Maud Leslie

Chapter I

A FTER Miss Carysfort's departure, life fell very fiat and. heavily upon Maud. "I cannot possibly bear this!" she thought. " I shall lose my senses soon, if this state of stagnation continues. I must go home ; and if Stuart will not take me, I [must go alone. I must see papa and mamma. It is so long since I left home." Hurst Manor was still home to Maud. " It is all those tiresome old women that VOL. II. B have come between me and Stuart, and have made him so different. I do wish they would go, whatever he may say, or that we could go abroad — anywhere away from this. I must see what can be done ;" and with these thoughts in her mind, Maud's spirits rose. A battle of any kind would be a relief from stagnation, and the thought of one was decidedly pleasant to Maud in her present mood. ' ' Turner wants me to ride over to Hor field to look over the farm with him.

He is to meet me there. Would you like to ride with me, Maud ? It is some distance, but what I have to do will not take me long; and you could sit with old Mrs. Pur ton. She is a charming old lady — one of the tenants you have never seen." ' ' I should like it very much," said Maud brightly. "It is such a blessing to have anything to do here." Unfortunately Maud seldom waited to think before she spoke, and this very need less observation undid all the good of her ready acquiescence to her husband's pro posal, and his brow became instantly dark and clouded, though he made no reply. " You meant me to ride, I suppose ?" inquired Maud, rather timidly ; for, though she would not have acknowledged it even to herself, she was growing decidedly afraid of her husband. " Just as you please. I can drive you in the phaeton, if you like."

" Oh, no ; I like riding best." Then, suddenly remembering what a good opporb2 tunity driving would be for any discussion of plans, said — " No, upon the whole, I would rather you drove me, Stuart, if you like it as well." Mr. Leslie rang the bell to order the carriage, while Maud ran upstairs to pre pare for her drive. She had to wait a few minutes while her husband was giving some orders to his bailiff, and as waiting was one of the things most trying to Maud's impatient nature, she suddenly thought it would be amusing to take a short experimental drive, so that, when her husband came to the door, neither his wife nor the phaeton was to be seen. " Mrs. Leslie said she would drive as far as the lodge and back," said the foot man, answering his master's look of con sternation. " Very imprudent," he muttered, as Maud came quickly up to the door, having descried him from some distance standing upon the steps.

" I wanted to see if I could drive, Stuart," she said gaily, "and I think that I have done very well, considering." " It was a very rash experiment," he replied, taking the reins out of her hand, as he seated himself by her side. " Pray do not repeat it ; you might easily have had an accident. That young horse is not easy to drive." " Oh, the groom was with me, so nothing was likely to happen. I think I should like to drive — you can teach me." " Then you must promise me never to try unless I am with you." "Very well," she replied pettishly. "I think that you never like me to do as much as other people." " I cannot combat fancies, Maud," he said gravely. " You have no reason to think so." Maud sighed. This was a bad begin ning for her scheme of talking him over to her own views about going abroad.

Not that in reality it made the slightest difference. Stuart Leslie might accede to his wife's wishes from expediency, or even from affection, but her opinion did not carry the smallest weight. He was wrong in underrating, as he did, her mental powers, and for not perceiving the practi cal common -sense that was underlying her childish petulance. They drove some distance before Maud could frame her request in any way that satisfied her. " Do let us settle something about our plans, Stuart," said Maud, in a would-be indifferent tone. " When shall we go away ? I mean," she continued, as her husband looked up, as if wishing for further information without speaking, " I should like to give mamma some idea as to when we are likely to be with her." " I really do not know, Maud. Is there any especial reason for settling these im portant things to-day?"

"It is a very important thing to me," replied Maud, with rising colour, though she tried to speak calmly. " It is so long since I was at home, and you said — you V promised — that you would take me abroad, and I thought that we might go home on our way." " It is rather too late now to be think ing of starting for Italy. It would be much too hot by the time we could arrive. We might, perhaps, go next Winter, if you wished it." " Next Winter, Stuart ! — nearly a year ! You cannot mean that we should stay here till next Winter ?" "I am sorry you dislike your home so much, Maud," said Stuart. ' ' I was afraid that I was much too old and stupid to be your only companion." " You know it is not that," said poor Maud, her eyes full of tears ; " it is that I am stupid, and your mother does not like me, and so makes you " "Makes me what?" he asked, in his hardest, driest tone.

