door on their return from the opera, and felt that it was a bad moment
for trying to bring him to reason; but the awkwardness of taking his
elder brother to task in cold blood on the following morning made him
seek for a conversation at once. So he followed him into his room and
began:--
"Did you hear what Tollemache said about going to Rome?"
"Rome? No; do you want to go there?"
"Why, yes! Of course. Who doesn't?"
"I don't," said Hugh quietly.
"No; but isn't it a pity to miss the opportunity? In short, Hugh,--I
say,--you know, aren't you coming it rather strong in that quarter?"
said Jem, who was so astonished at the novel position in which he found
himself that he plunged into his task of Mentor at once. "In short,
suppose it was Arthur, you know, what should you say?"
"I should say exactly what you want to say to me," said Hugh, and made a
little pause. "If I do this thing," he went on, looking straight before
him, "it will, I know, cause a great deal of vexation for the moment."
"It's not that; but it could not possibly answer, Hugh, you can't be
such a fool. Go away and take time to reflect; no one is more
reasonable than you."
Hugh roused himself as if with an effort, and, sitting down on the edge
of his bed, looked up at his brother and prepared for the contest. "I
will tell you all you are going to say," he said. "This young lady--for
she _is_ a lady, Jem, and the daughter of a lady--is half a foreigner;
she is only seventeen, she has no money, she has hardly any education,
she has sung in public, on compulsion, and much against her will. If I
marry her--"
"You will break mamma's heart," said Jem, going back in his vexation to
his childish mode of speech.
"No, I shall not. She won't like it, of course, but she'll come round
to it. Of course some women would not, but she would never make the
worst of a thing. There's an end of her plans for me, what else is
there to matter?"
"No one would visit her," muttered Jem, who had often inveighed at the
folly of social prejudice.
"Oh, yes, they would, if my mother received her. It would be a bad
match, of course, but not so bad as that when all the circumstances were
explained."
"You seem to have considered it all."
"Did you suppose I should do it without considering? I'm not the man,
James, not to see all these difficulties; I am not going to take a leap
in the dark."
"It's just as bad if you leap over a precipice in the light!"
Hugh was silent. It was perhaps owing to his clear sense of what was
due to everyone, and to his power of seeing both sides of a question,
that he was not offended by his brother's displeasure. What else could
James say? He himself, as he had told him, could say it all, had said
it, did say it still. And what could he answer? That, though a broken
heart was a form of speech, his would in future be a broken life without
Violante was a statement that he could not bring himself to make, and
which James would not have believed. "Of course I can give her up," he
thought; "but if I do shall I ever live my life whole and perfect again?
Is it not in me to be to her what I never have been, never could be, to
anyone else?"
Hugh was a self-conscious person, as well as a conscientious one; he was
not very young, and thus it will be perceived that he knew well what he
was about. He was enough himself to wonder at himself; but in these
sweet holiday weeks something had possessed him beyond his own control.
He could fly from it, but he could not conquer it.
"Well," he said, as James continued his arguments, "grant that I should
forget her, what should I be worth then? how much of myself should I
have lost!"
"Anyone might say that about any temptation of the sort," said Jem.
"And truly. But--`halt or maimed,' you know, Jem. There are times when
we must pay the price. You can't say this is a case in point."
"But how about the girl?" said Jem. "Have you involved yourself with
her?"
"No," said Hugh, and then added: "Not intentionally."
"Ah!" said Jem, with a whistle. He was surprised to perceive that the
argument of Violante's probable disappointment had not been the first to
be put forward by Hugh. His brother had argued out the question of
right and wrong for himself first, though now he eagerly took up this
point.
"I think she _does_ like me," he said, in a much more lover-like manner;
"and her father tyrannises over her, poor child: she hates her
profession; she would never want to hear of it again."
"Well, and how did it all come about?" To this question James did not
obtain a direct answer; but after about half-an-hour of explanation,
description, and rapture, he said:
"Well, Hugh, you _are_ in for it, and no mistake. I'm sorry for you.
And, pray, what do you intend to do?"
"I wish to act as considerately as possible to everyone," said Hugh. "I
shall go home and tell my mother myself--"
"Without engaging yourself to Violante?"
"I shall do nothing in a hurry; but you cannot suppose that it needs
spoken words to bind me now."
