Eight days had gone by since the events related in the last chapter. A chill cloud hung over the house of Claudia, the sources of life seemed ice-bound. All intercourse with the outer world was restricted to what was absolutely necessary; the inhabitants crept and glided about like speechless ghosts. Titus Claudius fulfilled the duties of his office with stern regularity, but without unction, dully and mechanically. His son’s name never passed his lips, and yet every one felt that one hideous thought was ever present to his mind. It was the same with the two girls. All brightness, all youth It was still early, but two hours after sunrise, and Octavia was sitting in silent abstraction with her two daughters, in the snug little room where—so short a time since—Caius Aurelius had read to them the Thebais of Statius. Cornelia, too, was with them; she was sitting pale and listless near the door, and listening for a step in the hall. She was waiting till the high-priest should come in from attending Caesar’s levÉe and presenting a petition to him. Since the day when Quintus had been taken back to the Tullianum, Cornelia had never ceased to implore to be admitted to the dungeon, where she thought she could bend her lover’s obduracy; for she was convinced that nothing but a proud spirit of defiance had prompted his retractation at the last moment. “You do not know how to coax and entreat him,” she had said to the high-priest. “Your very requests sound like commands, and leave a sting in his wounded pride. But I am a woman, his betrothed; I love him, and I will implore him! His heart will soften, as soon as he hears my voice.” She had thus persuaded Titus Claudius, who, though he felt that Cornelia did not fully understand his son’s character, thought he ought not to neglect this last possibility. But unluckily he met with unexpected hindrances. The governor of the prison, supported by higher authority, positively refused her admission, and Titus Claudius applied to the city-prefect, but a long discussion only led to the same result. Some one, it was evident, must have an interest in the complete isolation of the illustrious prisoner, and that some one must be of exalted rank. A visit to Clodianus was equally unsuccessful. Indeed, the adjutant displayed a rough and uncompromising severity, which was startling in a man who was not wont to deal thus with persons of position and influence, and the Flamen quitted him in high wrath. The meeting seemed to have resulted in a lasting coolness, not to say hostility, between the two officials. But this step, too, on the adjutant’s part was the result of calculation. If Caesar should hear of the matter—and he was certain to hear of it, for there were witnesses present—he could no longer doubt the devotion of his faithful Clodianus. He, at least, was a true and trustworthy servant, who would rather make an enemy of the powerful high-priest, than abridge by one iota the laws and interests of the State, which in the present instance were so surprisingly identical with the private interests of Caesar himself. On leaving Clodianus, Titus Claudius betook himself to the chamberlain Parthenius. Still the same refusal, though wrapped here in the utmost politeness and reverence—but it could not be, it was simply impossible. If in anything else Parthenius could oblige his illustrious friend, he would devote himself to the cause with all the indefatigable zeal he had before now displayed in the service of a man so highly venerated, world-renowned and distinguished. The family, and particularly Cornelia, awaited his return with eager anxiety, and at every step on the pavement the excited girl started and shivered. Her hands clutched the arms of her seat; her breath came quickly, and her face was as white as marble. If this last chance failed! Alas, and Cornelia had only too much reason to regard failure as certain! Domitian, that incarnation of hatred and revenge—it was too much to hope for! Domitian, whom she had scorned and humiliated, as a queen might treat a slave—was it likely that he would allow her to save the man she loved? And yet, if anyone could wring this permission from the tyrant by the mere weight of personal influence, it was the Flamen. The minutes went by—a quarter of an hour—half an hour. Hardly a word was spoken. Claudia held a book and tried to read, but could not get beyond the first three lines. Lucilia sat gazing at the floor and gave herself up to sad fancies; that delightful day at Ostia now and then rose before her memory—what a difference the little time that since elapsed had wrought in three happy young creatures! Cornelia’s lover in a dungeon, Claudia’s under sentence as a traitor, self-banished and far away, never to return perhaps—while she, Lucilia—she, to be sure, had no lover, no friend, no one to care for her—but she felt for all that concerned Cornelia and Claudia, and she herself had been happy too in that peaceful country home, oh so happy! That Lucilia was wiping away a tear, that had fallen unbidden down her own cheek when, with a loud cry, she started from her seat. There in the door-way stood, in the flesh, the very subject of her compassion. Fabulla, announced by Baucis, had come in, and, with a thousand assurances of her dutiful respect, begged to be forgiven her venturing to intrude her presence on the illustrious family of the high-priest. But for ten days she had had no news of her son, her letters had remained unanswered; a messenger she had sent to his residence had found the house locked up. So, in her despair, she had come herself to Rome, and as she did not know another living soul in the city, she had thought of the noble young men and ladies, who had done her the honor of visiting her at Ostia. While she was thus explaining herself in spasmodic haste, Lucilia had rushed to meet her, had affectionately taken her hand and made her welcome; and Octavia bowed politely and begged her to be seated, for she must be tired. Claudia, however, and Cornelia particularly, seemed too much absorbed in their own thoughts to take much notice of the new arrival. This Lucilia remarked, and as Titus Claudius might now be expected at Titus Claudius came into the room with the most perfect calmness; a faint tinge of color alone betrayed, that he had gone through some severe trial to nerves and temper. “There is nothing now to prevent your visit to the prison,” he said gently; but then he sat down, and, in a hoarse voice, asked for a draught of water. “Is it possible?” said Cornelia, rushing up to him. “I may see him? You have settled it?” Titus Claudius signed to her to have patience; a slave brought him the water, and he drank it in a long, deep gulp. “It was a hard matter,” he said, seeing they all were eagerly awaiting his words; “Caesar was not at all like himself. He received me coolly, almost repellently.” “You,” cried Octavia, starting up, “his most faithful adherent?” “He fancied I was about to ask some favor for the imprisoned Nazarene.