spoken them. What I thought was, that you might have brought him ill
news, or something which weighs on his mind.’
‘I! why I have not seen or heard from him for fourteen long years! We
might as well have been dead all that time. What could I have brought with
me to trouble him? Like enough, it is as you say. He’s bothered to have a
ne’er‐do‐well about him and his. I’ll try and find out; and, if ’tis so,
I’ll march straight away.’
‘I remember that he was strangely overjoyed to see you,’ replied Neæra,
gazing steadily at him.
‘And without doubt he was, for he is too good‐hearted to be sorry to see
even a vagabond like myself turn up again. But I will do my best to try
and find out the trouble and move it, and, failing that, move myself.’
‘If you are so determined to find yourself in fault I cannot help it,
since you will not believe what I say.’
‘The best of guests can outstay his welcome; what then must it be with
me?’
‘As you will,’ ejaculated Neæra curtly, and she turned again to the pots
on the shelves with great dignity.
Cestus grinned and his eyes twinkled.
‘At least you couldn’t deny that if I went to‐day you would feel as if a
load was off your shoulders, and you would sit down to your supper with a
better appetite.’
‘You know that is not a fair way of speaking, and I shall not answer,’ she
said, turning round with reproof in her eyes.
‘Well! well! I am not so foolish as to expect that I can be like one of
yourselves in the house,’ he replied, not caring to push the matter any
further. ‘It is your good treatment which has made me selfish. However, I
may be able to do you all a good turn some day, and show you that I can
remember a kindness.’
‘There is no need, and you have no right to persist in talking like this;
we have given you no cause—our house was never so shamed as to turn a
guest from its doors.’
‘Nay, that I will swear,’ said Cestus humbly; ‘I am a good deal in jest,
but my conscience is not altogether easy. The fresh air of this place has
pulled me round, and I am as strong as ever. I will go back to Rome like a
giant—why should I cumber you any longer? It would be bad manners.
Moreover I am city bred, and the peace and quiet of this place, beautiful
as it is, begins to make me fret after crowded streets. Such is nature.
The roar and bustle of Rome would weary you just as soon, and you would be
thankful to return to your fresh air and sleepy town. Would you like to go
to Rome, Neæra?’
‘Ah!’ she said.
Cunning Cestus to put such a question to a young provincial girl. It was
for nothing but the mischievous curiosity of watching the sparkle in her
eye, and the deep heave of her bosom at the very mention of such a thing.
‘Will you go back with me for a time?’ said the voice of the tempter. ‘No
one would take better care of you than I: no one knows the city and its
ways better than I—every day for weeks could I show you new sights.’
But Neæra could only say no, and shake her head in a despairing way.
‘I would not be happy to leave my father.’
‘Let him come too.’
‘It would be useless to ask him.’
‘For your sake he would come.’
‘For the sake of a pleasure trip?—No! Besides he has been there, and not
long since returned.’
‘And was not that on your account? What he has done once can he not do
again? You know right well that he is never so happy as when you are
pleased. His own enjoyment would be as great as yours.’
‘It is out of the question,’ said Neæra firmly, though her cheeks flushed;
and Cestus, who had seated himself on a stool, regarded her with evident,
though restrained enjoyment.
‘Yes, it is quite true he has been to Rome on your account and no other,’
he continued, ‘and it is just as true, in my mind, that he will go there
again on your account.’
Neæra raised her eyes to his and the wondering expression was sufficient
demand for explanation without speech.
‘There is no need for me to take you. You will go there by and by in
better company, and your father and mother, mark my words, will follow to
be near you.’
Her cheek gathered a faint colour again, but an expression of deep sadness
stole over her face, and she turned her head aside. The Suburan pored
keenly upon the perfect loveliness of her profile, which showed in
singular relief under the white light streaming upon it from the open‐
fronted shop. He studied it intently, and, to judge from the expression of
his countenance, with great satisfaction. Not altogether with the ordinary
gratification which naturally arises from the contemplation of beauty,
but, in this case, a particular satisfaction proceeding from the powerful
recollections which her face inspired. A similar sweetness, a similar pure
symmetry and nobility, was recalled to his mind, and he admired,
therefore, with a double pleasure.
