And yet, perhaps, the hoarding sense
Gives out at times (he knows not whence)
A little flash, a mystic hint."
Mr Grey lived in a good-sized house in one of the newest squares in
South Kensington. He had prospered in the world since his sister's
marriage, and having himself married a lady with money, was, spite of
his large family, comfortably off, and belonged to that large class of
Londoners who, by clever contrivances and well-managed economies, mix
very happily in a society which is created and upheld by people much
richer than themselves. The girls went to balls in cabs, but they
appeared at them very well dressed and very agreeable. They did a great
many things for themselves which many of their friends depended for on
their maids; but though they did not give many parties in the season
their entertainments were always pleasant ones. They were acquainted
with a sprinkling of artists, authors, and actors, and were themselves
alive to a good many different interests. They were also very kind, and
were ready heartily to welcome their Italian cousins, not wishing in the
least to sink Signor Mattei's occupation; but rather, in a warm-hearted
and perfectly genuine way, willing to make capital of what they knew of
Violante's sad little story, and to think that a young _cantatrice_
whose prospects had been so suddenly overclouded was a very interesting
kind of cousin. Moreover, Rosa was an old friend, and had always made
herself loved and respected.
In some households the father, and in some the mother, is the leading
spirit; but at the Greys' the most prominent people were certainly the
girls. Not that they usurped any place or power that did not naturally
belong to them; but somehow there were so many of them, they were so
available for any kind of entertainment, so good-natured, and so
popular, that they were apt to be the first object in making the
acquaintance of the family. There had been for a short time four Miss
Greys in the world at once--the eldest being about the age of Rosa
Mattei, the youngest some seven years younger. They were very much
alike, with pretty features, fair skins, and abundant hair. All were
good-looking; not one was a beauty. All could sing nicely, dance well,
read books intelligently, act pleasantly at private theatricals; but not
one of them had any prominent or conspicuous talent. Never were girls
so clever with their fingers, so skilful in little matters of dress and
contrivance, so obliging and cheerful, so free from jealousies, and so
united among themselves. One never grudged another her partners, or her
lovers, nor detracted in any way from another's charms. They exchanged
confidences freely on the state of their affections and their prospects,
which they felt bound to further whenever they could. Rosa, not being
quite prepared for this free and easy confidence, had carefully hidden
her experiences from her cousins' eyes, and had by so doing possibly
lost a chance of a happy ending to them.
Since her time Lucy, the second, had married, and Beatrice, the eldest,
had been engaged, and again disengaged--a circumstance which she had
borne with an amount of common-sense and courage more easy to despise
than to imitate, having returned to the interests of young ladyhood with
apparently undiminished fervour and invincible good-nature. Mary, the
third, was slightly the cleverer of the four, and had aspirations in
less obvious directions; consequently, she fulfilled the claims of her
actual state in life a little less perfectly; while Kitty, the youngest,
was the softest, prettiest, and most attractive of them all, and had the
greatest claim to stand alone as a beauty. The eldest son, Charlie, was
at Oxford, and the youngest, Ned, in the Navy. Such were the relations
who were now preparing to welcome Rosa and Violante among them.
It was early in November; many a tint of gold and russet was still
brightening the woods round Oxley, but in the squares of Kensington
scarcely a leaf was lingering; fogs began to prevail, and the streets
looked more cheerful after the gas was lit than during the hours of dim
and struggling daylight. Nothing outside could make the Greys'
drawing-room otherwise than bright and cheerful. With its pink
curtains, its bright fire, its variety of little tables and chairs, all
in the most convenient situations, and its pleasant, cheerful, young
ladyhood, it was a very popular place, and the Greys rarely drank their
afternoon tea in solitude.
On the present occasion, however, their only visitor was their sister
Lucy. Mrs Compton and they were anxiously discussing the expected
cousins.
"You see, Lucy," said Beatrice, "we are not going to make any mysteries.
We have told everyone how Violante was making quite a success in Italy
when she lost her voice, and she'll be quite a little lion for us."
"Oh, yes, quite a catch," said Mrs Compton. "And she would get endless
pupils."
"Yes; but you see Rosa writes that she is so very shy and childish she
does not think it would be possible for her to go about teaching."
