“Take me to Rome with thee, dear husband, I pray thee.”
“Nay, nay, my pretty one,” was the reply, “the voyage may not be a quick one, thy health might suffer, and if the huge obelisk is swamped by the way, there will be great delay and danger to me, for I am responsible.”
“Dear husband,” said the sweet voice, “I have a longing to see Rome. Thou knowest I went thither as a little child, with my dear father, and nurse, and dear good old Claudius. I pray thee, do not refuse me my prayer. I have a dim dreamy memory of my beautiful aunt, the Vestal Maxima, who died in the faith of Christ. I should like to see the place where she lived, and the spring on the Cælian Hill, where Claudius said she looked like an angel, as she filled her vase from the pure fountain. Dear husband, grant my request.”
She had been the happy wife of Heraclitus for some years now. Her father had died in the preceding summer. Claudius and Anna had both passed away, and Cynthia, who was standing with her hand on her husband’s shoulder, urging her plea, is the only link left with those whose lives, or rather the fragments of whose lives, we have followed in this story.
Cynthia had known sorrow: one by one her children had faded in their infancy, and died before she had fully tasted the sweetness of motherhood.
Perhaps it was the remembrance of this trouble, which had left its trace on the fair face which was bending over him, that made Heraclitus feel as if he would not refuse his wife’s request.
“Dear husband,” she pleaded, “I have but thee, and what should I do for all the long months of thy absence, alone?”
“My sweet one, it is a long voyage, and my mind is so occupied with the business in hand, the arrangements, and the responsibility which lies on my shoulders, may so engross me, that I may seem cold and neglectful of thee.”
“As if that could be! I will not trouble thee with questions; let me have my own galley, and my maidens, and thou canst come to me for solace and comfort. Remember, dear husband, I have none but thee to love, since God has willed that no dear little ones should gladden my life. I am never lonely with thee, but without thee!”
Heraclitus threw down his quill, and pushed the parchments and charts aside, taking his wife on his knee and stroking her fair head, as it rested on his breast with a tender and gentle hand.