‘Have no fear, your father will follow,’ said Cestus assuringly. ‘One need
not be an augur to foretell that.’
‘Alas, I think it is only I myself that give him this trouble,’ replied
Neæra, with a heavy sigh.
‘Not at all!’ responded Cestus, never telling a lie with more pleasure. ‘I
don’t know what’s the matter, but it isn’t that. It will all come right—it
isn’t sunshine every day. Wait till I’m gone—I only want to see one person
before I go, and perhaps you will tell me how long I shall have to wait.’
‘Who do you mean?’ said Neæra absently.
‘Why, the man who will, before long, take you to Rome—the Centurion.’
‘I know not that he will take me thither, and what can you want with him?’
said Neæra.
‘Merely a question or two—you see he has but a poor opinion of me, I am
afraid, and I would like to part better friends. I may be able to do him a
service some day—who knows?’
‘He comes when he can,’ said Neæra.
‘Humph!’ replied Cestus, ‘that’s as sure as death; but can you give me
nothing nearer?’
‘Nothing—he might be here to‐day, or he might be a month. But what do you
want to ask him?’
‘Nothing, except for a little information connected with some business of
my own; and to tell him to get you away from here as soon as possible, so
that I may be able to get a glimpse of you again before long in the city.’
He laughed and rose from his seat about to go forth into the town.
‘The proud dames of the Centurion’s order will perhaps pretend to sneer at
you,’ he went on, ‘but you need not mind—you will have the laugh of them,
for you will be the handsomest wife in the city. ’Twill be a great change
from Surrentum to Rome—from a potter’s daughter to a noble name. But never
fear; you will be as pat in the place as you are here. Proud dames and
damsels! the handsomest wife in Rome—you will have the laugh of them.’
‘I seek to interfere with none of them,’ said Neæra; ‘you talk idly,
uncle; I am still the potter’s daughter.’
‘That is so!’ said Cestus; ‘now I’m off!’
He stepped to the door of the shop, and, after the manner of many people,
and more especially those whose time is not too fully occupied, he
hesitated when he stood on the step, as if to collect his thoughts into a
single steady current of deliberation before he finally advanced. This
momentary halt for reflection was accompanied by an abstracted glance
round the familiar objects out‐of‐doors. To the left was to be seen
nothing but the moss and creeper‐grown wall of the road, which crossed at
right angles, some fifty yards away; to the right, the sparsely built and
quiet lane trended away toward the town. The only signs of life therein,
at that moment, were two or three groups of children playing, a couple of
dames standing in the roadway to gossip, as they met carrying their water
pitchers, and, at a distance of a hundred yards or so, two men leisurely
advancing. Turning from the blank prospect on the left to the sight of
these two individuals on the right, the lack‐lustre, pre‐occupied gaze of
the Suburan snapped electrically into acute attention. Instinctively he
shrank back behind the shelter of the broad doorpost, and, for the few
brief moments, he assumed the functions of a savage animal, or its
imitator, the savage hunter. His ears seemed to prick up; his body took an
attitude bent slightly forward, with muscles braced and corded, and head
thrust prominently out. His heavy thick brows were knitted down so low as
almost to obscure his intense gaze, and his stiff stubbly‐bearded lips
were clenched and protruding. Altogether the change was so rapid, and his
present appearance so menacing and absorbed, that Neæra, about to resume
her occupation, was struck with surprise.
Her eyes naturally followed in the direction of his concentrated gaze, but
owing to her backward position inside the shop, nothing met her view.
‘What is it?’ she said, stepping to his side to look.
Her voice recalled the Suburan to himself, and straightening himself up,
he cast a parting glance at the new‐comers, now close at hand, and turned
away into the house, saying hurriedly he had forgotten something.
The strange behaviour of Cestus stuck in the mind of Neæra, and she stood
in the doorway puzzling her brains for a reason. Suddenly she became aware
that the two men had drawn within twenty or thirty yards, and were
regarding her with a direct gaze. Recovering herself abruptly, she turned
away inside, and remained with her back to the road, until they should
pass on. But in this she was disappointed, for a foot sounded on the step,
and a voice said, ‘You can wait, Erotion!’
