Part 5, Chapter XLI.
Among the Primroses.
“Who on faint primrose-beds were wont to lie.”
“Rosa—Rosa, carissima mia! To see you—to have you again! I have wanted you every day!”
“My darling child, I don’t know when I have not wanted you! Tell me all—everything. Are you well—are you happy? I think you look so.”
“We have tried to make her so,” said Flossy, as Rosa withdrew from Violante’s clinging embrace to look into her face and read its story. “Now, Violante, make your sister comfortable, and all the rest of us are going to walk.”
Left thus alone, Violante put Rosa into a chair and knelt at her feet, looking up in her face. Rosa was looking remarkably well and handsome; she was nicely dressed, and had an air of prosperity.
“And so they are very kind to you?” she said.
“They are as kind as angels,” said Violante, “and there is no one like Miss Florence except you.”
Rosa laughed, and Violante went on, rather hurriedly:
“And our cousins,—how are they? And your pupils—are they stupid? How far have they got in Italian?”
“Not very far,” said Rosa; “and that’s the first question you ever asked me about a pupil in your life.”
“But I teach a great deal of the Italian. Miss Florence showed me how. And father—will he come soon?”
“Yes. I’m afraid, Violante, he has not found much to do in Florence. I shall be glad when he comes to London, because I think he is likely to get engagements.”
“Does he know anyone in London?” asked Violante.
“Well—there is a gentleman who comes a good deal to Uncle Grey’s,” said Rosa, colouring a little. “He is not exactly a professional musician; but he loves music better than anything, and he has composed some things—they’re very good, I think. He said he would ensure some engagements for father. So we shall get some nice little lodgings near the Greys. I know some that would do for us, and when you come, darling—it will be home again.”
“And father is coming?”
“The first week in May.”
“Yes, and our holidays are to be on the 7th. You know we should have gone home now, but for the Confirmation; and, besides, Miss Venning’s brother, who is a clergyman, is coming to examine the school on the 5th of May in arithmetic and those hard lessons; so the classes preparing for him have not broken up.”
“How funny it sounds to hear you talk about lessons and arithmetic! Can you do your sums, my child?”
“Not very well,” replied Violante, modestly; “they are very often wrong, Rosina. But I have learnt many things.”
She turned and slipped down by Rosa’s side, playing with her fingers; but keeping her own face averted.
“Things are very strange, Rosa mia. I never expected to see Signor Arthur here.”
“Signor Arthur. Mr Spencer? Here. Where?” exclaimed Rosa, greatly surprised.
“Yes,” said Violante, trying to control her trembling, “he—that is, they, live here at Redhurst. They are Miss Venning’s friends.”
“They—you don’t mean Mr Crichton! Oh, Violante, if I had known this—” then, as there was a pause, “Have you seen him?”
“Oh, yes. But he never spoke, nor I to him. Do not fear, Rosa. He is a great gentleman, and he knows well here that I am only a poor little girl; and no one knows anything.”
“Oh, my darling, you should not have stayed here an hour!”
“Then you would be more foolish than I,” cried Violante; “more foolish a great deal, Rosa. You see I am well and happy. And is not a girls’ school like a convent? I never see any of them but Signor Arthur, and he is always kind. His promessa sposa was here at school, you know, Rosa. She was Miss Florence’s dear friend.”
“I could not have believed that you would have concealed such a thing from me!” said Rosa, reproachfully.
“It was because I knew you would expect me to be unhappy. I wanted you to see me and to know that I can bear it,” said Violante, with excitement. “Rosa, I would not deceive you—it is all over—all over! But I knew you would hear their names.”
“Mr Spencer Crichton, then, is an acquaintance of Miss Venning’s?” said Rosa, still in a tone of perturbation.
“Yes; and, besides, he has to do with everything—the railways and the gas—”
“The what?”
“Why, they were going to build some ugly gas-works in the field, and he was the only person who could prevent it. That was why he came here. But it is Signor Arthur who is their friend.”
“Ah, has he got over his trouble?”
“No,” said Violante, with an air of interest and knowledge rather surprising to Rosa.
“Oh, no, he looks much more sad and ill than he did in Italy. I think he will never forget Mysie. But they will be coming in, and I was to show you your room. There,” as Rosa followed her, “that is the school-room, and I must go there presently and see that the little girls get ready for tea.”
Rosa felt utterly bewildered. It is always startling to find one’s nearest and dearest possessed with a flood of new ideas and interests, acquired apart from ourselves, and this is specially the case with a girl’s first experience of independent life. Violante’s very accent and idiom had attained a more English turn, and there was an air of life and capability about her entirely new. She had opinions and ideas, and evidently was proud of her various occupations and anxious to show them off. How much of this was owing to her more vigorous health—the English air evidently being very favourable to her—how much to the mental awakening which some congenial experience often gives to girls sooner or later, and how much to the undercurrent of excitement that Hugh Crichton’s neighbourhood caused, Rosa could not tell. Certainly she was glad to see her little sister so bright and well; but she could not get over the idea of Violante’s secrecy, and forgot, perhaps, how hardly while pitying her sister she had judged Hugh in her hearing. Moreover, Rosa’s attention was not so entirely devoted to Violante’s affairs as had been the case last year. Possibilities were arising in her own life; but they were still too vague for her to wish to make a confidante of her young sister. There seemed to be what the Miss Greys called “a chance for Rosa;” and Rosa, it was thought, was not altogether averse to avail herself of it. She was very agreeable, and her foreign experiences and shrewd cleverness gave her an originality refreshing in a London young lady. She liked society; and, besides, she liked attention, in a sensible moderate sort of way; at any rate, she liked the attentions of the musical Mr Fairfax. He was not a very young man, and not at all handsome; but he had enough enthusiasm of character to appeal to Rosa’s sympathies, and enough of unconventionality to think her history and connections attractive rather than the reverse. He held a situation in the British Museum, and had some private means; so that he had been able to indulge his musical taste without being dependent on it for support. Nothing very definite had passed, but he was gradually giving Rosa to understand that he meant something serious; and she had welcomed this short absence as an opportunity for making up her own mind and testing her own feelings.
