AT THE VILLA MATTEI
ALTHOUGH she had come so bravely out of her misadventure, Enid felt
the effects of it for some days, and looked pale and languid. She was
embarrassed by finding herself the object of general attention.
She said, "I realize the kindness which prompts all this fuss, but
still I am growing tired of the subject of my escapade."
"I don't wonder," said Maud; "but you gave us all a great fright, and
now you must bear the consequences, and expect to be watched over with
extra care."
Of course Sidney Althorp heard the whole story of how Enid was lost
and found. Maud told him everything the next day with a fullness which
astonished Enid, frankly confessing that she had been as "horrid
as possible" to her cousin during the previous week. Certainly, if
Maud was given to complimenting herself, and at times exhibited an
insupportable egotism, she was also wont, when once convinced of any
fault, to confess it with winning openness.
Enid wondered a little at the relation Sidney Althorp seemed to hold
towards her cousin. He treated her with a frankness and freedom which
no other friend would have dared to assume. He did not hesitate
to criticise her words and actions, nor did he hide from her any
disapproval he might feel. No one was less inclined to flatter her.
His attitude towards her was almost that of a brother, and yet
instinctively Enid felt that his interest in Maud was not simply of
that nature.
On the second day after Enid's adventure, Mrs. Dakin called to take
her for a drive. Julius was in the carriage with his mother and Miss
Amory, and he came up to the Studio Mariano to bring the invitation. He
found Sidney Althorp there, who had just called to take Maud out. Maud
introduced the gentlemen to each other.
"My mother thought that Miss Mildmay ought not to attempt work to-day,"
said Julius. "She thinks there is nothing so good as fresh air for one
who has experienced a nervous shock. There will be room for you also in
the carriage, Miss Marian; but I am afraid I cannot offer Mr. Althorp a
place inside. He is welcome to my seat on the box."
"You are very kind," said that gentleman, "but indeed I must not think
of anything so leisurely as a drive for mere enjoyment. My time in Rome
is limited, unfortunately, and I have to make a serious business of
sight-seeing."
"Ah, I see! You are 'doing' Rome, as the Americans say," returned
Julius Dakin. "I shall never forget the amazement I experienced when,
one day at the Vatican, a lady came up to me and asked,—
"'Can you tell me if I have seen the Pantheon?'
"'Really, madam,' I replied, 'that is a question which you can best
answer yourself.'
"'But can't you tell me what it's like?' she returned.
"Whereupon I did my best to describe to her the glories of the
Pantheon. But ere I had got half through my description, she
interrupted me by saying,—
"'Oh, I guess I've seen that; we've seen a lot of old churches anyway,'
and was off."
"How absurd!" said Enid laughing. "It always seems to me a shame that
such persons should come to Rome, especially when so many who would
thoroughly appreciate its grand associations are unable to come. We
were so amused the other day to hear a gentleman say to his daughters
that they must look at one of the statues because it was 'starred' in
'Baedeker!'"
"Yes," said Maud, "and another of the party furnished the information
that everything marked with a star was by Michael Angelo! But please do
not imagine that Mr. Althorp does his sight-seeing in that fashion."
"Thank you," said Mr. Althorp gravely. "It is kind of you to say that.
I was beginning to feel horribly guilty of being a mere tourist with
a desire to see as much of Rome as is possible in a few days. Now I
will confess that I had planned to see the Baths of Caracalla this
afternoon, and also the Catacombs of S. Callixtus. I had hoped to
persuade Miss Marian to accompany me, but I waive my invitation in
favour of yours."
Enid saw a slight shadow fall on Maud's face; but probably no one else
remarked it, or that she hesitated for a few moments ere she answered
brightly, "No, indeed, you shall not do that. Mrs. Dakin will perhaps
give me the pleasure of driving with her some other afternoon, but
I cannot hope for much more of your company. Besides, who knows but
you may fall into some blunder if I am not at your side to impart
information?"
"It is possible to be misled by one's guide," said Althorp gravely,
though with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "But of course you are
always accurately informed."
"How mean of you to insinuate the contrary!" cried Maud. "I have a
great mind to say that I will not go with you after all."
But she did go. Enid left her preparing for the excursion, and went
down to the carriage with Julius Dakin. It was the first time she had
seen either Mrs. Dakin or Miss Amory since her eventful experience, and
they were eager to hear all about it from her own lips.
They began to question her, but Julius interposed to spare her the
trouble of replying to their questions. It was really clever, the
brief, terse way in which he replied to their queries, and presently
contrived to divert them from the subject.