"And so," said Mrs Grey, "I have been writing about her to Miss
Venning. I thought it well to be prepared before they came."
"Dear me, mamma! You don't think of sending her to school. Why, she
would set the whole place by the ears."
"I think she would break her heart," said Mary.
"Rosa speaks of her as such a child."
"Oh, don't you believe it, mother. A girl can't have been on the
Italian stage, and brought up for it, and remain a child."
"Well, Miss Venning says: `Your proposal is somewhat startling, but I
have great confidence in your judgment; and if you feel that your niece
would be suitable in herself, I will accept her antecedents, as Florence
is wild to have her, and, of course, her music and Italian will be very
useful.'"
"Well, I wish them joy of her, and she of them, though nothing could be
nicer than dear old Rosa."
"Yes," said Miss Grey; "but do you remember her passion for going on the
stage? She used to walk up and down my room and spout poetry till her
eyes would flash! I can quite imagine that the little one might make an
actress. But I daresay reality has destroyed that vision."
"I hope so," said Mrs Grey, "for I have heard of a very nice engagement
for her after Christmas. Mrs Bosanquet's little girls, you know, Lucy.
Nothing would be better."
"Well," said Mrs Compton, "I always had an idea about Rosa. Do you
remember that civil engineer--years ago--Dick Hamilton? He danced very
well--was a partner of yours, Trixie. I always thought Rosa liked him."
"I daresay she did," said Miss Grey, calmly. "What became of him? He
was very ugly, but had a sort of way--I remember."
"Oh, I believe he went to India. I haven't heard of him for ages. We
met him, I recollect, at one of those delightful parties at the
Stanforths. How are those dear people, by the way?"
"Very well. Mr Stanforth is doing some wonderful pictures. One always
meets nice people there. Mary and Kitty made a new acquaintance the
last time they went, and he has ripened very fast. He's in a public
office and adores art and music. Kitty sings him German songs."
"He's going to get up theatricals with the Stanforths--one of us is to
help," said Kitty.
"Oh, and you wish that `one' may be you, I suppose," said the married
sister.
"What's your friend's name, and where does he belong?"
"Crichton--Spencer Crichton. I don't know where he comes from. I don't
think his friends live in London."
"Violante Mattei will cut you out, Kit," said Mrs Compton, lazily.
"I daresay," said Kitty. "It's all right if she does. But we thought
the Stanforths would be a good place to begin taking her to. They're so
kind and jolly, and they like oddities."
"And you expect them any time now?"
"Yes; almost at any moment. I do hope we shall all get on together."
"Oh, no fear," said Kitty. "We can just let each other alone if we
don't."
These good-natured girls fully intended their cousins to have a fair
share of all their little amusements and excitements, including the
admiration of their acquaintances and the possibility--it seemed a very
distant one for these foreign, penniless girls--of admiration growing to
something more, where the ground was not preoccupied. But, at any rate,
Rosa and Violante should have their share of attention and pleasure, and
should do their share in making the house and drawing-room the most
agreeable in Kensington.
Being so agreeable, it was not strange that James Crichton, the most
sociable of civil servants, should put it on his list of pleasant houses
for dropping in at; since his own lodgings were about the last place
where Jem ever thought of spending an evening; but it was, perhaps, a
curious turn of fate that brought him to the Greys on this particular
occasion, with some tickets for a popular play, right into the midst of
the discussion on the Italian cousins. James had so many acquaintances
in all sorts of worlds, that he had always orders and tickets, magazines
and new books, with which to repay the civilities of his friends; and he
was proceeding to criticise the actress whom they were going to see when
Mary Grey said:
"We must take Violante."
Jem's attention was so evidently arrested by the name that Mrs Grey
said:
"We are expecting some Italian cousins, Mr Crichton. My husband's
sister married an Italian gentleman devoted to music. His daughters,
Rosa and Violante Mattei, are coming to stay with us. We expect them
to-night."
Words would fail to express James's utter amazement. He said:
"Indeed--exactly so. Are they?" in tones of conventional interest. He
would have been scarcely more surprised if the blue china cat on the
cabinet before him had jumped off and purred in his face.
