With Sergius there was seldom any interval between impulse and action.
Now, without giving time for explanation, he made one bound to where
Cleotos stood; and, before the startled Greek had time to drop the
slender fingers which he had raised to his lips, the stroke of the
infuriated master's hand descended upon his head, and he fell senseless
at AEnone's feet, with one arm resting upon the lounge behind her.
'Is my honor of so little worth that a common slave should be allowed to
rob me of it?' Sergius exclaimed, turning to AEnone in such a storm of
passion that, for the moment, it seemed as though the next blow would
descend upon her.
Strangely enough, though she had ever been used to tremble at his
slightest frown, and though now, in his anger, there might even be
actual danger to her life, she felt, for the moment, no fear. Her
sympathy for the bleeding victim at her feet, of whose sad plight she
had been the innocent cause, and whose perils had probably as yet only
commenced--her consciousness that a crisis in her life had come,
demanding all her fortitude--her indignation that upon such slight
foundation she should thus be accused of falsity and shame--all combined
to create in her an unlooked-for calmness. Added to this was the
delusive impression that, as nothing had occurred which could not be
explained, her lord's anger would not be likely to prolong itself at the
expense of his returning sense of justice. What, indeed, could he have
witnessed which she could not account for with a single word? It was
true that within the past hour she had innocently and dreamily bestowed
upon the Greek caresses which might easily have been misunderstood; and
that all the while, the door having been partly open, a person standing
outside and concealed by the obscure gloom of the antechamber, could
have covertly witnessed whatever had transpired within. But AEnone knew
that whatever might be her husband's other faults, he was not capable of
countenancing the self-imposed degradation of espionage. Nor, even had
it been otherwise, could he have been able, if his jealousy was once
aroused by any passing incident, to control his impatient anger
sufficiently to await other developments. At the most, therefore, he
must merely, while passing, have chanced to witness the gesture of
mingled emotion and affection with which Cleotos had bidden her
farewell. Surely that was a matter which would require but little
explanation.
'Do you not hear me?' cried Sergius, glaring with wild passion from her
to Cleotos and back again to her. 'Was it necessary that my honor should
be placed in a slave's keeping? Was there no one of noble birth with
whom you could be false, but that you must bring this deeper degradation
upon my name?'
AEnone drew herself up with mingled scorn and indignation. His anger,
which at another time would have crushed her, now passed almost
unheeded; for the sense of injury resulting from his cruel taunt and
from his readiness, upon such slight foundation, to believe her guilty,
gave her strength to combat him. The words of self-justification and of
reproach toward him were at her lips, ready to break forth in
unaccustomed force. In another moment the torrent of her indignant
protestations would have burst upon him. Already his angry look began to
quail before the steadfast earnestness of her responsive gaze. But all
at once her tongue refused its utterance, her face turned ghastly pale,
and her knees seemed to sink beneath her.
For, upon glancing one side, she beheld the gaze of Leta fixedly
fastened upon her over Sergius's shoulder. In the sparkle of those
burning eyes and in the curve of those half-parted lips, there appeared
no longer any vestige of the former pretended sympathy or affection.
There was now malice, scorn, and hatred--all those expressions which,
from time to time, had separately excited doubt and dread, now combining
themselves into one exulting glance of open triumph, disdainful of
further concealment, since at last the long-sought purpose seemed
attained. AEnone turned away with a sickening, heart-breaking feeling
that she was now lost, indeed. It was no mystery, any longer, that the
slave girl must have listened at the open door, and have cunningly
contrived that her master should appear at such time as seemed most
opportune for her purposes. And how must every unconscious action, every
innocent saying have been noted down in the tablets of that crafty mind!
What explanation, indeed, could be given of those trivial caresses now
so surely magnified and distorted into evidences of degrading
criminality?
Faint at heart, AEnone turned away--unable longer to look upon that face
so exultant with the consciousness of a long-sought purpose achieved.
Rather would she prefer to encounter the angry gaze of her lord.
Terrible as his look was to her, she felt that, at the last, pity might
be found in him, if she could only succeed in making him listen to and
understand the whole story. But what mercy or release from jealous and
vindictive persecution could she hope to gain from the plotting Greek
girl, who had no pity in her heart, and who, even if she were so
disposed, could not, now that matters had progressed so far, dare to
surrender the life-and-death struggle? Alas! neither in the face of her
lord could she now see anything but settled, unforgiving pitilessness;
for though, for an instant, he had quailed before her gaze, yet when she
had, in turn, faltered at the sight of Leta, he deemed it a new proof of
guilt, and his suspended reproaches broke forth with renewed violence.
'Am I to have no answer?' he cried, seizing her by the arm. 'Having lost
all, are you now too poor-spirited to confess?'
