CHAPTER VI.
She obeyed him, shuddering and silent. He followed her,
closed the entrance, and fastened it within. They were alone
among the dead of a thousand years — alone, but not in darkness.
The hand of preparation had been there, and cressets
were burning upon the walls; their lights, reflected from the
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numerous shields of bronze within the apartment, shedding a
strange and fantastic splendor upon the scene. The eyes of
Aurelia rapidly explored the chamber as if in search of some expected
object. Those of Cœlius watched them with an expression
of scornful triumph, which did not escape her glance. She
firmly met his gaze, almost inquiringly, while her hands were
involuntarily and convulsively clasped together.
“Whom dost thou seek, Aurelia?”
“Thou know'st! thou know'st! — where is he? Tell me,
my Cœlius, that he is safe, that thou hast sped him hence —
that I may bless thee.”
He smiled significantly as he replied, “He is safe — I have
sped him hence!”
“Tinai [Adonai], my husband, keep thee in the hollow of his
hand.”
“How! shameless! dost thou dare so much?”
“What mean'st thou, my Cœlius?”
“Sit thou there,” he answered, “till I show thee my picture.”
He pointed her, as he spoke, to a new sarcophagus, upon which
she placed herself submissively. Then, with a wand in his hand,
he, himself, seated upon another coffin of stone, pointed her to a
curtain which covered one of the sides of the chamber. “Behind
that curtain, Aurelia, is the last work of my hands; but
before I unveil it to thine eyes, let me tell thee its melancholy
history. It will not need many words for this. Much of it is
known to thee already. How I found thee in Rome, when I
was there a captive — how I loved thee, and how I believed in
thy assurances of love; all these things thou know'st. We
wedded, and I brought thee, a Roman woman, held a barbarian
by my people, into the palace of one of the proudest families of
all Etruria. Shall I tell thee that I loved thee still — that I
love thee even now, when I have most reason to hate thee,
when I know thy perjury, thy cold heart, thy hot lust, thy base,
degrading passions!”
“Hold, my lord — say not these things to my grief and thy
dishonor. They wrong me not less than thy own name.
These things, poured into thine ear by some secret enemy, are
false!”
“Thou wilt not swear it?”
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“By all the gods of Rome —”
“And of what avail, and how binding the oath taken in the
names of the barbarian deities of Rome.”
“By the Etrurian —”
“Perjure not thyself, woman, but hear me.”
“Go on, my lord, I will hear thee, though I suffer death with
every word thou speak'st.”
“It is well, Aurelia, that thou art prepared for this.”
“Thy dagger, my Cœlius, were less painful than thy words
and looks unkind.”
“Never was I unkind, until I found thee false.”
“Never was I false, my lord, even when thou wast unkind.”
“Woman! lie not! thou wert discovered with thy paramour,
here, in this tomb; thou wert followed, day by day, and all thy
secret practices betrayed. This thou ow'st to the better vigilance
of my dear brother Aruns — he, more watchful of my honor
than myself —”
“Ah! well I know from what hand came the cruel shaft!
Cœlius, my Cœlius, thy brother is a wretch, doomed to infamy
and black with crime. I have had no paramour. I might have
had, and thou might'st have been dishonored, had I hearkened
to thy brother's pleadings. I spurned him from my feet with
loathing, and he requites me with hate. Oh, my husband, believe
me, and place this man, whom thou too fondly callest thy
brother, before thine eyes and mine!”
“Alas! Aurelia, this boldness becomes thee not. I myself
traced thee to this tomb — these eyes but too frequently beheld
thee with thy paramour.”
“Cœlius, as I live, he was no paramour — but where is he,
what hast thou done with him?”
“Sent him before thee to prepare thy couch in Hades!”
“Oh, brother! — but thou hast not! tell me, my lord, that thy
hand is free from this bloody crime!”
“He sleeps beneath thee. It is upon his sarcophagus thou
sittest.”