In the meantime, Cestus left the shop, and rushed into the little room,
previously described as a kind of state apartment, which lay between the
shop on one side, and the kitchen on the other. Into the wall dividing
this room from the shop was let a small square window, unglazed, which
admitted air and light at second hand. It was rather high up, and a couple
of small statuettes stood in the opening. Cestus bounded on to the couch
which stood underneath, and, stepping unto the topmost pinnacle of its
framework, he was enabled to bring his eyes sufficiently high to overlook
what passed in the shop. He furthermore arranged the little statuettes
closer together, in order to still more shield the small portion of
himself from any possible chance of observation. All this was inspired by
instinct, which never admitted of any doubt, and he had only just taken up
his post, when Afer, and his Greek, Erotion, stopped before the door of
the shop.
‘I knew it when I caught sight of them,’ muttered the Suburan, with
burning eyes and tumultuous breathing. ‘What brings him here, of all
places in the world? What is in his brain now? What does it mean? Does he
know anything?’
He was quivering with intense excitement, and, but for the dark stain
which he still used for his skin, his face would have been ashy white. A
thousand fears and forebodings tore his mind, whilst nervous dread and
hate shook him till his frame quivered like a leaf. With his faculties at
their utmost stretch he watched and listened for what should follow.
After a close scrutiny, as if to assure himself, Afer entered the shop,
and Cestus observed, with satisfaction, that the lynx‐eyed Erotion
remained in the roadway. The further the Greek was away the freer he
breathed, for he knew his profound subtlety of old.
Neæra heard the leisurely step of the knight behind her, but did not turn
until he spoke and called her attention to his presence. Then her gaze
rested on the visitor, whose person was clothed in its accustomed
perfection of style and taste, even to a fold, and whose white and
carefully‐kept hands glittered with gems. Customers of rank and position
were not altogether new to her, since Masthlion had a certain reputation
for the character of his work, so that she was in no wise disconcerted on
account of the superior grade of the comer; but there was that in the
expression of his closely‐set, glistening, black eyes and supercilious
lips, which affected her uncomfortably. He, moreover, treated her to a
leisurely survey, which might have passed without remark, had its object
been the merits of a horse or dog, but which the beautiful girl resented
inwardly for its impertinent freedom and boldness. The half nodding,
condescending approval which plainly showed on his face, roused her
indignation even more, and, with a flush on her cheeks, she drew up her
tall frame, and returned him a glance of high displeasure. Afer faintly
smiled, evidently amused thereat. He curled his thin lips, and spoke again
with a faint drawl in his tone, whilst Cestus, above at his post, ground
his teeth in suppressed rage.
‘This is the shop of Masthlion the potter?’
‘It is!’ replied Neæra, briefly and coldly.
Afer scanned her over and smiled again—the girl was certainly favoured
with good looks, but, at the same time, it was amusing to observe to what
great extent the knowledge of the fact had increased her importance in her
own eyes.
‘I have heard that he is skilful in his work, and I came to see for
myself; these are his handiwork, I presume?’
He nodded to the ware with which the shelves were filled, and his query
was answered in the affirmative.
‘I will look at them. You are his daughter; is it not so?’
‘I am,’ replied Neæra, and resolving to be rid of the company of this
individual, whose impertinence and patronising air were so irritating, she
added that her father should attend to his wants himself, and she
accordingly turned to go to the workshop and fetch him.
‘No! no!’ exclaimed Afer, detaining her with his hand, and giving a slight
laugh, ‘I have no consuming desire to make your worthy father’s
acquaintance; and, besides, there is no occasion to take him from his
work. He is industrious, and would not like it, and, moreover, knows very
well that the care of his customers is in better hands as it is. I
prefer—and who would not—to have your own fair hands submit these
specimens for my approval, and your own fair lips to sound their praises.’
‘Will you please to look for yourself, noble sir, and see whether there be
anything suitable?’ answered Neæra, curtly and loftily.
‘Naturally,’ he replied, with a cold smile, ‘but am I not to have your aid
in my selection?’
‘I cannot perceive how I can be of help; you know your own taste better
than I.’
‘It is true I have been thought to have some small share of taste in such
matters, and to comprehend thoroughly what little I possess; but in the
midst of such a bewildering collection of treasures as I see here around
me, my perception is at fault, and requires strengthening. I require one
specimen, and I leave the selection to your superior judgment.’
