And now?
But what was the priest’s surprise when, instead of the crushed and weeping child he expected to meet, Claudia came towards him with gentle pride, grave, but mistress of herself, calm and almost radiant with a half-sad, but half-happy confidence.
In the silence of her chamber Claudia had thought out the course of events and the issues they must lead to; she had questioned her own heart, and taken stock of her duties. The tangle had come straight, light had dawned in the darkness. It was useless to weep and puzzle herself over what could not be altered; it mattered not now to wonder whether Aurelius had acted wisely in taking part in the rash attempt of the conspirators. Nay, the right or wrong of the attempt itself was of secondary importance. One thing only Claudia was sure of: she loved him, and she was pledged to him. This had sealed her fate. As soon as this certainty stood forth clear and confessed in the midst of her sorrow, her peace of mind returned as if sent from heaven. She knew now how she must act, come what might now or in the future; she saw the goal towards which her whole existence strove, and she could wait in all submission, till the gods might point out a way in which she could walk. But that she would never look aside from that goal, that no power on earth could tear that love from her heart—that was as clear to her as her belief in love itself. Every blow, which could now fall on this hapless heart, would be the inevitable dealing of Fate, which neither gods nor men could evade. Claudia still hoped for some happy issue, even with her father; for the hopefulness of love is inexhaustible. But, if Fate would have it otherwise, it was quite clear to her that the issue must be worked out without her father—nay, if it came to the worst, against her father; and the sense of this possibility gave a melancholy undercurrent to her confident resolve.
Titus Claudius misunderstood the signs of her face and manner; her calm decisiveness he took for the submission of an obedient daughter; her silent melancholy for the anguish of resignation. He went up to Claudia with an impulse of deep tenderness, took her in his arms, kissed her, and loaded her with tender commendation; she, ashamed and feeling almost guilty, submitted to his embrace. Then she raised her eyes in tearful entreaty to his face.
“Let us speak no more of all this,” she said in a low voice. “Time will show, whether he is guilty or not. You shall never hear a word of murmur from me. I will command myself; I will be just what I have always been—a little graver perhaps, but not lackadaisical and pining. Only never speak of him, do not speak harshly of him! I cannot bear it, Father!”
“You are my own good, wise child,” whispered Claudius, holding her more closely in his arms. “I know you by this for my own flesh and blood. May Jupiter, in his goodness, give you strength to cast this luckless love out of your heart. I know, my child, we Claudians have a deep heart, and what has once sunk to the bottom there is apt to strike deep root in the soil. But nature has also given us a strong will, and a defiant spirit that fears no struggle. If you ever feel too miserable, if the fight is too much for you, then fly for rest to your father’s heart, Claudia, and do not forget, that every grief that troubles yours I feel two-fold and three-fold in my own.” Claudia wept aloud; overcome by her grief, she clung to that loving father’s sheltering arms. Then, collecting all her firmness, she freed herself, looked up with a smile, and said, as she dried her tears:
“Now—I am myself again. Go to the others, pray, Father, and I will follow immediately.”
The Flamen left the room. Claudia threw herself on her knees, and after kissing the spot on the rug where he had stood, threw up her arms and her slender figure in passionate prayer to the gods.
“Do not crush me, Immortals, if I am sinning!” she whispered with trembling lips. “For you know, ye all-merciful and all-wise, that I cannot help it.”