MAUD MARIAN ARTIST

OR

THE STUDIO MARIANO

BY

EGLANTON THORNE

AUTHOR OF

"THE OLD WORCESTER JUG," "ALDYTH'S INHERITANCE," "THE MANSE OF GLEN CLUNIE," ETC.

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56 PATERNOSTER ROW AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD

Oxford HORACE HART, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. "I CARE FOR ART"

II. A STARTLING PROPOSAL

III. AT ROME

IV. THE INAUGURATION OF THE STUDIO

V. NEW FRIENDS

VI. ENID'S MASTER

VII. MRS. DAKIN'S RECEPTION

VIII. COMPLICATIONS

IX. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE

X. A PASSIONATE ACT

XI. A SERIOUS ADVENTURE

XII. SEARCHING FOR THE LOST

XIII. AT THE VILLA MATTEI

XIV. AN UNLOOKED-FOR HONOUR

XV. VARIOUS THREADS OF ROMANCE

XVI. MAUD RECEIVES STARTLING NEWS

XVII. FEVER

XVIII. A HARD DUTY

XIX. A HERO

XX. AT THE RUINS OF TUSCULUM

XXI. TWO ARTISTS SPOILED

MAUD MARIAN, ARTIST

CHAPTER I

"I CARE FOR ART"

MR. MARIAN and his daughter, separated by the length of a large table elegantly decorated with flowers, plate, and glass, were dining together. It was seldom they dined thus alone, and Maud had never before taken the head of the table; but the butler had deemed it right she should now do so, and had set her place there. Only to-day, however, had Maud become Miss Marian, and mistress of the house.

Up to this time, her father's unmarried sister had kept his house and taken loving care of his child—for Maud's mother had died when she was too young to retain any remembrance of her. But now the Aunt Helen whom Maud warmly loved was Miss Marian no longer. Some one else had had the audacity to seek and to win her tender interest, and she had gone to brighten the home of a gentleman with three motherless children whose lack of a mother's care had strongly appealed to Helen Marian's loving heart. All her life she had been used to caring for others, for she had not been twenty when she came to keep her brother's house. Being so young she had perhaps not been the wisest guardian her niece could have had; but she had made the child happy, and as she grew up, Maud found in her aunt a companion who seemed almost as young and as full of life as herself.

It was not surprising that Maud should feel herself injured by her aunt's marriage. She hated the idea of missing her cheerful companionship, and foresaw, moreover, sundry inconveniences to herself which might arise from the event. Maud was not in the least gratified by the new dignity she had attained. She had ambition, but it was not of so commonplace an order as to be satisfied with petty social distinctions. However others might regard her, in her own eyes Maud Marian was a superior person. So, now that the excitement of the wedding was over, and the bride had departed, she was disposed to be silent, and nurse a sense of grievance.

"My dear Maud," exclaimed Mr. Marian at last, when for some minutes the servant had been moving noiselessly between them, and scarce a sound had broken the stillness, "have you absolutely nothing to say? Come, come, my dear, don't look so melancholy. To see you, one would think we had had a funeral here to-day instead of a wedding."

"I cannot see that a wedding is much more lively," said Maud languidly; "they both mean loss."

"Do they?" said Mr. Marian. "I don't think Hamilton would agree with you about that. It strikes me that this wedding means gain for him, most decidedly."

"Yes, at our expense," said Maud bitterly.

"Oh, well, you must not grudge him his happiness! He has had a sad home for these last few years, and his poor little children need some one to look after them."

"He should have had a good housekeeper," said Maud. "For my part, I do not approve of second marriages. There ought to be a law forbidding them."

Mr. Marian smiled to hear his young daughter express herself with such decision. He looked across the table at her with amusement in his eyes.

"It is a good thing the government of the country is not in your hands, my dear," he observed, "for I fear you would make tyrannical use of your power. Since the wedding is now an accomplished fact, we must make the best of it. I congratulate myself that everything went off well. Helen looked as well as possible, and as for you—I think I never saw you in a more becoming gown."

At last he had succeeded in bringing a smile to her face. No woman, however superior, is above feeling pleasure when her gown is praised, and Maud prided herself on her taste in dress.

"I am very glad you like it," she said, glancing down with a gratified air at her attire. "I really think Madame Adolphin has carried out my ideas quite successfully for once."

