A SERIOUS ADVENTURE
ENID was greatly distressed. The more she pondered what had occurred
at the studio that afternoon, the more she regretted it. She could not
feel that she was to blame in the matter; but neither was she anxious
to justify herself. The bitter words Maud had addressed to her did not
rankle in her heart. She could forgive them, because she imagined she
had discerned the true source of the warm feeling they betrayed. In her
passionate outbreak, Maud had unconsciously revealed to her cousin the
secret of her heart.
If anyone deserved blame, it was Julius Dakin. He had not behaved well.
He, who prided himself on his taste and tact, had certainly committed a
breach of decorum in speaking to Enid of her cousin in the way that he
had. Enid felt vexed with him for causing so much trouble. Indeed, she
believed herself to be seriously angry with him. She was very severe
on him in her own mind. He was just one of those handsome, agreeable,
useless men, who were for ever making mischief in the world. She took
credit for understanding him, and was convinced that if any girl were
proof against his fascinations, it was Enid Mildmay.
But for Maud, Enid was truly grieved. It must be remembered that Enid
was of a romantic disposition. She loved poetry, and had also a keen
appetite for fiction, though she was guided by fine taste in the
selection of it. But her sound common-sense and the influence of her
active, healthy home life, had prevented her from making herself the
heroine of her day-dreams. She had perhaps as little vanity as a girl
can have. She cherished no illusions regarding herself. But she had her
thoughts concerning that love which is the crown of a woman's life.
She hid them deep within her heart, but they were such as she need not
have been ashamed to avow. The love of which Enid conceived was the
love which the poets have made their theme. She had no idea of the low,
petty, selfish feelings which dare to claim the holy name of love.
She was at the age when girls of imaginative tendency dote on Mrs.
Browning's poems, believe all loves to be eternal, and assert, in the
words of their favourite poet, that—
". . . Those never loved,
Who dream that they loved once."
Therefore, when Enid detected in Maud's jealous anger the signs of an
attachment to Julius Dakin, she at once imagined the feeling to be the
deepest and strongest of its kind. Her sister Alice would have been
moved to laughter by such a discovery, and would probably have made
it her endeavour to shame Maud out of her nonsense, as she would have
deemed it. And perhaps in five out of ten of such cases, those who
laugh are justified in doing so.
But Enid took the matter seriously, and felt profound pity for her
cousin. She had previsions of sorrow and heart-break for Maud, since
she was convinced that Julius had no such attachment to her, nor was
ever likely to have. And perhaps, in spite of her pity for her cousin,
Enid did not regret that this was so. It did not seem to her that
Julius Dakin and Maud were exactly suited to each other.
Enid had spoken truly when she said that her cousin had great
self-control. This was evinced on the present occasion. After those few
hot words, Maud regained her usual self-possession, and relapsed into
cold, proud dignity. No other allusion was made to the occurrence of
the afternoon. Things went on as before, save that Maud's manner made
Enid aware of a chilling distance between them.
It was so in the days that followed. Maud was calm and courteous, but
the frigidity of her manner never thawed. Enid was made to feel herself
a culprit, though at the same time nothing was said or done that she
could find just cause to resent. She thought at last that she could
welcome the hottest discussion as an exchange for Maud's icy reserve.
One morning the two girls were at work in the studio. Neither had
spoken for the space of about half an hour, for they had fallen into
the way of saying little more than was absolutely necessary to each
other. Enid was absorbed in her work; but Maud was dissatisfied with
her task, or not industriously inclined. She would haven been glad to
throw down her brushes and indulge in a chat with her cousin, could she
have done so without sacrificing her dignity. She would have welcomed
any visitor; but it was not an hour at which anyone was likely to call.
So when a knock was heard, Maud did not suppose for a moment that there
was anyone more interesting than a model at the door.
"Come in," she said indifferently.
But when the door was slowly opened, and the person outside cautiously
presented himself, she uttered a cry which astonished Enid.
Her cousin looked up and saw a tall young man in the doorway. Brown and
sturdy, with a frank, glad smile on his face and a sparkle in his keen
grey eyes, he was unmistakably an Englishman.
"Sidney!" exclaimed Maud in her surprise. "Sidney Althorp, it is never
you!"
"I have reason to believe it is," he replied with mock gravity, as he
came forward and took her hand.
"Well, I declare!" said Maud. "Of all astonishing things! Who would
have thought of seeing you in Rome?"
