Chapter XII: Searching for the Lost

MAUD did not return to her "pension" till the evening. She had thoroughly enjoyed going about Rome with Sidney Althorp. It was so long since she had seen him that his society was very welcome, and she listened eagerly to all he could tell her of her circle of acquaintance at home. Nothing occurred to mar the pleasure of their meeting, and she came back in excellent spirits. She thought more kindly of Enid as she climbed the long flight of stairs to their dwelling. She hoped her cousin had not been dull; but she had no time to seek her then, for it wanted but ten minutes to the dinner hour.

Maud made her toilette with all haste, but by the time she reached the dining-room, most of the company were already seated at the table. She saw to her surprise that Enid's place was empty. She sat down, expecting at every moment that Enid would appear; but she did not come.

"Is your cousin not coming to dinner this evening, Miss Marian?" enquired Signora Grassi.

"I cannot tell," said Maud. "We have not been together this afternoon. I came in late, and did not go to her room. If you will excuse me, I will go there now. I fear she is not well."

"Do not trouble to go—I will send a servant," said Signora Grassi.

She did so, and the servant returned saying that Miss Mildmay was not in her room.

Maud was astonished, but hardly alarmed. It occurred to her that Enid had perhaps gone to Mrs. Dakin's that afternoon, and been persuaded to stay and dine there. Still, it was hardly like Enid to do such a thing without sending word to her cousin. She was generally careful to avoid causing inconvenience or anxiety to others. But Maud reflected, with a twinge of conscience, that of late she had shown so little consideration for Enid that her cousin might well think that she was not likely to be disturbed by her absence for a few hours.

Signora Grassi looked rather uneasy. "Miss Mildmay is perhaps with friends," she suggested. "You know, I suppose, where she was going this afternoon?"

"Indeed, I have not an idea," said Maud. "She had formed no plans when I left her."

"This was Mrs. Dakin's afternoon for being 'At home,'" said Miss Guy. "Your cousin very likely went there, and Mr. Julius Dakin has induced her to remain awhile. She will return presently under his protection."

Maud glanced at the speaker with an air of disdain. "You may be right as to Miss Mildmay's being at Mrs. Dakin's," she said haughtily. "It seems to me a probable solution of the mystery. I feel no alarm about my cousin. She is perfectly capable of taking care of herself."

"Ah, but there are such dangers in Rome!" said Signora Grassi, with a little nervous shiver. "And Miss Mildmay is so courageous. She seems not to know what fear is. I have always been afraid lest she should venture too much. However, it is all right if she is at Mrs. Dakin's."

This was by no means certain, however. Maud ate her dinner with apparent equanimity; but in truth she was feeling uneasy, and her uneasiness increased as the evening wore on. As soon as dinner was over, she hastened to Enid's room, half hoping to find her there. The deserted look of the room was depressing. An examination of Enid's wardrobe showed her that Enid had gone out in the ordinary dress she wore in the studio. She would probably have made some change in her attire, had she contemplated a visit to Mrs. Dakin. But if not at Mrs. Dakin's, where was Enid? She had no intimate friends in Rome. She never paid visits except in the company of her cousin. Maud could think of no place where she was likely to be found.

With fears that could no longer be suppressed, she hurried to consult with Signora Grassi. She met that lady in the corridor, and a glance showed that she shared her anxiety.

"My dear," said the signora, "I cannot rest for thinking of your cousin. Suppose she should not be at Mrs. Dakin's! Do you not think we should send there to enquire?"

"Yes, yes," said Maud breathlessly; "we should have sent there before. There is no time to be lost. I will go myself at once!"

She hastily put on her hat, drew a large fur-lined cloak over her evening dress, and ran down the stairs. At the corner of the street, one of the small open carriages so common in Rome was standing. Maud sprang into it, and told the man to drive with all speed to Mr. Dakin's house. The horse was tired, and the man's utmost efforts could not induce it to proceed rapidly. The distance to be traversed was not great, but it seemed to Maud in her impatience as if they would never reach the house. At last, the door was gained, and she learned from the porter to her relief that the Dakins were at home.

