Hugh Crichton's Romance
By C.R. Coleridge
Published by Macmillan and Co, London.
This edition dated 1875.
PART ONE, CHAPTER ONE.
HUGH'S STORY.
"The light that never was on sea or land."
PART ONE, CHAPTER TWO.
VIOLANTE.
Elle etait pale et pourtant rose,
Petite, avec de grands cheveux,
Elle disait souvent, "Je n'ose,"
Et ne disait jamais, "Je veux."
The sunshine of a summer evening was bathing Civita Bella with an
intensity of beauty rare even in that fair Italian town. When the
shadows are sharp, and the lights clear, and the sky a serene and
perfect blue, even fustian and broadcloth have a sort of
picturesqueness, slates and bricks show unexpected colours, and chance
tree tops tell with effect even in London squares and suburbs. Then
harsh tints harmonise and homely faces look fair, while fair ones catch
the eye more quickly; every flower basket in the streets shows whiter
pinks and redder roses than those which were passed unseen in
yesterday's rain, the street gutters catch a sparkle of distant
streamlets, and the street children at their play group into pictures.
For the sun is a great enchanter, and nothing in nature but sad human
hearts can resist his brightness. Civita Bella needed no adventitious
aid to enhance its beauty. The fretted spires and carved balconies,
quaint gables and decorated walls, were the inheritance of centuries of
successful art, and their varied hues were only harmonised by the years
that had passed since some master spirit had given them to the world, or
since they had grown up in obedience to the inspiring influence of an
art-loving generation. Down a side street, apart from the chief centres
of modern life, stood an old ducal palace. The very name of its
princely owners had long ago faded out of the land, and no one alive
bore on his shield the strange devices carved over its portico. It lay
asleep in the sunshine, lifting its broken pinnacles and mutilated
carvings to the blue sky, still beautiful with the pathetic beauty of
"the days that are no more."
The old palace was let in flats, and on one of the upper stories
flower-pots and muslin curtains peeped gaily out of the dim, broken
marbles with a kind of pleasant incongruity, like a child in a convent.
Within the muslin curtains was a long, spacious room, with inlaid floor
and coloured walls, with a broad band of bas-reliefs round the top
leading the eye to the carved and painted ceiling above. There was very
little furniture, a grand piano being the most conspicuous object, and
the lofty windows were shaded by Venetian blinds; but round the
farthest, which was partly open, were grouped a few chairs and tables,
with an unmistakable attempt to give an air of modern, not to say
English, comfort to one part of the vast, half-inhabited chamber.
A brown-faced, shrewd-eyed Italian woman, with gold pins in her grey
hair and gold beads round her neck, and a young lady in an ordinary
muslin dress, were standing together contemplating and criticising a
young girl who stood in front of them, dressed in the costume of an
Italian peasant. That is to say, she wore a short skirt and a white
bodice, but the skirt was of rose-coloured silk, the bodice of fine
cambric; her tiny hat was more coquettish than correct in detail, and
the little hands playing with the cross round her neck had surely never
toiled for their daily bread. Yet she looked a little tired and a
little sad, and her companions were noticing her appearance with the
gravity that pertains to a matter of business.
"I think that will do," said the young lady, in a clear, decided voice.
"She looks very pretty."
"Oh, bella--bellissima!" said the old Italian woman, clapping her hands.
"But when is not la signorina charming?"
"It does not alter her much. Violante, does it inspire you?"
"I think it is very pretty; and you know, Rosa, I shall be rouged, and
perhaps my eyes will be painted if they don't show enough," said
Violante, simply.
"You don't mind that?" said Rosa, curiously.
"No!" with a half-surprised look in the soft pathetic eyes; "I am glad.
Then father will not see when I am pale. It will be hidden."
"Oh, my child, you will not look pale then. So, Zerlina, you want
another bow on your apron; and then this great dress is off one's mind.
We must let father look at you."
"Do you think he will say I look handsome enough?" said Violante,
anxiously.
Rosa laughed. "I don't know what he may say, but I am sure of what he
will think. And besides, he is not the public. Thank you, Maddalena,
we need not keep you now." And, as the old woman departed, Rosa took
the little muslin apron and began to sew a bright bow on it; while
Violante stood by her side, manifestly afraid of injuring her costume by
sitting down in it. She looked very pretty, as her sister had said, but
her anxious, serious look was little in accordance with her gay stage
costume.
"You see," said Rosa, as she pinched up her loops of ribbon, "we have a
great many friends. All the members of the singing-class will go, so
you will not feel that you are acting to strangers."
"I think Madame Tollemache will go," said Violante.
"Of course, and her son, and Emily, and they will take Mr Crichton."
A sudden brightness came over the girl's soft eyes and lips, as she
stood behind her sister's chair.
"Rosa, mia," she said, "you understand about England. What is it il
signor--ah, I cannot say his name--does in his own country?"
"Violante, you talk a great deal of English, why cannot you learn how to
call people's names? Crichton; Spencer Crichton."
"He should not have two hard names," said Violante, with a little pout.
"I would rather call him il signor Hugo."
"Well, as you like," said Rosa, laughing. "And he lives in a beautiful
palazzo, with trees and a river?"
"Does he?" said Rosa, "I should doubt it exceedingly. I dare say he has
a very nice house. There are no palaces, Violante, in England, except
for bishops, and for the Queen; certainly not for bankers."
