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Veranilda

G >> George Gissing >> Veranilda




'I must speak with him,' said Basil. 'Leave me to find out the truth
for you. Send Sagaris here, Venantius, I entreat you.'

The captain appeared to hesitate, but, on Basil's beseeching him not
to delay, he agreed and left the room. As soon as he was alone,
Basil sprang up and dressed. He was aching from head to foot, and a
parched mouth, a hot hand, told of fever in his blood. On receipt of
Marcian's last letter, he had not delayed a day before setting
forth; all was in readiness for such a summons, and thirty
well-mounted, well-armed men, chosen from the slaves and freedmen on
his Asculan estate in Picenum, rode after him to join the King of
the Goths. The journey was rapidly performed; already they were
descending the lower slopes of the westward Apennine, when they had
the ill-luck to fall in with that same band of marauders which
Marcian so narrowly escaped. Basil's first thought was that the
mounted troop coming towards him might hem the Gothic service, but
this hope was soon dispelled. Advancing with fierce threats, the
robbers commanded him and his men to alight, their chief desire
being no doubt to seize the horses and arms. Though outnumbered,
Basil shouted defiance; a conflict began, and so stout was the
resistance they met that, after several had fallen on either side,
the brigands drew off. Not, however, in final retreat; galloping on
in hope of succour, Basil found himself pursued, again lost two or
three men, and only with the utmost difficulty got clear away.

It was the young Roman's first experience of combat. For this he had
been preparing himself during the past months, exercising his body
and striving to invigorate his mind, little apt for warlike
enterprise. When the trial came, his courage did not fail, but the
violent emotions of that day left him so exhausted, so shaken in
nerve, that he could scarce continue his journey. He had come out of
the fight unwounded, but at nightfall fever fell upon him, and he
found no rest. The loss of some half dozen men grieved him to the
heart; had the brave fellows fallen in battle with the Greeks, he
would have thought less of it; to see them slain, or captured, by
mere brigands was more than he could bear. When at length he reached
Aesernia, and there unexpectedly met with Venantius, he fell from
his horse like a dying man. A draught given by the physician sent
him to sleep, and from the second hour after sunset until nearly
noon of to-day he had lain unconscious.

What he now learnt from Venantius swept into oblivion all that he
had undergone. If it were true that Marcian had travelled in this
direction with a lady under his guard, Basil could not doubt for a
moment who that lady was. The jest of Venantius did not touch him,
for Venantius spoke, it was evident, without a thought of Veranilda,
perhaps had forgotten her existence; not the faintest tremor of
uneasiness stirred in Basil's mind when he imagined Veranilda at his
friend's house; Marcian had discovered her, had rescued her, had
brought her thither to rest in safety till her lover could join
them--brave Marcian, truest of friends! For this had he sent the
summons southward, perhaps not daring to speak more plainly in a
letter, perhaps not being yet quite sure of success. This had he so
often promised--O gallant Marcian!

Quivering with eagerness, he stood at the door of his chamber.
Footsteps sounded; there appeared a slave of the house, and behind
him that dark, handsome visage which he was expecting.

'Sagaris! My good Sagaris!' he cried joyously.

The Syrian knelt before him and kissed his hand, but uttered no
word. At sight of Basil, for which he was not at all prepared,
Sagaris felt a happy shock; he now saw his way before him, and had
no more anxiety. But, on rising from the obeisance, he let his head
drop; his eyes wandered: one would have said that he shrank from
observation.

'Speak low,' said Basil, standing by the open door so as to guard
against eavesdropping. 'What message have you for me?'

Sagaris replied that he had none.

'None? Your lord charged you with nothing for me in case you should
meet me on your way?'

Again Sagaris murmured a negative, and this time with so manifest an
air of confusion that Basil stared at him, suspicious, angry.

'What do you mean? What are you keeping from me?'

The man appeared to stammer incoherencies.

'Listen,' said Basil in a low, friendly voice. 'You know very well
that the lord Marcian has no secrets from me. With me you can speak
in entire confidence. What has come to you, man? Tell me--did your
lord leave Rome before or after you?'

'At the same time.'

No sooner had this reply fallen from his lips than Sagaris seemed
stricken with alarm. He entreated pardon, declared he knew not what
he was saying, that he was dazed by the weariness of travel.

'I should have said--neither before nor after. My lord remains in
the city. I was to return with all speed.'

'He remains in the city?'

