THE LEARNING OF LIFE'S LESSON.
Henrietta, when she first returned to the Hotel, had no idea of being
disobedient. On the contrary, she thought she would partake of an
enormous lunch and then get hold of some novel and enjoy herself. She
could manage to forget Rome and its abominations for the time being,
but alas for Henrietta, she was a wonderfully restless being. She ate
ravenously after Victorine told her that _déjeuner_ was waiting, then
she went up to her room, and absolutely and completely forgetting her
solemn promise to step-daddy and Maureen, she prepared to go out on her
own account.
The Coliseum fascinated her, for she had a great natural love for
horrors. She thought if she could only get there by herself she could
imagine the whole scene when the lions sprang out upon the Christians
and tore them to pieces. She didn't so much mind about the gladiators,
but she thought it would be lovely to see a Christian like Dinah torn
to bits. She could entertain herself very well for an hour or two at
the Coliseum. She accordingly put on a bright-red frock, which _almost_
toned with her hair, and which she had purchased secretly a day or two
ago. Although cold in England, it was balmy and delightful in Rome. The
air was like nectar and was very rousing to the spirit. She ruffled
up her hair more than ever and perched upon its mass of curls a small
black velvet cap with a long red feather. Her eyes were bright with
excitement.
She loved people to stare at her. She always stared back with bold
defiance. If they were nice people she smiled to them. If they were the
reverse she frowned, but in the company of step-daddy and Dominic and
Maureen and Daisy she did not dare to give way to these queer freaks of
her nature.
Finally, she put her purse into her pocket. She had plenty of money,
mostly in Italian lire, which she greatly disliked because it looked
dirty. Nevertheless the dirty lire could buy things and she meant to
have a feast all by herself in the Coliseum. She went to a shop where
sweetmeats, cakes, and chocolates of all sorts abounded, but first she
twisted round her neck a long and very valuable gold chain, which had
belonged to her mother. The late Mrs. O'Brien had many jewels, which
were kept reverently by the Rector for her daughters when they came
of age. He had allowed each girl, however, to take a memento of their
mother away with them when they went to school.
Daisy had a little watch studded round with diamonds, and Henrietta
had a long gold chain. She hung the gold chain round her neck, and
soon started off for the Coliseum in the highest spirits. She had a
great bag of sweetmeats, and she meant to imagine herself _Nero_, or
_perhaps_ one of the lions, who was devouring Dominic and stepfather,
while Maureen stood gravely by crying and expostulating. She imagined
her finger as Nero's, pointing DOWN for the certain destruction of her
relatives. She was so ignorant that she did not know that this was the
special office of the _Vestal Virgins_.
Oh, it would be fun! The day was sunny and bright, and it was still
fairly early. Henrietta reached the Coliseum. A guide came up and spoke
to her. He spoke broken English. She asked him two important questions,
one with regard to Nero's throne, the other the exact place where the
lions came out.
He explained them to her volubly.
Henrietta said, "You can go now, I don't want anything more."
"Will you not give me a lire, kind _signorina_?"
"I? Give you all that?" cried Henrietta. "Not I! Get you gone!"
The man frowned. He had a very dark Italian face. He left the Coliseum
slowly. There were no visitors to-day, they would come perhaps
to-night, for the moon would shine, but meanwhile, with the exception
of this one intolerable signorina, he had seen no one. He made a
scanty living by showing people round the Coliseum, and they always
paid him if not a lire, at least a smaller coin. He had his wife and
brown-faced children living in a hut on the hills. Giuseppa, his eldest
son, would clamour for bread. Felisé, his wife, would ask him what he
meant by coming back penniless. All the children would cry. He could
not bear to hear them cry. He had the hot blood of the Italians in his
veins. He took a dagger from his breast and looked at it longingly. The
red signorina was doubtless rich. She abounded in jewels. He had caught
a glimpse of her long thick gold chain. She wasn't a nice signorina,
not at all. Still, _if_ he murdered her, he might lose his employment.
He had no compunction about taking her life, but the money obtained for
the gold chain would be exhausted long before he got another job.
On the whole, he had better let her be.
Meanwhile, Henrietta, in the height of enjoyment, seated herself in
the part which was supposed to be Nero's throne, and spread out her
sweetmeats before her. She began to "gobble, gobble," as she expressed
it. How she wished Daisy was with her! It was really tiresome of Daisy
to go with the others. What fun they two would have in the Coliseum
now. How they would mimic that horrid Italian.
After a time, having eaten to repletion, she left Nero's throne and
went boldly down the steps which led to the underground cavern where
the hungry lions were kept in the brave days of old.
She did not much like this place. It was gloomy. She quickly left it
and came back into the sunshine. To her horror and disgust, she saw a
particularly wild and fierce-looking man, seated on Nero's throne and
devouring with great appetite and relish the remains of her chocolates
and sweetmeats.