" Different from what you were ; oh ! so different," said Maud passionately, "that I long to see them all at home." "I do not suppose there need be any difficulty about that. I shall be obliged to be in London later, and I can leave you there on my way." " But I want to go to London, too. There is so much I want to see there, and that you promised to show me as well as to take me abroad," said Maud indignantly. " It is an expensive thing to embark in a house in London for the season. Quite beyond my means, I fear." " Then we can go to an hotel or lodging. Only for mercy's sake, Stuart, don't go away and leave me here, or I undoubtedly should " " Should what, I wonder ?" " Run away, I believe," she said, but in so low a voice that her husband did not catch her words, and as by this time they had reached the farm there was no time for further conversation.

" What a pretty old house !" exclaimed Maud, as they drove up ; " it is quite unlike any that I ever saw." It was a long, low, old-fashioned house, with two gables of black wood and plaster, built as some houses still are in the north, and in some old towns, especially Chester. There was behind the house a high yew hedge, sheltering a large garden from the north winds. Mrs. Purton came out to open the wicket that led to the house. ] 11 " Very glad to see you, sir," she said, as Stuart shook hands with her. " It's long since you have been this way." " I have brought Mrs. Leslie to see you at last, Mrs. Purton. What will you do, Maud ? stay in the carriage, or wait for me in the house ?" " I should like to go into that charming old house, if I may," replied Maud, turning to Mrs. Purton with her most winning smile.

" Then I will go round the farm with Philip, Mrs. Purton. Is he at home ?" " He is handy, sir — in the yard. Reuben, go and fetch your master." Mr. Leslie asked some questions of the old woman, while Maud stood by admiring her. Mrs. Purton must have been a very lovely woman, and still retained the traces of her good looks, which were enhanced by a beauty that belongs to old age, a beauty very different from that of youth, but often more pleasing, and even more perfect. Her close cap and silver hair, with her small, refined features, on which long years of suffering had marked their impress, gave her an unusual attraction in Maud's eyes. She stood wondering what had been her history, for her large blue eyes had no faded look, but were keen with perception and intelligence. The expi'ession of her face was that of patient resignation, and betokened a quiet, unruffled peace, which is rarely to be found except among those who are "stricken in years."

It reminded Maud of moonlight and its soft rays. " I am so sorry that I did not know you were coming, madam," she said re spectfully, as she led her into a cold, clean, and somewhat comfortless parlour. " I should have had a fire ready for you, and would have prepared luncheon for you. Mr. Stuart lunched here very often in the old days." " Then you have known Mr. Leslie long," said Maud, suddenly grasping at the chance of hearing something of her husband's early life. " Ever since he was born. I was one of the first as ever held him in my arms. Then, as a boy, he rode over most days to fish or to cricket with my lads, before they were taken from me." " Did you lose your children young ?" said Maud timidly. " How hard for you! "It seemed so then; but God knew what was best for them and me. But I had lost their father the year before, and I felt lonesome enough."

"But you have a son? Has not Mr. Leslie gone out with your son ?" " Yes, Philip was left to me, and a girl, who has been married many years. I don't often see her now, but I am thankful for those I have, and all our lives are ordered for us as is best, I know." "Then you knew Mr. Leslie's father?" said Maud, showing by her eager face how much interest she took in all Mrs. Purton could tell her. " Yes, poor gentleman ! he had a suffering life at best, and was as gentle and patient as an angel. Mr. Stuart was but a lad when he died." " I should think he must have been very unlike his wife, then," said Maud abruptly, rather thinking aloud than intending to comment upon her mother-in-law. Mrs. Purton looked at her for a moment in silence, and then said, with a smile, " You know, Mrs. Leslie was a deal older than Mr. Arthur, Mr. Stuart's father, but she loved him as the apple of her eye, and was a clever woman and a capital nurse.

It was that as brought them together, as perhaps you know." " Indeed I do not, Mrs. Purton. I shall be so grateful for anything you can tell me." Mrs. Purton then gave Maud a sketch of Arthur Leslie's early life, and of the accident in Scotland, adding, " Mrs. Leslie may seem a stern lady at times, but she has a kind heart." " Perhaps she has, and it may be evident to those she likes," said Maud bitterly. " But as she does not like me, I was not aware of it." " I cannot believe that possible," said the old woman, laying her hand gently upon Maud's arm. " It's bad for both if you think that ; and I did hope that the poor lad}'* would have comfort in Mr. Stuart's wife in her old age." This was an entirely new aspect of the case to Maud. She had expected, or rather hoped for, affection from Stuart's mother, but that any sort of duty devolved upon her in the matter had never once occurred to her.

