AT THE RUINS OF TUSCULUM
JUNE—a glorious month in Italy—was in its full tide of beauty at
Frascati. In Rome the heat was growing unbearable, but fresh breezes
still tempered the heat of the sun on the slopes of the Alban Hills,
and in the gardens of the villas were many shady nooks in which to pass
the hotter hours of the day.
More than a month had gone by since Mr. and Mrs. Marian, satisfied
that Maud, with her companions, was likely to do well in her temporary
abode at Frascati, had started on their journey back to England. And
Maud had been rapidly advancing in health and strength ever since. The
strong mountain air wrought wonders for her. She enjoyed the sunshine,
the flowers, the glorious prospects of mountains, and plains, and
changeful sky, with the strange rapture one feels who has been brought
back from the shore of death to find a new preciousness in every simple
joy of earth. She developed an amazing appetite, and thought she had
never tasted anything so good as the wholesome country fare on which
they lived. She slept like a child, not at night only, but in the
warm noontide; and her beauty came back to her with somewhat of the
bloom of childhood, and a new grace of expression, at which Enid often
marvelled. It was as if there were some happy secret written in Maud's
eyes.
Enid had not observed this look until after Maud's reconciliation with
her father; but since then she had been struck with an increasing
change in her cousin. She, who had before been so restlessly energetic,
constantly bent upon doing something or having something, and for
ever conceiving new projects for the future, was now calm and quiet,
content, apparently, to rest in the present and let the future take
care of itself.
"She is so gentle and easy to please, that if it were not clear that
she is gaining strength, I should be afraid she was going to die," said
Enid to herself one day.
Yet it was not apathy which possessed Maud, for she entered heartily
into every plan made by the others, and seemed to enjoy each hour as
it passed. Enid wondered sometimes if the two or three letters which
her cousin had received since her illness from Mr. Sidney Althorp had
anything to do with her happy frame of mind; but Maud said little about
them, and Enid did not care to question her.
And Enid herself? The change was proving good for her also. Her colour
had come back, and the sturdy health she had lost. The terrible
pressure of anxiety which, on the eve of her departure from Rome, had
threatened to prostrate her utterly, had happily not lasted long.
Better and better accounts of Julius Dakin had reached her. He had
escaped, almost miraculously as it seemed, without any fatal injury.
He was recovering better than could be expected from the shock he had
received; and the broken arm was doing well. The last news the girls
had of him was that he had removed with his mother from the hot city to
a charming villa at Albano.
So Enid was relieved of care on his behalf. Yet her mind was not so
calm as her cousin's. She could not rest in the present as Maud did.
It seemed as if the restlessness which had left her cousin had entered
into her. It irked her to sit for hours in the soft, deep shade of
ilexes, even though there opened out before her a lovely landscape, and
the sun shone on a foreground of brilliant flowers, with vineyards and
olive groves beyond, and the shadows of passing clouds played on the
mountain slopes, and far away in the distance the pure, snow-clad peaks
of the Apennines rose against the sky.
It was well that Miss Strutt was always there to keep them company. Her
spirits never seemed to vary, nor was there any end to her resources
for the entertainment of herself and the others. She sketched, she
read, she talked and knitted; she taught them games, and after a while,
she beguiled Maud into taking up her painting again. And Maud, as Enid
had foretold, began to work again with new power and fresh delight,
though at the same time with a far humbler opinion of her own ability.
She was not too proud now to ask advice of others; and Miss Strutt,
without posing as her instructor, managed to warn her of the faults
into which she had fallen, and to show her how they might be conquered.
Enid too made several sketches during the long, warm days. In the
villas, or amongst the ruins of the ancient city of Tusculum on the
hill above, charmingly picturesque subjects were to be found. But Enid
was conscious that her interest in her work was not what it should be,
and that she was not doing her best. She was vexed with herself that it
was so, but could not command the lacking inspiration. Sometimes she
felt quite disheartened, and would lay aside her brushes with a sense
of disgust at her own weakness. But the restlessness which made it hard
to apply herself to anything continued. Was it because Albano was but a
few miles away, and there was the chance that any day someone who was
staying there might appear at Frascati?
