The Continental Monthly, Vol 6, No 5, November 1864

CHAPTER XV

As the shouts of laughter elicited by the host's remark rang through the hall, drowning the muttered response of the comedian, Leta glided softly and rapidly from behind the screen of tapestry which veiled the open doorway. There, crouching out of sight, she had remained concealed for the last hour—watching the revellers through a crevice in the needlework, and vainly hoping, either in the words or face of Sergius, to detect some tone or expression indicative of regretful thought or recollection of herself. When at last her name had been mentioned, for a moment she had eagerly held her breath, lest she might lose one syllable from which an augury of her fate could be drawn. Then, repressing, with a violent effort, the cry of despair which rose to her lips, upon hearing herself thus coolly and disdainfully surrendered as the stake of a game of dice, and with less apparent regret than would have been felt for the loss of a single gold piece, she drew the folds of her dress closely about her and passed out.

Out through the antechamber—down the stairway—and into the central court; no other purpose guiding her footsteps than that of finding some place where she could reflect, without disturbance, upon the fate before her. In that heated hall she must have died; but it might be that in the cool, open air, she could conquer the delirium which threatened to overwhelm her, and could thus regain her self-control. If only for five minutes, it might be well. With her quick energy and power of decision, even five minutes of cool, deliberate counsel with herself might suffice to shape and direct her whole future life.

Hardly realizing how she had come there, she found herself sitting upon the coping of the courtyard fountain. The night was dark, for thick clouds shut out the gleam of moon and stars. No one could see her, nor was it an hour when any one was likely to be near. From one end to the other the court was deserted, except by herself. No light, other than the faint glow from the windows of the banquet hall upon the story above her. No sound beyond the sullen splash of the water falling into the marble basin of the fountain. There was now but little to interfere with deliberate reflection.

What demon had possessed the Fates that they should have brought this lot upon her? It could not be the destiny which had been marked out for her from the first. That had been a different one, she was sure. Her instinct had whispered peace and success to her. Such were the blessings which should have been unravelled for her from off the twirling spindle; but some malignant spirit must have substituted another person's deserved condemnation in place of her more kindly lot.

That she had failed in attaining the grand end of her desires was not, of itself, the utmost of her misfortune. She had aimed high, because it was as easy to do that as to accept a lower object of ambition. She had taken her course, believing that all things are possible to the energetic and daring, but, at the same time, fully realizing the chances of failure. But to fail had simply seemed to her to remain where she was, instead of ascending higher—to miss becoming the wife of the imperator, but to continue, as before, the main guide and direction of his thoughts, impulses, and affections.

And now, without previous token or warning, had come upon her the terrible realization that she had not only gained nothing, but had lost all, and that the fatal chance which had fettered her schemes, had also led to her further degradation. Thrown aside like a broken toy-with a jeering confession that she had wearied her possessor—with a cool, heartless criticism upon her character, and with cruel prophecies about her future—gambled for with one whose sight filled her with abhorrence—and, when won, made over to him as a bone is tossed to a dog—what more bitterness could be heaped upon her?

But there was now no use in mourning about the past. What had been done could not be altered. Nor could she disguise from herself the impossibility of ever regaining her former position and influence. Those had passed away forever. She must now look to the future alone, and endeavor so to shape its course as to afford herself some relief from its terrors. Possibly there might yet be found a way of escape.

Should she try to fly? That, she knew, could not be done—at least, alone. The world was wide, but the arm of the imperial police was long; and though she might, for a little while, wander purposelessly hither and thither, yet before many hours the well-directed efforts of a pursuer would be sure to arrest her. She could die—for in every place death is within reach of the resolute; but she did not wish to die. For one instant, indeed, she thought of the Tiber, and the peace which might be found beneath its flow—but only for an instant. And she almost thanked the gods in her heart that it had not yet gone so far with her as that.

Burying her face in her hands, she sat for a moment, endeavoring to abstract her thoughts from all outward objects, so as the more readily to determine what course to adopt. But for a while it seemed as though it was impossible for her to fix her mind aright. Each instant some intruding trifle interfered to distract her attention from the only great object which now should claim it. A long-forgotten incident of the past would come into her mind—or perhaps some queer conceit which at the time had caused laughter. She did not laugh now, but none the less would she find herself revolving the merits of the speech or action. Then, the soft fall of the water into the fountain basin annoyed her, and it occurred to her that it might be this—which prevented undivided reflection. Stooping over, therefore, and feeling along the edge of the basin, she found the vent of the pipes, and stopped the flow. At once the light stream began to diminish and die away, until in a moment the water was at rest, except for the few laggard drops which one by one rolled off the polished shoulders of the bronze figures. These gradually all trickled down, and then it seemed as though at last there must be silence. But the murmur of the evening breeze among the trees intervened; and, far more exasperating than all, she could now hear the bursts of merriment which rang out from the banqueting room overhead. Therefore, once more putting her hand into the basin, she turned on the flow, and the gentle stream again sprang from the outstretched cup and fell down, deadening all lesser sounds.