'There is nothing for me to confess. Nor, if there had been, would I
deign to speak before that woman,' she answered with desperation, and
pointing toward Leta. 'What does she here? How, in her presence, can you
dare talk of sin--you who have so cruelly wronged me? And has all
manliness left you, that you should ask me to open my heart to you in
the presence of a slave; one, too, who has pursued me for weeks with her
treacherous hate, and now stands gloating over the misery which she has
brought upon me? I tell you that I have said or done nothing which I
cannot justify; but that neither will I deign to explain aught to any
but yourself alone.'
'The same old excuse!' retorted Sergius. 'No harm done--nothing which
cannot be accounted for in all innocence; and yet, upon some poor
pretence of wounded pride, that easy explanation will not be vouchsafed!
And all the while the damning proof and author of the guilt lies before
me!'
With that he extended his foot, and touched the senseless body of
Cleotos--striking it carelessly, and not too gently. The effect of the
speech and action was to arouse still more actively the energetic
impulses of AEnone--but not, alas! to that bold display of conscious
innocence with which, a moment before, she had threatened to sweep aside
his insinuations, and make good her justification. She was now rather
driven into a passion of reckless daring--believing that her fate was
prejudged and forestalled--caring but little what might happen to
her--wishing only to give way to her most open impulses, let the
consequences be what they might. Therefore, in yielding to that spirit
of defiance, she did the thing which of all others harmed her most,
since its immediate and natural result was to give greater cogency to
the suspicions against her. Stooping down and resting herself upon the
lounge, she raised the head of the still senseless Cleotos upon her lap,
and began tenderly to wipe his lips, from a wound in which a slight
stream of blood had begun to ooze.
'He and I are innocent,' she said. 'I have treated him as a brother,
that is all. It is years ago that I met him first, and then he was still
more to me than now. He is now poor and in misery, and I cannot abandon
him. Had he been in your place, and you in his, he would not have thus,
without proof, condemned you, and then have insulted your lifeless
body.'
For a moment Sergius stood aghast. Excuse and pleading he was prepared
to hear. Recriminations would not have surprised him, for he knew that
his own course would not bear investigation, and nothing, therefore,
could be more natural than that she should attempt to defend herself by
becoming the assailant in turn. But that she should thus defy
him--before his eyes should bestow endearments upon a slave, the partner
of her apparent guilt, and with whom she acknowledged having had an
intimacy years before, was too astounding for him at first to
understand. Then recovering himself, he cried aloud:
'Is this to be borne? Ho, there, Drumo! Meros! all of you! Take this
wretch and cast him into the prison! See that he does not escape, on
your lives! He shall feed the lions to-morrow! By the gods, he shall
feed the lions! Bear him away! Let me not see him again till I see his
blood lapped up in the arena. Away with him, I say!'
As the first cry of Sergius rang through the halls, the armor bearer
appeared at the door; and before many more seconds had elapsed, other
slaves, armed and unarmed, swarmed forth from different courts and
passages, until the antechamber was filled with them. None of them knew
what had happened, but they saw that, in some way, Cleotos had incurred
the anger of his master, and lay stunned and bleeding before them. To
obey was the work of a moment. The giant Drumo, stooping down, wound his
arm around the body of Cleotos, hoisted him upon his broad shoulder, and
stalked out of the room. The other slaves followed. AEnone, who, in the
delirium of her defiance, might have tried to resist, was overpowered by
her own attendants, who also had flocked in at Sergius's call, and now
gently forced her from the room. And in a moment more, Sergius was left
alone with Leta.
She, crouching in a dark corner of the room, awaited her opportunity to
say the words which she dared not say while he was in this storm of wild
passion; he, thinking himself entirely alone, stalked up and down like a
caged tiger, muttering curses upon himself, upon AEnone, upon the slave,
upon all who directly or indirectly had been concerned in his supposed
disgrace. Let it not be forgotten that, though at first he had acted
hastily and upon slight foundation of proof, and had cruelly wounded her
spirit by abhorrent insinuations, without giving time or opportunity for
her to explain herself, she had afterward given way to an insane
impulse, and had so conducted herself as to fix the suspicion of guilt
upon herself almost ineffaceably. What further proof could he need?
While, with false lips, she had denied all, had she not, at the same
time, lavished tender caresses upon the vile slave?
Then, too, what had he not himself done to add to the sting of his
disgrace? Convinced of her guilt, he should have quietly put her away,
and the truth would have leaked out only little by little, so as to be
stripped of half of its mortification. But he had called up his slaves.
They had entered upon the scene, and would guess at everything, if they
did not know it already! The mouths of menials could not be stopped.