The knight allowed his eyes to sweep round at the ‘treasures’ with
infinite scorn. Surrentine ware was well known, but it was only of a lower
order, and held no place in the eyes of the art critic, or on the shelves
of the wealthy.
Whether Neæra comprehended her customer’s tone or not, her face gave no
sign; but, without the least hesitation, she stepped before him and
reached down a vase, about twelve inches high, and held it to his hands.
It was more elaborate in design, and more highly finished than any in the
shop, and a fellow to it remained on the shelf.
‘This pair, then, is the best and the handsomest I can offer.’
‘I am content,’ he replied, with the faintest little sneer, as he touched
the vase with the extreme tip of one of his white jewelled fingers, and
turned it slightly to one side and then to the other; ‘they shall have a
niche in my atrium on the Esquiline, and the rest of my wretched little
Roman pots and pipkins shall bow down before them. And the price thereof,
the paltry equivalent to such masterpieces?’
We have no record of the market price of Surrentine industry, but with the
utmost readiness and _sang froid_, Neæra calmly named a price that caused
the knight to start and frown portentously, being an undoubted authority
on such matters, and a keen bargainer by nature as well as necessity.
Cestus, in his observatory, opened his mouth and eyes in blank
astonishment for a moment; for, having passed no small portion of his idle
time in the shop, he had learned tolerably well the prices of the simple
goods, and of these articles now offered in particular. They had remained
unsold since his arrival, whilst ranks of others of simple utility had
found owners, in the meantime; so that Cestus, well acquainted with them,
was amazed to hear the girl ask a price at least ten times greater than
that which he knew to be their fixed value. He stared down from his
loophole upon her, but she stood calmly waiting before her customer, and
when the glance of the Suburan wandered to the expression on the face of
the knight, his former patron, his delight was such as nearly caused him
to laugh outright. ‘Now stand to your bargain, you cur,’ he muttered, amid
many chuckles. ‘By Hercles, she’s touched him; she couldn’t have thrust
deeper; she might have known him as I do—clever wench!’
‘You approve, then?’ said Neæra. ‘Shall I call your slave to take them?’
She made a move as if to take down the vase remaining on the shelf, but he
raised his flashing fingers deprecatingly.
‘Stay,’ he replied, as his look of disgust relapsed once more into its
former superciliousness; ‘I don’t question your taste for one moment, but
I take leave to challenge your memory—you must surely be mistaken as to
the price you put on these wonderful specimens. In my humble opinion it is
quite prohibitive, and out of all proportion to the intrinsic value of the
things.’
‘I have done as you desired me to do.’
‘Yes, yes; but the cost?’
‘Is what I have already told you, and I cannot alter it one penny.’
‘It is out of reason, and on that account, much as I would wish to profit
by your judgment, I shall be compelled to forego it.’
‘Ah!’ snarled Cestus.
‘And truly,’ continued Afer, ‘the sum required is so large, that I doubt
whether my slave’s purse contains sufficient to discharge the debt, even
supposing I think right to incur it.’
‘Pah!’ was the muttered commentary of the Suburan, given with fathomless
contempt, ‘the liar! He knows to a farthing what the fellow’s pouch has in
it—nothing beyond a few copper coins, I’ll warrant; and woe betide him if
he can’t square his reckoning when he gets home.’
‘In that case, I suppose, I should be right in saying that such a poor
wretch as myself could never hope for credit,’ continued Afer, with a
sneer.
‘You are a perfect stranger, sir,’ replied Neæra.
‘Exactly—with no recommendation. I shall, therefore, be compelled to
select something more in keeping with my humble resources of ready coin,
which, I am afraid, will be an impossible task, if prices are all levied
at the same modest computation.’
‘This, then, perhaps you may approve of,’ said Neæra promptly; and going
to the opposite end of the shop, she took and handed to him a small brown
vessel, two or three inches high, without any more pretension to beauty
than any ordinary glass bottle.
‘Ah, now you have hit my taste exactly,’ exclaimed Afer, receiving the
plainest of plain articles in his hand with the blandest smile of
exquisite irony; ‘you have indeed gauged my ideas to a nicety. The other
articles were really as much beyond my artistic appreciation as their cost
was above my poor purse; but this is delightful in its beautiful
simplicity—I wait to hear you name its price.’