The wedding, which was supposed to be a quiet one, had taken place in the afternoon. Maud was the only bridesmaid, and she still wore the gown she had had made for the occasion. It was simple enough, being all of white, without a touch of colour; but the material was soft Indian silk, and what seemed to be pearls were strewn about the bodice, which was cut low at the throat, and finished with a tucker of deep lace, a style much affected by Maud, and exceedingly becoming to her, since she had a pretty neck and a skin of delicate whiteness.

She was a girl concerning whose claims to beauty people held very different views. Her features were irregular, but small and piquant. She had hair of the warm tawny hue which many of the old painters have given to their Madonnas, and she wore it loosely coiled at the nape of her neck with an artistic carelessness which was very becoming. Since her complexion was of the dazzling fairness which seems generally to accompany hair of that rare hue, it will be seen that the tall, slender form of Maud Marian did not lack impressiveness.

"Of course you will miss your aunt at first," said Mr. Marian, wishing to console his daughter; "but Kensington is not a great way off. You can drive there as often as you like, and Helen will come to see us occasionally, I suppose, though she will be more tied to her home than you are."

Maud looked at her father for a few moments ere she made any reply. Then she said with apparent carelessness, her eyes on the bread which she was crumbling on the cloth, "I fear you will miss Aunt Helen more than I this winter, papa. You forget that I am going abroad."

Mr. Marian looked up quickly, his countenance expressing the utmost astonishment.

"Going abroad! What do you mean?"

"You cannot have forgotten, papa, that you promised that I should have another winter in Rome."

"But, my dear, it was months ago that we talked about that—before there was any thought of your aunt's marrying."

"I cannot see how that alters the case," said Maud calmly. "A promise is a promise."

"Are you sure that I really promised? Even if I did, it seems to me that the change which has taken place here would justify me in setting aside that promise. Surely, Maud, you cannot earnestly propose to yourself to leave me to pass the winter alone!"

"It would only be for six months, papa, and you are always so engaged with business that you would not miss me. You do not think how dull I should be here by myself."

"It shall be your own fault if you are dull," said her father eagerly. "You are mistress of the house now, and you shall invite whom you please. Perhaps I have devoted myself too exclusively to business in the past; but the pressure is over now, I trust, and you shall teach me to attend to my social duties."

"Oh, papa, if you think I should care for that sort of thing, you are quite mistaken," said Maud languidly. "All I care for is Art. The lessons I took last winter, the hours I spent in picture galleries and churches, will all be thrown away if I do not have another season of hard work. And you know how I have been counting on going back to Rome and setting up a studio there."

"Why must you go to Rome?" asked her father. "Cannot you have a studio here? I am sure there is room enough in this house."

Maud smiled faintly. "You do not understand, papa," she said with an air of superiority.

"No, I do not understand," returned Mr. Marian with some warmth. "I confess I cannot understand how an only child can so contemplate leaving her father and her home. I should have thought a sense of duty might have withheld her from doing so."

The colour deepened in Maud's cheeks; she bit her lips in sudden irritation; but she had tolerable self-control, and when she spoke it was to say coldly, "I am afraid we have different ideas of duty. I, for my part, regard it as a sacred duty to cultivate what little talent I have for painting."

For a few moments Mr. Marian was absolutely unable to reply. He was startled, as he had been startled once or twice before, by the calm assurance with which his daughter could maintain a right to whatever she desired.

When he spoke again, he approached the subject from another side, and Maud felt that she had virtually gained her point.

"I do not see how you are to go to Rome," he said. "You cannot go with the Middletons as before, for they are not going abroad this winter. Mrs. Middleton told me so this afternoon."

"I know that," said Maud composedly. "But I am not dependent on the Middletons now. I made many friends when I was in Rome last winter."

"But it is impossible that you should go alone. Indeed, I will not hear of such a thing," said her father.

"Then I must have a companion," said Maud. "She will be a bore; but if you insist upon it, I must get one. It is a pity you cannot come with me to Rome yourself. I wish you would take a partner—then you could get free sometimes."

"Perhaps I shall take a partner before long," said her father—"a young man of strong character and energy, fitted to succeed me in the business. But it is early to talk of that. I am not an old fellow yet."