"But I say," said James suddenly, "did not some one say she was engaged
to the manager?"
"That is not true," said Hugh, colouring up; "she cannot endure him."
"Oh!" said James, dryly. "All things considered, I wonder you did not
speak before to-night."
"I should not have expected _you_ to take that view," returned his
brother.
"Well, she's none the worse for it, of course; but, still, when it comes
to one's wife, you see, Hugh, there are advantages in plain sailing."
"Look here, James," cried Hugh, starting up, "we have talked long
enough; I'll take care of my mother, but I love Violante, and I believe
she loves me, and our lives shall not be spoilt for anyone's scruples.
Do you suppose _I_ don't know my own mind? do you think _I_ should act
in a hurry, and repent of it afterwards? I would give her up now if I
thought it right. It might be right in some cases, but this stands
apart from ordinary rules--"
"I _think_ I've heard that remark before," James could not resist
interposing.
"Very likely. In my case it is true. Not answer? It _shall_ answer!
Do you think I shall ever be afraid of the consequences of my actions?"
Hugh had the advantage of definite purpose and strong feeling. He spoke
low, but his whole face lighted up as he, usually scrupulously
self-distrustful in his speech, uttered this mighty boast. James,
fluent and enthusiastic as he was, had for the moment nothing to say.
He meant well; but his objections were vague and inconsistent with much
of his own conduct. Hugh had the better of him, and reduced him to
looking dissatisfied and cross.
"Well, if you will make a fool of yourself," he muttered, "I'll say good
night."
"Good night!" said Hugh, coming out of the clouds. "You were quite
right to say your say, Jem."
James was a very good-tempered person, but this was a little more than
he could stand.
"Some day you may wish you had listened to it," he said. "If you had
seen as much of girls as I have, you would know there was nothing
extraordinary in being extra silly and sentimental. Good heavens! I
might have been married a dozen times over if I'd been so heroic over
every little flirtation."
Not being a woman, Hugh left the last word to his brother. He had no
particular respect for Jem's opinion, and did not care at all whether he
approved of his choice or not. He believed that he could make his
mother content with it; and his mother's contentment would silence all
active opposition of the outer world. His boy and girl cousins had no
right to a remark: he supposed he could put up with Arthur's nonsense.
Here he took the flower out of his coat, and thought that the scent of
stephanotis would always remind him of Violante. And then he went and
leaned out of his window in the soft starlit southern night, and
wondered if Violante was dreaming of her success or of him.
How strange it was that to him, of all people, should have come this
wonderful and poetical experience! Hugh was not aware that the beauty
of the scene, the clearness of the sky, the delicate shadowy spires and
pinnacles that stood out soft and clear against it, the light of the
stars, the breath of the south, in any way influenced him; he would have
laughed even then at a description of a lover looking at the stars and
thinking of his lady. It never occurred to him to call to mind any song
or poem that put into words such commonplace romance. For the place,
the circumstances, Violante herself, the flower in his hand, the notes
yet ringing in his ears, appealed to a simplicity of sentiment any
school-girl might have shared with him. Yet real honest feeling might
give for once reality to these hackneyed images, just as it could as
easily have dispensed with them altogether.
PART ONE, CHAPTER EIGHT.
WHITE FLOWERS.
"True love
Lives among the false loves, knowing
Just their peace and strife;
Bears the self-same look, but always
Has an inner life.
"Tell me, then, do you dare offer
This true love to me?
Neither you nor I can answer:
We must--wait and see!"
The fearful ordeal was over; the first night had come and gone, and the
earth had not opened to swallow Violante up; the disgraceful tears had
been successfully controlled; and through all the fear and confusion,
the dread of the audience and of her fellow-actors, the physical
discomfort of the noise and the heat, had penetrated a little thrill of
pleasure; and for one moment, when all the "Bravas" seemed to ring with
Hugh's voice, and his sweet white bouquet fell at her feet, the
excitement was not all pain. But, painful or joyful, it was far too
intense for so delicate a creature to bear; and tears, sleeplessness,
and excessive exhaustion, were its natural result. Both Rosa and her
father were so much relieved that no break-down had taken place that,
though both were fully capable of criticising her performance, they
rejoiced as if it had been an absolute success; and even the tender
sister could not believe but that the pleasure must have predominated
over the pain. So poor Violante dried her tears as fast as she could,
conscious of being too silly a child even for Rosa's sympathy, and not
daring to say that the worst terror of all was Signor Vasari's
commendation. She had no need to suffer from Masetto's, who declared
with indignation that it was impossible to execute scenes of passion and
sentiment with so irresponsive a soprano. On the Wednesday another
opera was to be given; on the Thursday "Don Giovanni" would be repeated,
and then there loomed before Violante the dreadful impossible archness
of the playful heroine of "Il Barbiere." Surely, when she came back
from the rehearsal on Wednesday, some one would come to hear how she had
fared! There was no one. Even Emily Tollemache neither came nor wrote.
