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Mae Madden

by Mary Murdoch Mason

July, 1998 [Etext #1829]

The Project Gutenberg Etext of Mae Madden by Mary Murdoch Mason

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MAE MADDEN

by Mary Murdoch Mason

With an introductory poem, by Joaquin Miller.

The wheel of fortune guide you,

The boy with the bow beside you

Run aye in the way, till the dawn of day

And a luckier lot betide you.

Ben Jonson.

A DREAM OF ITALY.

AN ALLEGORY INTRODUCING "MAE MADDEN."

I.

We two had been parted, God pity us, when

The stars were unnamed and when heaven was dim;

We two had been parted far back on the rim

And the outermost border of heaven's red bars:

We two had been parted ere the meeting of men

Or God had set compass on spaces as yet.

We two had been parted ere God had set

His finger to spinning the spaces with stars,--

And now, at the last in the gold and set

Of the sun of Venice, we two had met.

II.

Where the lion of Venice, with brows afrown,

With tossed mane tumbled, and teeth in air,

Looks out in his watch o'er the watery town,

With a paw half lifted, with his claws half bare,

By the blue Adriatic, in the edge of the sea,

I saw her. I knew her, but she knew not me.

I had found her at last! Why, I had sailed

The antipodes through, had sought, had hailed

All flags, had climbed where the storm clouds curled,

And called from the awful arched dome of the world.

III.

I saw her one moment, then fell back abashed

And filled full to the throat. . . . Then I turned me once more

So glad to the sea, while the level sun flashed

On the far, snowy Alps. . . . Her breast! Why, her breast

Was white as twin pillows that allure you to rest;

Her sloping limbs moved like to melodies, told

As she rose from the sea, and she threw back the gold

Of her glory of hair, and set face to the shore. . . .

I knew her! I knew her, though we had not met

Since the far stars sang to the sun's first set.

IV.

How long I had sought her! I had hungered, nor ate

Of any sweet fruits. I had tasted not one

Of all the fair glories grown under the sun.

I had sought only her. Yea, I knew that she

Had come upon earth and stood waiting for me

Somewhere by my way. But the path ways of fate

They had led otherwhere. The round world round,

The far North seas and the near profound

Had failed me for aye. Now I stood by that sea

While a ship drove by, and all dreamily.

V.

I had turned from the lion a time, and when

I looked tow'rd the tide and out on the lea

Of the town where the warm sea tumbled and teemed

With beauty, I saw her. I knew her then,

The tallest, the fairest fair daughter of men.

O, Venice stood full in her glory. She gleamed

In the splendor of sunset and sensuous sea;

Yet I saw but my bride, my affinity,

While the doves hurried home to the dome of Saint Mark

And the brass horses plunged their high manes in the dark,

VI.

Was it well with my love? Was she true? Was she brave

With virtue's own valor? Was she waiting for me?

O, how fared my love! Had she home? Had she bread?

Had she known but the touch of the warm-tempered wave?

Was she born upon earth with a crown on her head;

Or born like myself, but a dreamer, instead?

So long it had been! So long! Why the sea,

That wrinkled and surly old time-tempered slave,

Had been born, had his revels, grown wrinkled and hoar

Since I last saw my love on that uttermost shore.

VII.

O, how fared my love? Once I lifted my face

And I shook back my hair and looked out on the sea;

I pressed my hot palms as I stood in my place

And cried, "O, I come like a king to your side

Though all hell intervene." . . . "Hist! she may be a bride!

A mother at peace, with sweet babes on her knee!

A babe at her breast and a spouse at her side! . . .

Have I wandered too long, and has destiny

Set mortal between us?" I buried my face

In my hands, and I moaned as I stood in my place.

VIII.

'Twas her year to be young. She was tall, she was fair

Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there?

'Twas her year to be young. She was fair, she was tall

And I knew she was true as I lifted my face

And saw her press down her rich robe to its place

With a hand white and small as a babe's with a doll,

And her feet--why, her feet, in the white shining sand,

Were so small they might nest in my one brawny hand.

Then she pushed back her hair with a round hand that shone

And flashed in the light with a white starry stone.

IX.

Then, my love she was rich. My love she was fair.

Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there?

She was gorgeous with wealth, "Thank God, she has bread,"

I said to myself. Then I humbled my head

In gratitude. Then I questioned me where

Was her palace? her parents? What name did she bear?

What mortal on earth came nearest her heart?

Who touched the small hand till it thrilled to a smart?

'Twas her day to be young. She was proud, she was fair.

Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there?

X.

Now she turned, reached a hand; then a tall gondolier

That had leaned on his oar, like a long lifted spear,

Shot sudden and swift and all silently

And drew to her side as she turned from the tide. . .

It was odd, such a thing, and I counted it queer

That a princess like this, whether virgin or bride,

Should abide thus apart, and should bathe in that sea;

And I shook back my hair, and so unsatisfied.

Then I fluttered the doves that were perched close about,

As I strode up and down in dismay and in doubt.

XI.

Then she stood in the boat on the borders of night

As a goddess might stand on that far wonder land

Of eternal sweet life, which men have named Death.

I turned to the sea and I caught at my breath,

As she drew from the boat through her white baby hand

Her vestment of purple imperial, and white.

Then the gondola shot! swift, sharp from the shore.

There was never the sound of a song or of oar

But the doves hurried home in white clouds to Saint Mark,

And the lion loomed high o'er the sea in the dark.

XII.

Then I cried, "Quick! Follow her. Follow her. Fast!

Come! Thrice double fare if you follow her true

To her own palace door." There was plashing of oar

And rattle of rowlock. . . . I sat leaning low

Looking far in the dark, looking out as we sped

With my soul all alert, bending down, leaning low.

But only the oaths of the men as we passed

When we jostled them sharp as we sudden shot thro'

The watery town. Then a deep, distant roar--

The rattle of rowlock, the rush of the oar.

XIII.

Then an oath. Then a prayer! Then a gust that made rents

Through the yellow sailed fishers. Then suddenly

Came sharp forked fire! Then far thunder fell

Like the great first gun! Ah, then there was route

Of ships like the breaking of regiments

And shouts as if hurled from an upper hell.

Then tempest! It lifted, it spun us about,

Then shot us ahead through the hills of the sea

As if a great arrow shot shoreward in wars--

Then heaven split open till we saw the blown stars.

XIV.

On! On! Through the foam, through the storm, through the town,

She was gone. She was lost in the wilderness

Of palaces lifting their marbles of snow.

I stood in my gondola. Up and all down

I pushed through the surge of the salt-flood street

Above me, below. . . Twas only the beat

Of the sea's sad heart. . . Then I heard below

The water-rat building, but nothing but that;

Not even the sea bird screaming distress,

As she lost her way in that wilderness.

XV.

I listened all night. I caught at each sound;

I clutched and I caught as a man that drown'd. . . .

Only the sullen low growl of the sea

Far out the flood street at the edge of the ships.

Only the billow slow licking his lips,

Like a dog that lay crouching there watching for me;

Growling and showing white teeth all the night,

Reaching his neck and as ready to bite--

Only the waves with their salt flood tears

Fawning white stones of a thousand years.

XVI.

Only the birds in the wilderness

Of column and dome and of glittering spire

That thrust to heaven and held the fire

Of the thunder still: The bird's distress

As he struck his wings in that wilderness,

On marbles that speak and thrill and inspire. . .

The night below and the night above;

The water-rat building, the startled white dove,

The wide-winged, dolorous sea bird's call

The water-rat building, but that was all.

XVII.

Lo! pushing the darkness from pillar to post,

The morning came silent and gray like a ghost

Slow up the canal. I leaned from the prow

And listened. Not even the bird in distress

Screaming above through the wilderness;

Not even the stealthy old water-rat now.

Only the bell in the fisherman's tower

Slow tolling a-sea and telling the hour

To kneel to their sweet Santa Barbara

For tawny fishers a-sea and pray.

XVIII.

My dream it is ended, the curtain withdrawn.

The night that lay hard on the breast of earth,

Deep and heavy as a horrid nightmare,

Moves by, and I look to the rosy dawn. . . . .

I shall leave you here, with a leader fair;

One gentle, with faith and fear of her worth.

She shall lead you on through that Italy

That the gods have loved; and may it be

A light-hearted hour that, hand in hand,

You wander the warm and the careless love-land.

XIX.

By the windy waters of the Michigan

She invokes the gods. . . . Be it bright or dim,

Who does his endeavor as best he can

Does bravely, indeed. The rest is with Him.

Let a new star dance in the Occident

Till it shakes through the gossamer floors of God

And shines, o'er Chicago. . . The Orient

Is hoar with glories. Let Illini sod

Bear glory as well as the gleaming grain,

And engines smoking along her plain.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

CHICAGO, NOV., 1875.

MAE MADDEN.

CHAPTER I.

SCENE. Deck of an ocean steamer.

Characters. Mrs. Jerrold, matron and chaperon in general.

Edith Jerrold, her daughter.

Albert Madden, a young man on study intent.

Eric, his brother, on pleasure bent.

Norman Mann, cousin of the Jerrolds, old classmate of the Maddens.

Mae Madden, sister of the brothers and leading lady.

"It's something like dying, I do declare," said Mae, and as she

spoke a suspicious-looking drop slid softly across her cheek, down

over the deck-railing, to join its original briny fellows in the

deep below.

"What is like dying?" asked Eric.

"Why, leaving the only world you know. There, you see, papa and

mamma are fast fading away, and here we are traveling off at the

rate of ever so many miles an hour."

"Knots, Mae; do be nautical at sea."

"Away from everything and everybody we know. I do really think it

is like dying,--don't you, Mr. Mann?" Mae turned abruptly and

faced the young man by her side.

"People aren't apt to die in batches or by the half-dozen,' he

replied, coolly. "If you were all by yourself, it would be more

like it, I suppose, but you are taking quite a slice of your own

world along with you, and really--"

"And really pity is the very last article I have any use for. You

are right. I was only sorry for the moment. 'Eastward Ho' is a

very happy cry. How differently we shall all take Europe," she

continued, in a moment. "There is Albert, I honestly believe he

will live in his Baedeker just because he can see no further than

the covers of a book. You need not laugh, for it is a fact that

people confined for years to a room can't see beyond its limits

when they are taken out into broader space, and I don't see why it

shouldn't be the same with a man who lives in his books as Albert

does."

"He sees the world in his books," said Mr. Mann, with a little

spirit.

"He gets a microscopic view of it, yes," replied Mae,

grandiloquently, "and Edith--"

"Always sees just what he does," suggested Eric maliciously.

"Now, boys," said Miss Mae, assuming suddenly a mighty patronage,

"I will not have you hit at Albert and Edith in this way. It will

be very annoying to them. They have a right to act just as

absurdly as they choose. We none of us know how people who are

falling in love would act."

No, the boys agreed this was quite true.

"And I really do suppose they are falling in love, don't you?"

queried Mae.

Yes, they did both believe it.

Just here, up came the two subjects of conversation, looking, it

must be confessed, as much like one subject as any man and wife.

"What are you talking of?" asked Edith, "Madame Tussaud or a French

salad? No matter how trivial the topic, I am sure it has a foreign

flavor."

"There you are mistaken," replied the frank Eric, "we were

discussing you two people, in the most homelike kind of a way."

At this Edith blushed, Albert frowned, Mae scowled at Eric, who

opened his eyes amazedly, Norman Mann looked over the deck railing

and laughed, the wind blew, the sailors heave-ho-ed near by, and

there was a grand tableau vivant for a few seconds.

"O, come," cried Mae, "suppose we stop looking like a set of

illustrations for a phrenological journal, expressive of the

various emotions. I was only speculating on the different sights

we should see in the same places. Confess, now, Albert. Won't

your eyes be forever hunting out old musty, dusty volumes? Will

not books be your first pleasures in the sight-seeing line?"

"O, no, pictures," cried Edith.

"That is as you say," Mae demurely agreed. "Pictures and books for

you two at any rate."

"And churches."

"For your mother, yes, and beer-gardens for Eric, and amphitheatres

and battle fields for Mr. Mann."

"And for yourself?"

"The blue, blue bay of Naples, a grove of oranges, moonlight and a

boat if it please you."

"By the way," suggested Albert, "about our plans; we really should

begin to agitate the matter at once."

"Yes, to do our fighting on shipboard. Let us agree to hoist the

white flag the day we sight land, else we shall settle down into a

regular War of the Roses and never decide," laughed Norman.

"As there are six minds," continued Albert, "there will have to be

some giving up."

"Why do you look at me?" enquired Mae. "I am the very most

unselfish person in the world. I'll settle down anywhere for the

winter, provided only that it is not in Rome."

"But that is the very place," cried Edith, and Albert, and Mrs.

Jerrold from her camp-chair.

"O, how dreadful! The only way to prevent it will be for us to

stand firm, boys, and make it a tie."

"But Norman is especially eager to go to Rome," said Edith, "and

that makes us four strong at once in favor of that city."

"But is not Rome a fearful mixture of dead Caesar's bones and dirty

beggars? And mustn't one carry hundreds of dates at one's finger-

tips to appreciate this, and that, and the other? Is it not all

tremendously and overwhelmingly historical, and don't you have to

keep exerting your mind and thinking and remembering? I would

rather go down to Southern Italy and look at lazzaroni lie on stone

walls, in red cloaks, as they do in pictures, and not be obliged to

topple off the common Italian to pile the gray stone with old

memories of some great dead man. Everything is ghostly in Rome.

Now, there must be some excitement in Southern Italy. There's

Vesuvius, and she isn't dead--like Nero--but a living demon, that

may erupt any night, and give you a little red grave by the sea for

your share."

"She's not nearly through yet," laughed Edith, as Mae paused for

breath.

"I'm only afraid," said Mae, "that after I had been down there a

week, I should forget English, buy a contadina costume, marry a

child of the sun, and run away from this big world with its puzzles

and lessons, and rights and wrongs. Imagine me in my doorway as

you passed in your travelling carriage, hot and tired on your way--

say to Sorrento. I would dress my beautiful Italian all up in

scarlet flowers and wreathe his big hat and kiss his brown eyes and

take his brown hand, and then we would run along by the bay and

laugh at you stiff, grand world's folks as we skipped past you."

"We shall know where to look for you, if ever you do disappear,"

said Norman Mann.

"But, my dear Mae," added Albert, "though this is amusing, it is

utterly useless."

"Amusing things always are," said Mae.

"The question is, shall we or shall we not go to Rome for the

winter?"

"Certainly, by all means, and if I don't like it, I'll run away to

Sorrento," and Mae shook her sunny head and twinkled her eyes in a

fascinating sort of way, that made Eric feel a proud brotherly

pleasure in this saucy young woman, and that gave Norman Mann a

sort of feeling he had had a good deal of late, a feeling hard to

define, though we have all known it, a delicious concoction of

pleasure and pain. His eyes were fixed on Mae, now. "What is it?"

she asked. "You will like Rome, I am sure." "No, I never like

what I think I shall not."

"It might save some trouble, then, if I ask you now if you expect

to like me," said he, in a lower tone. "Why certainly, I do like

you very much," she replied, honestly. "What a stupid question,"

he thinks, vexedly. "Why did I tell him I liked him?" she thinks,

blushingly. So the waves of anxiety and doubt begin to swell in

these two hearts as the outside waves beat with a truer sea-motion

momently against the steamer's side.

Between days of sea-sickness come delightful intervals of calm sea

and fresh breezes, when the party fly to the hurricane deck to get

the very quintessence of life on the ocean wave. One morning Mrs.

Jerrold and Edith were sitting there alone, with rugs and all sorts

of head devices in soft wools and flannels, and books and a basket

of fruit. The matron of the party was a tall, fine-looking woman,

a good type of genuine New England stock softened by city breeding.

New Englanders are so many propositions from Euclid, full of right

angles and straight lines, but easy living and the dressmaker's art

combine to turn the corners gently. Edith was like her mother, but

softened by a touch of warm Dutch blood. She was tall, almost

stately, with a good deal of American style, which at that time

happened to be straight and slender. She was naturally reserved,

but four years of boarding-school life had enriched her store of

adjectives and her amount of endearing gush-power, and she had at

least six girl friends to whom she sent weekly epistles of some

half-dozen sheets in length, beginning, each one of them, with "My

dearest ----" and ending "Your devoted Edith."

As Edith and her mother quietly read, and ate grapes, and lolled in

a delightfully feminine way, voices were heard,--Mae's and

Norman's. They were in the middle of a conversation. "Yes," Mae

was saying, "you do away with individuality altogether nowadays,

with your dreadful classifications. It is all the same from

daffodils up to women."

"How do we classify women, pray?"

"In the mind of man," began Mae, as if she were reading, "there are

three classes of women; the giddy butterflies, the busy bees, and

the woman's righters. The first are pretty and silly; the second,

plain and useful; the third, mannish and odious. The first wear

long trailing dresses and smile at you while waltzing, the second

wear aprons and give you apple-dumplings, and the third want your

manly prerogatives, your dress-coat, your money, and your vote.

Flirt with the giddy butterflies, your first love was one. First

loves always are. Marry the busy bee. Your mother was a busy bee.

Mothers always are. And keep on the other side of the street from

the woman s righter as long as you can. Alas! your daughter will

be one."

"Well, isn't there any classifying on the other side? Aren't there

horsemen and sporting men and booky men, in the feminine mind?"

"Perhaps so. There certainly are the fops, and nowadays this

terrible army of reformers and radicals, of whom my brother Albert

here is the best known example."

"What is it?" asked Albert, looking up abstractedly from his book,

for he and Eric had sauntered up the stairs too, by this time.

"They are the creatures," continued Mae, "who scorn joys and idle

pleasures. They deal with the good of the many and the problems of

the universe, and step solemnly along to that dirge known as the

March of Progress. And what do they get for it all? Something

like this. Put down your book, I'm going to prophesy," and Mae

backed resolutely up against the railing and held her floating

scarfs and veils in a bunch at her throat, while she prophesied in

this way:

"Behold me, direct lineal descendant of Albert Madden, speaking to

my children in the year 1995: 'What, children, want amusement?

Want to see the magic lantern to note the effects of light? Alas!

how frivolous. Listen, children, to the achievements of your great

ancestor, as reported by the Encyclopedia. "A. Madden--promoter of

civilization and progress, chiefly known by his excellent theory

entitled The Number of Cells in a Human Brain compared to the

Working Powers of Man, and that remarkable essay, headed by this

formula: Given--10,000,000 laboring men, to find the number of

loaves of bread in the world." Here, children, take these works.

Progressimus, you may have the theory, while Civilizationica reads

the essay. Then change about. Ponder them well, and while we walk

to the Museum later, tell me their errors. Then I will show you

the preserved ears of the first man found in Boshland by P. T.

Barnum, jr.' Oh, bosh," said Mae suddenly, letting fly her

streamers, "what a dry set of locusts you nineteenth century

leaders are. You are devouring our green land, and some of us

butterflies would like to turn our yellow wings into solid shields

against you, if we could. There, I've made a goose of myself again

on the old subject. Edith, there's the lunch bell. Take me down

before I say another word." Exeunt feminines all.

"Where did the child pick up all that?" queried Albert.

"'All that' is in the air just now," answered Norman. "It is a

natural reaction of a strong physical nature against the

utilitarian views of the day. Miss Mae is a type of--"

"O, nonsense, what prigs you are," interrupted Eric, "Mae is jolly.

Do stop your reasoning about her. If you are bound to be a potato

yourself to help save the masses from starvation, don't grumble

because she grew a flower. Come, let us go to lunch too."

Conversation was not always of this sort. One evening, not long

after, there was a moon, and Edith and Albert were missing. Eric

was following a blue-eyed girl along the deck, and Mae and Norman

wandered off by themselves up to this same hurricane deck again.

The moonlight was wonderful. It touched little groups here and

there and fell full on the face of a woman in the steerage, who sat

with her arms crossed on her knee and her face set eastward. She

was singing, and her voice rose clearly above the puff of the

engine and the jabber below. There was a chorus to the song, in

which rough men and tired looking women joined. The song was about

home, and once in a while the girl unclasped her arms and passed

her hands over her eyes. Mae and Norman Mann looked at her

silently. "I suppose we don't know when we make pictures," said

Mae. "Don't we?" asked Norman pointedly. Mae looked very

reprovingly out from her white wraps at him, but he smiled back

composedly and admiringly, and drew her hand a trifle closer in his

arm. And saucy Mae began to feel in that sort of purring mood

women come to when they drop the bristling, ready-for-fight air

with which they start on an acquaintance. Perhaps, if the steamer

had been a sailing-vessel, there would have been no story to tell

about Mae Madden, for a long line of evenings, and girls singing

songs, and hurricane decks by moonlight, are dangerous things. But

the vessel was a fast steamer, and was swiftly nearing land again.

CHAPTER II.

ROME, February, 18--.

MY DEAR MAMMA:--Yes, it is Rome, mamma, and everybody is impressed.

The boys talk of emperors all the time; Edith is wild over Madonnas

and saints, and Mrs. Jerrold runs from Paul's house to Paul's walks

and Paul's drives and Paul's stand at the prisoner's bar, and reads

the Acts through five times a day, in the most religious and

Romanistic spirit. No one could make more fuss over a patron

saint, I am sure. For my part, I feel as if I were in the most

terrible ghost story. The old Romans are all around me.

Underneath the street noises, I seem to hear cries, and in the air

I half see a constant flashing of swords and scars and blood, and I

can't even put my foot on the Roman pavement without wondering

which dead Caesar my saucy Burt boot No. 2 is walking over. I

shouldn't mind trampling old Caligula, but I don't like the thought

on general principles. I feel all out of place, so modern and

fixed up and flimsy. If I could get into old picturesque clothes

and out of the English-speaking quarter, I should not be so

oppressed and might worship Rome. But I seriously think I shall

die if I stay here much longer. There's a spirit-malaria that eats

into my life. I feel as if all the volumes of Roman history bound

in heavy vellum, that papa has in his study, were laid right on top

of my little heart, so that every time it beats, it thumps against

them, and I assure you, mamma, its worse than dyspepsia. If I

could only get out on a New England hillside, where there were no

graves more important than those of grasshoppers and butterflies!

What should I do when I got there? Take off my hat, and scream for

joy, and feel free and glad to be in a fresh country, with rich,

warm, untainted earth and young life.

But all this is nonsense, mamma, and I shouldn't be writing it, if

I hadn't just come from the catacombs of St. Calixtus. To think of

Albert's insisting upon going there the very first thing! But so

he did, and so we went, and talked solemnly about the Appian Way,

and saw everybody's tombs and ashes, and quoted poetry, until I

stuck a pin in Albert's arm and sang Yankee Doodle, to keep from

crying. Then, oh, how shocked they looked. Even Mr. Mann seemed

ashamed of me. When we reached the place, we each took a candle

and the guide led the way down into the bowels of the earth.

