cheerful-looking lady of eight-and-forty can be to a grave young man of
eight-and-twenty. She was pale and handsome and fair, and hardly looked
her age, so smooth was her brow, so contented her mouth, so ready the
smiles that came with equal kindliness for all the young ones who had
grown up under her easy sway. It was said that the young people at
Redhurst were sadly spoiled--spoiled, that is to say, not by being the
objects of devoted affection or too partial admiration, but by being
allowed their own way to an extent incredible to more idealistic
mothers. Whether from the absence of any very marked individual
affections, or from something of the same cast of mind that produced in
her eldest son such even-handed justice, she not only treated all her
young kinsfolk with the same kindness, but, so far as they knew, felt
for them much the same amount of interest. She did not think it
incredible that Arthur should surpass James; or that, in the few
contentions that crossed their sunshiny life, Hugh should sometimes be
mistaken. All were sure of a kind judgment, and often of a sense of the
rights of their story: none of them made a demand for an exclusive or
individual tenderness; for their bringing-up had made them independent.
Mrs Crichton did not trouble herself much as to whether their
idiosyncrasies were suitable or desirable or likely to lead to any one
result. It was all right that Hugh should keep to his business; she did
not wish that James was as fond of books as Arthur, since he preferred
Art and a great deal of conversation. George preferred rats and rabbits
to either. "Well, poor George did not like his lessons." Mysie liked
needlework, and flowers, and Sunday schools--"so good of little Mysie."
Frederica thought happiness consisted in a day's hunting. "She was
growing up quite a different sort of girl." But Mrs Crichton was not
at all surprised when George got flogged at school for not knowing the
lessons, observing "that George was so stupid he was always in scrapes;"
and when Frederica pouted, sobbed, and scowled when some special friend
called her a Tom-boy she only heard: "But you are a Tom-boy, my dear,"
as consolation. And when in young enthusiasm, anyone brought his or her
special hobby into notice, he or she well knew that, though that hobby
might prance unrebuked through the family circle, it was regarded as
nothing but "so-and-so's hobby," whether it concerned the destinies of
the human race or the best way of laying-out flower-beds. There are two
sides to everything. It is very pleasant never to be scolded; but when
Hugh had laid down some law in a way that bore heavily on his juniors,
it was not always quite pleasant to hear his mother placidly say: "My
dear, don't resist, it's Hugh's way to be particular"--as if Hugh's way,
and not the thing itself, were all that mattered. Still, light hearts
and good tempers had resulted from the kindly, peaceable rule, and the
young Spencers lived their own lives and took each other for granted.
Hugh might hope that his little Italian song-bird might be accepted as
"Hugh's way," and Arthur and Mysie need fear no opposition, either
tyrannical or conscientious, little as the necessity of each to the
other's life might be realised.
"Ah, Flossy," said Mrs Crichton, "I thought we should see you to-night.
I suppose Miss Venning told you of what she saw?"
"Yes," returned Flossy, rather shyly; "so I came to see Mysie."
"Mysie is somewhere. I have told them they must wait in secrecy and
silence till Hugh comes home, or he will never forgive us."
"Then you don't object, Mrs Crichton?" said Flossy, eagerly.
"No. Mysie might do better, perhaps, but there is no use in making her
miserable if she does not think so herself. Surely people _must_ choose
for themselves in these matters," said Mrs Crichton, uttering this
sentiment--so often practically ignored--as if it were such a truism
that Flossy felt as if life was really so easy as to be quite flat.
"I am sure Arthur will get on," she said.
"Oh, yes; and I don't know a nicer fellow anywhere. Dear children, how
surprised Hugh will be! I wish he would follow their example. But,
dear me! I cannot expect him to see with my eyes. There is Arthur!"
Arthur came up and exchanged a hearty squeeze of the hand and delighted
smile with Flossy.
"Mysie is in the garden," he said; "do come and find her."
"Oh, Arthur, I am so glad," cried Flossy, impulsively, as she walked
away with him. "I am so glad that Mrs Crichton--"
"Aunt Lily? I prepared several irresistible arguments, and felt as if--
well, as if I might have kept them for Hugh. How kind she is! But,
now, Flossy, you are unprejudiced; don't you think I shall make Mysie as
happy as that swell in the air who is supposed to loom in the future?"