Perhaps, if she had been loving and gentle, she might have won Mrs. Leslie's heart, her husband might have been dif ferent, and her home happier. Maud had been accustomed to receive all her life, but for her to give in the first instance had never for a moment crossed her brain. She stood pondering over the ideas which Mrs. Pur ton's words had raised in her mind till she heard voices approaching, and, suddenly rousing herself from her reverie, said quickly, holding out her hand — " Thank you very much for all you have said. I never thought I could be a com fort to anyone — least of all to Mrs. Leslie. I should like to come and talk to you again about it." "My dear young lady, you could not give me a greater pleasure ; and if ever I vol. n. c could be of the smallest service to you, I should be thankful, for your sake as well as for those I've served so long ; and as to comforting others, everyone has a work in the world either for better or for worse."

"I am sure you can help me. I shall come again soon," said Maud, going to the garden-gate, where her husband was waiting for her. " You must come at once, Maud," he said, rather impatiently. "My mother will be waiting for us for luncheon, as it is." This reference to Mrs. Leslie almost overturned Maud's newly-formed resolu tions, but she made no reply, and got at once into the carriage. " What a charming old lady Mrs. Pur ton is, Stuart !" said Maud, as they drove off. "I am so sorry that I did not make her acquaintance sooner." " She is an excellent woman, and quite a character in her way ; but I should never have thought that she was much in your line, Maud." " Why, I wonder ? And what do you consider my line, Stuart ?" she said, looking up in his face with a smile that even Stuart Leslie could not resist.

" Is it that I always dislike excellent people, and find them disagreeable ?" "Not exactly; but Mrs. Purton is too grave for you. She is too old, and has had much sorrow in her life." " That is why I like her, and why she c2 understands other people's trials," said Maud, as she jumped out of the carriage and ran up the steps into the hall with a lighter heart than usual. She threw off her little cloth jacket and opened the dining-room door, where Mrs. Leslie stood looking grimly at the lunch eon on the table without attempting to begin. " I am so sorry, Mrs. Leslie ; I am afraid we are late. But why did you wait ?" said Maud penitently. " I never sit down without the lady of the house," replied Mrs. Leslie stiffly. "Oh, dear no, to be sure not; could not think of it," murmured Miss Camp bell.

" I was not aware that you were expected to think about it, Abigail," said Mrs. Leslie sharply. "Do let us begin now," said Maud, sitting down ; " here is Stuart." "Why did you wait, mother?" he said, taking the place Maud vacated for him. " I wish you would not." " I have explained why, Stuart," she replied, with the air of a martyr. " I have been telling Mrs. Leslie how sorry we were, Stuart," said Maud cou rageously, " and it was your fault really for staying so long at the farm." " Quite. I acknowledge it, so pray for give us, mother !" The luncheon proceeded, according to custom, in solemn silence, and Maud had plenty of time for meditation, and to wonder if Mrs. Leslie's antagonism to her had been originally her own fault, and, if so, how it could be remedied.

Chapter II

rilHE sun was setting in a gorgeous panoply of purple and flame colour, the angelus had just rung out from all the churches in Florence, and every steeple and tower was bathed in golden light. It rested on the distant hills, intensifying every shade of colour till it faded into purple distance. The sun descended slowly below the horizon that day, as if it loved to linger over the city, over every state ly palace, and the campanile of the Duomo — that unequalled specimen of human art — " the tower that Giotto built." It was a sunset never to be seen out of a southern clime, yet now these last rays of the sun were being carefully excluded from a badly-built house between Florence and Fiesole. There were no " jalousies," as in most of the houses in that neighbourhood, only a heavy curtain, which a young girl drew across the window as the sunlight fell across a bed on which lay a wo man weak and emaciated, and apparently in the last stage of consumption.

But this curtain excluded air as well as light, and the sick woman gasped as with a sudden sense of suffocation. The child, who appeared about fourteen years of ao-e, looked up alarmed. " The sun will soon be down, Bianca mia," said a middle-aged woman, who was preparing some food in a corner of the room ; " the air is everything to her now." The girl drew the curtain back, and, looking out, exclaimed — "Here he is! — here he is! — the good padre coming down the road. May I run down and ask him to come in ?" "Yes, child, if you like, but of a surety he is coming in. Padre Antonio does not neglect any of his flock." " How is the poor lady to-day, my child ?" said the old man, as the girl stood at the door ready to greet him. She shook her head sorrowfully. " Bad as bad can be. Only you and Sister Monica do her any good.