The solemn and sorrowful events that had occurred since his tour in
Italy had greatly obliterated from his mind the recollection of his
brother's holiday romance. It seemed to have no connection with
anything that had come before or after it; and James was of opinion that
they were all well out of a great difficulty in which Hugh's
inconvenient intensity of feeling had nearly plunged them. His
remembrance had been revived by Arthur's letter about Violante, which he
had answered with great caution, merely stating that he had seen
Violante act, and that Hugh had attended her father's singing classes--
the last place where Arthur would have expected to hear of him. For Jem
regarded Hugh with some awe, and Hugh's feelings as a sort of tinder
that might flame up on the smallest provocation. But evidently she had
_not_ married the manager, whom James had frequently blessed in his
heart as a perfect safeguard. What would Hugh say when he knew this--
would Arthur tell him? James was not in the habit of corresponding with
Hugh; if he wrote him a letter on purpose it would look as if he thought
the encounter of consequence. However, as the letter was consolatory as
regarded Arthur's health and spirits, he satisfied his conscience by
sending it on to Hugh, merely writing across it, "Odd, isn't it? How
people do turn up!" and Hugh had made no response to the communication
at all!
But this turn of affairs was certainly odder still.
"I have seen those young ladies," he said, after a moment's
consideration. "I joined my brother last May in Civita Bella, and I saw
Mademoiselle Mattei make her first appearance."
"Indeed, did you really? Ah, poor child! Her health failed and she
lost her voice. Such a destruction to her prospects! Everything seemed
turning out well for her. However, we hope she may ultimately return to
Italy and to her profession."
"Does that mean the manager?" thought Jem, while one of the girls said:
"Do tell us what she is like."
"I only saw her once off the stage," said Jem, in a dry way, unlike his
usual effusive manner. "Her voice was very beautiful."
"Oh, but you will be quite an old friend among strangers. And your
brother--but he doesn't live in London, I think?"
"No; in the country," said Jem, for once incommunicative. "My people
don't often come to London, and lately we have been in trouble at home.
But I shall be in your way if there is any chance of their arriving
to-night. Mrs Grey, let me wish you good evening."
"Well, you must look in some day and talk about Italy to my nieces."
"Oh, thanks--very happy--I'm sure," said Jem, getting away as fast as he
could, in a much-disturbed frame of mind.
If the story had concerned anyone but his brother he would have liked
nothing better than an encounter with a beautiful girl with this
semi-sentimental tie between them--with half-allusions to the past,
sympathy, confidence, mutual recollections--the shadowy lover would have
made the flirtation both safe and interesting. "But," as he said to
himself, "there was never any knowing how old Hugh would take things!"
he had not seen him for some time, as Hugh had declined various
invitations to London, and had remained entirely by himself at the Bank
House. It was Mrs Spencer Crichton's intention to spend Christmas at
Bournemouth, where George and Frederica were to join her for the
holidays, Hugh preferring to remain at Oxley; but directly afterwards
she had determined to return to Redhurst and begin home life again.
"After his taking no notice of the letter," thought Jem, as he came into
the club, "must I go and insist on forcing them on him? What can have
brought them to England? Any idea of finding him, I wonder? I think
I'll run down and mention it casually. Wish I'd never got acquainted
with those people. Hallo! why, Hugh--Hugh! What brings you here?"
"I was obliged to come up on business, and I thought I should find you
here--sooner or later," said Hugh, thinking his brother's excitement
unnecessary.
"Of course. Delighted to see you! Do you go back to-night? You'll
have some dinner? Here, waiter!"
While James gave his orders and uttered various inconsecutive remarks he
furtively watched his brother, whom he had not seen since they had
parted in the general break-up nearly three months before. He thought
that Hugh looked aged, and, though he did not appear to be exactly ill
or miserable, there was an absence of brightness or _comfortableness_
about him, which Jem hardly thought accounted for by the fact that he
was probably cold and hungry.
But Hugh, by word and letter, was imperturbably silent as to the history
of those three solitary months, their morbid imaginings, their tortures
of self-reproach, their loneliness and dulness, without the cheerful
family life to which he was unconsciously accustomed. Hugh began by
thinking that he was too miserable to care for anything external, and
ended, though he was for from admitting it, by missing the children's
croquet and his mother's wool-work and all the framework of home life.
