In the old home of Gabii, under the tender care of Euphrosyne and in the soothing company of Glyceria, little by little, stage by stage, Domitia recovered.

There was a horrible past to which no reference might be made. The true British slave, Eboracus, was ever at hand to help—when needed. Never a day, never half a day, but his honest face appeared at the door to inquire after his dear lady, and as her senses came flickering back, it was he to whom she clung to take her in his arms into the trellised walk, or when stronger to lead her where she could pick violets for Glyceria, and to pile about the feet of the little statue of the Good Shepherd. He took her a row on the lake and let her fish—he found nests of young birds and brought them to her; and all at once disclosed great powers of story-telling; he told marvellous British tales as to a little child, of the ploughing of Hu Cadarn, of Ceridwen and her cauldron. And he would sing—he fashioned himself a harp, of British shape, and sang as he accompanied himself, but his ballads were all in the Celtic tongue that Domitia could not understand—[pg 327]nevertheless it soothed and pleased her to listen to his music.

Longa Duilia did not visit her often. She made formal duty calls at long intervals, and as Domitia became better, these visits grew proportionately fewer.

Duilia, as she herself said, was not created to be a nurse. She knew that some were fitted by nature to attend to the sick, and all that sort of thing—but it was not her gift. Society was her sphere in which she floated and which she adorned, but she was distraught and drooping in a sick-room. She wished she had the faculty—and all that sort of thing—but all women were not cast in the same mould, run out of the same metal—and, my dear, parenthetically—some are of lead, others of Corinthian brass—and which are which it is not for me to say—she thanked the Gods it was so.

Nor did the visits and efforts to amuse, of Duilia, avail anything towards Domitia’s cure. On the contrary, she was always worse after her mother had been with her. The old lady ripped up ill-healed sores, harped on old associations, could not check her tongue from scolding.

“My poor dear child—I never made a greater blunder in my life—I, too, who have the pedigree at my finger’s ends—as to fancy that there was any connection with those Flavians. My dear! yellow hair is quite out of fashion now, quite out. Look at mine, a raven’s wing is not darker. It was through Vespasia Polla—I thought we were related—stupid that I was—it was the Vipsanians we were allied to, not those low and beggarly Vespasians. As the Gods love me, I believe Polla’s father was an army contractor. But I have made it all right. I have smudged out the line I had [pg 328]added to the family tree, and as for the wax heads of those Flavians, I have had them melted up. Will you believe it—I had the mask of Domitian run into a pot and that stupid Lucilla did not put a cover on it, and the rats have eaten it—eaten all the wax. I hope it has clogged their stomachs and given them indigestion. They doubtless thought it was dripping. But I really have made a most surprising discovery. I find there was an alliance with the Cocceii—most respectable family, very ancient, admirable men all—and so there is a sort of cousinship with the present admirable prince. His brother Aulus—rather old perhaps—but an estimable man—is—well—may be—in a word, I intend to give a little supper—a dainty affair—all in the best style—so sorry you can’t be there, my dear Domitia—but of course absolutely impossible. Your state of health and all that sort of thing. Don’t be surprised if you hear—but there, there—he is rather old though, for one who is only just turning off the very bloom of life and beauty.”

After such a visit and such talk the mind of Domitia was troubled for several days. She became timid, alarmed at the least noise, and distraught. But then the poor crippled woman succeeded in comforting and laying her troubles, and the painful expression faded from her face. It became placid, but always with a sadness that was inseparable from the eyes, and a tremulousness of the lips, as though a very little—a rough word or two—would dissolve her into tears.

With the spring, the growing light, the increasing warmth, the bursting life in plant and insect, she began to amend more steadily, and relapses became fewer.

One sweet spring day, when Glyceria had been car[pg 329]ried forth into the garden, and Domitia sat on the turf near her with purple anemones in her lap, that she was binding into a garland, the paralyzed woman was startled by hearing Domitia suddenly speak of the past.

She spoke, and continued weaving the flowers, “My Glyceria, I intend this for the little temple of my father. It is all I can do for him—to give flowers where his ashes lie—but it does not content me. There were two whom I loved and looked up to as the best of men, and both are gone—gone to dust: my own dearest father, and my lover, my husband, Lamia. I cannot bear to think of them as heaps of ashes or as wandering ghosts. When that thought comes over me, I seem to be as one drowning, and then darkness is before my eyes. I cannot cry—I smother.”

“Why should you think of them as wandering ghosts or as heaps of dust?”

“I know that they are dust—I suppose they are shadows. But of anything else, all is guess-work, we know nothing—and that is so horrible. I love two only—have loved two only—and they are no more than shadows. No, no! I mean not that.” She flung her arms about Glyceria, and laid her cheek against that of the sick woman. “No, I do love you, and I love Euphrosyne and I love Eboracus. But I mean—I mean in a different manner. One was my father, and the other my husband. It is so terribly sad to think they are lost to me like yesterday or last summer.”

“They are not lost. You will see them again.”

“See my father! See my Lamia!”

“Yes—I know it will be so.”

“O, Glyceria, do not say such things. You make my heart jump. How can it be? They have been.”