CHAPTER VI.
We noticed Martialis in the last chapter issuing from the villa Jovis. Thesparkle in his eye and the half smile on his lips, as he hummed an airduring his rapid walk down to the little southern landing-place, betokenedan errand of an agreeable nature. He rowed himself across to the mainlandin a fisherman's skiff, and, thence, taking the road to Surrentum, was notlong ere he stood in the shop of Masthlion, with the joyful and surprisedNeaera in his arms.
'You grow more beautiful each time I see you, Neaera,' he said, pressing akiss on her lips.
'Foolish!' she murmured, smiling, and sinking her eyes before his ferventgaze. 'And you, Lucius,' she added, laying the point of her finger on histoga, 'you are no Centurion to-day--you are in plain woollen--you are notfor the road?'
'I have reached the end of my journey,' he replied, drawing her nearer.
'Your breastplate and cloak become you the best, but they mean haste away.This is the most welcome to me, for it is your own dress and----'
'And says that, for a time at least, its wearer is his own master, tospend his leisure as he lists,' said Martialis, finishing her speech andfondling the hand which rested on the bosom of his garment. 'I have comehere, foolish or not, to pass the few hours at my command. Will you offerme no more hospitality than this shop can give?'
'Come,' she said, giving him a divine smile, and holding out her hand tolead him inside; 'but ah, Lucius, we are so poor and simple!'
The little dwelling-room, under the industrious and fastidious hands ofherself and her mother, was seldom far removed from a state of scrupulouscleanliness and genial comfort. The articles of furniture which itcontained were well worn, but speckless; and a bright wood fire, burningin a brazier, cheered and warmed the senses of an in-comer. At the doorNeaera ran abruptly off, and her lover was left to the company of thepatient, mild-eyed Tibia, her mother. The latter was engaged in scrubbinga brazen pot into a sunlike lustre, and although there were grounds forreasonable familiarity of bearing toward her visitor, yet the attempt cameawkwardly and uncomfortably enough. This wore off, however, in a measurewith the free, easy bearing of the young man, who sat and warmed himselfat the fireside. When Neaera subsequently reappeared, she shone upon him inthe best robes her slender wardrobe could furnish. They were modest andsimple indeed. A few coins were all their worth, but poor as they were,her beauty made them seem handsome. Fresh and neat from her toilet, withher clear delicately-tinted skin and glossy hair, her person seemed todiffuse a delicious sense of purity and sweetness. She smiled upon theCenturion in the proud consciousness of her charms, and the dame Tibia,also, could not help paying her an especial look of approval.
'How the child is growing into a woman,' she murmured beneath her breath.
Neaera reached forth her hand to her lover, and the drapery of her tunic,falling back a little, displayed a rounded arm and wrist of the whitenessof the snowdrift, to which the tinge of toil-accustomed fingers bore aslight contrast.
'Come,' she said; 'we will go and see my father.'
Taking his hand she led him to the workshop in the rear of the house,abutting on the patch of garden. On trying to open the door they found itfast, but they could hear the movements of the potter within. Neaeraknocked and called upon her father loudly.
The bolt was drawn within, and they stood face to face with Masthlion, whowas surprised at seeing his daughter's companion.
'Welcome, Centurion,' he said. 'Though Neaera had little need to bring youin here amid the clay of a potter's shop.'
The room was of good size, and the floor consisted of hard-trodden earth.A window, or rather an opening which could be closed by a shutter, was onone side, and against it stood a bench, on which was a litter of tools, aswell as one or two unfinished clay models of figures, with which Masthlionwas fond of varying his time. In the centre of the floor was the potter'swheel, which gave him his legitimate occupation. A large oven stood on theother side, and close by was also a small furnace. As there were to beseen lumps of unshaped glass lying scattered about in various parts of theworkshop, as well as relics of glass bottles and other vessels, togetherwith the tools by which they were produced, it was obvious, that the artof glass-making formed also a pursuit of the potter, either as a hobby, oras a regular avocation. Masthlion himself was attired in his workingclothes, and was smeared with clay and grime of the furnace from head tofoot. From a habit of frequently drawing his hand across his forehead, hisample brow was of the colour of one of the little images on the bench;and, as this action was sometimes varied by a similar attention to otherparts of his features, his face, in complexion, was little removed fromthe hue of his clothes. Neaera clasped her hands across his shoulder andleant her face toward his, for she was as tall, if not a little above hisstature. The contrast between her lovely pure countenance and his oddlyclay-daubed visage was so comical that Martialis smiled.
'Come, father,' said Neaera in his ear; 'you have wrought enough for to-day. It is not often we have a visitor.'