Mamma, they are very unpleasant. There were two German youths

along, and green lizards crawled all over. They winked at me. The

way grew so narrow that we had to walk one by one through lines of

wall perforated with holes for dead bodies. Once in a while we

would come to a small chapel, for miserable variety's sake, and be

told to admire some very old, very wretched painting. Jonah and

the whale were represented in a double-barreled miracle picture.

Not only was the whale about to swallow Jonah, but he was only as

large as a good-sized brook trout, while Jonah towered away above

him like a Goliath. I found myself wondering if the guide had

convulsions, and, if he should have one now, and die, how many days

would pass before we should eat each other. And would they take me

first, because I am youngest and plumpest? Albert would make good

soup bones, and Eric's shoulder serve as a delicious fore-quarter.

And by the time we came to the top again, I was all ready to cry.

And then, mamma, I did an awful thing. Mr. Mann exclaimed: "Why,

Miss Mae, how frightened you look. You are quite white." And I

answered very sharply: "What a disagreeable man you are. I'm not

frightened at all." I said it in a dreadful tone, and how his face

changed. He looked so strangely. Everybody was still but Albert,

and he said, "Why, Mae, you are very rude to Mr. Mann." Even then

I didn't apologize. So here we are at sword's points, and all the

rest sympathizing with my foe, who is only on the defensive. Why

am I such a belligerent? I can't conceive where I got my nature,

unless from that very disagreeable dear old grandpapa of papa's,

who fought the whole world all his life. But how egotistic I am,

even to my mother. Of course you want to know how we are lodged

and clothed and fed. We have taken apartments, as I presume Albert

wrote you, on the Via San Nicolo da Tolentino, quite near the

Costanzi hotel, which is in the height of the fashion as a hotel;

near too, which is better, to Mr. Story's studio and the old

Barberini palace and the Barberini square and fountains. Off

behind, is that terrible church of the Cappucini, with its cemetery

underneath of bones and skulls and such horrors. I like the

apartments very much, principally because I have made three staunch

friends and one good enemy, in the kitchen. The padrona,--she's

the woman who keeps the house, and serves us, too, in this case--

though Mrs. Jerrold has a maid to wait on the table and care for

our rooms--well, the padrona is my first friend. Her cousin, a

handsome southern Italian, is here on a visit, and she is not only

my friend, but my instructress. She tells me lovely stories about

her home and the peasants and their life, while I sit on the floor

with Giovanni,--friend number three and eldest son of the padrona,--

and even Roberto, my enemy, the crying baby of three years, hushes

his naughty mouth to listen to Lisetta, for that is the cousin's

name. I am so glad I studied Italian as hard as I did for my

music, for it comes very easily to me now, and already I slip the

pretty words from my halting tongue much more smoothly and quickly

than you would imagine I could. Mrs. Jerrold isn't quite

satisfied, and would prefer the Costanzi, only she doesn't believe

in letting us girls stay at large hotels. She and Edith are

shocked at my kitchen tastes, so that I generally creep off quietly

and say nothing about it. It is strange for me to have to keep

anything secret, but I am learning how.

As for our clothes, O, mamma, Edith is ravishing in a deep blue-

black silk, with a curly, wavy sort of fringe on it, and odd

loopings here and there where you don't expect to find them. What

can't a Parisian dressmaker do? They have such a wonderful idea of

appropriateness, it seems to me. Now, at home you know we girls

always wear the same sort of thing, but Madame H---- says no,

Edith, and I should dress very differently; and now Edith's clothes

all have a flow, and sweep, and grace about them, and her silks

rustle in a stately way as she walks, while my dresses haven't any

trimming to speak of, but are cut in a clinging, square sort of

way, with jackets, and here and there a buckle, that makes me feel

half the time as if I were playing soldier in a lady-like fashion.

But what a budget this is. How shocked the people here would be.

They take travel so solemnly, mamma, and treat Baedeker, like the

Bible,--and here am I crushing down Rome, and raising Paris on top

of it. Indeed, I can't help it, for Paris is utterly intoxicating.

It takes away your moral nature and adds it all into your powers of

enjoyment. Well, good-bye, my dear, and keep writing me tremendous

letters, won't you; for I do love you dearly.

Your loving daughter,

MAE.

Mae felt a great deal better when she had finished the letter, and,

like a volatile girl as she was, buttoned her Burt boots and Paris

gloves, singing gaily a dash from Trovatore in a very light-hearted

manner.

"Why, you look like a different girl," cried Eric, as she entered

the parlor, where he and Mr. Mann were sitting. "Mrs. Jerrold,

Edith, and Albert have gone on in a carriage, and you are left to

my tender care; will you ride or walk?"

"How can you ask? My feet are quite wild. No wonder I am a

different girl. Are we not going to the Pincian hill to look at

the live world and people? I have just unlocked the stop-gates and

let the blood bound in my veins as it wants to."

"It has been taking the cinque-pace, I should say from your long

face to-day."

"O, it has only been trying to keep step with the march of the

ages, or some such stately tread, but it was hard work, and now the

dear life of me hops, skips and jumps, like this," and Mae seized

her brother and danced across the room, stopping very near Mr.

Mann, who stood with his back to them, drumming on the window pane.

She looked at him quizzically and half raised her eyebrows.

Eric shook his head, and said aloud in his outspoken way: "You owe

him an apology, Mae, for this morning's rudeness."

Mr. Mann turned quickly. "I am surprised, Eric. Let your sister

find out for herself when she is rude."

"Bless me," cried Eric, "what is the row?"

Mae looked determined. "Are you going to the Pincian with us?" she

asked.

"No, I am going to stay home."

"Well, good-bye, then. Come, Eric." The door closed behind them.

Mr. Mann stood by the window and watched them walk away. Mae, with

her eager, restless, fresh life showing out in every motion; Eric,

with his boy-man air and his student swing and happy-go-lucky toss

of his head. Mr. Mann smiled and then he sighed. "That's a good

boy, so square and fair and merry--and a queer girl," he added.

"Rome isn't the place for her. She must get away, though why I

should take care for her, or worry about her, little vixen. I

don't see." Still he smiled as one would over a very winning, very

wicked child, and shortly after took his hat and went to the

Pincio, after all.

Meantime, the brother and sister had walked gaily along, passed the

Spanish Steps, and were on the Pincian hill. Here, Mae was indeed

happy. The fine equipages and dark, rich beauty of the Italians

delighted her, and she and Eric found a shaded bench, and watched

the carriages drive round and round, and criticised, and admired,

and laughed like two idle children. They bought some flowers, and

Mae sat pulling them to pieces, when they caught sight, down the

pathway, of two approaching Piedmontese officers.

"O," cried Mae, and dropped her flowers, and clasped her hands, and

sprang to her feet, "O, Eric, are they gods or men?"

The Piedmontese officer is godlike. He must be of a certain

imposing height to obtain his position, and his luxurious yellow

moustaches and blue black eyes, enriched and intensified by

southern blood, give him a strange fascination. The cold, manly

beauty and strength of a northern blonde meet with the heat and

lithe grace of the more supple southerner to produce this paragon.

There is a combination of half-indolent elegance and sensuous

langour, with a fire, a verve, a nobility, that puts him at the

very head of masculine beauty. Add to the charms of his physique,

the jauntiest, most bewitching of uniforms, the clinking spurs, the

shining buttons, the jacket following every line of his figure, and

no wonder maidens' hearts seek him out always and young pulses beat

quicker at his approach.

Mae's admiration was simply rapturous. Utterly regardless of the

pretty picture she herself made, of her vivid coloring and

sparkling beauty, she stood among her dropped flowers until the two

pairs of eyes were fixed upon her. Then she became suddenly aware

of her attitude and with quick feminine cunning endeavored to

transfer her admiration to some beautiful horses cantering by,

exclaiming in Italian, that the officers might surely understand

she was thinking only of the fine animals: "O, what wonderful

horses!"

The foreign pronunciation, Eric's amusement, Mae's confusion, were

not lost upon the men. Their curiosity was piqued, their eyes and

pride gratified. They sauntered leisurely past, only to turn a

corner and quicken their steps again toward the bench where Eric

and Mae were seated. They found the brother and sister just

arising, and followed them slowly.

An Italian is quick to detect secrets. The two had not proceeded

far before one said to the other; "Eh, Luigi, we are not the only

interested party."

Luigi looked slowly around and saw a crowd of Italian loungers

gazing at the little stranger with their softly-bold black eyes

full of admiration. He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Bah,

they gaze in that way at all womankind. See, now they are watching

the next one," and as he spoke, the boys turned with one accord to

stare at a young Italian girl, who pressed closer to the side of

her hook-nosed old duenna:

"It is not those loungers that I noticed," replied the other. Look

there," and he waved his hand lightly toward the left, where, under

a large-leafed tree, gazing apparently in idleness, stood a young

man.

"Ah," said Luigi, still incredulous, "he sees nothing but Rome; he

is fresh from over the seas."

"No, no, watch his eyes," replied the other.

They were assuredly fixed, with a keen searching glance, on a

little form before them, and as Eric and Mae suddenly turned to the

left, the stranger, half carelessly, but very quickly, crossed to

another path, from which he could watch them, but be, in his turn,

unobserved.

"Jealous," laughed Luigi, shrugging his shoulders again. "Her

lover, probably."

"No," replied Bero, "but he may be some time." Then after a

moment's pause, "Good evening," he said carelessly. "I am going to

say my prayers at vespers. I've been a sorry scamp of late."

Luigi laughed disdainfully and lightly. "You want to get rid of

me? Well, be it so. I don't want to lose my heart over a little

foreigner. I have other game. However, Lillia shall not know of

it. Addio, Bero." So Luigi went off the other way, and Bero, with

a flushed face, followed Mae at a distance, and kept an eye on the

stranger, flattering himself that he was quite unnoticed by those

sharp, keen eyes. He was mistaken, Norman Mann had seen the

officers before they saw him, had watched their footsteps, and had

a pretty clear idea of the whole affair.

Mae walked on happily, chatting with Eric, and with that vague,

delightful feeling of something exciting in the air. She knew

there was an officer behind her, because she had heard the clicking

spurs, but she only guessed that he might be one of the two who had

passed--the taller, perhaps,--which, of course, he was. She had,

moreover, in some mysterious way, caught sight of a figure

resembling Norman Mann, trying, she thought, to avoid her. Her

spirits rose with the half-mystery, and she grew brighter and

prettier and more magnetic to the two followers as she tossed her

shoulders slightly and now and then half-turned her sunny head.

As for Eric, he was totally unconscious of any secrets. He fancied

himself and his pretty, nice, little sister all alone by their very

selves, and he went so far as to expatiate on the vastness of the

world, and how in this crowd there was no other life that bordered

or touched on theirs.

To which Mae replied: "You don't know; you may fall in love with

one of these very Italian girls, or my future husband may be

walking behind me now." When she had said this, she flushed

scarlet and was very much ashamed of herself in her heart.

"We must go home now," Eric replied, quite disdaining such

sybilistic remarks. So they left the hill and went down the Steps

in the rich afternoon light, and so homewards. Of course the

Italian and Mr. Mann still followed them; Norman on the other side

of the street, the Italian in a slyer, less conspicuous manner, by

taking side streets, or the next parallel pavement, and appearing

only at every corner in the distance. He appeared, however, close

at hand, as Mae and Eric turned into their lodgings. His eyes met

Mae's. She blushed involuntarily as she recognized him, and at

once, in that moment, there was an invisible half-acquaintance

established between the two. If they should ever meet again, they

would remember each other.

Mae crept off to the kitchen that evening, to beg for another of

Lisetta's stories, and quite forgot her walk, the officer, and

Norman Mann while she listened to the

STORY OF TALILA.

Talila was a young girl, destined to be a nun. She was a naughty

little girl and would make wry faces at the thought, and wish she

could be a man, a soldier or sailor, instead of being a woman and a

nun; and as she grew older she would dance all the time, and didn't

say her prayers very much, and was so bad that the priest sent for

her to see him. He told her how wicked she was, and that, too,

when she was to be the bride of the church; but she said the church

had many, many brides, and she would rather be the bride of

Giovanni; and that she loved red-cheeked babies better than beads,

and songs were nicer than prayers. Should she sing him such a

pretty, gay one she knew? And the priest could hardly keep from

laughing at the bright-eyed, naughty, naughty Talila. But he said:

"If Giovanni does not want to marry you, will you then become the

bride of the church?" And Talila laughed aloud and tossed her

head. "Giovanni longs to marry me, Father," she said, "I know that

already." But the Father sent for Giovanni and gave him money if

he would say he did not want to marry Talila. At first he would

not say so, but the Father showed him a purse all full of silver,

which Talila's mother had brought him, for it was she who had vowed

Talila should be a nun. Then the Father said: "This is yours if

you say as I wish, and if not, you shall be cursed forever, and all

your children shall be cursed, because you have married the bride

of the church." Then Giovanni crossed himself and took the bag of

silver, and the priest sent for Talila, and she heard her Giovanni

say he didn't want to marry her--she had better be a nun; and she

threw up her brown arms and screamed aloud, and fell down as if

dead. And afterwards she was very ill, and when she grew better

she had forgotten everything and was only a little child, and she

loves little children, and is ever with them, but she calls them

all Giovanni. They play together by the bay through the long day,

and at night she takes them to their mothers, and goes alone to her

home. But alas! she never tells her beads, or prays a prayer, and

sorry things are said of her--that God gave her up because she left

Him. But the children all love her, and she loves them.

CHAPTER III.

Edith and Mae had a quarrel one morning. Mae's tongue was sharp,

but although she breezed quickly, she calmed again very soon. The

latter fact availed her little this time, for Edith maintained a

cold displeasure that would not be melted by any bright speeches or

frank apologies. "Edith," said little Miss Mae, quite humbly for

her, as she put on her hat, and drew on her gloves, "Edith, aren't

you going out with me?" "What for?" asked that young person

indifferently.

"Why--for fun, and to make up. Haven't you forgiven me yet?"

Edith did not reply directly. "I am going out with mamma to buy

our dominoes for the Carnival, and to see our balcony. Albert has

engaged one for us, on the corner of the Corso and Santa Maria e

Jesu. I suppose you can go too. There will be an extra seat.

We'll come home by the Pincian Hill."

"Thank you," said Mae, "but I will get Eric and go for a tramp,"

and she left the room with compressed lips and flushed cheeks. In

the hall were Albert, Eric and Norman, talking busily. "Where are

you going Eric, mayn't I go too, please?" "I'm sorry Mae, but this

is an entirely masculine affair--five-button gloves and parasols

are out of the question."

"O, Ric, I am half lonely." Mae laughed a little hysterically. At

that moment she caught Mr. Mann's eyes, full of sympathy. "But

goodbye," she added, and opened the door, "I'm going."

"Alone?" asked Norman, involuntarily.

"Yes, alone," replied Mae. "Have you any objections, boys?" Eric

and Albert were talking busily and did not hear her. Norman Mann

held open the door for her to pass out, and smiled as she thanked

him. She smiled back. She came very near saying, "I'm sorry I was

rude the other day, forgive me," and he came very near saying, "May

I go with you, Miss Mae?" But they neither of them spoke, and

Norman closed the door with a sigh, and Mae walked away with a

sigh. It was only a little morning's experience, sharp words,

misunderstandings; but the child was young, far from home and her

mother, and it seemed hard to her. She was in a very wild mood, a

very hard mood, and yet all ready to be softened by a kind,

sympathetic word, so nearly do extremes of emotion meet.

"There's no one to care a pin about me," said she to herself, "not

a pin. I have a great mind to go and take the veil or drown myself

in the Tiber. Then they would be bound to search for me, and

convent vows and Tiber mud hold one fast. No, I won't, I'll go and

sit in the Pincian gardens and talk Italian with the very first

person I meet and forget all about myself. I wish Mr. Mann

wouldn't pity me. Dear me, here I am remembering these forlorn

people again. I wish I could see mamma and home this morning,--the

dear old library. Why the house is shut up and mamma's south. I

forgot that, and here am I all alone. It is like being dead.

There, I have dropped a tear on my tie and spoiled it! Besides, if

one is dead, there comes Heaven. Why shouldn't I play dead, and

make my own Heaven?" Here Mae seated herself, for she was on the

Pincio by this time, and looked off at the view, at that wonderful

view of St. Peter's, the Tiber, all the domes and rising ruins and

afar the campagna. "I wouldn't make my Heaven here," thought this

dreadful Mae, "not if it is beautiful. I'd not stay here a single

other day. Bah no!" and she shook her irreverent little fist right

down at the Eternal City.

At this moment, a small beggar, who had been pleading unnoticed at

her side, was lifted from his feet by a powerful hand, and a shower

of soft Italian imprecations fell on Mae's ear. She sprang up

quickly, "No, no," she cried in Italian, "how dare you hurt a

harmless boy?" She lifted her face full toward that of the man who

had inspired her wrath, and her eyes met those of the Piedmontese

officer. She blushed scarlet.

"Pardon, a thousand pardons," began he. "It was for your sake,

Signorina. I saw you shake your hand that he should leave you, and

I fancied that the little scamp was troubling the foreign lady."

Mae laughed frankly, although she was greatly confused. The

officer and the beggar boy behind him waited expectantly. "I shook

my hand at my thoughts," she explained. "I did not see the boy.

Forgive me, Signor, for my hasty words."

The officer enjoyed her confusion quietly. He threw a handful of

small coin at the beggar, and bade him go. Then he turned again to

Mae. "I am sorry, Signorina, that your thoughts are sad. I should

think they would all be like sweet smiles." He said this with an

indescribable delicacy and gallantry, as if he half feared to speak

to her, but his sympathy must needs express itself.

Mae was, as we have seen, in a reckless, wild mood. She did not

realize what she was doing. She had just broken down all barriers

in her mind, was dead to her old life, and ready to plan for

Heaven. And here before her stood a wonderful, sympathizing, new

friend, who spoke in a strange tongue, lived in a strange land was

as far removed from her old-time people and society as an

inhabitant of Saturn, or an angel. She accepted him under her

excitement, as she would have accepted them. No waiting for an

introduction, no formal getting-acquainted talk, no reserve. She

looked into the devoted, interested eyes above her, and said

frankly:

"I was feeling all alone, and I hate Rome. I thought I would like

to play I was dead, and plan out a Heaven for myself. It should

not be in Rome. And then I suppose I shook my fist."

"Where would your Heaven be?" asked the Piedmontese, falling

quickly, with ready southern sympathy, into her mood. Mae seated

herself on the bench and made room for him at her side.

"Where should it be?" she repeated. "Down among the children of

the sun, all out in the rich orange fields, by the blue Bay of

Naples, I think, with Vesuvius near by, and Capri; yes, it would be

in Sorrento that I should find my heaven."

The officer smiled under his long moustaches. "For three days,--at

a hotel, Signorina."

"No, no; with the peasants. I am tired and sick of books, and

people, and reasons. Shall I give you a day of my Heaven?"

Bero smiled and bent slightly forward and rested his hand lightly

on the stick of her parasol, which lay between them. "Go on," he

said.

"I would fill my apron with sweet flowers and golden fruit--great

oranges, and those fragrant, delicious tiny mandarins--and I would

get a crowd of little Italians about me, all a-babbling their

pretty, pretty tongue, and I would go down to the bay and get in an

anchored boat, and lie there all the morning, catching the sunlight

in my eyes, trimming the brown babies and the boat with flowers,

looking off at the water and the clouds, tossing the pretty fruit,

and laughing, and playing, and enjoying. Later, there'd be a run

on the beach, and a ride on a donkey, and a dance, with delirious

music and frolic. And then the moon and quiet,--and I would steal

away from the crowd, and take a little boat, and float and drift--"

"Alone?" asked Bero, softly. "Surely, you wouldn't condemn a

mountaineer's yellow moustache, or a soldier's spurs and sword, if

at heart he was really a child of the sun also? May I share your

day of Heaven? It would be paradise for me, too." All this in the

same soft, deferential manner.

"Well, well,' half laughed, half sighed Mae. "All this is a dream,

unless, indeed, I go home with Lisetta."

"Who is Lisetta?"

"Our padrona's cousin. She is here on a visit. She lives within a

mile of Sorrento, on the coast. She goes home at the end of

Carnival. Oh, how I do long for Carnival," continued Mae, frankly

and confidentially. "Don't you? I am like a child over it, I am

trying already to persuade Eric--that is my brother--to take me

down on the Corso the last night, for the Mocoletti. It would be

much better fun than staying on our balcony."

"Where is your balcony?" asked Bero, stroking his long moustaches.

"It is on the corner of Maria e Jesu, and if I ever see you coming

by, I shall be tempted to pepper your pretty uniform. How

beautiful it is!"

"Yes," replied Bero, again gazing proudly down at his lithe figure,

in its well-fitting clothes, "but I would be willing to be showered

with confetti daily to see you. How shall I know you? What is to

be the color of your domino?" And he bent forward, hitting his

spurs against the paving stones, flashing his deep eyes, and half

reaching out his hand, in that same tender, respectful way.

Mae saw the sunlight strike his hair; she half heard his deep

breath; and, like a flood, there suddenly swept over her the

knowledge that this new friend, this sympathizing soul, was an

unknown man, and that she was a girl. What had she done? What

could she do? Confusion and embarrassment suddenly overtook her.

She bent her eyes away from those other eyes, that were growing

bolder and more tender in their gaze. "I--I--" she began, and just

at this very inauspicious moment, while she sat there, flushed, by

the stranger's side, the clatter of swiftly-approaching wheels

sounded, and a carriage turned the corner, containing Mrs. Jerrold,

Edith, Albert, and Norman Mann. They all saw her.

Mae laughed. It was such a dreadful situation that it was funny,

and she laughed again. "Those are my friends," she said, in a low

voice. "We can walk away," replied the officer, and turned his

face in the opposite direction. "It is too late; and, besides, why

should we?" And Mae looked full in his face, then turned to the

carriage, which was close upon them.

"How do you all do?" she cried, gleefully and bravely. "Isn't

there room for me in there? Mrs. Jerrold, I would like to

introduce Signor--your name?"--she said, quite clearly, in Italian,

turning to the officer.

"Bero," he replied.

"Signor Bero. He was very kind, and saved me from--from a little

beggar boy."

"You must have been in peril, indeed," remarked Mrs. Jerrold,

bowing distantly to Bero, and beckoning the coachman, as Mae sprang

into the carriage, to drive on. "I am sorry to put you on the box,

Norman," Mrs. Jerrold added, as Mae took the seat, in silence, that

Mr. Mann had vacated for her, "and I hope Miss Mae is also." But

Mae didn't hear this. She was plucking up courage in her heart,

and assuming a saucy enough expression, that sat well on her bright

face. Indeed, she was a pretty picture, as she sat erect, with

lips and nostrils a trifle distended, and her head a little in the

air. The Italian thought so, as he walked away, smiling softly,

clicking his spurs and stroking his moustache; and Norman Mann

thought so too, as he tapped his cane restlessly on the dash-board

and scowled at the left ear of the off horse. The party preserved

an amazed and stiff silence, as they drove homeward.

