Sunny Italy, the home of music.
The sun was shining as it can shine in Naples, but the courtyard of the
Hotel di Sevril was pleasantly shady, for there was a piazza all round,
and in the centre a cool and sparkling fountain played in its marble
basin, while evergreen trees spread dark tracery on the white pavement.
In one of the shadiest and coolest spots sat Maude, daughter of The Earl
of Barmouth, looking exceedingly pretty, though there was a certain
languid air, undoubtedly caused by the warmth of the climate, which
seemed to make her listless and disposed to neglect the work which lay
in her lap, and lean back in the lounging chair, which creaked sharply
at every movement.
"I do wish he would come back," she said softly, and as she spoke her
eyes lit up with an intense look of happiness, and a sweet smile played
about her lips. "But he will not leave me alone long."
Here she made a pretence of working, but ceased directly.
"I wonder what they are all doing at home. How dear Tryphie is, and
papa, and darling Tom. Will Tom marry Tryphie? Yes, he is so
determined, he will be sure to. Heigho! I shall be so glad when we are
forgiven, and Tom and he are friends. I can feel sure about papa, but
Tom can be so stern and sharp."
There was no allusion made to Lady Barmouth, for she seemed to have
dropped out of her daughter's thoughts, but Sir Grantley Wilters was
remembered with a shudder, which was cleared away by the coming of a
smiling waiter.
"Would the signore and signora dine at the _table-d'hote_?"
Maude hesitated for a few moments, moved by monetary considerations, and
then said--"Yes. Has the signore returned?"
"No, signora," said the waiter, and he bowed and went back into the old
palazzo.
"I wanted to go to a cheap hotel," said Maude, dreamily, and with a
happy smile upon her face--somewhat inane, it is true, for it was the
young married lady's smile--"but he said his _cara bella sposa_ must
have everything of the best. Oh, my darling! my darling! how he loves
me. Poor? What is poverty? I grow more proud of him every day. What
do we want with society? Ah, how I hate it. Give me poverty and love.
Oh, come back, my darling, come back. That's what my heart keeps
beating whenever he is away."
It was certainly a very pleasant kind of poverty, in a sunny land with a
delicious view of the bay, and a good _table-d'hote_; and a loving
husband; and as Maude, the young wife, dreamed and adored her husband in
his absence, she smiled and showed her white teeth till a sound of
voices made her start and listen.
"Oh, how I do tremble every time any one fresh comes to the hotel. I
always fancy it is Sir Grantley Wilters come to fetch me back. But he
dare not try to claim me now, for I am another's. But what are we to do
when the money is all gone?"
She thought dreamily, but in a most untroubled fashion.
"I can sing," she said at last, "so can he, and he plays admirably. Ah,
well, there's time enough to think of that when the money is all gone.
Let me be happy now after all that weary misery, but I must write home.
There, I'll go and do it now before he returns.--Oh!"
She had risen to go, but sank back trembling and half-fainting in her
seat as a pallid, weary-looking, washed-out elderly gentleman tottered
out of the house into the piazza, and dropped into a chair just in front
of the door.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" he sighed, as he let his walking-stick fall
clattering down. "How tired out I do feel."
"Oh!" sighed Maude, as she saw that her only means of exit was barred.
"I with--I wish--damme, I wish I was back at home with my legs under my
own table, and--and--and a good glass of port before me. Hang that
Robbins, a confounded scoundrel; I--I--I know I shall finish by breaking
his head. Four days before I left England I asked him to put one single
bottle of the '20 port in my dressing-room with the cork drawn, and he
threw her ladyship at my head, and, damme, I didn't get a drop. And my
own port--a whole bin of it--my own port--my own port. Hah! how
comfortable a chair is when you're tired. He was a good fellow who
first invented chairs."
He shuffled himself down, and lay right back.
"Shall I never find my little girl?" he sighed.
"What shall I do?" murmured Maude. "Why isn't he here?"
"I'm not fit to come hunting organ men all over the continent,"
continued the old gentleman; "but Tom insisted, you see. Oh, my poor
leg! It's worse here than it was in town."
He rubbed his leg slowly, and Maude made a movement as if to go to his
side, but something seemed to hold her back.
"Tom is sure to be near," she thought, "and they must not meet yet. Tom
would not forgive him. If I could only get away and warn him."
"Why don't Tom come and order something to eat? I'm starving. Oh,
dear: London to Paris--Paris to Baden--Baden to Nice--Nice to Genoa, and
now on here to Naples. Poor Tom, he seems to grow more furious the more
we don't find them. Oh, hang the girl!" he added aloud.
Maude started, and had hard work to suppress a sob.
"They'll separate us; they'll drag me away," she sighed.
"No, no, no, I will not say that," cried Lord Barmouth, aloud. "I am
hungry, and it makes me cross. My poor leg! I should like to find my
poor darling," he said, piteously. "Bless her! bless her! she was a
good girl to me."
