Then, when his wife was taken from him, his pride and joy centred in his child, who seemed, even at this early age, to inherit the beauty and graces of her aunt in no scant measure.
It is always hard to those who are growing old to feel that while others of their friends and contemporaries have gathered round them interests and the sweet ties of home-life, they are standing, like the last of some old forest trees, companionless and alone.
Claudius had been a brave soldier, and was considered a distinguished officer, who had earned his laurels on many a bloodstained field. But his brethren in arms, who gave themselves up, on their retirement from active service, to all the luxuries and often license of Roman society, found him but a dull and speechless companion.
Gradually Claudius withdrew more and more from public life; and now what had been the one great interest of his daily routine at Rome was over!
To watch the Vestal Maxima at a distance, to divine her every look and gesture, to be present at all public ceremonials where she was to be seen, to be the presiding genius of her life, though never to approach her or give her cause for uneasiness—this had been Claudius’s mission. He had heard of the evil rumours which Cœlia had tried to sow broadcast; he had watched the once stately step growing more feeble, the deep earnest eyes lose their intense glow, the beautifully-chiselled features grow more pinched and wan, and his heart had sunk within him.
He had held much counsel with the good Father Eusebius, and knew that the Christian faith which he held dear had taken deep root in Hyacintha’s heart. And this had been at once the consolation and the fear of his life of late. Consolation, for he knew well what was the support of the Faith of Christ; fear, lest the sharp eyes which were directed towards the Vestal Maxima should scent out the truth, and that she should be given up by her accusers to disgrace.
This had been assisted by Hyacintha’s resignation at the time when such resignation was allowed, and the love which she had awakened in the hearts of the many had triumphed over the maliciousness of the few.
Anna was old now, and her strength did not hold out for the long walks in which little Cynthia at six years old delighted. So it fell to Claudius to drive her in his chariot, or take her hand in his and lead her along the Appian Way, telling her stories of the old heroes, as Clœlia had told them to Hyacintha and Casca long ago. But their favourite walk was to the Cælian Hill, and there sometimes they would meet Hermione on her way to the spring, when, dismissing the attendants who followed the Roman soldier and the fair child at a distance, they would sit and speak of the Vestal Maxima, and Hermione would fondle the little Cynthia, and say to Claudius “that she, too, might have been a Vestal, so beautiful she was, and so full of wit and cleverness.”
“Ah, no! the child has another and a higher mission than that of the Vestal virgin. She will be the joy and glory of some good man’s home, so I pray the good Father of us all, who loves the little children.”
“Who loves the little children,” Cynthia repeated, as she leaned against Claudius’s knee, her hands full of violets and anemones which empurpled the hill’s side. “When I am a woman I shall tell every one about the Lord, who was a little child Himself on earth, and loved the children who came near Him, just as I come near you, Claudius. Hermione, don’t you love Him?”