MAUD RECEIVES STARTLING NEWS
THE weeks passed rapidly by. The cold "tramontana" had ceased to blow,
and spring was advancing with swift strides. The flower vendors in the
Piazza di Spagna offered to the passerby huge bouquets of violets, and
their baskets were gay with the loveliest daffodils, narcissi, and
anemones. Those who preferred to pick flowers for themselves found them
in rich profusion at the rural villas or in some of the greener spots
of the Campagna.
Now was the time to make excursions to the lovely country places about
Rome. The girls were often invited to join friends who were bound on
such pleasure trips, and they could seldom resist the temptation.
The work in the Studio Mariano flagged in consequence. Indeed, it
came to look rather a deserted place, for what painting the girls did
during the bright warm days was done out of doors. Maud had begun to
sketch some of the old arches on the Palatine Hill; Enid was painting
some flowers in the garden of the Villa Medici. Maud was continually
planning fresh pictures; but, meanwhile, the work she had in hand did
not progress very fast.
Enid wondered sometimes when her cousin intended to return home.
Enid's letters from home were beginning to convey hints that the
winter was almost over, even in England, so it was to be expected that
she would soon return. But Maud never spoke of their return save as
of an event still distant. She must do this; she must do that. There
were numberless plans to be accomplished ere she could think of going
home. It was evident that Sidney Althorp's persuasions had failed to
influence her, unless, indeed, they had exercised an influence adverse
to his wish, and inclined her to persist in her own way—a result which
Enid, knowing the strength of her cousin's self-will, thought not
improbable. Enid rather wondered at the patience Mr. Marian manifested.
She had heard nothing lately of his making any efforts to hasten his
daughter's return.
April had begun, when one morning, as the girls were about to start for
the studio, the English letters arrived at their "pension." There were
two for Maud and one for Enid.
"We had better take them with us and read them at the studio," said
Maud. She ran down the stairs with the letters in her hand. "One from
father and one from Aunt Helen," she said. "I expect they have both
written to urge me to come home. It is wonderful that father has left
me in peace so long. I really must think of returning in a week or two.
Oh dear! I wish the thought of London were not so distasteful!"
Arrived at the studio, Maud threw herself into a chair and opened her
father's letter.
Enid sat down also to read hers. It was from her sister Alice—a long,
bright letter, detailing all the little incidents of their home life,
which she knew would not fail to interest Enid. She was soon absorbed
in it. The dear old home seemed so near to her as she read Alice's
words. How she yearned to be back there again! But she would be soon.
Had not Maud but just now said that she must think of returning in a
week or two? As the thought came to Enid, making her heart bound with
delight, she was startled by an exclamation from her cousin. She looked
up. What had happened to Maud?
She had sprung from her seat, and stood with clenched hands before her
cousin, her face strangely agitated, a spot of deep crimson burning
in each cheek, her eyes aglow with passion. The letter she had been
reading lay on the floor at her feet.
"Why, Maud," cried Enid, "whatever is the matter?"
"It is shameful—abominable!" exclaimed Maud, in a tone choked with
passion. "I could never have believed it!"
"But what?" asked Enid, growing alarmed. "What is it you could not have
believed? Do tell me!"
"Oh, I feel as if I could not speak of it," said Maud excitedly. "I
could never have thought it possible for father to do such a thing."
It seemed vain to ask what Mr. Marian had done to cause his daughter
such agitation. Maud was far too excited to explain. Enid waited in
great perplexity, whilst Maud paced to and fro, muttering angrily to
herself.
At last, she threw herself again into her chair, exclaiming, "It is too
bad of him! I do not deserve such treatment at his hands!"
"What is it?" Enid again ventured to ask. "Does your father wish you to
go home at once?"
"I believe he does," replied Maud, with inexpressible scorn in her
tones. "I believe he does express such a wish; but I shall not go.
Nothing shall induce me to go home now."
Enid looked utterly bewildered.
"Cannot you understand, Enid?" said Maud impatiently, forgetting that
she had as yet given her cousin no explanation. "My father has written
to tell me that he is about to be married. Do you suppose that I can
any longer regard his house as my home?"
Enid was startled at the news. It was easy now to understand the
excitement Maud manifested. Enid could realise in a moment all that the
news meant for her proud, high-spirited cousin. She was silent from
very sympathy.