"Not you, evidently. And yet you have always represented Rome to me as
a city to which everyone went, and which I was therefore bound to visit
some day."
"But I never really thought you would come, for you never like to do
the things which other people do."
"Indeed! Perhaps you are mistaken. At any rate, this is an exception."
"Yes; but the idea of your coming in this way, without informing me of
your intention! And you know I hate surprises."
"Do you? I am sorry I have displeased you by appearing so unexpectedly.
Shall I take myself off?"
"Nonsense! You know how glad I am to see you. Do sit down till I get
accustomed to your presence. I still feel as if it could not really be
you."
Mr. Althorp glanced at Enid ere taking the seat to which Maud motioned
him, and Maud was reminded of her duty to her cousin.
"Enid," she said, "you have often heard me speak of Mr. Althorp. My
cousin, Miss Mildmay—Mr. Althorp."
The young man advanced and shook hands with Enid, giving her at the
same time one of his earnest, searching glances. She was struck with
the kind, honest look of his eyes.
"So this is the Studio Mariano," he said the next minute, calmly
surveying the room. "At last I see it. Can you wonder that when its
fame reached me, I could not rest till I beheld it?"
"Don't be satirical, Sidney," said Maud. "And how did you know it was
called the Studio Mariano? Oh, I suppose papa told you. I dare say he
has read to you all my letters."
"I have occasionally had the pleasure of listening to extracts from
them."
"Of course. And how is my father?"
"He was very well when I left, I am glad to say," replied Mr. Althorp.
"That is right. I hope he has ceased to lament the waywardness of his
daughter."
"I don't know about that. He has seemed more cheerful of late. He has
been going a good deal to your aunt's house, I believe."
"Oh, I am glad to hear that. I knew he would soon cease to miss me, and
take a reasonable view of my absence."
"You must not suppose that your father has ceased to long for your
return," said Sidney Althorp. "Indeed, he hopes you will not remain
away much longer. He has suggested that you and Miss Mildmay should
return under my protection in three weeks' time."
A shadow fell on Maud's face.
"That is out of the question," she said quickly. "Three weeks' time,
indeed! It is impossible. I have engagements that will keep me far
longer in Rome."
Sidney Althorp said nothing.
"You have not yet explained how you come to be here," said Maud,
anxious to change the subject. "When did you arrive in Rome?"
"I arrived this morning, having left London on Monday night. There
was business in Paris which Mr. Marian wished me to undertake, and he
kindly thought that could spare me for a week or two, and suggested
that I should come on here. I believe he thought that the next best
thing to coming himself to fetch you was to send me. I need not say how
gladly I fell in with the suggestion."
"Of course," said Maud; "but you may tell my father that I mean to stay
in Rome till he comes himself to fetch me. So you have travelled here
straight from Paris. How tired you must be!"
"On the contrary, I feel quite fresh, and eager to see all I can of
Rome. I hope you are willing to be my 'cicerone.'"
"I shall be delighted. There is nothing I should enjoy more," said Maud
gleefully. "Where shall I take you first?"
"Wherever you please; you shall choose."
"Very well; I know what you will like," said Maud. "I suppose, Enid,
you will not care to leave your work?"
This was not the way in which Maud would formerly have invited Enid
to join her. Enid felt the coldness of her words. She would probably
on any invitation have hesitated to make a third; but as it was, she
felt it impossible to do otherwise than assent to Maud's negative
proposition.
So Maud and her friend went out together, and Enid was left to pursue
her work alone. She was perhaps disposed to be a little envious of
her cousin. It seemed such a delightful thing for Maud to have this
friend arrive, bringing her news of her father. Enid felt how she would
welcome anyone who came to her with tidings from her home.
She worked steadily all the forenoon, and returned again to the studio
after luncheon; but the afternoon light was not good, the quiet of
the room became oppressive, and soon Enid could no longer resist her
longing to be in the open air. She laid aside her work and went out.
It was a grey, chilly, cheerless day. On such a day, so rare in Italy,
Rome does not look like itself. Enid felt the difference the lack of
sunshine made as she passed through various narrow winding streets
to the Forum. Colourless and forsaken looked the old ruins—there was
scarcely a tourist even to be seen. Enid passed on along the Forum and
beneath the Arch of Titus.
She wandered on without any purpose till she reached the Colosseum.
Then she remembered that she had not yet explored the Cœlian Hill.