—And, in that case, Octavia, he would have had a right to be angry with me, for my petition would have imperilled the State. Laws are not made, to be evaded at the first case that occurs. That Caesar should have so misunderstood me.—It makes my face burn with shame and indignation only to think of it! I explained to him, perhaps in too strong terms, that he was mistaken. What Titus Clau “Your firmness and dignity were too much for him,” said Octavia, with a sigh of relief. “And when—when?” asked Cornelia. “As soon as you like. Two of my slaves will accompany you. This snake-ring, with my signet, will be your token.” He drew off a ring, broken in its continuity as the law prescribed, and gave it to the girl, who was trembling with joy. “Not an instant will I lose,” she cried excitedly. “You will see, his pride will melt like the snow on Soracte when spring returns.” She hurried out into the atrium in front of the slaves, and got into her litter. The governor of the prison had been duly warned; he came himself to the gate, and received the visitor with the politeness which seemed due to her misfortunes, her dignified demeanor, and her beauty, even The door turned heavily on its hinges, and with a half-suppressed cry of rapture and sorrow, Quintus and Cornelia were in each other’s arms. Pain and love, despair and hope, broke in that cry from their trembling hearts. After the first storm of feeling had subsided, Cornelia took her lover’s hand, and looked up to him like a child beseeching a favor. “Quintus,” she began tenderly, “how cruel you have grown. Do men then understand the meaning of no other word than Pride? Must everything be sacrificed to that idol—even all that is sweetest and most sacred? Your father—but why should I speak of others, when no one can suffer so much as I do! Woe, woe, and three times woe on the pride of your house! Accident threw you in the way of these Nazarenes, and so you have pledged yourself to defend their cause, even unto death, as if it were your own!” “It is mine,” said Quintus, sadly looking at the ground. “Oh yes! you will say so. A Claudius is not to be frightened into yielding! That is grand, magnanimous!—But what threats cannot do, love may. Quintus, only reflect, only think; try to comprehend all that your refusal involves. You are the son of a family whose hap “As the only truth, that is known to man.” “What? Is it you, my own Quintus—proud, wise, high-spirited—who say this? Have you waited for me to tell you, that all belief in the gods, be their names what they may, is as hollow as a gilded nut which a child or a fool takes for gold...?” “Belief in the gods—yes, Cornelia; but not belief in God. One word may have many and various meanings. The gods—is the name the people give to those idols of the imagination, to which they attribute human passions and weaknesses. Dionysus is a god—and Silenus![99] But what we call God, dear Cornelia, has nothing in common with those empty mockeries. Our “Death!” cried Cornelia in despair. “Quintus—my darling; Death! But the light of heaven and the flowers of Spring, and all that is lovely in us and around us bid us live. If you, my dearest, believe what I can never, never again believe: that higher powers rule our existence, well and good; indulge and cherish the consoling thought; nurse it as a gardener nurses his flowers; but what can compel you to confess the secret to all the world? What can drag you so irresistibly to cast in your lot with that abominable sect, of whom the very best is not worthy to kiss the dust from off your feet?” “The Master’s will. Those who have known salvation, find their highest and sublimest duty in laboring together in the great work of redemption. Without knowing it themselves, suffering hearts are striving and groaning towards that light, which they now think so dim and contemptible. You have lost your faith in a divinity, because the form of your belief was false and hollow. Until you have got past this condition of negative and comfortless mistrust, you will never be able to understand me. I shall not even attempt to make it clear to you, and will say only one thing: In spite of all my love for you and my family—a love beyond words—in spite of the youthful blood that dances in “Quintus a Christian! Turning from Cornelia, to bleed in an arena with slaves and workmen out of the Subura! And we had so fondly, so confidently dreamed of a happy future! An empty, worthless formula is dearer to him, than my spoilt and ruined life!” “A formula! Ah! if it were only that. There is no humiliation I would not submit to for your sake.” Cornelia sat closer to him and threw her arms round him. “Quintus!” she cried, bursting into tears. “Do not refuse my entreaties. See with what bitter tears I implore you for mercy. I will be your slave, I will worship you all my life. Only have pity on my wretchedness! Speak the word, oh Quintus, say I may hope!” “Cornelia, you break my heart—but I cannot; God help me, but I cannot!” Cornelia stood up. “Very well,” she said coldly, “where you stay, I stay. We are pledged to each other, and I will keep my oath.” “What are you going to do?” “You will see—Oh! the chains of my love are not so easily shaken off.” She went to the door and knocked at it; the governor and the gaoler appeared at the summons. “You can keep me here,” she said; “I too am a Nazarene.” “She is raving!” said Quintus horrified. “She came to persuade me to renounce Christianity.” “Your eloquence has converted me,” she retorted scornfully. “Governor, do your duty. I confess myself The governor shook his head in bewilderment. “Follow me then,” he said doubtfully; “I will inform the city-prefect.” “Quintus—farewell!” cried Cornelia, with a triumphant glance at her lover. “Think better of it, Quintus! or else we meet again face to face with the beasts in the arena!” Quintus stood petrified. The door was shut, the bolts rattled—their steps died away—he was alone. |