Enid was grateful for the kindness which discerned that the
recollection was painful to her, and wished to prevent her from
dwelling on it. But it hardly seemed as if the kindness had its reward.
It might have been observed that Enid never addressed Julius during the
drive. She took part in the general conversation, and showed no lack
of animation; but she was careful to look at everything and everybody
except the gentleman who sat opposite to her.
Not once could Julius succeed in arresting her glance. But he was
amused rather than disturbed at being thus baulked. His nature was far
too buoyant for his hopes to be quickly dashed. He did not think it
strange that Enid should be a little shy of him now. It was easy to
interpret that shyness in a way agreeable to his feelings.
They passed out of the city by the Porta Pia, close to which a number
of faded wreaths hanging on the wall mark the spot where the breach was
made through which the Italian troops entered Rome on September 20,
1870.
After a while they crossed the famous Anio, down which, according to
the legend, floated the cradle bearing the babes Romulus and Remus,
by the picturesque battlemented bridge known as the Ponte Nomentano.
Beyond rose a hill which Julius informed them was the Mons Sacer of
historic interest.
"Well, what's that?" asked Miss Amory.
"The hill to which the Plebs retired after their revolt in B.C. 549,
and where Agrippa delivered his famous apologue to them. Do you not
remember?"
"No, I do not," she replied; "and for goodness' sake, don't expect me
to remember things that happened so long ago as that. It is as much as
I can do to remember what belongs to my own century."
At the brow of the hill, Julius checked the coachman, and proposed that
they should alight and climb a hillock on the left which commanded a
fine view. Mrs. Dakin elected to remain in the carriage, and Miss Amory
was disposed to keep her company; but Enid would not allow that.
"Do come," she said, taking her hand; "you must not be lazy. You really
ought to see this view."
Miss Amory laughed and yielded. She cared little about the view, but
she was good-natured, and it was enough that Enid wished her to come.
"I shall spoil my boots," she said in a distressed tone, looking
anxiously at her dainty little feet as they scrambled up the rough bank.
They had gained a grassy ridge, shaded by grand old pines, and
overlooking the vast Campagna, which stretched away to right and
left—not as a flat plain, but breaking into soft billowy undulations of
greyish green, with here and there an old farmhouse appearing in the
distance, or a mediæval tower surrounded by pine trees. On the opposite
side of the road by which they had come rose a picturesque castle with
battlemented tower and a "loggia" on the roof. Beyond to the right lay
the Alban Hills, their lower slopes now bathed in a soft blue mist, but
the sunlight on the snow above; whilst rising behind them, distinctly
visible in the clear atmosphere, was a chain of snowy peaks—the distant
Apennines. To the left stretched a magnificent mountain wall, the
Sabine range, every peak and curve clearly outlined against the blue
sky, whilst below the snow the hill-sides showed a lovely play of light
and shadow changing in hue from deep blue to reddish purple.
The scene exhibited in perfection that richness of colour peculiar to
Italian scenery which it is almost impossible for painters to render
truly. To complete the picture there was in the immediate foreground
a flock of sheep, near which were grouped several picturesque-looking
peasants of the Campagna in their sheepskin garments.
"I call this quite idyllic," said Julius, pointing to the group. "Do
you not feel inspired to paint a picture, Miss Mildmay?"
"Indeed, I have been thinking how much I should like to come here to
paint some day," replied Enid. "That castle and those old pines, with
the Alban Hills beyond, would make a good sketch."
"They would. You would make something charming of it, I am sure. But
remember, you are not to think of coming here alone. You must allow me
to accompany you as your guardian. We cannot let you stray into danger
again."
Enid coloured.
"I shall regret my unlucky accident more than ever," she said quickly,
"if my movements are for ever to be restrained by a recollection of it.
It is too absurd to talk as if there were danger everywhere. Maud was
actually trying to persuade me that I ought not to go alone to sketch
at the Villa Mattei to-morrow, so public as that is on a Thursday
afternoon!"
"She is right; you cannot be too careful," he said gravely. "I hope you
will not think of going there alone."
He spoke with a tone of authority which disturbed Enid's equanimity.
She wished she had not mentioned the Villa Mattei.
"Well, I wouldn't come out to a lonely place like this by myself for
a king's ransom," observed Miss Amory. "I'm going back to Mrs. Dakin.
I guess she's tired of sitting there in the carriage by herself.