As she insisted that she must see Mrs. Dakin at once, the servant ushered her, just as she was, into the drawing-room. A lady and gentleman from Washington had been dining with Mr. and Mrs. Dakin, and two young German tourists were also present.

Miss Amory was seated at the piano, singing, with imperfect mastery of the language, an Italian song when Maud entered; Julius stood at her side. The singer turned as the door opened, and catching sight of Miss Marian's white agitated face, at once ceased singing, whilst Julius hurried forward with an air of alarm. For a few moments, Maud could not speak. She gazed round the room half dazed, and was conscious only that Enid was not there.

"My dear Miss Marian, what is the matter?" It was Mrs. Dakin's voice that roused her.

"Oh, I hoped I should find Enid here," said Maud, in a tone of deep distress. "Can you give me any news of her? She has not been home since the afternoon, and we cannot tell where she is."

"What! You do not mean that Miss Mildmay is lost, and in Rome of all places!" exclaimed Miss Amory, in her high voice.

This was more than Maud could bear. She sank on a chair, feeling faint and heart-sick, and fearing to lose all control of herself.

Julius Dakin came to her side. It might have been observed that he had grown very pale; but he spoke in a calm, decided tone.

"Do not distress yourself, Miss Marian; there may be no real cause for alarm. Just tell me what you know of your cousin's movements, and I will see what can be done."

His cool, quiet manner restored Maud's courage.

"The worst of it is that I know nothing," she said. "A friend from London, a gentleman who is in my father's business, called to see me this morning; he persuaded me to go out with him to show him Rome. I left Enid busy with her painting. I did not get home till close upon dinner-time, and not till I reached the table did I learn that Enid had not come in, and no one knew where she was. I at once imagined that she must be here."

"She has not been to see me," said Mrs. Dakin. "But have you no idea of what she intended to do?"

"Not the least," said Maud. "I do not think she had formed any plans for to-day."

"You have enquired at the studio, of course?" said Julius.

"No, I have not—I never thought of doing so," said Maud.

"Why, my dear, I should have enquired there the first thing," said Mrs. Dakin. "Something may have occurred to detain her there. She may even have met with an accident."

"In that case, some one surely would have let me know," replied Maud.

"One would think so," said Julius. "But there is Miss Strutt—she may be able to tell you something about your cousin."

"To be sure. How foolish of me not to have thought of her before!" said Maud rising. "I will go to her at once."

"I will come with you," said Julius.

And they started without delay.

In a few minutes, they were at the house in the Via Sistina. The door was closed, and Julius had some difficulty in arresting the attention of the porter, who evidently did not expect visitors so late in the evening. He came grumbling to the door; but his manner changed when he saw the gentleman and lady. He could give no information concerning Enid, but his wife, who came out at the sound of voices, said that the young lady had brought her the key of the studio about half-past three, and had gone away. She had not noticed in what direction she turned.

"Then we shall not find her here," said Maud in a disappointed tone to Julius as they went up the stairs.

"Don't give up hope," he said. "We may gain some clue to her whereabouts." But his own heart was heavy with dread.

They opened the door of the studio and went in. All was in perfect order—Enid had put things carefully away ere she left the studio. The pictures and delicate fabrics were covered in preparation for the morning's sweeping. It suddenly struck Maud how much she owed to Enid's thoughtfulness: how many little services Enid constantly rendered her which she took almost as a matter of course! But now, as she looked about her, and saw everywhere the trace of Enid's careful hands, the sight struck such pain to her heart as we feel when we look on the last work wrought for us by some loving one whom death has removed from our side.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, overcome by the anguish of the thought. "How good Enid has always been to me! And I—I have been a perfect wretch to her! How can I bear it if any harm has come to her!"

"Don't—don't give way," said Julius, but his own voice was hoarse. "Let us go to Miss Strutt—she may be able to tell us something."

