And tossed their golden tendrils to the sun
For joy at their own richness."
After that stormy summer, with its joy and its suffering, its excitement
and hard work, there ensued for Violante a time of perfect peace.
Golden autumn sunshine, beautiful places, entire freedom and rest, could
not give back a lost career, or a lost lover, but they were very
conducive to the revival of health and spirits; and the absence even of
anything peculiarly delightful was welcome to the exhaustion of worn-out
nerves and spirits. Never to be scolded, never to be frightened, never
to be forced to do what she dreaded and disliked, made a sort of Elysium
for her, though even Elysium seems to have been sometimes a little
objectless and dreary. Still, it was peace; and all the little tastes
and occupations which had been crushed down by over-work, or rendered
futile by the one absorbing interest of the past summer, began to spring
up again; and Violante knitted and worked, picked flowers and arranged
them, and made sweetmeats, salads, and coffee, as she had done in the
days when the stage was a distant terror, and when Hugh Crichton had
never been heard of. For, though she was very easily overwhelmed by
storms, she was a flower that opened readily to a little sunshine, and
Rosa caught herself wondering whether so soft and childish a creature
had really retained the impression that had seemed so powerful. It was
hard to tell, for Violante never spoke of her past troubles; the truth,
perhaps, being that she took her sensations very much as they came, and
never speculated about herself, nor realised her situation further than
she felt it. Rosa hoped that the love, having been very brief, scarcely
acknowledged, and utterly crushed at one blow, might really die of want
of encouragement; and this was possible, even if its dying hours were
soothed by the anodyne of a little unconscious secret hope in the vague
future. Since Hugh had been mistaken as to Vasari, some day he _might_
find it out; and in the meantime the sun shone, the flowers were sweet,
she was the object of much petting, she felt fresh and well, and Vasari,
his theatre and his diamonds, had all passed away like a bad dream.
Caletto, with its vineyards, its little lake, its distant hills, its
peaceful and yet animated life, was new to the town-bred girl, and very
delightful. It attracted a few visitors, but lay somewhat out of the
beat of tourists, though it possessed many charms for them; one of the
chief being a garden belonging to the great house of the place, but
which, in the dwindling of the fortunes of the great family, and in
their frequent and long absences, was open freely to the scanty public
of Caletto. Nay, tables and chairs, where grapes could be eaten and
cheap wine drunk, had been placed on the marble terrace that overlooked
the lake by the enterprising innkeeper; and here, within sound of the
plash of fountains, under the shade of tall oleander and pomegranate
trees, Madame Cellini and her two young charges were wont to establish
themselves to see the sun set over the lake and to enjoy the evening
air; and here, in search of the picturesque, or perhaps of that soothing
and refreshment which novelty and natural beauty might be supposed to
give, arrived one evening an English traveller.
Arthur Spencer's journey to meet his friend had not turned out exactly
as he had intended. He had hurried across France to Marseilles because
there was a sort of relief to his misery in the rapid motion; and,
besides, he was not quite certain when Captain Seton's ship would
arrive. He was prepared to do anything that his friend might fancy;
returning to England or continuing his journey, as might be best for
Captain Seton's health, as to which he did not grow very anxious till he
was preparing to enquire for him on board the ship; when the possibility
of finding him worse, in danger, or not finding him at all, occurred to
him. Then it seemed to poor Arthur as if the only comfort in his
trouble would be the telling it to his land, warm-hearted friend who had
left India too soon to receive even the letter announcing his
engagement. Nevertheless, Arthur resolved that if Seton seemed ill and
depressed he would prepare a cheerful countenance and keep silence on
his own score for the present.
As he came on board and was looking anxiously round, he was greeted with
a shout of delight; and Captain Seton, looking neither ill nor unhappy,
seized him by the hands.
"So there you are, my dear good fellow! I'm heartily glad to see you.
I knew you would come if you could; but I feel as if I'd brought you out
on false pretences after all."
"So much the better, if this is what being on sick-leave comes to," said
Arthur. "I was very glad to come."
"Oh, it was no pretence at the beginning; but the voyage has made
another man of me--and--and--let me introduce you to my friends--a--very
kind companions on board ship, you know. Mrs Raymond, Mr Arthur
Spencer--a--Miss Raymond."
