THE ISLAND IN THE LIRIS
Not yet the '_taciturnus amnis_,' which it becomes in the broad,
seaward valley far below, the Liris at this point parts into two
streams, enclosing a spacious island, and on either side of the island
leaps with sound and foam, a river kindred to the mountains which feed
its flood. Between the two cataracts, linked to the river banks with
great arched bridges, stood Marcian's villa. Never more than a modest
country house, during the last fifty years an almost total neglect had
made of the greater part an uninhabitable ruin. A score of slaves and
peasants looked after what remained of the dwelling and cultivated the
land attached to it, garden, oliveyard, vineyard, partly on the island,
partly beyond the river in the direction of Arpinum, which historic
city, now but sparsely peopled, showed on the hillside a few miles
away. Excepting his house in Rome, this was all the property that
Marcian possessed. It was dear to him because of the memories of his
childhood, and for another reason which sprang out of the depths of his
being: on the night after his mother's death (he was then a boy much
given to seeing visions) her spirit appeared to him, and foretold that
he too should die in this house 'at peace with God.' This phrase, on
which he had often brooded, Marcian understood to mean that he should
reach old age; and it had long been his settled intention to found in
the ruinous villa a little monastery, to which, when his work was over,
he could retire to pass the close of life. And now, as he rode down
behind the carriage, he was striving to keep his thought fixed on this
pious purpose. He resolved that he would not long delay. As soon as
Veranilda was safe, he would go on foot, as a pilgrim, to the monastery
at Casinum, which were but two or three days' journey, and speak of his
intention to the aged and most holy Benedict. Thus fortified, he rode
with bright visage down into the valley, and over the bridge, and so to
his own gate.
The steward and the housekeeper, who were man and wife, speedily stood
before him, and he bade them make ready with all expedition certain
chambers long unoccupied, merely saying that a lady would for some days
be his guest. Whilst Sagaris guided the horsemen to the stables, and
received them hospitably in the servants' quarter, Marcian, using a
more formal courtesy than hitherto, conducted his charge into the great
hall, and begged her to be seated for a few minutes, until her room was
prepared. Seeing that fatigue scarce suffered her to reply, he at once
withdrew, leaving her alone with her handmaiden. And yet he had not
beheld Veranilda's face.
Himself unable to take repose, he strayed about the purlieus of the
villa, in his ears the sound of rushing water, before his eyes a
flitting vision which he would not see. He had heard from his steward
the latest news of the countryside; it was said in Arpinum that the
Gothic forces were at length assembled for the march on Rome; at
Aquinum Totila would be welcomed, and what resistance was he likely to
meet with all along the Latin Way? When the horsemen had refreshed
themselves, Marcian summoned the leader; their services, he said, would
no longer be necessary; he bade them depart as early as might be on the
morrow, and bear with all speed to their lord the bishop an important
letter which he forthwith wrote and gave to the man, together with a
generous guerdon. This business despatched, he again wandered hither
and thither, incapable of rest, incapable of clear thought, fever in
his heart and in his brain.
As the sun sank, fear once more beset him. This house lay open on all
sides, its only protection being a couple of dogs, which prowled at
large. He thought with dread of the possibility of a brigand attack.
But when night had fallen, when all lights except his own were
extinguished, when no sound struck against the deep monotone of the
cataracts, this emotion yielded before another, which no less harassed
his mind. In the hall, in the corridors, in the garden-court, he paced
ceaselessly, at times walking in utter darkness, for not yet had the
moon risen. When at length its rays fell upon the pillars of the upper
gallery where Veranilda slept, he stood looking towards her chamber,
and turned away at length with a wild gesture, like that of a demoniac
in torment.
The man was torn between spiritual fervour and passions of the flesh.
With his aspiration to saintliness blended that love of his friend
which was the purest affection he had known in all the years of
manhood; yet this very love became, through evil thoughts, an
instrument against him, being sullied, poisoned by the basest spirit of
jealousy, until it seemed all but to have turned to hate. One moment he
felt himself capable of acting nobly, even as he had resolved when at
mass in the little mountain church; his bosom glowed with the defiance
of every risk; he would guard Veranilda secretly until he could lay her
hand in that of Basil. The next, he saw only danger, impossibility, in
such a purpose, and was anxious to deliver the beautiful maiden to the
king of her own race as soon as might be--lest worse befell. Thus did
he strive with himself, thus was he racked and rent under the glowing
moon.