But the days passed on, and nothing occurred to break their even
course. Maud was now so well that their return to England began to
be talked of as a near possibility. Enid could not understand her
feelings as she looked forward. Could it be that she, who had longed
so passionately to be once more with her mother and dear ones, now
shrank from the prospect of returning to them? No, it was not so; but
she could not help feeling that it would be hard, very hard, to go away
without seeing once more one who had become a friend to her since she
left her home.
One lovely morning the girls and Miss Strutt started forth early,
carrying their luncheon with them. They intended to pass the whole day
at Tusculum, as they still called the site of the ancient town of which
but a few ruins now remain. Miss Strutt had begun a sketch there which
she was anxious to finish. Enid and Maud also meant to sketch, and they
set out with the idea of being very industrious.
As the distance was rather beyond Maud's walking powers, a strong,
sleek donkey had been hired to carry her. She made much fun of her
humble steed, and professed that it hurt her pride to mount it.
"'I feel real mean,' as Miss Amory would say," she remarked as they
began to ascend the steep, stony road which rises from the piazza of
Frascati, and winds upward all the way to Tusculum. "It is a mercy that
the tourist season is over, for I would not for the world that any of
my acquaintance should see me mounted on this little beast."
"And yet I can assure you that you ride it with great dignity," said
Miss Strutt. "She looks rather imposing than otherwise—does she not,
Enid?"
"Yes, indeed," replied Enid. "If only that hat were not so dreadfully
modern, I should say she looked picturesque."
"I had better take off my hat and drape a blue shawl over my head,
like the pictures one sees of Mary on the flight into Egypt," said
Maud laughingly. "Did you ever see that picture of Fra Angelica's,
at Florence, in which he represents Mary sitting perfectly erect on
her donkey, and holding her Babe, also perfectly erect, up high with
both hands? I am certain that if any woman attempted to ride a donkey
holding a baby in that fashion, she would inevitably fall off, unless
indeed she had been trained in a circus."
"I have not seen it." said Enid. "You forget that I have never stayed
at Florence. I long to see the Fra Angelicas; they must be so lovely,
in spite of such defects."
"They are indeed," said Miss Strutt. "Fra Angelica's mastery of colour
was wonderful; and still more striking than his colours are the
character, dignity, and sweetness of the countenances he has painted.
The errors he made are of trivial importance compared with such
results. He lived in such a narrow, secluded way, that of necessity, he
knew little of the practical details of life."
"But his life was so beautiful." said Enid. "It was that which made his
work what it is."
"You are right," said Miss Strutt. "The gentle holy faces he painted
reflected the purity and sweetness of his own heart."
"If that be so," said Maud thoughtfully, "goodness is the greatest
thing of all, and art's highest inspiration. And yet how little is
thought of goodness in comparison with cleverness! How often one hears
it said, 'Oh, So-and-so is a very good man, of course; but—' as if a
man's goodness were of no value."
"That is the world's valuation," said Miss Strutt. "But God would
have us know that character is the chief thing in human life, and a
man's work is the outcome of his character. 'Keep thy heart with all
diligence, for out of it are the issues of life.' 'As a man thinketh in
his heart, so is he.'"
"Yet some men have done great things who were not good," said Enid.
"True, the fire of genius has been kindled from below, but it does not
burn with so pure and bright a flame as that which is drawn from heaven.
"'Every good and perfect gift is from above.'
"Depend upon it that is true of all art. Genius ever rises and falls
with character. The life of Michael Angelo, of Raphael, of Giotto, of
Andrea del Sarto, all point that moral in various ways."
"If Browning's poem is true," said Enid, "Andrea del Sarto's work was
marred by the influence of his wife, who valued his art only because
it brought the gold she coveted for the gratification of her luxurious
tastes."
"But it is only the very great and strong who can follow 'art for art's
sake,'" said Maud half impatiently. "It is natural to want something
for oneself—not gold necessarily, but admiration, honour, fame. Most
workers desire these."
They had turned into a narrow paved alley, the remains of an old Roman
road, which, shaded by thick flexes, was delightfully cool and shady at
this hour. Enid did not reply to her cousin's words. She had paused,
and was looking back to where the wider road they had quitted gleamed
white in the sunshine. Miss Strutt turned to see what was engaging her
attention, then said—
"Why, Maud, I am afraid you will not after all escape the gaze of the
British tourist. There is a carriage driving along the road behind us,
and its occupants have a very English look."