"Now, how angry you would be if I did not say yes! How can you expect
me to sacrifice your friendship to a disinterested regard for truth?"
"I want somebody to convince! I feel as if I had been reading hard and
the examiners had asked me to decline `Dominus.'"
"Oh, Arthur, anyone may see where you have been lately. How ungrateful
you are!"
"No, I am not, Flossy," said Arthur; "but I really feel as if I ought to
object to myself as a duty to the family."
"Do wait for your cousin," said Flossy; "he will do that duty for you,
no doubt. No, I am _very_ glad."
"Thank you--thank you," said Arthur, pleased at the hearty sympathy in
her voice. "Ah, there's Mysie, picking roses."
"Now, Arthur, do stay away for five minutes. How can we talk with you
there to listen?"
"Well--make haste."
Flossy ran away from him and seized Mysie in a warm, and--considering
their respective sizes--somewhat overwhelming embrace.
"My little darling, it's delightful. I always meant you to have a fairy
prince, and to think it should be Arthur!"
"I am very glad he is not a fairy prince," said Mysie, smiling.
"What is he, then?" cried Flossy.
"Why, Flossy," said Mysie, "I think he's only what old Miss Rogers used
to call `Mr Right.'"
PART TWO, CHAPTER TWELVE.
PROS AND CONS.
"Go back, my lord, across the moor!"
Signor Mattei was coming out from a rehearsal. He often told Violante
that her work was nothing to his; and, indeed, his violin was always in
its place in the orchestra. His work was his life, he would have been
miserable without it; and yet, with a not uncommon inconsistency, he
liked to pity himself for having got it to do. He was a man with an
ideal, with a dream that was very difficult of fulfilment; and, perhaps,
did not need sympathy less than the girl who suffered so much and
disappointed him so sorely. Whatever may have been Signor Mattei's
youthful hopes, in the days when he had thrown away the chance of a more
eligible profession to follow the art he so loved, he had long been
forced to limit them to making a fair livelihood by it. Aspirations are
not always capabilities; and, spite of self-devotion and enthusiasm and
much technical skill, he was not destined to rise to the top of the
tree. He was not, indeed, great enough to do as he liked; and his
temper and touchiness often brought good engagements to a premature end;
and, though he had never hitherto failed in obtaining fresh ones, there
was an element of uncertainty in his fortunes. However different things
might be with him from what he had once desired, Signor Mattei had not
been a discontented man. Small successes which he would once have
despised were much pleasanter than small failures; and he had grown to
limit his desires to such as were possible of fulfilment; when ambition,
desire of gain, and burning enthusiasm were all reawakened by the
discovery of Violante's wonderful voice. Here was his chance again.
His daughter's name should be heard in every capital in Europe: the
fortunes of the whole family should be assured. What sacrifices were
too great, what toil too arduous by which the possessor of this glorious
gift could turn it to account! If such a voice had belonged to
Violante's father how he would have gloried and rejoiced, how he would
have worked early and late, how intoxicating would have been the success
that crowned his efforts! People bear much harder on each other by the
inevitable workings of their alien natures than by wilful selfishness or
cruelty. Violante and her father made each other miserable; yet he was
anxious to give her what would have been to himself the greatest good,
and she wore herself out in trying to obey and to please him. It is not
easy for a bystander to judge between distaste and incapacity; it is
difficult to say which is the most provoking. No amount of idleness on
Violante's part would have so provoked her father as did her
unenthusiastic performance of the amount of study required of her, her
tears and terror when she achieved a success. Such folly _must_ be
curable by a sufficient amount of scolding and argument. A person
_must_ enjoy what is enjoyable when the advantage is pointed out to them
with sufficient strength. And Violante had been just successful enough
to make her father believe that it entirely depended on herself to
succeed better still. Violante thought this belief cruel; and Rosa,
standing between both, while she prevented either from feeling the very
sharpest edge of the other's opinion, if she pitied her little sister
the most, to a certain extent sympathised with Signor Mattei.
So much for sentiment. Violante was unworthy of her gift, but she
possessed it, and it brought substantial gains, much needed; for in a
life with so many ups and downs Signor Mattei had not held himself free
from debt. Besides, no engagement had ever suited him so well as his
present one, and was not that confirmed to him by Signor Vasari's
interest in his young _prima donna_? If Violante married the manager
_her_ success was certain, and the fortunes of the whole family were
assured; but if Vasari were offended there was an end of everything.