But don't let me hurry you two. Stay and go into raptures over the
mountains as long as you please."
But Enid turned at once and followed closely in her steps. If Julius
had hoped to gain a word with her alone, he was disappointed. In a
few minutes, they were in the carriage, from which they did not again
alight till they reached home.
Maud returned a little later than her cousin, and when they met, it was
evident that something had occurred to put her out of humour.
"I wish I had gone with you," she said discontentedly; "it would have
been so much pleasanter to drive in Mrs. Dakin's easy carriage than to
tramp about ruins with a tiresome man."
"A tiresome man!" repeated Enid in astonishment. "You found Mr. Althorp
tiresome!"
"Indeed I did. He was in one of his most provoking moods. He wanted to
persuade me to go home next month—talked to me about its being my duty
to do so, and altogether made himself as disagreeable as possible. At
last, I fairly quarrelled with him."
"That was a pity," said Enid.
"Well, yes, it was," said Maud, rather regretfully; "but really it
was too bad of him. He told me that if I did not go home and do a
daughter's duty by my father, I should regret it in days to come. He
abuses the privilege of an old friend, and I will not endure it."
"But why should he say that?" asked Enid. "Is your father in any
special need of you just now?"
"Of course not. Sidney just says it to annoy me, I believe. He loves to
pose as my mentor. He made me as cross as possible."
"It is unfortunate you should quarrel with him just as he is going
away," observed Enid. "You will be sorry when he is gone."
"No, I shall not," said Maud; "and as for quarrelling with him, it is
after all impossible to have a real good quarrel with Sidney. That is
the provoking part of it. He will not take offence. No matter what I
say, his face wears the same calm, imperturbable expression. You will
see he will be just as amiable to me to-morrow as if I had behaved like
an angel to him to-day."
And it was so. Mr. Althorp's manner was as friendly as possible when he
appeared the next day. No one could have supposed that he had anything
to resent. He asked the girls to come out with him, and it was arranged
that they should go together to the Villa Mattei, and that Enid should
be left there to begin her sketch whilst Maud and Mr. Althorp went on
to visit some other places of interest.
It was a bright warm February day. On such a day it was delightful
to pass along the shady secluded paths between tall hedges of box,
which gave to the warm air its subtle perfume, with here and there a
broken-nosed statue or a block of stone bearing a fine relief—relics
of the old Roman villa which once stood on this spot, and over the
ruins of which the present uninteresting modern mansion has been
raised. Already there were many tokens of spring. Large pink-tipped
daisies studded the rank grass, the sweet scent of violets betrayed
their presence in the borders, roses even were in bud, and the orange
trees growing on a sunny terrace beneath a sheltering wall were bowing
beneath a weight of golden fruit.
They passed down an avenue of huge ilexes, with knotted branches
interlacing overhead and a thickness of foliage which afforded a grand
depth of shade, and gained a little stone temple commanding a fine
view of the Alban Hills, the old walls of the Baths of Caracalla, the
picturesque brown arches of the ancient aqueduct, and the Campagna
stretching far away marked by many a tomb till it melted in the pale
blue of the sky.
Then they descended to the lower walk. Here springing from beneath the
wall was a picturesque old fountain, fringed with maidenhair fern,
dripping into a still green pool, about which grew luxuriantly the
large graceful leaves of the acanthus. This was said to be the true
Fountain of Egeria, where Numa Pompilius held mysterious intercourse
with the nymph. Enid had her doubts about its identification, but the
romantic beauty of the old fountain pleased her fancy, and she had set
her heart upon making a sketch of it.
As soon as she had fairly settled to her work, Maud and Mr. Althorp
left her, promising to call at the villa for her on their return about
five o'clock.
Enid had been working quietly for about a quarter of an hour when the
sound of a step made her raise her head. Julius Dakin stood beside her.
"So you have carried out your intention," he said quietly, "and you
have come alone. I was afraid you meant to do so."
"I did not come alone," said Enid. "Maud and Mr. Althorp came with me.
Did you not meet them?"
He shook his head. "It is all the same," he remarked rather vaguely,
"since you are remaining here alone."
Enid coloured. "I prefer to be alone," she said. "I cannot paint so
well when anyone is by me."
"Does that mean that you wish me to retire?" he asked.
"I do not wish to hurry you, of course," said Enid laughingly; "but you
do not suppose that I can paint with you looking over my shoulder all
the time?"
"Will you give me that painting when it is finished?"
"I make no rash promises," said Enid. "At its present rate of progress,
it does not seem likely ever to get finished."