So they went down the cold dark staircase, and found their way, by the light of the wax taper Julius carried, to Miss Strutt's door. The house seemed empty and deserted, for few of the artists who worked there by day remained at their studios after daylight had gone. In the midst of her distress, Maud wondered how Miss Strutt could bear to live there all alone.

Although it was barely nine o'clock, Miss Strutt was already preparing for rest. At any other time, Maud would have been intensely amused at the droll figure she presented as she looked out of the door, attired in an old tartan dressing-gown, with her head tied up in a flowered silk handkerchief. She betrayed some discomposure at finding herself confronted by a gentleman when thus "déshabillée;" but no sooner did she hear the news he brought, than she forgot herself entirely in concern for Enid.

"I know nothing of her—I have not seen her all day!" she exclaimed. "Oh dear, dear me! Our little Enid lost! What a lamentable thing! Wait a minute whilst I dress myself, and I will come with you to seek her."

"Can you make any suggestion as to where we should seek her?" asked Julius, not thinking that Miss Strutt's presence was likely to be of much assistance.

"How can I? She said nothing to me of any intention, unless—She may possibly have gone to the Villa Mattei. It is open on Thursdays, and I know she meant to go there some day."

"That is an idea," said Julius. "We will make enquiries in that direction."

"Let us go there at once," said Maud, turning to accompany him.

But he gently checked her.

"Not you," he said. "I am going to ask Miss Strutt to take care of you."

"Indeed, I do not need to be taken care of," said Maud, indignantly. "I am going to look for Enid; I will not rest till I find her!"

"It is impossible that you should wander abroad this cold night," he replied firmly. Then he added in a gentler, somewhat tremulous tone, "Do you not see that the search may last all night? You will be brave and strong, I hope. You will return to the 'pension' with Miss Strutt, if she will accompany you, and await what tidings we may bring. Who knows? Your cousin may return there very soon. Whenever she comes, she will want you."

Maud was obliged to yield to him, though she yielded reluctantly.

It seemed to Miss Strutt as she observed him that the young man's character had undergone a transformation. She could see that he was intensely anxious about Enid—that the thought of her peril gave him the utmost pain, and she was not surprised. But the self-control, firmness, and decision he displayed did surprise her. She had not given him credit for such qualities. She had imagined him to be simply a frivolous, pleasure-loving, rather conceited young man. She now saw that there was more in him than she had supposed.

"Enquire of the guards at the Forum and the Colosseum," she said to him ere he left. "Enid goes so often to those places that they must know her well."

Julius, impatient of every moment of inaction, departed in haste. If he had been ignorant before of the nature of the feeling which drew him to Enid Mildmay, this night was destined to reveal it to him. His mind was in an agony as he drove towards the Colosseum. He knew too well the hidden dangers of Rome into which a young and inexperienced girl might fall. All kinds of terrible possibilities suggested themselves to his imagination, and he blamed himself for never having given Enid the least warning that it was possible to be too adventurous in exploring Rome. Yet in truth the idea of peril in connexion with Enid's wanderings had never before suggested itself to him. Enid's courage and simplicity had seemed a sufficient safeguard for her. And what right had he to interfere with her movements? But he vowed within himself that if he found her safe and well, he would not rest till he had won the right to watch over her in future. It should not be his fault if she strayed into danger again.

The moon was slowly rising behind the Colosseum, and beginning to illumine with its rays the grand old walls. Already there were carriages standing at the entrance, and the sound of voices and laughter from within announced that a party of American tourists were "doing" the Colosseum by moonlight. Julius alighted and made enquiries at the entrance, but could learn nothing of Enid there.

He passed on towards the Cœlian on foot, making enquiry of everyone he met of whom it appeared in the least probable that he might obtain tidings of Enid. By doing so, he attracted considerable attention. The news that a young English lady was lost passed rapidly from one to another. Curiosity or the hope of gain drew people after him. To his annoyance, he found himself attended by a crowd of persons, who harassed him with questions and suggestions that were mostly wide of the mark.