"Is it not dreadful?" Maud asked, with a quiver in her voice.
"Perhaps it will not be so bad as you think," said Enid, with some
hesitation. "Perhaps when you know the lady your father is going to
marry, you will like her."
"But it is as bad as it can be!" exclaimed Maud. "I do know the lady,
and it is impossible I can like her! My father could not have chosen
anyone less congenial to me."
"Really! How is it you cannot like her?"
"Oh, how can one explain such things?" exclaimed Maud impatiently. "I
tell you she is thoroughly antipathetic to me. She is a woman without
style or culture or any knowledge of the world—quite a vulgar sort
of person, in fact. I doubt if she can even aspirate her h's. How my
father could think of marrying her, I cannot imagine! I never liked
her, but she was a friend of Aunt Helen."
"Then surely she must have some good qualities," said Enid.
"I never saw them. I could not understand the attraction she had for
Aunt Helen. And now my father—Well, he has chosen between her and me,
for I will never live with her."
"Do not say that," interposed Enid.
"But I do say it, and I mean it. Do you think I will brook having that
woman set over me? No, indeed! My father must give me an allowance,
and I will live here in Italy. We can go to the mountains for the hot
weather. I will never go back to live with a stepmother."
Enid felt some dismay at this unexpected prospect of a prolonged stay
in Italy.
"Don't be in such a hurry to say what you will do and what you will
not," she replied. "You will feel differently perhaps when you have
thought it all over. Did you not have another letter? What does that
say?"
"It is from Aunt Helen. I know well the kind of letter it is," said
Maud, disdainfully.
Nevertheless she took up the letter, opened it, and read it, uttering
from time to time sundry scornful exclamations as she did so.
"It is as I thought," she said, as she threw the letter down. "Aunt
Helen begs me to take a dispassionate view of the case. She hopes
I will consider how lonely my father has been, and how this union
will increase his happiness, while at the same time it will leave me
perfectly free to come and go as I like. As if I were not free before!
Only, of course—"
Maud checked herself abruptly. A thought had come to her which was too
bitter to pursue.
"Well, I will be free!" she exclaimed suddenly. "They shall see that
I mean to do exactly as I like. My father actually suggests that I
should come home before the wedding takes place. As if I would do such
a thing! No; I am of age, and I will demand to have an allowance and to
live where I like! Surely you think I am justified in doing so, Enid?"
Enid's face wore a troubled look. She did not immediately reply.
"Why do you not speak?" asked her cousin, sharply.
"Because I cannot feel that you are right," said Enid, gravely. "I know
this is a very painful surprise to you, and it is natural you should
not like it; but your father is your father, and you have a duty to
him."
"It cannot be my duty to go home. He does not need me now," said Maud.
"Does he say so?" asked Enid.
"Of course not. He wants me to go home very soon. He pretends to think
that this change will increase my happiness."
"Then he will be very hurt if you refuse to go. He has been a good
father to you, Maud—he has indulged you in every way. I think he
deserves that you should consider his wishes."
"I do not see that. He cannot really care much about me or he would not
think of marrying, for he must know how distasteful the idea would be
to me."
"But think how lonely he has been! One can really hardly wonder that
this has come about."
"Don't, Enid!" cried Maud, in a tone of annoyance. "That is as bad as
telling me it is my own fault. Sidney Althorp would say it was. I know
now what he meant when he hinted that if I did not go home soon, I
should live to regret it. But I never thought of anything like this."
Enid felt that it was useless to say more. It was impossible that Maud
could yet be persuaded to view the situation in any light save that
in which it had at first presented itself to her. Discussion would
only irritate her. So Enid listened quietly to her cousin's passionate
protestations, till gradually Maud's excitement subsided, and she grew
silent, whilst her miserable looks showed that her mind was dwelling
gloomily on the news which had so changed the aspect of her future.
The days which followed were trying ones for Enid. Maud regained
command of herself, and did not again express passionate anger with her
father, but it was evident that her mind cherished a sense of bitter
grievance, and she looked so unhappy that Enid felt the utmost pity for
her. Nothing now was said about their returning to England, and Enid
had to write to her parents and sisters that they must not expect to
see her yet.
