The Roman Traitor, Vol. 1

  CHAPTER XV.

  THE CONFESSION.

  To err is human; to forgive--divine!

  The astonishment of Paullus, at this strange burst of feeling on the partof one usually so calm, so self-controlled, and seemingly so unimpassionedas that sweet lady, may be more easily imagined than described.

  That she, whose maidenly reserve had never heretofore permitted theslightest, the most innocent freedom of her accepted lover, should castherself thus into his arms, should rest her head on his bosom, was initself enough to surprise him; but when to this were added the violentconvulsive sobs, which shook her whole frame, the flood of tears, whichstreamed from her eyes, the wild and disjointed words, which fell from herpale lips, he was struck dumb with something not far removed from terror.

  That it was fear, which shook her thus, he could not credit; for duringall the fearful sounds and rumours of the past night, she had been as firmas a hero.

  Yet he knew not, dared not think, to what other cause he might attributeit.

  He spoke to her soothingly, tenderly, but his voice faltered as he spoke.

  "Nay! nay! be not alarmed, dear girl!" he said. "The tumults are all, longsince, quelled; the danger has all vanished with the darkness, and thestorm. Cheer up, my own, sweet, Julia."

  And, as he spoke, he passed his arm about her graceful form, and drew hercloser to his bosom.

  But whether it was this movement, or something in his words that arousedher, she started from his arms in a moment; and stood erect and rigid,pale still and agitated, but no longer trembling. She raised her hands toher brow, and put away the profusion of rich auburn ringlets, which hadfallen down dishevelled over her eyes, and gazed at him stedfastly,strangely, as she had never gazed at him before.

  "Your own Julia!" she said, in slow accents, scarce louder than a whisper,but full of strong and painful meaning. "Oh! I adjure you, by the Gods! byall you love! or hope! Are you false to me, Paullus!"

  "False! Julia!" he exclaimed, starting, and the blood rushing consciouslyto his bold face.

  "I am answered!" she said, collecting herself, with a desperate effort."It is well--the Gods guard you!--Leave me!"

  "Leave you!" he cried. "By earth, and sea, and heaven, and all that theycontain! I know not what you mean."

  "Know you this writing, then?" she asked him, reaching the letter from thetable, and holding it before his eyes.

  "No more than I know, what so strangely moves you," he answered; and shesaw, by the unaffected astonishment which pervaded all his features, thathe spoke truly.

  "Read it," she said, somewhat more composed; "and tell me, who is thewriter of it. You must know."

  Before he had read six lines, it was clear to him that it must come fromLucia, and no words can describe the agony, the eager intense torture ofanticipation, with which he perused it, devouring every word, and at everyword expecting to find the damning record of his falsehood inscribed incharacters, that should admit of no denial.

  Before, however, he had reached the middle of the letter, he felt that hecould bear the scrutiny of that pale girl no longer; and, lowering thestrip of vellum on which it was written, met her eye firmly.

  For he was resolute for once to do the true and honest thing, let whatmight come of it. The weaker points of his character were vanishingrapidly, and the last few eventful days had done the work of years uponhis mind; and all that work was salutary.

  She, too, read something in the expression of his eye, which led her tohope--what, she knew not; and she smiled faintly, as she said--

  "You know the writer, Paullus?"

  "Julia, I know her," he replied steadily.

  "Her!" she said, laying an emphasis on the word, but how affected by itArvina could not judge. "It _is_ then a woman?"

  "A very young, a very beautiful, a very wretched, girl!" he answered.

  "And you love her?" she said, with an effort at firmness, which itselfproved the violence of her emotion.

  "By your life! Julia, I do not!" he replied, with an energy, that spokewell for the truth of his asseveration.

  "Nor ever loved her?"

  "Nor ever--_loved_ her, Julia." But he hesitated a little as he said it;and laid a peculiar stress on the word loved, which did not escape theanxious ears of the lovely being, whose whole soul hung suspended on hisspeech.

  "Why not?" she asked, after a moment's pause, "if she be so very young,and so very beautiful?"