"And what is a banker?"
"Well," said Rosa, a little puzzled in her turn; "he takes care of
people's money for them; it is a profession."
"And he is not noble?"
"No; but as he has this country-seat, I suppose he has a position
somewhat equivalent to what we mean here by noble. You can't understand
it, dear; it is all different. Mr Crichton works very hard, no doubt,
in his own country, and I suppose his long holiday will soon be over."
Violante started, and as she stood behind her sister's chair, she hid
her face for a moment in her hands.
"But his brother is coming--his brother, who so loves art," she said,
after a pause.
"Ah, yes; then I daresay they will go home together. But you will have
this artistic gentleman to look at you on Tuesday; and we must take care
and please your chief admirer before all."
"Shall I please him?" said the girl, with a smile shy and yet
half-confident.
"I hope so. Signor Vasari's opinion is of importance." Violante's face
fell, as if it were not the manager of the Civita Bella opera-house
whose opinion she had thought of such consequence, but she did not speak
till a hasty step sounded on the stair without.
"That is father!"
"Yes! Here, the apron is ready; tie it on. Oh, my darling, do not look
so frightened; you will spoil it all!"
Violante crept close to her sister and took her hand; her bosom heaved,
her mouth trembled. Manifestly either the result of the inspection was
of supreme importance, or she greatly feared the inspector.
Rosa kissed her, and, with an encouraging pat on the shoulder, put her
away, and Violante stood with her gay fantastic dress, a strange
contrast to the timid, uneasy face of the wearer.
"Ah ha, Mademoiselle Mattei! So; very pretty, very pretty. But no;
this is fit for a drawing-room. She might go and drink tea with Madame
Tollemache at the Consulate; she might wear it on a Sunday to church."
"Oh, father, I am sure I could not!" cried Violante, scandalised.
Signor Mattei stood with his head on one side, contemplating her with
critical attention, and stroking his long grizzled beard the while.
"She will be effaced by the footlights and the distance! More ribbons,
Rosa; more braid, more chains, more gilding. A knot there, a bow
_there_; here a streamer, here some--some effect!"
"But, father, Zerlina was only a peasant girl," said Violante, timidly.
"Tut-tut, what do you know about it?" he said, shortly. "A peasant
girl! She is the sublimated essence of the coquetry and the charm of a
thousand peasant girls; and till you see that, you silly child, you will
never be her worthy representative!"
"I understand, father," interposed Rosa, hastily. "It is soon done.
Will you go and take the dress off, Violante?"
But as Violante moved, there was the sound of another arrival, and
Maddalena announced "Il signor Inglese."
"Stay, child," cried Signor Mattei, as Violante was escaping in haste.
She paused with a start which might have been caused by the sudden sound
of her father's voice, for he let his sentences fall much as if he were
cracking a nut. "Stop! I have no objection to give the world a tiny
sip of the future cup of joy! What, how will you face the public on
Tuesday, if you are afraid of one Englishman, uneducated, a child in
Art?"
The little _cantatrice_ of seventeen stood flushing and quivering as if
only one atom of that terrible public were enough to fill her with
dread. But perhaps her father's eye was more terrible than the
stranger's, for she stood still, a spot of gaudy colour in the centre of
the great bare room, yet shrinking like a little wild animal in the
strange new cage, where it looks in vain for its safe shady hole amid
cool ferns and moss.
Rosa came forward and shook hands with the new comer, saying, in
English, "How do you do, Mr Crichton? You find us very busy."
"I hope I am not in the way. I came for one moment to ask if I might
bring my brother to the singing-class to-morrow. He is very fond of
music."
The speaker had a pleasant voice and accent, spite of a slight formality
of address, and although he carried himself with what Signor Mattei
called "English stiffness," there was also an English air of health and
strength about his tall figure. The lack of colour and vivacity in his
fair grave features prevented their regularity of form from striking a
casual observer, just as a want of variety in their expression caused
people to say that Hugh Spencer Crichton had no expression at all. But
spite of all detractors, he looked handsome, sensible, and well bred,
and none of his present companions had ever had reason to say that he
was grave because their society bored him, formal because he was too
proud to be familiar, or silent because he was too unsympathetic to have
anything to say. Such remarks had sometimes been made upon him, but it
is always well to see people for the first time under favourable
circumstances, and so we first see Hugh Crichton in the old Italian
palace, enjoying a private view of the future _prima donna_ in her stage
dress.
"We shall be delighted to see your brother, signor," said the musician,
"as your brother, and, I understand, as a distinguished patron of our
beloved art."
"He would much enjoy being so considered," said Hugh, with a half smile;
and then, to Violante, "Is that the great dress, signorina?"
"It is only a rehearsal for it," said Rosa, as Violante only answered by
a blush.
"No doubt it is all it should be," said Hugh.
It was not a very complimentary speech, and Hugh offered no opinion as
to the details of the dress. It were hard to say if he admired it. But
Violante looked up at him and spoke.
"They don't think it fine enough," she said.
Hugh gave here a quick sudden glance, and a smile as if in sympathy
either with the words or the tremulous voice that uttered them. Then he
said something both commonplace and extravagant about painting the lily,
which satisfied Signor Mattei, and astonished Rosa, who thought him a
sensible young man, and, saying he was bound to meet his brother, he
rather hastily took his leave.