How Maud replied to her father's letter Enid never knew. After that
first irrepressible revelation of her feelings with regard to her
father's marriage, she seemed unwilling to talk about it. She even
made a pretence of not caring much, and of devoting herself with
renewed ardour to her art. But it was a sorry pretence. Her work did
not succeed. She would begin a sketch, and then presently tear it up
in disgust, and plan some other picture. Nothing pleased her long. Now
she would go out into the Campagna to paint, and now spend hours in
damp, cold churches making sketches of picturesque old architecture.
It was vain to urge her to be careful of her health. She seemed quite
reckless with regard to herself; and if Enid attempted to utter a
word of warning, it had the effect of driving Maud to commit greater
imprudences.
"What is the good of making a fuss, Enid?" she would say. "You know
nothing ever hurts me; I am never ill. And if I were, it would not
matter now. I am sure I do not care what becomes of me, and nobody else
cares."
"That is not true," said her cousin. "I hope you will never lose your
health; but if you were so unfortunate, you would find that you did
care about it."
"Of course I should not like to be ill," said Maud, impatiently. "I
wish you would not always take everything so literally, Enid. That
is the worst of you; your ideas are always so proper. For my part,
I dislike people who have correct copy-book sentiments for every
occasion."
"Really! I did not think I was like that," said Enid, laughing. "I am
afraid my mind is not so orderly as a copy-book."
Enid found herself called upon to exercise much patience, for Maud
grew increasingly irritable, and it was often hard to bear with her
perversity. Enid was not naturally of a patient disposition, so this
experience was good for her. Her heart had its own burdens, which it
could share with no one. She was beginning to long rather wearily to be
at home again with the loved mother who understood her so well, but the
time still seemed distant.
Meanwhile, she was enjoying the golden sunlight, the blue skies, the
fresh young beauty of the foliage, the wealth of flowers of her first
spring in Rome. Growing familiarity did not diminish the fascination
which the grand old city had for her. Rather the spell grew stronger;
and, whilst her heart turned fondly towards home, Enid could not look
forward to leaving the narrow tortuous streets, the old brown walls,
the solemn ruins, the ancient buildings of Rome, without feeling that
they had grown very dear to her, and that it would be hard to say
"Good-bye" to them.
Though cross and gloomy when with her cousin only, Maud showed no loss
of spirits when in company. Indeed, her gaiety was quite remarkable,
and her acquaintance found her society more entertaining than ever,
for her conversation was now marked by a daring recklessness of speech
which by many persons is mistaken for cleverness. Miss Amory was still
Mrs. Dakin's guest; but both ladies talked of going to London to pass
the months of May and June. Julius Dakin was still there. The business
which had taken him to England apparently demanded time, for nothing
was said of his returning to Rome.
"Of course he will stay for the season, now he is there," said Maud
one day to her cousin. "He will enjoy escorting Miss Amory to all the
fashionable entertainments. I dare say she will make quite a sensation
in society. American beauties are all the rage in London now."
And a shadow fell upon Maud's face. The conception was not agreeable to
her mind.
Nothing more had been said about Mr. Marian's wedding. Enid had no
idea when it was to take place. A month passed. The spring was at
its height, and Rome full of visitors, when one morning the post
brought Enid a newspaper from home. As she opened it, she saw that
an announcement in the matrimonial column was scored with red ink.
The name of "Marian" caught her eye. The brief notice published the
fact that Maud's father had been married on the fifteenth of the
month—nearly a week ago.
Did Maud know? Enid shrank from speaking to her on the subject, and
yet felt that she ought perhaps to show her the notice. After some
hesitation, she placed the newspaper before Maud as she sat writing a
note, and said, as she pointed to the lines—
"Here is something that concerns you, Maud. But I suppose you are
already aware of it."
Maud glanced at the announcement, and her face grew white; but she only
said, "Yes. I knew it," and pushed the paper aside.
She finished her note, rang for the portress to send it to its
destination, and then said to her cousin—
"I have said that we will go to the Colosseum this evening with Miss
Amory and her friends. I took it for granted that you would go with me.
Was I right?"