"Eric," cried Norman, very late that same night. "Do be sober, I

have something to say to you about Miss Mae."

"Norman, old boy, how can a fellow of my make be sober when he has

drunk four glasses of wine, waltzed fifteen times, and torn six

flounces from a Paris dress? Why, man, I am delirious, I am. Tra,

la, la, tra, la, la. Oh, Norman, if you could have heard that

waltz," and Eric seized his companion in his big arms and started

about the room in a mad dance. You are Miss Hopkins, Norman, you

are. Here goes--" but Norman struck out a bold stroke that nearly

staggered Eric and broke loose. "For Heaven's sake, Eric, stop

this fooling; I want to speak to you earnestly."

"Evidently," replied Eric, with excited face, "forcibly also.

Blows belong after words, not before," and the big boy tramped

indignantly off to bed.

Norman Mann was in earnest truly, forcible also, for he opened his

mouth to let out a very expressive word as Eric left the room. It

did him good seemingly, for he strode up and down more quietly. At

last he sat down and began to talk with himself. "Norman Mann,

you've got to do it all alone," he said. "Albert and Edith and

Aunt Martha are too vexed and shocked to do the little rebel any

good. Ric, oh, dear, Ric is a silly boy, God bless him, and here I

am doomed to make that child hate me, and with no possible

authority over her, or power, for that matter, trying to keep her

from something terribly wild. If they don't look out, she will

break loose. I know her well, and there's strong character under

this storm a-top, if only some one could get at it. Damn it."

Norman grew forcible again. "Why can't I keep my silly eyes away

from her, and go off with the fellows. You see," continued Norman,

still addressing his patient double, "she is a rebel, and--pshaw, I

dare say it is half my fancy, but I hate that long moustached

officer. I wish he would be summoned to the front and be shot. O,

I forgot, there's no war. Well, then, I wish he would fall in love

with any body but Mae. It must be late. Ric didn't leave that

little party very early, I'm sure, but I can't sleep. I'll get

down my Sismondi and read awhile. I wonder if that child is

feeling badly now. I half believe she is--but here's my book."

Yes, Mae was feeling badly, heart-brokenly, all alone in her room.

After a long, harrowing talk with Mrs. Jerrold, at the close of

which she had received commands never to go out alone in Rome,

because it wasn't proper, she had been allowed to depart for her

own room. Here she closed the door leading into Mrs. Jerrold's and

Edith's apartment, and opened her window wide, and held her head

out in the night air--the poisonous Roman air. The street was very

quiet. Now and then some late wayfarer passed under the light at

the corner, but Mae had, on the whole, a desolate outlook--high,

dark buildings opposite, and black clouds above, with only here and

there a star peeping through.

She had taken down her long hair, thrown off her dress, and half

wrapped herself in a shawl, out of which her bare arms stretched as

she leaned on the deep window seat. She looked like the first

woman--of the Darwinian, not the Biblical, Creation. There was a

wild, half-hunted expression on her face that was like the set air

of an animal brought suddenly to bay. She thought in little jerks,

quick sentences that were almost like the barking growls with which

a beast lashes itself to greater fury.

"They treated me unfairly. They had no right. I shall choose my

own friends. How dare they accuse me of flirting? I flirt, pah!

I'd like to run away. This stupid, stupid life!" And so on till

the sentences grew more human. "I suppose Mr. Mann thinks I am

horrid, but I don't care. I wish I could see Eric, he wouldn't

blame me so. What a goose I am to mind anyway. The Carnival is

coming! Even these old tombs must give way for ten whole riotous

days. I must make them madly merry days. I wonder how I will look

in my domino. I suppose the pink one is mine."

So Miss Mae dried her eyes, picked her deshabille self from the

window seat, turned up the light, slipped into her pink and white

carnival attire, and walked to the window again.

"This is the Corso all full of people, and I'll pelt them merrily,

so, and so, and so!" She reached forth her bare, round arm into

the darkness, and looked down, where, full under the street light,

gazing up at her, stood the Piedmontese officer.

It was at that very moment that Norman Mann put down his Sismondi,

and looked from his window also.

CHAPTER IV.

Mae met Mr. Mann at the breakfast table the next morning without

the least embarrassment. Indeed, the little flutter in her talk

could easily be attributed to unusually high spirits and an excited

and pleased fancy. That was how Norman Mann translated it, of

course. Really, the flutter was a genuine stirring of her heart

with inquietude, timidity and semi-repentance; but Mae couldn't say

this, and it's only what one says out that can be reckoned on in

this world. So Norman Mann, who saw only the bright cheeks and

eyes and restless quickening of an eager girl and did not see the

palpitating feminine heart inside, was displeased and half-cold.

Could any one be long cold to Mae Madden? She believed not. She

was quite accustomed to lightning-like white heats of anger in

those with whom she came in contact, but coldness was out of her

line. Still she met the occasion well. "Shall I give you some

coffee?" she asked, pleasantly. "We breakfast all alone, until

Eric appears. Mrs. Jerrold is not well, and Edith and Albert are

off for Frascati."

"Poor child; how much alone she is," he thought to himself.

"I understand we all go to the play tonight?" queried Mae.

"The thought of Shakspeare dressed in Italian is not pleasant to

me," said Mr. Mann, after a silence of a few minutes.

"I am quite longing to see him in his new clothes. There is so

much softness and beauty in Italian that I expect to gain new ideas

from hearing the play robed in more flowing phrases. Shakspeare

certainly is for all the world."

"But Shakspeare's words are so strongly chosen that they are a

great element in his great plays. And a translation at best is

something of a parody, especially a translation from a northern

tongue, with its force and backbone, so to speak, into a southern,

serpentine, gliding language. You have heard the absurd rendering

of that passage from Macbeth where the witches salute him with

'Hail to thee, Macbeth! Hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!' into such

French as 'Comment vous portez vous, Monsieur Macbeth; comment vous

portez vous, Monsieur Thane de Cawdor!" A translation must pass

through the medium of another mind, and other minds like

Shakspeare's are hard to find."

Norman spoke with so much reverence for Mae's greatest idol that

her heart warmed and she smiled approval, though for argument's

sake she remained on the other side.

"Isn't a translation more like an engraver's art, and aren't fine

engravings to be sought and admired even when we know the great

original in its glory of color? Then all writing is only

translation, not copying. Shakspeare had to translate the tongues

he found in stones, the books he found in brooks, with twenty-six

little characters and his great mind, into what we all study, and

love, and strive after. But he had to use these twenty-six

characters in certain hard, Anglo-Saxon forms and confine himself

to them. When he wanted to talk about

"fen-sucked fogs,"

and such damp, shivery places, he is all right, but when he sings

of 'love's light wings,' and all that nonsense, he is impeded; now

open to him 'Italian, the language of angels'--you know the old

rhyme--and see what a chance he has among the "liquid l's and bell-

voiced m's and crushed tz's." To-night you will hear Desdemona

call Othello 'Il mio marito,' in a way that will start the tears.

What are the stiff English words to that? 'My husband!' Husband

is a very uneuphonious name, I think."

Norman Mann smiled. "Another cup of coffee, if you please--not

quite as sweet as the last," and he passed his cup. "I believe

there is always a charm in a novel word that has not been

commonized by the crowd. 'Dear' means very little to us nowadays,

because every school girl is every other school girl's 'dear,' and

elderly ladies 'my dear' the world at large, in a pretty and

benevolent way. So with the words 'husband' and 'wife'; we hear

them every day in commonest speech--'the coachman and his wife,' or

'Sally Jones's husband,'--but I take it this is when we stand

outside. That wonderful little possessive pronoun MY has a great,

thrilling power. 'My husband' will be as fine to your ears as 'il

mio marito,' which has, after all, a slippery, uncertain sound; and

as for 'my wife'--"

At that moment the coffee cup, which was on its way back, had

reached the middle of the table, where by right it should have been

met and guided by the steadier, masculine hand; Norman's hand was

there in readiness, but instead of gently removing the cup from

Mae's clasp, it folded itself involuntarily about the white, round

wrist, as he paused on these last words. Was it the little

possessive pronoun that sent the sudden thrill through the

unexpecting wrist? At any rate it trembled; the cup, the saucer,

the coffee, the spoon, followed a well known precedent, and "went

to pieces all at once;" "all at once and nothing first just as

bubbles do when they burst." And so alas! did the conversation,

and that burst a beautiful bubble Norman had just blown.

Damages were barely repaired when Eric entered the breakfast room

with a petulant sort of face and flung himself into a chair. "My!

what a head I have on me this morning," he groaned. "Soda water

would be worth all the coffee in the world, Mae; I'll take it

black, if you please. How cosy you two look. I always take too

much of every thing at a party, from flirtation to-- O, Mae, you

needn't look so sad. I'm not the one in disgrace now. Mrs.

Jerrold, Edith and Albert are just piping mad at you, and as for

Mann, here,--by the way," and Eric rubbed his forehead, as if

trying to sharpen up a still sleepy memory, "I suppose you two have

had it out by this time. Norman sat up till ever so late to talk

you over with me, Mae. Do thank him for me; I am under the

impression that I didn't do so last night."

Mae tapped her fourth finger, on which a small ring glistened,

sharply against the cream jug. "If I were every body's pet lamb or

black sheep, I couldn't have more shepherd's crooks about me. Have

you joined the laudable band, Mr. Mann, and am I requested to thank

you for that?"

"Not at all. Perhaps your brother's remembrances of last night are

not very distinct. I certainly sat up for Sismondi's sake, not for

yours." And he really thought, for the moment, that he told the

truth.

"I warn you," continued Mae, rising as she spoke, "that I have a

tremendous retinue of mentors, and nurses, and governesses already.

You had better content yourself with the fact that you have four

proper traveling companions, and bear the disgrace of being shocked

as best you may by one wild scrap of femininity who will have her

own way in spite of you all." Mae half laughed, but she was

serious, and the boys both knew it.

"You flatter me," replied Norman, "I had aspired to no such

position, but for your brother's sake, if not for your own, I

wished to tell Eric that the Roman air at midnight was dangerous to

your health. I saw you had your window open."

"Did you look through the ceiling, pray?" Mae retorted from the

door-way. "Eric, ring if you want anything. Rosetta is close at

hand."

"I have put my foot in it this time," said Eric, clumsily. "I am

real sorry, Norman, old boy."

Norman did not feel like being pitied, and this remark of Eric's

roused him. He fairly ground his teeth and clenched his hands, but

his big brown moustache and the tablecloth hid these outer

manifestations of anger. "Don't be a goose, Ric," he said. "What

possible difference can all this make to me? Your sister is young

and quick."

Now, it was Eric's turn to wince. Was he giving this fellow the

impression that he thought his sister's opinions would affect him?

Horrible suspicion! Boys always fancy everybody in love with their

sister. He must cure that at once. "Of course," he replied

quickly, "I know you and Mae never agree, that you barely stand

each other. But I didn't know but you would prefer to be on good

terms with her, for all that."

"Miss Mae can choose the terms on which we meet. I shall be

content whatever her decision. What are your plans for the day?"

Lounging Eric straightened himself at once. "I was a perfect fool

last night," he confessed. "and I must rely on you, old fellow, to

help me out. I made engagements for two weeks ahead with Miss

Hopkins and Miss Rae. At any rate, I'm booked for the play to-

night. Now, I can't take two girls very well. That is, I can, but

I thought you might like a show. You may have your choice of the

two. Miss Rae, by the way, says she's wild to know you; thought

you were the most provoking man she ever saw; and that you were--

nonsensical idea--engaged to Mae. All because you wouldn't look at

her the other day when she passed you two, But you can go with Miss

Hopkins, if you prefer."

"Are they pretty?" asked Norman, apparently warming to the task,

"and bright?"

"I should say they were. Miss Hopkins has gorgeous great eyes,--

but Miss Rae is more your style. Still, you may have your choice."

"Silly boy; you're afraid to death that I shall choose Miss

Hopkins. Well, if they are not over stupid and flirtatious--"

"Stupid! Oh, no,"--Eric scouted that idea--"and flirtatious,

perhaps. Miss Hopkins rolls her eyes a good deal, but then she has

a frankness, a winning way."

"Well," laughed Norman, "you're such a transparent, susceptible

infant-in-arms that I'll go with you."

"As shepherd," suggested Eric, "as long as Mae won't have you. But

come, we must go down and call on these people. It won't do at all

for you to appear suddenly this evening, and say, 'I'll relieve my

friend here of one of you.'"

"Oh, what a bore. Is that necessary? Won't a card or a box of

Stillman's bon-bons do them? Well, if it must be, come along,

then."

CHAPTER V.

It was evening, and the brilliantly lighted theatre was crowded to

overflowing. Of course there were English who scowled at the

Americans, and Americans who smiled on every one and ate candy

while Othello writhed in jealous rage, and a scattering of Germans

with spectacles and a row of double-barrelled field glasses glued

over them, and Frenchmen with impudent eyes and elegant gloves, and

a general filling in of Italians, with the glitter here and there

of nobility, and still oftener of bright uniforms. Finally there

was a modicum of true gentry, and these not of any particular

nation or class. It is pleasant to name our party immediately

after referring to these goodly folks. They had a fine box, and

although their ranks were thinned by the loss of two cavaliers,

nobody seemed to care. Albert and Edith were perfectly happy side

by side, and Mrs. Jerrold was well contented to observe her

daughter's smile as Albert spoke to her, and the look of manly

protection in his eyes, as his gaze met Edith's.

As for Mae, she had that delicious feminine pride which is as good

a stimulant as success to women--in emergencies. And to-night was

an emergency to this small, excitable, young thing. Her eyes were

very dark from the expansion of the pupil. They possessed a rare

charm, caught from a trick the eyelids had of drooping slowly and

then suddenly and unexpectedly lifting to reveal the wide, bright

depths, that half-concealed, half-revealed power, which is so

tantalizing. Mae was dressed in this same spirit to-night, and she

was dimly conscious of it. The masses of tulle that floated from

her opera hat to her chin and down on her shoulders, revealed only

here and there a glimpse of rich brown hair, or of white throat.

Her cheeks were scarlet, her lips a-quiver with excitement and

pleasure. She formed a pretty contrast to Edith, who sat by her

side. Miss Jerrold leaned back in her chair quietly, composedly.

She fanned herself in long sweeps, looked pleased, contented, but

in no wise displaced or surprised--thoroughly well-bred and at

home. She might have had a private rehearsal of Othello in her own

dramatic hall the evening before, from her air and mien. Mae, on

the contrary, was alert, on the qui vive, as interested as a child

in each newcomer, and, after the curtain rose, in every tableau.

Such a woman can not fail to attract attention, as long as she is

herself unconscious. The world grows blase so speedily that it

enjoys all the more thoroughly the sight of freshness, verve,

life,--that is, the male portion of the world. Women's great

desire, as a rule, is to appear entirely at ease, city-bred, high-

bred, used to all things, surprised by none.

So there were a great many glasses turned toward Mae that evening.

Very probably the young women in the next box accepted a share of

these glances as their own, and, in a crowd where the French and

Italian elements predominate, or largely enter, they could not have

been far wrong. Every girl or woman who pretends to any possible

charm is quite sure of her share of admiration from these

susceptible beings. The young ladies of the next box had that

indescribable New York air, which extends from the carefully

brushed eyebrows quite to the curves of the wrist and hand. Praise

Parisian modes all you will, but for genuine style, a New York

girl, softened a trifle by commonsense or good taste, leads the

world--certainly if she is abroad. For there she soon finds it

impossible to go to the extremes that American air seems to rush

her into. Three months, or perhaps, if she is observant, three

days in Paris, teach her that the very biggest buttons, or the very

largest paniers, or the very flaringest hats are not for her, or

any lady, and by stepping back to size number two, she does not

detract from her style, while she does add to her lady-likeness.

These two girls, it may be surmised, were no other than Miss

Hopkins and Miss Rae, whom chance or fate or bungling Eric Madden,

who bought the tickets, had seated side by side with the Maddens

and Jerrolds. It was bothersome, when Norman and Eric had played

truant at any rate, but there was no help for it; so after a little

Eric introduced them all round, and the two parties apparently

merged into one, or broke up into four, for tete-a-tetes soon

began. It was a little hard that three girls should have each a

devoted servant, and that only one, and that one, Mae, should be

obliged to receive her care from the chaperon; but so it was.

Nevertheless, Mae bore herself proudly. She was seated next Miss

Rae, separated only by the nominal barrier of a little railing,

while just beyond sat Norman, his chair turned toward the two

girls. The stranger insisted on drawing Mae into the conversation,

partly for curiosity's sake, to watch her odd face and manners,

partly from that genuine generosity that comes to the most selfish

of women, when she is satisfied with her position. It is pleasant

to pity, to be generous; and Miss Rae, having the man, could afford

to share him now and then, when it pleased her, with the lonely

girl by her side. But Miss Rae's tactics did not work. Mae

replied pleasantly when addressed, but returned speedily and

eagerly to Mrs. Jerrold or a survey of the house, with the frank

happiness of a child. She was all the more fascinating to the

admiring eyes that watched her, because she sat alone, electrified

by the inspiration and magnetism from within, and did not need the

stimulus of another voice close by her side, breathing compliments

and flattery, to brighten her eyes and call the blushes to her

cheeks. Norman Mann saw the eyes fixed on her, and they vexed him.

At the same time, he liked her the better on that very account.

And at last the curtain rose.

It was just as Desdemona assures her father of her love for

Othello, that Mae became conscious of a riveted gaze--of a

presence. Lifting her eyes, and widening them, she looked over to

the opposite side of the house, and there, of course, was the

Piedmontese officer again, handsomer, more brilliant than ever,

with a grateful, soft look of recognition in his eyes.

Mae was out of harmony with all her friends. She was proud and

lonely. The man's pleased, softened look touched her heart

strangely. There was almost a choke in her throat, there were

almost tears in her eyes, and there was a free, glad, welcoming

smile on her lips.

Norman Mann saw it and followed it, and caught the officer

receiving it, and thought "She's a wild coquette."

And Mae knew what he saw and what he thought.

Then a strange spirit entered the girl. Here was a man who vexed

her, who piqued her, and who was rude, for Mae secretly thought it

was rude to neglect Mrs. Jerrold, as the boys did that evening, and

yet who was vexed and piqued in his turn, if she did what he didn't

like and looked at another man.

And then here was the other man. Mae looked down at him.

Bless us! who is to blame a young woman for forgetting everything

but the "other man" when he is a godlike Piedmontese officer, with

strong soft cheek and throat, and Italian eyes, and yellow

moustaches, and spurs and buttons that click and shine in a

maddening sort of way?

Of course, in reality, everybody is to blame her, we among the very

virtuous first. In this particular case, however, we have facts,

not morals, to deal with. Mae did see Norman Mann talking

delightedly to a pretty girl, and she did see the officer gazing at

her rapturously, and she quite forgot Othello, and gave back look

for look, only more shy and less intense perhaps, and knew that

Norman Mann was very angry and she and the officer very happy.

What matter though the one should hate her, and the other love her,

and she--

But, bother all things but the delirious present moment. Never

fear consequences. There were bright lights, and brilliant people,

the hum of many voices, the flash of many eyes, and a half secret

between her, this little creature up in the box, and the very

handsomest man of them all.

So while Othello fell about the stage, and ground out tremendous

curses, Mae half shivered and glanced tremblingly toward Bero, and

Bero gazed back protectingly and grandly. Once, when Desdemona

cried out thrillingly, "Othello, il mio marito," Mae looked at

Norman involuntarily and caught a half flash of his eye, but he

turned back quickly to his companion and Mae's glance wandered on

to Bero and rested there as the wild voice cried out again, "il mio

marito, il mio marito."

So the evening slid on. Mae smiled and smiled and opened and half

closed her eyes, and Norman invited Miss Rae to go to church with

him, and to drive with him, and to walk with him, and to go to the

galleries with him, "until, Susie Hopkins, if you will believe it,

I fairly thought he would drop on his knees and ask me to go

through life with him, right then and there." So Miss Rae confided

to Susie Hopkins after the victorious night, in the silence of a

fourth-story Costanzi bedroom.

Susie Hopkins was putting her hair up on crimping-pins, but she

paused long enough to say: "Well, Jack Durkee had better hurry

himself and his ring along, then."

"O, he's coming as quickly as ever he can," laughed Miss Rae,

whereat she proceeded to place a large letter and a picture under

the left-hand pillow, crimped her hair, cold-creamed her lips, and

laid her down to pleasant dreams of--Jack.

CHAPTER VI.

Mae was very much ashamed of herself the next morning. She had

been restored in a measure to popular favor, through Eric, the day

before. Edith and Albert were home from Frascati, when Eric made

his raid bravely on their forces combined with those of Mrs.

Jerrold. He advanced boldly. "It's all nonsense, child, as she

is," he said. "It was natural enough, to talk with the man," for

Mae had made a clean breast of her misdoings to him, to the extent

of saying that they had chatted after the beggar left. "Do forgive

her, poor little proud tot, away across the sea from her mother.

Albert, you're as hard as a rock, and that Edith has no spirit in

her," he added, under his breath. This remark made Albert white

with rage. Nevertheless, he put in a plea for his wayward,

reckless little sister, with effect. After a few more remarks from

Mrs. Jerrold, Mae came out of the ordeal; was treated naturally,

and, as we have seen, accompanied Mrs. Jerrold to the play the

night before.

Now, it was the next day. Mrs. Jerrold breakfasted in her own room

again, and spent the hours in writing home letters full of the

Peter and Paul reminiscences and quotations. Norman and Eric left

for the Costanzi, and Albert and Edith, armed with books, and note-

books, and the small camp-stools, again started away together.

This last 'again' was getting to be accepted quite as a matter of

course. Everybody knew what it meant. They always invited the

rest of the company to go with them, and were especially urgent,

this morning, that Mae should accompany them.

"Why, with mamma in her room you will be lonely," suggested Edith,

"and you can't go out by yourself."

Mae winced inwardly at this, but replied pleasantly: "I have

letters to write also, and I'm not in the mood to-day for pictures,

and the cold, chilling galleries filled with the damp breath of the

ages."

So Edith and Albert, nothing loth, having discharged their duty,

started off. These two have as yet appeared only in the

background, and may have assumed a half-priggish air in opposition

and contrast to Mae. They really, however, were very interesting

young people. Albert with a strong desire in his heart--or was it

in his head?--to aid the world, and Edith with a clear self-

possession and New England shrewdness that helped and pleased him.

Their travels were enriching them both. Edith was trying to draw

the soul from all the great pictures and some of the lesser ones,

and Albert was waking, through her influence, to the world of art.