Nor was he, though the arduous, unremitting toil by which he had won his wealth had given him the look of age. No one, judging by his appearance, would have believed that he had not yet seen fifty years.

"It would be wise to take a partner soon," said Maud, "for I am sure you need more rest."

She was thinking of the man whom she believed her father meant to make his partner; but she did not name Sidney Althorp, for she and her father were wont to disagree with regard to his merits.

"I have a suggestion to make," said her father suddenly. "Suppose you put off your going to Rome for another year—by which time I may be in a position to accompany you."

"Oh no, no, thank you," said Maud, laughing; "I know how that would be. At the end of the year, you would ask me to wait another, and then another. You would never be able to tear yourself away from business for six months; you care more for business than for anything else, and I—I care for Art."

By this time the dessert was on the table, and the servants had left the room. Mr. Marian seemed vexed by his daughter's last remark, but he did not immediately reply, and Maud was just thinking that enough had been said on the subject, and she had better make her escape to the drawing-room, when the house-bell was heard to ring.

And a few moments later, the servant opened the door and announced "Mr. Althorp."

The man who entered the room was still young, but bore himself with a grave, sedate air. He was tall and well-made, but not handsome, yet the smile which lit up his countenance as he took Miss Marian's outstretched hand gave him a most prepossessing appearance. His bearing was distinguished by such grace and courtesy as women admire in men far more than good looks. Most women of his acquaintance liked Sidney Althorp; but Maud Marian was perhaps an exception. She called him an "old friend," as indeed he was; but professed to find him tiresome, and his conversation prosy.

"Ah, Sidney," exclaimed Mr. Marian, an unfeigned welcome in his tones; "to what do we owe this pleasure? Is it business brings you, or do you come to offer your congratulations? If so, I had better warn you that Maud regards the event of the day as a bereavement, and is indignant with Hamilton."

"At least, I may congratulate you that the ceremony was so admirably accomplished," said Althorp, looking at Maud. "My mother has been telling me about it. But it is business that brings me," he added, turning to Mr. Marian. "After you left this morning, a clerk came from Wardlaw Bros., and I promised to acquaint you with what he said and send them a reply by to-night's post."

He was proceeding to explain the matter when Maud rose.

"If you have business to discuss, I will go to the drawing-room," she said. "You will find me there when you feel inclined for coffee."

Sidney Althorp opened the door and she passed out. His eyes followed her slight, graceful figure across the hall with rather a regretful glance ere he closed the door.

Through a small ante-room decorated with rich draperies, palms, and hothouse flowers, Maud entered the large drawing-room. A gay crowd had filled it all the afternoon, and the room betrayed tokens of the vanished visitors in the disorderly appearance it wore. Maud pushed the chairs a little into their places, rescued a hand-screen, painted by herself, from the fender into which it had fallen, and examined the vase which held the bridal bouquet to see if it contained sufficient water.

Then with a sigh, she threw herself into an easy chair, saying half aloud, "Weddings are horrid things."

But she could not rest there long. Presently she sprang up, saying, "Why need Sidney come and bother papa about business to-night of all nights, when I feel so miserable, and hate to be alone?"

She felt cross and out of spirits, a frame of mind which she imputed entirely to her aunt's going away, not wishing perhaps to recognize any other possible cause of it. She had seated herself at the grand piano and was carelessly playing little snatches of melody, when the curtain which screened the ante-room was pushed aside and Sidney Althorp came in.

"Ah, it is you!" she exclaimed. "Then I hope the business is concluded?"

"My share of it," he said, coming to her side. "Your father has some writing to do, but he will not be long. What is that you were playing? It is very pretty."

"Oh, it is only an air from a new opera I heard in Rome last winter," Maud replied. The next moment she regretted the words. She did not wish to speak of Rome with Sidney Althorp just then.

"You enjoyed your winter abroad very much," he observed.

"I did," replied Maud concisely.

"Rome seems to have a wonderful fascination for every one who goes there," was his next remark.

"It has," said Maud; "there is no place like it." With that, she broke into a brilliant march, calculated to suppress conversation.

Althorp listened in silence for some minutes till she fell into a more subdued strain, when he said, "Mary is anxious to form a choral class this winter, to meet at different houses at Streatham. She hopes to persuade you to join it."

"She is very kind," said Maud, with some hesitation in her tones, "but—I shall not be able to do so."