Violante went into her own room and gladly took off Zerlina's dress, for
it was hot and heavy, and her shabby old muslin was far more
comfortable. She pulled her soft hair out of the two long plaits into
which Rosa had arranged it, and let it fall about her shoulders, and
then she went to the window and looked out at the deep dazzling blue.
She could see little else from the high casement but the carving of the
little balcony round it, a long wreath of rich naturalistic foliage
among which nestled a dove, with one of its wings broken. Violante's
pet creepers twined their green tendrils in and out among their marble
likenesses, a crimson passion flower lay close to its white image, and
sometimes a real pigeon lighted on the balcony and caressed the broken
one with its wings. Violante encouraged the pigeons with crumbs and
sweet noises, and trained her creepers round her own dove, making
stories for it in a fanciful childish fashion, she would go and sing her
songs to it, and treat it like a favourite doll. But she took no heed
of it now, she gazed past it at the sky as if she saw a vision. She was
not thinking of the brilliant dreaded future that lay before her, not
consciously thinking of the scene just past. She was only feeling to
her very finger tips the spell of one glance and smile. Poor Violante!
PART ONE, CHAPTER THREE.
MR SPENCER CRICHTON.
"Just in time to be too late."
Hugh Crichton walked away from the musician's apartments towards the
railway station, where he had promised to meet his brother. His tweed
suit and large white umbrella were objects as incongruous with the
picturesque scene around him as the somewhat similar figure often
introduced into the foreground of photographs of buildings or mountains;
but his thoughts, possibly, were less unworthy of the soft and lovely
land in which he found himself, were less taken up with the home news
which he expected to receive than perhaps they should have been.
Hugh was scarcely eight and twenty, but the responsibilities of more
advanced life had early descended on him, and he owed his present long
holiday to a fall from his horse, from the effects of which, truth to
tell, he had some time since entirely recovered. But busy men do not
often reach Italy, and his friend, the English consul, was about to
leave Civita Bella for a more lucrative appointment, and why should not
Hugh see as much as possible, when he would never have another chance?
"Never have another chance." Those words echoed in Hugh's ears and bore
for him more than one meaning.
Some thirty years before, the Bank of Oxley, a large town not very far
from London, with the old red-brick house belonging to it, had descended
to a young James Spencer, who thenceforth held one of the best positions
in the neighbourhood. For Oxley was a town of considerable importance,
and the Spencers had been bankers there for generations, and had
intermarried with half the families round. Nevertheless, when Miss
Crichton, sole heiress of Redhurst House, refused Sir William Ribstone
to marry Mr Spencer, it was said by her friends that she might have
looked higher, and by his relations that no name, however aristocratic,
should have been allowed to supersede the old Spencer, with all its
honourable and respected associations. But Lily Crichton laughed and
said that Sir William's father had drunk himself to death, and had been
known to throw a beef steak at the late Lady Ribstone, and she was
afraid that the practices might be hereditary. Mr Spencer smiled and
said that he hoped his friends would find Spencer Crichton as safe a
name as Spencer had been before it, he would not refuse his wife's
estate because this condition was attached to it, and he could come into
the Bank every day from Redhurst. And so, in Redhurst House, Mr and
Mrs Spencer lived and loved each other, and their two sons, Hugh and
James were born; while in course of time the banker's younger brother
died, and his three children, Arthur, Frederica, and George, were
transferred to their uncle's guardianship, and a little cousin of his
wife's, Marion or Mysie Crofton, was left with her eight thousand pounds
in the same kind and efficient care.
These boys and girls, all grew up together in the careless freedom of
so-called brother and sisterhood, till the sudden death of the father
clouded their happiness, and, in the absence of near relations, left all
these various guardianships to his wife and to his son Hugh.
It was a great honour for a young man of twenty-five to be so trusted,
and a great burden; but Hugh was sensible and steady, his cousin Arthur
was already nearly of age, and his mother, whose elastic spirits soon
recovered more or less from the shock of grief, was, of course,
practically responsible for the girls. Hugh's own career at Rugby and
at Oxford had been unexceptionable: he had no intention of making his
office a sinecure. Conscientious and inflexible both in opinion and
action, it would have been strange indeed if at twenty-five he had not
been also rather hard and dictatorial; but the mischievous effects of
these qualities was much modified by a certain clearness of judgment and
power of understanding his own position and that of others which almost
seemed to stand him in the stead of skilful tact, or even of gentle
charity. He was really just, and, therefore, he saw difficulties as
well as duties, and knew exactly where it would be foolish to strain an
authority which he was too young to support, where it was wise to take
the advice of others, and where it was necessary to depend on himself.
He was often lenient in his judgment of others' actions; but then he
thought that there was not much to be expected of most people, and he
was seldom made angry, because other people's folly did not signify much
as long as he was perfectly sure that he was acting rightly himself. If
a man did do wrong he was a coward if he would not own it, even to a
child. And so Hugh on the rare occasions when he was cross or unjust,
invariably begged pardon. But he did not care at all whether he was
forgiven. He had done his part, and if the other side cherished anger,
that was their own look out.