She made a very good impression on Miss Venning, and became friendly with Flossy, though secretly she thought her rather high-flying, and considered her objects of interest inadequate to the enthusiasm expended on them. She found that Violante, allowance being made for her imperfect education, was considered to have fair capabilities; and, with the help of her music and Italian, to be likely to be able to earn her living, under favourable circumstances. (“If I had a home for her to fall back upon,” was Rosa’s mental comment;) while she was much liked by teachers and companions. Rosa was constantly amused and surprised at seeing her busy and important; but, perhaps, she liked the moments best when Violante nestled down by her side, happy once more in her caressing presence. Rosa had arrived on Easter Monday, and was to stay till Saturday. The Confirmation would take place on the Friday, and on the Wednesday afternoon the whole party went into the woods to gather primroses, to renew the Easter decoration of Oxley parish church. The best primroses grew near Fordham; but, as nothing would have tempted Miss Florence’s steps in that direction, she ordained that they should walk towards Oxley—“it was a prettier view to show Miss Mattei.”
All along the opposite banks of the canal, between Fordham, Redhurst, and Oxley—and, indeed, out beyond Blackwood, on the other side of the town—were, at intervals, great oak copses, skirting the heath behind. Ashenfold was in the midst of them; they touched at one end the famous Fordham beeches, and at the other were lost in Lord Lidford’s park at Blackwood. The London road crossed the canal by a bridge at Oxley, where the woods were interspersed with villas, and a path, rough and dirty in winter, but charming in summer, led right through them to Redhurst and Fordham. A sort of hand-bridge led back to the Redhurst Road, opposite Ashenfold; further on there were only Redhurst and Fordham locks.
A considerable tract of copse had been felled the year before; and this spring the place of the underwood was supplied by the young sprouting oak-shoots and by myriads of primroses and anemones, ivy, lichen and moss, and all the beauties of woodlands in the spring. It was a lovely day, warm and sunny, with a sky the colour of the speedwells that were still hiding in the hedges. Birds sang and twittered; butterflies, like flying primroses, hovered about in pairs.
“There is nothing like a wood in spring,” said Florence; “and out there, Miss Mattei, the furze is getting golden, and even that ploughed field has a deep, rich colour under this wonderful sky.”
“Yes, abroad we don’t believe in English spring, but a day like this—”
“Vindicates the spring of the poets—and makes up for rain and east winds, doesn’t it?” The girls scattered over the wood in search of their primroses, Violante among them; while Rosa sat down on a log and talked to Miss Venning. The chatter and laughter of the girls sounded through the wood; and Flossy, in her great straw hat, with her hands full of primroses, came back towards them over the rough broken ground, tall, lithe, and blooming, like an incarnation of this fresh woody spring. Suddenly she paused, and exclaimed, as Hugh and Arthur, in rather unwonted companionship, came up the narrow path towards her.
“What? A great primrose-picking?” said Arthur.
“Yes, did you come to enjoy the woods?” she said.
“I wanted to go to Ashenfold,” said Hugh, “so we came back this way. We are rather idle this week.”
As he spoke, Hugh became aware of Rosa’s presence, by hearing Arthur greet her; and, after a momentary hesitation on both sides, they bowed, and he asked after Signor Mattei.
“My father is very well, thank you,” said Rosa, without an unnecessary word. Hugh stood like a shy boy in his first quadrille, trying to think of something that would do to say. Arthur had strolled away towards the primrose-pickers, and he decided that it would look too marked to walk on without him. At last he said: “Oh! Miss Venning, about that gas. I believe I shall get it arranged as you wish.”
“I always knew, Hugh, that no sensible person could see it in any other light,” said Miss Venning.
“I don’t think gas is injurious to human life,” said Hugh, looking round the wood. Rosa almost pitied him, he seemed so ill at ease. “The component parts—”
“Now, I am said to be fond of discussions,” said Flossy; “but, really, to talk chemically in this lovely wood is a shame.”
“Let us come, then, and look at the view and find Arthur,” said Hugh, relieved; “I ought to be going.”
Rosa would fain have followed, but Miss Venning, with a “You see, my dear,” entered on the subject of the gas-works, and the other two walked farther into the wood.
There were days when Hugh was sure that he ought not to marry Violante, there were many days when he thought that he did not wish to marry her; but now and then came a day when he dreamed of a future that might come when time should have softened the present troubles, and this day was one of them. He would not throw away this chance—at least, he would see her and hear her speak again. Suddenly the sound of her sweet unmistakable voice fell on his ear. They were coming over a piece of rising ground, and down below them sat Arthur and Violante on a fallen tree. She was tying the primroses into little bunches. The occupation and her light spring dress brought another sunny afternoon and other brighter-tinted flowers to Hugh’s mind. He could only see the top of Arthur’s hat; but her face was visible, raised in profile, tender and smiling, in the radiant sun. She was evidently answering a remark.
“Ah, then, do you ‘say die,’ so often?”
“Very often, I am afraid.”
“But I keep the olive-leaves, signor, and I look at them sometimes.”
“Ah, yes, I remember, I believe I have mine here still,” and Arthur took out his pocket-book, and after a moment’s search showed the little spray of leaves.
Neither Hugh nor Florence were so conventionally-minded as exactly to misinterpret the facts of what they had seen; and, besides, Arthur’s voice and manner were essentially unloverlike; but it seemed to Hugh as if those sweet looks and smiles were for all alike, awakened by his cousin as well as by himself. Something there was between them, and what might there not come of it by and by? while to Flossy the first sharp pang of uncontrollable jealousy was not unnaturally aggravated by Violante’s look of utter confusion and perplexity, as a turn of her head revealed their presence and they stepped down the bank beside her. She had not known that Hugh was with Arthur.
“You are still fond of flowers, Mademoiselle Mattei?” said Hugh, dryly.
She looked at him.
“These flowers are different,” she said. Perhaps she hardly knew what she meant.
“Fresher and newer,” said Hugh. Hugh was the worst of hypocrites, and Arthur had never seen him look quite as he looked now. Impossible, incredible!
“Flossy,” he began, “let us come—” when a sudden outbreak of voices and laughter near them made them all turn. Two of the Dysart girls had been of the party and had previously coaxed their mother to surprise Miss Venning with a supply of cake and new milk to be eaten in the wood, as an impromptu picnic, and Mrs Dysart had now made her appearance, followed by two of her little boys carrying the provisions.