Her gains for her present engagement would belong to her father; and he
felt, though he would not own, that there was enough uncertainty about
her future to make the solid good of her marriage most desirable. And
Signor Vasari had just made the flattering suggestion that Mdlle.
Mattei's timidity and reluctance might be in part owing to a maidenly
coyness and consciousness towards himself. Once acknowledged as his
_promessa sposa_ she would gain courage and self-confidence. Signor
Mattei joyously pledged himself to do everything in his power to favour
the manager's views. Art, fame, and fortune all smiled upon him; and no
experience could make Signor Mattei believe that Violante was so unlike
other girls as not to view such a proposal with rapture. Full of this
pleasing prospect he was walking hastily home from the theatre to his
own dwelling, when he was accosted by Hugh Crichton, who begged the
favour of a few words with him.
Hugh was courteous and deferential, but he had no expectation that his
proposal would not be received with pleasure; and was desirous, since he
must speak to Signor Mattei, to have so far committed himself before he
again encountered his brother, whose co-operation when he reached home
he felt that he could not altogether afford to despise. Spite, however,
of his not unnatural confidence in the result, he felt very hot and shy;
blundered through a few unintelligible sentences; tried Italian, with a
view of being polite; forgot the Italian for "daughter," "proposal," for
every thing; and finally, with startling abruptness, hoped in plain
English that Signor Mattei would consent to his engagement to his
daughter. Signor Mattei stopped short in the street, struck an attitude
of astonishment, and loudly exclaimed:
"Signor Hugo! Do my ears deceive me?"
"No, sir, assuredly not," said Hugh, much discomposed at the sudden
standstill. "I have long admired la signorina Violante, and to-day I
have ventured to tell her so."
"Tell her so! tell her so!" ejaculated Signor Mattei. "Tell her so, in
her father's absence! Signor, is this the conduct I could expect?"
"If I have acted in ignorance of Italian customs," said Hugh, "your long
residence in England must have informed you that in coming to you at
once I have done all that is required by our own. If you will walk on,
sir," for Signor Mattei was still figuring about on the pavement in a
way that worried all the sense out of Hugh's head, "I will explain
myself further."
Signor Mattei, who had really been taken utterly by surprise by Hugh's
application, and was not undesirous to gain a little time for
consideration, bowed profoundly and walked on by Hugh's side; while the
latter, who, with all his desire to make a good impression, felt
irritated by his companion's way, began stiffly:
"I should tell you, Signor Mattei, that I am in all respects my own
master, and quite independent of everyone. I am not afraid that my
mother will not give Mdlle. Mattei a welcome; and of my own feelings, I
assure you, sir, they are most--most strong. I love her, and I hope I
shall make her happy--happier than she can be in a profession to which
she is so unsuited."
Hugh was a good speaker, and generally said what he had to say on all
public and private occasions with perfect fluency and distinctness; but
his eloquence foiled him now, and he coloured up and looked entreatingly
at Signor Mattei as he made this false step.
"Unsuited to her profession, signor! unsuited to her profession! Do you
mean to insult my daughter?"
"I mean that the profession is unsuited to her," said Hugh, not mending
matters.
"Signor, she has been dedicated to my beloved art from her earliest
years. Music is her vocation, as in a lesser--I am proud to say in a
lesser--degree it is mine."
Hugh was not naturally conciliatory; and to listen patiently to what he
considered such nonsense, uttered with a flash of the eyes that proved
its sincerity, jarred upon him so much that there was as much annoyance
as entreaty in his voice as he answered:
"I venture to set myself up as a rival to your art, and I ask you for--
Violante. Indeed, I don't think she will regret the fame she gives up."
Hugh was so sure that it was better for Violante to marry him, an
English gentleman, than to sing at all the operas in Europe, he felt
that he was making so good an offer, and yet he wanted her so much, that
the humility born of passionate desire conquered his sense of his own
merits, and he finished pleadingly:
"If I can help it she never shall."
"Signor, my daughter is already promised, and the arrangements for her
marriage will shortly be begun."
"That is impossible," exclaimed Hugh; "she has given her promise to me."
