Chapter XVI: 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.