have been deemed incommensurate with the relative stations of himself and his visitor.
Although his tone was quiet and free from anger or emotion of any kind, there was an unusual quality in it which seemed to strike the girl not the less acutely, for she hid her pale face in her hands.
‘Yes, Masthlion, even I!’ returned the Pretorian, stepping forward and offering his hand.
Masthlion met the open, frank gaze of the young officer for a moment; then, as if not noticing the proffered greeting, he dropped his eyes to the floor and remained for a few seconds in deep thought. Then raising his head he said —
‘Centurion, I should be grieved to say that you are unwelcome, yet, I say plainly, that the honour of your visit is not altogether free from that feeling. Not from personal dislike, I am bound to say. I will be frank with you. I am a poor fellow, who earns a modest living for my family by the hard labour of my hands. You are of the knightly order, and hold high office in Caesar’s service. You are wholly above the station of me and mine. As you do not honour my humble dwelling for the sake of buying my handiwork in the way of trade, I have, therefore, a right to reflect and inquire what object your presence has.’
‘You have a perfect right, Masthlion,’ replied the other, ‘and, although you know, as I think, right well already, I commend your method of putting the matter thus plainly. I have as little inclination to allow any misunderstanding and ambiguity to creep about my actions as you have, and I will, therefore, give you freely, and without hesitation, an answer as clear as your question – I love your daughter Neæra!’
The potter nodded in a manner which showed that the reply was no other than expected. His glance roved from one to the other, whilst his daughter’s head drooped so low that her face was completely hidden.
‘It is a matter which demands further talk, and, as there is no reason why it should take place in the sight of neighbours and passers-by, perhaps you will enter my poor house, Centurion.’
‘Willingly – I desire nothing better,’ was the reply.
Masthlion, heaving a deep sigh, took his daughter by the hand and led the way along the inner passage. Martialis followed them into a small room, furnished simply with a table, some stools, and a couch; whilst, for ornament, some brackets and shelves bore a few exquisitely-finished specimens of glasswork, together with some small figures sculptured in stone, the fruits of the potter’s self-taught genius. From the door Masthlion called aloud for his wife, and she hastily appeared. She was a spare woman, with patient eyes. Her face had been comely, but was worn and faded with the hardship and anxiety of a long struggle against hunger and want in their early wedded life.
A significant glance passed between her and her husband as she perceived what had occasioned the demand for her presence.
She made a silent obeisance to the visitor, and waited for her husband to speak.
As for Neæra, she stood with her head still bowed on her breast.
Her lover’s tall, erect form, draped in its ample flowing cloak, seemed to fill the little room. His eyes rested with calm confidence on Masthlion, who began in grave measured tones: —
‘Wife, the Centurion Martialis hath told me that he loves our daughter.’ Here he paused a few moments, looking on the floor. ‘What we should tell him is this, that she is our only child, the one light of our house. But had we twenty, we must be assured, as far as possible, of good and honourable keeping ere we let one go from our roof. You understand this, Centurion?’
‘Perfectly; it is only natural and proper. Do what you think best for your assurance.’
‘First, then! is it from mere fancy that you would try to take my daughter away, and then to cast her off when that fancy has burnt itself out, after the fashion of many of your order?’
‘No,’ said the young man, drawing himself up with sparkling eyes; ‘I told you I loved her – now I tell you she must be my wife, or none other.’
‘And are you sure you would always rest in the same mind as now?’
‘Ah, as far as human thought and perception can go, I have no doubt of it,’ returned Martialis proudly.
Masthlion shook his head and sighed; and his wife, from long habit of waiting on his looks, unconsciously did the same, though without offering any remark of her own.
‘It is ever the way with the young – eager and heedless!’ said the potter. ‘Centurion, as an older man, and one who has not lived in the world with blind eyes, I must tell you that I disagree with you. You are attracted by the child’s fair looks, and you know not, or forget, that familiarity will weaken their influence over your senses. The gods made women fair to please the hearts of men; but, did they bestow upon them no other qualities, they would become nothing more than mere toys to be bandied about at will. Looks attract first; but it is the disposition, and the accomplishments of the mind, which are necessary to weave a lasting bond of esteem and love. Where, within these humble walls, has this poor child learnt those manners and graces which, from habit, you require, before all, in a companion? Where could she have gathered the refinements which would be necessary to the wife of one of your station? Could you present her to your fine friends and family? She would shame you at every turn – at every word. The first blush of your fancy would wear off. You would grow angry and disgusted. You would repent of your bargain, and the rest would be nothing but bitterness, reproaches, and unhappiness – if not worse. This is a picture more to be depended on than yours, Centurion. Go, therefore, and if you think over it, as you ought to do, without allowing your feelings to bias your reflections, you will see that I am right, and you will come no more. Thus there will be one rash, ill-advised affair the less in the world.’
‘Masthlion, your daughter has already told me this,’ answered the Centurion, with a smile.
‘Did she so?’ cried the potter, casting a look of pride and satisfaction at the girl. ‘Then she did wisely and obediently – and bravely too, if I guess aright. Alas! your proudest dames could have done no better. Come and kiss me, my brave girl!’
Neæra glided to him, and hid her face in his shoulder.
Martialis folded his arms and watched them. The potter had unconsciously dealt a deathblow to his own cause, if it needed one at all. Their eyes met at that moment. The acute perception, or instinct, of the artisan interpreted too well the calm, resolute light of the young man’s glance, so warm with the picture of the fair girl before him, and he groaned inwardly as he restlessly stroked his daughter’s glossy locks. He knew not what to say, so heavily did the sense of his helplessness press upon him.
‘It is a year since I stopped one day at the old fountain-basin yonder,’ said Martialis, stretching out his arm. ‘I had ridden far and was thirsty, and Neæra was filling her pitcher. It was thus I met her first. I went on my way, but her image haunted my mind. I sought her again, and discovered that her looks did not belie her heart. I have chosen her to fill my mind, even as you would have me choose; not from a light fancy of the eyes alone, but because I know she is pure, noble, and good in spirit. As for the rest, you may magnify, from ignorance, my position and importance. Neæra is naturally predisposed toward those trifling changes which you deem necessary, and she would glide into them instinctively and unconsciously. Masthlion, these arguments will be vain, so use them not. I ask you to give me your daughter Neæra, in betrothal.’
The potter did not reply straightway, but, smoothing the trembling girl’s head ceaselessly with his hand, he stood with his brow contracted in painful thought, and his eyes bent on the ground.
‘In good faith, Centurion,’ he said, after an uneasy silence, ‘you rend my heart between doubt and anxiety, and a desire to act generously as well as prudently. Can I deliver up my child to a stranger? Were you of this district I could judge better of you. You are honest and fair-spoken, and your looks correspond to your speech. But yet you are no more than a stranger, and Surrentum knows you not.’
‘I would fetch Rome, if I could, to aid you,’ said the young man. ‘You are pleased to be satisfied with my appearance; I, for my part, will await your further inquiries with confidence.’
‘I