Basil reflected. It was possible that Marcian had either purposely
concealed his journey from this slave, and had suddenly found
himself able to set forth just after Sagaris had started.

'You bear a letter for the king?' he asked.

'A letter, Illustrious,' answered the slave, speaking very low.

'Ah, a letter?'

Sagaris went on to say that he had kept this a secret from
Venantius, his master having bidden him speak of it to no one and
deliver it into the king's own hand.

'It is in the Gothic tongue,' he added, his head bent, his look more
furtive than ever; 'and so urgent that I have scarce rested an hour
since leaving the villa.'

A terrible light flashed into Basil's eyes. Then he sprang at the
speaker, caught him by the throat, forced him to his knees.

'Scoundrel, you dare to lie to me! So you started from the villa and
not from Rome?'

Sagaris cried out for mercy, grovelled on the floor. He would tell
everything; but he implored Basil to keep the secret, for, did his
master learn what had happened, his punishment would be terrible.

'Fool!' cried Basil fiercely. 'How come you to have forgotten all at
once that I am your lord's chosen friend, and that everything
concerning him is safe with me. In very deed, I think you have
ridden too hard in the sun; your brains must have frizzled.
Blockhead! If in haste, the lord Marcian did not speak of me, he
took it for granted that, should you meet me--'

Something so like a malicious smile flitted over the slave's
countenance that in extremity of wrath he became mute.

'Your Nobility is deceived,' said Sagaris, in the same moment. 'My
lord expressly forbade me to tell you the truth, should I see you on
my journey.'

Basil stared at him.

'I swear by the holy Cross,' exclaimed the other, 'that this is
true. And if I did not dread your anger, I could tell you the
reason. I dare not. By all the saints I dare not!'

A strange quiet fell upon Basil. It seemed as if he would ask no
more questions; he half turned away, and stood musing. Indeed, it
was as though he had already heard all the slave had to tell, and so
overcome was he by the revelation that speech, even connected
thought, was at first impossible. As he recovered from the
stupefying blow, the blood began to boil in his veins. He felt as
when, in the fight of two days ago, he saw the first of his men
pierced by a javelin. Turning again to Sagaris, he plied him with
brief and rapid questions, till he had learnt every detail of
Marcian's journey from Rome to the villa. The Syrian spoke of the
veiled lady without hesitation as Veranilda, and pretended to have
known for some time that she was in a convent at Praeneste; but,
when interrogated as to her life at the villa, he affected an
affectation of doubt, murmuring that he had beheld nothing with his
own eyes, that perhaps the female slaves gossiped idly.

'What do they say?' asked Basil with unnatural self-control.

'They speak of her happy mien and gay talk, of her walking with my
lord in private. But I know nothing.'

Basil kept his eyes down for a long minute, then moved like one who
has taken a resolve.

'Show me the letter you bear,' he commanded.

Sagaris produced it, and having looked at the seal, Basil silently
handed it back again.

'Thrice noble,' pleaded the slave, 'you will not deliver me to my
lord's wrath?'

'Have no fear; unless in anything you have lied to me. Follow.'

They descended the stairs, and Basil had himself conducted to the
house where Venantius sate at dinner. He spoke with the captain in
private.

'This slave has a letter, not merely a message, for the king. He
says it is urgent, and so it may be; but, from what I have learnt I
doubt whether he is wholly to be trusted. Can you send some one with
him?'

'Nothing easier.'

'I,' continued Basil, 'ride straightway for Arpinum. Ask me no
questions, Venantius. When I return, if I do return, you shall know
what sent me there. I may be back speedily.'

He took food, and in an hour's time was ready to start. Of his
followers, he chose ten to accompany him. The rest remained at
Aesernia. Felix, worn out by watching and with a slight wound in the
side which began to be troublesome, he was reluctantly obliged to
leave. Having inquired as to the road over the mountains by which he
might reach Arpinum more quickly than by the Latin Way, he rode
forth from the town, and was soon spurring at headlong speed in a
cloud of dust.

His thoughts far outstripped him; he raged at the prospect of long
hours to elapse ere he could reach Marcian's villa. With good luck
he might arrive before nightfall. If disappointed in that, a whole
night must pass, an eternity of torment, before he came face to face
with him he had called his dearest friend, now his abhorred enemy.

What if he did not find him at the villa? Marcian had perhaps no
intention of remaining there. Perhaps he had already carried off his
victim to some other place.