She started with a piercing shriek from the coffin where she
sat, knelt beside it, and strove to remove the heavy stone lid,
which had been already securely fastened. While thus engaged
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the Lucumo drew aside with his hand the curtain which concealed
the picture.
“Look,” said he, “woman, behold the fate which thou and
thy paramour have received — behold the task which I had set
me when first I had been shown thy perjuries. Look!”
She arose in silence from her knees, and turned her eyes upon
the picture. As the curtain was slowly unrolled from before it,
and she conceived the awful subject, and distinguished, under
the care of the good and guardian genii, the shades of well-known
members of the Pomponian family, her interest was greatly excited;
but when, following in the train and under the grasp of
the Etrurian demon, she beheld the features of the young Roman
who was doomed, she bounded forward with a cry of agony.
“My brother, my Flavius, my own, my only brother!” and
sunk down with outstretched arms before the melancholy shade.
“Her brother!” exclaimed the husband. She heard the
words and rose rapidly to her feet.
“Ay, Flavius, my brother, banished from Rome, and concealed
here in thy house of silence, concealed even from thee,
my husband, as I would not vex thee with the anxieties of an
Etrurian noble, lest Rome should hear and punish the people by
whom her outlaw was protected. Thou know'st my crime. This
paramour was the brother of my heart — child of the same sire
and dame—a noble heart, a pure spirit, whose very virtues have
been the cause of his disgrace at Rome. Slay me, if thou wilt,
but tell me not, O, Cœlius, that thou hast put the hands of hate
upon my brother!”
“Thy tale is false, woman — well-planned, but false. Know
I not thy brother? Did I not know thy brother well in Rome?
Went we not together oft? I tell thee, I should know him
among a line of ten thousand Romans!”
“Alas! alas! my husband, if ever I had brother, then is this
he. I tell thee nothing but the truth. Of a surety, when thou
wert in Rome, my brother was known to thee, but the boy has
now become a man. Seven years have wrought a change upon
him of which thou hast not thought. Believe me, what I tell
thee — the youth whom I sheltered in this vault, and to whom I
brought food nightly, was, indeed, my brother — my Flavius, the
only son of my mother, who sent him to me, with fond words of
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entreaty, when the consuls of the city bade him depart in banishment.”
“I can not believe thee, woman. It were a mortal agony,
far beyond what I feel in the conviction of thy guilt, were I to
yield faith to thy story. It is thy paramour whom I have slain,
and who sleeps in that tomb. His portrait and his judgment are
before thee, and now — look on thine own!”
The picture, fully displayed, showed to the wretched woman
her own person, in similar custody with him who was her supposed
paramour. The terrible felicity of the execution struck
her to the soul. It was a picture to live as a work of art, and
to this she was not insensible. She clasped her hands before it,
and exclaimed,
“Oh! my Cœlius, what a life hast thou given to a lie. Yet
may I bear the terrors of such a doom, if he whom thou hast
painted there in a fate full of dreadful fellowship with mine, was
other than my brother Flavius — he with whom thou didst love
to play, and to whom thou didst impart the first lessons in the
art which he learned to love from thee. Dost hear me, my Cœ
lius, as my soul lives, this man was none other than my brother.”
“False! false! I will not, dare not believe thee!” he answered
in husky accents. His frame was trembling, yet he busied himself
in putting on a rich armor, clothing himself in military garb,
from head to foot, as if going into action.
“What dost thou, my lord?” demanded Aurelia, curious as she
beheld him in this occupation.
“This,” said he, “is the armor in which I fought with Rome
when I was made the captive of thy people, and thine. It is
fit that I should wear it now, when I am once more going into
captivity.”
“My husband, what mean'st thou — of what captivity dost
thou speak?”
“The captivity of death! Hear me, Aurelia, dost thou feel
nothing at thy heart which tells thee of the coming struggle
when the soul shakes off the reluctant flesh, and strives, as it were,
for freedom. Is there no chill in thy veins, no sudden pang, as
of fire in thy breast? These speak in me. They warn me of
death. We are both summoned. But a little while is left of
life to either!”