'Such a visitor--no!' replied Masthlion, smiling. 'Away! Leave me in myden--you want my room, not my company. Send your mother in here also, andkeep the house yourselves.'
'No, no!'
'Stand off, girl, or farewell to your finery--think you that the soil on meis cleaner than that on the floor?'
He pushed her gently away from him and looked her over with a fond gaze ofadmiration. 'Go, and trouble me not--you have troubled me enough already.'
'I have come this day to relieve you of her,' interposed Martialis.
'Eh?' cried Masthlion, with a mighty start at this apt and sudden speech.His face flushed and paled under its coating of clay, and a momentarytremor passed through him, whilst the fair skin of Neaera flooded crimson,and her eyes fell.
'Or, at least, to determine when your burden shall be lightened,' addedthe young soldier.
'Come, come; no more of this, Centurion,' returned the potter, with aslight laugh, which had no shadow of gaiety in it, but only nervousnessand pain. But the young man shook his head.
'Be not so hasty to bereave us of what little consolation we have of ourlives,' added the potter.
'The bereavement need not be so complete as you seem to think,' saidMartialis.
'She and you in Rome, and we in Surrentum,' sighed Masthlion; 'theseverance will be thoroughly done. But it must be, and must be faced.'
'What binds you to Surrentum? Come to Rome--there will be greater scope foryour talents, and fortune will flow in upon you.'
'Ah, yes, father!' cried Neaera eagerly, with delight in her eyes; 'andthen we shall be nigh--everything persuades you--you cannot say anythingagainst it--you know you cannot!'
She caressed him, once more, in her soft, loving manner, which neverfailed to fill the heart of her lover with secret pleasure, but Masthlionput her off as gently as before.
'The aging tree is not removed as easily as the young sapling,' he said.'No! this is not a fate which befalls thy mother and myself alone: itfollows all those who live long enough to see their bantlings grow out ofchildhood--others have to bear it, so must we. Go whither your duty callsyou; your lives have to be moulded, ours are not so lightly altered. Andwhen your husband weds you, child, you become of his station--we knowbetter than to follow you, to your disparagement.'
'You do us little honour by that speech, Masthlion,' said Martialis; 'hadI been of such a mean mind I would never have suggested what I have done.'
'You are both young, and cannot see as far as we older people,' repliedMasthlion.
'I am glad of it, then, if it were to see such ignoble conduct. What sayyou, Neaera?'
The girl's head was hanging on her breast in painful thought. 'Could I beashamed of my own parents?' she said.
The potter's face clouded deep and he went away to the window, where heturned his back on the lovers, and looked into the garden in silentreflection.
Martialis stepped to Neaera's side, and so they remained without a word forsome time. A str
uggle was proceeding in Masthlion's breast, and his lipswere moving as he communed with himself. 'Shall she be told?' he thought;'would she lose me, or still cling to me? We have reared and tendedher--new ways beget new ideas--it is idle to say we will be thus and thusuntil the time try us. To go, and find ourselves despised hereafter,perchance, would be a crueller thing than to remain here forgotten andforsaken. Must she be told? She knows nothing, or is ever like to know--howthen can it matter to her if she be left in ignorance? But am I notselfish? Would it be just? I am afraid--it is fear; for the knowledge wouldsign her relief at once. Even if she still clung to me, how would he, anoble-born knight, take it? Yet, if she could disown me, after all ourlife of love and companionship, what is there honest or good in theworld?'
A half-smothered groan broke from his lips in the tension of his feelings.He drowned it with a forced cough, and turned round. He looked upon thelovers standing in their fond attitude. They were a handsome pair, and theone not a whit unworthy of the other in any degree.
'Well, Masthlion, have you decided?' said Martialis. 'Have you dismissedyour suspicion from your mind? You have hurt me by it, believe me!'
'Father!' began Neaera, leaving her lover's arms and going to him. Thepotter held up his hand before her and said, in a broken voice, scarcelymore than a hoarse whisper--
'No--not father!'
'What!' cried the astonished girl.
A strange feeling rose through the mind of the Pretorian. He checked it,and despised himself for it, but he could not help it; he would have beenother than human to have done so. He looked inquiringly for more to followfrom the lips of the potter, but the latter merely murmured--
'Go, and leave me for a space!' and then dropped his head, and covered hisface with his hands.
The sight of his evident agitation was too much for Neaera. She cast a lookof perplexity and concern at her lover, and then sprang to her father'sside. As she did so there was a loud knock at the door, which opened,simultaneously, to admit a brown broad-faced man with a short stiff beardand moustache, bearing a light wallet over one shoulder, and carrying astout walking-stick in his hand.
Neæra: A Tale of Ancient Rome Page 17