One glance from his friend's confused yet joyous countenance to the
blushing and smiling young lady revealed to Arthur the state of affairs
at once; and, after a few words had been exchanged, Captain Seton drew
him aside, and informed him how Mrs Raymond, being in bad health, was
returning to spend a year in England with her daughter, who had
miraculously spent eighteen months in India without getting married; and
how he, having met the young lady twice before, and knowing how charming
she was--
"Exactly so," interposed Arthur, "you don't feel inclined now for a tour
in Italy."
"No," Captain Seton apologised and laughed and explained; but he wanted
to escort his lady-love to England, to settle his affairs, and to be
introduced to various Raymond relations. Perhaps afterwards--
Arthur listened, smiled, and congratulated him, and managed to escape
without any questions on his own affairs from his preoccupied friend.
He went back to his room at the hotel, and sat down, feeling as if he
had lost his one remaining object, and as if the future were an entire
blank. He was almost inclined to go away without seeing Seton again.
"But no," he thought, "that would be an unkind, melodramatic sort of
proceeding, and he would reproach himself for having given me pain--it
would spoil his pleasure."
So Arthur, feeling that he could not speak of what must come out sooner
or later, wrote a note, and told his story in a few brief words. He had
been engaged to Miss Crofton, whom, no doubt, Seton remembered, and she
was dead. He had come away for rest and change.
Arthur had no cause to complain of Captain Seton's want of feeling or
sympathy. He came hastily to find him; was full of compunction for not
having guessed at anything amiss; would come with him anywhere, stay
with him, or join him after he had taken the Raymonds to England.
Anyway, he would not leave him alone. Arthur, however, though not
ungrateful, decided in favour of solitude for the present; and, with a
half-proposal for meeting again in Italy after a few weeks, they parted;
and Arthur drifted somewhat aimlessly about from one place to another,
trying to make an object of sightseeing, but feeling lost and lonely.
He was fond of travelling, and even then got some amusement out of its
little incidents, finding in it something to do, but very little to
think about; climbing mountains and making long expeditions one day, and
doing nothing whatever the next; trying to write cheerful letters home,
yet shrinking from the answers to them; making acquaintances when they
came in his way, and doing much as other travellers, but quite unable to
rouse himself to any sort of plan for the future, and neither knowing
nor caring where the next week would find him. There was no one for
whose companionship he exactly wished, or who could now have been quite
the friend he wanted; but, though the solitude and absence of
association were productive of present ease, they offered nothing to
fill the dead blank, nothing to wake "the low beginnings of content."
The days slipped by somehow, but it was hardly possible to imagine a
greater contrast than between them and the days that had been lightened
by the hope of such a bright and definite future.
By way of occupation he did a good deal of travelling on foot; and, in
the course of his wandering, found himself one evening walking into
Caletto and thinking it one of the prettiest places he had ever seen.
The lake was shining in the sunset; the tawny colours of the old palace
were deepened by the glow; the rich southern foliage clothed the sides
of the water, and showed glimpses of picturesque houses in between.
There were statues and urns here and there in the palace garden; while
its marble balustrade, with steps at either end, gave it something the
air of a picture on a fan. There were one or two tables on this
terrace, and at one of them stood a girl in white, with a big, flat,
straw hat, piling great bunches of white and purple grapes on to a dish
before her. Another figure, dressed in some pleasant sort of buff
colour, was sitting on the balustrade reading. It was a pretty scene,
yet it gave Arthur a pang; for, granting beauty for quaintness, romance
for homely simplicity, it was a sort of glorified parody of the little
tea-garden at "The Pot of Lilies," with its wall overhanging the river,
its urn of geraniums, its statue holding a lamp, its vine-tressed
arbour, and its table with the mustard-pot and the ginger-beer. He
turned quickly away, but found himself face to face with a stout,
dark-eyed lady who was toiling up the ascent towards the terrace. She
scanned Arthur curiously; and he, mustering his best Italian, asked the
name of the village and if he could get a night's lodging there.
She gave him a hearty, gracious smile that showed all her white teeth,
and replied by such voluble information that Arthur, quite at fault,
begged her pardon and repeated his question.