This morning they were on their way to the Transfiguration to study

the scornful sister. They were taking the picture bit by bit,

color by color, face by face. There are advantages in this

analytical study, yet there is a chance of losing the spirit of the

whole. So Mae thought and said: "I know that sister now, Edith,

better than you ever will." This was while she was looping up her

friend's dress here, and pulling out a fold there, in that

destructive way girls have of beautifying each other. "See here!"

And down sank Miss Mae on her knees, with her lips curved, and her

hands stretched out imploringly, half-mockingly. No need of words

to say: "Save my brother, behold him. Ah, you cannot do it, your

power is boast. Yet, save him, pray."

"A little more yellow in my hair, some pearls and a pink gown, and

you might have the sister to study in a living model, Edith,"

laughed Mae, arising.

Edith and Albert were both struck by Mae's dramatic force, and they

talked of her as they drove to the Vatican. "I wish I understood

her better," said Edith. "I cannot feel as if travel were doing

her good. She is changing so; she was always odd, but then she was

always happy. Now she has her moods, and there is a look in her

eye I am afraid of. It is almost savage. You would think the

beauty in Rome would delight her nature, for she craves beauty and

poetry in everything. I don't believe the theatre is good for her.

Albert, suppose we give up our tickets for Thursday night."

"But you want particularly to see that play, Edith."

"I can easily give it up for Mae's sake. It would be cruel to go

without her, and I think excitement is bad for her."

"You are very generous, Edith, and right, too, I dare say. I wish

my little sister could see pleasure and duty through your steadier,

clearer eyes."

Then the steady, clear eyes dropped suddenly, and the two forgot

all about Mae, and rolled contentedly off, behind the limping

Italian horse. And the red-cheeked vetturino with the flower in

his button-hole, whistled a love-song, and thought of his Piametta,

I suppose.

Meantime, Mae, left to herself, grew penitent and reckless by

turns, blushed alternately with shame and with quick pulse-beats,

as she remembered Norman Mann's face, or the officer's smile. She

wondered where he lived, and whether she would see him soon again.

Poor child! She was really innocent, and only dimly surmised how

he would haunt her hereafter. Would he look well in citizen's

clothes? How would Norman Mann seem in his uniform? She wished

she had a jacket cut like his. And so on in an indolent way. But

penitence was getting the better of her, and after vainly trying to

read or write, she settled herself down for a cry. To think that

she, Mae Madden, could have acted so absurdly. She never would

forgive herself, never. Then she cried some more, a good deal

more.

About four in the afternoon a very bright sunbeam peeped through

her closed blinds, and she brushed away her tears, and peace came

back to her small heart, and she felt like a New England valley

after a shower, very fresh and clean, and goodly,--just a trifle

subdued, however.

She would go to church. She had heard that there was lovely music

at vespers, in the little church at the foot of Capo le Case. St.

Andrea delle Frate, was it? It wasn't very far away. She could

say her prayers and repent entirely and wholly. So she dressed

rapidly, singing the familiar old Te Deum joyously all the while,

and off she started.

The air was cool and clear and delicious and the street-scenes were

pretty. Mae took in everything before her as she left the house,

from the Barberini fountain to the groups of models at the corner

of the Square and the Via Felice; but she did not see, at some

distance behind her, on the opposite side of the street, the sudden

start of a motionless figure as she left the house, or know that it

straightened itself and moved along as she did, turning on to the

pretty Via Sistina, so down the hill at Capo le Case, to the church

below.

She was early for vespers, and there was only the music singing in

her own happy little heart as she entered the quiet place. The

contrast between the spot, with its shrines and symbols and aids to

faith, and all that she had associated with religion, conspired to

separate her from herself and her past, and left her a bit of

breathing, worshiping life, praising the great Giver of Life. She

fell on her knees in an exalted, jubilate spirit. She was more

like a Praise-the-Lord psalm of David than like a young girl of the

nineteenth century.

And yet close behind her, a little to the left, was Bero on his

knees too, at his pater nosters.

By and by the music began. It was music beyond description; those

wonderful male voices, the chorus of young boys, and then suddenly,

the organ and some one wild falsetto carrying the great Latin soul-

laden words up higher.

All this while Mae's head was bent low and her heart was a-praying.

All this while Bero was on his knees also, but his eyes were on

Mae.

The music ceased; the prayers were ended. Mae heard indistinctly

the sweep of trailing skirts, the sound of footsteps on the marble

floor, the noise of voices as the people went away, but still she

did not move. The selah pause had come after the psalm.

When she did rise, and turn, and start to go, her eyes fell on the

kneeling form. She tried to pass quickly without recognition, but

he reached out his hand.

"This is a church," said Mae; "my prayers are sacred; do not

disturb me."

He held his rosary toward her, with the cross at the end tightly

clasped in his hand. "My prayers are here, too," he said. "Oh,

Signorina, give me one little prayer, one of your little prayers."

He knelt before her in the quiet, dim, half light, his hands

clasped, and an intense earnestness in his easily moved Italian

soul, that floated up to his face. It looked like beautiful

penitence and faith to Mae. Here was a soul in sympathy with hers,

one which met her harmoniously in every mood, slid into her dreams

and wild wishes, sparkled with her enjoyment, and now knelt as she

knelt, and asked for one of her prayers.

She stood a minute irresolute. Then she smiled down on him a full,

rich smile, and said in English: "God bless you," The next moment

she was gone.

Bero made no movement to follow her, but remained quietly on his

knees, his head bowed low.

"I looked in at St. Andrea's, at vespers," said that dear, bungling

fellow, Eric, at dinner that night, "and saw you Mae, but you were

so busy with your prayers I came away." There was a pause, and Mae

knew that people looked at her.

"Yes, I was there; the music was wonderful."

"Mae," asked Mrs. Jerrold, "Do you have to go to a Roman Catholic

Church to say your prayers?" For Mrs. Jerrold was a Puritan of the

Puritans, and had breathed in the shorter catechism and the

doctrine of election with the mountain air and sea-salt of her

childhood. Possibly the two former had had as much to do as the

latter with her angularity and severe strength.

"Indeed," cried Mae, impulsively, "I wish I could always enter a

church to say my prayers. There is so much to help one there."

"Is there any danger of your becoming a Romanist?" enquired Mrs.

Jerrold, pushing the matter further.

"I wish there were a chance of my becoming anything half as good,

but I am afraid there isn't. Still, I turn with an occasional

loyal heart-beat to the great Mother Church, that the rest of you

have all run away from." "Yes, you have," Mae shook her head

decidedly at Edith. "She may be a cruel mother. I know you all

think she's like the old woman who lived in a shoe, and that she

whips her children and sends them supperless to bed, and gives them

a stone for bread, but she's the mother of all of us,

notwithstanding."

"What a dreadful mixture of Mother Goose and Holy Bible," exclaimed

Eric, laughingly, while Mae cooled off, and Mrs. Jerrold stared

amazedly, wondering how to take this tirade. She concluded at last

that it would be better to let it pass as one of Mae's

extravagances, so she ended the conversation by saying: "I hope,

Eric, you will wait for your sister, if you see her alone, at

church. It is not the thing for her to go by herself."

"No," added Albert, "we shall have to buy a chain for you soon."

"If you do," said Mae quietly, "I'll slip it." And not another

prayer did she say that night.

CHAPTER VII.

It was the first day of Carnival. The determination to enjoy

herself was so strong in Mae, that her face fairly shone with her

"good time coming." She popped her head out of the doorway, and

flung a big handful of confetti right at Eric, but he dodged, and

Norman Mann caught it in his face. Then, seeing a try-to-be-

dignified look creeping upon Mae, he seized the golden moment,

gathered up such remnants of confetti as were tangled in his hair

and whiskers, and flung them back again, shouting: "Long live King

Pasquino! So his reign has begun, has it?"

"Yes; King Pasquino is lord, now, for ten whole days," and she

slowly edged her right hand about, to take aim again at Norman. He

saw her, and frustrated the attempt by catching it and emptying the

contents out upon the floor. The little white balls rolled off to

the corners and the little hand fell slowly by Mae's side. "Why

not go down to the Corso, you and I, and see the beginning of the

fun?" suggested Norman.

"Come along," cried Mae, "you, too, Eric," and the three started

off like veritable children, in a delightful, familiar, old-time

way. Arrived at their loggia, they found an old woman employed in

filling, with confetti, a long line of boxes, fastened to the

balustrade of the balcony. Little shovels, also, were provided,

for dealing out the tiny missals of war upon the heads below.

There were masks in waiting, some to be tied on, while others

terminated in a handle, by a skilful use of which they could be

made as effective as a Spanish lady's fan. Mae chose one of these

latter.

The Corso was alive with vendors of small bouquets and bon-bons and

little flying birds tied in live agony to round yellow oranges.

The fruit in turn was fastened to a long pole and so thrust up to

the balconies as a tempting bait. If bought, the birds and flowers

were tossed together into the streets to a passing friend. As Mae

was gazing rapturously over the balcony, laughing at the few

stragglers hurrying to the Piazza del Popolo, admiring the bannered

balconies and gay streamers, several of these little birds were

thrust up to her face, some of them peeping piteously and flapping

their poor wings. She put up her hands and caught the oranges,

one--two--three--four. In a moment she had freed the fluttering

birds and tossed the fruit back into the street. "Pay them, Eric,"

she cried indignantly; "Why, what is this?" for one of the little

creatures, after vainly flapping its wings, had fallen on the

balcony. Mae picked it up. It half opened its eyes at her and

then lay still in her hands.

"It is dead," said Mae, quietly, going up to Norman. "Oh! Mr.

Mann, I thought Carnival meant real fun, not cruelty. Isn't there

anywhere in this big world where we can get free from such dreadful

things? Well!" she added, impatiently, as Norman paused.

"Give a slow fellow who likes the world better than you do, time to

apologize for it," replied Norman, as familiarly as Eric would have

done. The tone pleased Mae. She looked up and laughed lightly.

"At any rate," suggested he, "let's forget the cruelty now and take

the fun. Three of them are safe and very likely this scrap," and

he touched the dead bird in her hand, "is flying to rejoin his

brothers in hunting-grounds that are stocked with angle-worms, and

such game. We are to have a good time to-day, you and I."

At this moment Eric rushed up. "Say, Mann," he cried, "here they

come. They have taken the balcony just opposite, after all. And

Miss Hopkins looks perfectly in a white veil. And oh! here are the

rest of our own party."

Mae lifted her eyes to the opposite side of the street, but they

did not fall to the level of the Hopkins-Rae party, being stopped

by something above. At a high, fourth-story window, beyond the

circle of flying fun and frolic, confetti and flowers, Mae saw a

wonderful woman's face, a face with great dark eyes and raven hair.

A heavily-figured white lace veil was pulled low over her brow, and

fell in folds against her cheeks. Her skin was white, the scarlet

of her face concentrating in her lips.

There was a strange consonance between the creamy heavy lace and

its flowing intertwined figures, and the face it encircled. A

mystery, a grace, a subtle charm, that had the effect of a vivid

dream, in its combination of clearness and unreality. There was

life, with smothered passion and pride and pain in it, Mae was

sure. So near to her that her voice could have arched the little

distance easily, and yet so far away from her life and all that

touched it.

A gentleman attending the lady whispered to her. She bent her eyes

on Mae, and met her glance with a smile, and Mae smiled rapturously

back.

Mae had been looking for Bero all that afternoon. She felt sure he

would be there, and very soon she saw him among a crowd of officers

sauntering slowly down the Corso. He looked up at the window

opposite. The veiled lady leaned slightly forward and bowed and

waved her white hand. Bero bowed. So did the other officers.

Norman Mann and Eric excused themselves long enough to dash over to

welcome their friends and then stayed on for a little chat. These

young women were quite gorgeous in opera cloaks and tiny, nearly

invisible, American flags tucked through their belts. They tossed

confetti down on every one's heads, and shouted--a little over-

enthusiastically, but one can pardon even gush if it is only

genuine. That was the question in this case.

The horse race came; and Mae went fairly wild. When it was over,

every body prepared to go home. King Pasquino had virtually

abdicated in favor of the Dinner Kings. Mae unclasped her tightly

strained hands, clambered down from a chair she had perched herself

on, smiled a good-bye at the veiled lady, and came away. She rode

home quietly with a big bouquet of exquisite blue violets in her

hand. There was a rose on top and a fringe of maiden's hair at the

edge, and the bouquet was flung from Bero's own hand up at the side

window on the quiet Jesu e Maria, when everyone else but Mae was

out on the Corso balcony.

"It is dreadful to grow old," said Mae, breaking silence, as the

carriage clattered over the stony streets.

"My dear," expostulated Edith, "you surely don't call yourself old.

What do you mean?"

"I fancied I could take the Carnival as a child takes a big bonbon

and just think with a smack of the lips, 'My! how good this is.'

But here I am, wondering what my candy is made of all the time, and

forgetting, except at odd moments, to enjoy myself for trying to

separate false from true, and gold from gilt. Still, what is the

use of this stuff now! I'll remember that horse race, for there I

did forget myself and everything but motion. How I would like to

be a horse!" And the volatile Mae seized the stems of her bouquet

for whip and bridle and gave a little inelegant expressive click-

click to her lips as if she were spurring that imaginary steed

herself.

Norman smiled. "We can't keep children for ever, even--"

"The silliest of us?"

"Even the freshest and blithest."

"O, dear, that is like a moral to a Sunday-school book," said Mae;

"don't be goody-goody to-night."

"What bad thing shall I do to please your majesty, my lady

Pasquino?"

"Waltz," said Mae. So, after dinner, Edith and Eric sang, and

Norman and Mae took to the poetry of motion as ducks take to water,

and outdanced the singers.

"Thank you," said Mae, smiling up at him. "This has done me good."

She pushed the brown hair back from her forehead and drew some deep

breaths and leaned back in her chair, still tapping her eager,

half-tired foot against the floor, while Norman fanned her with his

handkerchief.

This time Bero and the strange, veiled lady and Miss Hopkins and

every other confusing thought floated off, and left them quite

happy for--well--say for ten minutes.

And ten minutes consecutive enjoyment is worth waiting for, old and

cynical people say.

The next morning brought back all her troubles, with variations and

complications, on account of some more misunderstood words.

"I think," said Mae, as she paused to blot the tenth page of a home

letter. "that likes and dislikes are very similar, don't you,

Edith?" Then, as Edith did not reply, she glanced up, and saw that

her friend's chair was occupied by Norman Mann. He looked up also

and smiled.

"I am not Edith, you see, but I am interested in your theory all

the same. Only, as I am a man, I shall require you to show up your

reasons."

"Well, I find that people who affect me very intensely either way,

I always feel intuitively acquainted with. I know what they will

think and how they will act under given conditions, and I believe

we are driven into friendship or strong dislikes more by the force

of circumstances than by--"

"Elective affinities or any of that nonsense," suggested Norman

Mann.

"Yes," said Mae, nodding her head, and repeating her original

statement under another form, as a sort of conclusion and proof to

the conversation. "Yes, a natural acquaintance may develop into

your best friend or your worst foe." She started on page number

eleven of her letter, dipping her pen deep into the ink-stand and

giving such a particular flourish to her right arm, as to nearly

upset the bouquet of flowers at her side. It was Bero's gift.

Norman Mann put out his hand to save it. His fingers fell in among

the soft flowers and touched something stiff. It felt like a

little roll of paper. Indignantly and surprisedly he pulled it

out. "What is this?" he cried.

Mae sprang forward, her cheeks aflame. "It is mine," she said.

"Did you put it here?" asked Norman.

"No."

"Then how do you know it is yours? Is not this a carnival bouquet.

idly tossed from the street to the balcony?"

Mae straightened to her utmost height which wasn't lofty then and

said hastily: "Mr. Mann, this is utterly absurd, and more. I am

not a child, and if I catch an idly flung bouquet that holds idle

secrets, I surely have a right to them." She laughed hurriedly.

"Come, give me my note,--some Italian babble, I dare say."

Norman looked at her for a minute with a struggle in his heart and

a flash of half scorn, Mae thought, on his face. What was he

thinking?

That the child was in danger. He had no doubt in his own mind now

that the flowers and the note came from Bero and that Mae knew it.

He held the paper crushed in his hand, while he looked at her.

"I presume you will never forgive me," he said, "but I must warn

you, not as a mentor or even as a friend," noticing her annoyed

air, "but as one soul is bound to warn another soul, seeing it in

danger. Take care of yourself, and there!" And taking the crushed

note between his two hands, he deliberately tore it asunder and

threw the halves on the table before her.

"And there, and there, and there!" cried Mae, tearing the fragments

impetuously, and scattering the sudden little snow flakes before

him. Then, with a look of supreme contempt, she left the room.

Norman looked down on the white heap that lay peacefully at his

feet. "I am a fool," he thought.

"Little Mae Madden, little Mae Madden, I am so sorry for you,"

repeated that excited bit of womankind to herself in the silence of

her own room. "What won't they drive you to yet? How dreadful

they think you are? And only last night we thought things were all

coming around beautifully!"

And she looked at herself pityingly in the glass. A mirror is a

dangerous thing for a woman who has come to pity herself. She sees

the possibilities of her face too clearly. And Mae, looking into

the mirror then, realized to an extent she never had before, that

her eyes and mouth might be powerful friends to herself and foes to

Norman Mann, if she so desired. And to-day she did so desire, and

went down to the Carnival with as reckless and dangerous a spirit

as good King Pasquino could have asked.

The details of this day were very like those of the last. Norman

and Eric vibrated between the Madden and Hopkins balconies; the

crowd was great; confetti and flowers filled the air; and up above

it all, circled by her crown of misty, heavy lace-work, shone out

the beautiful, wonderful face of the strange lady. She dropped

smiles from under her long black lashes and from the corners of the

rare, sweet mouth over the heads of the idlers to Mae, who looked

up to catch them. There was a resting, almost saving influence,

Mae's excited soul believed, in the strange face; and her eyes

sought it constantly. She had been quite oblivious to the friends

about this beautiful stranger, but once, as her eyes sought the

Italian's, she saw her arise with a sudden flash of light on her

face, and hold out a white hand. A head bent over it, and as it

lifted itself slowly, Mae saw once more the well-known features of

the Signor Bero.

She looked down toward the street quickly and a sharp pain filled

her heart.

She had lost her only friend in Rome, so the silly girl said to

herself. If he knew that wonderful woman, and if she flashed those

weary, great eyes for him, how could he see or think of any other?

Moreover, it was very vexatious to have him there. If she smiled

up at the girl, Bero might think she was watching him, trying to

attract his notice. So Mae appeared very careless and played she

did not see him at all, at all. Yet she could not resist looking

up now and then for one of the rare smiles. They seemed like very

far between "nows and thens" to Mae, averaging possibly a distance

of four minutes apart. But that is as one counts time by steady

clock-ticks, and not by heart-beats.

Meanwhile, what could she do with her eyes? They would wander once

in a while over to the opposite balcony, at just such moments as

when Norman Mann was picking up Miss Rae's fan and receiving her

thanks for it from under her drooped eyelids, or choosing a flower

for himself, "the very, very prettiest, Mr. Mann," before she threw

the rest to the winds and the passing gallants.

As Mae grew reckless her eyes grew bright. There were few passers-

by who were not attracted by the flash of those eyes. The sailor

lads, as they trundled past in their ship on wheels, left the

barrels of lime from which they had been pelting the pleasure-

seekers to throw whole handfuls of flowers up to the Jesu e Maria

balcony; a set of hale young Englishmen picked out their prettiest

bonbons for the same purpose; and one elderly, pompous man, who

drove unmasked and with staring opera glasses up and down the

Corso, quite showered her with bouquets, which he threw so poorly,

and with such a shaky old hand, that the street gamins caught them

all except such as he craftily flung so that they might assuredly

tumble back to the carriage again. And Mae, though she had felt

the pleased gaze of a good many eyes before, had never quite put

its meaning plainly to herself. She was apt, on such occasions, to

feel high-spirited, excited, joyous, but now she realized well that

she was being admired, and she led on for victory ardently.

She tossed back little sprays of flowers, or quiet bonbons, or now

and then mischievously let drop a sprinkling of confetti balls

through her half-closed fingers. To do this she drooped her hand

low over among the balcony trimmings, following the soft shower

with her eyes, as some straight soldier would wipe the tiny minie

balls from his face and glance up to see where they came from. If

he looked up once, he never failed to look again, and generally

darted around the nearest corner to return with his offering, in

the shape of flowers or other pretty carnival nonsense. Mae rather

satisfied her conscience, which was tolerably fast asleep for the

time being, at any rate, with the fact that she didn't smile at

these strangers--she only looked!

Her pleasure was heightened by the knowledge that she was watched.

If she glanced across quickly, Miss Rae's eyes were invariably

fixed on her and Norman Mann would be gazing in the opposite

direction in the most suspicious manner. From above her strange

friend leaned over admiringly and once, as Mae looked joyously

upwards, clapped her white hands softly together, while beyond her

a tall figure stood motionless, Mae had pretended not to see Bero

yet, but as the Italian applauded her in this gentle manner, her

eyes sought his involuntarily. He was gazing very fixedly and

rapturously down on her, without any apparent thought of the

beautiful girl by his side. After that, Mae looked up often, in a

glad, childlike way, for spite of this first lesson in wholesale

coquetry, and the new conflict of emotions within her mind, she was

enjoying herself with the utter abandon of her glad nature.

Toward the close of the afternoon, the Italian was suddenly

surrounded by a great mass of flowers, over which she waved her

hand caressingly and pointed down at Mae. "For you," the gesture

seemed to say. The veiled lady appeared to summon several of her

friends, for a number of gentlemen left the other window and its

group of girls, and began the difficult task of attempting to toss

the bouquets from their height down to Mae. This was rendered the

more difficult as the Madden balcony was covered, and the best

shots succeeded in landing their trophies on this awning, where

they were speedily captured and drawn in by the occupants of the

next flat, an ogre of an old woman and her hook-nosed daughter, who

wore an ugly green dress and was otherwise unattractive.

The entire Madden party became interested and stood looking on with

the most encouraging smiles. The very last bouquet was vainly

thrown, however, and gathered in by the ogre, when Bero suddenly

appeared, a little behind the party in the window. The flowers in

his hand were of the same specimens as those he had given Mae the

day before, although different in arrangement. He lifted the

bouquet quickly to his lips, so quickly that perhaps only Mae

understood the motion, and flung it lightly forward. Mae leaned

over the balcony, reaching out her eager hands, and caught it in

her very finger tips. The party above bowed and applauded, as she

raised the flowers triumphantly to her face.

So the second day of the Carnival was a success, till they turned

their backs on the Corso. In the carriage Mrs. Jerrold spoke

gently but firmly to Mae. "Be a little more careful, dear; don't

let your spirits carry you quite away during these mad days." Mae

smiled, but was silent.