Miss Venning did not emulate the schoolmistress who desired her charges to turn their faces to the hedge when a man passed by; still, she was conscious that Mrs Dysart might think the situation unusual; while, as for Hugh, he looked so indignant, so ashamed, and so uncomfortable that Rosa could hardly help laughing, and Arthur’s face of amusement was a study. But Mrs Dysart was a lady who took things easily, even the presence of two of her elder sons, who declared that they had followed as the milk was too heavy for their little brothers.
“What quantities of primroses you have got!” she said.
“You see, Hugh picked so many!” said Arthur. He could not resist the little joke, any more than he could help the bright courtesy that made him enter into the spirit of the thing, and pour out the milk and hand the cake.
“Drink, signorina!” he said, gaily, as he gave a cup to Violante.
And yet, when the thought came over him of what such a merry-making would have been to him last year, perhaps Hugh, angry and full of miserable misunderstanding as he was, need hardly have envied his cousin’s smile. For Violante stood, living and beautiful, before him; and though he shut his eyes to the sun-rays of possibility, he felt their warmth.
It was all over in ten minutes. Miss Venning summoned her flock; Hugh asked if Colonel Dysart was at home, and, with Arthur, followed the milk-jugs back to Ashenfold. Flossy, feeling miserable, cross, ready to cry, and utterly unheroic, thought she should hate the sight of primroses for ever; and Violante—flushed, excited, knowing that, whatever Hugh’s tone indicated, it was not indifference—thought the fair, tender blossoms had just a little of the sweetness that had clung to the white bouquet, one precious trophy of her stage-life.
Part 6, Chapter XLII.
At the Year’s End.
“This, only this; through sorrow cometh learning.
Through suffering, greater growth.
In patience, therefore, wait the golden morning
That draweth near us both.”
Part 6, Chapter XLIII.
Another Chance.
“Only the sound of a voice,
Tender and sweet and low—
That made my heart rejoice
A year ago!”
James Crichton was spending a few days at home, with a view to the proposed oratorio at H—, which was to take place the week after Easter. He was, however, obliged to go up to town on most days, and was rather fond of calling in at the Bank on his way from the station and walking or driving back with his brother and Arthur. Perhaps, this practice had partly induced Hugh’s visit to Ashenfold on the day of the primrose picnic. For Hugh was not fond of walking down Oxley High-street with Jem. It was all very well, he thought, to know every man, woman, and child in Redhurst, and even to be on civil terms with the inhabitants of Oxley; but Jem carried things too far.
When they passed the greengrocer’s—“Well, Mr Coleman, how d’ye do? How’s your little girl? Gone to boarding-school?—hope she’ll get on with her French. Why, Hugh, there’s Kitty Morris—how dark her hair’s grown! She’s not as pretty as she used to be.”
“I never saw her before, to my knowledge,” Hugh would probably reply.
“Never saw Kitty—oh, she belongs to that little print-shop. She’s always standing at the door. I declare, there’s old Tomkins! I must just cross over and speak to him.”
A delay of two or three minutes listening to old Tomkins; and then, still worse, an elaborate bow to two Miss Harrisons—and, though Hugh knew that neither the popularity nor the familiarity of the “Oh, Mr Crichton, ’ow pleased ma will be to see you!” could be intended for him, he would grow desperate, and march on, while Jem would finish up by saying:
“Ah, when you want to represent the borough send me to canvass—that’s all!” Jem had not been at home long before he proposed that Arthur should come back to London with him for the sake of a little change and variety. It was evident, he said, that a change was wanted, and the proposal was eagerly taken up by his mother, who pressed it upon Arthur in a way that hardly left him a choice.
“You see, my dear boy, you don’t look well, and are sadly out of spirits,” she said, in her outspoken way; “and this will be the very thing to do you good.”
“Jem is very kind; but it would not do me any good,” said Arthur.
“Oh, yes, my dear, it will. Change is always good for people, and you haven’t been much in London. You know we must all make efforts.”
“There is nothing the matter with me,” said Arthur, escaping from the room; while his aunt went on: “Poor boy, it’s time he should be a little cheerful, and he is not half so bright as he was at first.”
“No; that’s just what I say,” returned Jem; “everything here reminds him of her, and London will be all fresh.”
Even Flossy Venning was moved to give the same counsel, which she did with rather suspicious eagerness, half-afraid to seem unwilling to part with him. Arthur had no counter-arguments to urge but his own unwillingness, and this seemed only to prove the necessity of the measure; but he did not yield readily, though he half-believed they were right, and had not the energy to put an end to the discussion by a more emphatic refusal. Hugh would not interfere, save by the brief remark:
“Yes, things are wrong; but it will take more than that to set them right;” but at last he said:
“You do not wish to go, Arthur?”
“Oh, no,” said Arthur, in a sort of matter-of-course tone.
“Is there anything you would like better to do?” said Hugh, with the elaborate gentleness with which he often addressed his cousin.
“Oh, no,” said Arthur again. “I am sorry to make such a bad business of it. Perhaps, I ought to get away somewhere, and not make you all miserable.”
“It is not that,” said Hugh; “but Jem is always cheerful; you and he have tastes in common, and sometimes you do seem brighter for a little amusement.”
“That’s only because I’m such a fool, Hugh, you are so wonderfully good to me. Don’t you think I know how I put you out? I take up with things—sometimes I forget how I’ve changed—then I get deadly sick of it all and tired out. Or else a word—a look! Oh, I know well enough what I ought to do; but it’s making bricks without straw—I’ve no pluck left.”
Perhaps because he had, with whatever shortcomings, tried very hard to be “good” to Arthur, perhaps because the confidence was made to himself, Hugh was able to conceal the personal pain which these passionate words caused him; and it was with real tenderness that he answered:
“I think you have shown no want of pluck; but when you first talked of coming back I was afraid you would not be able to bear it; this place is full of sword-pricks for you. Aren’t you straining your nerves too far by staying here?”
Arthur did not answer, and Hugh, watching him as he stood leaning against the shutter and staring fixedly out into the sunshine, said, with more hesitation:
“Or is it that the want of an aim, of an object is worse than anything else, and that you feel less at sea when you are obliged to do something?”