"I am English," he said; "I speak very little Italian."
"Ah, English, yes," she answered in that language. "I speak it--but not
well. But here are two ladies who will comprehend perfectly. Will you
accompany me, signor?" Much surprised at the invitation Arthur followed
her up the steps of the terrace.
"Rosa carina," she said, "here is an English gentleman who has lost his
way. Explain to him the situation."
"I have not lost my way, signorina," said Arthur, catching the words, as
the lady in buff rose and bowed to him. "I took the liberty of asking
if a lodging could be got in this lovely place."
"Oh, yes, I think so," replied Rosa. "Do you see the house with a
balcony by the water? That is an inn, and there is almost sure to be a
room there if you are not very particular."
"Thank you very much. I am quite used to traveller's fare," returned
Arthur, surprised at the English accent and manner.
"And this place is called?"
"Caletto. English tourists don't often find it out."
"So we should make them welcome. Pray, signor, sit down, and take some
wine; you have been walking--you are tired. Ah, you understand?"
"Yes, many thanks. But I am so hot and dusty--I am ashamed," said
Arthur, fancying he saw a look of slight disapproval in the younger
lady's face.
"Ah, we can excuse you. We are artists, signor; all comers are welcome.
I have been in your country and sung on your boards, and so will
Mademoiselle Mattei one of these days, I hope."
This was in English, and then in a half-aside to Rosa in Italian: "Why
not, Rosina? He is a handsome youth--and society is agreeable."
Handsome young Englishmen were not quite the society Rosa desired at
that moment. However, she could not be uncivil, and Arthur really
looked both hot and tired so she said politely:
"Pray sit down and rest--it has been a hot day."
"Thank you, since you are so kind," said Arthur, seating himself, and
thinking, as they drew near the table and Violante silently pushed the
bottle of wine towards him: "How Jem would rave at such an encounter!"
"This is a beautiful place," he said. "I wonder that it is so little
known to English people generally."
"Perhaps we like to keep some places a little to ourselves," said Rosa,
smiling.
"But, excuse me, are you not English?"
"Not exactly. I was brought up in England. I did not mean to be
uncivil to English tourists, but you know they do rather spoil a place
for the natives."
"Tourists always do," said Arthur. "I don't know, though, what else I
can call myself."
"I suppose tourists are people who travel for pleasure, and not because
they are obliged."
"Well, I am not obliged to travel, certainly."
"Then you are a tourist," said Rosa, brightly. "But then you come
alone, and an English stranger is rare enough in Caletto to be very
welcome. Is it not so, madame?" repeating her words in Italian.
"Oh, as welcome as shade in summer. I have lived in your smoke, sir,
and I do not wonder you all escape from it."
"I am not prepared to admit that we never see the sun," said Arthur, who
all this time was wondering much who his entertainers might be. Rosa,
with the address and appearance of a well-bred English lady, completely
puzzled him, more especially as he supposed her to be the Mademoiselle
Mattei to whom Madame Cellini had referred, and whom he never dreamed of
identifying with the silent, childish-looking girl beside him. They
were very amusing, out-of-the-way sort, of people, and the scene was
wonderfully lovely and picturesque; but he was tired, and admiration was
an effort; so he soon rose, and with very courteous thanks prepared to
leave them. Madame Cellini accompanied him to the steps to point out
the way, and said when she returned: "Ah, I have practised my English.
I told him my name. Doubtless he will have heard it, and his--is--ah--
Spinchere--Pinchere."
"Pincher!" said Rosa, with an involuntary accent of disappointment:
"That is an English name, certainly."
"It is not pretty," said Violante, thinking in her own mind that Spencer
Crichton far exceeded it.
So no identity of name came to rouse a suspicion of any connection
between their new acquaintance and their old one. There was scarcely
any family likeness between Hugh's pale, regular face, grave and rather
massive, and Arthur's bright, tanned skin, and pleasant though
unremarkable features. Besides, Rosa and Violante did not know Hugh's
face without a look of interest and purpose, nor his light, deep-set
eyes without the ardour of an eager hope; while, when they saw Arthur,
his dark-lashed eyes were absent and languid, and his mouth, though he
smiled often, set into sad lines when he fell silent.
