diff options
Diffstat (limited to '1829-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 1829-0.txt | 4510 |
1 files changed, 4510 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/1829-0.txt b/1829-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..27eaf37 --- /dev/null +++ b/1829-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4510 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mae Madden, by Mary Murdoch Mason + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Mae Madden + +Author: Mary Murdoch Mason + +Release Date: May 12, 2006 [EBook #1829] +Last Updated: November 11, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAE MADDEN *** + + + + +Produced by Donald Lainson + + + + + +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 EBook of Mae Madden, by Mary Murdoch Mason + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAE MADDEN *** + +***** This file should be named 1829-0.txt or 1829-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/2/1829/ + +Produced by Donald Lainson + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’ WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. + +The Foundation’s principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation’s web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |