certain amount of stereotyped cleverness before they can be supposed to
have any characters. _No one_ is commonplace, or like anybody else, if
one really understands them. They say even sheep are all different, and
I'm sure girls are. The most unexpected developments--"
"Well, Flossy, never mind all that," said Miss Venning. "You shall do
as you like with Miss Mattei, and I daresay you will make something of
her."
"Oh, I feel sure of it. But, now, how is everyone? Is there any news?"
"Yes; Mrs Crichton comes home next week; so I think Freddie will not
come back as a boarder."
"It will be very dull for her at home, poor child," said Flossy,
gravely.
"Well, Mrs Crichton writes, in her usual energetic way, that she thinks
it a duty to keep the house as cheerful as possible; and she means to
ask a friend Freddie has made at Bournemouth to stay with her. She
hopes, too, that Hugh will live at home as usual."
"He will not be an element of cheerfulness," said Clarissa. "I met him
riding yesterday, and I never saw so gloomy a face."
"And Arthur?" said Flossy.
"I don't think his plans are settled yet; but Mrs Crichton says he
writes cheerfully."
"I don't think much of those cheerful letters," said Flossy, sadly.
"What can he say? How will one ever go to Redhurst? Ah, there's a
ring! That's the Pembertons, no doubt. I must get ready for tea."
At six o'clock Violante found herself sitting at tea in a large,
cheerful room, and gradually took courage to make her observations on
the new scene before her. She was placed among the elder girls, who
were exceedingly polite to her, for Flossy's genial influence told in
the tone of the school; but she felt more attracted towards a row of
long-haired lesser ones, for whom Miss Robertson was making tea. "I
should like to do that," she thought; "I hope they will love me." There
was a grand French governess, who looked formidable; and who, to tell
the truth, was the only person of whom Miss Florence stood in awe, and
who regarded her merely as a big girl and not as a theorist in
education. There was also a younger and quieter-looking German, and
about thirty pupils. There was a good deal of conversation, and plenty
to eat. Violante occupied at night the same room with Miss Robertson, a
pleasant one enough. Her companion pretended not to notice the tears
which the longing for Rosa's good nights could not fail to bring. She
had seen a good many school-girls cry, since she had been sent to an
orphanage for clergymen's daughters at eight years old; and she thought
everyone ought to appreciate their good luck in being at Oxley Manor--
certainly a little ignorant foreigner, who was, besides, too old and too
tall to be legitimately homesick. She must learn not to be a helpless
child. But Violante's beauty and fascinating sweetness were a magic
armour with which to face this new world. Everyone, even her stern
young judge, was kindly disposed towards her and ready to make allowance
for her ignorance and helplessness.
Miss Venning, however much licence she might allow to Florence, was very
really the mistress of her school. The girls, Flossy included, read the
Bible to her every morning--a ceremony almost as alarming to Violante as
standing up to sing. When this was over Miss Venning called her, and
said:
"Now, my dear, tell me what you can do?"
"I cannot do anything, signora. I am very stupid," faltered Violante.
"I will try."
"What have you learnt?"
"English. I know English, and just a little French and music."
"Have you read much of your own literature--Dante or Tasso?"
"No, signora."
"Read me a piece of this," said Miss Venning, putting a volume of
Italian poetry into her hands that she might judge of her accent.
Frightened as Violante was, and little as she had responded to her long
technical training, she declaimed the verses in a very much more
vigorous style than Miss Venning expected.
"That is very well," she said. "You must read Italian with Miss
Florence, and help her to teach her class."
"Signora," said Violante, emboldened by the praise, "I can knit and sew
and embroider. I could teach these to the young ladies."
"And you shall," said Flossy, who was standing close by. "Sister, we'll
make needlework popular."
"They are very pleasant occupations," said Miss Venning. "Now, let me
hear you play; for it will be part of your duty to overlook the little
girls at their music."
Violante played very prettily, though her fingers had comparatively been
little cultivated; but she refused even to attempt to sing, flushing and
trembling in a way quite inexplicable, if the Miss Vennings had known
nothing of her former history.
