ORIOLE’S DAUGHTER
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ORIOLE’S DAUGHTER
_A NOVEL_
BY
JESSIE FOTHERGILL
AUTHOR OF
‘THE FIRST VIOLIN,’ ‘A MARCH IN THE RANKS,’ ‘PROBATION,’
ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. II.
[Illustration]
LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
1893
[_All rights reserved_]
ORIOLE’S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER IX.
As time went on, and the situation slowly developed itself, Minna
was forced into an unwilling, annoyed kind of admiration for Signora
Dietrich--the admiration which one must necessarily experience for a
woman who has a distinct, rounded purpose in her mind, and who devotes
herself with a single aim to the accomplishment of that purpose. Fulvia
had availed herself of Minna’s invitation to come and see her, and
presented herself almost every day: ostensibly to attend to her birds;
in reality, as they both knew, to escape from the fear and constraint
and oppression outside, into a more congenial atmosphere. It was here
that Minna began to feel that admiration for the signora already spoken
of.
She could not doubt that Fulvia’s mother knew perfectly well how
wretched her daughter was, nor that, when with Minna, she sought relief
from that wretchedness in, at any rate, occasional conversations on
the subject of her unhappiness. It would have been very easy for
Signora Dietrich to prevent the intercourse, forbid her daughter to
enter Minna’s rooms, put a stop to the whole thing, at any moment she
might choose to do so. But she did nothing of the kind, nor ever made
the least objection to the visits. She was evidently very sure of her
power, and did not trouble herself to interfere in small matters. It
angered Minna, even while she admired it. She was, as has so often
been said, not accustomed to be thwarted, and this calm smiling
contempt for her influence irritated her extremely.
In a futile kind of way Minna had tried to find out something about
Marchmont, wishing she could hear of something so greatly to his
discredit that it might impress even Signora Dietrich with his
undesirability as a husband for her daughter. In vain; she did vaguely
hear something about him, but nothing that could be called exactly to
his discredit--only that he had appeared in London some two years ago,
and had there made a not very successful effort to ‘get into’ society;
that he had been hated intensely for his meanness and vulgarity; that
he had proposed for an English girl of good family, great beauty,
and little or no fortune, and had been sent about his business with
disdain; all of which might be disagreeable for the gentleman himself,
especially if he could not conquer himself of his habit of stinginess,
but which formed no data on which to go to Signora Dietrich and say,
‘You cannot possibly let your daughter marry this man.’
If Minna was conscious that the signora must be aware of the interviews
between herself and Fulvia, and must be unable to approve of them,
there were other thoughts which it never entered into her head to think
of, but as to which she was destined to be, later, much enlightened.
In the meantime the winter progressed; and she was still at Casa
Dietrich, still profoundly interested in the drama going on there,
still cherishing a spark of hope, founded on the fact that, as the
marriage had not yet taken place, perhaps it might be, ‘somehow or
other,’ altogether averted. She forced herself to be smiling and polite
to the _padrona_ of the house, hoping that by studious civility her
word, if ever she should find a chance to put it in, might carry some
weight with it--in which feeble assumption she merely illustrated the
fact that the wish is father to the thought, and that she utterly
miscalculated her enemy’s nature and capacities.
Fulvia began to look thin and pale, but, unfortunately, even more
beautiful and attractive in her delicacy than when she had been in
blooming health. Her great eyes grew more lustrous, her beautiful face
gained a charm of haunting, wistful loveliness, from the very fact
that its rounded contours were changed; and the mournful droop of
her mouth was undoubtedly exquisitely beautiful. Sometimes she cast
aside her despondency, with an effort, perhaps, but completely, and
was her gay old self again, or very nearly so; laughed at them all,
caressed her mother, alternately teased and coaxed Signor Giuseppe
till his sorry expression relaxed and his eyes softened, and when he
ventured to turn them full upon the girl and study her, as he had
been wont to do, his sadness vanished; love and joy shone from his
eyes, ‘carina carisssima’ flowed from his lips, and there was a gleam
of happiness once more. These gleams, it will be understood, never
occurred when Marchmont was present. Then, Giuseppe either froze into
haughty silence, or worked himself into a fever of irritated impatience
which ended in his flinging himself out of the house, and tearing up
and down the busy, tortuous streets till he felt calmer, or--and that
happened oftenest--took himself out of the way entirely, unable to bear
the sight of Fulvia’s uneasy wretchedness, of her mother’s triumphant
self-complacency, and of Marchmont’s nauseous attempts at flattery and
love-making.