"What a strangely beautiful girl that was in the gallery opposite,"

Edith said, a moment later. "I wonder if she is engaged to that

superb man; I fancied I had seen him before. Why, Mae, what in the

world are you blushing at?" For Mae's face was scarlet. "Why,

nothing," replied Mae, redder yet; "nothing at all. What do you

mean?"

The same thought occurred to Edith and Albert. The officer was

Mae's chance acquaintance. They both looked grave, and Albert

remarked: "It is as well to be careful before getting up too

sudden an acquaintance with your Italian girl. Take care of your

eyes."

"Has it come to this?" cried Mae, half jestingly, half bitterly.

"Are nor my very eyes my own? I shall feel, Albert, as if you were

trying to bind me in that chain you threatened," and Mae started:

her fingers had felt another scrap of paper among the flowers, but

she did not drop it from the carriage, as her first impulse was;

she held it tight and close in her warm right hand until she was

fairly at home and safe in her own room. Then she opened and read

in an Italian hand, "To my little Queen of the Carnival."

Could he have written that as he stood by the wonderful veiled

lady, with her white mysterious beauty, with the purple shadows

about her dark eyes, while she--and Mae looked in her glass again.

What did she see? Certainly a different picture, but a picture for

all that. Life and color and youth, a-tremble and a-quiver in

every quick movement of her face, in the sudden lifting of the

eyelids, the swift turn of the lips, the litheness and carelessness

of every motion; above and beyond all, the picture possessed that

rare quality which some artist has declared to be the highest

beauty, that picturesque charm which shines from within, that

magnetic flash and quiver which comes and goes "ere one can say it

lightens."

The veiled lady's face was stranger, more mysterious, to an

artistic or an imaginative mind; but youth, and intense life, and

endless variety usually carry the day with a man's captious heart,

and so Bero called Mae

"My little Queen of the Carnival."

CHAPTER VIII.

Mae's good times were greatly dimmed after this by the thought that

she was watched. The bouquets which came daily from Bero troubled

her also not a little. They were invariably formed of the same

flowers, and might easily attract Edith's attention and possible

suspicion. So she stayed home from the Corso one day not long

after, when she was in a particularly Corso-Carnival mood. She

wandered helplessly about, restless and full of desire to be down

at the balcony with the rest. And such a strange thing is the

human heart, that it was Norman Mann's face she saw before her

constantly, and she found Miss Rae's little twinkling sort of eyes

far more haunting than those of her veiled friend.

The rich life in Mae's blood was surging in her veins and must be

let off in some way. If she had had her music and a piano she

might have thrown her soul into some great flood-waves of harmony.

The Farnesina frescoes of Cupid and Psyche over across the Tiber

would have helped her, but here she was alone, and so she did what

so many "fervent souls" do--scribbled her heart out in a colorful,

barbarous rhyme. Mae had ordinarily too good sense for this, too

deep a reverence for that world of poetry, at the threshold of

which one should bow the knee, and loose the shoe from his foot,

and tread softly. She didn't care for this to-day. She plunged

boldly in, wrote her verse, copied it, sent it to a Roman English

paper, and heard from it again two days later, in the following

way.

The entire party were breakfasting together, when Albert suddenly

looked up from his paper and laughed. "Look here," he cried.

"Here is another of those dreadful imitators of the Pre-Raphaelite

school. Hear this from a so-called poem in the morning's journal:

'The gorgeous brown reds

Of the full-throated creatures of song.'"

"I don't see anything bad in that," said Eric, helping himself to

another muffin. "What is the matter with you?"

"Matter enough," returned Albert. "Because their masters,

sometimes, daub on colors with their full palettes and strong

brushes, this feeble herd tag after them and flounder around in

color and passion in a way that is sickening."

"Go on," shouted Eric, "he is our own brother, Mae, after all, you

see. Fancy my Lord Utilitarian turning to break a lance in defence

of beauty. Edith, you and the picture-galleries are to blame for

this."

Mae had been paying great attention to her rolls and coffee, and

very little apparently to the conversation, but she spoke eagerly

now. "Their masters do not daub. They do hold palettes full of

the strongest, richest colors, and dare lay them, in vivid flecks,

on their canvas. They do not care if they may offend some modern

cultivated eyes, used only to the invisible blues and shadowy

greens and that host of cold, lifeless, toneless grays, of refined

conventional art. They know well enough that their satisfying reds

and browns and golds of rich, free nature will go to the beating

hearts of some of us."

Mae had a way of dashing into conversation abruptly, and the Madden

family had been brought up on argument and table-talk. So the rest

of the party ate their breakfast placidly enough. "Mae's right,"

said Eric, a trifle grandly, "only, to change the figure of speech

for one better fitted for the occasion, they may satiate, though

they never starve you. But they are wonderfully fine, sometimes.

O, bother, I never can quote, but there is something about 'I will

go back to the great sweet mother."'

"Or this," suggested Mae,

"'And to me thou art matchless and fair

As the tawny sweet twilight, with blended

Sunlight and red stars in her hair.'"

"I love my masters," continued this young enthusiast, "because they

fling all rules aside, and cry out as they choose. It is their

very heart's blood and the lusty wine of life that they give you,

not just a scrap of 'rosemary for remembrance' and a soothing herb-

tea made from the flowers of fancy they have culled from those much

travestied, abominable fields of thought."

"And this from a lover of Wordsworth, who holds the 'Daffodils' and

'Lucy' as her chief jewels, and quotes the 'Immortality'

perpetually!" cried Eric. "If any body ever wandered up and down

those same fields of thought, by more intricate, labyrinthine

passages and byways, I'd like to know of him. Talk about soothing

herbs, bless me, it's hot catnip-tea, good and strong, that he

serves up in half of his strings about--"

"O, Eric, hush," cried Mae, "I am afraid for you with such words on

your lips. Think of Ananias."

"Before you children go wandering off on one of your poet fights,"

broke in Albert, "let me take you to task, Mae, for stealing; that

lusty wine you talked of just now is in the poem (?) I hold in my

hand."

"Do read it to us," said Edith, "and let us judge for ourselves."

So Albert began:

ALL ON A SUMMER'S DAY.

"Far away the mountains rise, purpling and joyous,

Through the half mist of the warm pulsing day, while nigh

At hand gay birds hang swinging and floating

And waving betwixt earth and sky,

Ringing out from ripe throats

A sensuous trickling of notes,

That fall through the trees,

Till caught by the soft-rocking breeze

They are borne to the ears of the maiden.

Her eyes wander after the sound,

And glimpses she catches along

Through green broad-leaved shadows,

Through sunbeams gold-strong,

Of the gorgeous brown reds of the full-throated creatures of song.

One hand on her brown bosom rests,

Rising and falling with every heart-beat

Of the delicate, slow-swelling breasts.

A lily, proud, all color of amber and wine,

Waves peerless there, by right divine

Queen o'er the moment and place.

As the wind bends her coaxingly,

Brushes softly the maiden's white hand--

That falls with an idle grace,

Listlessly closed at her side--

With a rippling touch, such as the tide,

Rising, leaves on a summer day,

On the quiet shore of some peaceful bay.

There she stands in the heavily-bladed grass,

Under the trumpet-vine,

Drinking long, deep, intoxicate draughts

Of Nature's lusty, live wine.

There he sees her as he approaches;

Then pauses, as full on his ear

There swells, on a sudden, loud and clear,

A wonderful burst of song.

A mad delicious glory; a rainbow rhythm of life,

Strong and young and free, a burst of the senses all astrife,

Each one fighting to be first,

While above, beyond them all,

Loud a woman's heart makes call."

"Now, fire ahead," said Eric, "get your stones ready. Mrs.

Jerrold, pray begin; let us put down this young parrot with her

'lusty, live wine.'"

"Her?" exclaimed Edith. "Him, you mean."

"Not a bit of it; a woman wrote that, didn't she?"

Eric was very confident. Norman agreed with him, and he glanced at

Mae to discover her opinion. There was a look of secret amusement

in her face, and a dim suspicion entered his mind, which decided

him to watch her closely.

"Well," said Mrs. Jerrold, "I will be lenient. You children may

throw all the stones. It is not poetry to my taste. There's no

metre to it, and I should certainly be sorry to think a woman wrote

it."

"Why?" asked Mae, quickly, almost commandingly. Norman glanced at

her. There was a tiny rosebud on each cheek.

"Because," replied Mrs. Jerrold, "it is too--too what, Edith?"

"Physical, perhaps," suggested Edith.

"It is a satyr-like sort of writing," suggested Norman.

"I should advise this person," said Edith--

"To keep still?" interrupted Eric.

"No, to go to work; that is what he or she needs."

"That is odd advice," said Mae; "suppose she--or he--is young,

doesn't know what to do, is a traveler, like ourselves, for

instance."

"There are plenty of benevolent schemes in Rome, I am sure," said

Edith, a trifle sanctimoniously.

"And there's study," said Albert, "art or history. Think what a

chance for studying them one has here. Yes, Edith is right--work

or study, and a general shutting up of the fancy is what this mind

needs."

"I disagree with you entirely," said Norman with energy. "She

needs play, relaxation, freedom." Then he was sorry he had said

it; Mae's eyes sparkled so.

"She needs," said Eric, pushing back his chair, "to be married.

She is in love. That's what's the matter. Read those two last

lines, Albert:

'While above, beyond them all,

Loud a woman's heart makes call.'

"Don't you see?"

"O, wise young man," laughed Edith. But Mae arose. The scarlet

buds in her cheeks flamed into full-blown roses. "There speaks the

man," she cried passionately, "and pray doesn't a woman's heart

ever call for anything but love--aren't life and liberty more than

all the love in the world? Oh!" and she stopped abruptly.

"Well, we have wasted more time than is worth while over this

young, wild gosling," laughed Albert. "Let us hope she will take

our advice."

Mae shook her head involuntarily. There was a smile on Norman

Mann's lips.

"Here's health and happiness to the poor child at any rate," he

said.

"He pities me," thought Mae, "and I hate him." But then she didn't

at all.

Mae wandered off to the kitchen, as usual, that day, for another of

Lisetta's stories. The Italian, with her glibness of tongue and

ready fund of anecdote, was transformed in her imaginative mind

into a veritable improvisatore. Talila was not by any means the

only heroine of the little tales. Mae had made the acquaintance of

many youths and maidens, and to-day Lisetta, after thinking over

her list of important personages, chose the Madre Ilkana as the

heroine of the occasion. Mae had already heard one or two amusing

incidents connected with this old mother. "I am sure she has a

cousin in America," she asserted to-day, before Lisetta began, "for

I know her well. She knits all the time, and is as bony as a ledge

of rocks, and her eyes are as sharp as her knitting-needles, and

her words are the sharpest of all. Her name is Miss Mary Ann

Rogers. Is she like the Madre Ilkana?"

Lisetta shook her head. "No, no, Signorina, La Madre is as plump

and round as a loaf of bread, and as soft as the butter on it. She

has five double chins that she shakes all the while, but then she

has stiff bristles, like a man's, growing on them, and her

knitting-needles and her words are all sharp as la Signora Maria

Anne R-o-o-g-eers, I doubt not. But her eyes! Why, Signorina, she

has the evil eye!" This Lisetta said in a whisper, while Giovanni

shrugged his shoulders bravely, and little Roberto cuddled closer

to Mae.

"Yes," continued Lisetta, "and so no one knows exactly about her

eyes, not daring to look directly into them, but as nearly as I can

make out they are black, and have a soft veil over them, so that

you would think at first they were just about to cry, when

suddenly, fires creep up and burn out the drops, and leave her hot

and angry and scorching.

"She must be terrible," cried Mae, with a sudden shrinking.

"She IS terrible," replied Lisetta, "but then she is very clever.

You will see if she is not clever when you hear the story I shall

now tell you," and Lisetta laughed, and showed her own one double

chin, with its two little round dimples. Then she smoothed down

her peasant apron, bade Giovanni leave off pinching Roberto, and

commenced.

"The government hates the banditti," began Lisetta, wisely, "and

indeed it should," and she looked gravely at Giovanni, "for they

are very wild men, who live reckless bad lives, and steal, and are

quite dreadful. But we poor, we do not hate them as the government

does, because they are good to us, and do not war with us, and

sometimes those we love join them--a brother or a cousin, perhaps"--

and Lisetta's black eyes filled, and her lip quivered. "As for

the Madre, she loved them all, and said they were all relations.

"At this time of which I speak, the soldiers were chasing and

hunting the banditti very hard, and they had been compelled to hide

for their lives up among the mountains. There they would have

died, had it not been for the peasants, who supplied them with

food. Small parties of the bandits would come out for it. There

were two very powerful men of the banditti, who were skirmishing

about in this way, not far from the Madre Ilkana's, when they saw

two soldiers, in advance of their company, approaching them. The

banditti were not afraid for themselves, but they wanted to get

back to their friends with the bread and meat, so instead of

fighting, they fled to the Madre. She took them in, and bade them

be sure they were safe with her. But the soldiers had caught sight

of them, and they stopped at every house and enquired and searched

for them; and so, soon they came to the Madre Ilkana's. They

charged her in the name of the government to give up the banditti

in her house. The Madre kept on with her knitting, and told them

there were only her two sons in the house, and mothers never gave

up their sons to any one.

"'Ha!' laughed one of the soldiers,' mothers must give up their

children to King Death, and it is He who wants your bad boys.'

Upon which, the Madre arose and cursed them. Curses are common

with us, Signorina, but not La Madre's curses. She talked of their

mothers to them, and of their sons, and of the Holy Virgin and

child, and she cursed them in the name of all these, if they dared

steal her children from her. They should take them over her old

dead body, she swore, though her knitting-needles and her eyes were

her only weapons, and then she turned her eyes full upon them, with

the evil spirit leering and laughing out of them, and the soldiers,

one of whom was an officer, fell on their knees and shook like

leaves, and prayed her to forgive them; saying that they were sure

her boys were good sons, and no banditti. And while they knelt

crouching there, La Madre knocked on the floor and in rushed the

banditti, armed with great knives. They caught and bound the two

soldiers, and took away their weapons, and jumped on their horses,

and fled.

"La Madre took her knitting again, and sat down quietly by the side

of the bound men, until a half hour later some twelve more soldiers

cantered up. As they rode by, all the people came to their

doorways, and the soldiers stopped and asked if they had seen two

horsemen. Then La Madre gathered up her knitting and went quietly

out into the crowd. She made a low bow to the man with the biggest

feather in his cap, and she told him her story. 'I have two sons,'

she said, 'whom I love so well.' Then she told how the soldiers

mistook her sons for banditti, and tried to take them from her in

her own house. 'Though I am old, I have a good life among my

friends and neighbors here, and I fought a while in my own mind

before I said to my sons: Go, my boys, your mother will die for

you. But I did it. I bade them bind the soldiers and steal away.

Then I sat guarding the men till you came. You will find them safe

in my little house there. Now, take me to prison--kill me, but

look in my eyes first, and then, whoever lays a hand on me, take La

Madre Ilkana's curse.'

"And the people all swore that there were two snakes coiled up in

La Madre's eyes then, and they hissed, and struck out with their

fiery tongues, and the crowd fell on their knees, and the neighbors

all set up a great shout of 'La Madre Ilkana,' so that they quite

drowned the voice of the man with the big feather."

"Is that all?" asked Mae, as Lisetta paused. "What did the

soldiers do?"

"O, they hired a passing carriage to take the men whose horses were

stolen back to Castellamare, and they all cantered off, without

saying a word to La Madre, and when they had turned a corner of the

road, she began to laugh. O, how she laughed! All the people

laughed with her, and the children crowed and the dogs barked, for

the rest of that whole day.

"And a neighbor who passed La Madre's at midnight, said she was

laughing out loud then."

CHAPTER IX.

"Signorina." Mae was passing down the long hall when she heard the

whisper. She turned and saw Lisetta, with shining eyes and pink

cheeks, standing at her side. Her pretty plump shoulders were only

half covered, and the array of colors about her transformed her

into a sort of personified rainbow. This was Lisetta's Carnival

attire, and very proud she was of it.

"Why, Lisetta, what do you want, and what makes you so happy?"

called Mae.

"O, Signorina, the cousins are here,--and others,--all in mask.

They fill Maria's rooms quite full. It is very gay out there, and

they all want to see you, Signorina. I have told them how well you

speak Italian and how you love Italy, and to-night, they say, you

shall be one of us. So come." All this while Lisetta had been

leading Mae swiftly down the corridor, until as she said these last

words, she reached and pushed open the door. A great shout of

laughter greeted Mae's ear, and a pretty picture met her eyes--

gaily decked youths and maidens clapping their hands and chattering

brightly, while the padrona was just entering the opposite doorway,

bearing two flasks of native wine, and some glasses.

"'Tis genuine Orvieto," she called out, and this raised another

shout. Then she caught sight of Mae and bowed low towards her.

"Here is the little foreign lady," she cried, and a dozen pairs of

big black eyes were turned eagerly and warmly on Mae. She bowed

and smiled at them, and said in pleading tones, "O, pray do not

call me the 'little foreign lady' now. Play I am as good an

Italian as my heart could wish I were."

This speech was received with new applause, and the padrona handed

around the glasses saying: "We must drink first to the health of

our new Italian. May she never leave us."

"Yes, yes," called Lisetta, lifting high her glass. "Yes, yes,"

cried all, and Mae drank as heartily as any of them. Then she

shook her head and gazed very scornfully down on her dark, stylish

clothes. "I am not thoroughly Italian yet," she cried. "Here, and

here, and here," cried one and another, proffering bits of their

own gay costumes, and in a moment Mae had received all sorts of

tributes--a string of red beads from one, a long sash from another,

a big-balled stiletto from a third, so that she was able from the

gleanings to trim herself up into at least a grotesque and un-

American Carnival figure. Then the Italians with their soft

tongues began to flatter her.

"How lovely the Signorina would look in a contadina costume--the

home costume," said Lisetta gravely. "It is so beautiful, is it

not?" And then those two or three privileged ones, who had seen

Lisetta's home, went into ecstasies over its many charms. Lisetta,

next to the Signorina, was the heroine of the occasion. She was

from a distance, was handsome and clever, and the padrona gave

glowing accounts of her full purse, and two pretty donkeys, and

house by the sea.

They had a very gay time. Such singing, and then dancing and

frolicking, and such a feline softness in all their gaiety. None

of the German or Saxon bullying, and barking and showing of teeth;

in no wise a game of dogs, which always ends in a fight; but a

truly kittenish play, with sharp claws safely tucked out of sight

behind the very softest paws, and a rich, gentle curve of motion,

inexpressibly witching to our little northern maiden, who was fast

losing her head amid it all. Mae did not reflect that felines are

treacherous. She only drew a quick, mental picture of the parlor

on the other side of the hall, which she compared to this gay

scene. Mrs. Jerrold filling in dull row after row of her elaborate

sofa cushion, which was bought in all its gorgeousness of floss

fawn's head and bead eyes, Edith and Albert hard at work over their

note books, or reading up for the sights of to-morrow, Mr. Mann

with his open book also, all quiet and studious. Eric, alone,

might be softly whistling, or writing an invitation to Miss Hopkins

to climb up St. Peter's dome with him, or to visit the tomb of

Cecilia Metella, or the Corso, as the case might be, while here--

As Mae reached this point in her musings, the Italians were forming

for a dance, so she sprang up to join them. Two or three peasants

from the country south had wandered up with the world to Rome, for

Carnival time, then for Lent. They had brought with them their

pipes and zitterns. In the mornings they made short pilgrimages,

playing in front of the shrines about the city, or roaming out on

the campagna to some quiet church. In the evening time they

wandered up the stone stairways of the great houses, and paused on

the landings before the different homes. If all was still they

passed on, but if there was noise, laughter, sound of voices, they

laid aside their penitential manner, and struck into dance music,

flashing their velvety eyes, and striking pretty attitudes, aided

greatly by their Alpine hats and sheep-skins and scarlet-banded

stockings.

Three of these peasants had appeared at the padrona's doorway, by a

sort of magic. They bowed and smiled, and commenced to play.

Every one sprang up. "Dance," cried they all, and flew for their

partners. Mae found herself in the midst of the crowd, and having

the most willing and nimble of feet, she soon toned and coaxed the

fashionable waltz on which she had started into accord with the

more elastic footsteps of her companion. There was something in

the serpentine, winding and unwinding motion, the coaxingness of

the steps, that was deliciously intoxicating to Mae. The color

came to her cheeks, the smile played around her lips, and when she

paused to breathe, she found the Italians showing their white

teeth, and clapping their brown hands in her honor, while the

tallest musician gazed at her from the dark doorway, with the rapt

reverence he gave to all things beautiful and thrilling. She was a

new song to him.

"The Signorina is the veriest Italian of us all," cried Lisetta.

"She honors our Italy," called Mae's last partner.

"Her feet are those of a chamois," said one from the north.

"Nay, she flies," replied another.

They all spoke in their earnest manner, and the praises, that fall

in fulsome flattery in English, were delicate and stimulating as

they slid in soft Italian from their full, red lips. Mae tossed

her head carelessly, but she sipped the praises and found them

sweet.

"Now for the Tarantella," said the padrona, so Lisetta shook her

tambourine wildly, and the very prettiest girl of them all, and a

big, brown boy (happy fellow!) began that coquettish bit of

witchery. The pretty girl tripped around and around and wreathed

her arms over her head, and the boy knelt appealingly and sprang up

passionately again and again, until the clock struck ten, and the

party broke up. Mae shook hands with a new friend. He was a

stone-cutter, and was soon to be married, and he poured out all his

plans and hopes into her sympathetic ears, and told of his pretty

bride to be, and of her dowry. Mae, in turn, sent her love to the

happy bride, and took a charm from her watch-chain to go with it, a

tiny silver boat, and she sent it with a hope that some day they

might both sail over to America. At which the bridegroom shook his

head very decidedly, and kissed Mae's hand and bowed himself out.

Then, after she had disrobed her of her borrowed plumes, all the

others kissed her hand and bowed themselves out, and Roberto and

Giovanni awaked, and got up from the corner, and stood on their

heads and hallooed as loud as ever they pleased, and the evening

was over, and Lisetta and the padrona and the boys and Mae were

alone.

"Oh, oh, oh," cried Mae, "how perfectly perfect. Do you always

have such good times as this?"

"At home, yes," replied Lisetta, folding her hands and smiling.

"We have many a play-day on the bay of Naples." Then she roused

herself: "Good night, Signorina," she said, "keep your ears open."

Mae had barely reached her room when she appreciated Lisetta's last

words. She heard music in the street below. She raised her

window; Eric and Norman lifted the parlor window at the same

moment, "Come in here," they cried. So in she ran, took a place

between them, and they silently listened to the maskers' serenade.