  "I might answer, because I never saw her, 'till I loved one morebeautiful. But--"

  "But you will not!" she interrupted him vehemently. "Oh! if you love me?if you _do_ love me, Paullus, do not answer me so."

  "And wherefore not?" he asked her, half smiling, though little mirthful inhis heart, at her impetuosity.

  "Because if you descend to flatter," answered the fair girl quietly, "Ishall be sure that you intended to deceive me."

  "It would be strictly true, notwithstanding. For though, as she says, wemet years ago, she was but a child then; and, since that time, I never sawher until four or five days ago--"

  "And since then, how often?" Julia again interrupted him; for, in theintensity of her anxiety, she could not wait the full answer to onequestion, before another suggested itself to her mind, and found voice atthe instant.

  "Once, Julia."

  "Only once?"

  "Once only, by the Gods!"

  "You have not told me wherefore it was, that you never loved her!"

  "Have I not told you, that I never saw her till a few days, a few hours, Imight have said, ago? and does not that tell you wherefore, Julia?"

  "But there is something more. There is another reason. Oh! tell me, Iadjure you, by all that you hold dearest, tell me!"

  "There is another reason. I told you that she was very young, and verybeautiful; but, Julia, she was also very guilty!"

  "Guilty!" exclaimed the fair girl, blushing fiery red, "guilty of lovingyou! Oh! Paullus! Paullus!" and between shame, and anger, and therepulsive shock that every pure and feminine mind experiences in hearingof a sister's frailty, she buried her face in her hands, and wept aloud.

  "Guilty, before I ever heard her name, or knew that she existed," answeredthe young man, fervently; but his heart smote him somewhat, as he spoke;though what he said was but the simple truth, and it was well for himperhaps at the present moment, that Julia did not see his face. For therewas much perturbation in it, and it is like that she would have judgedeven more hardly of that perturbation than it entirely deserved. He pausedfor a moment, and then added,

  "But if the guilt of woman can be excusable at all, she can plead more inextenuation of her errors, than any of her sex that ever fell from virtue.She is most penitent; and might have been, but for fate and the atrociouswickedness of others, a most noble being--as she is now a most gloriousruin."

  There was another pause, during which neither spoke or moved, Juliaoverpowered by the excess of her feelings--he by the painful consciousnessof wrong; the difficulty of explaining, of extenuating his own conduct;and above all, the dread of losing the enchanting creature, whom he hadnever loved so deeply or so truly as he did now, when he had well nighforfeited all claim to her affection.

  At length, she raised her eyes timidly to his, and said,

  "This is all very strange--there must be much, that I have a right tohear."

  "There is much, Julia!--much that will be very painful for me to tell; andyet more so for you to listen to."

  "And will you tell it to me?"

  "Julia, I will!"

  "And all? and truly?"

  "And all, and truly, if I tell you at all; but you--"

  "First," she said, interrupting him, "read that strange letter to the end.Then we will speak more of these things. Nay?" she continued, seeing thathe was about to speak, "I will have it so. It must be so, or all is at anend between us two, now, and for ever. I do not wish to watch you; thereis no meanness in my mind, Paullus, no jealousy! I am too proud to bejealous. Either you are worthy of my aff
ection, or unworthy; if thelatter, I cast you from me without one pang, one sorrow;--if the first,farther words are needless. Read that wild letter to the end. I will turnmy back to you." And seating herself at the table, she took up a piece ofembroidery, and made as if she would have fixed her mind upon it. ButPaullus saw, as his glance followed her, that, notwithstanding thefirmness of her words and manner, her hand trembled so much that she couldby no means thread her needle.

  He gazed on her for a moment with passionate, despairing love, and as hegazed, his spirit faltered, and he doubted. The evil genius whispered tohis soul, that truth must alienate her love, must sever her from him forever. There was a sharp and bitter struggle in his heart for thatmoment--but it passed; and the better spirit was again strong and clearwithin him.