Neæra informed him. ‘Good! I accept,’ said he; ‘it is modest indeed. It
is, I think, within my means, and I am relieved in mind. Hither, Erotion!
Take this, and pay what is asked of you.’
While the young Greek was producing the two or three copper coins which
were needed, his master arranged his cloak and took his leave. Neæra took
the money from the slave, who bestowed upon her an admiring gaze, with
something of the same license as his master.
‘I am glad to find your father’s fame has not been belied,’ observed Afer;
‘it is only too evident. The next time I come I shall come better
provided; yet, even with this little treasure which I have been fortunate
enough to secure, I shall no doubt be able to induce many others to follow
my example.’
So saying, and showing his white teeth with a smile, he left the shop
followed by Erotion, who, on his own account, turned as he passed through
the door, and smirked behind him, leaving Neæra standing with the deepest
indignation in her face.
They had scarcely passed from view when Cestus hurriedly re‐entered the
shop, and going to the door peered after them.
‘Did you see them—do you know them?’ exclaimed Neæra.
‘Yes, yes, I saw them come along—I have seen him somewhere before—I will
try and think before I come back,’ answered Cestus hastily. ‘I will go
through the fields, I think, for a stroll.’
He retreated through the house, and crossing the small patch of garden in
the rear, emerged into a cart‐track. This ran more or less parallel with
the street, and skirted the gardens and little fields belonging to the
houses. Here and there was a path for convenience of communication between
the main and back thoroughfares, and Cestus ran ahead until he reached
such an one which commanded a ready view from end to end. At the bottom of
this he waited a few moments, until he saw the forms of Afer and his slave
cross the upper end, and then, being sure he was in their rear, he walked
up into the street. He either forgot his altered appearance, or had such
small faith in its ability to mislead those whom he was now dogging, that
he followed with the extreme care of a hunter tracking a wild animal
through its native woods. He kept them in view at the furthest possible
distance; stopped when they stopped, and cowered behind walls or anything
which came handiest, to avoid the slightest chance of being noticed. One
of the first actions he observed was that of Erotion, who, in answer to
something which his master said, threw away to one side an article he
carried. Cestus instinctively guessed what it was, and following on,
passed the fragments of the small, recently‐purchased pot lying at the
foot of a wall. This act confirmed his suspicions, that his former
patron’s object in visiting Masthlion’s shop was distinctly not that of
buying of the wares it contained. The Suburan, in consequence, plunged
still deeper into an agony of suspicion, and as often as he soothed
himself with the fact that it was impossible that Neæra’s identity could
be known, so often he plagued himself afresh with the question of its
probability.
Step by step he pursued the leisurely track of the knight until they
reached the centre of the town, where Afer visited one or two shops. After
this they entered the baths, and Cestus was left to cool his heels for a
considerable time outside. He was a sleuth‐hound of undaunted mettle,
however, when once on a scent, and there being a wine‐shop at no great
distance, whence he could watch the door of the building his quarry had
entered, he proceeded thither, and sat patiently over a bowl of thin wine.
He was determined to see the last of them, since he could neither live nor
move in peace, if haunted by the possibility of encountering them at any
chance time face to face. After a long delay his patience was rewarded by
the sight of the knight issuing refreshed from the bath, and taking his
way, followed by his retainer, toward the Marina. Here they perhaps meant
to take boat to the island, thought Cestus, with a sigh of relief. But no,
he was disappointed; for they entered an inn of considerable pretensions,
and the Suburan was doomed to another lengthy delay, whilst the knight was
most probably dining. The afternoon was wearing on. The dusk was beginning
to thicken when the watcher’s eyes were once more gladdened by the
appearance of master and slave. He rejoiced to see them saunter across to
the steps which led down to the Marina. Thence he had no more need to
follow, but, leaning over the cliff, observed their movements without
difficulty and danger, and ere long watched them speeding over the
darkening sea before a fair breeze. Cestus gave a deep sigh of relief.
When they were nearly out of sight he turned homeward, and, for a season
at least, was at liberty to devote his attention entirely to his own
deliberations.