So he only wanted to throw bouquets at her!
"Oh, I hate the flowers! I hate their very smell," sobbed poor Violante
to herself; but she did not throw them away; and when, on Thursday
night, as the opera proceeded, no white bouquet fell, her spirit died
utterly within her, and then rose in passionate despair. She could not
bear her troubles--this poor child--for one day; but, weak and soft as
she was, it was no mere tender sentiment that gave her face a sort of
power and thrilled her voice with a new energy.
When the curtain rose on the performers after the opera was over, a
great white bridal-looking bouquet fell at Violante's feet. Don
Giovanni, impelled perhaps by various jealousies of the favour shown to
the little debutante, picked it up and gave it to Donna Elvira, who
graciously curtseyed thanks. Zerlina started; she could see no one; and
the curtain fell.
"Mademoiselle, I think those are my flowers."
Donna Elvira burst out laughing and pointed the bouquet scornfully at
Zerlina.
"Eccola--Brava, brava! Mademoiselle learns quickly. She wants other
ladies' bouquets, not content with her own!"
"Mademoiselle's thoughts are elsewhere than on the stage," sneered
Masetto.
"All--it is a love token! Is it il Signor Inglese? Ah, ha, ha!"
Violante, in an agony of shame at her own folly, with burning cheeks and
beating heart, shrank away without a word; but when she reached home and
could hide her face on Rosa's shoulder, her first words were--
"Oh, my flowers, my flowers!" and when Rosa understood the story she
could give no adequate consolation.
"Oh, child--child!" she cried at last, "do not sob and cry in this way.
Who ever cured their troubles so? Now I will not have it. Perhaps he
did not throw the flowers after all! Lie down and go to sleep."
Violante endeavoured to obey; she put the damp tumbled hair off her
face, and lay down and closed her eyes. "But he did throw them," she
thought to herself; but she did not say so to Rosa, for her sorrow was
beginning to give the child a stand-point of her own.
Hugh, meanwhile, was the victim of circumstances. Mrs Tollemache had
planned an excursion, which carried them off early on the morning after
the first opera, and from which they did not return till late in the
evening of the second day. Hugh was annoyed; but he knew that he should
have other opportunities of seeing Violante, and he could not escape
without more commotion than was expedient. So he went and enjoyed
himself all the more, because the excitement of his whole nature made
him more than usually open to enjoyment. Hugh had never thought scenery
so beautiful or sights so interesting; he was ready to be amused by
every trifling incident of their trip. _He_ knew that Violante would be
there when he came back; while _she_, poor child, knew nothing. But he
managed to look in at the end of the opera and throw his bouquet; and on
the next day he thought no one could have objected to his making a visit
of enquiry, particularly as most likely Violante would not be at home.
James's remarks had not been without their effect, in so far as they
increased his desire to act with the greatest possible tact and caution;
and he much wished to secure his mother's consent, certainly before any
public disturbance took place, and even, if possible, before actually
engaging himself to Violante, and this for her sake. He had no dreams
of hiding himself from the world with her: he could do no other than
follow his profession, and live with his wife in the midst of his
friends. In short, Hugh wished to eat his cake and have it--to do a
wild, foolish, utterly romantic thing, and yet sacrifice no conventional
or real advantage. And he had quite sense enough to know that
conventional advantages _were_ real in this case, and quite confidence
enough in himself to believe that, he, in his wisdom, could succeed in
doing what most other men had failed in attempting.
"There shall be no secrecy and no quarrelling," he thought; "and yet I
will judge for myself."
