Fulvia’s mocking amusement at her husband’s grandiose ideas as to
the society they would presently be called upon to entertain was not
altogether justified by the result. A good many people did come to call
upon them--a good many more people than Minna had expected to do so; as
for Fulvia, she had not expected anyone, except perhaps the parson of
the parish, with whom a visit to them would be all in the day’s work.
In spite of all her experience of the world in the last five years, she
had overrated the repellant power of somewhat misty antecedents when
backed by an anything but misty purse, suddenly appearing in the midst
of a remote country district, where variety was not too frequent, and
where curiosity was rampant. The clergyman did call, and it was known
that Mrs. Hastings was on intimate terms with Mrs. Marchmont. Mrs.
Marchmont’s beauty, like her husband’s riches, was a light which could
not be hidden under a bushel; it burnt through it, and was evident to
all who had the fortune to see her.
Society was kind enough to a certain extent to glaze over the fact
of Marchmont’s being a mere parvenu, and a disagreeable one. His
illness and helplessness were much in his favour, especially as it was
understood that he had no wish to cloister that beautiful young wife
whose devotion and absolute propriety of conduct were understood to
be exemplary. As the summer went on, invitations came, all of which
he feverishly insisted upon her accepting. She was utterly averse to
it, not, of course, from the motives attributed to her by society, but
from sheer inner joylessness, emotional and moral starvation. She had
been smitten to the heart when she had parted with her girlhood, and
the wonderful strength which was hers was not the strength of joy and
life, which initiates, enjoys, anticipates, but only that of repression
and endurance. Whether she stayed at home or whether she went abroad
was much the same to her. Each course was equally blank and barren and
futile.
But perhaps it was less troublesome to put on the fine clothes and go
and mix with others, with ever the same glacial smile, than to refuse
to do it, and submit to the querulous complaints and reproaches of
her husband. Minna, who usually loved quietness, was quite willing to
break through her habit to chaperon Fulvia, and she went out with her
constantly. There was only one verdict as to Mrs. Marchmont. She was
beautiful; she was clever; she was perfectly _comme il faut_; good
style, quiet, self-possessed, no nonsense about her, ‘so much more like
an Englishwoman than a foreigner,’ some discriminating critics said.
But, then, she had been thrown so much amongst English people--she was
so much with Mrs. Hastings--she had taken the stamp. The one fault that
was found with her was that she was almost too quiet--was, at times,
almost, if not quite, uninteresting.
Minna heard these comments, of course, and never replied to them.
Fulvia may have known more of them than was supposed. They were of
about as much consequence to her as if they had never been uttered.
Marchmont was feverishly eager to, as she euphoniously put it, ‘make
some return for all this hospitality,’ and lawn-tennis parties were
arranged, archery was revived, the biggest strawberries and the
thickest cream that the county produced were freely dispensed, together
with rivers of champagne-cup and claret-cup; dances of an impromptu
nature sometimes followed these entertainments, at which some young
people, at any rate, had a good time. Yewridge Hall had not been so gay
or seen so much dissipation for many a year, but, then, for many a year
it had not been inhabited by a millionaire.
At all these entertainments the mistress of the house showed herself
ever the same--calm, cool, and beautiful, polite to all, effusive to
none. She was perfectly independent. She chose to distinguish one man
beyond others by her preference for his company, and by permitting him
to render her fifty little services and attentions which many another
man would have performed with delight. She did it openly, in the light
of day, in the face of all her guests and of her husband, on the rare
occasions when he could be present at any of these gatherings. That
man was Hans Riemann, who accepted the distinction accorded to him,
or, rather, availed himself of it as a matter of course, without
excitement, without showing either exultation or embarrassment. At
first, some malicious tongues said it was odd. It went on, whether it
was odd or not, and at last people ceased to talk about it.
Hans Riemann had known Mrs. Marchmont in Rome long ago, when Minna
Hastings had been her friend there; Marchmont himself had known him
there. He always welcomed the rising painter with effusion. It was all
right, not a doubt of it. The parties proceeded and gossip dropped.
