Chapter XVIII: A Hard Duty

FOR three weeks—three long weary weeks—had Maud lain in the unconsciousness of fever. To Enid, the time had seemed like three months. The bright happy days when she had so thoroughly enjoyed the fresh and stimulating interests of Rome seemed to have receded into the far distance. The clouds as well as the sunshine which had marked those days were alike forgotten. She felt as if she had passed an age in Rome, so full and deep had been the experience she had gained there.

Whilst Maud lay in a condition which might terminate in death, Enid had few thoughts save for her. She knew now how dear, in spite of her proud, petulant, trying ways, her cousin had become to her. Maud's faults passed into shade, and only the winning charm of the high-spirited, ambitious girl was remembered. Enid thought that if only her cousin were restored to health and strength, she would desire nothing more.

Even when she said good-bye to Mrs. Dakin and Miss Amory on their departure for London, and they spoke of joining Julius, she listened almost with indifference. She fancied that certain feelings which had disturbed her mind a little while back were already not benumbed, but dead. She had suffered a dream to trouble her, but she was awake now, and knew that she had dreamed.

Sharing the terrible anxiety and suspense in which Mr. Marian watched beside his darling child, Enid might well forget all else. Even after the patient had passed the crisis of the fever, there was need for the utmost caution, lest a relapse should occur. Maud was herself again; but the pulse of life beat very low, and her debility was such that she could hardly believe that she was on the way to recovery.

"I shall never be strong again—never!" she would say, with tears of weakness in her eyes. "It is impossible! Look at my hand, Enid, how thin it is! I can almost see through it. And my arms! No one would know them for mine."

"'Coraggio!'" said Enid, with a smile. "You are stronger already; and if only you take all the food we give you, your arms and hands will soon look different."

So saying, she proceeded to administer to her cousin some strengthening jelly, which Maud swallowed eagerly. She had a ravenous craving for nourishment, which was esteemed by the doctor a good symptom.

"I don't feel any stronger," she said; but already her voice was less faint. "I must be very altered, Enid. Do I not look dreadful without my hair?"

There was a shadow on her face as she passed beer hand regretfully over the short golden locks which were all that remained of the hair which had been her glory.

"No, Miss Vanity; you do not look dreadful." said Enid playfully. "You used to look like one of Pinturicchio's angels, and now you look like one of his cherubs—that's all the difference it makes. Now never say that I do not pay you compliments."

Compliment though it was, the comparison was not inapt. The short, fair locks curling on her brow, the transparent delicacy of her complexion, and the helpless, docile, dependent expression often seen in convalescence, gave to Maud's countenance quite an infantile grace.

Her cousin's words pleased her. She smiled, and a faint tinge of colour, delicate as the pink flush within a shell, crept into her cheek.

"It is foolish of me to mind," she said; "but I was proud of my hair."

"You will be proud of it again yet, I am afraid," said Enid smiling.

"Enid," said Maud, after a pause—they were alone together—"have you taken care of me all the time I was ill?"

"Your father was here too, you know," replied Enid.

"Yes, of course; but did you do all the nursing? Had you no one to help you?"

"There was a lady—a lady staying here—who came very kindly and helped me," said Enid, with some hesitation.

To her relief, Maud did not enquire what was the lady's name.

"I thought there was someone else," she said. "I seem to have a faint recollection of a woman who was with me, and who was very kind and gentle. I believe I thought she was my mother, and she spoke tenderly to me. I had visions of my mother many times when I was ill."

"I did not know that you could remember your mother," Enid said. "I fancied you were very young when she died."

"So I was—too young to remember her. But there was a portrait of her in my father's room; and when I was a tiny child, he would lift me up to look at it, and I used to kiss the glass which covered the dear kind face. I always carried that picture of my mother in my heart, and often in my childish troubles, I used to long that my mother could come to me and take me in her arms. You see, I saw other children with their mothers, so I knew what I had missed. But afterwards Aunt Helen came to take care of me, and then I ceased to fret."

Tears came into Enid's eyes as she thought of all that her own mother had been to her. The yearning she had to be with her again was at times almost more than she could bear. She dared not let her thoughts dwell upon home. The experience of the last few weeks had deepened her sense of home-sickness; but she would not give way to it, for she foresaw that it would be long ere Maud was fit to travel back to England.

Enid hastened to speak on another subject, for she saw that memories of the past had brought a burden upon Maud's mind. She looked weary and sad, nor did Enid's best efforts avail to conquer her depression. At last, however, she fell asleep from very weariness; and when Mr. Marian and his wife presently entered the room, she lay in what looked a most peaceful slumber. Mrs. Marian sent Enid away to take a walk, and herself sat down to watch the patient.

Maud's sleep was less profound than it appeared. Not many minutes had passed since Enid left the house, when she began to move restlessly in her sleep, and presently, with a sigh, she opened her eyes. Mrs. Marian had withdrawn out of sight behind a curtain; Maud's voice reached her, saying plaintively,—

"Enid, Enid!"