To-morrow all Rome would know that the imperator Sergius, whose wife had
been the wonder of the whole city for her virtue and constancy, had been
deceived by her, and for a low-born slave! Herein, for the moment,
seemed to lie half the disgrace. Had it been a man of rank and celebrity
like himself--but a slave! And how would he dare to look the world in
the face--he who had been proud of his wife's unsullied reputation, even
when he had most neglected her, and who had so often boasted over his
happy lot to those who, having the reputation of being less fortunate,
had complacently submitted themselves to bear with indifference a
disgrace which, at that age, seemed to be almost the universal doom!
Frantically revolving these matters, he raged up and down the apartment
for some moments, while Leta watched him from her obscure corner. When
would it be time for her to advance and try her art of soothing? Not
yet; for while that paroxysm of rage lasted, he would be as likely to
strike her as to listen. Once he approached within a few feet of her,
and, as she believed herself observed, she trembled and crouched behind
a vase. He had not seen her, but his eye fell upon the vase, and with
one blow he rolled it off its pedestal, and let it fall shattered upon,
the marble floor. Was it simply because the costly toy stood in his way?
Or was it that he remembered it had been a favorite of AEnone? One
fragment of the vase, leaping up, struck Leta upon the foot and wounded
her, but she dared not cry out. She rather crouched closer behind the
empty pedestal, and drew a long breath of relief as, after a moment, he
turned away.
At last the violence of his passion seemed to have expended itself, and
he sank upon the lounge, and, burying his face in his hands, abandoned
himself to more composed reflection. Now was the time for her to
approach. And yet she would not address herself directly to him, but
would rather let him, in some accidental manner, detect her presence.
Upon a small table stood a bronze lamp with a little pitcher of olive
oil beside it. The wicks were already in the sockets, and she had only
to pour in the oil. This she did noiselessly, as one who has no thought
of anything beyond the discharge of an accustomed duty. Then she lighted
the wicks and stealthily looked up to see whether he had yet observed
her.
The lamp somewhat brightened the obscurity of the room, sending even a
faint glimmer into the farther corners, but he took no notice of it.
Perhaps he may have moved his head a little toward the light, but that
was all. Otherwise there was no apparent change or interruption in his
deep, troubled thought. Then Leta moved the table with the lamp upon it
a few paces toward him, so that the soft light could fall more directly
upon his face. Still no change. Then she softly approached and bent over
him.
What could he be thinking of? Could he be feeling aught but regret that
he had thrown away years of his life upon one who had betrayed him so
grossly at the end? Was he not telling himself how, upon the morrow, he
would put her away, with all ceremony, forever? And might he not be
reflecting that, AEnone once gone, there would be a vacant place to be
filled at his table? Would he not wish that it should be occupied
without delay, if only to show the world how little his misfortune had
affected him? And who more worthy to fill it than the one whose
fascinations over him had made it empty? Was not this, then, the time
for her to attract his notice, before other thoughts and interests could
come between her and him?
Softly she touched him upon the arm; and, like an unchained lion, he
sprang up and stared her in the face. There was a terrible look upon his
features, making her recoil in dismay. Was that the affectionate gaze
with which she had expected to be greeted? Was that the outward
indication of the pleasing resolves with which her eager fancy had
invested his mind?
Never had she been more mistaken than in her conceptions of his
thoughts. In them there was for herself not one kindly impulse; but for
the wife whom he had deemed so erring, there was much that was akin to
regret, if not to returning affection. The violence of his passion had
been so exhausting, that something like a reaction had come. A new
contradiction seemed developing itself in his nature. This man, who a
few minutes before had prejudged her guilty, because he had seen the
lips of a grateful slave pressed against her hand, now, after having
seen her so aroused and indifferent to reputation as to defend that
slave in her arms, and claim him for at least a friend and brother,
began to wonder whether she might not really be innocent. She had
confessed to nothing--she had asserted her blamelessness--she had never
been known to waver from the truth; might she not have been able to
explain her actions? With his regret for having, in such hasty passion,
so compromised her before the world that no explanation could henceforth
shield her from invidious slander, he now began to feel sorrow for
having so roughly used her. Whether she was false or not--whether or not
he now loved her--was it any the less true that she had once been
constant and loved by him, and did the memories of that time, not so
very long ago, bring no answering emotion to his heart? Who, after all,
had ever so worshipped him? And must he now really lose her? Might it
not be that he had been made the victim of some conspiracy, aided by
fortuitous elements?
It was just at this point, when, in his thoughts, he was stumbling near
the truth, that the touch of Leta's hand aroused him; and in that
instant her possible agency in the matter flashed upon him like a new
revelation. She saw the tiger-like look which he fastened upon her, and
she recoiled, perceiving at once that she had chosen an inopportune
moment to speak to him. But it was now too late to recede.
