Chapter XX: 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.

"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."