Turning to the right, she crossed a plantation of trees, at present
leafless, and then ascended by a steep paved lane, spanned by
picturesque arches of brickwork buttressing the old buildings on the
left, to the Church of SS. Giovanni e Paolo.
A pretty dark-eyed child in picturesque rags was coming down the hill,
and at the sight of the young lady, she pulled a woebegone face, and,
approaching her, began to beg persistently. Enid had no patience with
the Roman beggars, and never paid heed to their stories; but the
appearance of this girl interested her. She could not believe her
piteous tale, but it occurred to her that Maud might like to employ
the child as a model, so she asked her if she would be willing to pose
as one, gave her the number of the studio in the Via Sistina, and told
her to come there on the following day. The girl seemed pleased, and
readily promised to come.
Enid went on, and soon gained the piazza above, where she paused to
admire the beauty of the tall campanile, which she had often observed
from a distance. Then a notice caught her eye, attached to a small door
in the side of the church:
"Enquire at the sacristy for the house of the Holy Saints, S. Giovanni
and S. Paolo."
At once there came to Enid's recollection, a talk she had had with a
gentleman whom she met at one of Mrs. Dakin's receptions, respecting
this same house. He was an intelligent man, interested in antiquities,
and he had told her about an ancient dwelling which had been discovered
beneath this church, and charged her not to miss seeing it ere she
quitted Rome.
It was supposed, he said, to be the very house in which St. John and
St. Paul had lived. These saints were officers in the household of the
Christian Princess Constantia, daughter of the Emperor Constantine, who
honoured them and reposed in them great trust. When Julian the Apostate
came to the throne, he attempted to persuade them to sacrifice to
idols; but they were ready to die rather than abjure their faith in the
one living God.
"Our lives are at the disposal of the emperor," they said, "but our
souls and our faith belong to our God."
And Julian, fearing the influence of a public martyrdom, had them
privately beheaded in their own house. This church, which bore their
names, had been erected to mark the spot where they were martyred.
Remembering all this, Enid felt a desire to see the interior of the
church, and, if possible, the house which had recently been excavated
beneath it. She crossed the piazza to the door, lifted the heavy
curtain, and entered. As she glanced around, she experienced a sense of
disappointment. The interior of the old church was not so interesting
as she had been led to expect. Bare whitewashed walls met her view,
broken by old pillars, which appeared at some period to have undergone
painting. Above the pillars were plain glass windows, which flooded the
church with light, and rendered painfully clear its lack of beauty.
Towards the centre of the nave, there was in the pavement a square
stone enclosed within iron railings.
A monk who was standing near it explained to Enid that this was the
very stone on which the saints were beheaded. Their bodies, he said,
reposed in a porphyry urn beneath the high altar. Several monks wearing
the black habit of the Passionists, whose convent adjoins the church,
were moving about within the building. Some of them were busy hanging
crimson and tinsel drapery about the tribune, in preparation apparently
for a "festa." The colour thus imparted was grateful to the eye,
affording a welcome relief to the prevailing whitewash.
Enid went forward to observe the frescoes by Pomerancio. She made an
enquiry of an aged monk, who seemed to be superintending the movements
of the others, concerning the subterranean house. He told her rather
snappishly that she could not see it that afternoon; it was too cold
and damp. Enid did not, however, at once give up the idea of seeing it.
She lingered awhile, for other visitors were entering the church, and
she hoped there might yet be an opportunity of descending.
A party of travellers, evidently German, were making the tour of the
church. Enid followed them as they entered a chapel on the right of
the nave. This was a modern addition, the splendid adornments of which
afforded a striking contrast to the plainness of the old church.
Pillars of alabaster supported the gilded ceiling, above which opened
a painted dome. Here there was no lack of colour. Polished marbles of
various kinds adorned the walls, the floor was inlaid with the same,
the high altar was richly gilded, and above it, as above each of the
side altars, was a picture of imposing proportions, though Enid found
none of them satisfactory from an artistic point of view.
Gazing up at the pictures, Enid slowly approached the altar, before
which the party of tourists, accompanied by one of the monks, were
grouped. As they moved a little to make way for her, Enid started, and
experienced a strange thrill as she came thus unexpectedly upon the
object they were examining with curious interest.
Below the altar was a large glass case, in which lay, in an attitude of
calm repose, the embalmed body of an aged monk, wearing the habit of
the Passionists. The waxen hue of death was unmistakable, but the still
face wore an expression of heavenly peace. The pale hand still held the
breviary it had used in life. There was something very impressive in
this sudden vision of the sublime repose and majesty of death.