  "No!" he said to himself, "No! I have done with fraud, and falsehood! Iwill not win her by a lie! If by the truth I must lose her, be it so! Iwill be true, and at least I can--die!"

  Thereon, without another word, he read the letter to the end, neitherfaltering, nor pausing; and then walked calmly to the table, and laid itdown, perfectly resolute and tranquil, for his mind was made up for theworst.

  "Have you read it?" she asked, and her voice trembled, as much as her handhad done before.

  "I have, Julia, to the end. It is very sad--and much of it is true."

  "And who is the girl, who wrote it?"

  "Her name is Lucia Orestilla."

  "Orestilla! Ye Gods! ye Gods! the shameless wife of the arch villainCatiline!"

  "Not so--but the wretched, ruined daughter of that abandoned woman!"

  "Call her not woman! By the Gods that protect purity! call her not woman!Did she not prompt the wretch to poison his own son! Oh! call her anythingbut woman! But what--what--in the name of all that is good or holy, can havebrought you to know that awful being's daughter?"

  "First, Julia, you must promise me never, to mortal ears, to reveal what Inow disclose to you."

  "Have you forgotten, Paullus, that I am yet but a young maiden, and that Ihave a mother?"

  "Hortensia!" exclaimed the youth, starting back, aghast; for he felt thatfrom her clear eye and powerful judgment nothing could be concealed, andthat her iron will would yield in nothing to a woman's tenderness, awoman's mercy.

  "Hortensia," replied the girl gently, "the best, the wisest, and thetenderest of mothers."

  "True? she is all that you say--more than all! But she is resolute, withal,as iron; and stern, and cold, and unforgiving in her anger!"

  "And do you need so much forgiveness, Paullus?"

  "More, I fear, than my Julia's love will grant me."

  "I think, my Paullus, you do not know the measure of a girl's honest love.But may I tell Hortensia? If not, you have said enough. What is notfitting for a girl to speak to her own mother, it is not fitting that sheshould hear at all--least of all from a man, and that man--her lover!"

  "It is not that, my Julia. But what I have to say contains many lives--mineamong others! contains Rome's safety, nay! existence! One whisper breathedabroad, or lisped in a slave's hearing, were the World's ruin. But be itas you will--as you think best yourself and wisest. If you will, tellHortensia."

  "I shall tell her, Paullus. I tell her everything. Since I could babble myfirst words, I never had a secret from her!"

  "Be it so, sweet one. Now I implore you, hear me to the end, before youjudge me, and then judge mercifully, as the Gods are merciful, and mortalsprone to error."

  "And will you tell me the whole truth?"

  "The whole."

  "Say on, then. I will hear you to the end; and your guilt must be great,Paullus, if you require a more partial arbitress."

  It was a trying and painful task, that was forced upon him, yet he wentthrough it nobly. At every word the difficulties grew upon him. At everyword the temptation, to swerve from the truth, increased. At every wordthe dread of losing her, the agony of apprehension, the dull cold sense ofdespair, waxed heavier, and more stunning. The longer he spoke, the morecertain he felt that by his own words he was destroying his own hope; yethe manned his heart stoutly, resisted the foul tempter, and, firm in theintegrity of his present purpose, laid bare the secrets of his soul.

  Beginning from his discovery of Medon's corpse upon the Esquiline, he nownarrated to her fully all that had passed, including much that in hisprevious tale he had omitted. He told of his first meeting with Catalineupon the Caelian; of his visit to Cicero; of his strange conversation withthe cutler Volero; of his second encounter with the traitor in the fieldof Mars, not omitting the careless accident by which he revealed to himVolero's recognition of the weapon. He told her of the banquet, of the artwith which Catiline plied him with wine, of the fascinations of that fairfatal girl. And here, he paused awhile, reluctant to proceed. He wouldhave given worlds, had he possessed them, to catch one glance of heraverted eye, to read her features but one moment. But she sat, with herback toward him, her head downcast, tranquil and motionless, save that atremulous shivering at times ran through her frame perceptible.