“Yes,” said Arthur, quickly. “Yes. Ah, you understand! I want something to hold by.”
“But then,” said Hugh, “you mustn’t be too hard on yourself. You look ill, and sometimes you feel so; you don’t sleep, and then you are not fit for these efforts.”
“You seem to know all about me,” said Arthur; but not as if the comprehension hurt him.
“Yes, I believe I do,” said Hugh, looking away from him; but with a curious sense of a fresh spring in his heart. Was all that bitter involuntary watching, that keen, morbid analysis of Arthur’s feelings, which had cost him so much pain, to bear fruit at last? Had the sympathetic suffering which he had looked on as expiation been no fruitless penance, but a training that might enable him to make some poor amends? Was it possible that he, who had caused and shared the sorrow, could be the one to comfort and help?
“I think I do understand,” he said. “It will be best for you to stay here quietly, and join when you can in what goes on, or pass it by without any comment being made. Only, you must promise to tell me if you feel that it is getting too much for you—that is, if you will,” he added, with a little return to his self-distrust.
“Oh, yes, I’ll tell you, if you don’t find out,” said Arthur, with some of his natural liveliness; then added, earnestly and affectionately: “You have done me a great deal of good.”
Hugh had never felt so nearly happy since he had come back to England as at those words. If Arthur could feel so he should never want for comfort again. The first effort at really helping him for his own sake had broken through his self-conscious shrinking; and Hugh felt that, with so ready a response, he could comfort Arthur and find his own consolation in doing it.
There was no doubt of the response. Arthur never theorised about what he could or could not do and feel, and he turned instantly to Hugh’s offered comprehension and sympathy. Indeed, he was so easily cheered for the moment, and almost always so bright in manner, that it was difficult to believe how completely he had been thrown off his balance, and how much the strain was telling upon him. It was by his irresolution and changeableness and excitable vehemence, ending in utter indifference, rather than by absolute low spirits that his grief told. Sometimes he could not decide on the merest trifle, such as a walk versus a ride; and, again, he would involve himself in some undertaking, just because he was asked to do so, and then a voice, a look, the name of a place or a person—anything that jarred his nerves with a sudden recollection—would make the act impossible to him. In the same way, though he rarely had even a headache to complain of, he was often utterly unequal to an exertion which another day would be easy to him.
It was just the state for which change of scene seemed most desirable; but to which by itself it would do little good; and it was well, indeed, for Arthur that fate, or his own judgment, had placed him where all this irresolution and want of ballast was likely to result in nothing worse than idleness and uselessness. Had he been thrown in the way of temptation at this critical period neither his own principles nor the memory of Mysie might have supplied an adequate resisting force, while he would probably have broken down under solitude altogether.
That conversation was like the lifting of a veil. Hugh had always known where Arthur’s shoe pinched him; he only needed to act on his knowledge to be the very help that was wanted, and he had not won Arthur’s glance of thanks and relief twice before he began to look for it as his own greatest pleasure. Like many severe people when once softened, he was almost over-tender, and could not bear to see his cousin struggle with himself. He would not, therefore, allow the expedition to H— to be urged upon him; so Jem, Mrs Crichton, Frederica, and Flossy set off on the day appointed.
Hugh found time, in spite of this new interest, to display what the Vicar of Oxley called “a very proper feeling on the part of one of the chief laymen of the parish,” by attending the Confirmation. He had meditated much on the scene of the olive-leaves; but, in the new light thrown on Arthur’s mind, it had lost much of its sting. Not so with Flossy. She had never dreamt that her unselfish love could be marred by such foolish, miserable jealousy. Did silent devotion mean that she was to be wretched whenever he spoke to another woman? Her thoughts wandered, her mind was disturbed, she wondered as to Violante’s past history, it was an effort to think of the scene before her.
Hugh watched Violante from a distance, and perceived that she was not aware of his presence. The impressionable Italian nature was lifted into enthusiasm by the first religious ceremony in which she had ever taken part. Her eyes were bright and tearful, her cheeks flushed. This epoch in her life did not present itself to her as a moral crisis, as a new resolve to fulfil difficult duties, a strain after a recollectedness and gravity respected but hardly attained to. It came to her as a new happiness, a new love and a new sense of protection. She was not conscious that she felt differently from her companions; and Flossy watched this beautiful fervour with a sort of awe, even while she half-distrusted it as a lasting motive of action.
Before they left the church a hymn was sung and as Violante’s heart swelled with the words and the music, unconsciously she raised her voice too, and its long silent notes smote on her ear, clear and full, as when she had sung last in the opera-house of Civita Bella. She dropped down on her knees and hid her face. Had it come back to her—this invaluable gift, this terrible, beautiful possession? Was her new ease of living to slip away from her, and must she return to the “pains austere” of the talent which belonged to her and to no other? She had heard a great deal lately about her duty, and for her “her duty” had always meant singing in public. And her father was coming; and he had not been successful. But no one had heard her—no one would know! Hitherto she had but helplessly yielded to the will of others—this was the first moral struggle she had ever known. She saw and heard no more of what was passing till they reached home, when she escaped from the others and ran away by herself down to the farther end of the garden. She stood still in the shrubbery under its budding green, and listened. All was silent, but the twitter of the birds; and softly, timidly, she began again to sing the hymn that she had just heard:
“Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire!” and as she went on the notes rose fuller and clearer, and she could not but rejoice in their sweetness. Then she paused, and, with a sense of desperation, began to sing the melody so fraught with memories of every sort, the never-to-be-forgotten “Batti, batti.” And, as she sang, Rosa came down the garden path, and beheld her standing under the trees, in her white confirmation dress, and singing the passionate operatic love-song with a curious look of resolution on her face. She broke off suddenly, and threw herself into her sister’s arms: “Rosa, Rosa! I will be good. I meant to tell you. My voice, my voice! Oh, father, father!”
The voice was choked in an agony of sobs and tears, and Rosa, hardly less agitated, held her in her arms and tried to soothe her.
As soon as she could speak she sobbed out: “It has come back, and—and I will sing for father—but, oh! I thought I should stay hero always and teach the little ones.”
“Indeed, my darling, you shall not come away from here yet.”
“No, and I could not act.”