"Whose body is this?" Enid enquired of the young monk who was in
attendance on the party.
"St. Paul's," he answered; then seeing that his words conveyed to her
no information, he added reverently, "It is that of our founder, St.
Paul of the Cross."
Then he went to the back of the altar, touched a spring, and the gilded
cover of the sarcophagus slid again into its place, hiding the form of
the dead man.
Enid lingered for a few moments in the chapel which been raised to the
memory of this notable saint, who died in 1776. Then she followed in
the direction taken by the others. She saw them in a little chapel at
the end of the right aisle; but ere she reached it, they were already
descending the flight of steps which led down from this spot to the
subterranean house. Enid hastened to join the party. A monk was just
closing behind them the door at the head of the stairs; but at Enid's
approach, he opened it, thrust a small piece of lighted candle into her
hand, and bade her follow the others.
Enid kept pretty much in the rear of the party, whose noisy comments
on what they saw were not to her taste. She could not hear the account
given by the monk who led them, of each room they entered; but she
had heard enough of the nature of the discoveries to draw her own
conclusions respecting each. She preferred to follow at her own pace,
and look about her in a leisurely manner. There was much of interest
to be seen. The old solid walls, with frescoes still perfectly
distinguishable remaining in places, the oratory of the saints with
a model of the primitive altar used there in the second century, the
beautiful "amphorae," and various relics which had been discovered in
the excavations, had all a fascination for Enid. She lingered for some
minutes in a chamber which she heard the monk call the "cantina," and
which contained a collection of old water-vessels and cups, with the
exquisite forms of which she was charmed.
Suddenly she became aware that there was danger in thus lingering.
The others had all passed on. She hurried her steps, that she might
overtake them; but she mistook the way in the narrow passages, and came
back again to the room from which she had started. She turned again,
when a sound reached her ear which filled her with dismay. It was a
heavy, jarring noise, as of a door closing above. Surely they had not
closed the door upon her, and left her alone in these gloomy vaults!
Enid was frightened, but she would not give way to fear. She set out
again, observing more carefully the way she took, and presently reached
the flight of steps leading up into the church. It was as she had
feared.
The iron door at the top was securely fastened. Still Enid would
not give way to alarm. She rapped with her knuckles on the door,
she shouted at the top of her voice, but without result. Her voice
resounded hollowly through the vaults, but it was powerless to
penetrate to the church above, and the solid thickness of the door
defied all her efforts.
Was it possible they had forgotten she was there? Then a worse doubt
struck dread to her heart. Had they ever been aware of her presence?
She had kept behind them all; she had spoken to none of the party. She
felt almost sure that the old monk had not cast a glance at her.
It was a terrible situation. Gradually the full horror of it dawned
upon her mind. It was purely by accident that she had come to this
church. No one would think of seeking her there. No one would have the
least clue to her whereabouts, for it was quite aimlessly that she had
wandered out this afternoon. If she could not succeed in making herself
heard, she would have to spend the night where she was. Who could say
how many hours it would be ere anyone opened that door? Brave as she
was, Enid shuddered at the thought. She glanced at the bit of candle in
her hand. Already it was almost burned out.
At this moment, the swelling notes of an organ reached her ears,
accompanied after a few moments by the sound of voices chanting in
unison. The monks were singing their vespers in the church above. Again
Enid put forth her utmost efforts, hammering on the door, shouting,
screaming, but with no better success than before. The thick iron door,
the solid roof above, deadened effectually the greatest noise she could
produce.
She was well-nigh in despair, but it occurred to her that ere the light
went out, and left her helpless in the darkness, it would be well to
explore the chambers again, and see if she could discover any other
outlet. So she went through them once more, looking about her with
the utmost care. She did discover a small wooden door at the end of
a passage, which apparently had been used by the workmen during the
excavations. But it was locked, and she knocked long on it without
receiving any response. Apparently on this side, the old house was
quite remote from human life.
By this time, the candle had burned almost to her fingers, and she
hastily made her way back to the steps ere its light went out. Placing
the last morsel on the step beside her, she sat down and watched it
expire.
As with one last flicker its light vanished, Enid's courage died also.
The darkness which settled on her seemed like the darkness of the
grave. She covered her face with her hands to shut out the blackness
which looked so terrible, and burst into hopeless tears.