Chapter III: At Rome

A YOUNG girl was standing on the highest gallery of the Colosseum. Every detail of her attire, from the simple felt hat, which could defy any weather, to the stout boots made for hard work, as well as a certain air of unconscious ease and strength which marked her bearing, proclaimed her to be English. At least so thought a young man who had just stepped on to the platform from one of the flights of stone steps, to find this young lady the only other occupant.

She did not hear him approach, and had no eyes for him as she stood gazing down into the vast area, or across it at the far-stretching prospect beyond. Now and then her eyes fell on the red-covered guidebook she carried, and she turned a page or two with rather a dissatisfied look, but there was no discontent in her expression as her glance again wandered over the mighty ruin. The Colosseum was all Enid Mildmay had expected it to be, and more. She had felt bewildered as she walked down from the Capitol, passing the old Forum and an astonishing number of ruins of temples, palaces, archways, till she found herself at the Colosseum.

Only that morning had she arrived in Rome, and everything seemed new and strange till she came within these grand old walls, the form of which, as represented by picture and photograph, had been familiar to her from her childhood. Yet how different was the reality from anything she had imagined! How much vaster the proportions; how much more stupendous the strength of this marvellous relic of a bygone age than she could possibly have conceived! And then the solemn beauty of it all as she saw it now, when the broken masses of pale brown wall above her were outlined against a sky of softest blue, and a deeper blue filled in the distant arches, when in the clear atmosphere every detail of the vast circumference was clearly visible, and she could look down and trace the corridors and the flights of steps by which the spectators had entered, and the places where tiers upon tiers of seats had been, and even the subterranean passages which ran beneath the arena. Mingling with the deep interest she felt was a sensation of wonder that she, Enid Mildmay, who less than a month ago had been living her uneventful home life at Devonport without a thought of seeing Rome, should stand on this November afternoon within the world-famous Colosseum.

But presently Enid forgot herself as her mind went back into the past, and she tried to picture the scenes that had taken place within that vast building. For a brief moment, she seemed to see the huge circle lined with rows of eager spectators; they filled the seats rising tier after tier from the arena; they crowded up the numerous stairs; there were proud Roman ladies and fair girls, shrinking back, yet gazing with fascinated eyes at the brutal sport enacted below; there was the emperor on his marble throne beneath a gorgeous canopy; noble youths and wealthy courtiers surrounded him; whilst from far above, the common people, and the sailors employed to unfurl the awning when required, looked down intent and excited on the dust and turmoil and cruel strife of the arena.

And the shows had not been merely gladiatorial. It was not enough that men hired for the purpose should risk their lives in contests with wild beasts. To gratify the bloodthirsty passions of the Roman populace, faithful adherents of the sect "everywhere spoken against" here won their martyr's crown amid the frantic shouts of a brutal mob. Enid thought of St. Ignatius, the first of those martyred souls, and of St. Prisca, here exposed to a lion which refused to touch her, and who, after three days of unspeakable torture, perished finally by the axe. A feeling of awe came over her with the thought, and for a moment a mist rose before her eyes and hid the arena, which she felt to be sacred ground.

Meanwhile, Julius Dakin stood motionless at the top of the flight of steps by which he had ascended. The Colosseum was not new to him. He was familiar with every aspect of the grand old walls; and though he had climbed to the highest platform for the sake of enjoying, on this bright afternoon, the prospect it commanded, it now pleased him better to look at Enid. He could read the meaning of her rapt, earnest look. He was wont to meet many tourists. Not seldom it was his agreeable duty to show to English and American ladies the famous ruins of Rome. He knew the kind of remarks he might expect from them; frequently he drew covert amusement from their pretended raptures or unconscious revelations of ignorance; but now he saw at a glance that Enid was a genuine enthusiast. Nor was that all he saw.

"I know a nice girl when I see her," he said to himself, "and I mean to make the acquaintance of this one."

How he could do so without overstepping the restraints of gentlemanly decorum did not appear. Enid's neat little form expressed a dignity which would be swift to repel presumption. Various pretexts for addressing her presented themselves to Julius' quick mind, and were rejected as unsuitable. He had not stood there many moments revolving such ideas when Enid, in spite of her absorption, felt the attraction of his gaze and turned. Their eyes met in that full, perfect gaze which is invariably felt as a surprise, and usually communicates to each a thrill, either pleasurable or the reverse.