“No, that you never shall; but, darling, to hear your voice again!”
There was a little pause; then Violante said:
“I may stay here and learn things a little longer—and afterwards I will sing at concerts—if—if—”
She faced her probable future; but there was still an “if” in her life.
Part 6, Chapter XLIV.
Jem’s Ideal.
“Faultily faultless—icily regular—splendidly null.”
The weather favoured the choir festival at H— and the production of spring dresses for the occasion. James cast critical eyes on his mother’s bonnet and on Frederica’s hat; and anxiously consulted Arthur as to whether he liked a flower in the button-hole of a morning.
“Oh, yes, when you want to look festive,” said Arthur, without paying much attention till he was roused from the perusal of the “Times” by a crash in the conservatory; and on hastening to the rescue perceived Jem, contemplating the ruins of his mother’s best azalea, which he had knocked over in trying to reach a bit of fern beyond it. Three dainty little bouquets were already lying in a row.
“Well, Jem, you have done it now!”
“Oh, confound the thing, yes—and it’s time to be off. Isn’t the carriage there?”
“Not yet. Are you going to wear three bouquets?”
“No,” said Jem, looking foolish, “I was only choosing the best. I think I’ll go without.”
“You couldn’t improve on that rosebud, and it might come in handy,” said Arthur, gravely.
“Well,” snatching it up. “Just pick up that pot. I hear the carriage.”
“Pick up the pot!” ejaculated Arthur, as Jem rushed away, “when it’s in fifty pieces! I shall retire before I’m supposed to have thrown it down. I say, Hugh,” as he came back to the house, “who’s the attraction at H—? Jem is evidently on tenter-hooks.”
It was this easy laughter and readiness to joke on what would have seemed to him a tender subject that had always puzzled Hugh in Arthur; but now he was glad to see him amused on any terms, as he answered, gravely:
“I daresay there are several; but I haven’t heard him mention anyone in particular.”
“Perhaps he wanted a bouquet apiece and I’ve spoiled sport! What a pity!”
James recovered his equanimity as they drove away, and was very smiling and chatty by the time they picked up Flossy, fresh and spring-like, and prepared to enjoy herself, though she had hoped that the party might have been differently constituted. They had about twenty miles to go by train, and James made himself very agreeable to her, mentally thinking her less overpowering than usual. He asked after Violante and listened with much interest to Flossy’s account of the return of her voice, and her subsequent resolution.
“But her sister says she must stay with us till next year, that she may grow quite strong and finish her education. She is going to London in May.”
“Indeed! Perhaps I shall see her there.”
“Is Arthur going with you?” asked Flossy, who had been meditating on this simple question ever since she joined them.
“No. Poor boy, he couldn’t make up his mind to it. I should have had to leave him alone a good deal, and he doesn’t seem up to gaieties.”
“Oh, no!”
“No—he laughed in an odd sort of way—and said: that I’d better not help him to cast off from his moorings; but I’m sure being at home doesn’t answer. He has a bright way with him; but I see more and more how he is altered. His eyes have a sort of wretched look, instead of their old jolly one—don’t you know what I mean?”
“Yes; as if he wanted something.”
“Exactly. I think he’ll have to make a change. I wish he could go abroad and begin a new life altogether—in India, or somewhere.”
“Would that be best?” said Florence, slowly.
“I think so. But there’s one thing—Hugh seems to understand him now, and he has got excellent judgment when he likes to use it.”
Poor Flossy! That conversation did not raise her spirits, or prepare her to enjoy her day. There was a dreadful probability in James’s suggestion, and she mused over it while he was talking to his mother and urging her to drive at once to the Archdeacon’s.
“My dear, we have our tickets—we shall see them afterwards.”
“But, they have ways and means of getting in, you know; and you would avoid the crowd.”
Mrs Crichton yielded after a little demur, and they drove to Archdeacon Hayward’s, where they were politely received and offered an entrance with the Cathedral ladies, Mrs Hayward being glad to be civil to Mrs Spencer Crichton. The girls were introduced to three or four fair, tall young ladies, much alike in dress and demeanour, with aquiline features and graceful figures, and a very proper amount of conversation. Jem sat profoundly silent, with his hat in his hand and his rosebud in his coat, till one of the Miss Haywards, not Helen, said:
“You are fond of music, I believe, Mr Crichton?”
“Oh, devotedly!” said Jem, smiling.
“And there is nothing like Handel?”
“Very fine!” said James.
“Why, Jem, I thought you despised him?” said Freddie, abruptly. “I thought he wasn’t a new light.”
“Is that one of your heresies, Mr Crichton?” said another Miss Hayward, from behind; and Jem turned round, with startling rapidity, and asked who had been setting him down as a heretic?
As the oratorio took place in the Cathedral the conversation was limited, but Mrs Crichton was gratified by observing that Jem sat peacefully with his own party, discovered no odd acquaintances, and afterwards returned with them to the Archdeacon’s, where there was a large party to luncheon.
Miss Helen Hayward was polite to Mrs Crichton, who remarked to Frederica how nice it was to see girls attentive to their guests, and not forgetful, or taken up with their own affairs.
“Yes, auntie; but she always talks in the same tone of voice,” said Freddie, suspecting a didactic motive.
Flossy had a dull neighbour at lunch, and leisure to look about her, and she felt inclined to pity Jem, who sat opposite by the third Miss Hayward, whose mild restrained smiles and obvious, if intelligent, remarks did not strike her as very interesting. Presently, however, she perceived that James had more and more to say on his side; that he made Miss Helen laugh and blush, and look at her plate, and then across the table to see if her sisters were noticing her. This amused Flossy, but she was surprised to observe that Jem looked across at her, and when he met her eyes actually blushed too.
Helen retreated when they moved, and began to entertain some of the young ladies; and very soon the Redhurst party were obliged to start to catch their train for Oxley. The parting was cordial on all sides, and Flossy observed to James:
“I did not know you knew the Miss Haywards so well.”
“Oh,” said James, “I met one of them when she was staying in London, and I came here once to sing at a concert for some schools. They’re very nice girls, Flossy—quite in your line—go to Sunday-school, and everything.”
“I daresay,” said Flossy, who did not think this implied a great stretch of virtue.