Seeing their lord post so furiously, the men looked in wonder at
each other. Some of them were soon left far behind, and Basil,
though merciless in his frenzy, saw at length that his horse was
seriously distressed; he slackened pace, allowed his followers to
rejoin him, and rode, perforce, at what seemed to him a mere crawl.
The sun was a flaming furnace; the earth seemed to be overspread
with white fire-ash, which dazed the eyes and choked. But Basil felt
only the fire in his heart and brain. Forgetful of all about him, he
had not ridden more than a few miles, when he missed the road; his
men, ignorant of the country, followed him without hesitation, and
so it happened that, on stopping at one of the few farms on their
way, to ask how far it still was to Arpinum, he learnt that he must
ride back for nearly a couple of hours to regain the track he should
have taken. He broke into frantic rage, cursed the countrymen who
directed him, and as he spurred his beast, cursed it too because of
its stumbling at a stone.

There was now no hope of finishing the journey to-day. His head on
his breast, Basil rode more and more slowly. The sun declined, and
ere long it would be necessary to seek harbourage. But here among
the hills no place of human habitation came in view. Luckily for
themselves some of the horsemen had brought provender. Their lord
had given thought to no such thing. The sun set; the hills cast a
thickening shadow, even Basil began to gaze uneasily ahead. At
length there appeared a building, looking in the dusky distance like
a solitary country house. It proved to be the ruin of a temple.

'Here we must stop,' said Basil. 'My horse can go no further.
Indeed, the darkness would stay us in any case. We must shelter in
these walls.'

The men peered at each other, and a whisper went among them. For
their part, said one and all, they would rest under the open sky.
Basil understood.

'What! you are afraid? Fools, do as you will. These walls shall
shelter me though all the devils in hell were my bedfellows.'

What had come to him? asked his followers. Never had Basil been
known to speak thus. Spite of their horror of a forsaken temple, two
or three entered, and respectfully made offer of such food as they
had with them. Basil accepted a piece of bread, bade them see to his
horse, and crept into a corner of the building. He desired to be
alone and to think; for it seemed to him that he had not yet been
able to reflect upon the story told by Sagaris. What was it that
lurked there at the back of his mind? A memory, a suggestion of some
sort, which would have helped him to understand could he but grasp
it. As he munched his bread he tried desperately to think, to
remember; but all within him was a passionate misery, capable only
of groans and curses. An intolerable weariness possessed his limbs.
After sitting for a while with his back against the wall, he could
not longer hold himself in this position, but sank down and lay at
full length; and even so he ached, ached, from head to foot.

Perhaps an hour had passed, and it was now quite dark within the
temple, when two of the men appeared with blazing torches, for they,
by means of flint and iron, had lit a fire in a hollow hard by, and
meant to keep it up through the night as a protection against
wolves. They brought Basil a draught of water in a leather bottle,
from a little stream they had found; and he drank gratefully, but
without a word. The torchlight showed bare walls and a shattered
roof. Having searched all round and discovered neither reptile nor
beast, the men made a bed of leaves and bracken, with a folded cloak
for a pillow, and invited their master to lie upon it. Basil did so,
turned his face away, and bade them leave him alone.

What was that memory at the back of his mind? In the effort to draw
it forth he ground his teeth together, dug his nails into his hands.
At moments he forgot why he was wretched, and, starting up, strained
his eyes into the darkness, until he saw the face of Sagaris and
heard him speaking.

For a while he slept; but dreadful dreams soon awoke him, and,
remembering where he was, he shook with horror. Low sounds fell upon
his ear, movements, he thought, in the black night. He would have
shouted to his men, but shame kept him mute. He crossed himself and
prayed to the Virgin; then, raising his eyes, he saw through the
broken roof a space of sky in which a star shone brilliantly. It
brought him comfort; but the next moment he remembered Sagaris, and
mental anguish blended with his fears of the invisible.

Again sleep overcame him. He dreamt that an evil spirit, with a face
he knew but could not name, was pursuing him over trackless
mountains. He fled like the wind; but the spirit was close behind
him, and wherever he turned his head, he saw the familiar face
grinning a devilish mockery. A precipice lay before him. He leapt
wildly, and knew at once that he had leapt into fire, into hell. But
the red gleam was that of a torch, and before him, as he opened his
eyes, stood one of his faithful attendants who had come to see if
all was well with him. He asked for water, and the man fetched him a
draught. It was yet long till dawn.