A shade of melancholy still lingered on Enid's face, and she read in the dark eyes that met hers an answering gravity, a strange, gentle sympathy so powerful that she felt as if she were gazing into the face of a friend, and scarce voluntarily exclaimed, "Oh, what a place this is!"

Scarcely had the words passed her lips ere she was astonished at herself. Enid had been carefully, though not prudishly, trained. Unlike Italian mothers, who can never trust their girls out of their sight, Mrs. Mildmay had never the slightest doubt that Enid would on any and every occasion conduct herself as became a lady. She was the last girl likely to scrape an acquaintance with anyone on a chance meeting like this. But everyone who lives vividly, and has strong emotions, knows what it is to be suddenly moved by strange circumstances to a quick, impulsive act before which one's past self stands amazed. The colour rose in Enid's face, and she felt dreadfully ashamed as she realised how unconventional, to say the least of it, was her behaviour in thus addressing a stranger.

But if Julius Dakin felt some surprise at her speaking to him, he was far too well-bred to let it appear. He raised his hat and stepped forward with the utmost courtesy. It was generally conceded by his female acquaintance that Dakin's manners were perfection, for in his case an Italian grace of bearing was grafted upon the manly and sincere deference for women which marks the Anglo-Saxon.

"It is indeed a place like no other," he replied easily. "In all Rome—and I may claim to know Rome pretty thoroughly—I find nothing that surpasses it in grandeur, and interest. 'Second to nought observable in Rome' it is—to quote Browning."

"But he says that of a picture, does he not?" asked Enid.

"Yes—of Guido Reni's Crucifixion in San Lorenzo in Lucina. You have not seen it?"

"I only arrived in Rome this morning," said Enid.

"And it is your first visit? Then you have much to see and much enjoyment before you. I almost envy you the vividness and charm of first impressions."

Enid stole a curious glance at her companion. She was surely not mistaken in thinking him an Englishman, and yet her ear detected something unusual in the way he spoke her language. It was rather an intonation than an accent which she observed. His appearance told her nothing. He had dark hair and eyes, but his complexion was not darker than that of many an Englishman.

His features were good, and he had a certain winning brightness of expression. Enid could not but admire his tall, well-built form, nor did it escape her observation that he was exceedingly well dressed, though there was no sign of foppishness in his attire. She was about to bid him good-day and leave him, when he, perhaps discerning her intention, said quickly—

"When I tell you that I have lived in Rome the greater part of my life, you will understand how familiar all this is to me. Will you allow me to act as showman, and point out to you the principal objects to be seen from here?"

"Indeed, I shall be much obliged to you if you will," said Enid. "I can make out very little, even with 'Baedeker's' help. Am I right in taking this hill on the right with the broken arches for the Palatine?"

"Yes; those picturesque ruins belong to the palaces of the Cæsars. That hill on your left is the Cœlian. Those brown buildings with the square tower are the church of SS. Giovanni e Paolo and the monastery connected with it. The round building is the church of S. Stefano Rotondo. You must be sure to visit the Cœlian during your visit. I hope it is to be a long one, for it is impossible really to see Rome in a few weeks."

"I have come for the winter," said Enid.

"Ah, that is right," said the young man, with a look of pleasure. "Now see between these two hills what a fine view we have of the Campagna. Yonder, where the blue distance melts into the white glow of the horizon, is the sea."

"What is that pyramid which rises there?" asked Enid, indicating the direction with her hand.

"That is the Pyramid of Caius Cestius, a Roman tribune. It was raised by Agrippa to his memory, and is a tolerably substantial kind of sepulchre. You will see it nearer one of these days."

So they talked on, and as he gave her the information she needed, and led her from one point of interest to another, Enid almost forgot that she knew nothing of him save the credentials of good breeding conspicuous in his bearing. If anyone had told her that she would spend part of her first afternoon in Rome in talking and walking about the Colosseum with a strange gentleman, to whom she had not even had an introduction, she would have declared such a thing impossible. But the stranger's perfect courtesy prevented her from feeling any awkwardness; and when at length she decided that she could not remain longer, he bade her good-day without betraying the least curiosity concerning her, or any desire to thrust himself further on her notice.

"He certainly is a gentleman," said Enid to herself, as she went on her way. "But what could have induced me to speak to him first? I hope he did not think me forward."

Her colour deepened with the thought.