"Her promise?" cried Signor Mattei; "the promise of a little, foolish,
most foolish, girl! No, sir, she knows what my views are, and she is
Signor Vasari's promised wife."
"She knows!" She--the loving, trustful child whom he had seen kiss his
white flowers, who had given herself to him without one word of
misgiving. Impossible, indeed.
"She shall not be sacrificed," cried Hugh, in his turn stopping short.
"She has told me that she loves me. Whatever you may have intended her
to do is without her will or knowledge."
Now, in thus asserting Violante's individuality Hugh made a great
mistake. The Italian father did not think that it made much difference
if Violante had told Hugh that she loved him twenty times. It was his
part to arrange a marriage for her; and her little wishes, her foolish
tongue, went for nothing.
"I do not believe Mademoiselle Mattei is aware of your wishes," said
Hugh again, hotly.
Now this was an assertion which Signor Mattei could fairly face.
Violante _was_ well aware of her father's wishes. That she was involved
in any positive promise she could not know, insomuch as the promise had
been made for her at the very time when she had been making a far
different one for herself. Nor had she fully known her danger, since
Rosa, for the sake of peace and composure, had carefully kept the
subject out of sight.
"Nevertheless, she is aware of them," said Signor Mattei; and while Hugh
paused, silenced for the moment, he went on, not without dignity:
"Signor, I thank you. Your proposal honours my little girl, and honours
you, since you mean to sacrifice much to win her. But I know your
country and your manners, and I will not give up my daughter. Your
noble ladies will not receive her well."
"There is nothing of the sort--we have no rank at all," interposed Hugh,
"and I will answer for my mother."
"My daughter, sir, has a great future before her; she shall not
sacrifice it. She shall not marry out of her class and away from her
country and give up what Fortune has laid at her feet. Your fancy,
Signor, will pass as it came, and hers--pshaw--she has nothing strong in
her but her voice, her voice of an angel."
Signor Mattei was a single-minded man, though he had not dealt singly
with Hugh. The good match for his daughter shrank to nothing compared
to the career from which it would shut her out. That underneath lurked
some consciousness of the advantage to himself is true; but never would
he have dreamed of claiming any like advantages from this other suitor.
Hugh walked on by his side pale and bewildered, a horrible doubt of
Violante weakening his arguments and chilling his entreaties. At last
he said, desperately, "Signor Mattei, after what has passed I cannot
take my answer from you. She told me nothing of a former promise. She
must tell me that she has made none, and then I swear to you her life
shall have none of the trials you dread. I will either go home and
bring you my mother's words of welcome--my mother herself," he
continued, rashly, "or I will seek no consent at all--none is needed. I
would marry her to-morrow if you care for such a test."
"You in England, Signor, may marry spite of a parent's curse."
"Curse! nonsense," said Hugh, impatiently.
"But here a father's word is enough. She _can_ give you no answer but
mine."
"I will have an answer from her," said Hugh; "and if she can tell me she
is not promised to that fellow I will never give her up till--till I
have persuaded you to take a different view of this."
"But she is promised, sir, and I refuse to entertain your proposals for
her."
"She never told me so!"
"She is timid," said Signor Mattei, with a shrug, "timid, and, like all
girls, a fool. Enough; I can say no more, Signor. I have the honour to
wish you good evening." And, with a rapidity for which Hugh was
unprepared, Signor Mattei darted down a side street, and left him to
himself.
Baffled as he was, Hugh did not mean to rest satisfied with his answer.
He could not believe that the opposition would hold out after he had
proved himself to be thoroughly in earnest. If only the horrible doubt
of Violante's own fair dealing could be removed!--and removed it should
be the first time he had the chance of a word with her. For Hugh was
not a suspicious person, and it would have been hard indeed to doubt the
shy yet passionate tenderness of Violante's voice and face. He did not
understand the entanglement, but he was not going to convict her without
a trial. Still, this later interview had effectually brought him down
to earth; and he went back to the Consulate with the arguments which
were to bring James over to his side by no means in such order as he had
hoped. He found the ladies drinking coffee and James discoursing on the
delights of his afternoon ramble.
"I assure you, Miss Tollemache, she had eyes like a gazelle, and her
smile--there was intelligence and intellect in it; you could see by the
way that she smiled that she had a mind, you know."
"But flower-girls always do smile, Mr Crichton."