Then Leta looked up at the sky, overspread with its thick pall of clouds, and wondered vacantly whether there would be rain upon the morrow, and if so, whether the games appointed for the new amphitheatre would take place. But she recovered herself with a start, and again buried her face in her hands. What were games and combats of that kind to her? She was to enter upon a different kind of struggle. She must reflect—reflect!—and when she had reflected, must act!

For ten minutes she thus remained; and now, indeed, seemed to have gained the required concentration of thought. No outward sound disturbed her. Once a Nubian slave, who had heard the stoppage of the fountain's flow, emerged from beneath an archway, as though to examine into the difficulty. Finding that the water was still playing as usual, he imagined that he must have been mistaken, gave utterance to an oath in condemnation of his own stupidity, slowly walked around the basin, looked inquiringly at Leta, and, for the moment, made as though he would have accosted her—and then, changing his mind, withdrew and walked back silently into the house. Still she did not move.

At length, however, she raised her head and stood upright. Her eyes now shone with deep intensity of purpose, and her lips were firmly set. Something akin to a smile flickered around the corners of her mouth, betraying not pleasure, but satisfaction. She had evidently reflected to some purpose, and now the trial for action had arrived.

'Strange that I should not have thought of it before,' she murmured to herself. Then stepping under the archway which led from the courtyard into the palace, she reached up against the wall and took down two keys which hung there. Holding them tightly, so that they might not clink together, she glided along, past the fountain—through the clump of plane trees—keeping as much as possible in the deeper shadows of arch and shrubbery—and so on along the whole length of the court, until she stood by the range of lower erections which bounded its farther extremity. Then, fitting one of the keys into an iron door, she softly unlocked it.

Entering, she stood within a low stone cell. It was the prison house of the palace, used for the reception of new slaves, and for the punishment of such others as gave offence. It was a long, narrow apartment, paved with stone and lighted by a single grated aperture set high in the wall upon the courtyard side. The place was of sufficient dimensions to hold fifty or sixty persons, but, in the present case, there was but one tenant—Cleotos–Not even a guard was with him, for the strength of the walls and the locks were considered amply sufficient to prevent escape.

Cleotos was sitting upon a stone bench, resting his head upon his right hand. At the opening of the door he looked up. He could not see who it was that entered, but the light tread and the faint rustle of a waving dress sufficiently indicated the sex. If it had been daylight, a flush might have been seen upon his face, for the thought flashed upon his mind that it might be Ænone herself coming to his assistance. But the first word undeceived him; and he let his head once more fall between the palms of his hands.

'Cleotos,' whispered Leta, 'it is I. I have come to set you free.'

'It is right,' he said, moodily. 'All this I owe to you alone. It is fit that you should try to undo your work.'

'Could I foresee that it would come to this?' she responded, attempting justification. 'How was I to know that my trivial transgression would have ended so sorrowfully for you? But all that is easily mended. You have money, and a token which will identify you to the proper parties. There is yet time to reach Ostia before that ship can sail.'

'How knew you that I had gold—or this signet ring; or that there was a ship to sail from Ostia?' he exclaimed with sudden fierceness. 'You, then, had been listening at the door! And having listened, you must have known with what innocence we spoke together! And yet, seeing all this, you called him to the spot and left him to let his eyes be deceived and his heart filled with bitter jealousy, and have played upon his passion by wicked misrepresentation, until you have succeeded in bringing ruin upon all about you! I see it all now, as clearly as though it were written upon a parchment rolled out before me! To think that the gods have beheld you doing this thing, and yet have not stricken you dead!'

'I have sinned,' she murmured, seizing his hand and bending over, so that a ready tear rolled down upon it. He felt it fall, but moved not. Only a few days before, her tears would have moved him; but now his heart was hardened against her. He had found out that her nature was cruel and not easily moral to repentance, and that, if emotion was ever suffered to overcome her, it was tolerated solely for some crafty design. The falling tear, therefore, simply bade him be upon his guard against deceit, lest once again she might succeed in weaving her wiles about him. Or, if she really wept with repentance, he knew that it was not repentance for the sin itself, but rather for some baffled purpose.

'Go on,' he simply said.

'I have sinned,' she repeated, still clinging to his hands. 'But, O Cleotos! when I offer to undo my work and set you free, you will surely forgive me?'

