Chapter IX: The Course of True Love

CHRISTMAS came, and Enid Mildmay found the season at Rome very unlike the ideal English Christmas. True, bunches of red-berried holly were being sold at high prices in the Piazza di Spagna, small fir-trees in pots were ranged outside the florists' shops, and the loveliest toys and presents of all descriptions were displayed in the windows on the Corso. But the weather continued exceedingly mild; fires and wraps were scarcely necessary; and ices for which the Romans have an amazing predilection, continued to be an acceptable form of refreshment at every social gathering.

It was not Christmas to Enid, and the letters and cards which came to her from home gave her the worst home-sickness she had as yet felt. She pictured to herself the party gathered about the table in the shabby old dining-room at home, and she longed to be with them. She knew that they would think and speak of the absent one. She thought with an aching heart of the Christmas-tree which would be lighted up in the evening, of the snapdragons in which the boys delighted, and the fun and frolic with which the day would end. She even shed tears over the dainty little woollen wrap which her mother had knitted and sent to her. It was weak and sentimental of her, perhaps; but this was the first Christmas Enid had spent away from home, so perhaps she may be forgiven for indulging in a little emotion on the occasion.

Maud gave herself a few days' relaxation, and went with Enid from church to church to see the strange spectacles and curious ceremonies with which the Romish Church celebrates the anniversary of our Saviour's birth. She had seen them before, and took an æsthetic pleasure in marking the effects of crimson drapery and glittering lights, or in listening to the exquisite music which accompanied many of the services. But what beauty there was, was spoilt for Enid by her sense of the childishness of many of the displays, and the superstition which they expressed. It was dreadful to her to see people reverencing as an object of worship an ugly painted doll with a gold crown stuck upon its head, or bowing in adoration before the gaudy theatrical show of a "Precepio." The tinsel crowns stuck upon paintings of the Madonna and Child, the grotesque-looking dolls set up to represent the Holy Babe, the showily-decked images, the lavish display of dingy artificial flowers, disgusted Enid's taste, whilst it filled her with pity for the poor, ignorant people, to impress whose dull minds such means are employed.

The English and American visitors in Rome attend in great numbers the famous church services, and at most to which the girls went they saw Julius Dakin in the company of Miss Amory. They generally met and exchanged a few words on these occasions. On Christmas morning at St. Maria in Ara Cœli, Julius drew Enid aside from the others to show her the little chapel decorated with the beautiful frescoes of Pinturicchio, and then, in the solitude that is to be found in the midst of a crowd, Enid was led on to talk to him of the Christmas at home, half unconsciously revealing her yearning to be there. She wondered, and was half ashamed afterwards, to think how much she had told him about herself and her dear ones.

"I really must not talk so much of myself again," she thought; "it is so foolish; but somehow he seemed interested. He has such a sympathetic manner—it can be only his manner. Perhaps in reality he was bored. I must be on my guard against abusing his kindness another time."

The Christmas excitements over, Enid again settled steadily to work. She had no lack of occupation. Three mornings a week she spent in the studio of Herr Schmitz, and they were long mornings, for that severe master reproved her for laziness if she presented herself there later than half-past eight. Nor was he anxious to make her tasks agreeable to her. He persistently chose the most difficult casts in his studio for her to draw from, and if he perceived that Enid had a dislike to any subject he suggested, he at once insisted on her undertaking it. He required such care and accuracy in her charcoal drawings, and appeared so impatient of the least defect, that Enid was at times in despair, and but for a fear of seeming ungrateful for his kindness she would have discontinued her visits to his studio. But when he had by his severe words and manner impressed her with the conviction that she would never be able to draw, and might as well abandon the idea, Herr Schmitz would generally relent, and begin to encourage her again, for in truth it was his perception of the real talent she possessed that made him require of her such excellence.

Although when with him, he made her draw steadily from plaster casts, he was willing that she should continue at other times the flower and fruit painting which was her special delight, and condescended to examine and criticise any which she liked to show him. In this way, Enid made rapid progress, and even Maud, in spite of her jealous dislike to doing so, was forced to acknowledge the excellence of her work.

Maud too was working diligently in her way; but she had adopted a vicious style of painting, and self-love and vanity rendered her blind to its defects. Occasionally she was dissatisfied with her performances, and indulged in a little melancholy; but she never doubted long that she was destined to do great things, nor apparently ever questioned that she had done right in leaving her father to live solitary whilst she pursued the life of an artist in the city she loved.

"How unreasonable papa is," she said one day, as she threw down a letter she had received from her father; "he actually suggests that I should return home at the end of February."

"I do not wonder he wants you to return," said Enid; "he must be very dull without you."

"Dull! Not he. You do not know my father, Enid," said Maud. "He is always absorbed in business; that is all he cares for, and in the evening he comes home tired out, and can only sit by the fire with a book, over which very often he will fall asleep. He cannot really miss me, and it is selfish of him to want to cut short my pleasure. But men are selfish."

"And are women never so?" was the question which rose to Enid's lips, but she refrained from asking it.