"Oh! oh! oh!" sobbed Maude, hysterically, for she could contain herself
no longer.
"Eh! eh! eh!" ejaculated Lord Barmouth. "What the deuce! A lady in
distress. Doosed fine woman too," he added, raising his glass as he
tottered to his feet. "I was a devil of a fellow among the ladies when
I was a youngster. Can I, madam--suppose she don't understand English--
can I, madam, be of any service? What, Maudey, my darling? Is it you
at last?"
"Oh, papa! papa!"
There was a burst of sobbing and embracing, ended by the old man seating
himself in Maude's chair, and the girl sinking at his feet.
"And--and--and I've--I've found you at last then, my dear, or have you
found me? Is--is it really you?"
"Yes, yes, yes, my own dear darling father," sobbed Maude.
"Yes, it is--it is," he cried, fondling her and drawing her to his
breast, till he seemed to recollect something.
"But, damme--damme--damme--"
"Oh, don't--don't swear at me, papa darling!"
"But--but I must, my dear. Here have I been searching all over Europe
for you, and now I have found you."
"Kiss me, papa dear," sobbed Maude.
"Yes, yes, my darling, and I am so glad to see you again; but what a
devil of a wicked girl you have been to bolt."
"Oh, but, papa darling, I couldn't--I couldn't marry that man."
"Well, well, well," chuckled Lord Barmouth, "he was a miserable screw
for a girl like you. But I--I hear that he's going to shoot him first
time he sees him."
"Oh, papa! Then they must never meet."
"But--but I'm not saying what I meant to say--all I'd got ready for you,
Maudey. How dare you disgrace your family like that?"
"Don't--don't blame me, papa darling. You don't know what I suffered
before I consented to go."
"But, you know--"
"Oh, papa, don't blame your poor girl, who loves you so very dearly."
"But--but it's such a doose of a come down, my darling. It's--it's--
it's ten times worse than any case I know."
"Papa, for shame!" cried Maude, indignantly.
"Now--now--now, don't you begin to bully me, Maudey my dear. I get so
much of that at home."
"Then you will forgive me, dear?" said Maude, nestling up to the poor
weak old man.
"But--but I oughtn't, Maudey, I oughtn't, you know," he said, caressing
her.
"But you will, dear, and you'll come and stay with us often. We are so
happy."
"Are so--so happy!" said the old man, with a look of perplexity on his
countenance.
"Yes, dear. He loves me so, and--oh, papa, I do love him. You will
come? Never mind what mamma and Tom say."
"But Tom is like a madman about it, Maudey. He says he'll have you back
if he dies for it."
"Oh, papa!"
"Yes, my pet, he's in a devil of a rage, and it comes out dreadfully
every time he grows tired."
"Then _they_ must not meet either."
"No, my dear, I suppose it would be best not," said the old man; "but--
but do you know, Maudey, I feel as if I was between those two confounded
stools in the proverb, and--and I know I shall come to the ground.
But--but where--where did you get married?"
"At a little church, papa dear, close to Holborn."
"Of course," groaned the old man to himself. "Close to Saffron Hill, I
suppose."
"I don't know the street, papa dear."
"That's right, my pet. I mean that's wrong. I--I--really, Maudey my
pet, I'm so upset with the travelling, and now with finding you, that
I--I hardly know what I ought to say."
"Say you forgive your own little girl, dear, and that you will love my
own darling husband as if he were your son."
"But--but, Maudey, my dear, I don't feel as if I could. You see when a
poor man like that--I wish Tom would come."
"Tom!" cried Maude, springing up and turning pale.
"Yes, yes, he's coming to join me, my pet. Would you like to see him
now, or--or--or wait a bit till he isn't so furious?"
"Oh, papa dear, I dare not meet him. They would quarrel, and what shall
I do? We must escape--"
"But are you staying in this hotel?"
"Yes, papa dear."
"That's--that's doosed awkward, my pet, for I shouldn't like there to be
a row."
"No, no, pa dear. Don't say a word to Tom, or there will be a horrible
scene."
"But, my pet, we've come on purpose to find you, and now you're going
away."
"Only for a time, dear," cried Maude, embracing the old man frantically.
"Don't, don't tell Tom."
"But I feel as if I must, my darling. Tom is so angry, and we've spent
such a lot of money trying to find you. It would have paid for no end
of good dinners at the club."
"Yes, yes, but we will escape directly, and Tom will never know."
"But what's the good of my finding you, my darling, if you are going to
bolt again directly?"
"Only to wait till Tom has cooled down, dear."
"Well, well, I suppose I must promise."
"My own darling papa," cried Maude, kissing him. "I'll write to you
soon, dear; and as soon as Tom is quiet and has forgiven us, we shall
all be as happy as the day is long."
She kissed him again quickly on either cheek, and then, before he could
even make up his mind to stay her, she had hurried into the hotel,
leaving her father scratching his head and setting his dark wig all
awry.