"Yes, I shall like to go," said Enid. "The moonlight was lovely last
night." Then, as she glanced at her cousin's face, she was struck with
its unusual pallor, and added hastily, "But are you sure you are fit to
go, Maud? You do not look well this morning."
"I am perfectly well," said Maud, coldly. "I wish you would not always
be fancying things about me, Enid."
She settled herself with a business-like air to her painting, and for
some time the girls worked in silence. But Enid was quietly watching
her cousin, and she saw that her work made little real progress. Every
now and then Maud would sigh or utter an impatient exclamation. At
last, she threw down her brushes.
"I cannot get on with this," she said. "I will leave it and begin
something else. This room is very close; I shall go into the garden. I
want to make a sketch of the old fountain, with some pigeons settling
on it, if I can persuade them to come."
"Put some food for them, and they will come."
"But I want to paint them in the act of drinking, not eating. However,
I suppose I must manage as best I can. I cannot expect them to pose
like human beings."
"And they are tiresome enough sometimes. Do you remember the trouble we
had with Lorenzo?"
"Yes, indeed, the little urchin! He was as restless as any pigeon.
Well, I'll go and make a beginning."
Maud spent the rest of her working hours in the garden. She professed
to be greatly interested in the sketch which she began, but it did not
make much progress. Enid suspected that her cousin preferred to work in
the garden that she might be alone, and under no restraint. The sense
of Enid's presence, and the thought that conversation was expected of
her, might be irksome to her in her present mood.
It was near sunset, and Maud still lingered in the garden. Enid, having
laid aside her own work, went out to look at her cousin's. The garden,
with its high walls and heavy foliage, was sunless now, and the air
struck chill.
"Have you finished, Maud?" asked Enid. "It is growing cold and damp;
you should not remain here longer."
"Oh, Enid, do you see that red light on the wall, and the sunlight
just glinting through those leaves above the fountain? I must get that
effect."
"But meanwhile you may be catching cold. It is really not safe to sit
here longer."
"I do not care if I do catch cold!" said Maud, perversely. "I wish you
would not fuss about me so! I shall not come in till I have done what I
want to do!"
It was vain to remonstrate with her. Enid ran back to the studio and
fetched a shawl, which she threw over Maud's shoulders. Her kindness
was ill-received, for Maud at once shook off the shawl, saying
impatiently—
"How can I paint with that thing dangling over my arms? I wish you
would leave me alone, Enid."
So Enid left her alone, and, from sheer perversity, Maud remained in
the garden even after it had grown too dark to paint. She was shivering
when she came in; but Enid, venturing to suggest that she should take
some camphor or quinine, was immediately snubbed.
"I suppose it is right that a doctor's daughter should believe in
drugs," Maud said; "but I do not approve of dosing myself with them on
every occasion, so please do not expect me to do so."
At dinner, it was evident that Maud had no appetite, and she owned to
Signora Grassi that her head ached. But she was not to be persuaded to
give up going to the Colosseum. When they joined their friends, she
shook off every sign of languor, and was one of the gayest of the party
who explored the grand old ruin by moonlight.
Enid would have been glad to enjoy the solemn beauty of the scene
in quietude. To her the place was sacred ground. She could never
forget that in its vast arena innumerable martyrs had shed their
blood as witnesses to the truth. She was inclined to regret that the
large black cross which was formerly planted in the centre of the
Colosseum no longer stood there to mark the association of the place
with the Christian faith. The mighty walls, the broken arches, the
clearly-defined shadows, the soft mysterious beauty of the moonlight
illumining one half the vast circle, whilst the other was plunged in
gloom, kindled in Enid a rapture that was akin to awe. She wanted to be
silent and to muse upon the past.
But the spirit of the present generation is not attuned to reverence.
The minds of the others were as far removed from awe as they were
from melancholy. Miss Amory and the young Americans who were her
companions deemed it ridiculous of anyone to pause and reflect upon
the associations of the place. They found only food for merriment in
all they saw. Nothing was sacred from their jests. Their laughter and
occasional screams of pretended terror rang out on the air as they
passed under the old arches and penetrated into the darkest recesses of
the place.