The ownership of the bank had descended to him, and he lived with his
mother and helped her to manage the Redhurst property, which would some
day be his own, fulfilling all his various offices with much credit to
himself, and, on the whole, much advantage to other people. For if he
thought most of what was due to himself, his view of his own duty
included great attention to the interests of others, even to
self-sacrifice on their behalf. Indeed, as his cousin Arthur said,
"although the old saying might have been parodied with regard to Hugh,
that--
"Though he never _did_ a cruel thing, He never _said_ a kind one."
"Neither did he ever say anything unkind, so they might all be thankful.
Most likely old Hugh thought them all prodigies if they could only see
into his heart."
"You never were more mistaken in your life, Arthur," said Hugh with
perfect truth and much coolness.
"Now, why won't you take the credit of having some fine feelings to
repress?" said Arthur, who was often guilty of trying to get a rise out
of Hugh for the benefit of the younger ones.
But Hugh was so unmoved that he did not even reply that he did not care
about credit.
"You'll get a scratch some day, Arthur," said James, who nearest in age
to Hugh, and exempt from his authority might say what he pleased.
"Oh no, he won't," said Hugh, with a not unpleasant smile. "At least,
if he does, I shall be much ashamed of myself."
"What?" said Arthur, "I should respect myself for ever if I could put
Hugh in a rage."
"People should never be in a rage," said Hugh--"they should control
themselves."
"If they can," said Arthur, conscious of the minor triumph of having
caused Hugh to be very sententious.
Hugh was silent. It is one thing to have a theory of life, and quite
another to mould your character and tame your passions into accordance
with it. Years before, when Hugh was at Oxford and James had just left
school for a public office; they, in the curious repetition and reversal
of human events, had come across a certain Miss Ribstone, the daughter
of their mother's old admirer, to whose many charms Hugh, then scarcely
twenty, fell a victim. For one whole long vacation he had ridden,
danced, talked fun and sentiment with her, until the whole thing had
been put an end to by the announcement of her engagement to--somebody
else. Then Hugh's pride and self-control proved weak defences against
the sudden shock, and he met the girl and her half-saucy,
half-sentimental demand for congratulations with such passionate
reproaches as she never forgot. Probably she deserved them, but the
mortification of having so betrayed himself, almost killed regret in
Hugh's bosom. "It was not my fault, I was not to blame," he said to his
brother. "I should have remembered that," and as he spoke he made a
holocaust of all the notes and flowers and ribbons he had hitherto
cherished.
"Dear me," said sentimental James, "what a pity, I keep dozens of them."
"I'll never have another," said Hugh.
The incident was only remembered as "Hugh's old flirtation with Nelly
Ribstone," but Hugh forswore fine ladies and folly, and never forgot
that he had once lost all control of his own words and actions. But all
that was long ago when he had been a mere boy, not a shadow of sentiment
hung over the recollection of it, and Hugh awaited his brother's arrival
at Civita Bella with a certain self-consciousness and desire to appear
specially pleased to see him, which perhaps he had not experienced since
his relations had been wont to wonder "what Hugh _could_ be doing
_again_ at Ribstone House." He had not left himself much time to wait,
for as he came up to the station, a slender little man in a velvet coat,
with a conspicuously long, silky light brown beard, advanced to meet
him.
"Ah, Hugh, there you are yourself."
"How d'ye do, Jem? I never knew the train so punctual. I thought I'd
ten minutes to spare. I'm so glad you have got your holiday."
James Spencer would have been a much handsomer man than his brother if
he had not been on so small a scale; as it was, the delicacy of his
features, and the fairness of his complexion, gave him something of a
finicking aspect; which was not diminished by the evident pains taken
with his dress, hair, and beard; which were arranged with a view to the
picturesque, rather trying to the patience of an ordinary observer. But
on a close inspection, he had a good-tempered and kindly expression,
which showed that he combined appreciation of other things and people
with admiration for himself. And though he was very fond of talking
Bohemianism, he went to his office every morning, and to church every
Sunday with the regularity of a Philistine.
"Well, you look uncommonly jolly," he said. "The Mum was afraid that as
you had made so few expeditions, your back was not strong yet."
Hugh despised excuses, so we will not suppose that this ready-made one
offered him any temptation as he answered--
"Oh no; I was quite well a week after I got here. There is plenty to
see here, I assure you."
"I believe you," said James ecstatically. "Were ever such colours and
such a sky? Look there," seizing his brother's arm, "there's a girl in
a red petticoat--under that arch in the shadow--white on her head--oh!"
"You will have to get used to girls under archways in red petticoats,"
returned Hugh.
"How were they all at Oxley?"
"Oh, very well; the mother was groaning after you. She said she
couldn't get the fences mended, and Jones' cow had eaten the geraniums.
Oh, and she wants to have a garden-party."
"Well," said Hugh, "what should hinder her having a dozen if she likes?"
"She can't do it without you."
"Isn't Arthur there?"
"Arthur? yes. But it isn't worth while asking the Miss Clintons to meet
Arthur."
"I should think that chattering Katie Clinton was just the girl he would
admire."
"Should you?" said Jem, rather meaningly. "However, Hugh, when are you
coming home?"
"As soon as you do."
"I have only a fortnight."
"Then we can go back together. That church is considered very fine.
Look at the spire."