The musicians sang at first the gayest of tunes, but suddenly, by

some subtile impulse, they changed to quieter minor airs, and sang

songs full of tears and passion and love and tenderness. Then they

silently turned to go. Norman Mann touched Mae on the shoulder.

He handed her a bunch of Carnival flowers. They were Bero's, but

she flung them unhesitatingly into the street, leaning far out to

watch the singers catch them and separate them in the moonlight.

They called out loud their thanks--their "Grazie, grazie," as sweet

as any lily just broken from its stem--and as they turned to go Mae

saw that each one was decked with a sprig from the bouquet, pulled

through his button-hole or the riband of his hat.

Only the tallest musician, who walked somewhat apart, carried his

flower tightly clasped in his hand, and now and again he raised it

to his lips. He probably dreamed over it that night, and played

his dream out in a gentle, wistful, minor adoration before the

Madonna at the Quattro Fontane the next morning.

O, the dreams and poems and songs without words that drop into our

lives from the sudden flash of stranger eyes, or the accidental

touch of an unknown hand, or the tender warmth of a swift smile!

And if our eyes, our touch, our smiles may only have floated off in

like manner--as dreams and poems and melody--to give added rhythm

and harmony to other lives.

Mae drew a long sigh, one of those delightful, contented sighs,

with a smile wrapped up in it. "I am glad you are so happy," said

Norman Mann, smiling down at her. When Norman spoke like that Mae

felt only, O, so very content. She quite forgot all grudges

against him; she would have liked just at that moment to have the

world stand quite still. This was very different from the ordinary

Mae. Usually she longed that it might go faster, and would put her

pink and white ear quite close to the brown earth to hear if it

were turning as swiftly as ever it could. "I like it to hurry,

hurry, hurry," said eager, restless Mae. "I love to live quickly

and see what's coming next."

But Mae was not in that mood to-night. She leaned out of the

window all untroubled. If the sun could stand still off behind the

world--as he is now--and the moon could stand still right before

us--as she is now--and we could stay right here, we three. Why,

no, Eric has gone in and is walking up and down nervously. Thus

Mae thought, and was quiet. "What are you thinking about?" asked

Norman. She told him naturally, with her eyes on his until she

reached the words "and we." Then her eyes fell, and she paused.

"Yes," replied Norman, "I have the same feeling," and there was a

great deal more on the very tippest tip of his tongue. But Mae

turned her face from him slightly; the moon stole softly behind the

flimsiest little cloud that any one could have seen through, and he

paused, silly fellow. These slight withdrawals, that should have

urged him on, deceived him. He stopped, and then he remembered

Mae's past doings, her recklessness, her waywardness. It was not

time yet to speak what he had in his heart to say, and what

quivered on his tongue. So he only asked abruptly: "You will go

with me to-morrow night for one of your gayest frolics, will you

not? We will go down on the Corso for all the Mocoletti fun. I am

very anxious to be in another of your good times."

"O, would you like it?" said Mae; "I am so glad. I should delight

in it. It will be almost too good." She stopped abruptly again,

and gave him a quick, soft glance, just as the moon rode

triumphantly out from behind the filmy, flimsy veil, and shone full

down on her eyes and hair. It fell on a bright, round, glistening

ball, tucked in among some half curls behind her ear. "What is

that?" asked Norman.

"That"--Mae put up her hand and drew it out--"that is my stiletto.

I forgot to give it back to Lisetta. It is pretty, isn't it?"

Norman took the long needle from her hand and looked at it. "It is

not as pretty as the flowered stiletto. Why didn't you get one of

those?"

"Why, do you not know that those are not worn by free maidens?

They are one of the added glories of a matron. I like my round,

smooth ball a great deal better. It means liberty." And she

plunged the steel tremulously back into her hair.

"We had better go in now; this night air is bad for you." The moon

blazed scornfully down on Norman Mann as he said this. She had had

a wide experience, and had rarely seen such a stupid, cowardly

fellow, so she thought. Yet, after all, Norman only acted in self-

defense. Here was a girl by his side who gloried, as it seemed to

him, in her freedom, and that being so, he must get away as soon as

possible from that window, that moon, and that little girl.

"Well, Norman," cried Eric, advancing eagerly as they turned from

the window, "when do you really suppose it will come off?"

"Suppose what will come off?" inquired Mae.

"O, I forgot you were here. Well, don't tell any one else. Norman

is to fight a duel."

"To fight a duel--and be killed?" gasped Mae.

"You have but a poor opinion of my powers," laughed Norman,

"although the German looked a veteran duellist from his scars. His

face was fairly embroidered or fancy-worked with red lines. A sort

of hem in his nose, and tucks and seams all over his cheeks.

Notice my knowledge in this line, Miss Mae. You ought to be

ashamed, Eric, to have spoken of it."

"Isn't it all a joke?" asked Mae, pushing her head out of the

window again, to hide the sudden white terror in her face. "I

didn't suppose Americans fought duels when they were off

pleasuring." This sentence Mae meant to pass as a gay, light, easy

speech, to prove that Norman Mann and a duel were not such a very

dreadful combination to her feminine mind.

"NO, it is no joke, but dead earnest," replied Eric. "I am to be

his second, and you must keep it a great secret, Mae, till it is

all over."

"All over!"--a sudden vision of Norman lying white and motionless

with a deep wound across his soft, brown temple. Mae closed her

eyes. "I suppose I might as well tell you about it," said Norman,

"now that this stupid Eric has let out about the affair, although

it may never come to anything. I was dining to-night at a little

restaurant on the Felice, a quiet, homelike place, which a good

many artists, and especially women, frequent. There is a queer,

crazy little American, who thinks herself a painter, and is a

harmless lunatic, who is a regular guest at this restaurant.

Everybody smiles at her absurdities, but is ready enough to be kind

to the poor old creature. To-night, however, I was hardly seated

when in came a party of Germans, all in mask and Carnival costume.

One of them was arrayed in exact imitation of this old lady. He

had on a peaked bonnet and long, black gloves, with dangling

fingers, such as she invariably wears. These he waved around

mockingly and seating himself opposite her, he followed her every

motion. The ladies at the same table rose and went away. Then up

gets this big ruffian and sits down on the edge of the old lady's

chair. I could stand it no longer, but jumping in front of him,

showered down all the heavy talk I knew in German, Italian and

French, subsiding at last into my mother tongue, with her

appropriate epithets. Having sense enough left to know that he

could not reap the full benefit of English, I pulled out my card,

wrote my address on it, and threw it on the table, and I rather

think that was understood. There's no country that I have heard of

where men don't know what "we'll fight this out, means." Norman

was striding up and down the room now almost as restlessly as Eric

had done, but he seated himself again as Mae asked for the rest.

"The rest is very simple, Miss Mae--mere business. I turned to go

away, and one of his friends approached me to ask for the name of

my second. I gave Eric's here. He bowed and said: 'He shall hear

from me this evening, and I came home. The evening has advanced to

midnight, but not a word yet. No, it is not quite eleven, I see."

"You'll have the choice of weapons if they challenge you," said

Eric; "you'll take pistols, I suppose? Just think of my living to

really assist in a 'pistols-and-coffee-for-two' affair!"

"I daresay it will be coffee for two, served separately, and with

no thought of pistols. I don't really believe it will come to

anything. There are ways of getting out of it," said Norman,

lighting a cigarette.

"Will you refuse to fight?" asked Mae, and her heart, which had

been white with fear for Norman the second before, flashed now with

quick, red scorn. Even the Huguenot maiden would, after all, have

despised her lover if he had quietly allowed her to tie the white

handkerchief to his arm. Believe it, she loved him far, far better

as she clung to him, pressed closely to his warm, living heart,

because she realized in an agony that his honor was strong enough

to burst even the tender bonds of her dear love, and that he would

break from her round arms to rush into that ghostly, ghastly death-

embrace on the morrow, at the dreadful knell of St. Bartholomew

bells.

Suppose he had yielded. Suppose we saw him in the picture standing

quietly, unresistingly, as her soft fingers bound the white badge,

that meant protection and life, to his arm. Would not she, as well

as he, have known that it was a badge of cowardice, and that he

wore a heart as white?

And afterwards, would she have loved the living man, breathing in

air heavy with the hearts' life of his brothers and friends, as she

worshiped the dead man, whose cold body rested forever down deep in

mother earth's brown, soft bosom, but whose very life of life

swelled the great throng of heroes and martyrs who have closed

their own eyes upon life's pictures, that those pictures might

shine clearer and brighter to other eyes?

If the man had yielded, and the picture showed him thus, would we

see the Huguenot lovers adorning half the houses of the land? Most

often they are found in that particular corner of the home

belonging to some maiden--that sacred room of her own, where she

prays her prayers, and lives her most secret life. I have often

wondered at the many girls who hang that especial picture over

their fire-places. It must be a case of unconscious ideality.

They realize that love must be so subject to honor that heart-

strings would break for the sake of that honor, if need be, even

though the harmonious love-song of two hearts is hushed; and what

is the love-song of any two beings compared to a life-song of honor

for the world--those wonderful life-songs that we all know? One of

them sings itself so loudly to me now, over ages of romance and

history, that I must let my simple story wait and give way to it

for a minute.

There was a man who lived once. If God did not create him, Homer

did. The Oracle told him that the first man who put foot on the

Trojan shores would die. He knew this before he started on his

voyage for Greece. He left a wife and home behind him, whom he

dearly loved. I wonder if he used to pace the deck of the rich

barge, and listen to the men chatting around him, and smile as they

planned of returning, proud and victorious, to their homes and

their wives.

All the while under his smile he knew he was to die, not in the

glory of fight, although his sword swung sharp and bright at his

side, in any thrilling fashion, to be sung of and wept of by his

fellows.

All the while the heavy barge sailed on, and at last land came in

sight. I wonder if his heart was full when he saw it? Did he

remember his wife and his home? Did he feel his life strong within

him, and eager as a battle-horse, as he neared the land where wars

were to be fought, and glories won?

All the while his heart was firm. He stood the very foremost of

them all, as they drifted quite in to the green, green shore.

Around him men talked and laughed, and the sun shone. He may have

laid his hand commandingly on some youthful shoulders and pushed

back the eager boy who longed to bound first into this new world.

He may have saved him thus from death for life. We do not know.

All we do know is, that with his own brave feet he marched ahead of

them all, solemnly, smilingly, with the oracle in his heart. From

the vessel to the green, green shore--such a little step. He leaps

from the Grecian barge to the Trojan land, alive. Does he turn to

look at his comrades and off eastwards, beyond homewards, with a

great thrill before he falls dead? We do not know.

All we do know is, that WE thrill now as we see him leaping to his

death, even over this gap of ages, through these shadows of

unreality.

We have left Mae flashing scorn at Norman for a long while, a much

longer while than she really needed for her flash, for Norman's

angry start, violent exclamation, and indignant glance convinced

her of her mistake before he answered her.

"I refuse to fight--I--Great--I beg your pardon, Miss Mae, but of

course I'll fight. I only hope the fellow isn't such a craven as

to let it blow over. However, I strongly suspect policy and his

friends will keep him from it. For my part, I would like to break

my lance for the poor woman. Any good blow struck for the fair

thing, helps old Mother earth a bit, I suppose."

"That's your idea of life?" queried Eric, rather gravely. "My

efforts are all to push Eric Madden on his way a bit."

"And I haven't any idea; I just live," said Mae, "like a black and

tan dog. I wish I were one. Then the only disagreeable part of

me, my conscience, would be out of the way. But what has all this

to do with the duel?" "That has something to do with it, I fancy,"

said Eric, rising and leaving the room hastily, as the bell rang.

"No, stay where you are. I'll receive him in the little salon."

Mae rose and walked to the fireside, and looked down on the two

small logs of wet wood that sizzled on the fire-dogs. The faint,

red flame that flickered around them, looked sullen and revengeful,

she thought, as she watched the feeble blaze intently. It seemed

hours since Eric had left the room. What was Norman thinking?

What was the stranger saying out in the little salon? No, no, she

would not think thus. She would repeat something to quiet herself-

-poetry--what should it be? Ah, here is Eric.

It was Eric. His face was flushed. His lip curled. "Coward!

craven!" he exclaimed, "Coward, craven."

"Well, tell us about it," said Norman, coolly, but a wave of color

rushed over his face.

"O, palaver and stuff. Somebody's dreadfully ill--dying, I

believe, and that somebody is wife, or mother, or son to this brute

you challenged. He's got to go, the coward. If you are ever in

his vicinity again, and send him your card, he will understand it

and meet you at such place and with such weapons as you prefer.

Bah--too thin!" and Eric concluded with this emphatic statement.

Mae leaned her head against her two clasped hands which rested on

the mantel-piece. How strangely everything looked; even the dim

fire had a sort of aureole about it, as her eyes rested there

again; but when one looks through tears, all things are haloed

mistily. Norman turned and looked at Mae, as Eric walked

impatiently about. She did not move or speak. He walked to her

side, and stood looking down at her. The faint mist in her left

eye was forming into a bright, clear globe as large as any April

raindrop. Mae knew this, and knew it would fall, unless she put up

her hand and brushed it away, and that would be worse. The color

rose to her cheeks as she waited the dreadful moment. She was

perfectly still, her hands clasped before her, her head bent, as

the crystal drop gathered all the mist and halo in its full, round

embrace, and pattered down upon the third finger of her left hand--

her wedding-ring finger--and lay there, clear and sparkling as a

diamond!

Norman Mann stooped and laid his hand over it. "You are glad,

then!" "I should be sorry to have you die," said Mae, but her

dimples and blushes and drooping eye-lids said, oh, a great deal

more. "Good night," she fluttered, and ran off.

CHAPTER X.

Mae dreamed happy dreams that night, and awoke with a smile on her

lips. She dressed with the greatest care, put a touch of the color

Norman liked at her throat, and fastened a charm he had given her

to her bracelet. Still, she loitered on her way to the breakfast-

room, and when she seated herself at the table, a sudden

embarrassment made her keep her eyes on her plate, or talk to Eric,

or Edith, or any one but Norman. Yet she was perfectly conscious

of his every word and motion. She knew he only took two cups of

coffee instead of three, and that he helped her to mandarins--a

fruit of which she was very fond--five times, so that she had a

plate heaping with golden untouched balls before her. After

breakfast, she felt a great desire to run away, so she asked Eric

to take her to the Capitol, and leave her there for a time. "I

want to see something solid this morning, that has lasted a long

while, and the marbles will do me good."

Yes, Eric would take her at once. Would she go and get her hat?

She went for it, and scolded herself all the time for running away

when she wanted to stay home. Yet, after all, who dares put out

one's hand to grasp the moon when at last it approaches? No woman,

at any rate.

There was a malicious sort of teasing pleasure in running away from

Norman, mingled with a shrinking modesty; and, besides, he knew the

way to the Capitol, if he chose to follow, and knew she was to be

there alone. So, on the whole, Mae went off with a blissful heart.

As she sat down in that celebrated room, immortalized by the

Gladiator, the Faun and the Antinous, scales seemed to fall from

her eyes and a weight from her heart. Life meant something more

than the mere play she delighted in, or the labor she despised.

She took it in in this way. She realized, first of all, the

enduringness of the marbles. They had stood, they will stand, for

thousands of years. What have stood? What will stand? Idle

blocks of stone, without form or meaning, or simply three beautiful

shapes? No; three souls, thinks Mae, three real people, and she

looks at the abiding faun, freedom and joy of the Satyr, the

continual sentimental sadness of the Antinous, and the perpetual

brave death-struggle of the Gladiator. They are living on now, and

touching our hearts. Their mute lips open other eloquent mouths to

speak for them. Hawthorne and Byron tell us what the Faun's soul,

what the Gladiator's soul, look from the white marbles to us, and

the world daily repeats the story the Antinous whispers in his

bent, beautiful head, the vanitas vanitatum that our own hearts

whisper, when we drop earnest life for voluptuous pleasures.

The Faun may smile, although life is only one long play-day in

green fields and woods, because he is a Faun. The man must sigh,

when he has drained his wine-cups and laughed his heartiest laugh,

and wakes to another morning, because he is a man. The cry of

humanity echoes in our souls. We cannot stifle it; we may hush it,

and follow our idle joys, but the day comes when we bend our head

with Antinous and Solomon and the rest of them, and sigh out our

vanitas, vanitas also, in the great weary chorus.

No need, alas! for a Hawthorne, or Byron, or even a Shakspeare to

interpret what the Antinous says for us. Our own hearts do it.

Mae caught the spirit of all this, as her eyes roamed out of the

window on the Sabine hills, where woods and springs sang. She saw

the aqueducts bounding, even in their ruin, arch after arch, to the

treasure house of the waters. "They never can reach it, now,"

thinks she, "never. Suppose they cannot, is not the spirit the

same?" And now Mae is ready for the sudden light that dawns on her

soul. She springs to her feet. She is alone in the room with the

marble men; and they are quiet; even the Gladiator bites back his

last groan once more.

"The Eternal City," shouts Mae; "I know what it means at last. Oh!

Rome, Rome, I love you!" and she rests her hand on the windowsill,

and looks out on Rome. "Why, it is like a resurrection morn.

Ruins? Yes, it is all ruins, dry bones, and great dead in dust;

but there is something more. I only saw that graveyard part of it

before; now, the spirit of the great men, and great deeds, and

words, and thoughts, and prayers," cries Mae, exultantly. "Why,

they are here; not dead, like the rest, but alive, all around us.

Oh! Rome, Rome, forgive me!"

Now, this might have seemed absurd to the custode, or some other

people, if they had put their head in at the door just then. But

they didn't; and, really, it was not absurd. I cannot believe that

this small Mae Madden is the only being who has had a swift,

brilliant awakening from the first surface, depressing thoughts of

Rome--an awakening to the living spirits which float proudly over

their vacant shells that lie below the old pavements. Once you do

feel the strong, rich Roman life about you, the decay, the ruin

float off on the dust of the ages, before the glorified breath of

proud matrons and stately warriors, who step over the centuries to

walk by your side. And the centuries have improved them,--have

left their grandeur, and nobility, and bravery, and civilized them

a bit. They form into pageants for you, and fill the baths and the

palaces, but never crowd the Coliseum for the dreadful contests,

unless, maybe, for an occasional bull-fight--some great, horrid,

big bull which would be killed at market to-morrow at any rate--and

even that is as you please. It is wonderful, truly, once we

discern the spirits around us, to notice what a miraculous place

Rome is; how the intervening years of purgatorial flames have

turned old Nero himself into a fairly benevolent, soft old

gentleman, even though his estates have crumbled to such an extent

that he may put his golden palace into the head of his cane, which

he always carries now, since his chariots have gone away. Where

are they? Caligula has even made it up with his mother-in-law, and

you reflect with joy on that fact, as the two flit by your mind's

eye, hand in hand. All this nonsense is for those of us who HAVE

awakenings. The rest of "our party" may sit at Spillman's and eat

coffee-cakes and sip Lachrymae Christi, while we walk alone through

the Coliseum, with the crowd of old heathen. They stop, every one,

at the iron cross in the middle, reared over their carnage and mad

mirth, and press their lips to it now. The centuries have done

that. We only, alas! stand gazing mournfully, doubtingly. "Will

you have another coffee-cake?" says some one, and we remember that

we are at Spillman's also. And, indeed, we might be more sensible

to stay with our party always; eat cakes, drink wine, laugh at the

old world, vaunt the new, read Baedeker and the Bible, say our

orthodox Protestant prayers, with a special "Lead us not into

Romanism" codicil, and go to bed, and dream of our own golden

houses, Paris dresses, and fat letters of credit.

At any rate, Mae Madden was electrified by a great sudden sweep of

love, a surging rush of reverence for Rome, and makes no doubt in

her own mind, to this day, that the Faun laughed with her in her

joy. In this exalted frame of mind, she wandered down through the

long halls. She was passing from the room of the Caesars when she

heard Norman's voice. So he had come for her with Eric. She had

half fancied he would. She paused to listen. It was a ringing

elastic voice, in no wise lagging in speech, with a certain

measurement in its tones, as if he weighed his words and thoughts,

and gave them out generously, pound for pound, a fair measure which

our grandmother's recipes approved. Mae smiled to herself. "He

has loved Rome always. He caught the spirit of it long ago. He

will be glad to know I have found it also. I wish"--and Mae sighed

a scrap of a sigh, and looked down at the toe of her boot, with

which she drew little semi-circles before her.

Mae was truly in a very tender mood to-day. I think if Norman had

caught sight of her face at that moment, he would have sent Eric

off, and right there and then, before all the Caesars--why what is

the matter? The face contracts as if in pain. What was the cause?

She had heard Norman say, "I'm afraid I was wrong, but I never

meant anything by my attentions to the girl, Eric. It was really

on your account. I never liked Miss Rae particularly. I was

thrown much with her because you and I have been together

constantly, but she does not grow on me. I never expected you

should consider me as her necessary cavalier always. As for this

evening, I am engaged to Miss Mae, so that settles this matter, but

I wish that hereafter you would not get me into such scrapes."

Poor Mae! she leaned against Nero--or was it Caracalla?--surely

somebody very hard and cold and cruel,--and stopped breathing for a

moment. For she had heard wrong, had misunderstood Miss Rae for

Miss Mae, and supposed it was of herself that he spoke. Her heart

stood still for the minutest part of a minute. Then she turned

softly and quickly, went back to the Gladiator's room, left word

with the custode for Eric that she wasn't well, and had gone home

alone, walked off down the Capitol steps, took a cab and drove

away.

At home she had a long, earnest talk with Lisetta, after which

Lisetta had a short, brisk talk with the padrona. "It means

money," she said, "and I can play I did it for the Signorina's

safety." Later, Mae wrote a brief, polite note to Norman Mann.

She was ill, had gone to bed, and wouldn't be able to go to the

Corso with him to-night. She tried to stifle the hot anger and

other emotions out of the words, and read and re-read them to

assure herself that they were perfectly easy, natural, and polite.

At last she tore them up and sent this instead:

MY DEAR MR. MANN:--Such a pity that we are not to have our fun,

after all. Yet, perhaps it is just as well. I should be very

speedily without my light, and the cry of "senza moccolo, senza

moccola," must be very dispiriting. Have a good time right along.

Good-bye--good-bye.

Of course, if Mae had not been beside herself with conflicting

emotions, she would never have sent this note, or repeated the

good-bye in that echoing, departing sort of way. Norman Mann knit

his brow as he read it. "What is the row now?" he thought. "What

a child it is, anyway. She has had the mocoletti fun in her mind

since we left America, and now she throws it away. Well, there's

no help for it; I'm booked for Miss Rae. I'll get Eric to see if

Mae's really ill. I wonder if she's afraid of me, because she

cried last night, afraid I took that big tear for more than it was

worth.