However, this evening, politeness would have prompted a call on Signor
Mattei had Violante never existed; and as Jem had promised to take some
drive with the Tollemaches it was not worth while to ask for his
company; so he asked if Signor Mattei was at home. "No--il signor was
out."
"La signorina Rosa?"
"Out too, she was giving a lesson--ah, it was only English people who
went out in such a sun. What a pity! Even Mademoiselle Mattei
(Maddalena proudly gave Violante the French title by which she was known
to the public) was not there; she was tired with the rehearsals; she was
lying down. Would il signor wait? They would be in soon." Hugh
thought that he would wait. This was not the first time that he had
seen Maddalena.
Hugh came into the great shady room, where the Venetian blinds were down
and the light was green and cool. Only one window was open--a little
one at the end facing east--and on its ledge stood a great bowl of
flaming flowers, the blue sky and a distant marble pinnacle, fretted and
pierced, behind them; a girl in an old white dress on the low cushioned
bench beneath--Violante's delicate face and floating hair clear against
the sky. There were red flowers and blue flowers in the great china
bowl, but white ones in Violante's little hands; and as Hugh's foot fell
on the old scratched inlaid work of the floor she held them to her lips.
Then the foot-fall sounded, and she turned her head and sprang up with
such a start that down fell flowers, red, white, and blue, with the
china bowl in one common ruin. In another moment Hugh and Violante,
both laughing and exclaiming, were picking them up, and Hugh was
pursuing the bowl as it rolled along the polished floor.
"No harm done," he said, as he brought it back, "it is not broken."
"Oh, I am so glad! Father is so fond of it. Oh, how wet the cushion
is!"
"Hang it out of window," said Hugh, as he pulled it off the seat. "I
don't want it. And there," taking it from the chair, "is another one
for you."
And Hugh sat down on the vacant half of the window-seat; and, replacing
the bowl on the ledge, began to arrange the wet flowers in it. Violante
sat down also; and, shaking the drops from the roses and oleanders, held
them to him one by one.
She felt quite happy; past and future had floated away from her. She
did not think of saying anything; the flowers were enough.
"I don't think I understand much about arranging flowers," said Hugh.
"They were dying, or I should not have taken them to pieces," said she,
with a glance at the white bouquet.
"You had a _white_ bouquet?"
"Oh--I had so many--this beautiful one--all roses," said Violante,
trying, in her heightened spirits, this elementary piece of coquetting.
"Too many to count?"
"Oh, yes--quite too many. There were three red ones and this--all
colours--and _one_ white."
She looked at Hugh, seized with a sudden fear. Perhaps he had not
thrown the white one, after all!
"Your trophies, Mademoiselle Mattei. Were you very proud of them as you
were counting the spoils?" said the equally foolish Hugh, as he thought:
"Of course, she _does_ care for it, after all."
Violante blushed intensely and her lips quivered.
"I like the _flowers_," she said.
"And the applause?" said Hugh, jealously. "Don't you know you had a
great triumph? We shall all boast of your acquaintance." Violante bent
her head low, her lashes heavy and wet.
"Still, you don't like it," cried Hugh; and suddenly the tones were
tender. "Does it still frighten you so much, Violante?"
"Oh yes--so much!"
"Ah, I saw you were frightened. It was Violante, not Zerlina, that I
was looking at."
"Yes, that's the worst of it."
"The worst of it?"
"I never act enough, they say. I can only sing."
"Well, what more would anyone have? You sing like an angel. And
Violante is much better worth looking at than Zerlina, any day."
"Ah," said Violante, more brightly, "but you would not think so if you
were Signor Rubini."
"What--Masetto--shouldn't I?"
"He said," continued Violante, with penitence, "that he would rather act
with a wax-doll, and--and that I show off my own voice and do not think
of his. But I cannot help it, indeed."
"What an insolent scoundrel! You shall--why do you ever act with him
again?"
"Oh, but it is a great honour! I ought to please him if I could. But I
don't know how."
The sorrowful, contrite tones, and the droop of her lip were almost more
than Hugh could bear. James had told him that it would be cruel to make
this poor little child unhappy by the uncertainties of an engagement
that could not be immediately-fulfilled. Would she be any happier if he
left her to cry over her bad acting, and to be criticised by Italian
singers? He was coming to a resolution, but for a moment he held it
back.
"Give yourself airs," he said. "Say you'll never sing again if they
find fault with you! See what they will say then."
