  “I have come, dear Domitia, with a petition,” said the widow of Flavius Clemens. “And it is one you will wound me if you refuse.” “But who would wound so gentle a breast?” answered Domitia, kissing her visitor. “He must be heartless who draws a bow against a dove.” “Hearken first to what I ask. I am bold—but my very feebleness inspires me with audacity.” [pg 334]“What is it, then?” “That you come with me to my villa for a little change of scene, air and society. It will do you good.” “And I cannot refuse. It is like your sweet spirit to desire nothing save what is kindly intended and does good to others.” “As you have assented so graciously, I will push my advance a little further and say—Return with me to-day. Let us travel together. If you will—I have a double litter—and we can chatter as two magpies together.” “Magpies bring sorrow.” “Nay, two—mirth—we have cast our sorrows behind us. You said I was a dove, so be it—a pair of doves, perhaps wounded, lamed—but we coo into each other’s ear, and lay our aching hearts together and so obtain solace.” “I will refuse you nothing,” said Domitia, again kissing her visitor. Accordingly, a couple of hours later the two ladies started, Domitia taking with her some attendants, but travelling, as was proposed, in the large litter of Domitilla. This latter lady was, as already mentioned, the widow of Clemens, one of the two sons of Flavius Sabinus, prÆfect of the city, who had held the Capitol against the PrÆtorians of Vitellius and had been murdered but a few hours before Rome was entered by the troops that favored his brother Vespasian. On that occasion his sons had escaped, and the elder was married to Julia, daughter of Titus, but had been put to death by Domitian. The younger brother, Clemens, a quiet, inoffensive man, who took no part in public affairs, had been executed as well, shortly before Domitian himself perished. [pg 335]And now Flavia Domitilla lived quietly on her estate not far from the Ardeatine Gate of Rome. “How!” said Flavia, suddenly, as she espied the little cornelian suspended on the bosom of Domitia, “you have the Fish!” “Yes, Glyceria gave it me—long ago.” “Do you know what it means?” “Glyceria told me—but it is a dream, a beautiful fancy, nothing more. There is no evidence.” “Domitia, you have not sought for it.” “My cousin, Rome is full of religions. Some say the truth is in Sabazius, some in Isis, some in the stars, some in Mithras—a new importation—and some will go back to the old Gods of our Latin ancestors. But one and another all are naught.” “How know you that?” “By the spirit that is within me. It can discern between what is true and false. Not that which promises best is the most real.” “You are right, Domitia—that is truest and most real which meets and satisfies the seeking, aching heart.” “And where is that?” “Where you have not sought for it.” “If I were sure I would seek. But I am weary of disillusionings and disappointments.” “Well—will you hear?” “I am not sure. I have met with too many disappointments to desire another.” Nothing further was said on this topic till the villa was reached. Domitia showed that she did not desire to have it pursued. As Flavia alighted from her litter, a young man [pg 336] The widow of Clemens opened a tied diptych and read some words written therein. She seemed disconcerted and doubtful. She looked questioningly at Domitia, and then asked leave of the latter to say a word in private to Euphrosyne. Leave was granted and a whispered communication passed between them. Again Flavia looked inquiringly at Domitia, and it was with considerable hesitation that she signed to the young man to approach, and said:—“Be it so. The Collect shall be here.” That evening before she and her guest parted for the night, Flavia took Domitia by the hand and said:—“You are right—the faculty of determination is seated in every breast. Inquire and choose.” A few days passed, and then the hostess became uneasy. Evidently she had something that she desired to say, but was afraid of broaching the subject. At length, abruptly, she began on it. “Domitia, I show you the utmost confidence. I must tell you something. You know how that the Christians have been persecuted under—I mean of late, and how we have suffered. My dear husband shed his blood for the cause, and he was but one among many. Now there is a respite granted, but how long it will last we know not. The laws against us stand unrepealed and any one who wishes us ill can set them in motion for our destruction.” “You do not think, Cousin——” “Nay, hear me out, Domitia. You saw a young man approach me as we arrived here. He is what we [pg 337] “Nay, I would see and hear what takes place.” “That may not be, Domitia, that is only for the initiated.” “But why secrecy if there be naught of which to be ashamed?” “Our Master said, Give not that which is holy unto dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine. Tell me, Domitia, how would you endure were your father made a mock of, his sayings and acts parodied on the stage, and turned into a matter of low buffoonery?” Domitia’s brow flamed and her eyes flashed. “I see your answer in your face. So with our Great Master. His mysteries are holy, and we would preserve them from outrage. Now you understand why you cannot be present.” “But I would not mock.” “It is our rule, to avoid the chance of profanity.” “As you will.” “There is one thing more,” said Flavia. “You will not be angry if I have sent to have poor Glyceria brought here. Owing to her infirmity she has not been able to be present at a gathering of the Church [pg 338] “I am willing for anything that can cheer her,” answered Domitia; then in a tone of vexation, “So—a freedwoman, and