You are coming in ?" " Yes," he replied, with his benevolent smile, as he laid his hand on Bianca's head as she knelt for his blessing before she ascended the small staircase. " Go up and say that I am here." " Elena knows, for I said that I would stop you ; but I will go up and put a chair by the bedside." Maria Scevola had been long an invalid, and for many months Padre Antonio had seen her constantly, and administered spiritual consolation. After his first greeting, Elena left the room, and the padre and the sick woman were left for some time alone. As he rose to go, a beseech ing look from her caused him to sit down again. "You have other duties; you cannot stay longer with me," she said feebly. " I can always be where I am needed," he replied kindly. "Is it about Bianca ? She is a good child."

" Oh ! Padre Antonio, you cannot tell what the thought of leaving that child is to me. I lie awake night after night won dering and dreading what will become of her." "Where is your faith, Maria? Surely the Father of the fatherless and our dear Lady will protect her." " But Sister Monica thinks she may have a vocation later. Would it not be best to let her go at once into re ligion ?" Padre Antonio shook his head. " My child, it would not be right to take advantage of her youth and loneliness. Then, you know, she has a nearer relation, who must be consulted as to her destiny." "I know that," said the sick woman, sighing heavily. "That is my great trouble, my great grief, to think that she will be left to the care of one who has shown so little interest or affection for his child ; and one who is a foreigner and a heretic.

God forgive me, if it was the worldliness of my heart that induced me to consent to my daughter's marriage. If so, I have been sufficiently punished for it!" " It is very doubtful if you could have prevented it, my child; and regrets now only weaken you, body and soul. Trust to Him who knows us all, and governs the world. He will protect the father less." " But you will take charge of her, father. She will always obey you, and you will never let her renounce her country or her faith ?" "Be satisfied, Maria. While I live I will do all I can for the child, for indeed she is dear to me as well as to you. I will write to the Signor telling him of your illness, and will inform you of his reply. Bianca is a good and gentle child ; beware of putting difficulties into her life by making her duty to her father a painful or irksome task.

Now you are weary ; I will leave you. Try to sleep." The sick woman was too much exhausted to reply, and, though the troubled expres sion had not passed from her countenance, she lay still and silent, with closed eyes', in painful thought. Padre Antonio had a short conversation with Elena, and then walked slowly away. Bianca watched his departure with decided feelings of dissatisfaction. She thought he might have had some last words for her. He was one of the few people to whom the lonely child could talk without reserve, and the fact of his not having remembered her was in itself a mortifica tion. She crept quietly back to the sick woman's room, but she was lying with her eyes closed, apparently exhausted ; and Elena, who was evidently anxious that she should not be disturbed, made a sign to her to go downstairs, where she would join her.

"Why did you let Padre Antonio °*o without ever speaking to me, Elena ?" said Bianca reproachfully. "I was waiting to see him before he left." "Who was to know that, child? You can go to see him any day, while your poor mother — ah ! her days are num bered." "Does Padre Antonio say that?" said the girl eagerly, with a start. " He cannot mean it. She cannot, she must not leave me." Elena only replied by a mournful shake of her head. Bianca burst into a fit of weeping. Suddenly drying her eyes, she asked, " She is not my mother, Elena. Why do you always call her so ?" " She is the only mother you know, poor child !" returned Elena compassionately, t for the thought of the girl's desolate future made her sad. " And, after all, mother or grandmother is much the same." " But my real mother, Elena," persisted the girl, "why does no one ever tell me about her?

She is buried at San Miniato, I know. Once I saw her grave. Father Antonio says he loves me for her sake. What is to become of me, I wonder ?" she added, in a hard, almost an indifferent, tone. "Ah, poverina, who can tell? Now, if you only had a vocation to the life of a religious, you would be always safe and happy inside the convent walls." " Safe, perhaps, but not happy," said t Bianca bitterly. " You know Padre An tonio says that I have no vocation." " We must pray for one. I will have masses said for that intention." " Pray don't. I have no wish to pass my life in prison. In fact, I would not go, or stay, if I were sent there, Elena," she said defiantly ; " so you may think of some other destiny for me. Cannot I go to my father ? Where and what is he?" " He is a foreigner and a heretic," said Elena, crossing herself.