“And not at all stiff, when you know them.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Crichton, “I think I should like to ask two of them over to stay for a few days. I am sure Hugh could not say they were chatterboxes, as he does of the Clintons.”
An indescribably comical expression crossed Jem’s face.
“I think it would be a very good plan, mamma,” he said. “You always get on with, nice young ladies.”
“Yes, my dear; I get dull by myself,” said Mrs Crichton, with a sigh. “Not that we have much amusement to offer them.”
“I don’t know that they mind about amusements,” said James.
He was dying for a confidant; for Jem could never keep his affairs to himself, but he did not quite dare to enlighten his mother as to his wishes, for fear she should betray them by over-zeal to the Miss Haywards. It had not quite come to the point of announcing his intentions to Hugh, who would not easily have been convinced of their seriousness. Arthur, who knew the names and charms of most of Jem’s many sweethearts, would have been his natural outlet; but how could he tell his love-story to him? Nevertheless, as they sat smoking together that very evening, out it all came—provoked, certainly, by a little joke about the three bouquets; and Arthur was so much amused at the notion of Jem’s choice that the latter was soon absorbed in convincing him that he had finally made it; which, by his unusual modesty, he at last succeeded in doing.
“Why, you know, you’re irresistible.”
“But she never would be attracted by the same sort of humbug that goes down with most girls.”
“Oh, come now, Jem, you don’t mean to say so. I don’t think I should like her the better for that.”
“She’d look to what one really was.”
“I’d try a little humbug, though, now and then.”
Jem laughed.
“I shan’t be here when they come, you see. It’s supposed they will suit Hugh; and he is just the sort of fellow—”
“She’d admire? But, you know, Jem, Hugh is tolerably safe; and if you came down on the Saturday we might refer to your excellences beforehand.”
“I wouldn’t say too much,” said Jem, seriously; then suddenly, “Arthur, you are a good fellow. It’s too bad of me to tell you all this—”
“Don’t!—don’t!” interposed Arthur.
“Why should I mind, Jem? It doesn’t make any difference.”
The invitation was sent and accepted by the right pair of sisters, and before they arrived Jem’s family had a very good notion of what was expected of them, and were all ready to make the visit pleasant to the young ladies. Arthur divined that Helen, at any rate, was well inclined to be pleased. She was apparently a very good girl, cultivated and intelligent, able to talk on all the subjects expected from a young lady, polite to himself and Hugh, but not particularly interested in them. She indulged in a mild but evident enthusiasm for Mrs Crichton, and made friends with Flossy over school-teaching, books, and favourite heroes; and she was very pretty and very well dressed. There was, too, a sort of good-tempered, sunny satisfaction about her, which was not without its charm, especially as the other sister was rather critical of their acquaintances, and Arthur overheard between them the following fragment:
“He goes about smoking on a Sunday afternoon.”
“But he always goes to church again in the evening, Constance.”
“And I don’t think, do you, it’s quite good style to wear that sort of coat?”
“Don’t you?”
“A gentleman should have no peculiarities.”
“I’m sure, Con, there couldn’t be more of a gentleman—”
Here Arthur thought himself bound to retreat, having discovered that the fair Helen, could lose her composure sometimes. Jem arrived on the Saturday evening, very much on his best behaviour, and listening to the Miss Haywards playing the pieces and singing the songs which he had most been wont to criticise. However, he gave Helen the names of some new ones, and sang himself, as he well knew how to do, contenting himself with finding fault with Freddie’s touch. Hugh did not show off the skill acquired under Signor Mattei, which, truth to tell, was not very considerable.
“I never sing,” he said, emphatically; but he sat by and watched, and when some particular old English ballads were asked for, and Jem began to wonder where they were, he checked him quietly, knowing by Arthur’s flush and quiver that they were among the books which he could not bear to see touched. Arthur looked grateful, but Jem found the book on the piano the next morning.
A slight flaw in the harmony was produced on Sunday afternoon by the discussion of a new colour, which Miss Constance Hayward declared to be vulgar, and never worn by any lady “who was very nice.”
Jem defended it as found in the old masters. It was very artistic.
“I’d rather look like a lady than like a picture,” said Miss Hayward, a little dryly.
“I quite agree with you, Miss Hayward,” said Hugh.
“Hugh’s taste is conventional usually,” said Jem, in a wicked undertone.
“I like that funny green,” said Helen, in her soft, changeless voice, as she rose to get ready for church.
“What makes you laugh so, Arthur?” said Hugh, savagely, as they remained for the purpose of taking a walk together, Arthur having a great shrinking from Sunday afternoon at Redhurst.
“I was laughing at Jem. He’s fairly caught at last!”
“Do you mean that this is more than Jem’s way?”
“Oh, yes, and it’s coming rapidly to a crisis. Don’t you see? I wonder which will rule the roast? Will Jem dress her in ‘funny green,’ or will he have to cut his coat according to his lady?”
“It seems to me very unsuitable,” said Hugh, after a slightly-puzzled pause.
“That’s the beauty of it, I suppose. One wouldn’t have been half so much surprised if Jem had fallen in love with Mademoiselle Mattei!”
“Mademoiselle Mattei had a great many admirers,” said Hugh, as he looked out of window. “I suppose, now she has recovered her voice, she will fulfil her engagement to that, scoundrel—I mean that manager—Vasari.”
“She was very forlorn at the loss of him, poor child,” said Arthur, making most unconscious mischief.
“She told you so?”
“Yes—pretty much. I told her to keep up her heart, and she picked some olive-leaves as a reminder. The other day she told me how she had kept my advice. She is a confiding little creature, and very simple-hearted.”
A silence. Then.
“James is perfectly right to stick to the conventional type—that is, to a known and proved one. Where shall we go this afternoon?”
“Oh, anywhere—I don’t care—I think I won’t go out,” said Arthur, irresolutely.
“Well, you will have a quiet afternoon,” answered Hugh, glad of the solitude; but even then he paused and retraced his steps.
“Arthur, if this affair of Jem’s worries you—”
“Oh, no, no. It gives me something fresh to think about,” said Arthur, with evident truth. “I’m only—tired.”
“Well, rest then,” said Hugh, with the kind smile that Arthur liked.