"Hi! Stop that! Get out of that!" cried Henrietta. "Those are mine, you
horrid thief!"
The man did not know a single word of English, but he smiled derisively
and continued his meal. Henrietta flew at him in a transport of rage
and began to box him about the ears and to try and get back what was
left of her lost possessions.
The man turned upon her with a wicked flash, out of black eyes, the
darkness of which she had never seen before. In an instant he had
gagged his victim, tying a rough cloth round her mouth and the lower
part of her face. She could not speak; she could scarcely breathe.
He then proceeded deliberately to rob her. He took the chain and her
purse, which contained a number of lire and some gold pieces.
He then took out a dagger and showed it to her. The dagger was very
bright and sharp. He pointed it at her breast.
The sun had gone in by now, and, quick as thought, he tucked his arm
round the terrified girl and conducted her through back ways and
slums until they got out under the Arch of Titus, and thus on to the
Via Appia. They walked quickly, the girl breathing hard and really
terrified at last.
Presently they came to a great building, which stood alone amidst
others very similar to it, in this gloomy spot. It was the most
celebrated tomb of a great Roman lady, which had been erected to her
honour on the Via Appia. The front of the tomb faced the straight and
level road, but the back was neglected, unsought and uncared for. The
bones of the great lady doubtless lay within, but _she_ had no power
now to protect the shivering girl. This Roman matron of high repute
could do nothing for the scornful little Henrietta in her time of need.
The girl tried feebly to pray. She was doubtless in the hands of a
brigand. He would kill her at any moment. He uttered exclamations of
rapture as they approached the mighty tomb, and swept the girl round to
the back.
No one saw them as they disappeared, although carriages and even
motor-cars were going by in numbers, returning quickly to Rome before
the dangerous hour of the sunset.
The Italian bandit then calmly proceeded to take from one of his
numerous pockets a great coil of coarse rope. With this he bound
Henrietta hand and foot and laid her on the grass. As he did so, the
guide to whom she had refused a lire came up.
"Ha, Giuseppa," said the guide.
Henrietta struggled to speak.
The guide laughed heartily and went away with the bandit into one of
the fastnesses of the surrounding hills.
The girl, lying on the weeds and grass, just beneath the tomb of this
great Roman lady, did not know what was going to happen to her. She was
certain that when it was quite dark that awful man would return.
Such, indeed, was his intention. He meant to hide the cruel foreigner
until a mighty ransom was secured for her delivery, but he could not
take her across the Campagna in her remarkable dress until the night
had really come.
Poor Henrietta rolled about in anguish. These cords were cutting into
her flesh. The Punishment Chair was the home of all luxury compared to
this. She believed unless deliverance came--and why should deliverance
come?--she would be stabbed with that awful dagger.
Meanwhile Maureen continued to be selfish. Her uncle wondered at her.
Never before had he seen his little girl so determined to have her own
way.
"I want, Uncle Pat," she said, "to see the great tomb of Cecilia
Metella. Don't you know those lines in _Childe Harold_?"
"No, my child, but I don't like being out on the Campagna so late."
"I will repeat the lines," said Maureen. "We shall soon get there."
"But--but--Henrietta!" muttered the Rector.
"We will go back to her immediately after seeing this wonderful tomb,"
said Maureen.
Then in her rich voice she repeated the well-known words:
"There is a stern round tower of other days,
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone,
Such as an army's baffled strength delays,
Standing with half its battlements alone,
And with two thousand years of ivy grown,
The garland of eternity, where wave
The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown;--
What was this tower of strength? within its cave
What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid?--a woman's grave,
"But who was she, the lady of the dead,
Tomb'd in a palace? Was she chaste and fair?
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear?
What daughter of her beauties was the heir?
How lived--how loved--how died she?
"Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bowed
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb
That weighed upon her gentle dust, a cloud
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom
Heaven gives its favourites--early death.
Perchance she died in age--surviving all,
Charms, kindred, children--with the silver grey
On her long tresses, which might yet recall,
It may be, still a something of the day
When they were braided, and her proud array
And lovely form were envied, praised and eyed
By Rome--but whither would Conjecture stray?
Thus much alone we know--Metella died,
The wealthiest Roman's wife; Behold his love or pride!
"There, Uncle Pat, isn't that magnificent?" said the girl. "And oh,
here we are!"
Henrietta, lying hidden at the back of the round tower, heard the
well-known voices. She heard Daisy's laugh. Hope revived in her heart.
She managed with a superhuman effort to give a sort of groan.
Instantly, without a moment's hesitation, Maureen had flown to the back
of the tomb and was bending over her. "Oh, Uncle Pat, Uncle Pat, give
me your knife quickly, quickly! I'm here, it's all right, darling! Oh
yes, I know you disobeyed, but we'll set you free and bring you home.
Don't talk, but keep up your courage. Your own Maureen, whom you love,
is with you."
