Domitia

CHAPTER XV.
DRAWING TO THE LIGHT

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 – 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 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 carried 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.”

“They are and will be. Death is swallowed up in Life.”

“That is impossible. Death is death and nothing more.”

Then Glyceria took the hand of Domitia, and looking into her eyes, said solemnly: “Dost thou remember having asked me about the Fish?”

“Yes – this amulet,” answered the noble lady, and she detached the cornelian from her throat, and held it in the hand not engaged by Glyceria. “Yes – I recollect – there was some mystery, but what was it?”

“The Fish is a symbol, as I said once before, and it is no amulet.”

“Of what is it the symbol?”

“Of One who died – who tasted of the bitterness of the parting of soul and body, and who went into the region of Shadows and returned – the soul to the body, and rose from the dead, and by the virtue of His resurrection gives power to all who believe in Him to rise in like manner.”

“And he could tell about what the ghosts do – how they wander?”

“I cannot say that. There would be no comfort in that. He rose to give us joy and to rob death of its terrors.”

“But what has this to do with the Fish?”

“You know what the word Fish is in Greek.”

“Very well.”

“Take each letter of that word, and each letter is the first of words that contain the very substance of the Christian belief – Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the Saviour.”

Domitia looked at the little cornelian fish; she could not understand.

“I believe that one could die and wake again. I have fainted and come round. And he might say what was in the spirit world into which he had been – but the region of ghosts is very dreary, very sad.”

“Nay, He can do more. As He rose, He can raise us to new life, and He will do it, for He is God. He made us, and He will recall us from death.”

“What – my father! Lucius! I shall see them again – not as shadows, but as they were – ?”

“Not so – not as they were, mortal; but raised to an immortal life.”

“I shall kiss my darling father – put my arms around my Lucius from whom I have been parted so long, and so cruelly, and who has been so – so true to me.”

Then Domitia burst into tears.

Glyceria stroked her hand.

“There – you see how joyous is our hope. Death is nothing – it is only a good-bye for a bit to meet again.”

“O, Glyceria! O, if I could see them – O Glyceria! O, you should not have said this if it be not true. My heart will break. O, if it might be so! if I could! but once only – for a moment – ”

“Nay, that would not suffice; forever, never to be separated; no more tears, no more death.”

“O, Glyceria – not another word – I cannot bear it. My heart is over full. Another time. My head, my head! O, if it might – it could be!”

Next day Glyceria saw by the red eyes of Domitia that she had slept little and had wept much. She did not turn the conversation to the same topic; she wisely waited for the noble lady to begin on it herself, and she judged that she would take some time to consider what had been spoken about and to digest it.

And in fact Domitia made no further allusion to the matter for some days. But after about a week, when alone with the paralyzed woman, she said to her abruptly: “You have never been in Syria?”

“No, dear lady.”

“I have – and I have been on the confines of the desert and looked away, as far as the eye could reach, and have seen nothing but sand and barren rock. Behind me a rose-garden, syringas, myrtle and citron trees, and murmuring streams, before me – no green leaf, only death. It is to me, as I stand now and look back on my life as if it were that barren desert; and the fearful thing is – I dare not turn and look the other way, for it is into impenetrable night. But no, my life is not all desolation, there are just two green spots in it where the date palms stand and there are wells – my childhood, when I sat on my father’s knee and cuddled into his arms; and once again, when I was recovering from the loss of him and was basking in the joy of my love for Lucius Lamia. All the rest – ” she made a gesture of despair – “Death.”

“Dearest lady! I would like to turn you about and show you that where you think only blackness reigns, lies a beautiful garden, a paradise, and One at the gate who beckons and says, Come unto Me, all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

“Ah! but that may be all fancy and dream work like the promises of the Magi, and the mysteries of Isis.”

Glyceria got no further than this. Domitia was disposed to talk with her on her hope, and on the Christian belief, but always with reserve and some mistrust.

There were old prejudices to be overcome, there was the consciousness that the promises so largely made by the votaries of the many cults from East and South who came to Rome were unfulfilled, and this made her unable to place confidence in the new religion held by slaves and ignorant people, however alluring it might seem.

Among the very few who came to Gabii during her illness and convalescence, was Flavia Domitilla, the widow of Flavius Clemens, who had been put to death by Domitian. Domitilla had been banished, but returned immediately on the death of the tyrant. She had suffered as had Domitia. In her manner and address there was something so gentle and assuring, that the poor ex-empress, in the troubled condition of her brain, was drawn to her, and after her visits felt better. She knew, or rather supposed, that Domitilla was a Christian. Her husband had been one, and had suffered for his faith.

It was with real pleasure that she ran to welcome her one morning, when the steward entered and announced: “The Lady Flavia Domitilla.”

CHAPTER XVI.
AN ECSTASY

“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.”

“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.

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 approached, handed her something and asked for an answer.

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 term a deacon, and he came to announce that, if I saw fit, the Church would assemble in my house next first day of the week, that is the day after the Jewish Sabbath. It is customary with us to assemble together for prayer on that day, early, before dawn, sometimes in one house, then in another, so as to escape observation. And now, on the morrow – this assembly, which we term the Collect, will take place. Do thou tarry in thy chamber, and thou shalt be summoned when all have dispersed.”

“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 for a long time, and nothing could give her greater consolation and happiness.”

“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. Domitia at once flashed into anger. “This comes of bringing her here. Had she been left at Gabii it would never have happened. Where is the fellow who threw her down? – Flavia! have him whipped with the scorpion.”

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.

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 her sister in her arms; the sick woman rested against her in a sitting posture; Flavia Domitilla was there as well. Directly she saw Domitia she signed to her to approach.

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 Domitia to depart, and made as though she also would go.

“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 – ”