A STARTLING PROPOSAL
IN a large old-fashioned house in one of the quietest of the many dull
streets of Devonport lived, as a brass plate on the door announced to
the passerby, Dr. Mildmay. The two windows at the left of the door,
looking into the street and screened by brown wire blinds, belonged to
the dining-room. Within the room, at an early hour on a certain October
morning, a girl was standing. She was close to the further window, but
she was not looking out. Her back was towards the light, and she was
giving all her attention to the easel before her, which held the little
painting on which she was at work. A cluster of blackberries with a few
brilliant bramble leaves, arranged on a table beyond, was what she was
striving to represent.
The girl's slight form was below the middle height, but
well-proportioned, and not without grace. She had brown hair, brown
eyes, and a healthy brown skin. The eyes, shaded by unusually long
lashes, were really pretty; the neat coil of shining braids, formed by
her abundant brown hair, called for admiration; but otherwise there was
nothing remarkable in her appearance save the bright, almost boyish,
frankness of her expression. As the clock on the mantelpiece struck
eight, she ceased painting and began to wash her brushes. A few minutes
later, another girl entered the room.
"Well, I declare, Enid!" she exclaimed, as she saw her sister's
occupation. "What industry! How long have you been at work, pray?"
"Since seven," said Enid, laying down her brushes, and retiring a
little to contemplate her work. "How does it look to you, Alice?"
"Beautiful!" said Alice, who had a profound admiration for everything
Enid did. "You have got the colour of those leaves splendidly."
"Do you think so?" said Enid in a dissatisfied tone. "I fancy my colour
is too crude. But then the leaves fade so quickly. They are not nearly
so bright as when I picked them yesterday."
"No; and the fruit is turning red," said Alice. "However, you have done
your best, and the result is very good, I think."
With that she turned to the dining-table, which was already prepared
for breakfast save for a few items which Alice hastened to supply. She
was taller and stouter than her sister, and though a year younger than
Enid, might have passed for the elder.
The girls' dispositions differed widely, but they were good friends
nevertheless. Alice was of an eminently practical turn of mind, fond of
homely occupations, full of energy, and disposed to regard everything
from the most matter-of-fact point of view. Enid too was gifted
with good common-sense, but in her case it was tempered by a fine
imagination and a certain ideality of character. Alice often accused
her sister of romantic tendencies, and not without reason; but romance
is not folly, as she perhaps thought. The world owes something to the
pure, tender fancies of a young girl's mind. It was good that Enid's
heart should crave beauty, and seek it wherever it might be found. Such
a one cannot live "by bread alone," but needs the Divine Word, whether
uttered by poet, or painter, or the voice of Nature herself.
"How late everyone is this morning," said Enid, as she moved her easel
and placed it against the wall. "Ah! Here come the boys."
The sound of a stampede from the top of the house to the bottom was
followed by the entrance of two boys, the younger of whom was ten years
old. A voice from the top of the stairs sternly rebuked them for making
so much noise, and a few seconds later Dr. Mildmay himself appeared.
"Your mother has one of her bad headaches," he said, addressing his
daughters. "She will not get up just yet."
Enid instantly began to prepare a tray to carry upstairs. Alice took
her place at the head of the table, her father seated himself opposite
to her, and the meal began. Dr. Mildmay had three more girls, but one
was away on a visit and the other two were at boarding-school. He was
rich in daughters.
Enid carried her mother's tea and toast upstairs, and was gone some
minutes. Meanwhile, the postman arrived. There was a letter for Alice
as well as several for her father. She was engaged with hers when her
father suddenly roused her by exclaiming in surprised tones,—
"Well, this is a strange thing, to be sure!"
"What is strange, father?"
"Why, here is a letter from my cousin James Marian, who scarcely ever
troubles himself to remember my existence. It is extraordinary that he
should write to me at all; but what is more astonishing, he actually
writes to ask if I will let Enid go to Rome with his daughter."
"Enid go to Rome!" Alice's surprise could not be greater.
"Yes; it appears that Miss Marian is somewhat of an artist, and intends
to pass the winter in Rome for the sake of prosecuting her art. He
wishes to secure a companion for her."
"Oh, father! Enid would like it above all things."
"I dare say," said Dr. Mildmay drily. "But unfortunately there are
other considerations. I wonder what made him think of my Enid."