* * * * * *
And this, perhaps, may be a fitting end to the story, for Henrietta's
hard little speck of a heart _was_ softened at last. Her terror and
anguish, her real and appalling danger had done their work.
* * * * * *
Some years have passed now since Maureen rescued Henrietta from the
back of the tomb of that great Roman lady, Cecilia Metella, and Maureen
has long left Felicity to take up other work in other places, to spread
her bright influence of love around her more and more, but Henrietta
and Daisy are still inmates of Felicity. Strange and extraordinary as
it seems, the desire of Maureen's heart has been realised and the once
naughty and hopeless Henrietta has now become the greatest comfort of
Mrs. Faithful. She is not only the head girl of the school, but she is
the one who is always sent for in times of trouble and difficulty. Her
fun and wit are as bright as ever, her fiery hair gives her a striking
appearance, and she warns the naughty ones when they arrive of their
hopeless position, and where poor Miss Pinchin failed, she succeeds. On
her lips are the words of kindness, in her heart is as much love as she
is capable of. Every one likes her, every one appeals to her.
Dinah says, "I could not do without thee."
Mrs. Faithful has made a request that she may continue at Felicity as
long as she likes, as no one ever before so helped her in the school.
Maureen and her Uncle have left Templemore and have gone to live in
England. This was a trial to Maureen, for she loved her country people
beyond words, but the Rector had grown feeble, sadly so of late, and
the Colonel gave up his beautiful place of Rathclaren, or rather he
sold it, and he and the Rector live together, while Maureen keeps house
for them both.
"They are _my dear old men_," she says in her sweet voice, and surely
no voice could ever be sweeter than hers.
It is easy for Dominic and Denis and Kitty to come to them during the
holidays, much easier than to cross over to the "ould, ould country."
Maureen is as fond of Dominic as ever.
"I am happy as the day is long," she said to him one day, "but there is
just one thing I miss, Dom, old boy."
"And what may that be, acushla machree?"
"Why, then, you wouldn't guess," said Maureen with a flash of her soft
brown eyes. "But it is just the _periwinkles_, avick. I think if I
could lie down on them once again and look up through the trees at the
blue, blue sky, I'd be--_well_, I'd be in Heaven."
"It strikes me you are always in Heaven, Maureen Aroon," said the lad.
He was going to Balliol then, having obtained a fine scholarship.
Maureen said gently, "Heaven is always in my heart, always. I left Hate
behind at the bottom of the Peak of Desolation."
"Ah, Maureen, there never was your like," said Dominic. "And what news
of Fuzzy-wuzzy and Daisy?" he continued.
"Oh, but just splendid," said Maureen. "Amongst all my happy thoughts,
this is my happiest. Do you know that Henny is the head girl of the
school! And though she is just as funny as ever, Mrs. Faithful would
not give her up for the wide world. She has begged Uncle Pat to let her
stay at Felicity for the present."
"And will he?" asked Dominic, a slight note of anxiety in his tone.
"Why, of course, Fuzzy wishes it herself."
"Then that's all right," said Dom.
"Dom, she must come back sometimes, and when she does, and you are at
home, you must show her that you love her."
"But I don't, you see," said the boy.
"There you are; you are not my _own_ boy, Dom, when you talk like
that. Poor little Fuzzy-wuzzy! It isn't in her nature to give _much_
love, so it is our bounden duty to lavish it on her, to surround her
with it. She must feel it mentally and in her heart."
"She loves _you_, Maureen," said Dominic, in his solemn way.
"Yes," replied Maureen, very gently. "I went to Felicity last week to
see them both, and she told me, poor darling, that she was perfectly
happy, and all the people were so nice to her, and she could manage the
naughty girls, oh, quite wonderfully. She told me also that she loved
as much as ever she _could_ Mrs. Faithful and Dinah, but, she added,
and, oh, Dom, I declare she looked quite _beautiful_, she _said_, 'I
have to _force_ myself to love them, but I do manage a little bit;
whereas, _you_, Maureen, _you_ and Daisy, without any effort, have _all
the love of my heart_.'"
And Daisy, what became of her in the future? What did she see in that
deep, trance-like slumber, which even the clever doctors and the
professional nurses took for death? Something surely which she was
never to forget, which, in fact, she never did forget. For, as a matter
of fact, the love of Maureen, her passionate devotion to the White
Angel, had entered down deep into her heart and stayed there forever
and ever.
The Daisy of the present is a quiet girl. She has perhaps a little of
the mantle of Maureen flung over her. She is remarked in the school
for her great gentleness; the sly look so apparent once in her
face has utterly departed. She is sweet and grave and noted for her
unselfishness.
Henrietta must always retain her fire, but Daisy, by a look or word,
can compel her. Daisy is happy of the happy. She knows the very solemn
things of life, for has she not in very truth stood at the entrance to
the gate of death with the White Angel?