"Somehow I seemed to know him; I had a sort of idea that he was feeling as I was. What would mother say to it? What will Maud say? For of course I shall tell her. I am not ashamed of what I have done, though perhaps—. No, I do not see why I should be ashamed. I meant no harm; and yet I wish I had not done it. Mother is right; I am far too impulsive in my conduct. I wonder if I shall ever see him again? I dare say not. And what should I do if we did meet? I could not speak to him, for I do not know him; and yet, after his kindness to-day, it seems discourteous to give him no sort of recognition. I almost hope I may not see him; and yet—perhaps it was my fancy—but I really thought he looked glad when I said that I had come to pass the winter at Rome."

When Enid reached the "pension" in which Miss Marian had established herself, she learned that the young lady, whom she had left reposing after the fatigue of the journey, had since risen and gone out with a friend. Enid therefore set to work to unpack and arrange her things.

She had finished her arrangements and was making her toilette for dinner when Maud appeared.

She came in with an elated air.

"Oh, Enid, I hope you have not minded being left to yourself so long. Miss Merriman called to tell me of a delightful studio which is to let in the Via Sistina. She did not know whether I had yet arrived, but looked in on the chance; and I am very glad she did, for I would not miss getting this studio for the world. Even now it is not certain whether I can have it, for there is another artist in negotiation for it. But I mean to outbid him if I can."

"Is the studio near here?" asked Enid.

"Oh yes—hardly five minutes' walk. It is a large room with a splendid light, and I see my way to arranging it charmingly. Just beyond, at the end of the passage, a flight of steps leads down into the most delightful old garden, with orange trees and an old fountain and statues—without noses, of course, but that only gives them a truer air of antiquity—and I shall be able to paint there when the weather is fine. I have already a grand idea for a picture. But I must not stay talking here when it is almost dinner-time. Come to me, Enid, as soon as you are ready." And she hurried away.

The bell rang for dinner as Enid crossed the corridor to her cousin's room. Maud was hurriedly fastening her gown, and had no time for words; but as they passed out of the room she said carelessly—

"And where have you been this afternoon, Enid?"

"I found my way to the Colosseum," replied Enid.

"Oh, the Colosseum. New-comers are always eager to see that. For my part, I am rather tired of the Colosseum."

"I do not think I can ever tire of it," said Enid.

By that time, they were at the dining-room, for the rooms being all on one floor were not far apart. Enid had had no opportunity of telling her cousin of her afternoon's experience.

As soon as dinner ended, Maud said, "Enid, I am going straight to bed, for I begin to be aware that a night on the railway, even though it be in a 'train de luxe,' does not afford one thorough rest."

Enid too was feeling the need of sleep, so without more words they said good-night, and retired to their rooms.

Maud Marian was certainly not lacking in energy. When Enid came out of her room the next morning, she met her cousin in the passage dressed to go out.

"You will not mind my leaving you this morning, Enid?" she said. "I must go and see the 'padrone' again about that studio, and afterwards I am going to my banker's. It would be dull for you to hang about with me whilst I attended to my business. I am sure you would rather go sight-seeing."

"Thank you, I think I would," said Enid. "I am longing to see St. Peter's if I can find my way thither."

"Nothing easier. Signora Grassi will tell you your way to the piazza, where you can take an omnibus for San Pietro. Good-bye; take care of yourself. We shall meet at luncheon."

So Enid again went out alone, and managed to pass the forenoon very pleasantly without meeting with any misadventure. Maud was in excellent spirits when they met at luncheon. She believed that the studio was hers, though there were still some formalities to be observed ere she could take possession of it.

"And I have had the most delightful gossip with my banker, Mr. Dakin," she said. "He has been telling me all the news of Rome. I must introduce you to him some day, Enid. He is a charming old gentleman."

"An Englishman?" asked Enid.

"Yes, and his wife is American. She is much younger than he, and a very stylish woman. She is on a visit to New York just now."

After luncheon both Maud and Enid had letters to write, and when that duty was accomplished, Maud took Enid to the Pincio.

It was a lovely afternoon, and Rome's fashionable resort wore its gayest aspect. The blue sky, the warm sunshine, the appearance of the leafy walks, and the wide terrace dotted with coloured parasols, made the girls feel as if they had been carried back into summer.

"What a change from London!" said Enid. "Do you remember the fog through which we drove to the station, Maud?"

"Yes, indeed," said Maud, with a smile. "Now do you think there is anything unreasonable in my wishing to winter in Rome?"