"Mae," said Eric, entering her room an hour later, "Norman feels

dreadfully that you are not able to go to-night, and so do I. I

suppose those wretched marbles did it this morning. Couldn't you

possibly come?"

"No," replied Mae, rising on her elbow, "but sit down a moment,

Eric."

"How pretty you look," said her brother, seating himself by her

side. Mae's hair was tumbled in brown waves that looked as if they

couldn't quite make up their minds to curl, much as they wanted to;

her eyes shone strangely; and the little scarlet shawl that she had

drawn over her head and shoulders was no brighter than her flushed

cheeks. She smiled at her brother, but said hurriedly; "Tell me of

your plans for to-night. I suppose you and Mr. Mann are going with

your new friends."

"Yes, Norman will go with me and the girls, but he does it with a

bad enough grace. He's dreadfully tired of Miss Rae; and, to tell

you the truth, Mae, she is rather namby-pamby--very different from

Miss Hopkins, and then, besides, he had so set his heart on going

with you to-night."

"O, yes," said Mae, scornfully, and bit her lips.

"Why, Mae, what is the matter with you? You seem to doubt every

one and everything. You know Norman is truth itself." "Is he?"

asked Mae, indifferently.

"I've seen for a long time," continued Eric, "that you two were not

the friends you once were, but I don't understand this open

dislike. Doesn't it spoil your pleasure? You don't seem to have

the real old-fashioned good times, my little girl," and Eric pulled

his clumsy dear hand through a twist of the brown hair caressingly.

"O, Eric," cried Mae, "that is like old times again," and a tear

splattered down into the big hand. "What, crying, Mae?" "No,

dear--that is, yes. I believe I am a little bit homesick. I wish

I could go back behind my teens again. Do you remember the summer

that I was twelve--that summer up by the lake? I wish you and I

could paddle around in one of the old flat-bottomed tubs once more,

don't you, Eric? We'd go for lilies and fish for minnows--that is,

we'd fish for perch and catch the minnows--and talk about when you

should go to college and pull in the race, and I should wear a long

dress and learn all the college tunes to sing with you and your

Yale friends. Do you remember, Eric? And now, O dear me, you lost

your race, and I hate my long gowns. O--my--dear--brother--do you

like it all as well as you thought you would?"

"Why, Mae, you poor little tot, you're sentimental--for you. Yes,

I like the future as well as I always did. I never gave much for

the present, at any rate."

"But I did, Eric; I always did, till just now, and now I hate it,

and I'm afraid of the future, and I'd like to grow backwards, and

instead, in a month, I'll have another birth-day, and go into those

dreadful twenties." Then Mae was quiet a moment. "Eric, I was

sentimental," she said, after a pause. "Really, I do like the

future very much. I quite forgot how much for the moment."

"You're a strange child, indeed," replied Eric, the puzzled. "Your

words are like lightning. I had just got melted down and ready to

reply to your reminiscences by lots of others, and here you are all

jolly and matter-of-fact again. I was growing so dreadfully

unselfish that I should have insisted on staying home with you this

evening to cheer you up a bit."

"And give up the mocoletti! Why, Eric! I shouldn't have known how

to take such an offer. No, no, trot off and array yourself, and

you may come back and say good-bye."

"I must say good-bye now, dear, for I dine at the Costanzi with the

girls and their aunt."

"Now, just now, Eric?"

"Why yes, Mae. You are getting blue again, aren't you? Getting

ready for Ash Wednesday to-morrow?"

"Oh, no, no, dear. Kiss me, Eric, again. You're a good, dear boy.

No; I didn't cry that drop at all. Good-bye; and to-morrow is Ash

Wednesday. But we don't sorrow or fast in Paradise, I suppose."

CHAPTER XI.

The Corso was all ablaze. The whole world was there. Under a

balcony stood a party of peasants. Of this group, two were

somewhat aside. One of these was tall, dark, a fair type of

Southern Italian; the other small, agile and graceful, dressed in a

fresh contadina costume, with her brown hair braided down her

shoulders. She seemed excited, and as the crowd pressed nearer she

would draw back half-fearfully. "Lisetta," she whispered, "I am

spoiling your good time. Talk to your friends; never mind me. I

will follow by your side, and soon I shall catch the spirit of it

all, too." Saying this, she stepped from under the balcony, held

out her feeble little taper and joined in the cries around her,

pausing to blow at any lowered bit of wax that came in her way. It

was maddening sport; her light was extinguished again and again,

but she would plead to have it relit, and there was sure to be some

tender-hearted, kindly knight at hand to help her.

She ran on quickly, fearlessly, gliding and creeping and sliding

through the crowd, her hair flying, her eyes dancing. Even in the

dense throng many turned to look at her, and one tall man started

suddenly from the shadow of a side street, where he had been

standing motionless, and threw himself before the girl. He put out

his arm, grasped her tightly, and drew her a few feet into the

shadow. "Signorina!" he said. "Hush, hush," she whispered then in

colder tones. "Let me go, Signor; you are mistaken. You, do not

know me. He smiled quietly, holding her hands clasped in his. "I

do not know you, Signorina? You do not know me. Your face is the

picture always before my eyes."

"Yes, yes, forgive me," she fluttered, "I was startled, and indeed

I am no Signorina now, but one of your own country peasants. I am

with Lisetta. Why, where is Lisetta?"

Where, indeed, was she? There were hundreds of contadine in the

great crowd surging by, but no Lisetta. The little peasant wrung

her hands quite free from the man's grasp. "I must go home," she

said. "I don't want any more Carnival."

"No, no," said the officer, quietly, reassuringly. "Get cool.

Tell me how Lisetta looks and is dressed, and if we can not find

her here, I will take you up to your friend's balcony."

"O, no, not there. Anywhere else, but not there."

"Why not?" asked Bero.

"Because, because,--yes, I will tell you," said Mae, remembering

her wrongs, and suddenly moved by the sympathy and softness of the

great eyes above her,--"because they think I am home ill, and here

I am, you see," and she laughed a little hurriedly,--"besides, I go

away with Lisetta to-morrow morning,--hush, let no one hear,--to

Sorrento. You must never, never tell. How do I look? Will I make

a good peasant, when once the dear sun has browned my hands and

forehead, and I have grown Italianized?" And she lifted her face,

into which the saucy gaiety had returned, up to him temptingly.

His warm blood was kindled. "You are a little child of the sun-god

now," he exclaimed, passionately. "May I share some of your days

in heaven? I am ordered to Naples tomorrow night; shall be only

twelve hours behind you. May I come on the day after to see you in

your new home?"

"O, how delightful! But, perhaps, my lord, our little cottage by

the sea isn't grand enough for your spurs and buttons and glory.

We are simple folks you know,--peasants all,--but our hearts,

Signor, they are hospitable, and such as we have we will gladly

give you. What do you say to the bay of Naples, and oranges for

our luncheon day after tomorrow?" And Mae laughed lightly and

joyously. Her little burnt taper fell to the ground, and she

clasped her hands together. "What a happy thing life will be!"

"Will you live there and be a peasant forever?" asked Bero, leaning

forward. "There are villas by the sea, too, Signorina."

Mae didn't hear these last words. Her heart had stood still on

that "forever." Live there forever, forever, and never see her

mother or Eric, or,--or any one again! "I hadn't thought of that,"

she said, "I hadn't thought of that." She stood still with her

hands clasped, thinking. The officer at her side, looking down at

her, was thinking also. He was fighting a slight mental struggle,

a sort of combat he was quite unused to. Should he let the child

go on in this wild freak? He knew the cottage by the sea; the

peasant home would be dreadful to her. He knew that by that same

day after to-morrow, life in lower Italy, with the dirty, coarse

people about her would be a burden. Yet he hesitated. He fought

the battle in this way: Should he not stand a better chance if he

let her go? He had his leave of absence for three weeks (this was

true; "ordered to Naples," he had called it to Mae). Three weeks

away from his world, near this winsome, strange, magnetic little

being, with the bay of Naples, and moonlight, and his own glories

and her loveliness! He couldn't give up this chance. No, no. He

would surely see her in a few hours after her troubles began, and

comfort her. So he only smiled quietly down at her again, as she

stood troubled by his side, and said: "Lisetta will seek you near

your balcony if she knows where it is. Don't be troubled."

"But where is my balcony?" asked Mae.

"Come here," said Bero, leading her slightly forward. She looked

up and saw the quiet side-window, where day after day the officer

had flung her the sweet flowers when no one was looking. "I know

this place very well," he said meaningly. Mae smiled a little

cheerfully. "You have beautiful taste," she replied, "I have never

seen such exquisite bouquets before."

Bero stroked his moustaches complacently. "You honor me,

Signorina. I hope you may receive many, many more beautiful

flowers--from the same hand." He whispered these last words, and

Mae turned her head half uneasily. She looked up at the balcony.

How odd it was that there, but a few feet away, were Mrs. Jerrold,

Edith, and Albert. She fancied she could detect their voices,

though she could not see them. The Hopkins-Rae window was vacated.

"The girls" were probably down on the Corso with Eric and Norman,

and Mae drew a little nearer to Bero, and looked up half

appealingly. His eyes were fixed strangely on something or some

one across the street. Mae followed their gaze, and saw upon the

opposite balcony the beautiful veiled lady. She held in her hand a

long rod tipped with a blazing taper.

"O, she is like a vestal virgin with her light, or a queen with a

sceptre," cried Mae exultingly.

"She may be the vestal virgin, but the queen is by my side," said

Bero earnestly.

Mae wished he would not talk in this way, and she tried to laugh it

off. "I have no sceptre or crown; I'm but a poor queen in my

common garb."

"We'll have the coronation day after to-morrow," replied Bero, very

earnestly still.

"Tell me about her," and Mae nodded her head toward the strange

lady. "There is little to tell," said Bero, in a quiet tone. "Her

brother is well known in Rome as an artist. He lives there with

his sister and an old duenna. She wears this mysterious veil

constantly, and some fanciful people see just as mysterious a cloud

resting about her life. I only know she is strange and beautiful,

and that her name is Lillia."

Yet Bero had seen this woman almost daily for six months. But he

only knew she was strange and beautiful, and that her name was

Lillia.

Mae had never spoken to the veiled stranger, yet if Bero had turned

upon her and asked, "Who is she?" she would have replied: "I do not

know her name or where she lives, but I know she struggles, and

despairs, and smiles over all. And I know her suffering comes from

sorrow--not from sin." But Mae did not say all this. She only

looked at the veiled lady. Her vestal lamp had dropped for the

moment, and she seemed to be gazing far away. A fold of her heavy

veil fell over her brow quite down to her great dark eyes. They

were unshaded, yet they too, seemed clouded for the moment. "Her

name is Lillia," said Mae, reassuringly to herself. "Her name is

Lillia. I am sure she is like her name." Bero smiled. Just then

Lisetta appeared.

CHAPTER XII.

Early the next morning, in the misty light, Lisetta and Mae, the

latter still in her contadina costume, left the house quietly. In

an hour the train for Naples was to start, but Lisetta wanted to

say her prayers in Rome on this Ash Wednesday. They wandered into

a little church, one of the many Roman churches, and knelt side by

side, Lisetta with her beads and her penance, and Mae with her

thoughts, which grew dreary enough before the peasant was ready to

go. Mae had already entrusted her money to Lisetta's keeping--some

one hundred and fifty dollars, which she had gotten the day before

from Albert to buy clothes with--and with her money she had also

resigned all care. She did not know therefore, until the train

started, that their seats were in a third-class carriage. Every

one was hurrying on board, so Mae was obliged to jump in without a

word, and accept her fate as best she could. It was no very

pleasant fate. The van was dirty, crowded, garlic-scented. Mae

was plucky, however, and knew she was to find dirt and dreadful

odors everywhere. Two months of Rome had taught her that. But it

grew very dreadful in the close travelling-carriage. There was an

old woman at her side, with a deformed hand, and two soldiers

opposite, who stared rudely at her, and made loud, unpleasant

remarks; and having no books, and nothing to entertain herself

with, she was forced to curl up in a corner, and try to sleep,

which she could not do.

Poor child! it was a hard day. Dull and dreary outside, and

within, the sickening odors and people. Back in Rome, what were

they doing? Had they found out that she had gone? And Eric, how

was he feeling? No, no, she must not think of all this. It

belonged to the past. Before her lay Sorrento, the bay of Naples,

oranges, white clouds, and the children of the sun. Mamma was

south, too--if she were only going to her. So the day dragged on,

until with the evening they reached Naples. They spent the night

with a friend of Lisetta, who rented apartments to English and

Americans. Mae was fortunate, therefore, in securing an unlet

bedroom that was comfortably furnished. She enjoyed listening to

Lisetta's stories of Rome and the Carnival; and after a quiet night

in a clean bed, awoke tolerably happy and very eager for her first

sight of the bay. They took an early train out to Castellamare,

and as they left the city, Mae wondered if Bero were just entering

it. But she soon forgot him and every one in the blue glories of

the bay.

At Castellamare, Gaetano, Lisetta's husband, was awaiting them,

with a malicious little donkey, tricked out gaily enough in tags of

color and tinkling bells. It was very quaint and delightful to get

into the funny, low, rattling cart, and go jogging off, while the

feminine sight-seers fanned themselves in the windows of the

ladies' waiting-room, and grumbled, and the poor masculine

travellers bartered in poor Italian, with their certain-to-conquer

enemies, those triumphant swindlers, the drivers of the conveyances

between Sorrento and Castellamare.

Then they began that wonderful ride along the coast. The horrors

of the day before rolled away like a mist as the donkey jogged

along that miraculous drive. Lisetta and Gaetano chattered

together, and Mae sat very still, with her face to the sea,

drinking in all the glory, as she had longed and planned. Hope

revived in her breast, pride had stood by her all the while, and

here was glorious nature coming to her aid. She was going swiftly

to the orange groves and the children of the sun. She should see

Talila and brown babies and dancing, and at night a great, yellow

moon would light up the whole scene. So on and on they went, the

travelling carriages dashing by them now and then, with their three

donkeys abreast, and the driver cracking his whip, and the

travellers oh-ing and ah-ing.

"That is the most picturesque peasant I have yet seen," said a

gentle lady in brown to her husband, as they passed the humble

little party. "Yes, she is clean, and more like the ideal than the

actual peasant, and I am very glad I have seen her."

Really, Mae was for the moment, at a quick glance, the ideal

peasant. Her hands lay in her lap, her face was toward the sea,

and her attitude and features were all full of that glow of

existence that peasant portraits possess. She lived and moved and

had her being as part of a great, warm, live picture. If the lady

in brown had not passed so quickly, however, she would have seen a

something in Mae's face that spoiled her for a peasant, an

earnestness in her admiration, a sharp intensity in her joy, that

was very different from the languid content of a Southern Italian.

Her movements were rather like those of the Northern squirrel,

which climbs nimbly and frisks briskly, than like the sinuous,

serpentine motions of the Southern creatures of the soil. We are,

after all, born where we belong, as a rule, and the rest of us soon

belong where we are born.

After a time the donkey pattered along towards a little patch of

houses on the shore. They had already passed a half dozen of

similar settlements. Very dirty children ran about crying, ugly,

old women knitted, mongrel dogs and cats barked and yelped and

rolled in the mud. Bits of orange-peel and old cabbage and other

refuse food lay piled near the doors. There were, to be sure,

young girls with dark eyes, plaiting straw, and the very dirt heaps

had a picturesque sort of air. An artist might linger a moment to

look, but never to enter. Yet it was here that Mae must enter.

This was her new home. The neighbors came crowding about

curiously, and she was hurried into the little hut that seemed as

if it were carved roughly from some big garlic, probably by taking

out the heart of it for dinner. Mae hardly comprehended the

situation at first, but when she began to realize that this was a

substitute for sea breeze, and that the coarse clipped patois

(which sounded worse in the mass than when it fell from Lisetta's

lips alone) was in place of the flowing melody of speech she had

longed for, she grew sick at heart. The folly, the dreadfulness of

what she had done, swept over her like a flood, and with it came

dreadful fear. She was helpless,--an outcast. Pride would never

let her go home. She could go nowhere else. They had her money,

and here she must live and die. She sat down in a sort of stupor,

and paid no heed to the squabbling children who pulled at her gown,

or the dogs who sniffed snappingly at the stranger.

Lisetta, busy with greetings and chattings, quite forgot her for a

time, and was dismayed when she saw her sitting disconsolately by.

"Come, Signorina," she cried, "go down to the bay. Here is Talila;

she will guide you."

Mae looked up quickly at that. Talila, was she here? A few feet

from her she saw an uncouth woman, with that falling of the jaw

most imbeciles possess, and a vacancy in her eyes. She had her

hand raised and was swearing at one of the children. "Talila,"

repeated Mae, rubbing her eyes, and shivering, "but I thought

Talila would be different. You said she loved children, but this

woman swears at them."

"O, dear, we all swear at them, but we love them; you shall see how

they follow her. Talila, off with you and your babies." And the

next moment there was a general scamper of brown children headed by

this tall, vacant-looking woman. "Take the lady to the sea,"

continued Lisetta. And Mae arose, as if in a dream, and followed

them.

The half-clad children of the sun ran before her as she had dreamed

they would; flowers sprang up along the way, but she did not stop

to pluck a single bud or turn to look at anything. She wandered on

in an awful sort of fright and came at length to the water's edge.

Here there were row-boats lying at anchor, into which the children

clambered. Mae stepped into one of them and sat down in the stern,

and looked about. All was as she had planned. Her day of heaven

was here. She tried to be brave. O, she tried very hard. She

wanted to love and enjoy the sea, and think beautiful thoughts.

She roused a little and stretched herself out to catch the sunbeams

in her eyes, as she had said she would. How warm they were. An

umbrella would be a luxury--and a book! But these belonged to the

world she had left so far behind her. The dirty children babbled a

strange tongue; the water around the boat, by the shore, was

covered with a scum, and alas! alas! the land of her desire was

farther off than ever. Then she remembered that Norman Mann had

once said: "If you ever do disappear I shall know where to look for

you. Would he think of it now? Would he come for her? If he had

only come last night, and would drive by now to Sorrento. He would

be here soon if he had. Would she call him loudly or shrink down

in the boat and hide her face in her hands till she knew he was a

long way past? The rest of them would not know where to look for

her. They did not know anything about Lisetta, and she had

promised not to tell even the padrona. (Faithless Lisetta!) But

of course Norman wouldn't come for her, after what he had said at

the Capitol. That was what finally drove her away. How unlike him

it did seem to speak of her in that way to Eric. She thought over

his words, and as she did so she seemed to see her mistake, and

grasp his meaning.

She sprang up in the boat. "It was the other girl--Miss Rae--he

was speaking of. Oh, oh, oh--and now it is too late. He will hate

me always."

As she stood there, a carriage rolled by. Some one looked out.

"O, mamma," said a young voice in English, "look at that pretty

little peasant," and a kid-gloved hand was stretched through the

open window to spatter a shower of base coin toward her. It was

terrible! The children sprang for it, and, fighting and laughing,

ran homewards with the dreadful Talila. The parti-colored

picturesque dress had been a joy to Mae. Now she longed to tear it

off and die--die! No, she was afraid to die. She would have to

live, and she didn't know how, and she laughed a bitter sort of

laugh.

There was a sound of horses' feet again. The road lay almost close

to the shore just here. A low exclamation, a vault from his horse,

which was speedily cared for by a dozen boys near at hand, and

before Mae knew it, the officer was beside her once more.

O, how beautiful it was to see some one from the world, fresh, and

clean, and fair. Mae gazed at him in delight, and sprang up

warmly, holding out both her hot hands, "How is Heaven?" asked

Bero, as he raised the white fingers to his lips.

"That is not the custom with us," said Mae, withdrawing her hand.

"But what is custom in Heaven?" he laughed. "Can't we do as we

please in our Heaven, Signorina?"

"This isn't our Heaven, and I don't please. O, how could you let

me come to this dreadful place. Did you know how awful it would

be?"

"Shall I tell you why I said nothing? Let me row you away from all

this," and he began to untie the boat.

"When did you come?" asked Mae,

"I left Rome last night, reached Naples this morning, and here I am

as soon as possible, Signorina."

Mae felt herself gradually yielding to the spell of this man's soft

power. She had grown strangely quiet and passive, and she folded

her hands and looked off seawards in a not unhappy way. She seemed

to be some one else in a strange dream.

"Are you glad I came?" asked Bero, as he jumped into the boat and

sat down opposite her. Mae did not reply. She had almost lost the

power of speech. She only smiled feebly and faintly. Bero had

never seen her thus before, but he realized dimly that it was he

who had changed her, and the sense of his own power excited him the

more. He bent his proud head and flashed his beautiful eyes as he

lifted the oars to the locks, and silently pulled out toward the

bay.

As he rowed he gazed fixedly at her, and the frightened, puzzled

child could not turn her eyes from his. His look grew softer and

tenderer, his head bent towards her, the oars moved slower and

slower and at last stopped imperceptibly. Still the man gazed

passionately, claimingly, and the girl breathed harder and let her

eyes rest on his, as if he had been a wondrous, charming serpent,

and she a little, unresisting dove. Then he spoke.

His words were so low, it seemed as if his eyes had found voice;

his words were so caressing, it seemed as if they changed to kisses

as they fell. "Listen," he said, softly, and drew up his dripping

oars and let the boat drift--"Listen. This is not our Heaven, but

I know a villa by the sea. There are hills and woods about it;

flowers, fruits, and in the day, sunshine, at night, moonlight and

music; drives, and walks, and vines, and arbors. Could you find

there your Heaven--with me? May I take you to my villa?"

When he ceased, his words dropped slowly into silence, and Mae

still gazed at him. She saw him come nearer to her, with his eyes

fixed on hers; she saw his hand leave the oar and move slowly

toward hers, but she was motionless, looking at the picture he had

painted her of life--the cloudless days, moonlit nights--the villa

by the sea--the glowing Piedmontese. Her eyelids trembled, her

pulse beat.

Could she take that villa for her home? That man for her husband?

She had half thought till now in soft luxurious Italian, but 'my

home' and 'my husband' said themselves to her in her own mother

tongue. She gave a long shiver, and pulled her eyes from his. It

was like waking from a dream. "No--oh, no; take me home," she

gasped, and turned toward the shore, where, erect, with folded arms

and head bared, stood Norman Mann.

The Italian bit his lip, and said something under his breath, but

he took the oars and pulled ashore. Mae turned her eyes downward

and felt the color creep up, up into her cheeks. It seemed

eternity. The boat was Charon's, and she was drifting to her fate.

Norman Mann stood like a statue. The wind moved his hair over his

forehead, and once Mae saw him toss the unruly locks back in a

familiar way he had. She did not know why, but the tears half came

to her eyes as he did it. He stood as firm and hard and still as a

New England rock, while the Italian swayed lithely as he pulled the

oars, with the curve and motion of a sliding, slippery stream.