" Besides, I have heard lately " and here she suddenly stopped short, evidently thinking it unwise to communicate her intelligence. Bianca looked at her, as if asking for further information. " Why don't you tell me what you have VOL. II. D heard, Elena ? Have I not a right to know?" " Then of course you will know in pro per time. But I must not waste my time chatting* here. It would be better for you, Bianca, if you had something to do instead of asking useless questions." So saying, with some real and some pre tended irritation, Elena hurried away, leaving Bianca to her own anxious, restless thoughts. "Useless!" she repeated indignantly — " they are not useless questions to me. Whom can I ask that will tell me even who I am ? I do not like to go to Padre An tonio only to ask him that, if even he would tell me.

If I could only have seen him here !" It was now past sunset, and the first dangerous hour of twilight over. The street, which, for some time, had been empty, was now again filling. Groups of men stood about talking, and the wo men sat upon the doorsteps with little children playing around them. Bianca, too restless to remain at home, walked away from the house without any very definite pm*pos"e in her mind, when sud denly she heard a step, ancl a voice calling to her to stop. " Carlo !" exclaimed the girl, as a tall, handsome youth, apparently about nine teen, came quickly up to her. " They told me you were at Leghorn. Why are you here ?" " Why should I not be here, Bianca ?" he replied gaily. " I did not promise to remain at Leghorn for ever. I only rer»2 turned this evening, and came out to find you.

Are you not glad to see me, Bianca ?" " Of course," she replied blushing. " Only I did not expect you, and you startled me. I was feeling so sorrowful, too ! Oh, Carlo, all is so sad at home !" she added, as her eyes filled with tears, lookiug into Carlo Marani's eager, intelligent face, knowing that now at least she should meet with sympathy. Carlo Marani was the only son of a painter of some eminence in Florence. He and Bianca had been playmates from their earliest childhood. They were little more than children now, and lately they had been parted. Biauca had missed his com panionship, and raised him in her imagi nation at least to the rank of a favoured lover. It seemed a kind of mutual understanding that they should belong exclusive ly to each other. " I am so grieved," he said tenderly.

" I fear the Signora is worse." " Much weaker. I scarcely see her now ; and, Carlo, when she leaves me I shall be alone in the world." "Never while I live, Bianca. I am young and shall earn money, and you know you are to be my wife," said the boy proudly, as if that alone would shelter her from all evil. " I am to have a studio in Florence some day, and shall soon be as rich as my father; I have no doubt of it." Bianca shook her head. Her woman's instincts were more practical. " All that maybe in years to come," she said, " but now " "Now we must wait," he replied hastily. s "I am uot a child, Bianca, and am well able to take care of you." " Perhaps 1 shall be a nun after all," she said half sadly, and half enjoying the pain she knew her words would give him. " I am going to the convent to talk to Sister Monica about it now."

" What can be the good of that ? Come out with me now — come and walk about with me. The cool evening air will rest you. You look weary and heated, Bianca." ' ' I am weary, but going out will not do me any good ; besides, I cannot walk with you, Carlo. You will come and see us before you go away ?" " Yes, certainly ; but why not stay now ?" he said, trying to detain her. " I must go," she said, breaking away from him and almost running down the street. She arrived breathless at the convent, and gave so sudden a pull to the bell that the portress, alarmed, opened it immediately without any of the usual delay. "Ma che ce?" she asked, surprised to see only Bianca. " Is it Sister Monica you lave come for ? Here she is," she added, is a nun with a pale, thoughtful, and singularly expressive countenance came ip the cloister.

" You have come for me, dear child. I '.ould not come before ; but now I will be vith Maria immediately. Do not say it is oo late." "No, indeed," said Bianca, looking rather shamed. " It is not that ; I did not come tr my mother. She is very feeble, but not worse that I know of. I came for my self," she added blushing. " For yourself, dear child ! What fresh trouble can have fallen upon you ?" " None. It is nothing new, only I wanted to speak to you — to ask you something alone," she added shyly, in a low voice. The kind nun smiled and led the way to a small parlour where Bianca instantly seat ed herself on the floor, laying her head on her friend's knee. This was an old habit of hers — a favourite position from child hood — when Sister Monica's kind eyes used to look sympathizingly down upon her as she softly stroked the luxuriant masses of hair that fell down upon the girl's shoulders.