Crossing the open ground at the right of the Colosseum, Julius paused at the end of one of the paths and looked about him in perplexity. Which way should he take? A little below to the right was the church of S. Gregorio. To the left the steep arched lane ascended to the church of SS. Giovanni e Paolo. Was it likely she had entered either of these churches? Should he visit them, or hurry on without delay to the Villa Mattei, and ask if she had been there that afternoon?

As he hesitated, someone pulled his sleeve. He looked round, and saw a small girl by his side. Her face was half hidden by the black hair which hung over it, but her large dark eyes gleamed in the moonlight.

"The signor seeks a Signorina Inglese?"

"Yes, yes," said Julius eagerly.

"'Una piccola, brunetta con aria forte?'" ("A little one, of brown complexion and healthy appearance?")

"Yes, yes."

"The signorina is an artist; she has a studio in the Via Sistina?"

"Yes, it is she!" exclaimed Julius, unable to restrain his impatience. "Tell me at once what you know about her."

"The signorina passed up here this afternoon," replied the girl, pointing up the lane. "She spoke to me, and gave me a soldo, and said that if I would come to her studio to-morrow, she would perhaps employ me as a model."

"Yes, yes; and where did she go? Did you watch her?"

"She went into the church," said the girl.

"And afterwards—did you see her come out?"

"No, no; I did not see her again, though I waited long outside the church, for I had forgotten the number of her studio, and I wanted to ask her."

Julius stayed to hear no more. With rapid strides, he ascended the steep road. The church was closed at this hour. With a vigorous hand, Julius pulled the bell at the door of the adjoining monastery. His loud summons brought the porter in haste to the door. He was about to demur to admitting a visitor so late in the evening, but ere he could get the words out, Julius had pushed him aside and entered.

"I must speak with one of the reverend brethren at once," he said. "Here—take my card, and say that my business brooks of no delay."

The man, overawed by his imperious manner, obeyed instantly. And the effect of his message or his name—for the banker was a person of importance in Roman society, although not of the Roman Church—was such that in a few moments a monk appeared. He was one who had been in the church and had spoken with Enid that afternoon.

"Yes, yes," he said, as Julius hastily explained what brought him. "I remember the young lady you describe. She was in the church this afternoon."

"And when did she leave it?"

"That I cannot say," he replied. "The last I saw of her was when she descended to the subterranean house in the company of Brother Tomaso. I know that she did so, for I lighted her candle and saw her down the stairs."

"Where is Brother Tomaso?" demanded Julius Dakin.

"I do not know; I will seek him instantly," said the monk, impressed by Mr. Dakin's manner, and catching the contagion of his excitement.

He disappeared, and in a few minutes returned accompanied by a monk much older than himself, who walked with a feeble step.

And now a strange thing happened. Neither Julius nor the younger monk could succeed in recalling Enid to the old man's recollection. He persisted in saying that no such young lady had formed one of the party he had conducted through the ancient house. He grew angry with his young brother when he maintained that he was mistaken, since he himself had seen the young English lady follow the others.

"If you saw her descend, perhaps you also saw her come out," he said, "for I did not. There were but two ladies in the party, and they were German, and good Catholics, for I saw them take the holy water ere they quitted the church, and they gave me a franc for our offertory."

"Is it possible," exclaimed Julius, violently agitated, "that she has been left behind in those dismal vaults? She may have fallen, or have fainted. There is no knowing what horrible thing may have happened to her there."

"It is impossible!" exclaimed the younger monk. "But calm yourself, signor. We will descend at once and ascertain if she is there."

It was with difficulty Julius could control his agitation. The younger monk lighted a lantern, found the keys, and led the way into the church. He entered the little chapel, descended the steps, and unlocked strong iron door. Julius, who followed closely, shook with a nervous tremor as the door was opened. He advanced with a sensation of dread, but the next moment a cry of joy escaped him.

The light held by the monk fell upon the form of Enid seated on a stone step, her head drooping against an angle of the wall, and her eyes closed in sleep.

At the sound of Julius' cry, she moved and opened her eyes: they met his with a dazed, startled look; then she smiled, and said in a simple, child-like way—

"Ah, you have come!—I knew you would come!"