'Yes, it is right that you should repair the mischief you have caused,' he repeated; 'and I will avail myself of it. To-night, since you offer to set me free, and claim that you have the power to do so—to-night for Ostia; and then, then away forever from this ruthless land! But stay! What of our mistress? I will not go hence until I know that she is safe and well.'

'She is well,' responded Leta, fearful lest the truth might throw a new obstacle before her plans. 'And all is again right between her lord and herself, for I have assured him of her innocence.'

'Then, since this is so, there is no motive for me to tarry,' he said. He believed her, and was satisfied; not that he esteemed her worthy of belief, but because it did not seem to him possible that such a matter as a grateful kiss upon a protecting hand could require much explanation. 'I would like well once more to see her and bid her farewell, and utter my thanks for all her kindness; but to what purpose? I have done that already, and could do and say no more than I have already done and said. There remains, therefore, nothing more than to fulfil her commands, and return to my native home. But tell her, Leta, that my last thought was for her, and that her memory will ever live in my heart.'

'I cannot tell her this,' slowly murmured Leta, 'for I shall not see her again. I—I go with you.'

Cleotos listened for a moment in perplexed wonderment, and then, for his sole answer, dropped her hand and turned away. She understood him as well as though he had spoken the words of refusal.

'You will not take me with you, then; is it not so?' she said. 'Some nice point of pride, or some feeling of fancied wrong, or craving for revenge, or, perhaps, love for another person, tells you now to separate yourself from me! And yet you loved me once. This, then, is man's promised faith!'

'You dare to talk to me of faith and broken vows!' he exclaimed, after a moment of speechless amazement at her hardiness in advancing such a plea. 'You, who for weeks have treated me with scorn and indifference—who have plotted against me, until my life itself has been brought into danger—who, apart from all that, cast me off when first we met in Rome, telling me then that I was and could be nothing to you, yes, even that our association from the first had been a mistake and a wrong! Yes, Leta, there was a time when I truly loved you, as man had never then done, or since, or ever will again; but impute not to me the blame that I cannot do so now.'

'I was to blame,' she said; and it seemed that this night must be a night of confession for her, in so few things could she justify herself by denial or argument. 'I acknowledge my fault, and how my heart has been drawn from you by some delusion, as powerful and resistless as though the result of magic. But when I confess it freely, and tell you how I now see my duty and my heart more clearly, as though a veil of after all, I find no forgiveness in your heart, said I not truly that man's faith cannot be trusted? Am I not the same Leta as of old?'

'The same as of old?' he exclaimed. 'Can you look earnestly and truthfully into your soul, and yet avow that you are the pure-hearted girl who roamed hand in hand with me only a year ago, in our native isle, content to have no ambition except that of living a humble life with me? And now, with your simple tastes and desires swept away—with your soul covered with love of material pleasures as with a lava crust—wrapt up in longing for Rome's most sinful, artificial excesses—having, for gold or position or power or ambition, or what not, so long as it was not for love, given yourself up a willing victim to a heartless master—do you dare, after this, to talk to me of love, and call yourself the same?'

'And are you one of those who believe that there can be no forgiveness for repentant woman?'

'Of forgiveness, all that can be desired; but of forgetfulness, none. There is one thing that no man can forget; and were I to repulse the admonitions of my judgment, and strive to pass that thing by, who would sooner scorn me than yourself? Let all this end. Know that I love you not, and could never love you again. Your scorn, indifference, and deceit have long ago crushed from my heart all the love it once held. Know further, that if I did still love you, my pride would condemn the feeling, and I would never rest until I had destroyed it, even were it necessary to destroy myself rather than to yield.'

'These are brave words, indeed!' she exclaimed, taunted by his rebuke into a departure from her assumption of affection. 'But they better suit the freeman upon his own mountain side than the slave in his cell. Samos is still afar off. The road from here to Ostia has not yet been traversed by you in safety. Even this door between you and the open street has not been thrown back. And yet you dare to taunt me, knowing that I hold in my hand the key, and, by withdrawing it, can take away all hope from you. Do you realize what will be your fate if you remain here—how that on the morrow the lions and leopards of the amphitheatre will quarrel over your scattered limbs?'

'Is this a threat?' he cried. 'Is it to tell me that if I do not give my love where my honor tells me it should not be given, I must surely die! So, then, let it be. I accept the doom. One year ago, I would have cheerfully fought in the arena for your faintest smile. Now I would rather die there than have your sullied love forced upon me.'

Without another word he sat down again upon the stone bench. Even in that darkness she could note how resolute was his expression, how firm and unyielding his attitude. She had roused his nature, as she had never seen it before. She had not believed that a spirit which she had been accustomed to look upon as so much inferior in strength to her own, could show such unflinching determination; and for the moment she stood admiring him, and wondering whether, if he had always acted like that, he might not have bound her soul to his own and kept her to himself through all temptation and trial. Then, taking the other key, she unlocked the door in the rear wall of the cell, and threw it open. The narrow street behind the court was before him, and he was free to go.

