CHAPTER VI.
BY LAND AND SEA.
The party under the convoy of Burrhus had embarked from Lyme, in Dorsetshire, very soon after Alban’s martyrdom. The remains of the old harbour, although at a distance from the sea, which has receded from this part of the coast, can still be seen by those who may be curious to discover them. The channel had been smooth, for a great gale had passed over it some days before, and the weather was exceptionally calm and favourable.
The pain of parting was over, and Hyacintha and her brother gave themselves up to the full enjoyment of travel, unthinking of the dangers which in reality threatened them, and delighting in the thought that every day brought them nearer to Rome.
There was also in Hyacintha’s child-heart a strange yearning for the office for which she was to be trained under her kinswoman. Years must pass, she knew, before the care of that sacred fire could really be entrusted to her, but the time would come, and then what life on earth could be found to compare to it? Had Hyacintha lived in our day, she would have had the same visions and dreams of a vocation higher than that which is pursued year by year by those who live only for the present. In the higher rank of society, which corresponds to that in which our little Hyacintha was born, there is the same imperative demand made for all that can conduce to pleasure.
The London season of to-day, with its ceaseless round of gaiety, its slavish adherence to prevailing customs, the glare and false brilliancy of the life of the votaries of fashion, is found quite insufficient for many who are caught in the vortex and hurried along the stream, to be carried they have scarcely time to ask whither.
The human heart, with all its joys and sorrows, is the same in the nineteenth as it was in the fourth century.
The surroundings may be different, and this difference in outside things is likely to make us look upon the men and women of a remote age as apart from us, and forget that they had their cares, and joys, and hopes, and fears, as we have them now.
The woman’s heart then, as now, often sent up a cry for something that could satisfy it; and half-unconsciously to herself that cry was making itself heard in Hyacintha’s young heart, like the first notes of a bird sent forth to meet the dawn.