"Ah, but how different this was from the made-up smiles you see in
England--such a sense of art, too, in her white handkerchief--no hats
and feathers. She only said, `Grazie, signor!' but there was a sort of
recognition, you know, of one's interest in her."
"I shall go and look at her," said Emily.
"Now, if one lived in a simpler state of society," pursued Jem, "what
curious intercourse one might have with such a being--how much she might
add to one's knowledge of existence! How one can imagine the great men
of old--Raphael in search of the Beautiful--dancing in the evening! Oh,
Hugh, I didn't see you! Where have you been?"
"Where have _you_ been would be more to the point," retorted Hugh. "In
one of Bulwer's novels?"
"He has fallen in love with a flower-girl," said Emily.
"Emily, my dear," said her mother, "Mr Crichton was only describing an
artistic effect. It is very desirable to cultivate a love of nature."
"Very," said Jem. His enthusiasm had been perfectly genuine, though he
had not been without a desire to interest his audience; and he could not
resist a side glance at Hugh, who looked hot and cross.
"Have you seen any flower-girls, Mr Crichton?" said Emily, wickedly.
"No, Miss Tollemache, nothing so interesting;" and then a sudden sense
of the extreme falsity of his words came over him; and he blushed in a
violent, foolish way, which completed his annoyance with things in
general.
James saw the blush and knew that something had happened. He did not,
how ever, quite like to question his brother; and when the ladies left
them they went out on the balcony and for some time smoked in silence.
At last Hugh knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and said, in a formal,
uncomfortable tone:
"James, I have made a proposal to Mdlle. Mattei."
"The deuce you have!" ejaculated Jem.
"And what did she say?"
"She accepted it. But, Jem, you may entirely disabuse your mind of the
idea that there has been any attempt to--to catch me; for her father has
just given me to understand that he will not consent to it."
"What! he prefers the manager!"
"So he says."
"And she doesn't?"
"No," very shortly. "But I cannot suppose that if he was fully aware of
the genuineness of my intentions and knew that my mother would receive
her--In short, Jem, another person's words--"
"Another person? Do you mean me? Answer for mamma? I declare, Hugh,
that's a little too much. You're going to raise such a row at home as
was never heard of, and you want me to help you!"
Hugh said nothing, and James's momentary perturbation subsided.
"This is good!" he said. "_You_ wanting help! Did you ever live in
Oxley, Hugh, or is it all a mistake? `Jones at the opera abroad' _is_
so _very_ unlike `Jones at the opera at home.'"
"I am in earnest, Jem," said Hugh, as James did all the laughing at his
own joke.
"It's a great mistake being in earnest," said Jem. "Here have you
spoilt all your fun by it."
"I don't understand you."
"Why," said Jem, mischievously. "Of course, Violante was intended to
amuse you during your holiday. A little sentiment--study of life."
"I have asked Mdlle. Mattei to be my wife," interrupted Hugh, in a tone
of high offence.
"I beg your pardon," said Jem, after a moment's pause. "I'll be
serious. So Signor Mattei is the difficulty? H'm! How far do you
suppose he is involved with this dangerous rival?"
"That is what I cannot make out. He says that she, Violante, is engaged
to him but she never mentioned his name."
"Told you nothing about him?"
"No. So the question is," said Hugh, in a voice that he tried hard to
keep at an even level, "the question is, who is deceiving me?"
"Both and neither," returned Jem. "What?"
"I dare say she likes you best, and thinks she will try to get out of
her previous entanglement."
"She should have spoken the truth," said Hugh, frowning.
"Come, Hugh, that's expecting a great deal of a poor little frightened
thing like that, and an Italian, too. What would you have?"
"You did not see her?" said Hugh.
James looked at him, and saw that his hand shook as he put his pipe back
into its case while he kept his face turned away.
"What shall you do?" he said.
"Find out," returned Hugh, "and act accordingly."
He walked away as he spoke. James did not suppose it likely that
Violante would come out of the ordeal with such flying colours as to
satisfy his brother; and, though he was very little inclined to judge
the poor child harshly, he could not help hoping that here was a way of
escape for Hugh from a most unlucky prepossession, though, as he was
forced to acknowledge, at the cost of considerable pain.
PART TWO, CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
CONTRARY WINDS.
"Oh, well for him whose will is strong!"