  He was compelled perforce to continue his narration; and now he was boundto confess that, for the moment, he had been so bewitched by the charms ofthe siren, that he had bound himself by the fatal oath, scarce knowingwhat he swore, which linked him to the fortunes of the villain father.Slightly he touched on that atrocity of Catiline, by telling which aloudhe dared not sully her pure ears. He then related clearly and succinctlythe murder of the cutler Volero, his recognition of the murderer, theforced deception which he had used reluctantly toward Cicero, and thesuspicions and distrust of that great man. And here again he paused,hoping that she would speak, and interrupt him, if it were even tocondemn, for so at least he should be relieved from the sickeningapprehension, which almost choked his voice.

  Still, she was silent, and, in so far as he could judge, more tranquilthan before. For the quick tremors had now ceased to shake her, and hertears, he believed, had ceased to flow.

  But was not this the cold tranquillity of a fixed resolution, the firmnessof a desperate, self-controlling effort?

  He could endure the doubt no longer. And, in a softer and more humblevoice,

  "Now, then," he said, "you know the measure of my sin--the extent of myfalsehood. All the ill of my tale is told, faithfully, frankly. Whatremains, is unmixed with evil. Say, then; have I sinned, Julia, beyond thehope of forgiveness? If to confess that, my eyes dazzled with beauty, myblood inflamed with wine, my better self drowned in a tide of luxuryunlike aught I had ever known before, my senses wrought upon by every art,and every fascination--if to confess, that my head was bewildered, myreason lost its way for a moment--though my heart never, never failed inits faith--and by the hopes, frail hopes, which I yet cling to of obtainingyou--the dread of losing you for ever! Julia, by these I swear, my heartnever did fail or falter! If, I say, to confess this be sufficient, and Istand thus condemned and lost for ever, spare me the rest--I may as well besilent!"

  She paused a moment, ere she answered; and it was only with an effort,choking down a convulsive sob, that she found words at all.

  "Proceed," she said, "with your tale. I cannot answer you."

  But, catching at her words, with all the elasticity of youthful hope, hefancied that she _had_ answered him, and cried joyously and eagerly--

  "Sweet Julia, then you can, you will forgive me."

  "I have not said so, Paullus," she began. But he interrupted her, ere shecould frame her sentence--

  "No! dearest; but your speech implied it, and--"

  But here, in her turn, she interrupted him, saying--

  "Then, Paullus, did my speech imply what I did not intend. For I have_not_ forgiven--do not know if I can forgive, all that has passed. Alldepends on that which is to come. You made me promise not to interruptyour tale. I have not done so; and, in justice, I have the right to askthat you should tell it out, before you claim my final answer. So I say,once again, Proceed."

  Unable, from the steadiness of her demeanour,
so much even as toconjecture what were her present feelings, yet much dispirited at findinghis mistake, the young man proceeded with his narrative. Gaining courage,however, as he continued speaking, the principal difficulties of his storybeing past, he warmed and spoke more feelingly, more eloquently, withevery word he uttered.

  He told her of the deep depression, which had fallen on him the followingmorning, when her letter had called him to the house of Hortensia. Heagain related the attack made on him by Catiline, on the same evening, inEgeria's grotto; and spoke of the absolute despair, in which he wasplunged, seeing the better course, yet unable to pursue it; aiming atvirtue, yet forced by his fatal oath to follow vice; marking clearlybefore him the beacon light of happiness and honour, yet drivenirresistibly into the gulf of misery, crime, and destruction. He told herof Lucia's visit to his house; how she released him from his fatal oath!disclaimed all right to his affection, nay! to his respect, even, andesteem! encouraged him to hold honour in his eye, and in the scorn ofconsequence to follow virtue for its own sake! He told her, too, of theconspiracy, in all its terrible details of atrocity and guilt--that darkand hideous scheme of treason, cruelty, lust, horror, from which he hadhimself escaped so narrowly.