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“Have mercy, Jove! I feel these pains, this chill, this fire
that thou speak'st of.”
“It is death! the goblet which I gave thee, and of which I
drank the first and largest draught, was drugged with death.”
“Then — it is all true! Thou hast in truth slain my brother.
Thou hast — thou hast!”
“Nay, he was not thy brother, Aurelia. Why wilt thou forswear
thyself at this terrible moment? It is vain. Wouldst
thou lie to death — wouldst thou carry an impure face of perjury
before the seat of the Triune God! Beware! Confess thy crime,
and justify the vengeance of thy lord!”
“As I believe thee, my Cœlius — as I believe that thou hast
most rashly and unjustly murdered my brother, and put death
in the cup which, delivered by thy hands, was sweet and precious
to my lips, so must I now declare, in sight of Heaven, in
the presence of the awful dead, that what I have said and sworn
to thee is truth. He whom I sheltered within the tombs of thy
fathers, was the son of mine — the only, the last, best brother of
my heart. I bore him in mine arms when I was a child myself.
I loved him ever! Oh, how I loved him! next to thee, my Cœ
lius — next to thee! Couldst thou but have spared me this
love — this brother!”
“How knew I — how know I now — that he was thy brother?”
was the choking inquiry.
“To save thee the cruel agony that thou must feel, at knowing
this, I could even be moved to tell thee falsely, and say that he
was not my brother; but, indeed, some paramour, such as the
base and evil thought of thy brother has grafted upon thine;
but I may not; thy love is too precious to me at this last moment
even if death were not too terrible to the false speaker. He
was, indeed, my Flavius, dear son of a dear mother, best beloved
of brothers; he whom thou didst play with as a boy; to whom thou
gav'st lessons in thy own lovely art; who loved thee, my Cœ
lius, but too fondly, and only forbore telling thee of his evil plight
for fear that thou shouldst incur danger from the sharp and angry
hostility of Rome. Seek my chamber, and in my cabinet
thou wilt find his letters, and the letters of my mother, borne
with him in his flight. Nay, — oh! mother, what is this agony?”
“Too late! too late! If it be truth thou speakest, Aurelia,
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it is a truth that can not save. Death is upon us — I see it in
thy face — I feel it in my heart. Oh! would that I could doubt
thy story!”
“Doubt not — doubt not — believe and take me to thy heart.
I fear not death if thou wilt believe me. My Cœlius, let me
come to thee and die upon thy bosom.”
“Ah! shouldst thou betray me — shouldst thou still practise
upon me with thy woman art!”
“And wherefore? It is death, thou say'st, that is upon us
now. What shall I gain, in this hour, by speaking to thee falsely?
Thou hast done thy worst. Thou hast doomed me to
death, and to the scornful eyes of the confiding future!”
She threw her arms around him as she spoke, and sunk, sunk
sobbing upon his breast.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “that dreadful picture! I feel, my
Aurelia, that thou hast spoken truly — that I have been rash
and cruel in my judgment. Thy brother lies before thee, and
yonder tomb is prepared for thee. I did not yield without a
struggle, and I prepared me for a terrible sacrifice. Upon this
bier, habited as I am, I yield myself to death. There is no
help — no succor. Yet that picture! Shall the falsehood overcome
the truth. Shall that lie survive thy virtues, thy beauty,
and thy life! No! my Aurelia, this crime shall be spared at
least.”
He unwound her arms from about his neck, and strove to rise.
She sunk in the same moment at his feet. “Oh, death!” she
cried, “thou art, indeed, a god! I feel thee, terrible in thy
strength, with an agony never felt before. Leave me not, my
Cœlius — forgive — and leave me not!”
“I lose thee, Aurelia! Where —”
“Here! before the couch — I faint — ah!”