At dawn he slept. When he rose the horsemen had long since set forth on
their journey home. He inquired which road they had taken. But to this
no one had paid heed; he could only learn that they had crossed the
river by the westward bridge, and so perhaps had gone back by way of
Aletrium, instead of descending the valley to the Latin Way. Even yet
Marcian did not feel quite safe from his Greek pursuers. He feared a
meeting between them and the Praenestines.
Having bathed (a luxury after waterless Rome), and eaten a morsel of
bread with a draught of his own wine, he called his housekeeper, and
bade her make known to the lady, his guest, that he begged permission
to wait upon her. With but a few minutes' delay Veranilda descended to
the room which lay behind the atrium. Marcian, loitering among the
ivied plane-trees without, was told of her coming, and at once entered.
She was alone, standing at the back of the room; her hands hanging
linked before her, the lower part of the arms white against the folds
of a russet-coloured tunic. And Marcian beheld her face.
He took a few rapid steps toward her, checked himself, bowed
profoundly, and said in a somewhat abrupt voice:
'Gracious lady, is it by your own wish that you are unattended? Or have
my women, by long disuse, so forgotten their duties--'
Veranilda interrupted him.
'I assure you it was my own wish, lord Marcian. We must speak of things
which are not for others' hearing.'
In the same unnatural voice, as though he put constraint upon himself
for the performance of a disagreeable duty, he begged her to be seated,
and Veranilda, not without betraying a slight trouble of surprise, took
the chair to which he pointed. But he himself did not sit down. In the
middle of the room stood a great bronze candelabrum, many-branched for
the suspension of lamps, at its base three figures, Pluto, Neptune, and
Proserpine. It was the only work of any value which the villa now
contained, and Marcian associated it with the memories of his earliest
years. As a little child he had often gazed at those three faces, awed
by their noble gravity, and, with a child's diffidence, he had never
ventured to ask what beings these were. He fixed his eyes upon them
now, to avoid looking at Veranilda. She, timidly glancing at him, said
in her soft, low voice, with the simplest sincerity:
'I have not yet found words in which to thank you, lord Marcian.'
'My thanks are due to you, dear lady, for gracing this poor house with
your presence.'
His tone was more suavely courteous. For an instant he looked at her,
and his lips set themselves in something meant for a smile.
'This is the end of our journey?' she asked.
'For some days--if the place does not displease you.'
'How could I be ill at ease in the house of Basil's friend, and with
the promise that Basil will soon come?'
Marcian stared at the face of Proserpine, who seemed to regard him with
solemn thoughtfulness.
'Had you any forewarning of your release from the monastery?' he asked
of a sudden.
'None. None whatever.'
'You thought you would remain there for long to come?'
'I had not dared to think of that.'
Marcian took a few paces, glanced at the sweet face, the beautiful head
with its long golden hair, and came back to his place by the
candelabrum, on which he rested a trembling hand.
'Had they spoken of making you a nun?'
A look of dread came upon her countenance, and she whispered, 'Once or
twice.'
'You would never have consented?'
'Only if I had known that release was hopeless, or that Basil--'
Her voice failed.
'That Basil--?' echoed Marcian's lips, in an undertone.
'That he was dead.'
'You never feared that he might have forgotten you?'
Again his accents were so hard that Veranilda gazed at him in troubled
wonder.
'You never feared that?' he added, with fugitive eyes.
'Had I dreamt of it,' she replied, 'I think I should not live.' Then in
a voice of anxious humility, 'Could Basil forget me?'
'Indeed, I should not think it easy,' murmured the other, his eyes cast
down. 'And what,' he continued abruptly, 'was said to you when you left
the convent? In what words did they take leave of you?'
'With none at all. I was bidden prepare for a journey, and soon after
they led me to the gates. I knew nothing, nor did the woman with me.'
'Was the lady Aurelia in the same convent?' Marcian next inquired.
'I never saw her after we had landed from the ship which carried us
from Surrentum?'
'You do not know, of course, that Petronilla is dead?'
He told her of that, and of other events such as would interest her,
but without uttering the name of Basil. Above all, he spoke of Totila,
lauding the victorious king who would soon complete his triumph by the
conquest of Rome.