Signor Giuseppe was indeed a changed and saddened man. Minna pitied
him from the depths of her heart, and did her utmost to afford him
any silent consolation that lay in her power. She fancied that, to a
certain extent, she had succeeded, for he had once or twice called upon
her at the studio, in the twilight hour, on his way home from the cares
and toils of _l’ufficio_. She had received him with extended hand, a
smile of pleasure, a hearty ‘You are welcome,’ had drawn a chair near
to the stove, and he had sat down upon it. The first time he had made
some spasmodic attempts at conversation about all kinds of outside
things: a crisis in the Ministry, a message from the King, some English
war news that had come, and so forth.
These efforts had by-and-by died down into silence, and when he
found that this silence did not annoy her, that he was allowed to
sit still as long as he liked and indulge it, he had availed himself
of the privilege, and passed an hour or two several times a week in
her sitting-room or her studio. Minna made as if she noticed nothing
peculiar or unusual in this conduct. He did not speak of his feelings;
he did not allude to anything that was going on at home. The second
time that he came she was not in her studio, but in the sitting-room,
seated at the table drawing. She did not speak after they had exchanged
a _buon’ giorno_, but continued her work with diligence, and had almost
ceased to be conscious of his presence in the room, when a deep sigh
struck on her ear. Looking up, she perceived Signor Oriole rising from
his chair, looking very haggard, very worn, very sad. He came up to
her, essayed a forlorn kind of smile, and said:
‘I must go away now, cara signora. Thank you a thousand times for your
hospitality.’
‘A very small hospitality,’ replied Minna gently.
He shook her hand slowly and limply, and, looking at her, said in a
slow, sad voice:
‘It must be measured by what it is to me, not to you. To me it is much.
Signora, I am very unhappy.’
‘I know it, Signor Giuseppe,’ she said; ‘it grieves me to see it, and I
wish I were not so powerless to help you.’
‘Ah, you are very good!’ replied he, ‘good to me and good to the poor
child. That is one kind of help. As for any other kind, nothing can
give it except an estate, and a banking account larger than those
possessed by Signor Marchmont.’ He laughed nervously, with a gleam of
his old sardonic amusement, and added: ‘Will you let me come again, if
you do not find it quite too annoying?’
‘Come when you please--every day if you like, if it does the least
good.’
‘Grazie infinite,’ replied poor Signor Giuseppe, and was gone.
About this time, too, Minna hit upon another plan for helping Fulvia
herself through some of the weary hours which she had to pass in her
lover’s company. Minna had lost the fervour of delight and enthusiasm
in her work which she had felt for some little time after she had
shown it to Signor Giuseppe, and explained to him its origin. Her
hand would not return with any pleasure to shaping that figure of
youth and strength and life, of happiness in the midst of toil, which
had inspired her months ago. She covered it up, wondering sadly when
she would feel fit to return to it; and she determined instead to do
a likeness of Fulvia. In order to accomplish this purpose, it was
necessary to ask her mother’s permission, which Minna boldly did.
‘Signora, I have a favour to ask of you,’ she said one night, as they
stood in the hall outside the dining-room when dinner was over.
‘Anything in the world that lies in my power. I am your servant,’ said
the signora, showing her white teeth in a sweet, malicious smile.
‘I wish you would let Fulvia sit to me. I am very anxious to do a bust
of her, or to try if I can do one.’
‘You flatter us both, signora. I find that your amiability makes far
too much of my little one. Her head will be turned, but I cannot refuse
such a request.’
‘Oh, thank you! Then she may come to the studio and give me some
sittings?’
‘With pleasure. Only--you will excuse me for reminding you that Fulvia
is now betrothed to Mr. Marchmont, who therefore has the first claim
upon her time. He will be enchanted, I am sure, that you should take
her likeness, but at the same time he will doubtless often wish to be
present when she is sitting to you.’
Minna had been prepared for something of the kind.
‘That I find perfectly natural under the circumstances,’ she said, with
unmoved countenance and undiminished cheerfulness. ‘Fulvia can go with
me to my studio, and Mr. Marchmont shall be admitted at whatever hour
he likes to call--when she is there.’
‘Then we may consider the matter settled,’ said the signora, with
the air of a great lady graciously bestowing a favour on a very
insignificant person, all of which Minna felt--felt to the marrow of
her bones, and boiled with indignation at being thus patronized by that
‘creature’; but all of which she resolutely swallowed, and swallowed
with a good grace, for the sake of getting this slight alleviation in
Fulvia’s distasteful day’s duties.
Thus it was arranged. From that day onwards Fulvia accompanied Minna
nearly every morning to her studio, and the work of modelling her
likeness began. Minna found it a perfectly fascinating occupation.