One evening Minna, her brother, and Hans were to dine alone at the
Hall. Signor Giuseppe, who had never entered the house nor exchanged a
word with Marchmont, was left at home with Rhoda Hamilton, who, as has
been said, was a fast friend of his, finding a never-failing delight in
his society. Rhoda revelled in the stories which Signor Oriole, when he
was in a communicative humour, would tell her.
She was intelligent and sensitive, with a nature at once strong and
romantic, and for such a girl no more delightful companion could
be imagined than the elderly Italian gentleman, with his stores of
learning and knowledge and research, and with also the background of
his own life, chequered and varied, from his early boyhood on his
father’s estate amongst the Sicilian hills; all the strange games he
used to play, all the wild adventures he knew of, with brigands and
robbers, with peasants and gentry--tales of savage vendetta or romantic
love, of curious hereditary customs appertaining to his house and
family. Then, later, when he was a youth, the burning sense of wrong
before the Italian risings against the hated foreign rule, the yoke
of the Bourbon--this sense of wrong which ate into his soul and into
the souls of other generous, hot-blooded lads like him; the secret
societies into which they banded themselves, their thrilling adventures
and escapes--not always escapes, either; their seizure by the minions
of the foreign Government: there was a story of one whole month in a
veritable dungeon which absolutely enthralled Rhoda.
Then the utter renunciation of his entire inheritance in order to serve
_la patria_; his services first in the Garibaldian army; the
battles, the sorties, the fighting in the red shirt, the wounds, the
hardships, the privations; his enrolment amongst regular troops, the
ultimate triumph, the march into Rome through the breach by Porta Pia,
the hoisting of the tricolour on Castel Sant’ Angelo and the Quirinal.
Different bits of this long story he would tell her at different times,
and of how he had been so very poor ‘after the battle was over,’ how
for a time he had gained his living by cutting cameos till he had found
shelter as a clerk for the foreign correspondence of Gismondi and
Nephew.
Rhoda listened, spell-bound, watching with fearsome delight for what
she called the ‘gory passages,’ when Signor Giuseppe’s head was
uplifted and his nostrils dilated, and his dark eyes flashed fire from
under his shaggy, still black eyebrows.
‘Oh, Aunt Minna, doesn’t he look terrible,’ she would whisper beneath
her breath, with a delicious shudder, ‘when he tells of battles and
wounds!’
Then Signor Oriole would laugh sarcastically, and say:
‘Ah, Rhoda, mia carina, you are like all the rest of your sex--so soft
and gentle, and delighting so thoroughly in blood. I will wager that if
the amphitheatre still existed, and the gladiators and the wild beasts
were known to be particularly savage, you would flock there in crowds,
even as in the days of Nero, and Caligula and Commodus. And some of
the best seats would still be set apart for the Vestal Virgins, who in
this case would be the daintiest and most high-born dames in society,
and who would never fail to claim their privilege, any more than those
pagan priestesses did--you are all alike, everyone exactly alike.’
Rhoda would be uncomfortable and abashed at this ironical address,
and would wriggle uneasily, till her old friend--her magician, as she
called him--would go off on another tack, and, inspired by his own
mention of the amphitheatre, would pour forth for her his stores of
learning, the history of ancient times, and would make Rome live for
her again. Rhoda did not know which kind of story she liked best. One
day she said to him abruptly:
‘You tell these things so well, I am sure you have told them before.
You say we are all alike. Did you ever tell them to any other girl, and
did she like them too?’
‘Yes!’ he answered, with something like a start.
‘She liked them?’
‘Yes, very much.’
‘Tell me, was she an English girl or an Italian girl?’
‘An Italian girl--a Roman girl, carina.’
‘And where is she now--that girl?’
They were alone on this occasion. Rhoda looked earnestly into Signor
Giuseppe’s face. A strange expression came over it.
‘That girl,’ said he very gently, ‘is now dead.’
‘Oh--h!’ breathed Rhoda, shocked at her own indiscretion. ‘I’m sorry I
asked,’ she added softly.
By way of answer he began to tell her another story.
These two firm friends then were left at home, and Minna with her two
men walked across the park to the Hall.