The watcher paused in perplexity. What was she to do? Enid was away; her husband was not at hand. Should she venture to show herself to the invalid?

"Enid, Enid!" Maud cried again, this time with a touch of querulousness in her tone.

Mrs. Marian could hesitate no longer. She went forward to the bed.

"What is it you want, dear? Enid has gone out for a little while; but I am here to wait on you."

Maud gazed at her in surprise. She saw something familiar in the kind face that looked down on her, but could not at once determine to whom it belonged. She continued to gaze without speaking, and Mrs. Marian had to repeat her question.

"I am thirsty," said Maud abruptly.

Mrs. Marian passed into the next room to fetch a cooling draught. She was gone but a few moments; but in the interval, the truth flashed on Maud's mind, and she knew who it was who was thus waiting on her.

When Mrs. Marian approached her, Maud flushed deeply, and made a hasty movement, as though she would refuse the drink for which she had asked. But her nurse appeared not to observe the action, and quietly placed the glass in her hand, whereupon Maud drained it, and gave it back with a faint "Thank you."

She immediately turned on her side and closed her eyes. Mrs. Marian sat down and took up her knitting again. Maud lay perfectly still, but she was not asleep, nor was her state of mind tranquil. It was only by a strong effort that she maintained the appearance of repose. Presently Mr. Marian entered the room, said a few words in a low tone to his wife, and stood watching Maud for a while. She carefully feigned to be asleep, and he went away again. Not a word did Maud utter till she found herself once more alone with her cousin.

Then, with a sudden excess of energy caused by excitement, she raised herself in bed, and said angrily, whilst a bright crimson spot burned in each cheek, "Why did you not tell me, Enid, that that woman was here?"

Enid did not enquire what woman. She answered very quietly, "I thought it better not to tell you yet. I feared it would disturb you."

"You were right; of course it vexes me very much. Do you mean to say that she has been here helping to nurse me ever since I was taken ill?"

"Indeed she has. And oh! Maud, if you knew how good and kind she has been, you would not speak of her in that way."

"Yes, I should. I do not want her to be good and kind to me. You ought not to have let her come, Enid. You must have known that I should hate to have her do anything for me."

"Don't you think you are rather ungrateful, Maud?"

"I don't care if I am. I do not want to be grateful to her. Why should she come and thrust her services upon me?"

"Oh, Maud, do not speak like that. I was most thankful for her help. You forget how ill you have been, and what a time of sorrow and anxiety we have all known."

Maud threw herself back upon her pillows, and began to sob passionately.

"It is a pity I am getting well," she cried. "It would have been better if I had died. Perhaps I shall not get over it after all—I do not want to live. Enid, mind, I will not have her do anything more for me. Promise me that you will not leave me to her care again."

It was vain to argue with this spoiled child in her nervous, debilitated condition. Enid was obliged to give the promise required of her, and to do all in her power to soothe Maud's agitation.

But the next day, Maud was not so well. There was a slight return of the fever. Fresh anxiety was awakened. For some days, Maud's condition did not improve. What change there was, was retrograde rather than progressive. The doctor was at a loss to understand the cause.

"There is nothing upon her mind, is there?" he asked once. "Pray let nothing trouble her that you can possibly avoid. A very slight cause of disquietude will work ill on one so reduced as she is."

Enid and Mr. Marian looked at each other in silence. Each knew well what was disturbing Maud's serenity; but it was not in their power to remove the cause. This was a case in which the patient must minister to herself.

Mrs. Marian had withdrawn from all attendance on the invalid. When Enid required to be relieved, Signora Grassi or one of the servants would take her place.

Maud continued restless, irritable, fretful. At times, she was so exacting that there was no pleasing her; then she would be seized with contrition, and reproach herself bitterly for her ill-temper, or she would fall into a state of deep depression, and wish that she might die.

When her father was present, although he manifested the utmost tenderness towards her, she seemed always to feel a sense of constraint. She never mentioned Mrs. Marian, but it was evidently not because she did not think of her.

Enid wondered with some uneasiness how long this state of things would last, and what the end of it would be. She thought it would be well if Maud would speak to her on the subject which lay so heavily on her mind; but Maud seemed proudly determined to keep her thoughts to herself, perhaps because she foresaw that they would not meet with full sympathy from her cousin.

At last, however, the ice-was in a measure broken, and it was a letter from Sidney Althorp which effected this. It was the first letter Maud had received from him since her illness, though he had constantly written to enquire concerning her; and when she was most seriously ill, Mr. Marian had from time to time sent him telegrams. Enid could see that Mr. Marian regarded this young man almost as a son, and had the utmost confidence in him. He often said that it would have been impossible for him to remain away so long if he had not had Sidney Althorp to look after his business in his absence. He told Enid one day that he meant to take Sidney Althorp as his partner in his business; but he begged her not to mention this to Maud for the present, as he wished himself to surprise her with the news when she was a little stronger.