"But you know you owe me a painting?"
"Do I?" said Enid. "I don't know how you make that true."
"Have you forgotten that you wantonly destroyed the painting you were
doing for me? There—I will not, revive a painful subject. But you will
let me have this? As it is now?"
"You know I do not mean that."
"Then please let me have a chance of finishing it. I must see what I
make of it before I think of giving it to anyone. Come, I am sure you
ought not to be wasting your time at the villa this afternoon."
"I am not wasting my time; duty brought me here this afternoon."
"Really!" Enid looked up at him with a laughing glance of surprise; but
something in the glance that met hers made her eyes drop suddenly. She
busied herself with her paint-box.
"Well, I suppose I must take your hint," said Julies. "I will not
disturb you farther."
He walked away without bidding her good-bye. Enid tried to give her
mind to her painting, but it was difficult. Her hands had grown
unsteady; she was vexed to find that she could not pursue her work as
calmly as before Julius Dakin appeared. But she persevered, though she
was ill-pleased with the result of her efforts. Seeing no more of him,
she concluded that he had gone away, and worked on with an easier mind.
At last she paused, and sat back on her stool surveying her work. The
light was changing rapidly; it was impossible to do more to-day. Her
eyes wandered to the distant prospect. Shadows were stealing over the
mountains, the old red-brown ruins glowed in the sunset light. Enid
thought of the contrast between the mighty enduring mountains and the
ruined desolate works of man, which yet were so grand in their way—so
full of pathos and of beauty. Suddenly she started at a light touch.
Someone had lifted the fur cape which lay beside her and placed it on
her shoulders. It was Julius Dakin.
Enid started up greatly discomposed. Her tone was almost one of
annoyance as she said, "How you startled me! I had no idea you were
still here."
"I am sorry I startled you," he said. "I have not been far from you all
the time. I have been watching you from above. Now I have come to warn
you that it is growing damp and chill, and you must not sit here any
longer."
"I had no intention of doing so," said Enid brusquely. "You need not
have troubled. I know how to take care of myself."
The words were ungracious. She was ashamed of them as she uttered them.
"Of course you do," he said gently. There was a pause, and then he
added, "Enid, let us understand each other. I cannot help thinking that
you do understand me; but let me tell you that your well-being is more
to me than anything else in the world, and I would guard you from all
harm for ever if I could."
Enid paused in the work of gathering together her painting materials.
Her face had grown very white. She did not say a word.
"Enid," he said again, his voice now scarcely above a whisper, "you
know what I mean. I love you: I want you to promise that some day you
will be my wife."
"It is impossible," she replied, in quick, hurried tones.
"Impossible?"
"Yes, it can never, never be."
"You cannot love me?"
Enid made no reply; but he thought he read in the agitated face the
confirmation of his fear.
"I might have known," he said, much moved. "You think me unworthy, and
indeed I am not worthy. You see in me a selfish, useless, conceited
fellow, who has never done anything worth doing in all his life, and
who never will."
"Don't say that," responded Enid tremulously; "you will make something
of your life yet."
"With your help, I might do anything," he said quickly. "Enid, won't
you give me a little hope? I could—I 'would' make something good of my
life if I had you beside me. You don't know what influence a woman may
exert over the man who loves her."
"You must do it without me," she said, in a low unsteady voice. "You
can if you like. You do not really need me. There are so many who care
for you."
"As if that made any difference," he replied almost scornfully.
Then as she made a quick gesture as if to stay his words, he asked
gravely—
"Is it so indeed? Do you mean me to understand that it can never be?"
"It can never be," she repeated.
He said nothing more, but silently helped her to put her things
together.
"I will go to the gate now," said Enid nervously. "Maud said that she
would call for me at five o'clock."
"It is that now," he returned, looking at his watch. He took her
camp-stool and drawing-board, and they ascended the path to the higher
garden.
Enid shivered as they passed into the gloom beneath the avenue of
ilexes. There seemed something ominous in the sudden change from bright
sunlight to deep shadow. Was it typical of the days before her? As they
emerged from the trees, she saw a carriage drive up to the gates, in
which were Maud and Mr. Althorp.
Julius saw it too, and drew back into the shade.
"Will you excuse me if I do not go further with you?" he asked.
Then she looked up and saw the trouble written on his face. She had
never thought to see him look so. Her heart was moved within her. She
could not speak, and they shook hands in silence. Then she went on in
blind haste towards the gate, and he turned back alone.