'I had all but forgotten,' were Veranilda's words, when she had
listened anxiously. 'I thought only of Basil.'
He turned abruptly from her, seemed to reflect for a moment, and said
with formal politeness:
'Permit me now to leave you, lady. This house is yours. I would it
offered you worthier accommodation. As soon as I have news, I will
again come before you.'
Veranilda rose whilst he was speaking. Her eyes were fixed upon him,
wistfully, almost pleadingly, and before he had reached the exit she
advanced a step, with lips parted as if to beseech his delay. But he
walked too hurriedly, and was gone ere she durst utter a word.
At the same hurried pace, gazing before him and seeing nothing, Marcian
left the villa, and walked until he came to the river side. Here was a
jutting rock known as the Lover's Leap; story told of a noble maiden,
frenzied by unhappy love, who had cast herself into the roaring
waterfall. Long he stood on the brink, till his eyes dazzled from the
sun-stricken foam. His mind was blasted with shame; he could not hold
his head erect. In sorry effort to recover self-respect he reasoned
inwardly thus:
'Where Basil may be I know not. If he is still at Asculum many days
must pass before a summons from me could bring him hither. He may
already be on his way to join the king, as I bade him in my last
message. The uncertainty, the danger of this situation, can be met only
in one way. On leaving Rome I saw my duty plain before me. A desire to
pleasure my friend made me waver, but I was wrong--if Basil is to have
Veranilda for his bride he can only receive her from the hands of
Totila. Anything else would mean peril to the friend I love, and
disrespect, even treachery, to the king I honour. And so it shall be; I
will torment myself no more.'
He hastened back into the villa, summoned Sagaris, and bade him be
ready in half an hour to set forth on a journey of a day or two. He
then wrote a brief letter to the king of the Goths. It was in the
Gothic tongue, such Gothic as a few Romans could command for everyday
use. Herein he told that Veranilda, intrusted to him by the deacon
Leander to be conducted to the king's camp, had arrived in safety at
his villa by Arpinum. The country being disturbed, he had thought
better to wait here with his charge until he could learn the king's
pleasure, which he begged might be made known to him as soon as
possible.
'This,' he said, when Sagaris appeared before him equipped for travel,
'you will deliver into the king's own hands. At Aquinum you will be
directed to his camp, which cannot be far beyond. Danger there is none
between here and there. Make your utmost speed.'
Many were the confidential missions which Sagaris had discharged; yet,
looking now into his man's face, the master was troubled by a sudden
misgiving. The state of his own mind disposed him to see peril
everywhere. At another time he would not have noted so curiously a sort
of gleam in the Syrian's eye, a something on the fellow's cunning,
sensual lips, which might mean anything or nothing. Did Sagaris divine
who the veiled lady was? From the bishop's man he could not have
learned it, they themselves, as the bishop had assured Marcian, being
totally ignorant in the matter. If he guessed the truth, as was likely
enough after all the talk he had heard concerning Veranilda, was it a
danger? Had Sagaris any motive for treachery?
'Listen,' continued Marcian, in a tone such as he had never before used
with his servant, a tone rather of entreaty than of command. 'Upon the
safe and swift delivery of that letter more depends than you can
imagine. You will not lack your reward. But not a word to any save the
king. Should any one else question you, you will say that you bear only
a verbal message, and that you come direct from Rome.'
'My lord shall be obeyed,' answered the slave, 'though I die under
torture.'
'Of that,' said Marcian, with a forced laugh, 'you need have no fear.
But, hark you!' He hesitated, again searching the man's countenance.
'You might chance to meet some friend of mine who would inquire after
me. No matter who it be--were it even the lord Basil--you will answer
in the same words, saying that I am still in Rome. You understand me?
Were it even lord Basil who asked?'
'It shall be as my lord commands,' replied the slave, his face set in
unctuous solemnity.
'Go, then. Lose not a moment.'
Marcian watched him ride away in the blaze of the cloudless sun. The
man's head was sheltered with a broad-brimmed hat of the lightest felt,
and his horse's with a cluster of vine-leaves. He rode away at a quick
trot, the while dust rising in a cloud behind him.