"You don't say so!" cried Maud, looking round in affected dismay. Then
she added, with a droll imitation of Miss Amory's accent, "Oh, I guess
they're Americans, and they can't drive up this path, anyway."
The carriage passed out of sight. Enid walked on without saying a
word. It was growing warm, and the path was steep. No one felt much
inclination to talk now.
The carriage road led to a point not far from that at which the
bridle-path terminated. So it happened that when Maud, who was in
advance of the others, rode round a bend of the path, and the old
amphitheatre came in view, she saw a gentleman and lady seated on the
broken wall above it. The gentleman came forward, saying merrily—
"Miss Marian, I declare! How charming! Allow me to congratulate you on
the idyllic appearance you present."
"Mr. Dakin!" she exclaimed. "Is it really you? I am glad to see you.
Yes, indeed, you may laugh at me and my humble steed; but I am very
glad to see you, though I was saying just now how sorry I should be to
meet any of my acquaintance. Are you better?"
"Oh yes; I am all right now," he answered, though his looks hardly
confirmed his words. "And you?"
"I am as well as possible, thank you."
"It delights me to hear you say so," said Mrs. Dakin, advancing.
"Indeed, you look quite yourself again—very different from when I saw
you last."
At this moment Enid and Miss Strutt came in sight. Julius's eyes had
already sought them impatiently. He went forward and greeted them
warmly. Enid's colour faded a little as she shook hands with him. It
was a shock to her to see him looking so ill. She felt as if she had
hardly realised before how seriously injured he had been. But he looked
happy enough, nevertheless. There was the same merry laughing look in
his eyes.
"Are you really getting strong?" asked Miss Strutt.
"Indeed I am. There is nothing the matter with me now, except the
inconvenience of a useless arm," and he pointed to the sling he wore.
"Ah! But he is not good for much yet," said his mother. "He has been
wanting to come over here before this, but I dreaded the fatigue of
the long drive for him. We drove over last evening, and put up at the
hotel. We started out early this morning to find you; but early as we
were, you had gone out before we arrived. Your landlady told us of your
plans for the day, so we thought we would come and picnic here too."
"How delightful of you!" cried Maud. "There is nothing so nice as an
impromptu picnic, and there could not be a better place for one than
this."
So this was what became of the day they had meant to devote to
sketching. No one save Miss Strutt did any work. They ate their
luncheon seated in the cool fragrant shade of a pine grove, looking
down through an opening in the trees on a glorious green valley
enclosed by purple mountain slopes with snowy peaks above. Afterwards,
Maud and Enid, with Julius, leisurely explored the ruins, finally
ascending to the summit of the hill, which in the Middle Ages was
crowned by a castle, the outline of which may still be traced.
The view from this height is magnificent beyond description. Below lies
the broad expanse of the Campagna stretching away to the sea, bounded
by the Sabine range on the one hand, and the Alban Hills on the other.
Seating themselves in the shelter of the castle rock, the three gazed
long on the fascinating scene presented to their eyes. There were
clouds in the sky, and changes of weather were visible on the surface
of the plain. Sunshine brightened the verdure in one spot, and a dark
cloud cast its deep shadow on another. Far away a shower was falling,
appearing in the distance like a lovely silvery mist. Below lay the
white villas and wooded heights of Frascati; to the left the village
of Rocca di Papa crowned its picturesque crag; Monte Cavo rose above;
whilst more distant, Castel Gandolfo, Marino, and Grottaferrata were
visible. A little beyond Frascati could be seen the old brown buildings
of a monastery. A long green avenue led up to it, and presently Enid
perceived a lonely figure walking along the path between the trees.
"It is surely a woman," she said. "But how strange for a woman to be
walking there alone!"
"You are mistaken," said Julius, looking at it through his field-glass.
"It is an old Carthusian monk—one of the few who still remain at the
monastery, for their order is suppressed."
"Poor old fellow!" said Maud, taking the glass Julius offered her. "I
always feel sorry for them when they are suppressed. How picturesque he
looks in his white frock and cowl amongst the trees! I wish he would
stay there and let me sketch him."