She was never tired of watching the charming head, of causing it to
turn this way and that, of trying the effect of different styles of
hair-dressing, of different veils or hoods, or draperies cast over
the glistening hair, of endeavouring to catch the effect of some
fleeting smile, the curve of some dimple, or the steadfast melancholy
of the beautiful mouth when sad thoughts had banished from its lips
all attempt at a smile. She began models in two or three different
attitudes, and was pleased with them all. The figure of the workman
was shrouded away from sight. He must be left until better days--till
the danger should be over and Fulvia safe and free from the hateful
bonds which at present held her.
Marchmont was graciously pleased to approve of the sittings, and to
give them much more frequently than they desired the pleasure of
his company while those sittings were going on. He was aware that
Minna, though visiting very little, did so of her own choice, and
that she could, had she so wished, have been a constant guest in
some of the most coveted society in Rome. For this reason, if for no
other, he approved. He was also fully conscious that she disliked
him more than words could express, and that it was only for Fulvia’s
sake that he was tolerated in these rooms; so, true to his type, he
experienced all the more pleasure in presenting himself repeatedly, and
behaving as one who was quite at his ease, boasting, swaggering, and
patronizing everyone and everything he came in contact with. They were
uncomfortable hours to Minna, those which this creature passed in her
sanctum; it was only Fulvia’s quiet but intense gratitude which gave
her the patience to continue to receive him.
One morning, when they were all three together, her friend Mrs.
Charrington called, came into the studio and sat down. Minna, with
great presence of mind, introduced her two visitors--Mr. Marchmont,
Signorina Dietrich. Marchmont, who had never yet succeeded in getting
an invitation to one of Mrs. Charrington’s evenings, and who was
convinced that it was entirely owing to the fact that he had so far
not made her acquaintance and been able to show her how delightful
he was, exhausted himself in attempts to be ingratiatingly polite.
With each ill-contrived effort he merely roused more thoroughly the
complete contempt of the cool-headed woman of the world, who never for
a moment betrayed her utter disdain of him--never for a moment allowed
him to gain the faintest shred of a vantage-ground or possibility
of approaching her any nearer. She replied with indifferent glacial
politeness and a smile to everything that he said, and she would
certainly cut him dead next time she met him in the Corso or on the
Pincian Hill.
She measured Fulvia from head to foot with calm, self-possessed, open
curiosity and interest, and looked from her to the bust of her which
was in progress, put up her eyeglass, and said:
‘Brava, Minna! You certainly have a talent, if not a genius, for
portraiture. That is simply admirable. You have a charming model
also--an inspiration in herself.’
She smiled with conventional sweetness, and bowed towards Fulvia, who
fixed her large eyes upon her with serious, inquiring earnestness, and
did not seem either fluttered or confused, pleased or displeased, by
the notice thus bestowed upon her.
‘Come and have tea with me this afternoon,’ said Mrs. Charrington to
Minna, as she rose to go.
‘Thank you, but----’
‘“But me no buts.” If not this afternoon, which? Or, if you can’t or
won’t come to me, tell me when I may come to you. I came not merely to
discharge myself of an invitation, but to see that something definite
was arranged, because I wish to see you.’
She stood and waited, her eyes fixed with unsparing shrewdness on
Minna’s face. The latter saw that the interview had to come. The sooner
it should be over the better.
‘I’ll come this afternoon. I can manage it,’ she said.
‘Very good. And let the tea-hour extend itself to dinner-time and the
evening as well. Now that I have you I may as well get all I can.’
‘Very well,’ said Minna unenthusiastically. ‘At five o’clock I’ll be
with you.’
‘Bene! Good-morning!’ with a comprehensive and perfectly meaningless
bow to Marchmont, and a condescending nod to Fulvia.
‘Allow me,’ exclaimed Marchmont, opening the door. ‘Did you drive? Let
me see you to your carriage.’
She made no objection. He went down the stairs with her, and presently
returned looking highly satisfied with himself.
‘A thoroughly stylish, well-bred person, Mrs. Charrington,’ he said
approvingly, and Minna repressed a shudder. ‘Has she long been a friend
of yours, Mrs. Hastings?’
‘Ever since I first visited Rome--now eight years ago,’ replied Minna
dryly. ‘Now, Fulvia mia, I release you. We will put on our bonnets and
go home to lunch.’
They did so. Minna did not return to her studio that afternoon, but
presented herself at the appointed hour, and rang the bell of Mrs.
Charrington’s _piano_. She found her alone.