But he still felt a sort of fierce satisfaction in punishing himself,
and would have been ashamed to grasp at the slightest relaxation, even
if it had been without the knowledge of those whom he felt himself to
have injured.
However, he allowed Jem to exercise his hospitality, which was an
improvement on his old housekeeper's mutton chops; and, in fact, was
sufficiently well-occupied not to notice his brother's unusual silence.
At last James said:
"So, mother's coming home after Christmas?"
"Yes, so she says."
"I wonder what Arthur will do."
"I don't know," returned Hugh, gravely.
"He writes in tolerable spirits. Odd, wasn't it, his coming across
those girls?"
"Very odd."
"Things _are_--awfully odd. I've made a sort of acquaintance lately--
some people called Grey--live at Kensington. They're very musical and
know all sorts of people."
"Indeed!" said Hugh.
"Yes, I was there to-night. Such a nice house they have! One of the
pleasantest places to drop in at--no stiffness or formality. They've
got some cousins--Italians." Here James began to stir the salt
violently. "They're expecting them to stay. Just imagine my surprise
when I heard they were the two Matteis!"
Hugh set down his wine-glass, and looked entirely confounded. He did
not speak a word, but fixed his eyes on his brother in silence.
"She lost her voice, it seems," said James; "and they asked her to come
for a change with her sister."
"Is she still engaged to be married?" said Hugh, hurriedly.
"Why, that's what I can't make out," said Jem. "Arthur thought not, you
see; but, from what her aunt told me, I think there may be some idea of
it. I don't think it's impossible--"
"You need not alarm yourself," suddenly interrupted Hugh. "The danger's
over. Whatever right I once thought I had to please myself in that way
I have none now, and my life must have other objects."
James was so horrified with this view of Hugh's situation that he began
vehemently to controvert it, and was ready to recommend a renewal of the
acquaintance rather than the rejection of it on such a motive.
"What would they not be justified in saying _now_?" said Hugh--"and if
not--I'm not the same man that--that--"
Hugh paused and drooped his head low, a sudden rush of recollection
revealing how much of the same man remained.
"I've got to catch the Oxley train," he said, getting up.
"Why, you're never going back to-night! And I say, Hugh, you've been
there by yourself quite long enough. Shall I run down, or why don't you
go to Bournemouth?"
"I don't want any change, thank you," said Hugh. "Good night," and he
was gone before Jem had time to mutter to himself, "I don't know how it
would be if he saw her, though!"
But Hugh, as he went out into the cold night, felt his brain in a whirl.
He had had a change, whether he wished for one or not--a change of
thought, and feeling, and association; a wave of feeling that seemed to
make him conscious of _what he used to be like_ at that time that seemed
now like his whole past. But it was past, so completely that he did not
even argue with himself against its return. His words were so far true
that he could not have pushed his recent life aside, and sought out
Violante again.
Only, now and then, as the days went by, she seemed to steal like a
vision into his solitary rooms. He saw her finger the quaint old
ornaments of his grandmother's drawing-room at the Bank House, or sit on
its narrow window-seats at work. But Redhurst and all his outer life
was haunted by another vision--haunted as truly as if a spirit with wet
white dress and covered face had really wandered over the frosty autumn
meadows, or seemed to float on the dull waters, which no summer sun
awoke to sparkling light.
PART FOUR, CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.
RELATIONS NEW AND OLD.
"The world is full of other folks."
The Gayworthys.
It was a wintry morning, with pale sunshine struggling through the
retiring fog. In the centre of the Greys' pretty drawing-room, among
all the ottomans, tables, and nick-knacks, stood Violante. She wore a
dark-blue serge dress, with a linen collar and a little red necktie--
attire intended by Rosa to be scrupulously that of a young English lady.
Nor was the short hair, tied back with a ribbon, so unusual as to be
peculiar. Yet she looked, as she stood glancing around, half shy, half
observant, something like a hare in a flower-garden, just ready to dash
away. In consideration of the fatigue of her journey, which had ended
late the night before, she had had her breakfast upstairs, and was now
really making and receiving her first impressions.
Rosa and Beatrice Grey were talking fast to each other in a rapid
exchange of question and answer; while the aunt and younger cousins were
studying this soft-eyed, fawnlike creature, so utterly unlike their
self-possessed selves.