But one young English gentleman was sufficiently like another in foreign
eyes, and the association of ideas was close enough to make Rosa anxious
as to the effect of this encounter on her sister.
"Madame Cellini is so fond of company she cannot pass anyone by," she
said, rather petulantly, when the two girls were alone.
"She is very fond of talking," replied Violante, "but I like her now
that I am not forced to sing to her. And it would not have been kind
not to ask Signor--what did you call him?--Pincher, to rest, when he
looked so hot and tired."
"All Englishmen like to tire themselves out," said Rosa.
"You told him we were not English, Rosa; that was not true."
"My dear child, I could not tell him our family history--what did it
matter? I daresay he thought us very odd; but I am not tired of
solitude, even if Madame Cellini is."
"Oh, no, nor I. I should like to stay here always."
"Some time we must, I suppose, go back to Civita Bella."
"Yes!" with a long sigh. "Rosa mia, I will be good and useful if I can.
Perhaps father is dull without us."
"His engagement is almost over. Violante, how should you like to go to
England?"
"To England?" echoed Violante, with a startled blush. "I shall never go
there--_now_. Now I cannot sing," she added.
"I think Uncle and Aunt Grey will perhaps ask us--you and me, I mean, to
stay for a time and see what we could do."
"But what would become of father?"
"I think he would like to travel about for a little. Perhaps he would
come to England too."
"And should you teach our cousins as you used to do?" said Violante.
"No, the girls are all grown up, and so are the boys. But I might find
other children to teach--or--or--In short, Violante, I cannot tell
exactly; but you know Uncle Grey has always wished to see you, and now
that you are free to leave home I should not wonder if he asked us."
Violante sat musing.
"I will go, then," she said, after a pause. Rosa could hardly help
laughing at the unconscious decision of the tone, which, though Violante
had merely meant acquiescence, showed that the idea was not distasteful
to her.
PART FOUR, CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.
SIGNOR ARTHUR.
"The sound of a voice that was still."
Madame Cellini was not likely to be shy of making a new acquaintance,
nor were her young companions accustomed to the profound seclusion in
which Italian girls are usually trained. Rosa would have accepted an
intimacy with a compatriot readily enough, and even Violante was used to
a certain amount of intercourse with her father's friends. Here at
Caletto Madame Cellini had a few intimates, and when Arthur Spencer
lingered on there she discovered that French formed a possible medium of
communication, and took a great fancy to the pleasant-mannered young
Englishman.
"Folly, Rosina!" she said, as Rosa ventured a remonstrance. "I read
your fears. You think the Signor Inglese at the late looked too often
above his music at our Violantina. Never fear! So will many another.
And as for Signor Pinchere, talk to him yourself, Rosina!"
And the old lady gave an indescribably mischievous smile, and then
laughed broadly. Rosa was angry, but she did not choose to enlighten
Madame Cellini any further as to the real state of the case; and, unable
to prevent the intercourse by Italian restrictions, nor to justify it by
the more English manner of ignoring the possibility of a chance
acquaintance signifying to anyone, she was obliged to leave it in the
neutral ground of "being Madame Cellini's way."
She need not have alarmed herself. Arthur knew that it was all very
amusing, and accepted it as an incident in his travels; but would not
have cared if anything had turned his steps in another direction.
Nothing, however, did turn them; so he tried to distract his thoughts by
Madame Cellini's wonderful stories, and to interest himself in her
confidences about the young _cantatrice_ whose career had been so
suddenly checked. He had given the nearest town as an address where
letters might find him, and having written to Hugh before his arrival he
expected an answer. Somehow, Arthur's thoughts turned to Hugh with a
sort of fellow-feeling. He, too, was suffering; and perhaps would not
only pity him, but would understand how no change of scene did him any
good. If Hugh had but known! but he only thought that Arthur was well
spared the sight of him.