Enid had thus come to feel considerable interest in Mr. Sidney Althorp, and she watched her cousin with some curiosity as she read the letter she had received from him. A faint flush rose in Maud's cheek, and she looked pleased as she perused the opening lines; but presently her brow clouded, and it was with a sigh that she laid down the letter. She lay for some time without speaking, her face wearing a very thoughtful expression.

"Your letter has made you look grave," said Enid at length. "I hope there was nothing in it to trouble you?"

"No, not exactly," said Maud, with another sigh. "It is a very kind letter. You know Sidney is like a brother to me."

"Yes, I know," replied Enid. Then after a minute she added, "I am glad I have seen him; I like him so much. He seems to me a very fine character."

"I suppose he is," said Maud perversely; "but I am not sure that I like fine characters. People who think the right thing, say the right thing, and do the right thing on every occasion, bore me terribly."

"You cannot be often bored in that way," remarked Enid. "I wonder why you dislike the idea of perfection so much."

"Because it is unnatural. I cannot attain to it myself, and I do not like that others should excel me. Somehow good people always make me feel dreadfully wicked, and I long to say or do something to shock them. That is the effect Sidney Althorp always has on me."

"But why?" asked Enid.

"I don't know why. It's my natural perversity, I suppose. If Sidney were here now, I should say or do all sorts of things on purpose to vex him."

"Very amiable of you," observed Enid. "What has he said in his letter to put you out so?"

"It is not so much what he says as the way in which he takes it for granted that I am as good as he is," replied Maud.

"But do you not find that the fact that another person thinks highly of you helps you to be good?"

"No; it does not have that effect upon me," replied Maud. "It only makes me impatient. What is the good of my trying to be good? I could never be as good as Sidney Althorp!"

"He would tell you to aim far higher than that," said Enid. "Everyone who would live truly must seek to conform his or her life to the One True Life. I begin to see, as I never saw before, that Christ is the touchstone of character. No one is really great whose life bears no resemblance to His. It is not easy to be like Christ. We may strive and fail. We do fail continually; but in spite of failure it is well to aim at the highest."

"I think my life has been all a failure," said Maud wearily. "I am a failure as an artist—I can see that now. I have been thinking over all my work whilst I have been lying here, and I am disgusted with it. I do not believe I shall ever have the heart to touch a brush again."

"Oh yes, you will," said Enid. "You will take up your work with fresh zest when you are strong again. I think it is good for us sometimes to be forced to rest. You will resume your work, I believe, with fresh power and a higher aim."

"I have never aimed very high," said Maud. "Perhaps that is why I have failed. I have never thought of anything save my own pleasure and the gratification of my pride. I am disgusted with my life. It is true, Enid, that I often wish I could die; yet I know I am not fit to die, for if it is true that each one of us must give an account of himself to God, I should have a poor account to give."

"Don't wish to die, Maud, but to live; and make up your mind to live in earnest. You are getting stronger, thank God, and your health would improve more rapidly if your mind were at rest."

"What do you mean, Enid?" asked Maud, with a touch of annoyance in her tone. "How do you know that my mind is not at rest?"

"Have you not told me as much?" said Enid. "How can it be at rest when you feel so dissatisfied with your life?"

"And you might add, that the state of things between me and my father is not calculated to give me repose of mind," added Maud. "Of course I cannot help seeing how much I grieve him, and I am sorry to make him unhappy. Yet you cannot think how I hate the thought of receiving that woman. I want to keep her at arm's length all the time."

"If you knew her, and how good and kind she is, I do not think you would feel so," said Enid gently.

"There, now you are taking part against me!" cried Maud impatiently. "Oh dear! I cannot see that it is my fault that things have come to such a pass! My life seems to have got all wrong, and I do not see how to set it right."

"I don't think that is difficult, Maud."

"Oh, you mean that I should begin to 'do my duty,' as Sidney Althorp would say. How I hate that word 'duty!' It always means something disagreeable. I suppose if I had done my duty. I should not have come to Rome last winter, and then perhaps my father would not have married, and I should have escaped all this trouble. But it is of no use thinking of that now! I can't undo the past."

"No; but you can avoid committing the same sort of mistake again. Duty is really no enemy, Maud. You think her so because you shrink from her. Follow her, and you will find her a friend."

"Well, how shall I follow her? What would you have me do, Enid?"

"Begin with the duty that lies nearest to you," Enid gently. "You must know what that is."

The silence that followed seemed to show that Maud did know. Enid half feared that she had offended her cousin by speaking so plainly; but Maud's face wore a troubled, thoughtful expression, which was not one of anger.

Many minutes passed without either saying a word. A struggle was going on in Maud's mind. At last, she spoke in a low, unsteady voice—

"I suppose I must give in, Enid, and try for once to do what is right. Will you ask my father to come to me?"

Enid stooped and kissed her cousin without saying a word, then hastened to do her bidding.