“Most noble, most illustrious lady,” said Xerophrastes, “this matter has indeed been conducted unfortunately, yet no reason see I why you should give way to so many groundless apprehensions. The only thing, after all, that you have lost, if indeed you have lost it, is the good opinion of Licinius; for, as to that foolish boy——”—“Name him not,” replied Rubellia, “name not the stripling. Surely madness alone can account for my behaviour.”—“Madness!” quoth the Stoic; “yes, truly, and who, at certain moments, is free from such madness? As Euripides has expressed it, Venus, if she come in wisdom, is the wisest; if otherwise, the most frenzied of influences. The greatest have not been exempt from such visitations. Banish it from your heart, noble lady, or replace it by something more worthy of your discernment. There is, I think, but one pair of eyes in Rome that could have been blind to such perfections.”—“O Xerophrastes!” said she, “speak not to me of perfections. Alas! I was born under a deceitful star—a star of apparent splendour and real misery.”—“Noble lady,” he replied, “I swear to you that what tincture of philosophy I have imbibed, is unable to sustain my serenity when I hear such words from your lips. You are surrounded by all that externals can minister. It is your part to compose your mind, and then how should it be possible for you to taste of unhappiness? Think no more of that boy.”
The philosopher took her hand with an air of the deepest sympathy, and at the same time drew the end of his mantle over his face, as if to conceal the extent of his participation in her distresses.—“Alas! lady, this is, after all, a miserable world. There is no [pg 282]rest but in the affections, and behold how they are harassed on every hand by the invidious accidents of life. Philosophy proclaims her antidote, but the poison is every where; and it is all one course of being wounded to be cured, and being cured only to be more easily wounded again.”
Our friend continued in an attitude of pensive contemplation. The moonbeams fell full on his high brow and the large massy features of his countenance, and on the robust limbs which emerged from below the stately folds of his mantle; and I could not help thinking that there was something almost heroic, which I had never before remarked, in the whole of his appearance. Rubellia kept her eyes fixed steadfastly upon him.
“I should have known nothing of it,” he resumed, “had I never deserted my paternal valley for the vain pleasures of Athens, and the magnificence of Rome.”—“You repent,” said she, “that you ever visited Italy? I pray you deal with me openly. If it be your wish to leave Rome, speak, and I shall put it in your power to retire to Greece as handsomely as you could ever have hoped to do from the family of Licinius. Of wealth, as you well know, I have enough both for myself and for my faithful friends, among whom, be sure, I place you in the first rank. Control your feelings, I pray you once more—and speak freely.”
Hastily and fervently he pressed his lip upon the beautiful hand of Rubellia, and whispered something into her ear. She started, and I think blushed in the moonlight; but neither seemed offended very deeply with what he had said, nor with the gesture he had used.[pg 283]—“Softly, softly,” whispered the Centurion, “be not ashamed, fair lady, of the love of thy servant.”
But (whether the echo of his Horatian parody had reached her ear or not, I cannot tell,) scarcely had these words been uttered, ere Rubellia started from her seat, and began to move pretty quickly down the shaded alley, as if towards the entrance of the gardens. Xerophrastes sate still for a moment, even after the lady had arisen, covering his eyes, and part of his broad forehead with his hands, as if buried in his own thoughts too deeply to be with ease affected with a sense of things passing around him. Then, at last, he arose, and uttering an exclamation of surprise, walked after the noble dame, taking heed, however, (it did not escape our observation,) to arrange, as he rapidly followed her, the massive folds of his mantle into a graceful drapery.
Sabinus restrained himself till they were beyond the reach of his voice; but he then made himself ample amends. “Ha!” said he, “is this to be the end? Most pensive ghost of Leberinus, is this to be thy successor?”—“Good heavens!” said I, “Sabinus, do you think it possible she should make the pedagogue her husband—she that was but yesterday so desperately enamoured of the beautiful young Sextus?”—“My dear islander,” quoth the Centurion, “do you remember the story of a certain beautiful boy, called Adonis?”—“To be sure,” said I, “who is ignorant of the story of Adonis, or of the beautiful verses of Bion—
“I weep for fair Adonis—for Adonis is no more,
Dead is the fair Adonis—his beauty I deplore;
His white thigh with a tusk of white the greenwood monster tore,