“I would destroy,” he cried, “but can not! This blindness.
Ho! without there! Aruns! It is thy step I hear! Undo,
undo — I forgive thee all, if thou wilt but help. Here — hither!”
The acute senses of the dying man had, indeed, heard footsteps
without. They were those of the perfidious brother. But,
at the call from within, he retreated hastily. There was no answer—
there was no help. But there was still some consciousness.
Death was not yet triumphant. There was a pang yet to be felt
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— and a pleasure. It was still in the power of the dying man to
lift to his embrace his innocent victim. A moment's return of consciousness
enabled her to feel his embrace, his warm tears upon
her cheek, and to hear his words of entreaty and tenderness imploring
forgiveness. And speech was vouchsafed her to accord
it.
“I forgive thee, my Cœlius — I forgive thee, and bless thee,
and love thee to the last. I know that thou wouldst never do
me hurt of thy own will; I know that thou wert deceived to
this — yet how, oh, how, when my head lay upon thy breast at
night, and I slept in peace, couldst thou think that I should do
thee wrong!”
“Why,” murmured the miserable man, “why, oh, why?”
“Had I but told thee, and trusted in thee, my Cœlius!”
“Why didst thou not?”
“It was because of my brother's persuasion that I did not —
he wished not that thou shouldst come to evil.”
“And thou forgiv'st me, Aurelia — from thy very heart thou
forgiv'st me?”
“All, all — from my heart and soul, my husband.”
“It will not, then, be so very hard to die!”
An hour after and the chamber was silent. The wife had
yielded first. She breathed her last sigh upon his bosom, and
with the last effort of his strength he lifted her gently and laid
her in the sarcophagus, composing with affectionate care the drapery
around her. Then, remembering the picture, he looked
around him for his sword with which to obliterate the portraits
which his genius had assigned to so lamentable an eternity; but
his efforts were feeble, and the paralysis of death seized him
while he was yet making them. He sunk back with palsied
limbs upon the bier, and the lights, and the picture, faded from
before his eyes, with the last pulses of his life. The calumny
which had destroyed his hopes, survived its own detection. The
recorded falsehood was triumphant over the truth; yet may you
see, to this day, where the random strokes of the weapon were
aimed for its obliteration. Of himself there is no monument in
the tomb, though one touching memorial has reached us. The
vaulted chamber buried in the earth was discovered by accident.
A fracture was made in its top by an Italian gentleman in
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company with a Scottish nobleman. As they gazed eagerly through
the aperture, they beheld an ancient warrior in full armor, and
bearing a coronet of gold. The vision lasted but a moment.
The decomposing effects of the air were soon perceptible. Even
while they gazed, the body seemed agitated with a trembling,
heaving motion, which lasted a few minutes, and then it subsided
into dust. When they penetrated the sepulchre, they found
the decaying armor in fragments, the sword and the helmet, or
crown of gold. The dust was but a handful, and this was all
that remained of the wretched Lucumo. The terrible picture is
all that survives — the false witness, still repeating its cruel lie,
at the expense of all that is noble in youth and manhood, and
all that is pure and lovely in the soul of woman.”
We all agreed that our professor, who delivered his narrative
with due modesty, had made a very interesting legend from the
chronicles — had certainly shown a due regard for the purity of
the sex, in thus vindicating the virtuous sufferer from the malicious
accusation which had been preserved by art, through the
capricious progress of more than twenty centuries.
Several stories followed, short, sketchy, and more or less spirited,
of which I could procure no copies. The ladies gave us
sundry pleasant lyrics to the accompaniment of the guitar, and
one or two male flute players contributed to our musical joys
until we began to verge toward the shorter hours, when the fairer
portion of the party bowed us good night — Duyckman nearly
breaking his own and Selina Burroughs's neck, in helping her
down the cabin-steps.
-- --
Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1854], Southward ho! A spell of sunshine. (Redfield, New York) [word count] [eaf686T].