James looked with undisguised and genuine delight at the fair
proportions and exquisite colouring of the building before him, and
after various half-finished and inarticulate expressions of delight,
exclaimed: "It's intoxicating! Can't we go in?"
"Not now. Mrs Tollemache will be waiting for us. There are a dozen
such churches, besides the cathedral, and there's an old amphitheatre,
at least the remains of one."
"Perish Oxley and its garden-parties in the ruins of its new town-hall
and its detestable station," cried James, mock-heroically, and striking
an attitude.
"Then there's a very good opera," said Hugh--"and oh, wouldn't the great
singing-class be in your line to-morrow."
"What singing-class?"
"Why, there's a certain Signor Mattei here. He is first violin in the
opera orchestra, and a very fine musician. I believe he followed music
entirely from choice in the first instance."
"Then I respect him," said James. "What could he do better?"
"Exactly. I thought you would say so. Well, he has a great
singing-class--more, I suppose, what would be called a choral society."
"Yes," said Jem; "I belong to the Gipsy Singers, and to Lady Newington's
Glee Society, and sometimes I run down to help the choir of that church
at Richmond. I took you there once."
"Well, Signor Mattei's class is the popular one here. Tollemache takes
his little sister, and having nothing better to do, I joined it.
To-morrow is the last of the course, so you can go if you like."
"I should like it immensely. Quite a new line for you though."
"I don't see why I should not sing as well as you or Arthur. I mean why
I should not attempt it: of course I am no musician," said Hugh, who had
rather a morbid horror of boasting.
"No," said Jem, "I have a theory that people's lives are divided by too
sharp lines. They should run into each other. Let each give something
out, and each will get light and warmth and colour. Nobody knows how
much there is in other people's worlds till they get a peep at them. I
should like to teach everybody something of what was most antipathetic
to them, and show everyone a little of the society to which he was _not_
born, whatever that may be."
"There's a great deal in what you say," said Hugh, so meekly that Jem,
on whose theories the sledge hammer of practice was commonly wont to
fall, was quite astonished.
"Why, how mild and mellow Italian sunshine is making you. You're a case
in point. We shall have you getting that precious town-hall painted in
fresco, and giving a concert in it, at which you'll sing the first
solo!"
And James burst into a hearty laugh, in which Hugh joined more joyously
and freely than was often his wont. "Don't you be surprised whatever I
do," he said. "See if I can't catch some Italian sunshine and bring it
home to Oxley! But here we are, come in, and you'll see Mrs
Tollemache." James followed his brother; but an expression of
unmitigated astonishment came over his face.
"Hallo! there's something up," he ejaculated under his breath. "_Is_ it
Miss Tollemache?"
PART ONE, CHAPTER FOUR.
THE SINGING-CLASS.
The little maiden cometh,
She cometh shy and slow,
I ween she seeth through her lids
They drop adown so low.
She blusheth red, as if she said
The name she only thought.
"So you mean to accompany our party, Mr James Crichton, to the
singing-class? I am very glad that you should go," said Mrs
Tollemache.
"Yes, for you will see Violante!" cried her daughter, Emily.
Mrs Tollemache was a little gentle lady, who, spite of several years of
widowhood, spent in keeping house for her son in Civita Bella, always
looked as if she were ready for an English country Sunday, with her soft
grey dresses and white ribbons, slightly unfashionable, not very well
made, and yet unmistakably lady-like, just as the diffidence and
unreadiness of her manner did not detract in the least from its good
breeding. Her daughter was a tall girl of sixteen, with bright,
straight falling hair, and a rosy face, simple and honest, though her
frank, fearless manners, and capacity for conversation, indicated a
young lady who had seen something of the world. Her brother, the
consul, many years her elder, represented English diplomacy in a
pleasant, cheery, if not very deep or astute fashion to the benighted
foreigners by whom he was surrounded.
"And who is Violante?" asked James.
"Violante," said Mr Tollemache, "is the rising star of Civita Bella."
"Violante," said Emily, "is the dearest, sweetest, most beautiful
creature in the world!"
"Violante," said Mrs Tollemache, "is a very sweet young person, whose
mother I knew something of formerly, and whose sister gives Emily music
and Italian lessons."
"She is Signor Mattei's daughter?" said Hugh.
"I will tell you all about her, Mr Crichton," said Emily. "Signorina
Rosa--that's her sister--brings her to talk Italian with me. But some
time ago they found out that she had a wonderful voice, and so she is to
go on the stage. She is to make her first appearance next Tuesday, as
Zerlina in `Don Giovanni;' but the odd thing is that she hates it, she
is so shy. Fancy hating it, I wish I had the chance!"
"Emily, my dear!" ejaculated her mother. "A couple of nights will rub
off all that," said Mr Tollemache, "even if it is genuine."
"Genuine!" cried Emily. "For shame, Charles. She cannot help it, and
even singing in the class has not cured her. It is quite true, isn't
it, Mr Crichton?" turning to Hugh.
Hugh paused for a moment, and--Jem could hardly believe his eyes--
blushed, as he answered decidedly, "Yes, but she is more afraid of her
father than of the public."
"Dear me," said James, "this sounds very interesting. And she is a
beauty, too, Hugh?"
"I don't know if you would consider her so. I do, undoubtedly!" said
Hugh, with a sort of desperate gravity.