They were in the studio, and Enid was already at work upon a painting which she was finishing with great care. It represented a little branch cut from an orange tree, with a couple of oranges, one ripe and one just changing colour, whilst just within the juncture of the stems lingered a lovely blossom. Enid's model had been given to her by one of the monks of the monastery of St. Sabina, who had cut it for her, not from the famous orange tree planted by St. Dominic, but from one of its numerous offshoots. She had succeeded better than could be expected with what was really a difficult subject, and Herr Schmitz had praised the harmony of colour she had maintained throughout her work.

"That is really good, Enid," said Maud, as she rose from the easy chair by the stove where she had seated herself to read her letters; "I like the look of your blossom."

"I cannot quite get the transparency I want," said Enid, moving a few paces from her easel to survey her work. "What do you think Herr Schmitz has proposed that I should do with this?"

"How can I tell?"

"He suggests that I should send it to the exhibition of the 'Belli Arti.'"

"Does he? Then you had better do so."

"Oh, do you think I might? You are going to send some pictures, are you not?"

"Yes, I have promised to send three. I must make haste and get them done, for they must be sent in by the end of February."

"Herr Schmitz actually hinted that it was just possible someone might buy my picture. Would not that be grand?"

"Would you care to sell it?" asked Maud, with an air of superiority.

"Certainly. I should be delighted if anyone would give me a hundred francs for it. I see so many pretty things here that I should like to buy for mother and the girls. How rich I should feel with a hundred francs to spend as I liked!"

Maud looked rather wistfully at her cousin. "It must be nice to have a mother and sisters to think about. I wonder sometimes what difference it would have made in me if I had had a sister. I guess—as Miss Amory would say—I should not have been just the girl I am."

At that moment, someone knocked at the door of the studio. It was the porter, who handed in a note addressed to Enid. The writer was Signora Ravani, who courteously expressed regret that her daughter could no longer continue to give Enid lessons in Italian, since the state of her health obliged her to leave home for a while. If agreeable to Miss Mildmay and Miss Marian, Adela would give herself the pleasure of calling at their studio at half-past three that afternoon to bid them adieu.

"Well, this is an astonishing thing," said Enid, showing her cousin the note. "Adela was quite well when I saw her a week ago, and we arranged to recommence the lessons on Monday."

"I dare say her health is only an excuse," said Maud; "and they have some other motive for sending her away. No doubt, it is the doing of that amiable brother of hers."

"No doubt," said Enid, at once conceiving that Adela had dared to resist her brother's will with regard to her marriage, and that this was the result.

"At what hour will she be here this afternoon?"

"At three—no, at half-past three. Signora Ravani wrote three at first, and then altered it."

"I am sorry I shall not be here. I promised to go shopping with Miss Amory this afternoon; but I dare say Signorina Ravani will be just as pleased to find you alone."

So Maud did not return to the studio in the afternoon.

Whilst awaiting Adela's coming, Enid bethought herself of something she wished to say to Miss Strutt, and ran down to her studio. As she passed along the narrow passage which led to it, the door at the end, from which a flight of steps descended into the garden, stood open. The glimpse of blue sky and glorious sunshine which it afforded was so inviting that Enid instinctively passed on to the doorway, and stood for a few moments looking into the garden.

Suddenly two forms emerged from the shade of the old orange trees laden with golden fruit, and to her surprise, Enid recognised Adela and the young painter, Lucio Torlono. Enid shrank back hastily; but she need have had no fear of their seeing her—they were far too absorbed in their talk together. Wondering how Adela had managed to secure this interview with her lover, Enid hastily made her call on Miss Strutt, and then hurried back to her studio. But it was more than half-past three ere Adela made her appearance.

She came in looking pale and weary, and her eyes showed traces of tears. They began to flow again as Enid affectionately enquired concerning her health.

"There is nothing the matter with me," she said, "except that I am very unhappy. I have tried to hold out bravely, Enid; I have refused to marry to please my brother; but oh, I have had a dreadful time, and now they are sending me away. I am to be shut up in a convent until I come to my right mind, as Francesco says. I suppose if I do not yield they will keep me there for ever."

"That is surely impossible," said Enid. "Women cannot be shut up in convents against their wills in these days."

Adela shook her head despairingly. "You do not know Francesco," she said; "he can always accomplish what he wishes. Besides, our uncle, the Abbé Ravani, is the director of this convent, and he and Francesco are great friends. It is in a lonely place, away amongst the hills. Once there, I shall not easily escape."

"But it is dreadful, too dreadful, that your brother should have you so completely in his power," said Enid. "I would defy him if I were you, and refuse to go."

"That is impossible. You do not know what it means to defy him. Lucio says he cannot endure it; he will find some way to free me; but what can he do? I have no hope—none."

"How did you manage to come here alone this afternoon?"

"Oh, my mother brought me to the door, and she will call for me again at four o'clock."

"So soon," said Enid; "that gives us very little time together."

"Yes; forgive me, Enid; I have robbed you of half the time because I wanted to see Lucio. I could not go away without bidding him good-bye. Did you notice that the time had been altered in the note?"

"I noticed that Signora Ravani had written three o'clock and then altered it to half-past three."

