“Not on the field of battle?” asked Lothair, inducing her to proceed.
“Well, I should think for all, on the field of battle, there must be a degree of excitement, and of sympathetic excitement, scarcely compatible with overwhelming suffering; but, if death were encountered there for a great cause, I should rather associate it with rapture than pain.”
“But still a good number of persons must die in their beds and be conscious,” said Lothair.
“It may be, though I should doubt it. The witnesses of such a demise are never impartial. All I have loved and lost have died upon the field of battle; and those who have suffered pain have been those whom they have left behind; and that pain,” she added with some emotion, “may perhaps deserve the description of Mr. Phoebus.”
Lothair would not pursue the subject, and there was rather an awkward pause. Theodora herself broke it, and in a lighter vein, though recurring to the same theme, she said with a slight smile: “I am scarcely a competent person to consult upon this subject, for, to be candid with you, I do not myself believe in death. There is a change, and doubtless a great one, painful it may be, certainly very perplexing, but I have a profound conviction of my immortality, and I do not believe that I shall rest in my grave in saecula saeculorum, only to be convinced of it by the last trump.”
“I hope you will not leave this world before I do,” said Lothair, “but, if that sorrow be reserved for me, promise that to me, if only once, you will reappear.”
“I doubt whether the departed have that power,” said Theodora, “or else I think my heroes would have revisited me. I lost a father more magnificent than Jove, and two brothers brighter than Apollo, and all of them passionately loved me—and yet they have not come; but I shall see them—and perhaps soon. So you see, my dear lord,” speaking more briskly, and rising rather suddenly from her seat, “that for my part I think it best to arrange all that concerns one in this world while one inhabits it, and this reminds me that I have a little business to fulfil in which you can help me,” and she opened a cabinet and took out a flat antique case, and then said, resuming her seat at her table: “Some one, and anonymously, has made me a magnificent present; some strings of costly pearls. I am greatly embarrassed with them, for I never wear pearls or anything else, and I never wish to accept presents. To return them to an unknown is out of my power, but it is not impossible that I may some day become acquainted with the donor. I wish them to be kept in safety, and therefore not by myself, for my life is subject to too great vicissitudes. I have therefore placed them in this case, which I shall now seal and intrust them to your care, as a friend in whom I have entire confidence. See,” she said, lighting a match, and opening the case, “here are the pearls—are they not superb?—and here is a note which will tell you what to do with them in case of my absence, when you open the case, which will not be for a year from this day. There, it is locked. I have directed it to you, and I will seal it with my father’s seal.”
Lothair was about to speak. “Do not say a word,” she said “this seal is a religious ceremony with me.” She was some little time fulfilling it, so that the impression might be deep and clear. She looked at it earnestly while the wax was cooling, and then she said, “I deliver the custody of this to a friend whom I entirely trust. Adieu!” and she disappeared.
The amazed Lothair glanced at the seal. It was a single word, “ROMA,” and then, utterly mystified, he returned to town with his own present.