Accompanied by one of the guards bearing a lantern, they climbed
flight after flight of steps, till they gained the highest platform
of the structure, and could gaze down into the vast arena and enjoy
the exquisite effect of moonlight and shadow. For most of the party
there seemed to be something almost intoxicating in the influence of
the moonlight. No one was in a hurry to depart. They seated themselves
on some of the fragments of rock with which the place was strewn, and
talked and laughed and frolicked, regardless of aught save the pleasure
of the moment—they did, in fact, almost every imprudent thing they
could do. Enid once or twice suggested that they had better be going
home, but no one heeded her words; and Maud, the excitement of whose
mood had been increasing ever since they set out, seemed the most
reckless of the party.
At last, however, they began to descend. Enid, who was anxious for
Maud's sake that they should not remain longer, moved on quickly,
and was one of the first to reach the ground. Gradually, by twos and
threes, the others joined her, and they were about to set out from
the entrance, when it was discovered that Miss Marian was not in the
party. No one could say where she was. Those who had descended first
supposed that she was with those who had lingered behind, and these
last had imagined that she was on in front. Everyone was amazed at her
disappearance, and most of them were conscious of some alarm.
At once, one of the gentlemen went back to look for her. The others
meanwhile began to shout her name, hoping thus more speedily to
discover her whereabouts. But their shouts met with no response, and
when the gentleman returned, having made a fruitless search in the
galleries above, there was general consternation.
"We must go in parties and search every step of the way," said Enid,
tremulously. "She has fainted or fallen, perhaps."
"Something must certainly have happened to her," said another,
anxiously.
"On the contrary, nothing has happened to her," said a gay voice, and
Maud stepped quietly into their midst. "What in the world are you all
exciting yourselves about so much?" she asked.
"Oh, what a shame of you to give us such a fright!" cried Miss Amory.
"How could you, Maud?" said Enid, reproachfully.
"I give you a fright! Indeed, you gave it to yourselves. I have done
nothing; I only stayed in one of the arches to look down the outside
wall. I had a great mind to throw myself over, but I did not do it,
purely out of consideration for your feelings."
"But why did you not answer when we called?"
"Oh, when I found how you were exciting yourselves, I thought I would
have some fun. You are not a good seeker, Mr. Trelawney, for you passed
so near to me that I could have touched you. I just turned and followed
you down, keeping always in the shadow. Oh, it was such a joke to see
all your faces!"
It was a joke, however, which Miss Marian had entirely to herself. No
one else thought it funny. A check had been given to the gay spirits
of the party which could not be easily counteracted. Everyone suddenly
became conscious of the lateness of the hour, and anxious to reach home.
"I feel real mean," said Miss Amory confidentially to Enid, whose arm
she took. "I never was more frightened in my life. My heart is beating
like a steam-engine yet. What could have possessed Miss Marian to act
like that? But she has been rather strange altogether in her manner
lately. I can't make her out."
Enid too was puzzled with her cousin's bearing that night. She feared
Maud might have taken a chill, and she wanted to doctor her when they
reached home, but as usual Maud refused to submit to "coddling."
The next morning, however, when Enid looked into her cousin's room, she
found her still in bed, and it was evident at a glance that she was far
from well.
"It is nothing," Maud said, moving her head uneasily on the pillow;
"nothing but a headache. I shall be better when I have had a cup of
tea. But I shall not be good for much to-day. You will have to go to
the studio without me."
"I do not think I will go," said Enid.
"Indeed, you shall not stay here and waste your time on my account!"
cried Maud. "I hate to have anyone by me when I am feeling out of
sorts. All I want is to be left alone. If you will not go to the
studio, I shall get up."
So Enid had to leave her. She felt uneasy about her cousin, however,
and ere she went to the studio she walked to the shop of an English
chemist at some little distance, that she might get some medicine
which she hoped would relieve Maud's headache. This shop was near the
railway station, and as Enid was leaving it, an open cab with a lady
and gentleman seated inside, and some luggage on the box by the driver,
passed on its way from the station.
Enid started as she caught sight of the gentleman's face. It was
strangely familiar, yet for a moment she could not remember where
she had seen it. Then suddenly there was recalled to her the time
when she and her cousin started from London for Rome. This was Maud's
father!—Maud's father, and in Rome with the lady he had made his wife!
Enid stared after the carriage in amazement. Then, as she collected her
wits, she turned and walked as quickly as possible in the direction of
the Via Sistina.