‘No,’ said the young man, drawing himself up with sparkling eyes; ‘I told you I loved her—now I tell you she must be my wife, or none other.’
‘And are you sure you would always rest in the same mind as now?’
‘Ah, as far as human thought and perception can go, I have no doubt of it,’ returned Martialis proudly.
Masthlion shook his head and sighed; and his wife, from long habit of waiting on his looks, unconsciously did the same, though without offering any remark of her own.
‘It is ever the way with the young—eager and heedless!’ said the potter. ‘Centurion, as an older man, and one who has not lived in the world with blind eyes, I must tell you that I disagree with you. You are attracted by the child’s fair looks, and you know not, or forget, that familiarity will weaken their influence over your senses. The gods made women fair to please the hearts of men; but, did they bestow upon them no other qualities, they would become nothing more than mere toys to be bandied about at will. Looks attract first; but it is the disposition, and the accomplishments of the mind, which are necessary to weave a lasting bond of esteem and love. Where, within these humble walls, has this poor child learnt those manners and graces which, from habit, you require, before all, in a companion? Where could she have gathered the refinements which would be necessary to the wife of one of your station? Could you present her to your fine friends and family? She would shame you at every turn—at every word. The first blush of your fancy would wear off. You would grow angry and disgusted. You would repent of your bargain, and the rest would be nothing but bitterness, reproaches, and unhappiness—if not worse. This is a picture more to be depended on than yours, Centurion. Go, therefore, and if you think over it, as you ought to do, without allowing your feelings to bias your reflections, you [pg 14]will see that I am right, and you will come no more. Thus there will be one rash, ill-advised affair the less in the world.’
‘Masthlion, your daughter has already told me this,’ answered the Centurion, with a smile.
‘Did she so?’ cried the potter, casting a look of pride and satisfaction at the girl. ‘Then she did wisely and obediently—and bravely too, if I guess aright. Alas! your proudest dames could have done no better. Come and kiss me, my brave girl!’
Neæra glided to him, and hid her face in his shoulder.
Martialis folded his arms and watched them. The potter had unconsciously dealt a deathblow to his own cause, if it needed one at all. Their eyes met at that moment. The acute perception, or instinct, of the artisan interpreted too well the calm, resolute light of the young man’s glance, so warm with the picture of the fair girl before him, and he groaned inwardly as he restlessly stroked his daughter’s glossy locks. He knew not what to say, so heavily did the sense of his helplessness press upon him.
‘It is a year since I stopped one day at the old fountain-basin yonder,’ said Martialis, stretching out his arm. ‘I had ridden far and was thirsty, and Neæra was filling her pitcher. It was thus I met her first. I went on my way, but her image haunted my mind. I sought her again, and discovered that her looks did not belie her heart. I have chosen her to fill my mind, even as you would have me choose; not from a light fancy of the eyes alone, but because I know she is pure, noble, and good in spirit. As for the rest, you may magnify, from ignorance, my position and importance. Neæra is naturally predisposed toward those trifling changes which you deem necessary, and she would glide into them instinctively and unconsciously. Masthlion, these arguments will be vain, so use them not. I ask you to give me your daughter Neæra, in betrothal.’