'Well?' he demanded.
'I have lighted the lamp,' she faltered forth. 'I knew not that I should
disturb you. Have you further commands for me?'
Still his fierce gaze fixed upon her; but now with a little more of the
composure of searching inquiry.
'It is you who have brought all this destruction and misery upon me,' he
said at length. 'From one step unto another, even to this end, I
recognize your work. I was a weak fool not to have seen it before.'
'Is it about my mistress that you speak?' she responded. 'Is it my fault
that she has been untrue?'
'If she is false, what need to have told me of it? Was it that the
knowledge of it would make me more happy? And did I give it into the
hands of my own slaves to watch over my honor? Is it a part of your duty
that for weeks you should have played the spy upon herself and me, so as
to bring her secret faults to light?'
She stood silent before him, not less amazed at his lingering fondness
for his wife than at his reproaches against herself.
'How know I that she is guilty at all?' he said, continuing the train of
thought into which his doubts and his better nature had led him. 'I must
feel all this for certain. How do I know but what you have brought it
about by some cunning intrigue for your own purposes? Speak!'
For Leta to stop now was destruction. Though to go on might bring no
profit to her, yet her safety depended upon closing forever the path of
reconciliation toward which his mind seemed to stray. And step by step,
shrouding as far as possible her own agency, she spread out before him
that basis of fact upon which she so well knew how to erect a false
superstructure. She told him how the intimacy of AEnone and Cleotos had
led her to keep watch--how AEnone had once confessed having had a lover
in the days of her obscurity and poverty--how that this Greek was that
same lover--and how improbable it was that he could have been domiciled
in that house by chance, or for any other purpose than that of being in
a situation to renew former intimacies. She told how, after long
suspicion, she had settled this identity of the former lover with the
slave--and how she had seen them, in the twilight of that very day,
standing near the window and addressing each other endearingly by their
own familiar names. As Sergius listened, the evident truthfulness of the
facts gradually impressed themselves upon him; and no longer doubting
his disgrace, he closed his heart against all further hope and charity
and affection. The pleasant past no longer whispered its memories to his
heart--those were now stifled and dead.
'And what reward for all this do you demand?' he hissed forth, seizing
Leta by the arm, 'For of course you have not thus dogged her steps day
after day, without expectation of recompense from me.'
Did he mean this--that she was capable of asking reward? Or was he
cunningly trying her nature, to see whether she might prove worthy of
the great recompense which she had promised herself? It was almost too
much now to expect; but her heart beat fast as she saw or fancied she
saw some strange significance in the gaze which he fastened upon her.
Babbling incoherently, she told how she did not wish reward--how she had
done it all for love of him--how she would be content to serve him for
life, with no other recompense than his smile--and the like. Still that
gaze was fastened upon her with penetrating power, more and more
confusing her, and again she babbled forth the same old expressions of
disinterested attachment. How it was that at last he understood her
secret thoughts and aspirations, she knew not. Certainly she had not
spoken, or even seemed to hint about them. But whether she betrayed
herself by some glance of the eye or tremor of the voice, or whether
some instinct had enabled him to read her, of a sudden he burst into a
wild, hollow laugh of disdain, threw her from him, and cried, with
unutterable contempt:
'This, then, was the purpose of all! This is what you dreamed of! That
you, a slave--an hour's plaything--could so mistake a word or two of
transient love-making as to fancy that you could ever be anything beyond
what you are now! Poor fool that thou art!--Oho, Drumo!'
The giant entered the room, and Leta again drew back into the closest
obscurity she could find, not knowing what punishment her audacity was
about to draw upon her. But worse, perhaps, than any other punishment,
was the discovery that Sergius had already forgotten her; or rather,
that he thought so little about her as to be able to dismiss her and her
pretensions with a single contemptuous rebuke. He had called his armor
bearer for another purpose than to speak of her. A new phase had passed
over his burdened and excited mind. He could not endure that solitude,
with ever-present disagreeable reflection. And since his disgrace must,
sooner or later, be known, he would brave it out by being himself the
first to publish it.
'Is it not to-morrow that the games begin?'
'Yes, master,' responded the armor bearer.
'And does it not--it seems to me that I promised to my friends a banquet
upon the previous night. If I did not, I meant to have done so. Go,
therefore, and bid them at once come hither! Tell the poet Emilius--and
Bassus--and the rest. You know all whom I would have. Let them know that
I hold revel here, and that not one must dare to stay away! Tell my
cooks to prepare a feast for the gods! Go! Despatch!'
The giant grinned his knowledge of all that his master's tastes would
require, and left the room to prepare for his errand. And in a moment
more Sergius also departed, without another thought of the Greek girl,
who stood shrinking from his notice in the shadow of the farthest
corner.