The boat came safely ashore. The Piedmontese helped her to land,

and the three stood silent; but Mae under all her shame felt

content to be near Norman. His voice broke the quiet, quick and

clear. "Are you married?" he asked.

"I! married! What do you--what can he mean?"

"Why is this man here, then?"

Mae stood an instant so still that the heavy breaths of the two men

were distinctly audible, the passionate boundings of Bero's pulse,

the long, deep throbs of Norman's heart. The officer stepped

toward her. Norman stood unmoved. The Italian's eye wandered

restlessly, his hand fell to his sword. Norman's arms were folded,

and his face set.

Mae looked at one, then at the other, perplexedly. Then she

understood. Like lightning, a terrible temptation flashed into her

mind. The Italian loved her, would shield, protect, honor her.

Norman must hate her, would always despise her. Should she lift

her little weak woman's hand and place it in the man's hand ready

to claim it, or stand still and be crushed by that other hand

there?

Ah! she could not do it. She tried once. She held out weakly her

right hand toward Bero; but the left stretched itself involuntarily

to Norman. Then the two met in each other's pitiful clasp over her

bent head, and with a low wailing cry she fell in a little heap on

the sand.

When she opened her eyes, they were both bending over her. "Take

me home," she gasped to Norman. He glared at the officer. "Go!"

he said. Bero put his hand to his sword. Mae sprang up. "No,"

she said, gently, "no, my friend, for you have always been kind and

friendly to me. Pray go." Bero was touched by this. This little

girl had taken only good from him, after all, sympathy and

friendliness. Norman was touched also with the same thought. Then

the officer smiled pleasantly. He shrugged his shoulders slightly,

regretfully, and bowed and rode away. And so the clinking spurs

and yellow moustaches and amorous eyes vanished from Mae's sight.

As he rode off he was somewhat sorrowful; but he took a picture

from his pocket and looked at it. "She'll be glad to welcome me

back again," he said to himself, pleasantly, "and she belongs to my

own land. This little foreigner might have pined for her own home,

by and by." Then he sighed and shook his head. "Alas! this little

stranger will dance before you often, still!" and he touched his

eyes; "but I will put you back in your place here, now." This he

said, looking at Lillia's picture and with his hand on his heart.

CHAPTER XIII.

Take me home," said Mae again imploringly. "Not back there," as

Norman drew her hand through his arm and started for the hut, "O

no, not even for a minute."

"Sit here then," he replied quietly, "while I arrange it with the

woman," and he walked quickly away. Mae watched him till he

entered the low doorway, in a sort of subdued, glorified happiness,

that would break out over her shame and fear. She was afraid he

would hate her, at least she told herself so, but in reality,

everything and everybody and every place were fast fading out of

this eager little mind. She and Norman were together, and she

could not help being content. There was a certain joy in her

weakness and shame, though they were genuine and kept her hushed

and silent.

Poor Lisetta was very much frightened, but told her story to this

angry stranger with true Southern palaver. She said the little

lady loved Italy so, and wanted to be a peasant, and insisted she

would run away quite by herself if Lisetta would not take her, and

so she consented, knowing she could, through the padrona, send word

to the friends.

"And the man?" asked Norman, impatiently.

"What man? O, the officer. He just rode down this morning for a

morning call. I never saw him before."

A great weight, as large as the Piedmontese, fell from Norman's

heart then, and he scattered money among the children recklessly

and ordered up the donkey; and smiled on the amazed Lisetta all in

the same breath, and went back to help Mae into the wagon with the

lightest kind of a heart. It was a strange ride they took back to

Castellamare. I think they both wished the world could stand still

once more. When they had arrived at the station they found the

next train to Naples was not due for two hours. Norman left Mae in

the waiting-room for a time. Through the window she watched

Gaetano and the donkey start homeward, with a great sigh of relief.

She had time while she was sitting to think, but her head was in

too great a whirl. She could only feel sorry and ashamed and meek

and happy, all mixed together. The sensation was odd.

"I have telegraphed Eric that we would start home by the next

train, that you had only been off for a frolic. I hope we can buy

a waterproof or shawl and a hat in Naples for you?"

"Yes," said Mae, meekly, "I have my waterproof here. I think I

will put it on now, please," and she began nervously to untie the

shawl strap. Norman put her fingers gently aside, and unbuckled it

for her. He handed her the long deep-blue cloak, which she put

tightly about her, drawing the hood over her head. You look like a

nun," said Norman, smiling. "I wish I were one," replied Mae, with

a choke in her throat. She was growing very penitential and

softened.

"What shall we do now?" asked Mr. Mann. "We have a long time to

wait. If you feel like walking, we can find a pleasanter spot than

this."

"Go anywhere you please," replied Mae meekly. "What is the matter

with you?"--for Norman had a very amused expression in his brown

eyes."

"I hardly recognize you. Not a trace of fight so far, and it must

be two hours since we met."

"Don't," said Mae, with her eyes down, so of course he didn't, but

the two just marched quietly along back on the Sorrento road

towards some high rocks. They sat down behind these, with their

faces towards the sea, and were as thoroughly hidden from view, as

if they had been quite alone in the world.

"I suppose they were frightened," asked Mae, "at home--at Rome, I

mean." "Dreadfully," replied Norman, trying to be sober, but with

the glad ring in his voice still. "Edith was for dragging the

Tiber; she was sure you and the seven-branched candlestick lay side

by side. Mrs. Jerrold searched your trunks and read all your

private papers, I am morally certain." Then Norman stopped

abruptly, and Mae drew the long stiletto from her hair nervously

and played with it before she said, "And the boys?" "Albert was

very, very sad, but reasonably sure you would be found. We all

feared the Italian, but Albert worked carefully, and soon

discovered that the officer was said to be engaged to a young girl

with whom he had been seen the day after you left, and that gave

him courage,"--then Norman stopped again abruptly. "And Eric?"

"Eric sat down with his face in his hands and cried, Miss Mae, and

said, 'I've lost my sister, the very dearest little sister in the

world.'"

"And you came and found me," said Mae, after a pause, wiping the

tears from her eyes. "Yes, thank God," said Norman. He was sober

enough now. "Why did you do it?" asked Mae, "when I had been so

naughty, and silly, and unkind?" He came very near telling her the

reason as she looked up at him, but he did not, for she dashed on,

"O! Mr. Mann, I have been--"

"Don't confess to me, Miss Mae. Leave all of this till you get

home to your own, who have a right to your confessions and

penitence. Never mind what you have been, here you are, and as I

have only one more handkerchief and your own looks as if it had

been sea-bathing, you had better dry your eyes and be jolly for the

next two hours." This was a precarious speech, but Mae only

laughed at it, and dried her eyes quickly. "But I have one thing

to say to you," she said, "and please mayn't I?"

"You may say anything you please to me, of course," replied this

very magnanimous Norman.

"It is not about the miserable past or my doings, but it's about

the future. I've said good-bye to my dreams of life--the floating

and waving and singing and dancing life that was like iced

champagne. I'd rather have cold water, thank you, sir, for a

steady drink, morning, noon and night. I'm going to be good, to

read and study and grow restful,"--and Mae folded her hands and

looked off toward the sea. "She's a witching child," thought

Norman. Then she raised her head. "I said it lightly because I

felt it deeply," she added, as if in reply to his thought. "I am

going to grow, if I can, unselfish and sympathetic, and perhaps,

who knows, wise, and any way good."

"There is no need of giving up your champagne entirely. Give

yourself a dinner party now and then o' holidays. The world is

full of color and beauty, and poetry you love. All study is full

of it--most of all it lives in humanity."

"Well," said Mae, "aren't you glad I'm going to change so?"

"I'm glad you're going to give your soul a chance. Your body has

been putting it down hard of late."

"It's but a weakling," said Mae, with a shake of her head, "and

I've hardly heard its whimpers at all, but--O, Mr. Mann, if you

could have seen Talila--she's dreadful."

"Who is Talila? and what has she to do with your soul?"

"O, she's one of those Sorrento people," replied Mae, as if she had

lived there for years. "I have so much to tell you: it will take--

"

"Years, I hope, dear." The last word dropped without his noticing

it, but Mae caught it and hid it in her heart.

"What made you think of coming for me?" she asked, after a pause,

during which Norman had hummed a song as she had been writing her

name on the sand. They were quite on the shore and only a narrow

stretch of beach separated them from the bay. "You said if you

ever came away, you would go to Sorrento, and I knew you had a

friend in the kitchen who lived near Naples. So I searched for her

and the padrona, and, finding neither of them, set Giovanni a

babbling, and learned that the woman Lisetta had left that morning

for Sorrento. I told the boys I had a mere suspicion that I would

trace for them. So off I came last night, and by stopping and

enquiring at every settlement, at last discovered you."

"This is my birth-day; I am twenty years old," said Mae, "Why, what

are you doing?" For Norman had bent down to the sand also, and had

drawn a queer little figure there.

"That is you when you were one year old," he laughed, "and you

could only crow and kick your small feet, and smile now and then,

and cry the rest of the time."

"That is about all I can do yet," said Mae.

"Here comes number two," and he drew his hand across the sand and

smoothed the baby image away, leaving in its place a round, sturdy

little creature, poised dangerously on one foot. "You have walked

alone, and you have called your father's name, and you're a

wonderful child by this time."

"This is the three-year-old, white aprons and curls, please

observe. Now, you recite 'Dickery, dickery dock' and 'I want to be

an angel,' and you have cut all your wisdom teeth."

"O, Mr. Mann, I haven't cut them yet. Babies don't have them."

"Don't they? Well, you have other teeth in their place, white and

sharp--but by this time you are four years old."

"Ah, here I begin to remember. You draw the pictures, and I'll

describe myself. Four years old!--let me see--I had a sled for

Christmas, and I used to eat green apples. That's all I can

remember; and five and six years old were just the same."

"O, no, I'm sure you went to church for the first time somewhere

along there; and isn't that a noteworthy event? I suppose all your

thoughts were of your button boots and your new parasol?"

"I behaved beautifully, I know; mamma says so; sat up like a lady,

while you were sleeping, on that very same Sunday, off in some

little country church, I suppose."

"I shouldn't wonder--sleeping in my brother's outgrown coat into

the bargain, with the sleeves dangling over my little brown hands."

"It doesn't seem as if they could ever have been very little, does

it, Mr. Mann?"

Mr. Mann unfolded five fingers and a thumb and surveyed them

gravely for a moment. "It is strange that this once measured three

inches by two and couldn't hit out any better than your's could."

Mae had laid her hand on her knee and was looking at it also in the

most serious manner. Now she doubled it into a small but very

pugnacious looking fist, which she shook most entrancingly before

the very eyes of the young man by her side. The eyes turned such a

peculiar look upon her that she hastened to add: "Go on with your

dissolving views. It is number eight's turn next. You are the

showman, and I am interested spectator."

"You insist upon describing my pictures, so I think you are

properly first assistant to the grand panorama. Here's eight-year-

old. Try your powers on her."

"Let me see. O, then I read all the while, the 'Fairchild Family'

and 'Anna Ross,' and I used to wear my hair in very smooth braids,

I remember. I was ever so good."

"Impossible; you must have forgotten," suggested Norman. "You

surely whispered in school and committed similar dreadful crimes.

Poor little prig."

"No, don't," plead Mae; "please don't laugh at the little girl me.

I love to think of her as so goody-goody. Last night," and Mae

lowered her voice, "I seemed to see little Mae Madden kneeling down

in the old nursery in her woolly wrapper saying her prayers," and

Mae brought up on the prayers very abruptly, and bent over toward

the sand and began to draw hastily. "Here comes nine-year-old Mae.

Mr. Mann, you may do the describing."

"O, I suppose there were doll's parties, first valentines, and

rides with Albert in his buggy, when you clung very tightly to the

slight arm of the carriage and smiled very bravely up in his face.

You must have been pretty then."

"No, I was dreadfully ugly. I had broken out two teeth climbing a

stone wall."

"You had stopped being good?"

"Yes, that only lasted a little bit of a time."

"Miss Mae, I'm sure you were never ugly, but naughty and silly, I

dare say. Kept a diary now, didn't you?"

"Yes, and went to sleep with Eliza Cooke's poems under my pillow

every night, and my finger holding the book open at some such

thrilling verse as this:

'Say on that I'm over romantic

In loving the wild and the free,

But the waves of the dashing Atlantic,

The Alps and the eagle for me.'"

"Did you wear your hair plaited when you were ten years old?"

enquired Norman, intensely busy with another drawing.

"O no; I didn't do anything when I was ten years old but get mad

and make up with my two dearest friends."

"One of whom was your dearest friend one-half of the time and the

other the rest of it, I suppose."

"Don't be satirical, sir. I had a lover when I was eleven; I used

to skate with him and write him little notes, folded very queerly."

"Why do you draw twelve and thirteen with their heads down?" asked

Mae, after a moment.

"Because they read so much; everything they can get hold of,

including, possibly, a very revised edition of 'Arabian Nights'?"

"Yes," laughed Mae, "and my first novel, 'Villette.'"

"You go to a play for the first time now," suggested Norman. "How

you clasp your hands and wink your eyes and bite your lips! And

next day, in front of your mother's pier-glass, how you scream 'O,

my love,' and gasp and tumble over in a heap in your brown calico,

as the grand lady did the night before, in her pink silk."

"Brown calico, indeed! I never condescended to die in my own

clothes, let me assure you. The garret was overhauled, and had

been since I was a mere baby, for effective, sweeping garments.

Let us hurry along over fourteen and fifteen. I was sentimental

and tried to be so young-ladyish then. I used to read history with

Albert, and always put on both my gloves when I started out, and

had great horror of girls who talked loud in the street. I learned

to make bread, and shirt bosoms, and such things."

"Well, here you are in a long dress, Miss Sweet Sixteen. I

remember you home from boarding school on a vacation."

"What did you think of me?" asked Mae, "didn't we have a nice time

that summer? O, how silly I was!"

She hurried on, because the eyes had given her that peculiar look

again, which put her heart in a tremble. "I did have a beautiful

time at boarding school," she continued, "the darlingest principal

and such girls."

"Then I suppose you wrote a salutatory in forlorn rhyme to end off

with," laughed Norman, "and read it, all arrayed in white, in a

trembling voice, and everybody applauded, and even old Judge

Seymour admired it, while you were reading, with your pink cheeks

and trembling hands and quivering voice."

"Abominable! I didn't have the salutatory, and the girl who did,

read a superb one, as strong and masculine--"

"Then the Judge went to sleep, I'm sure," declared Norman.

"Well," said Mae, "you are leaving out two years," for Norman had

leaned back against the rock with his arms folded.

"By and by," said Norman, "we all come off to Europe, and some of

us go through the heart-ache, don't we?"

"Yes," replied Mae, softly.

"But come out ahead one day at Sorrento, perhaps?" asked Norman.

To which Mae made no direct reply.

"All the Mae Maddens have faded away," she said, looking down at

the sand again. "The tide is rising." And she walked forward to

the ripples of water, and then came slowly back and stood before

Norman seriously. He laughed.

"Why, Mr. Mann," said Mae, "I have been so very, very wicked."

The dreadful Mr. Mann only laughed again.

"You act as if it were all a joke. I never saw you so merry

before."

"I have never been as happy before in my life."

"Why?" asked Mae, in a low voice.

"Because I have found you," he answered earnestly, and before she

knew it Mae was lifted in the strong, manly arms, her pink cheek

close to Norman's brown one, and his lips on hers. She leaned her

face against his and clung tightly to him,

"O, Mr. Norman Mann," she said, "do you really want me as much--as

I do you?"

And Norman, still holding her tightly, bent his hand, with hers

clasped in it, to the sand, and after the Mae Madden, he wrote

another name, so that it read:

MAE MADDEN MANN.

Then he said a great many, many things, all beginning with that

electric, wonderful little possessive pronoun "my," of which he had

discoursed formerly, and he held her close all the while, and they

missed the next train for Naples.

The gay peasant costume fell about the girl's round lithe form like

the luxuriant skin of some richly marked animal; but out of her

eyes looked a woman's tender, loving, earnest soul. Norman Mann

had saved her.

CHAPTER XIV.

Edith was quietly married to Albert at Easter time, in the English

Chapel at Florence. The event was hastened by the sudden

appearance of Mae's parents, who set sail soon after hearing of the

Sorrento escapade and the embryonic engagement, which awaited their

sanction before being announced. Everything was beautifully smooth

at last. Edith and Albert left the day of their marriage for

Munich, and later, Mrs. Jerrold was to settle down with them at

Tuebingen. The rest of the party were to summer in Switzerland;

then came fall, and then--what?

Norman thought he knew, and Mae said she thought he didn't, but

this young woman was losing half her character for willfulness, and

Norman was growing into a perfect tyrant, so far as his rights were

concerned. Easter is a season of marriages. Mae read in a Roman

paper the betrothal announcement of the Signor Bero and Signorina

Lillia Taria. "I would like to send them a real beautiful

present," said she, and Norman did not say no. So these two hunted

all over Florence, and at length, in the studio of a certain not

unknown Florentine, they discovered the very gift Mae desired--a

picture of a young Italian soldier, bringing home his bride to his

own people. There was the aged mother, proud and happy, waiting to

bid the dark-eyed girl welcome. "She has a real 'old Nokomis'

air," laughed Mae. "I know she would have told her son not to seek

'a stranger whom he knew not.'" The distant olive-colored

hillsides, the splashing fountain near at hand, each face, and even

the thick strong sunshine seemed to bear a tiny stamp with Italy

graven on it. "The name of the picture is exactly right," said

Mae. Under the painting were these words: "Italia Our Home."

Norman would hardly have been human if he had not cast a quick

glance at her as she stood thoughtfully before the picture. Mae

was almost as good as an Italian for involuntary posing. She had

made a tableau of herself now, with one hand at her eyes to shade

them from the glare of the sun that fell fiercely through the

window, her head half on one side, and a bit of drapery, of lace or

soft silk, tight around her white throat. She felt Norman's

glance, and looked up quickly, and smiled and shook her head: "No,

Italy is not my home, although I love it so well. There is a

certain wide old doorway not many miles from New York, and the

hills around it, and the great river before it, and the people in

it, all belong together, too. That's where we belong, Norman, in

America, our home," and Mae struck a grand final pose with her

hands clasped ecstatically, and her eyes flashing in the true

Goddess of Liberty style.

"Yes, I believe we do, Mae; I am almost anxious to get back and

begin work in that young, eager country."

"And so am I," said Mae.

Norman laughed. "To think of your coming down to work, you young

butterfly."

"It is what we all have to come to, isn't it?--unless we go to that

creature that finds some mischief still for idle hands to do. I

don't expect to come to stone-cutting or cattle-driving, but I do

expect to settle down into a tolerable housewifely little woman,

and--"

"And look after me."

"Yes, I suppose so--and myself, and probably a sewing-class and the

cook's lame son. Heigh-ho-hum! What a pity it is, that it is so

uninteresting to be good."

"How do you know?"

"Don't be saucy. I do know, perfectly well, that Mae Madden,

naughty, idle, and silly, may be, after all, not so stupid; but get

me good, industrious and wise, and it will take all of my time when

I'm not asleep to keep so. No, there'll be nothing to say about me

any more. I'll be as humdrum as--"

"As I am."

"You--why Norman, are you humdrum?"

"Of course I am, dreadfully humdrum. If you and I were in a story-

book, you would have ten pages to my one, to keep the reader awake.

But then, story-books aren't the end of life. Suppose you, Mae

Madden, have been odd, full of variety, ready to twist common

occurrences into something startling and romantic, have you been

happy? Haven't you been restless and discontented? Now, can't

you, grown humdrum and good, be very happy and contented and

joyful, even if the sun rises on just about the same Mondays and

Tuesdays and Wednesdays, the year round? You will not do for a

story-book then, but won't you do better for life? And, after all,

a lively murderer is a great deal more sensational than you could

ever be."

"Even when I ran away?"

"Yes. Now, you see, I have been humdrum again, and half preached a

sermon."

"All right, sir; so long as you take me for a text, you may preach

as you want to, and by and by, I dare say, I shall agree with you."

"It would have been a great deal more interesting if you had

married that Italian."

"How do you know I could have married that Italian, my lord? He is

going to marry a girl as much more beautiful than I am as--as Bero

himself is than you--and yet I would rather have you. And now,

don't you dare look at me in that way. I'll never say another nice

thing to you if you do. This artist will think we are--"

"Lovers, my dear. And aren't we?"

Ten days later Norman entered with a letter for Mae. "Read it to

me," she said, throwing back the blinds and leaning her elbows on

the window-cushion.

"It is from Lillia. Would you rather read it yourself?" "O, no."

So Norman read what Lillia had written in her pretty broken

English:

"My DEAR MISS MAE:--Thank you of all my heart for your so lovely

gift. I have had so little home since long, long ago my mother

died, and now I am to have one as the maid in the picture has. We

will marry the fifth day of May at five o'clock, and will wish you

to be there. Don't forget me.

LILLIA."

"Signor Bero has added a postscript, Mae, which you can translate

better than I." And Norman handed her the letter. Mae translated

it thus:

"Did you know all that the picture would say to me, Signorina?

Receive my thanks for it, too, and believe I shall always live

worthy of my Italy, my wife and friends that I see in the picture,

and of another friend who lives so far away, whom I shall never see

again, if I have such a friend. Think of my beautiful Lillia on

our wedding day. We shall be married at St. Andrea's, at vesper

time.

Bero."

"And this is the day," said Mae, dropping the note.

"And the very hour, allowing the bride and the sun a few minutes

each," added Norman, glancing at the clock.

They gaze quietly out of the window of their lodgings on the Borgo

Ognissante, but Mae sees far away beyond the Arno, into the church

of St. Andrea,--music, and pomp, and beautiful ceremony, and before

the altar, a woman in her bridal robes, with heavily figured lace

falling over her black hair and white forehead, and against her

soft cheeks and shoulders. Her great brown eyes have thrown away

the mist of sadness for a luminous wedding veil of joy, and she is

Lillia, and by her side, erect, proud, glorious, with a lingering

ray of light falling on his golden head, is her happy husband,

Bero. They stand before the altar of St. Andrea's. "God bless

you," says Mae aloud. Then her gaze wanders back to the coral and

mosaic shops below in the street, and up across to the opposite

window, where a long-haired, brown-moustached, brown-eyed man

leans, puffing smoke from his curved lips, and holding his

cigarette in his slender fingers. She meets his gaze now, as she

has met it before. "He is wondering what life will bring to these

two young people, I fancy," says Mae.

"Our own wedding-day, Mae," Norman replies; and they both forget

all about Lillia, and Bero, and the stranger, and suddenly leave

the window. The long-haired man puffs his cigar in a little

loneliness, and wishes that wedding bells might ring for his empty

heart too.

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Mae Madden, by Mary Murdoch Mason