And Marcian lived through the day he knew not how. It was a day of
burning sunshine, of heat scarce tolerable even in places the most
sheltered. Clad only in a loose tunic, bare-armed, bare-footed, he lay
or sauntered wherever shade was dense, as far as possible from the part
of the villa consecrated to his guest. Hour after hour crawled by, an
eternity of distressful idleness. And, even while wishing for the day's
end, he dreaded the coming of the night.
It came; the silent, lonely night, the warm, perfumed night, the season
of fierce temptations, of dreadful opportunity. Never had the
passionate soul of Marcian been so manifestly lured by the Evil One,
never had it fought so desperately in the strength of religious hopes
and fears. He knelt, he prayed, his voice breaking upon the stillness
with anguish of supplication. Between him and the celestial vision rose
that face which he had at length beheld, a face only the more
provocative of sensual rage because of its sweet purity, its flawless
truth. Then he flung himself upon the stones, bruised his limbs, lay at
length exhausted, as if lifeless.
No longer could he strengthen himself by the thought of loyalty in
friendship; that he had renounced. Yet he strove to think of Basil,
and, in doing so, knew that he still loved him. For Basil he would do
anything, suffer anything, lose anything; but when he imaged Basil with
Veranilda, at once his love turned to spleen, a sullen madness
possessed him, he hated his friend to the death.
By his own order, two watchmen stood below the stairs which led to
Veranilda's chamber. Nigh upon midnight he walked in that direction,
walked in barefooted stealth, listening for a movement, a voice. Nearer
and nearer he approached, till he saw at length the ray of a lantern;
but no step, no murmur, told of wakeful guard. Trembling as though with
cold, though sweat streamed over his body, he strode forward; there,
propped against the wall, sat the two slaves fast asleep. Marcian
glanced at the stairs; his face in the dim lantern light was that of a
devil. All of a sudden one of the men started, and opened his eyes.
Thereupon Marcian caught up a staff that lay beside them, and began to
belabour them both with savage blows. Fiercely, frantically, he plied
his weapon, until the delinquents, who had fallen to their knees before
him, roared for mercy.
'Let me find you sleeping again,' he said in a low voice, 'and your
eyes shall be burnt out.'
He stole away into the darkness, and the men whispered to each other
that he had gone mad. For Marcian was notably humane with his slaves,
never having been known even to inflict a whipping. Perhaps they were
even more astonished at this proof that their master seriously guarded
the privacy of his guest; last night they had slept for long hours
undisturbed, and, on waking, congratulated each other with familiar
jests on having done just what was expected of them.
The morn broke dark and stormy. Thunder-clouds purpled before the
rising sun, and ere mid-day there fell torrents of rain. Heedless of
the sky, Marcian rode forth this morning; rode aimlessly about the
hills, for the villa was no longer endurable to him. He talked awhile
with a labouring serf, who told him that the plague had broken out in
Arpinum, where, during the last week or two, many had died. From his
steward he had already heard the same news, but without heeding it; it
now alarmed him, and for some hours fear had a wholesome effect upon
his thoughts. In the coolness following upon the storm, he enjoyed a
long, tranquil sleep. And this day he did not see Veranilda.
A mile or two down the valley was a church, built by Marcian's
grandfather, on a spot where he had been saved from great peril; the
land attached to it supported two priests and certain acolytes,
together with a little colony of serfs. On his ride this morning
Marcian had passed within view of the church, and would have gone
thither but for his rain drenched clothing. Now, during the second
night of temptation, he resolved to visit the priests as soon as it was
day and to bring one of them back with him to the villa, to remain as
long as Veranilda should be there. Firm in this purpose he rose with
the rising sun, called for his horse, and rode to the bridge. There,
looking down at the white cataract, stood Veranilda and her attendant.
He alighted. With a timid smile the maiden advanced to meet him.
'Abroad so early?' were his first words, a mere tongue-found phrase.
'I was tempted by the fresh morning. It does not displease you, lord
Marcian?'
'Nay, I am glad.'
'It is so long,' continued the gentle voice, 'since I was free to walk
under the open sky.'
Marcian forgot that his gaze was fixed upon her, forgot that he was
silent, forgot the purpose with which he had ridden forth.
'I hoped I might see you to-day,' she added. 'You have yet no news for
me?'
'None.'
The blue eyes drooped sadly.