"Perhaps his daughter suggested her," said Alice. "Don't you remember,
that time we met them at Ilfracombe, she talked a good deal to Enid,
and seemed rather taken with her?"
"Did we meet them at Ilfracombe? I had forgotten."
"Why, yes, father. They were staying at the Grand Hotel. You said that
you barely knew him at first, he was so altered from what he had been
when you saw him last."
"Ah, yes! I remember all about it now. The girl was Enid's age, I
believe."
"Older, father. She must be twenty-three, and Enid is not yet
twenty-one."
"But she soon will be. That is no great difference. It would be a
thorough change for Enid if I let her go."
"It would indeed," said Alice. "I suppose it would cost a lot of money."
"Oh, as for that, Marian says it shall cost me nothing. I shall 'lay
him under a great obligation' if I allow Enid to accompany her cousin.
He writes a very kind letter."
"If it is to cost you nothing, why should you hesitate?" asked Alice,
raising her eyebrows. "It would be a splendid thing for Enid."
"That depends," said Dr. Mildmay. "It is not a thing to be settled
off-hand. I must talk to your mother about it."
At that moment Enid came back into the room.
"Enid," called out her youngest brother, "you are to go to Rome."
"Why to Rome, of all places?" she asked, thinking he was joking.
"How would you like to pass the winter in Rome?" asked her father,
turning his eyes upon her.
"I only wish I had the chance," said Enid as she sat down. "Whatever
makes you ask me such a question?"
"Because you have the chance," burst in Alice, unable to keep back the
news. "Mr. Marian has written to ask father to let you go."
Enid's amazement was intense. She grew pale with excitement as Mr.
Marian's proposal was more fully explained to her. To go to Rome, the
grand old city that is like no other, with its solemn, awe-inspiring
ruins, its relics of departed greatness, and its priceless art
treasures; to Rome, the fount of beauty, the ideal school of artists,
the loved haunt of poets! It seemed too good to be true that such an
idea could even be mentioned in connection with herself.
Long after their father had gone off to his consulting-room, and the
boys had started for school, the girls still sat at the breakfast-table
discussing the wonderful possibility.
"Cook will lose her temper if I do not soon go and tell her about
dinner," said Alice at length rising from the table. "Just look at the
time! What am I thinking of to sit here like this!"
And she hurried away to attend to her domestic duties. She undertook
the housekeeping under the supervision of her mother, who was not
strong enough to do much herself.
Enid went to her mother's room. Before going to his patients, Dr.
Mildmay had made time to run upstairs and communicate to his wife
the contents of his cousin's letter. Enid found her mother almost as
excited about it as she was herself.
Mrs. Mildmay was a nervous, delicate, sensitive woman. Enid had her
mother's eyes, but not the fine contour of her face and her faultless
features. Mrs. Mildmay was glad that it was so. She rejoiced in the
round, rosy faces of her children. She would far rather they were
homely in appearance than that any of them should have inherited with
her highly refined features, the sensitive nerves, which at times made
her life a burden to her.
Enid happily knew nothing of such suffering; but in many respects she
resembled her mother. The two understood each other perfectly. Mrs.
Mildmay warmly loved all her children; Alice was her right hand in
all practical matters; but Enid was united to her by a closer bond of
confidence and sympathy. Their tastes were similar. Mrs. Mildmay was
a highly-cultured woman. She read largely, and her reading extended
over a wide circle, embracing, with the scientific works dear to her
husband, works of philosophy, poetry, and general literature in which
he took no interest. His temper of mind being purely scientific, it
followed that she understood him better than he understood her. Enid in
some respects came nearer to her than he did. She could talk to this
child as she could not talk to him, and it was little wonder that her
heart clung fondly to Enid.
Enid entered the darkened room with noiseless step; but her mother's
eyes were wide open and very bright, and there was a flush on her worn
cheek.
"Ah, Enid!" she said, lifting her head. "This is a startling proposal,
is it not? Oh, you need not tell me—I know how you feel about it. Of
course you want to go."
"I should like to go immensely," said Enid. "I cannot help hoping that
you and father will agree to let me go."
"To be sure. It is a grand opportunity for you. It has been the wish
of my life to see Rome; but I shall never see it now. If you went, you
would tell me about it, and I should see it with your eyes. So there is
some selfishness in my wish that you should go. Yet I shrink from the
thought of your going so far from me. If you should be ill or unhappy!