Now he could not lie still, for fever burned him. Though awake, he
saw visions, and once sent forth what seemed to him a yell of
terror; but in truth it was only a moan, and no one heard. He
relived through the fight with the marauders; sickened with dread at
the gleam of weapons; flamed into fury, and shouted with savage
exultation as he felt his sword cut the neck of an enemy. He was
trying to think of Veranilda, but all through the night her image
eluded him, and her name left him cold. He was capable only of
hatred. At daybreak he slept heavily; the men, approaching him and
looking at his haggard face, thought better to let him rest, and
only after sunrise did he awake. He was angry that they had not
aroused him sooner, got speedily to horse, and rode off almost at
the same speed as yesterday. Now, at all events, he drew near to his
goal; for a ride of an hour or two he needed not to spare his beast;
sternly he called to his men to follow him close.

And all at once, as though his brain were restored by the freshness
of the morning, he grasped the thought which had eluded him.
Marcian's treachery was no new thing: twice he had been warned
against his seeming friend, by Petronilla and by Bessas, and in his
folly he had scorned the accusation which time had now so bitterly
justified. Forgotten, utterly forgotten, until this moment; yet how
blinded he must have been by his faith in Marcian's loyalty not to
have reflected upon many circumstances prompting suspicion. Marcian
had perhaps been false to him from the very day of Veranilda's
disappearance, and how far did his perfidy extend? Had he merely
known where she was concealed, or had he seen her, spoken with her,
wooed her all along? He had won her; so much was plain; and he could
scarce have done so during the brief journey to his villa. O
villainous Marcian! O fickle, wanton Veranilda!

So distinct before his fiery imagination shone the image of those
two laughing together, walking alone (as Sagaris had reported), that
all reasoning, such as a calmer man might have entertained, was
utterly forbidden. Not a doubt crossed his mind. And in his heart
was no desire but of vengeance.

At length he drew near to Arpinum. Avoiding the town, he questioned
a peasant at work in the fields, and learnt his way to the island.
Just as he came within view of the eastward waterfall, a girl was
crossing the bridge, away from the villa. Basil drew rein, bidding
his men do likewise, and let the girl, who had a bundle on her head,
draw near. At sight of the horsemen, of whom she was not aware till
close by them, the maid uttered a cry of alarm, and would have run
back but Basil intercepted her, jumped from his horse, and bade her
have no fear, as he only wished to ask a harmless question. Easily
he learnt that Marcian was at the villa, that he had arrived a few
days ago, and that with him had come a lady.

'What is that lady's name?' he inquired.

The girl did not know. Only one or two of the slaves, she said, had
seen her; she was said to be beautiful, with long yellow hair.

'She never goes out?' asked Basil.

The reply was that, only this morning, she had walked in the wood--
the wood just across the bridge--with Marcian.

Basil sprang on to his horse, beckoned his troop, and rode forward.





CHAPTER XXII

DOOM




When Marcian parted from Veranilda in the peristyle, and watched her
as she ascended to her chamber, he knew that sombre exultation which
follows upon triumph in evil. Hesitancies were now at end; no longer
could he be distracted between two desires. In his eye, as it
pursued the beauty for which he had damned himself, glowed the fire
of an unholy joy. Not without inner detriment had Marcian accustomed
himself for years to wear a double face; though his purpose had been
pure, the habit of assiduous perfidy, of elaborate falsehood, could
not leave his soul untainted. A traitor now for his own ends, he
found himself moving in no unfamiliar element, and, the irrevocable
words once uttered, he thrilled with defiance of rebuke. All the
persistency of the man centred itself upon the achievement of this
crime, to him a crime no longer from the instant that he had
irreversibly willed it.

On fire to his finger-tips, he could yet reason with the coldest
clarity of thought. Having betrayed his friend thus far, he must
needs betray him to the extremity of traitorhood; must stand face to
face with him in the presence of the noble Totila, and accuse him
even as he had done to Veranilda. Only thus, as things had come
about, could he assure himself against the fear that Totila, in
generosity, or policy, or both, might give the Amal-descended maid
to Basil. To defeat Basil's love was his prime end, jealousy being
more instant with him than fleshly impulse. Yet so strong had this
second motive now become, that he all but regretted his message to
the king: to hold Veranilda in his power, to gratify his passion
sooner or later, by this means or by that, he would perhaps have
risked all the danger to which such audacity exposed him. But
Marcian was not lust-bitten quite to madness. For the present,
enough to ruin the hopes of Basil. This done, the field for his own
attempt lay open. By skilful use of his advantages, he might bring
it to pass that Totila would grant him a supreme reward--the hand
of Veranilda.