"Suppose we go and ask him to do so," said Julius rising. "I am afraid
it is time we were moving."
So they descended the hill, lingering awhile, however, amongst the
ruins at its base. Julius called Enid to look at the remains of a
curious old reservoir, and she paused to examine it. Maud, however, did
not stay to look at it, and Enid presently became aware that her cousin
was many paces ahead of her. She tried to quicken her steps, but Julius
seemed indisposed to hurry.
"Let us sit down for a few minutes," he said, pointing to a low, broad
stone which lay in the shade of a pine.
Enid glanced at him. He looked tired; she remembered that he was not
strong, and sat down.
"You are really getting strong?" she said.
"I have not a doubt of it," he replied.
"I have often thought," she said, "how brave you were to risk your life
like that."
"Not at all," he returned; but he looked pleased at her words. "Anyone
would have done the same. You certainly would have done it in my place."
"I am not so sure of that," she said.
"I am quite sure of it," he replied. "I believe it was you who made me
do it. The thought of you has been like a good inspiration to me ever
since I have known you."
Silence followed these words. Julius was feeling in the pocket of his
coat. He drew out his pocket-book, opened it, and said to Enid—
"I have something here which I obtained when I was in England. I value
it very highly, and I want to show it to you."
"What is it?" asked Enid eagerly. "You have told me nothing about your
visit to England."
"No, but I will; and there is a great deal to tell," said Julius. Then
he showed her what he held in his hand.
Enid uttered a cry of astonishment.
[Illustration]
"That!" she cried. "That! How in the world did you get it?"
"I stole it from your sister Alice," he said calmly.
Enid's astonishment was beyond words. He held in his hand an old faded
"carte de visite" representing herself and her sister Alice. They had
been taken thus together for a freak some time ago. Alice was sitting
stiffly on a chair, and Enid knelt beside her. They were posed very
awkwardly, and the photography was wretched; yet Enid's likeness was
fairly good.
"Alice!" said Enid. "You have seen Alice!"
"Yes, I have seen Alice," he said, "and Clara, and Katie, and May, and
Jack, and Cecil."
"You have been to my home?"
"I have indeed," he answered meekly. "I hope you do not object. I
wanted very much to make the acquaintance of your father and mother, so
I went down to Devonport and called on them. And I must say that they
received me very kindly, especially when they learned that I came from
Rome, and had but lately seen you."
Then, as he met Enid's wondering look, his manner changed, and he said
in a low, tender tone—
"Do you not understand why I wished to see your father? I wanted to
confess to him that I had sought to win his daughter's heart. I wanted
to obtain his sanction, in case I ever dared to speak to her of my love
again. Because—will you be angry with me if I confess it?—I had begun
to cherish the hope that you had perhaps mistaken your own heart when
you sent me away that day."
He paused, perhaps expecting a reply; but Enid had nothing to say. She
sat with her face turned from him. Her manner was not encouraging, but
he found courage to ask—
"Don't you want to hear what your father said?"
Enid made a sign of assent.
"He did not seem to like the idea of giving you up to me—I must own
that; but he said that if it would be for your happiness, he would not
refuse to do so. Enid, have you nothing to say to me? Cannot you give
me a little hope?"
Enid had something to say to him, and though her words were few, they
were such as made her lover unspeakably happy.
"Enid," he said, a little later, "I have not told you of my plans for
the future. Do you know I am going back to England in the autumn? I
have promised to work there with my uncle for a year, and do my best to
acquire good business habits. After that I shall perhaps come back to
help my father at Rome—that is, if I can persuade you to accompany me."
"Oh, not in a year!" said Enid. "Do you think that after being away
from home so long I shall be satisfied to stay there only one year?"
"Well, well," he said, "we need not decide that now. I suppose we had
better join the others. My mother will be fancying that I have fainted
away if I do not soon appear."
"I am afraid," said Enid, "that your mother will think you might have
made a better choice."
"Oh, of course," he said, looking at her quizzically. "I might perhaps
have won Miss Amory, the rich American heiress, you know." Then in a
changed tone added, "You dear one! When my mother knows you better, she
will learn that you are worth more than all the heiresses in the world.
But there she is, looking for us. We will go and show her how very very
well I am."