'To-morrow, perhaps,' she murmured. Then, with an effort to seem
cheerful, as if ashamed of her troubled thought, 'I had listened so
long to a sound of falling water that I could not resist the desire to
see it. How beautiful it is!'
Marcian felt surprise; he himself saw the cataract as an object of
beauty, but had seldom heard it so spoken of, and could least of all
have expected such words on the lips of a woman, dread seeming to him
the more natural impression.
'That on the other side,' he said, pointing across the island, 'is more
beautiful still. And there is shade, whilst here the sun grows too hot.
But you must not walk so far. My horse has a very even pace. If you
would let me lift you to the saddle--'
'Oh, gladly!' she answered, with a little laugh of pleasure.
And it was done. For a moment he held her, for a moment felt the warmth
and softness of her flesh; then she sat sideways upon the horse,
looking down at Marcian with startled gaiety. He showed her how to hold
the reins, and the horse went gently forward.
'It makes me a child again,' she exclaimed. 'I have never ridden since
I was a little girl, when my father--'
Her voice died away; her look was averted, and Marcian, remembering the
shame that mingled with her memories, began to talk of other things.
By a path that circled the villa, they came to a little wood of ilex,
which shadowed the brink of the larger cataract. Marcian had bidden
Veranilda's woman follow them, but as they entered the wood, his
companion looking eagerly before her, he turned and made a gesture of
dismissal, which the servant at once obeyed. In the shadiest spot which
offered a view of the plunging river, he asked Veranilda if she would
alight.
'Willingly, I would spend an hour here,' she replied. 'The leafage and
the water make such a delightful freshness.'
'I have anticipated your thought,' said Marcian. 'The woman is gone to
bid them bring seats.'
Veranilda glanced back in surprise and saw that they were alone. She
thanked him winsomely, and then, simply as before, accepted his help.
Again Marcian held her an instant, her slim, light body trembling when
he set her down, as if from a burden which strained his utmost force.
She stepped forward to gaze at the fall. He, with an exclamation of
alarm, caught her hand and held it.
'You are too rash,' he said in a thick voice. 'The depth, the roar of
the waters, will daze you.'
Against his burning palm, her hand was cool as a lily leaf. He did not
release it, though he knew that _his_ peril from that maidenly touch
was greater far than hers from the gulf before them. Veranilda,
accepting his protection with the thoughtlessness of a child, leaned
forward, uttering her wonder and her admiration. He, the while, watched
her lips, fed his eyes upon her cheek, her neck, the golden ripples of
her hair. At length she gently offered to draw her hand away. A frenzy
urged him to resist, but madness yielded to cunning, and he released
her.
'Of course Basil has been here,' she was saying.
'Never.'
'Never? Oh, the joy of showing him this when he comes! Lord Marcian,
you do not think it will be long?'
Her eyes seemed as though they would read in the depth of his; again
the look of troubled wonder rose to her countenance.
'It will not be more than a few days?' she added, in a timid undertone,
scarce audible upon the water's deeper note.
'I fear it may be longer,' replied Marcian.
He heard his own accents as those of another man. He, his very self,
willed the utterance of certain words, kind, hopeful, honest; but
something else within him commanded his tongue, and, ere he knew it, he
had added:
'You have never thought that Basil might forget you?'
Veranilda quivered as though she had been struck.
'Why do you again ask me that question?' she said gently, but no longer
timidly. 'Why do you look at me so? Surely,' her voice sank, 'you could
not have let me feel so happy if Basil were dead?'
'He lives.'
'Then why do you look so strangely at me? Ah, he is a prisoner?'
'Not so. No man's liberty is less in danger.'
She clasped her hands before her. 'You make me suffer. I was so light
of heart, and now--your eyes, your silence. Oh, speak, lord Marcian!'
'I have hidden the truth so long because I knew not how to utter it.
Veranilda, Basil is false to you.'
Her hands fell; her eyes grew wider in wonder. She seemed not to
understand what she had heard, and to be troubled by incomprehension
rather than by a shock of pain.
'False to me?' she murmured. 'How false?'
'He loves another woman, and for her sake has turned to the Greeks.'
Still Veranilda gazed wonderingly.