Nothing should ever make him thoughtless of Arthur’s comfort; but, unsatisfactory as the conversation had been, there was growing up in Hugh’s mind the conviction that somehow, somewhere, some when, he would have to ask Violante to tell him the truth.
Part 6, Chapter XLV.
Past and Present.
“’Tis time my past should set my future free
For life’s renewed endeavour.”
Rosa Mattei was sitting by herself in her aunt’s drawing-room. That afternoon Violante was expected to arrive from Oxley, and the next day they would meet Signor Mattei at the lodging close by, which was to be their home for the present. It would not be nearly so pleasant for Rosa as the ease and companionship of her present quarters; but she had learnt to accommodate herself to circumstances, and did not fret over the prospect of dull evenings. Besides, it would not be for very long. Rosa’s fine, considerate face rounded into a look of satisfaction. She had a great deal to tell Violante and her father. How would they take her news?
“Well, Rosa, sitting and repenting?” said her cousin Beatrice, coming into the room.
“No, Trixy, I’m not going to repent,” said Rosa. “I’m very well satisfied with my arrangements.”
“I think you are a wise girl, and a lucky girl,” said Miss Grey; “but I should like to know how you tamed your wild flights down to this result.”
“Well, Beatrice, I never in all my life saw the use of fretting over what can’t be helped. It seems to me that the present is just as good a time as the past, and deserves at least as much from one. Things aren’t any the better really because they happened ever so long ago.”
“Yes. How long have you been so philosophical?”
Rosa blushed, but held her ground.
“When a thing is impossible it may be the best thing in itself, but something else may be far better than the shadow of it.”
”‘A live dog is better than a dead lion?’”
“Well, yes; now, you see, it was not possible for me to go on the stage, so it was better to put away that, and—and my school-girl fancies with it. I’m not imaginative enough to live on memories, particularly memories of—nothing! And this came—”
“I’m only afraid you might find it a little humdrum—”
“Humdrum, Beatrice? How could it be when Mr Fairfax is so clever, and so interesting?”
“Ha, ha, Rosy. Come, confess now. This talk is all very well; but you have just gone and fallen in love with Mr Fairfax, and you’ll begin life fresh.”
“If I have I’m afraid it’s since I accepted him! I thought—that is, I did not think. But you see, Beatrice, it is not often that a girl is so fortunate as to meet with anyone—”
“Like him? I’m quite content, Rosy. You’ll do. And now tell me about the prudent part of it.”
“The prudent part is,” said Rosa, “that he wishes me to have Violante with me whenever I like—always, if need be. If she gets on better with father, and if this concert scheme comes to good, of course that won’t be necessary; but still I shall be able to take care of her, though she has almost grown into a woman.”
“I suppose she will go back to school?”
“Oh, yes, I trust so. It is so good for her. But it is time, I think, that I should go and meet her.”
Rosa was very happy, and just a little ashamed of herself for being so. As she had said, she could not live, and never had lived, on the memories of her first love; though circumstances had at times brought them vividly before her, the very renewal of them had shown her how entirely they were vain. Rosa had a very passionate but by no means a sentimental nature, and both her common-sense and her craving for a vivid, happy life forbade her to find satisfaction, in shadowy recollections.
“I am neither silly enough, nor unworldly enough,” she thought, as she held Mr Fairfax’s letter in her hand, and felt that its offer would be a good exchange for that bitter old sorrow to which she had offered up sacrifices enough already.
And, as for that other dream of ambition, it was tempting, but it was nearly impossible; and Rosa was a woman and had tried what earning her living meant, and could guess pretty well at the taste of the apples of fame, as well as of the Dead-sea fruits of failure. And, as Rosa made up her mind to say yes, she became aware that she was excusing herself for her readiness to do so, not arguing against any lurking unwillingness. It is needless to say that her uncle and aunt were pleased at her good fortune. Everyone would be pleased. And it was wonderful how well Mr Fairfax understood her ideas. Fancy having Violante to stay with her in a pretty little house; or, still better, going with the master of that pretty house to hear Violante sing and feel proud of her talents! It was from such happy visions that Rosa was roused by the sound of Violante’s voice.
She looked a little paler and graver than when they had last met, not quite so happy or so much at her ease; and almost her first words were:
“I have been singing a great deal, Rosina, and I think my voice is good.”
“So you have made up your mind to try to sing again?” said Rosa.
“Yes, Rosina, after the summer I will come home and sing.”
“You shall not do it if it frightens you and makes you unhappy, my darling.”
“But—father will wish it. And I think everyone is unhappy.”
“My dear child, what makes you take such a gloomy view of life?”
“Why, look, Rosa. Signor Arthur’s heart is breaking for his Mysie; while Miss Florence loves him, ah, I know how much!”
“Miss Florence! Does she? I thought her head was full of classes and school-girls.”
“Yes, she will not sit and cry; but I know how she listens when Freddie talks of him, and she will not begin herself to speak of him, but when I ask her questions then she will tell me. She thinks I am only a little girl and know nothing.”
“And you, yourself, dear?”
“I,” said Violante; “Rosa, I think he is ashamed of having loved me, and that he will never speak to me again.”
“Violante, it is wrong to let you stay there! I shall not consent to it.”
“Ah, no, Rosina, no! There I can see that he does not care for me; away, I should think—and hope—and fancy—and—and—oh, let me stay!”
“I am afraid that is not true,” said Rosa, and Violante blushed; for she knew in her heart that Rosa was right.
“You look well, Rosina mia,” she said.
“Yes, Violante, I shall surprise you very much. How should you like—you never thought that I should be engaged to anyone?”
“Rosina mia!” exclaimed Violante, with eyes opening wide, and accents of blank astonishment, and then a shower of kisses and questions.
She listened to the story with all the delight that Rosa had anticipated, and after every detail had been discussed between them there was a silence, as Violante sat in her favourite place, leaning against her sister’s knee.
“Now,” she said at last, “now Rosa, you can tell how hard—”
She paused, and Rosa could hardly help laughing.
“My dear child, I knew that long ago. Listen, Violante, I think it is good for you to know, I was older than you when my trouble came, and I think it was as bad as yours. Yet, you see, I am happy.”
“Did you know Mr Fairfax then?” eagerly said Violante.
“No, no,” said Rosa, “quite another person. It doesn’t signify who he was. It’s all gone now.”