"I?" said Violante, opening round eyes of amazement. "How could I?"
"All," said Hugh, with growing excitement, "but one of these days you
will say, `_I_ will not act with Signor Rubini!' We are going home, you
know, when I come back--"
He paused, and Violante turned cold and sick, as when the eyes of the
whole theatre were fixed upon her. He was going away! Hugh started up
and walked away from her for a moment; then he came back and stood
before her, and spoke.
"No, you cannot say that. I will tell you what to say. Say you have
promised to be my wife, my darling; and it does not matter if you act
well or ill. Listen to me one moment. Signorina, I love you; though I
cannot tell you so in persuasive words. If you will trust me for a
little while, I will come back and bring my mother, who will welcome you
and love you. Can you care for me, Violante?"
Hugh, scrupulous and self-conscious, wasted many words. He had said
within himself that he would show more deference to Violante than he
would have thought necessary to a princess; that with his first words he
would make it plain, both that there were difficulties, and that he
would overcome them. There was a suppressed fire in the eyes generally
so quiet, and a sort of courtliness in the manners that were sometimes
so stiff, a deference that would soon be tender, an earnestness just
held back from passionate force.
Violante heard but three words: "I love you." Shy as she was, she was
utterly trustful, and was too innocent and too fervent for any pretence
of coyness.
"Do you love me, Violante?"
"Oh, yes!" and she let him take her in his arms, while her tears fell
with the soft relief of having found a comforter. She was won, this
little southern Juliet, won--ah, how easily!--and Hugh vowed to himself
that he would justify her innocent trust, and give her all she knew not
how to demand.
"You are not frightened now, my child?"
"Oh, no!"
"Let me look and see;" and, as Hugh drew away the veiling fingers, she
did not shrink from the kiss that came in their stead.
"What will father say?" murmured she presently.
Now, it would have suited Hugh better could he have left Signor Mattei
in ignorance until he had settled the affair with his own people; but he
was too generous to involve Violante in the toils of a secret. Never
should she be tempted by him to one doubtful action. So he answered--
"That I will soon find out; and to do so, my darling, I must go."
And so, with many tender words, and with a wonderful delight in his own
love as well as in the sweet child who had awakened it, Hugh took his
leave for the present; and she, who was conscious of no delight but ill
him, watched him for a moment, then came and turned the old lock of the
door, which he suddenly found so perplexing; so that, as he went away,
he saw her standing in the dim, lofty corridor, with the sunlight
shining halo-wise behind her hair, and the still brighter aureole of his
passionate fancy glorifying her innocent face.
PART TWO, CHAPTER NINE.
CONTRASTS.
"There's none so sure to pay his debt.
As wet to dry, and dry to wet."
PART TWO, CHAPTER TEN.
THE TIME OF ROSES.
"When all the world was young, lad,
And all the trees were green."
While the bright southern sunshine was filling the old palace with its
rays; and while, beneath the blue Italian sky, Hugh Crichton was
arranging Violante's flowers; the same fair summer weather was making
life enchanting in the English county where Oxley lay. Instead of deep,
unbroken azure, see a paler tint, with fleecy, snowy clouds; and, for
the fretwork and the imagery, the marble, and the alabaster of Civita
Bella, broad, green, low-lying meadows, where dog-roses tossed in the
hedges, and dog-daisies and buttercups were falling beneath the scythe;
a slow, sleepy canal, with here and there a bright-painted boat; and, on
the low hill side, the clustering white villas and modern streets,
surmounted, not by innumerable pinnacles and domes, but by one tall,
grey spire.
Oxley was a large, flourishing town, some forty miles from London--next
to the county town in dignity, and before it in size and enterprise. It
could boast no architecture and no antiquities, save a handsome church--
neither very old nor very new--and some tumble-down, red-tiled, dirty
streets, sloping down from the back of the town to the canal--unless,
indeed, like some of its townsmen, you counted the Corinthian facade of
the railway station, the Gothic gables of the new Town-Hall, or the
sober eighteenth-century squareness of the Oxley Bank. These two latter
public buildings opened on to a broad, sunny market-place; from which
started a clean, white, sunny road, which led past villas, nursery
gardens, meadows, and bits of furzy, heathery waste, all the way to
Redhurst, and was the old coach-road from the county town to London.