Enid could not say that there was. They went forward to the front of the terrace, which commands a grand view over Rome, and Maud pointed out to her cousin some of the more conspicuous buildings. The scene had a fascination for Enid, and she could have lingered long looking over the broad expanse of roofs and domes and away to the blue Campagna; but Maud soon began to manifest interest in the carriages driving up and the crowd gathering about the band-stand.

"Let us go and see who is here," she said. "Many of my friends have not yet returned to Rome, but I am sure to find someone I know."

Nor was she mistaken. She was soon greeted by various acquaintances, to whom she introduced her cousin. Maud's tall, slim form seemed to attract much attention. She wore a grey gown of elegant simplicity, and a little black velvet hat which set off admirably the ruddy gold of her hair. Enid felt proud of her cousin, and did not wonder that everyone who greeted her showed such pleasure at seeing her. In truth, Miss Marian had been quite the belle of the English community in Rome during the past winter. After Rumour had enhanced her personal attractions by whispering that her father was immensely rich, and she was his only child, everyone found her charming. People had made so much of her, indeed, that it was little wonder she was eager to return to Rome.

Maud received the many compliments paid her with self-possession; but though she disclaimed any right to them, there was a sparkle in her eye which betrayed that they yet gave her pleasure. She did not remain long in conversation with anyone, but passed from group to group, observing the while every carriage and rider that passed.

"Come, Enid," she said, suddenly moving forward; "here is the Queen; you must see her."

A carriage, rendered conspicuous by the scarlet liveries of the servants, came into sight. Enid saw a lady bowing and smiling pleasantly from it to everyone she passed.

"So that is the Queen," she said, as the scarlet coats disappeared in the distance; "she looks very nice."

"She is charming," said Maud; "not beautiful exactly, but what the Italians call 'simpatica,' which is almost better, I think, than being beautiful. Well, shall we walk on? There is no one particular here this afternoon."

"Why, you seem to have met ever so many people!" exclaimed Enid in surprise.

"Yes, everyone but those I should like to see," said Maud rather petulantly.

"Was there anyone you particularly wanted to see?" asked Enid.

"Oh dear no. How literally you take all my words, Enid! I shall have to be careful what I say to you."

Enid was looking across the road to where the Queen's liveries still gleamed through the trees. Suddenly she started, and the colour flew into her. She had caught sight of a gentleman riding down a path which opened from the trees on their right. The state of confusion into which she was thrown by the appearance of this gentleman was for a few minutes quite overwhelming. She had a momentary impulse to draw Maud's attention to him, then felt it impossible to do so. Anxious that he should not recognise her, she turned her head resolutely in the opposite direction and gazed at the glorious cupola of St. Peter's standing forth from the glowing sunset sky.

The next moment, the band struck up a lively air, and the sudden clash of instruments startled the gentleman's horse, causing it to plunge and rear, so that he had to give all his attention to keeping his seat, and had no eyes for the people about him. Touching it with the spurs, he gave his steed the rein. Enid felt rather than saw that he dashed past them at full gallop. But Maud was moving towards the balustrade, her thoughts intent for the moment on the sunset, and she did not see the rider.

"How grand the dome looks now!" she observed. "I wish I dare attempt to paint it, with such a glowing sky for background. But most of the pictures one sees of St. Peter's against a red sky are wretched daubs."

Enid did not reply. Her eyes were on the winding road below, on which a rider now came in sight.

"Maud," she said, rather nervously, "do you see that gentleman riding below? Do you not think he rides like an Englishman?"

Maud gave a quick glance and her colour deepened. "Of course; he is English," she said. "I declare it is Julius Dakin! What can make him leave the Pincio so soon? He cannot have been here many minutes, or I should have seen him."

She spoke with an air of disappointment.

"Then you know him?" said Enid.

"Certainly; he is a great friend of mine. He is the son of Mr. Dakin, the banker of whom I was speaking this morning. He is an only child, like myself, and somewhat of a spoilt child too; but still he is very nice. I wish I had seen him. He would be sorry if he knew that I was up here and he had missed me."

Now was the time for Enid to tell her cousin of her meeting with this gentleman at the Colosseum. But somehow she felt most reluctant to speak of it. She could not understand why it was, but the words her cousin had uttered concerning Julius Dakin made it seem all but impossible to relate the manner in which she had already made his acquaintance. So she faltered and hesitated, till another acquaintance came up to claim Miss Marian's attention, and her opportunity was gone.