"Very unlikely acquaintance for old Hugh," thought James. "See if I
submit to any more criticisms about my mixed society. Is she very
young?" he said aloud.
"Oh, yes," said Mrs Tollemache. "You see, the circumstances are
altogether peculiar. These two sisters are most excellent girls, and
knowing their antecedents, and having them here as occasional companions
for Emily, I could not, I cannot suppose that anything would ever accrue
to cause me to repent the arrangement."
There was a peculiar emphasis in Mrs Tollemache's manner of making this
remark, and it was accompanied by a little blush and nervous movement of
her knitting needles.
"It must be a very pleasant kind of place," said James, wondering if
Charles Tollemache found this young songstress too bewitching.
"Yes, but perhaps it is not altogether inopportune that our leaving
Civita Bella should coincide with Violante's _debut_. Things will be
altered now, and I shall wish Emily to have more regular instruction."
"Mamma, I shall love Violante as long as ever I live," said Emily, "and
I should not care if she sang at fifty operas."
"You must go to school, Emmy," said her brother, "and attend to the
three R's with twopence extra for manners."
"I shall not mind if you will send me to that nice school Mr Crichton
was talking about, where the governess is nearly as young as I am," said
Emily.
"Not quite," said Hugh, laughing. "I only told you Miss Venning had a
young sister."
"I shall ask Mr Spencer Crichton about it," said Mrs Tollemache.
"Have you been telling them about Oxley Manor?" said James. "I am sure
Flossy Venning _is_ the governess, whatever she may be called. You
would make friends with our girls, Miss Tollemache?"
"Yes, I should like that. But now I want to show you my friend, and if
we don't make haste we shall be late," said Emily, as she ran out of the
room.
The little party of English took their way through the quaint and richly
coloured streets of the Italian city to Signor Mattei's apartments, and
James could not repress his exclamations of delight at every patch of
colour, every deep full shadow, and every graceful outline that met his
eye. Emily pointed out the various lions, and asked questions in her
turn about the England which was but a dim memory of her childhood, her
bright English face gaining perhaps something of an added charm from its
fair foreign setting, and itself giving just the last touch of piquante
contrast to her companion's sense of delightful novelty.
Young ladies never came amiss to James, and in the intervals of his
raptures he amused himself by drawing out Emily's ideas of English
society derived from much and earnest study of such novels and tales as
Mrs Tollemache allowed her to peruse, and which had evidently rendered
Sunday-school teachings, parsonages, riding in the park, picnics,
sportsmen, smoke, and rain, as great a jumble of picturesque confusion
as Italian palaces and _prima donnas_ might be to James. Such a state
of mind entertained him, and while Hugh walked silently beside Mr
Tollemache, he persuaded her to express her admiration of "The Daisy
Chain" and "Dr Thorne," her fervent wish to resemble the heroines of
the former book; her rather more faintly expressed supposition that
English country squires were like Frank Gresham; her desire to be kind
to little girls in straw hats, and old women in red cloaks--though Mr
Crichton says he never saw an old woman in a red cloak--and her evident
belief that benevolent rectors, honest cottagers, and useful young
ladies, were plenty as blackberries in the England that was a land of
romance for her. "How delightful it would be to know such!"
"I am afraid you will be disappointed, Miss Tollemache," said James.
"Our lives in England are very commonplace, and the real Frank Greshams
are rather stupid fellows, who wear muddy boots, care for little but
riding and shooting, and are out of doors all day."
"But that seems so manly," said Emily, with a romantic vision of heather
and mists, mountains and dashing streams, floating before her
imagination.
"Well," said James, "I suppose the romance is in people's hearts, and
anything may be picturesque if you can get the right point of view, and
see it in the right light, and the truest artists are those who have the
quickest insight, and the widest sympathies. But your dazzling beauty
in this Palace of Art that we are approaching seems more like romance to
me."
"Violante?" said Emily, to whom the first part of his speech had been an
enigma. "Oh, there is nothing romantic about her. She's just a
_cantatrice_, you know, but she is a clear little thing, and I love
her."
As Emily spoke they were mounting the great marble staircase that led to
Signor Mattei's apartments, and presently entered the long room, now
arranged for the convenience of the musical performance that was about
to take place. James looked round at the painted walls and delicate
carvings, faded and injured, yet still soft and harmonious. This was a
wonderful enchanted palace; where was the fairy princess? He was
presented to Signor Mattei, who, in very good English, expressed his
pleasure at seeing him there, and found him a place. Rosa came and
offered him a copy of the music that they were going to sing, and as his
companions took their seats, and the performance began, he had leisure
to study, not his score, but the motley scene around him.
Signor Mattei was a tall striking man, with a long grizzled beard, a
narrow face with a high forehead and ardent enthusiastic eyes. His long
slender fingers looked as if they would have been at home on any
instrument, and indeed he was a first-rate violinist as well as an
admirable musician, and as he stood before the class conducting and
teaching, he seemed pervaded by his art from top to toe, and though
James could not follow his rapid vehement Italian, he perceived that no
imperfection escaped him. Hugh's hint that he might have held a
different position but for his youthful musical enthusiasm seemed
credible enough in sight of his refined features and fervid eyes.