There is that dreadful malaria—"
"I should not be afraid of that," said Enid. "I have heard it said
that, with ordinary prudence, no one need dread the fever."
"Certainly you have always had good health," said Mrs. Mildmay; "you
are not like me, I am thankful to say." She put her hand to her head
with an expression of pain.
"Lie down, mother," said Enid; "we had better not talk about it now.
You will make your head worse."
"In a minute, dear. I was going to say that this proposal offers you
great advantages. I told your father so. You will get on with your
drawing. I think you have decided talent, and I have often wished
that you could have a better chance of cultivating it. We must manage
somehow for you to have lessons in Rome."
"Oh, mother, how good of you! I have been thinking about my drawing."
"My dear, it is only right that we should do all we can for you.
Your father is not rich, and we wish all our girls to be thoroughly
educated, so that they may be able to support themselves in coming
years, if it be necessary. Clara, I think, must make music her special
study. Alice, dear girl, will always be able to employ herself in a
variety of ways, and as long as the home lasts, we shall want her here.
We cannot tell yet what the younger ones will be fit for. But you must
cultivate your taste for painting."
"I am glad you think so," said Enid. "But now you really must rest."
For the feverish colour was deepening in her mother's cheek, and Enid
knew well how bad for her was the excitement she manifested.
"And then there is the language," Mrs. Mildmay went on, without heeding
her words: "of course you must learn to speak Italian whilst you are
there. It is easy to acquire a language when you hear every one about
you speaking it. I studied Italian when I was a girl. I used to read
Dante in the original; but of course I never learned to speak the
language. I must look for my Italian books, and see whether I can help
you to get some notion of the grammar before you go."
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Enid, joyfully. "You talk as if you really
thought I should go."
"Yes, I fancy we shall have to let you go," said her mother with a
smile. Then with a change of countenance, she added, "But how I shall
miss you, child!" She lay back on her pillow, unable longer to combat
with the increased pain excitement had produced. Enid knew that there
was no remedy save perfect quietude, so she kissed her mother and went
away.
Enid was not left long in doubt as to her father's decision. On the
following day, he wrote to accept the proposal made by Mr. Marian.
Two days later, Enid received a bright, friendly letter from her
cousin, who expressed much pleasure at the idea of having her company,
and drew a glowing picture of the delights that awaited them at Rome.
They were to start in three weeks' time, so Enid had enough to do to
get ready for her departure.
Alice rose to the occasion, and worked indefatigably for her sister's
benefit. The amount of sewing she managed to get through, and the
ingenuity she displayed in every difficulty, were astonishing. There
was nothing in the event to disturb the balance of her mind; but Enid
was like one in a dream all the time, and would have forgotten half the
things she needed if Alice had not continually jogged her memory.
Yet it was with a delightful sense of elation that Enid made her
preparations for the journey. As she bade her friends good-bye, every
one congratulated her on the prospect before her. Some even expressed
pity for Alice because she was not going too; but that contented young
woman would have none of their commiseration. She had no desire to
travel; but she knew that it was what Enid had always longed for, and
she was very glad she should have the pleasure.
But in spite of the pleasure she anticipated, it was hard for Enid when
the eve of her departure came. A reaction set in then; her heart failed
her at the thought of going so far from those she loved, and for a
brief period she almost wished that the idea of her wintering in Rome
had never been entertained.
Tears were not far from Enid's eyes as she bade her mother good-night.
And the parting the next morning was painful, but for Enid it was
a pain which did not last long. Her father had decided to take her
up to town himself. It was rarely he took a holiday; but he was not
particularly busy at this time, and he felt it would be pleasant to
renew his acquaintance with his cousin Marian, and see the girls start
on their long journey two days later.
The express had not run far from Devonport ere Enid was chatting gaily
with her father about Rome. As generally happens, it was those left
behind who felt the parting most. Mrs. Mildmay shut herself in her
room for an hour after Enid had gone, and when she reappeared, her
eyelids were suspiciously red. Even Alice, whose cheerfulness rarely
fluctuated, was conscious of a blank, dreary feeling after her sister's
departure, and had to set about the rearrangement of Enid's room,
disordered by the exigencies of packing, with the utmost energy in
order to regain her usual equanimity. Enid Mildmay was not a girl who
could leave her home without being missed.