"I made that alteration. I contrived to open the envelope after mamma had closed it, and I changed the time. Ah, you are shocked; but you might excuse it. I should not have done it if I could have been sure of finding you alone; but I thought your cousin would be here, and it would be so difficult to explain. By altering the time I secured half an hour with Lucio without causing you any inconvenience."

Enid was silent. She was really afraid of showing what she thought of Adela's conduct. To stoop to such petty deceits, to open envelopes and tamper with letters, was a kind of meanness so utterly removed from Enid's open, honourable nature that it well-nigh quenched her pity for Adela's unhappy fate. She could not at once make allowance for the training in duplicity and falsehood which it was plain the poor girl had had.

"I assure you I had hard work to come at all," continued Adela, anxious to defend herself. "I had to beg and beg before mamma would yield. Francesco would be very angry if he knew I had come to see you, for he thinks you have taught me to rebel."

"I wish I could have taught you to rebel more successfully, my poor Adela," said Enid sadly. "Did you tell your mother about Lucio?"

"I did, though I wished afterwards I had not told her. She was dreadfully shocked and grieved. She said she could never have believed that her daughter was capable of acting and feeling as I have done. You may be sure I did not tell her that Lucio's studio was in this house, or she would not have allowed me to come here to-day."

"Oh, Adela, it would have been so much better to have told her all," said Enid. "No good can come of half confidences; they only complicate matters, and make them worse."

But Adela could not see this. She cried and bemoaned her unhappy fate, and Enid was at a loss how to console her. It was a melancholy time they spent together, and Enid felt it almost a relief when the porter came to say that Signora Ravani was waiting below for her daughter. They parted sadly, and Adela, struggling hard to keep back her tears, went downstairs to join her mother.

She had not been gone many seconds when someone else knocked at the door of the studio.

"Come in," said Enid mechanically.

And Julius Dakin walked into the room.

"Alone!" he said. "And not at work! Actually!"

"Actually," said Enid, smiling. "I have not been working this afternoon. I have had a visitor."

"Was it the young lady I met on the stairs, and who seemed to be in a tearful condition?"

"Signorina Ravani has been here. I am afraid your description may apply to her."

"Yes, it was she. I remember her now—your Italian teacher. Was she weeping over the perversity of her pupil?"

In vain Enid tried to foil his questions. He could see that the trouble, whatever it might be, was one which she shared, and gently, skilfully, little by little, he drew from her the story of Adela's unhappy attachment and its consequences.

"I know Torlono," he said. "He is a clever fellow; he will do something good one of these days, I believe. It was a shame of his uncle to throw him over; but he will think better of it yet."

"Do you think so?" asked Enid eagerly.

"Well, I should hope so. My father knows old Torlono, but not well enough to interfere in the matter, I am afraid.

"Oh, if only he could," said Enid earnestly. "I mean, if there were any hope of success."

"Just so. The attempt might do more harm than good. But I will speak to my father, and hear what he thinks about it."

"Thank you—oh, thank you!" said Enid heartily.

He looked down on her with a strange expression on his face.

"How seriously you take up your friends' troubles!" he said. "You make them your very own. You have sympathy for everyone except me."

"You, Mr. Dakin," exclaimed Enid, colouring vividly in her surprise. "How can you possibly need my sympathy?"

"Oh, of course you think I have no troubles. You think me an idle, worthless fellow, incapable of feeling anything deeply."

"I think that!" exclaimed Enid, astonished. "What can you mean?"

"Oh, I know; I can read your mind. I can see that you deem me frivolous and shallow—that you have a low opinion of me, in fact."

"Mr. Dakin! I have no such thing. I think you most kind. But you are only joking; it is absurd of me to take your words seriously."

"I am not joking, and do not you try to put me off with smooth words. You know that we agreed that we would always speak the truth to each other. You cannot deny that you think me a poor creature, a lazy good-for-nothing, unfit to be named in the same breath with such a man as your father, for instance, of whom you are so proud."

"I do deny it," said Enid, her colour deepening as she spoke. "Now I will tell you the very truth. I do not think you frivolous and shallow; but I fancy sometimes that you try to appear so, and it makes me sorry, because—well, because I am sure you are capable of better things."

"Thank you," said Julius in a low voice; and then he turned from her and moved about the studio, looking at this thing and that without, however, really observing anything.

Enid wondered if he were offended. But presently he came back to her and held out his hand.

"Thank you," he said again; "I will try to deserve your good opinion. I will see if I cannot do something to please you."

"Not to please me," said Enid; "do try to do something and be something in the world; but let it be from a high motive."

"What motive?" he asked.

"What motive?" she repeated. "Can it be necessary to ask here in Rome what should be the motive of a true man's life—here, where so many heroes and martyrs laid down their lives rather than disobey the voice of duty and of God? The past seems to me to teach so solemn a lesson."

"What lesson?" he asked.

For a few moments she did not reply. Then she said in low, grave tones, "'That the world passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever.'"

Julius Dakin did not reply to her words. He laid down some tickets Miss Marian had asked him to procure for her, and to bring, which had been his errand to the studio, then went away.