  Then, with a glow of conscious rectitude, he proved to her that he hadindeed repented; that he was now, howsoever he might have been deceivedinto error and to the brink of crime, firm, and resolved; a champion ofthe right; a defender of his country; trusted and chosen by the GreatConsul; and, in proof of that trust, commissioned by him now to lead histroop of horsemen to Praeneste, a strong fortress, near at hand, whichthere was reason to expect might be assailed by the conspirators.

  "And now, my tale is ended," he said. "I did hope there would have been noneed to reveal these things to you; but from the first, I have beenresolved, if need were, to open to you my whole heart--to show you its darkspots, as its bright ones. I have sinned, Julia, deeply, against you! Yourpurity, your love, should have guarded me! Yet, in a moment of treacherousself-confidence, my head grew dizzy, and I fell. But oh! believe me,Julia, my heart never once betrayed you! Now say--can you pardon me--trustme--love me--be mine, as you promised? If not--speed me on my way, and myfirst battle-field shall prove my truth to Rome and Julia."

  "Oh! this is very sad, my Paullus," she replied; "very humiliating--very,very bitter. I had a trust so perfect in your love. I could as soon havebelieved the sunflower would forget to turn to the day-god, as that Paulwould forget Julia. I had a confidence so high, so noble, in your proud,untouched virtue. And yet I find, that at the first alluring glance of afrail beauty, you fall off from your truth to me--at the first whisperingtemptation of a demon, you half fall off from patriotism--honour--virtue!Forgive you, Paullus! I can forgive you readily. For well, alas! I knowthat the best of us all are very frail, and prone to evil. Love you? alas!for me, I do as much as ever--but say, yourself, how can I trust you? howcan I be yours? when the next moment you may fall again into temptation,again yield to it. And then, what would then remain to the wretched Julia,but a most miserable life, and an untimely grave?"

  The proud man bowed his head in bitter anguish; he buried his face in hishands; he gasped, and almost groaned aloud, in his great agony. His heartconfessed the truth of all her words, and it was long ere he could answerher. Perhaps he would not have collected courage to do so at all, butwould have risen in his agony of pride and despair, and gone his way todie, heart-broken, hopeless, a lost man.

  But she--for her heart yearned to her lover--arose and crossed the room withnoiseless step to the spot where he sat, and laid her fair hand gently onhis shoulder, and whispered in her voice of silvery music,

  "Tell me, Paullus, how can I trust you?"

  "Because I have told you all this, truly! Think you I had humbled myselfthus, had I not been firm to resist? think you I have had no temptation todeceive you, to keep back a part, to palliate? and lo! I have told youall--the shameful, naked truth! How can I ever be so bribed again tofalsehood, as I have been in this last hour, by hope of winning, and bydread of losing you, my soul's idol? Because I have been true, now to thelast, I think that you may trust me."

  "Are you sure, Paullus?" she said, with a soft sad smile, yet sufferinghim to retain the little hand he had imprisoned while he wasspeaking--"very, very sure?"

  "Will you believe me, Julia?"

  "Will you be true hereafter, Paullus?"

  "By all--"

  "Nay! swear not by the Gods," she interrupted him; "they say the Godslaugh at the perjury of lovers! But oh! remember, Paullus, that if youwere indeed untrue to Julia, she could but die!"

  He caught her to his heart, and she for once resisted not; and, for thefirst time permitted, his lips were pressed to hers in a long, chaste,holy kiss.

  "And now," he said, "my own, own Julia, I must say fare you well. My horseawaits me at your door--my troopers are half the way hence to Praeneste."

  "Nay!" she replied, blushing deeply, "but you will surely see Hortensia,ere you go."

  "It must be, then, but for a moment," he answered. "For duty calls me; and_you_ must not tempt me to break my new-born resolution. But say, Julia,will you tell all these things to Hortensia?"

  She smiled, and laid her hand upon his mouth; but he kissed it, and drewit down by gentle force, and repeated his question,

  "Will you?"

  "Not a word of it, Paul. Do you think me so foolish?"

  "Then I will--one day, but not now. Meanwhile, let us go seek for her."

  And, passing his arm around her slender waist, he led her gently from thescene of so many doubts and fears, of so much happiness.