"So, my dear," said her aunt kindly, "we have got you here at last. And
you must tell the girls all you like best to do, that they may be able
to amuse you."
"I do not know what anyone does here exactly," said Violante, afraid of
her own voice, as she wondered if her English was _very_ foreign.
"Hasn't Rosa told you how we all get on?" said Kitty.
"Yes," said Violante. "I thought I knew--but, after all, I did not
imagine it."
Kitty laughed kindly.
"You dear little thing!" she said, "you will soon find it all out. And
you haven't got the least bit of voice to sing to us with?"
"No--I cannot sing!" said Violante, shyly.
"All, we shall make you tell us all your history," said Mary, wishing to
set her at her ease; "all about your stage-life and its wonders."
"_That_ was not very wonderful," said Violante, while Rosa interposed:
"She had very little time to judge of it before she was ill, and now I
think she would be glad to forget it."
"Ah, well, we must make her into an English girl," said Mrs Grey. "We
will talk of schools and pupils by and by; first we will show her a
little of the world. Is she as fond of parties as you were, Rosa? How
wild a dance made you, good, sober girl as you were."
"She has never been to a party," said Rosa, laughing; "and I am not sure
if she can dance--off the stage."
"Oh, yes, I can, Rosina--Maddalena taught me."
"Do you remember going to parties at the Stanforths', Rosa?" said Miss
Grey curiously.
"Yes--very well. Do you know them still?" said Rosa.
"Oh, yes--" and here followed details of old acquaintances and new
pictures, to which Violante listened in silent wonder. The Greys were
fond of little schemes and surprises, so they told their cousins nothing
of the old acquaintance whom they expected them soon to meet; and
nothing occurred to make all these perplexing novelties more perplexing
still.
"Shall you be happy here, my darling?" said Rosa, anxiously, as, in the
first interval of solitude, Violante sprang to her side and eagerly
caressed her.
"Oh, yes!--yes!" said Violante; "quite happy when I see you. But how
strange it would be to have so many sisters! How lousy they are, and
how many things they can do! Rosa mia! I see now what everyone meant
by saying that you were so English. But I like it."
Violante's life during the next week or two was not such as to make a
figure in history. She was the prettiest plaything her cousins had ever
seen. Her ignorance of ordinary life, her shy softness, and absence of
self-assertion, made her seem to them as a specially-lovely kitten, and
they never guessed that anything lay beneath. They interpreted all her
actions in accordance with the impression that she had made on them.
They were fond of reading aloud to each other, and when a passionate and
mournful love-scene moved Violante, unused to the echoes of her own
heart, to tears and blushes, they laughed at her _naivete_ and
simplicity. When she shrank from questions about her theatrical life
they concluded that she had nothing to tell of it, and they treated the
idea of her teaching Italian at school as an absurd joke.
"But I must earn my living," said Violante, gravely.
"_You_ earn your living--you kitten!" said Beatrice.
"Yes--one must do something, and I cannot sing--or marry," said
Violante, and her cousins' laughter at what seemed to the foreign girl a
perfectly natural suggestion blinded them to the fact that there was
more knowledge of the struggle of life in her words than had ever come
to them over their drawing-room carpets. But they taught her to talk,
and diminished her shyness so that she could not have been in a better
atmosphere.
To Rosa the life came with no strangeness; rather her four years of
Italy were like a dream. Surely--surely it was but yesterday that she
had trimmed her dresses for other parties at the Stanforths' and
Comptons', where Lucy was then so anxious to go. Was there _now_
nothing to give the old zest to her preparations? Only the desire to
set off Violante, and to see her enjoying herself. But Rosa's world
was, indeed, full of "other folks;" and she did not decide on her
actions with regard to herself. And great questions were agitating
themselves in her mind during these early and apparently peaceful days.
Her aunt told her of the fortunate opening which she had found for her
at Mrs Bosanquet's.
"And you see, my dear, the money is as much as you would get anywhere.
You could continue it if your father does come to England in the spring,
as he proposes. It leaves you time for a few occasional pupils, and you
would have your evenings at home--an inestimable advantage if Violante
is with you."
"I know my father thinks that, if her voice returns and we stay in
England, she might sing at concerts and oratorios. But I don't think
she will ever be able to do anything in public."