Arthur, however, congratulated himself on having obtained some materials
for a letter to Jem, a little less like a guide-book than his ordinary
correspondence, describing old Madame Cellini, and telling the wrong end
of Violante's history. "She was to have made a great sensation, and
married the manager, and the poor child lost her lover and her voice at
once. So she looks sad and pathetic; and isn't it a miserable little
story for the sunny south? You write too anxiously about me. I am very
well, and make a fair fight for it. If that poor little girl can hold
up her head after such a storm, one ought to have better courage."
Violante was as unconscious of the garbled form in which her story had
reached the English stranger's ears, and of the reflections which he
drew therefrom for his own benefit, as she was of the connection of
Signor Arthur--or Arturo, as he had taught Madame Cellini to call him,
finding her conceptions of his surname beyond correction--with the chief
actor in it. But she felt drawn towards him, and ceased to be shy of
one so kindly in manner, while a sort of instinct of fellow-feeling made
her say, after a few days, to Rosa: "She was sure Signor Arthur was
unhappy, and she wondered why."
"I think he seems very cheerful," said Rosa, rather dryly.
"Still, I am sure," persisted Violante; but news came to them at this
time which put Signor Arthur entirely into the background. Rosa
received a letter from her uncle, Mr Grey, which suggested a complete
change in all the conditions of their existence. It bore date from his
house in Kensington, and ran as follows:
"My dear Rosa,--
"Your aunt and I have been very sorry to hear of Violante's illness
and of the change it has made in her future prospects. Under the
circumstances we have always felt that it was best that she should
pursue the career that your father marked out for her, and have never
entertained any prejudice against it. But as she has lost the
exceptional power that made it expedient, and is still, I believe,
under eighteen, it seems desirable that she should turn her mind in
another direction. I do not know what openings your father could find
for her in Italy; but as you write that things are somewhat at a
stand-still with all of you, I wish very much that you and she should
come and pay us a long visit, after which you might form such plans as
seem desirable. If you were likely to remain in London I think I know
where you could find pupils, and as for Violante, as she is so young,
it is possible that she might make up her mind to finish her education
at an excellent school, where her music and her Italian would be
helpful, and where your aunt's recommendation would be quite
sufficient. However, this is for the future; and in the meantime your
cousins will be delighted to see you both, as will also your aunt and
myself. With love to Violante,--
"I am, your affectionate uncle,--
"Richard Grey."
Rosa was sitting under the verandah of the cottage where they lodged as
she read this letter. Great flowering creepers and large-leaved vines
shaded her from the sun; before her stretched the fair Italian
landscape, and at a little distance Violante was feeding and playing
with a little white kid, the pet of the household; while two little
brown-skinned girls, the children of their landlady, were chattering
away to her at the top of their Italian voices. Violante had scarcely
ever known a child in her limited life at Civita Bella, but she had
taken to these little ones from the first of her coming to Caletto, and
delighted in their society. With her short, curly hair and slender
shape, she looked scarcely more than a child herself, and resembled
nothing less than a disappointed _prima donna_.
Yet, after all her history, there seemed something ridiculous in the
idea of sending her to school, something utterly incongruous in the
thought of that Kensington house in a London atmosphere, with the blue
southern skies and the marble palaces of her native town. It was
strange; but Rosa--who had practically been very happy in an ordinary
English life and was by far the best fitted of the party to resume it--
could not help regarding the loss of Violante's future, and of their
somewhat rambling artistic career, with a half-sentimental regret. She
felt, like her father, that it was a come-down, that something had been
lost that could never be regained. She called to Violante and put the
letter into her hand.
Violante sat down on the step, and read it carefully through in silence.
"Well, Violante, what do you think?" said Rosa.
"I have been thinking--_much_," said Violante softly.
"Indeed? What about?"
"Myself," replied the girl. "Rosa, father would be happier without me
now I cannot sing. When he sees me he thinks: `Ah, what she might have
been!' It breaks his heart, I know it."
"I think father might do very well with out us for a time, and then he
might himself come to England," said Rosa.
"And," said Violante, "I know nothing--nothing but my music, but I think
now--now that is over, I could learn."
"But you would not like to go to school, Violante?"
"It does not seem possible to have what we like," said Violante; "but it
would not be like acting."
"No, indeed!"
"And I must work somehow. And, oh, Rosa mia! how my heart would ache if
father every day looked at me and grieved, and we had no money."