'I meant it not for a threat,' she said. 'However low I may sink, I have not yet reached the pass of wishing to purchase or beg for affection. Why I spoke thus, I know not. It may be that I thought some gratitude might be due me for rescuing you. But I cannot tell what I, thought. Or it might have been that words were necessary for me, and that I used the first that came. But let that pass. Know only that your safety lies before you, and that it is in your power to grasp it. And now, farewell. You leave me drifting upon a downward course, Cleotos. Sometimes, perhaps, when another person is at your side, making your life far happier than I could have made it, you will think kindly of me.'

'I think kindly of you now, Leta,' he said. 'Whatever love I can give, apart from the love which I once asked you to accept, is yours. In everything that brotherly affection can bestow, there will be no limit to my care and interest for you. Nay, more, you shall now go away from hence with me; and though I cannot promise more than a brother's love, yet with that for your guide and protection, you can reach your native home in peace and security, and there work out whatever repentance you may have here begun.'

'And when we are there, and those who have known us begin to ask why, when Cleotos has brought Leta back in safety, he regards her only as a sister and a friend, and otherwise remains sternly apart from her, what answer can be given which will not raise suspicion and scorn, and make my life a burden to me? No, Cleotos, it cannot be. Cruel as my lot may be here, I have only myself to answer for it, and it is easier to hide myself from notice in this whirl of sin and passion than if at home again. And whatever may henceforth happen to me, the Fates are surely most to blame. How can one avoid his destiny?'

'The Fates do not carve out our destiny,' he said. 'They simply carry into relentless effect the judgments which our own passions and weaknesses pronounced upon ourselves. O Leta! have you considered what you are resolved upon encountering? Do you not know that some day this master of yours will tire of you, and fling you to some friend of his—a soldier, actor, or what not—that as the years run on and your beauty fades, you will fall lower and lower? Have not thousands like yourself thus gone on, until at last, becoming old and worthless, they are left to die alone upon some island in the Tiber? Pray that you may die a better death than that!'

'It is a sad picture,' she answered. 'It is not merely possible, but also probable. I acknowledge it all. And yet, if I saw it all unrolled before me as my certain doom, I do not know that I would try to shun it. Already the glitter of this world has changed my soul from what it was, and I am now too feeble of purpose to spend long years in retrieving the errors of the past. There came into my heart a thought—a selfish thought—that you might forget what has gone before; and then it seemed that I might succeed in winning back my peace, and so shun the fate which lies before me. But you cannot forget. I blame you not: you are right. You have never spoken more truly than when you said that I would have despised you if you had yielded. Therefore, that hope is gone; and now I must submit to the destiny which is coming upon me.'

'But, Leta, only strive to think that—'

'Nay, what is the use? Rather let me throw all regrets away, and strive not to think at all. Why not yield with a pleasant grace to the current, when we know that, in the end, struggle as we may, it will surely sweep us under?'

'Leta—dear Leta—'

'Not a word, dear Cleotos; it must not be. From this hour I banish all human affections from my heart, as I banish all hope. Could you remain here, you would see how relentless and fierce my nature will grow. Plots and schemes shall now be my amusement; for if I must be destroyed, others shall fall with me. This must be the last tender impulse of my life. I know not why it is, but I could now really weep. Cleotos, forgive me! I came hither, loving you not, but hoping to beguile you into receiving me again. I have failed, and I ought to hate you for it; and yet I almost love you instead. It is strange, is it not?

'But, Leta—'

'How my heart now feels soft and tender with our recollections of other days! Do you remember, Cleotos, how once, when children, we went together and stole the grapes from Eminides's vine? And how, when he would have beaten you, I stood before you, and prevented him? Who would then have thought that, in a few years, we should be here in Rome—slaves, and parting forever? We shall never again together see Eminides's vineyard, shall we?'

'O Leta—my sister—'

'There, there; speak not, but go at once, for some one comes near. Tarry no longer. If at home they ask after me, tell them I am dead. Farewell, dear Cleotos. Kiss me good-by. Do not grudge me that, at least. And may the gods bless you!'

He would still have spoken, would have claimed a minute to plead with her and try to induce her to leave the path she was pursuing, and go with him. But at that instant the voice of some one approaching sounded louder, and the tones of Sergias could be distinguished as he tried to troll forth the catch of a drinking melody. There was no time to lose. With a farewell pressure of her arm about Cleotos's neck, Leta pushed him through the aperture into the dark back street; and then, leaving the keys in the locks, turned back into the garden, and fled toward the house.