“Oh, Rosina, was it when I was a tiresome little girl, and troubled you?”
“You were my one comfort, my darling, never any trouble. But, you see, I told you to show you that one day happiness may come to you, though quite in a different way from what you now fancy.”
Violante started up, clasping her hands. “No, no, Rosina! I will not be happy so! I would rather have my sorrow. There would be nothing left in my heart without it. If he is cruel, he cannot take that away!”
She spoke so because she was a passionate untaught creature, with instinctive impulses, which she had never learnt to resist. Yet, did not her lover feel every day the force of her words; had he not lost with her the best of himself? Was not Florence, with all her sense, and all her intellect, resigning herself to the same fate? What would Arthur be without the memory that was breaking his heart? Her words awakened an echo strong enough in Rosa’s heart to silence her for the moment.
“If I changed, I should be nothing!” repeated Violante.
“You would be what your life had made you, Violante,” said Rosa, “ready for what might come. And you would want something real. But, dear, how should you know anything about it? I should have said the same.”
Violante said no more; but she thought that, after all, Rosa’s circumstances were different, for her unknown lover could never have been like “Signor Hugo.”
Probably both the girls prepared to meet their father the next day with some trepidation, and as they awaited his arrival they owned to each other that it was very strange to be thinking of supper, and making coffee again.
“It makes me want Maddalena,” said Violante.
“Poor Maddalena! She would not like London fogs. But if I did not make the coffee I am sure there is no one else who could make it fit to drink.”
In due time Signor Mattei arrived, very affectionate, very voluble, and strangely familiar to his daughters.
“Ah, my children; how I have pined for you! While I have been toiling, you have prospered, and I find you richly clothed;” here he indicated a piece of new pink ribbon that was tied round Violante’s neck.
“Yes, father,” said Rosa, “we have some good news for you, each of us. Will you have mine first?” and, Signor Mattei assenting, she made her communication, while Violante sat by wondering how this love-story would be received.
But Signor Mattei was romantic only on one point.
“He is, no doubt,” he said, “a fascinating youth, and respectable, since he is your uncle’s friend; but, figlia mia, his income? Ah, you cannot live on air!”
“Mr Fairfax is not a youth, father,” said Rosa, slightly hurt; “he is five-and-thirty, and he has a very good income, which he will explain to you, himself, to-night, if you will allow him. I shouldn’t think of living on air.”
Violante had not a strong sense of the ludicrous; but even she could hardly help smiling a little at Rosa’s aggrieved air, and could not help wondering how her father would have managed to coerce her resolute, independent sister, even if he had been dissatisfied with “the fascinating youth’s” prospects, as he replied:
“Then, Rosina, if that point is clear, I will consent.”
“Thank you, father.”
“And will Violante bake a crust of bread for her poor old father when you have left us?”
“Yes, father. I— My voice is come back. I can sing now.”
Signor Mattei’s whole face changed from its sentimental air to a look of fiery enthusiasm. He started to his feet, and caught her hands.
“Your voice, child? All your voice—every note? Let me hear, let me hear.”
He pulled her towards the piano, which had been esteemed by Rosa a necessary part of the furniture of their lodgings, and, controlling her heart-beating, with a great effort she sang up and down the scale. Signor Mattei fairly wept for joy. He kissed her over and over again, he made her repeat the notes, he crossed himself, and thanked the Saints in devouter language than his daughters had often heard from him; but finally exclaimed, with an air of chagrin:
“And Vasari has married a woman with a voice like a screech-owl!”
“That is surely of no consequence,” said Rosa. “Violante can never try opera-singing again. She will never be an actress, and her health would fail again directly if she attempted it. But she is willing, after her year at school is over, to try what she can do in the way of concert-singing. And you know that, here in England, no career could be better or more profitable.”
“If you wish it, padre mio,” said Violante, “I will try now to do what you wish.”
“My sacrifices are repaid!” said Signor Mattei, though he could hardly have defined what the sacrifices were.
The interview with Mr Fairfax, who shortly arrived, was beyond Rosa’s hopes. Violante, though secretly wondering at her sister’s taste, could not but be pleased at his kindness, and was forced to acknowledge to herself that, under the most favourable circumstances, she could not have imagined Signor Hugo either condescending to so many explanations, managing to praise exactly the music Signor Mattei liked, or giving quite such a comprehending and encouraging smile and nod as the one received by Rosa, when her father was a little argumentative.
Signor Mattei obtained one or two evening engagements, and a good many pupils, so that Violante did not feel bound to begin her new life in a hurry; and Rosa began with a good heart her modest preparations for the wedding, which was to take place in the middle of August. The Greys gave a musical party, at which Signor Mattei played, and once Mr Fairfax took them all to the opera. Rather to Rosa’s surprise, Violante showed no reluctance to make one of the party. How did she feel when she sat and looked on at “Il Don Giovanni,” and saw another, and how superior, performer playing her old part of Zerlina? Her voice, at its sweetest and clearest, had never been quite such as this, and she seemed for the first time to know what was meant by acting, as she looked on at the world-famous prima donna.
This power, this popularity, this applause was what the father had looked for; the loss of this was what he had mourned. Could she ever have had it, or anything like it? Did she regret now that she could not? Did the woman see the value of what the girl had turned from with tears and distaste? For in this past year, what with trouble, change, and experience, Violante had grown into a woman.
She sat quite still, with her delicate face, pale and passive, and her eyes fixed on the stage. She had pushed all this away from her, all this light and sparkle, this splendour and excitement that had seemed so hard and glaring, so utterly untempting to her shy, tender spirit. What had she gained from that other vision that had worn such a lovely hue? It seemed just then to Violante as if both love and fame had played her false. Since she had lost the first, would it not be better to try and regain the second? It was but a passing thought, but it touched her to the quick. She put put her hand, and held Rosa’s tight, as Zerlina curtseyed, and picked up her bouquets.
“Oh,” she thought, “I would be Zerlina. I would do it all, all, if he would throw one. It was better to have all the trouble when he loved me—when he gave me my flowers—my flowers—”
Rosa was not surprised that the old association cost Violante that night such tears as she had not shed for many a month, and Violante wept in silence, uttering no word of her secret yearning and regret.