He was a very popular teacher, and the class was a large one. Three or
four English girls like Emily Tollemache attended it, whose fair
rosiness and bad singing were alike conspicuous. Several slim, dark,
demure Italian signorinas, with downcast eyes, shy or passionate, under
charge evidently of elder ladies, were to be seen. Some looked like
teachers, and the professional air of some caused James to guess that
they were being prepared for the stage, or perhaps, their education
already finished, were assisting the class with their voices. The men
were mostly young teachers or singers, except Hugh and Mr Tollemache,
and an enthusiastic English curate, music-mad, who was taking a holiday
in Italy.
But where was the most beautiful creature in the world? James looked
for her in vain. She was Italian, she was going to sing on the stage,
she was a wonder of beauty. Which could she be?
A handsome girl, with splendid black eyes and crisp black hair, who was
standing at the end of the sopranos and singing with a clear fine voice,
suggested herself to James as the most likely person. Certainly she was
very handsome, but she did not look a bit shy; however, Tollemache had
insinuated a suspicion that shyness was interesting. She looked frank
and bright, bold enough to face a crowd. Very picturesque, she knew
that pomegranates became her. A model for any artist; but rather an
unlikely friend for Miss Tollemache, and a very unlikely here James'
thoughts suddenly pulled themselves up with a start. "What an absurd
fellow old Hugh is!" he mused. "Some one has been chaffing him about
these classes, and he stands on his dignity until anyone would imagine--
but _that_ girl, oh dear, no!"
Suddenly there was a pause for the solo. Emily looked at James and
nodded. Hugh gazed intently at his score. The dark beauty sat down,
and a girl in grey, with a coral necklace, came forward and stood in
front, alone. She stood in the full stream of the dusty evening
sunlight, and James thought,--
"Why, this is no beauty, they are mad!"
She was tall rather than otherwise, and very slim. Her soft misty hair
was twisted loosely about her head, and fell partly on her neck; it was
of so dull a shade of brown that the sunshine whitened it instead of
turning it to gold. Her skin was fair for an Italian, and now pale even
to the lips. Her eyes were large, dark, and soft, and in them there
dwelt an expression of terror that marred whatever beauty they might
otherwise have possessed. She did not blush and bridle with a not
unbecoming shyness, but she looked, as the saying goes, frightened to
death.
"Poor little thing, what a shame to make her sing!" thought James, "but
she is no beauty at all."
And yet, what was it? Was it the fall of her hair, the curve of her
cheek, or the piteous setting of her mouth, that made him look again and
again as she began to sing?
James really loved music, and the sweet birdlike notes entranced him.
It seemed the perfection of voice and execution, and the tones were full
of power and pathos. She stood quite still with her hands before her--
for she had no music--little child-like hands, and she never smiled or
used her eyes, hardly moved her head, the voice seemed produced without
effort, and she made no attempt to add to its effect. When it ceased
there was an outburst of applause; she looked towards her father, and at
a sign from him made the ordinary elaborate curtsey of a public singer;
but still with never a smile. Then she went back to her place, and as
she passed Hugh he whispered a word. She hung down her head and passed
on, but her face changed as by magic, and then James knew that she was
beautiful.
She did not sing again, her father was very chary of her voice, and she
did not come forward when the music was over, though Signor Mattei hoped
"il signor" had been pleased, and Emily lingered, spite of her brother's
sign to her to make haste.
"Indeed," said James, "I have been delighted; one does not often hear a
voice like your daughter's."
"Her voice is good," said the father, "but she does not give it a
chance; she has no notion what study was in my day."
"Oh, father!" said Rosa Mattei, as these words were evidently intended
to reach the ears of Violante, who was standing at a little distance.
"She does practise, but she is so soon tired. My sister is only
seventeen," she added to James; "and her voice is not come to its full
strength yet."
"She must not over-strain it--it is so beautiful," said James, while
Emily echoed--
"Oh, it is lovely! oh, cara Violante, come here and let us tell you how
beautifully you sang."
"Violante!" said her father; and she came towards them, while James on a
nearer view saw how lovely were the curves of cheek and throat, and how
delicate the outline of the still white features. With a view to
hearing her speak, he thanked her for her song, and said--
"I suppose I need not ask you if you are fond of music?"
Violante cast down her eyes, blushed, and stammered out under her
breath,--
"Yes, Signor, thank you;" while her father said, "My daughter is very
glad to have given you pleasure, and very grateful to those who are kind
enough to express it. You must excuse her, Signor, she is not used to
strangers."
The poor child looked ready to sink into the earth beneath this public
notice of her bad manners. Hugh looked so stern and fierce that, had he
asked the question, she might well have feared to answer him; but Emily
broke the awkward silence by saying eagerly--
"You will come and give me my lesson to-morrow, Signorina Rosa? Will
Violante come too?"
"I am afraid," said Rosa, "that she will be too busy."
"Ah, well, I shall see her if she does not see me, next Tuesday.
Good-bye, Violante. Good-bye, Signorina."
"Why!" exclaimed James, as they emerged into the street, "That poor girl
looked frightened to death."
"Oh," said Emily, "she is always frightened before strangers. How ever
she will sing on Tuesday I cannot think; but what do you think of her,
Mr Crichton?"
"I think she is very pretty," said James, rather dryly.
"A pretty little simpleton," said Mr Tollemache: "but a month or two's
experience will make all the difference. It is to be hoped her father
will take care of her. But I believe she has an admirer--the manager of
the operatic company here--so I suppose she may be considered very
fortunate. Her voice is valuable, and she will be very handsome."