Euphrosyne, a slave, will be admitted where I am shut out—I, who was Empress——” “Do not be offended. Is it not so in every sodality, that the members of the Club alone attend the gatherings of the Club.” “You are a Club then?” “We are the worshippers of God.”16 Domitia was silent, then Flavia started up. “I hear them—they have come with Glyceria. I must see that she be cared for. The long journey to that frail and broken frame will have exhausted her slender powers.” “And I will go, too”—with a tinge of jealousy in her manner. Domitia little liked that another should interest herself about the poor woman, and should stand to her in a more intimate relation than herself. On going forth, all feeling of envy disappeared at once before a sense of alarm. An accident had occurred on the way. Owing to some fault in the paving of the road, one of the bearers had stumbled and, in falling, the litter had been thrown down and the woman within injured. Domitia saw by the ashen face and the green hue about the mouth and temples that Glyceria was in great pain. But her eyes were bright and sought her at once and a world of love flowed out of them, she put forth her thin hand to lay hold of the great lady. [pg 339] Glyceria caught her hand. “It was an accident. He was not in fault. I am happy. It is the will of God—that is everything to me.” “You suffer.” The paralyzed woman could not speak more. She was being lifted out of the litter, and fainted as she was moved. She was conveyed, in a condition of unconsciousness, to the room she was to occupy, a room opening out of the same corridor as that given up to Domitia. The family physician was summoned; he gave little hopes of the poor woman recovering from the shock, her natural strength and recuperative power had long ago been exhausted. All that evening Domitia remained silent, apparently in ill humor, or great distress, and Flavia Domitilla was unable to get many words from her. She retired early to rest, but could not sleep. Before going to her bed, she had visited the sick woman, and she convinced herself with her own eyes that the flame of the lamp of life was flickering to extinction. Domitia loved the actor’s widow with all the passion of her stormy heart; and the thought of losing her was to her unendurable. The night was still, balmy, and the heavens star-besprent. She looked from the corridor at the lights above, and then dropped the curtains over her door. She threw herself on her cushions, but her thoughts turned and tossed in her head. [pg 340]She pressed her knuckles to her eyeballs to close her eyes, but could not force on sleep. It was to her as though every person whom she loved was taken from her; till she had no one left to whom her heart could cling. “I vow a pig to Æsculapius!” she said, “if he will recover her!” and then impatiently turned to the wall. “What can Æsculapius do? Whom has he succored at any time? He is but a name.” To whom could she cry? What god of Olympus would stoop to care for—even to look at an actor’s widow, a poor Greek freedwoman. The gods! They revelled and drank Ambrosia; made love and deceived the simple, and lied and showed themselves to be arrant knaves. They were greedy of sacrifices, they accepted all that was given—but they gave nothing in return. Their ears were open to flattery, not to prayer. They were gods for the merry and rich, not for the miserable and poor. She thought she heard hasty steps in the passage, then voices. “And He! the God of Glyceria—why had not He saved her from this fall? Was He as powerless, as regardless, of His votaries as those of Olympus?” Yes—something was the matter—there was a stir in the house—at that hour—at dead of night—Domitia’s heart bounded. Was Glyceria passing away? She threw a mantle about her, and barefooted as she was, ran forth into the gallery. She saw at the further end a light at the door of the sick room, and sounds issued thence. Instantly she flew thither, plucked aside the curtain, and stood in the doorway, arrested by the sight. Euphrosyne was seated on the bed, and had raised [pg 341] But Glyceria!—she was at once transfigured. Her face seemed to shine with a supernatural light—it had acquired a loveliness and transparency as of an angel—her eyes were upraised and fixed as in a trance, and her arms were outspread. She seemed not to weigh on Euphrosyne, but to be raised and sustained by supernatural power. The joy, the rapture in that sublimated countenance were beyond description. She saw, she knew, she felt none of those things that usually meet the senses. And yet Domitia, Flavia, were convinced that those illumined happy eyes looked on some One—were gazing into a light to themselves unseen. From her lips poured rapturous prayer. “I see Thee! Thou—the joy of my heart, my hope and my portion forever! Thee whom I have loved and longed for! I hold Thee—I clasp Thy feet! O give her to me—the dear mistress! Take me, take me to Thyself—but ere I go—by Thy wounded hands—by Thy thorn-crowned head—by Thy pierced side—bring her to the light! To the light! To the light!” And suddenly—with an instantaneous eclipse the illumination died off from her face, the tension was over, the arms, the entire body sank heavily against the bosom of Euphrosyne, the eyes closed; she heaved a long sigh, but a smile lingered about her lips. Awed, not daring to draw nearer, unwilling to go back, Domitia stood looking. Neither did Flavia Domitilla stir. After a little while, however, the latter signed to [pg 342] “She sleeps,” she said. Then Glyceria’s bright eyes opened, and she said:— “Not till after the Collect—at that I must be—bear me down—then only——” |
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