Unless, indeed, the young king, young and warm-blooded however noble
of mind, should himself look upon Veranilda with a lover's eyes. It
was not the first time that Marcian had thought of this. It made him
wince. But he reminded himself that herein lay another safeguard
against the happiness of Basil, and so was able to disregard the
fear.

He would let his victim repose during the heat of the day, and then,
towards evening, would summon her to another interview. Not much
longer could he hope to be with her in privacy; to-morrow, or the
next day at latest, emissaries of the Gothic king would come in
response to his letter. But this evening he should speak with her,
gaze upon her, for a long, long hour. She was gentle, meek, pious;
in everything the exquisite antithesis of such a woman as Heliodora.
Out of very humility she allowed herself to believe that Basil had
ceased to love her. How persuade her, against the pure loyalty of
her heart, that he had even plotted her surrender to an unknown
fate? What proof of that could he devise? Did he succeed in
overcoming her doubts, would he not have gone far towards winning
her gratitude?

She would shed tears again; it gave him a nameless pleasure to see
Veranilda weep.

Thinking thus, he strayed aimlessly and unconsciously in courts and
corridors. Night would come again, and could he trust himself
through the long, still night after long speech with Veranilda? A
blacker thought than any he had yet nurtured began to stir in his
mind, raising its head like the viper of an hour ago. Were she but
his--his irredeemably? He tried to see beyond that, but his vision
blurred.

Her nature was gentle, timid; the kind of nature, he thought, which
subdues itself to the irreparable. So soft, so sweet, so utterly
woman, might she not, thinking herself abandoned by Basil, yield
heart and soul to a man whom she saw helpless to resist a passionate
love of her? Or, if this hope deceived him, was there no artifice
with which to cover his ill-doing, no piece of guile subtle enough
to cloak such daring infamy?

He was in the atrium, standing on the spot where first he had talked
with her. As then, he gazed at the bronze group of the candelabrum;
his eyes were fixed on those of Proserpine.

A slave entered and announced to him a visit from one of the priests
whom he was going to see when the meeting at the bridge changed his
purpose. The name startled him. Was this man sent by God? He bade
introduce the visitor, and in a moment there entered a
white-bearded, shoulder-bowed ecclesiastic, perspiring from the
sunshine, who greeted him with pleasant cordiality. This priest it
was--he bore the name Gaudiosus--who had baptized Marcian, and
had given him in childhood religious teaching; a good, but timid
man, at all times readier to praise than to reprove, a well-meaning
utterer of smooth things, closing his eyes to evil, which confused
rather than offended him. From the same newsbearer, who told him of
Marcian's arrival at the villa, Gaudiosus had heard of a mysterious
lady; but it was far from his thought to meddle with the morals of
one whose noble birth and hereditary position of patron inspired him
with respect; he came only to gossip about the affairs of the time.
They sat down together, Marcian glad of the distraction. But scarce
had they been talking for five minutes, when again the servant
presented himself.

'What now?' asked his master impatiently.

'My lord, at the gate is the lord Basil.'

Marcian started up.

'Basil? How equipped and attended?'

'Armed, on horseback, and with a number of armed horsemen.'

'Withdraw, and wait outside till I call you.'

Marcian turned to the presbyter. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes
strangely bright.

'Here,' he said, in low, hurried tones, 'comes an evil man, a
deep-dyed traitor, with the aspect of friendliest integrity. I am
glad you are with me. I have no leisure now to tell you the story;
you shall hear it afterwards. What I ask of you, reverend father, is
to bear me out in all I say, to corroborate, if asked to do so, all
I state to him. You may rely upon the truth of every word I shall
utter; and may be assured that, in doing this, you serve only the
cause of good. Let it not surprise you that I receive the man with
open arms. He was my dear friend; I have only of late discovered his
infamy, and for the gravest reasons, which you shall learn, I am
obliged to mask my knowledge. Beloved father, you will give me your
countenance?'

'I will, I will,' replied Gaudiosus nervously. 'You would not
deceive me, I well know, dear son.'

'God forbid!'

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