James nodded assent, but something in the thought of the young childish
girl with her shy solemn face and frightened eyes touched him.
"It's rather a case of `Heaven sending almonds to those who have no
teeth,' isn't it?" he said. "Poor little thing!"
"Oh, the almonds will taste sweet enough, I daresay," said Mr
Tollemache. "If not, they must be swallowed, somehow."
"Well," said Emily, "on Tuesday we shall see how she gets on."
PART ONE, CHAPTER FIVE.
THE MATTEI FAMILY.
Then joining hands to little hands
Would bid them cling together,
For there is no friend like a sister
In calm or stormy weather.
"Violante! Will you never learn common-sense? Your want of manners
will give perpetual offence. And let me tell you, English people of
influence are not patrons to be despised. It is always well for a
_prima donna_ to have irreproachable private friends. If ever we should
go to England, and the Signora Tollemache would notice you, it would be
a great advantage; and not amiss that those young men should report well
of you."
"Oh, father!"
"Why! They see your name announced. They say, `Ah, Mademoiselle
Mattei! We knew her in Italy--pretty--fine voice. My friend, you
should go and see her.' They take a bouquet and applaud you; and you
become the fashion. You should be grateful, and show it. But you--you
are a musical box! You sing like a statue, like a wax-doll. Ah, where
is your fire and your expression? You have no soul--you have no soul!"
"Father, I did try."
"Oh, I have no patience! Where is my music? I have a private lesson.
Go and practise, child, and study your part better;" and off whisked
Signor Mattei in a great hurry, and a much disturbed temper.
Such scenes had been frequent ever since one unlucky day, two years ago,
when the great opera manager, Signor Vasari, had heard Violante sing,
and had told her father that she promised to have the sweetest soprano
in Italy, and he must educate her for the stage, where she would make
her fortune. And the owner of this sweet soprano was so timid that her
music-master made her tremble, and possessed so little dramatic power
that she could scarcely give a song its adequate expression, and was
lost when she attempted to act a part. But the music is all important
in Italy, and the middle course of concerts and oratorios did not there
lie open to her. Her father hoped that her voice and her beauty would
carry off her bad acting, and that perpetual scolding would cure her
fears, since he gloried in her talent, and much needed her gains.
He was, as has been said, fairly well born and well educated, and had
chosen music as his profession. When quite young he had gone to
England, where he played the violin in London orchestras, and gave
private lessons on the piano. In England he fell in with a young lady,
the daughter of a clergyman, who was governess in the family of Mr
Tollemache's uncle, where Signor Mattei taught. Rose Grey was
unmistakably a lady, a quiet fair-faced girl, with her share of talent
and originality and a passion for music. She fell in love with the
handsome enthusiastic Italian, and, having no prospects and no friends
to object, she married him. They lived for some time in England, where
Rosa was born, and finally returned to Italy. The world went fairly
well with them, but they were not without debts and difficulties, and
when Rosa grew up, and Madame Mattei's brother, now a London solicitor,
wrote to offer her a year or two's schooling in England, the proposal
was gladly accepted, since she had no voice and could not be made useful
at home. Rosa went to England, went to school, taught Italian and
music, and learnt the usual branches of education, spent her holidays
with her uncle, and finally helped to educate her cousins, till, three
years before our story opens, her mother died, and Rosa came home to
take care of the little Violante, a girl of fourteen. Rosa was then
twenty-two, entirely English in manner, accent, and appearance, with
pretty brown hair, a sensible face, bright hazel eyes, full of force and
character, grave manners, a sweet smile, and a strong will of her own
which she was not afraid to enforce if necessary. She had a warm heart,
too, with nothing much just then to fill it. She almost idolised the
little sister, who clung to her, sobbing out, "Oh Mamma mia!" and from
that day forward guarded, petted, and, it must be confessed, spoiled
her.
Violante was delicate and sensitive, with a certain Italian fervour of
temperament beneath her timidity, which expended itself in the warmest
affection for her sister. She was more Italian than Rosa in appearance,
and though she spoke fluent English, and they used either language when
together, her low sweet tones were unmistakably foreign. Her musical
education was so pressed on her and took up so much of her time that she
learnt little else, and at seventeen was sadly ignorant of much which
she ought to have known.
The two sisters belonged to their mother's Church, which unfortunately
had the practical effect of their belonging to none at all. When Rosa
went to England she did as others did, but it was not her lot to come
across anyone of sufficient depth to influence her practical
self-reliant temper, and, though a very good and conscientious girl, her
education had made her indifferent to the outward duties of religion.
She thought that she did her duty by Violante when she prevented her
from attending Roman Catholic services unless the music was very fine,
and heard her read a chapter in the Bible on Sunday, while the rest of
the day was spent as usual. Madame Mattei had never had health or
opportunity to attend English services, and the two girls only went
occasionally; though lately, under Mrs Tollemache's influence, they had
been a little more conscious of their nationality and the duties
involved in it. Rosa impressed Violante with a strong sense of the
necessity of doing right, and believed that circumstances absolved her
from attending to anything further. Violante was of a different mould,
and when she saw beautiful ritual and devout worshippers she felt sad,
she did not know why.