CHAPTER XII.
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 [pg 237]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 [pg 238]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, [pg 239]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 [pg 240]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.