"Enid, dearest Enid," he said with passionate earnestness, "you can never know how thankful I am to find you safe at last! To think of your being shut up in this horrid place!"

"Hush!" she said faintly, as he helped her to rise. "Do not say anything about it now."

She was weak and stiff. He put his arms about her and helped her to ascend the stairs. The monk hastened to fetch wine; she drank some and her strength revived.

"Are you well enough to drive home now?" Julius asked presently. "Your cousin is in great anxiety about you."

"Then let us start at once," said Enid. "Indeed I am strong."

But she was still unable to talk over what had happened, and the drive passed almost in silence.

Maud would never forget the relief she experienced when, just as she was ready to give up all hope, and abandon herself to the most gloomy forebodings, Julius appeared accompanied by Enid. All the coldness and constraint that had arisen between the two melted away in the joy of this reunion. If Enid had ever doubted whether her cousin had any real affection for her, she was assured of it now. Maud could not do enough for her. She overwhelmed Enid with loving attentions.

"Now I have you safe and sound again, I mean to take better care of you," she said. "You will not be allowed to go wandering off alone any more, I can tell you."

She insisted on having her bed placed in Enid's room that she might be with her during the night. "For if you wake and find yourself alone, Enid," she said, "you will be fancying yourself back in that dreadful place."

Enid was very tired, and glad to lie down, but it was long ere sleep came to her. The day's adventure had wrought in her an excitement of mind which would not yield to repose. Nor was Maud's state of mind more tranquil. When they had been lying down for more than an hour, she heard Enid moving restlessly on her bed, and spoke to her.

"You cannot sleep, Enid?"

"No," said Enid wearily; "I do not feel in the least like sleeping."

"Nor I," said Maud. "I keep thinking it all over, and imagining all kinds of things that might have happened."

"That is not a profitable occupation," said Enid. "It is not like you to indulge your imagination in that way."

"No, it is not," said Maud. "But, Enid, you cannot think how miserable I felt when you were lost. I kept thinking how horrid I had been to you during this past week. I should never have forgiven myself if any harm had come to you. And now, will you forgive me?"

"Of course, if there is anything to forgive," said Enid. "But you misunderstood me—that was all."

"I don't know about that," said Maud. "You must not try to find excuses for me; I know I behaved very badly. But, Enid, do tell me how you managed to endure being shut up in that dark underground place. If it had happened to me, I should have gone mad."

"I felt like that at first," said Enid, tremulously. "The first half-hour was dreadful. I thought there would be rats and mice, and all sorts of horrible things in the darkness; and it seemed as if I could not bear it. I grew cold and sick, and shook from head to with fear. But then I thought of the martyrs who had suffered in that place so many years ago. I remembered how they must have lived in constant dread for long ere they were put to death. I thought how many in those days, women and young girls even, had found strength to endure the utmost tortures rather than deny their faith, and my own suffering seemed slight in comparison. Sooner or later, I felt sure that I should be set free. I had only to spend a few hours in cold and darkness, that was all."

"All!" echoed Maud. "I should think it was enough. Oh, you dear, brave, heroic Enid!"

"Indeed, I felt anything but heroic," replied her cousin. "God must have sent the thoughts that gave me comfort. I thought of home and of mother. I remembered that in a little time they would be gathered for family prayers, and I knew they would pray for me. Then I prayed, and I felt that my prayer was heard. The love of God, in which I have always believed in a way, became to me then such a blessed reality. I felt that God was near, and would watch over me. My mind grew more and more peaceful, till at last, in spite of every discomfort, I fell asleep. I don't know how long I slept, but when I opened my eyes, Julius Dakin stood beside me, and my trouble was over."

"Julius was very good and kind," said Maud. "He was ready to do anything. If you had been his sister, he could not have shown more anxiety about you."

To this Enid made no reply. They ceased talking, and presently Maud fell asleep. But the allusion to Julius Dakin had started Enid on a fresh train of thought, and one not calculated to lessen her excitement of mind.