'Things have come to pass of which you know nothing,' pursued Marcian,
forcing his voice to a subdued evenness, a sad gravity. 'Listen whilst
I tell you all. Had you remained but a few days longer at Cumae, you
would have been seized by the Greeks and sent to Constantinople; for
the Emperor Justinian himself had given this command. You came to
Surrentum; you plighted troth with Basil; he would have wedded you,
and--not only for safety's sake, but because he wished well to the
Goths--would have sought the friendship of Totila. But you were carried
away; vainly we searched for you; we feared you had been delivered to
the Greeks. In Rome, Basil was tempted by a woman, whom he had loved
before ever he saw you, a woman beautiful, but evil hearted, her name
Heliodora. She won him back to her; she made him faithless to you and
to the cause of the Goths. Little by little, I learnt how far he had
gone in treachery. He had discovered where you were, but no longer
desired to release you that you might become his wife. To satisfy the
jealousy of Heliodora, and at the same time to please the Greek
commander in Rome, he plotted to convey you to Constantinople. I having
discovered this plot, found a way to defeat it. You escaped but
narrowly. When I carried you away from Praeneste, pursuers were close
behind us, therefore it was that we travelled through the night. Here
you are in safety, for King Totila is close at hand, and will guard you
against your enemies.'
Veranilda pressed her hands upon her forehead, and stood mute. As his
eyes shifted furtively about her, Marcian caught sight of something
black and undulant stirring among stones near her feet; at once he
grasped her by the arm, and drew her towards him.
'A viper!' he exclaimed, pointing.
'What of that?' was her reply, with a careless glance. 'I would not
stir a step to escape its fangs.'
And, burying her face in her hands, she wept.
These tears, this attitude of bewildered grief, were Marcian's
encouragement. He had dreaded the innocence of her eyes lest it should
turn to distrust and rejection. Had she refused to believe him, he knew
not how he would have persisted in his villainy; for, even in
concluding his story, it seemed to him that he must betray himself; so
perfidious sounded to him the voice which he could hardly believe his
own, and so slinking-knavish did he feel the posture of his body, the
movements of his limbs. The distress which should have smitten him to
the heart restored his baser courage. Again he spoke with the sad
gravity of a sympathetic friend.
'Dearest lady, I cannot bid you be comforted, but I entreat you to
pardon me, the hapless revealer of your misfortune. Say only that you
forgive me.'
'What is there to forgive?' she answered, checking her all but silent
sobs. 'You have told what it behoved you to tell. And it may be'--her
look changed of a sudden--'that I am too hasty in embracing sorrow. How
can I believe that Basil has done this? Are you not misled by some
false suspicion? Has not some enemy slandered him to you? What can you
say to make me credit a thing so evil?'
'Alas! It were but too easy for me to lengthen a tale which all but
choked me in the telling; I could name others who know, but to you they
would be only names. That of Heliodora, had you lived in Rome, were
more than enough.'
'You say he loved her before?'
'He did, dear lady, and when her husband was yet living. Now that he is
dead--'
'Have you yet told me all?' asked Veranilda, gazing fixedly at him.
'Has he married her?'
'Not yet--I think.'
Again she bowed her head. For a moment her tears fell silently, then
she looked up once more fighting against her anguish.
'It cannot be true that he would have given me to the Greeks; that he
may have forgotten me, that he may have turned to another love, I can
perhaps believe--for what am I that Basil should love me? But to scheme
my injury, to deliver me to our enemies--Oh, you are deceived, you are
deceived!'
Marcian was silent, with eyes cast down. In the branches, cicadas
trilled their monotone. The viper, which had been startled away, again
showed its lithe blackness among the stones behind Veranilda, and
Marcian, catching sight of it, again touched her arm.
'The snake! Come away from this place.'
Veranilda drew her arm back as if his touch stung her.
'I will go,' she said. 'I must be alone--my thoughts are in such
confusion I know not what I say.'
'Say but one word,' he pleaded. 'Having rescued you, I knew not how to
provide for your security save under ward of the king. Totila is noble
and merciful; all Italy will soon be his, and the Gothic rule be
re-established. Assure me that I have done well and wisely.'
'I hope you have,' answered Veranilda, regarding him for an instant.
'But I know nothing; I must bear what befalls. Let me go to my chamber,
lord Marcian, and sit alone and think.'
He led her back into the villa, and they parted without another word.