"How so?" he asked quietly.

Maud lifted her hands from the piano, and turned round quickly on the music-stool. There was no use in trying to evade the truth. He would have it.

"Do you not know," she said—and there was a defiant light in her eyes as she spoke—"do you not know that I am going to Rome for the winter?"

"Are you, indeed?" he returned in low, grave tones. "My mother told me she understood you to say so this afternoon; but I could not believe it."

"And why not, pray?" she asked, not without embarrassment, to cover which she walked across the room to the fireplace, and occupied herself with stirring into a blaze the fire, which was hardly needed, for though it was October, the night was warm.

He was silent. Sidney Althorp had a way of being silent when most men would have spoken, and his silences were very eloquent. Maud had no difficulty in interpreting the meaning of this one.

"I suppose," she said, "you think that now Aunt Helen is gone I ought not to leave papa."

"Do you not think so yourself?" he asked, turning upon her one of his grave, searching glances.

Maud's eyes fell beneath it, but she answered boldly, "No, I do not. It is not my fault that Aunt Helen has chosen to get married, and I do not see why I should be punished for it."

"You call it a punishment to spend your winter here with your father?"

"For me it would be that. Why should you look surprised? You know how I love Art, how I have set my heart on having a studio in Rome."

"Yes, I know," he said slowly; "but I should have thought—pardon me—that there were other considerations."

"You mean that it is my 'duty' to stay with my father," broke in Maud impetuously as he paused. "When people want to make one do anything unpleasant, they always use that word. But I cannot see that it is my duty to waste my life. My father will be very comfortable without me. We have excellent servants, and Rudd can be trusted to look after all his needs. You know how little my father is at home. He will not miss me much."

"I think you are mistaken," said Althorp, gently, "and that he will miss you more than you imagine. Because he is so many hours away from home, it is the more desirable that he should find his home bright and cheerful when he returns to it."

Maud was growing more irritated with every word he uttered.

"Of course you think me wrong," she said; "you always do. You love to pose as my mentor. But you must allow me to decide this matter for myself. You have no right to judge for me."

The colour rose into Sidney Althorp's face as she spoke. He was pained by her words, and his expression showed it.

"Assuredly," he said, rather proudly, "I have no right to judge you. You mistake me if you think I would presume to do so. You have given your own interpretation to my words. I never said that you were wrong."

"No, but you thought it," she rejoined.

Ere he could reply, if he had any reply to make, Mr. Marian entered the room.

Maud rang the bell for coffee, and when the servant brought it, she occupied herself with her cup, and vouchsafed neither word nor look to Sidney Althorp. In her inmost heart she knew that she had been rude to him, that her words had hurt him, but she preferred to regard herself as an injured person.

In a few minutes, Althorp came to bid her good-night. His voice was as gentle and his glance as kind as if nothing had occurred to disturb their intercourse, and in spite of herself Maud was bound to smile and respond with an appearance of cordiality.

"Sidney is a good fellow," remarked her father when he had gone.

Maud bit her lips and was silent.

"It is a kind of goodness that always puts me in a rage," she thought. The immediate effect of Althorp's slight, indirect remonstrance was to make her more than ever determined to have her own way.

"Papa, darling," she said a little later, seating herself by his side and assuming her most coaxing manner, "you will let me go to Rome, won't you? You don't know how I feel about it. I should be miserable if I were disappointed after counting upon it so long."

"Would you?" he said, regarding her wistfully. "You could not give up your own way for once for the sake of your poor old father?"

"I would give up anything else, papa, but not this—not my Art."

"Well, well, then it must be so, I suppose," he said with an air of resignation. "But how I shall get through the winter all alone in this great empty house I cannot tell."

"The time will soon pass, papa; I shall return in the spring."

"We must find some one to go with you. You cannot live in Rome alone."

"Oh, I should go to a pension," said Maud. "But still of course if you wish—"

"Certainly I wish it—you must have a companion. How would Miss Richmond do?"

"Oh, papa, that terribly fussy old maid! I could not endure her for a week."

"I wonder if Mrs. King would be willing to go with you."

"Mrs. King! A widow of nearly fifty! Papa, you have the strangest ideas of a companion."

"Well, can you suggest anyone?"

"Not at a moment's notice. We must enquire of friends, and if that fails, we can advertise."