"Well, my dear," said Miss Venning, "you have a great deal to learn, and
a little to teach. We will do our best to make you happy among us, and
you on your part will, no doubt, be industrious and obedient."
"Yes, signora," said Violante, a good deal impressed by the profundity
of Miss Venning's manners.
"And one thing I wish you to notice. As you make friends with your
companions, do not make the details of your former life a matter of
conversation. You have no need to be ashamed of it; but it would excite
great curiosity, and you might be questioned in a way you would not
like."
"It is only _silly_ girls who wish to talk," said Violante, quoting a
sentiment of Rosa's, and looking slightly hurt.
"Then do you be wise," said Miss Venning, rather amused. "Now go to
your lessons."
Violante dropped into the routine of her new life with surprising
quickness. She did not dislike it; but, as she wrote to Rosa: "There is
so much that I do not understand." She found herself, of course, very
ignorant; but either her teachers found teaching her a pleasant task, or
she had exaggerated her own dulness, for no one gave her up as hopeless.
She even managed to exercise a sort of control on the few occasions
when she was forced to assume authority. The little girls delighted in
her, and her greatest pleasure was to do their hair for them, make them
pretty things, teach them fancy-work, and be generally a slave to them.
She was willing to assume any amount of the playtime responsibility
generally considered so irksome, and, as Clarissa observed, would have
been "all nursery, and no governess," instead of sharing the prevailing
tendency in the opposite direction. The elder ones were very fond of
her, but, though she responded quickly to kindness, she did not bestow
any depth of affection on anyone but Miss Florence, whom she regarded as
a superior being. Flossy was a perpetual wonder to her. Rosa had been
a fairly efficient and conscientious teacher; but, assuredly, she had
not found it her greatest delight, nor rattled away even to such an
uncomprehending listener as Violante of classes and examinations and the
principles of education. She had not taken so vivid an interest in each
one of her pupils, nor been so anxious to extend her sphere of labour,
that she could scarcely, as Flossy's sisters said, see a girl passing in
the street without wanting to teach her, and had always a plea for
extending some of the advantages of Oxley Manor "just this once" to some
poor little outsider who stood just "next" in the social scale to those
who already enjoyed them. And she could do so many things herself. The
girls said Miss Florence was writing a book, and she certainly drew
nearly as well as the master. She could make her dresses, too, _not_
quite so well as the dressmaker, and was much prouder of them than of
the drawing or the book either. Enthusiasm is infectious. Violante
caught the prevailing tone and worshipped Miss Florence with innocent
ardour. It was a somewhat dangerous atmosphere for Flossy, but she was
more wrapped up in her occupations than in herself; she heartily loved
her admiring pupils, and had her own enthusiasms in other directions.
There were two schoolrooms at Oxley Manor; and in the larger one, in the
dusky firelight of a Saturday afternoon, the two young "pupil teachers,"
for which simple name Flossy was wont to contend, sat learning some
French poetry. Violante did not like learning her lessons, it reminded
her too much of learning her parts; but, then, as she reflected, it did
not matter nearly so much if she could not say them. She sat on a stool
in a corner by the mantelpiece, her face framed in its softly-curling
locks, in shadow, and the firelight dancing on her book and on her
childish, delicate hands--hands that looked fit only to cling and
caress, belying their fair share of deftness and skill. Miss Robertson
sat on a chair, and held her book before her eyes, for she was
short-sighted. She had chilblains, and occasionally rubbed her fingers.
Her companion's idleness was quite an interruption to her; she felt
obliged to keep her in order.
"You don't seem to get on with your poetry, signorina," she said, giving
the title which attached to Violante as a sort of Christian name.
"No, it is hard."
"One must give one's mind to it. I don't think you take a sufficiently
serious view of life, signorina."
"A serious view?" repeated Violante.
"Well, of work, you know. Look at Miss Florence. What do you suppose
makes her so energetic and useful?"
"I suppose," said Violante, "that she is like my father, and has
enthusiasm. And, perhaps, she has not much else to think of. She is
very happy."
"Do you mean that no one should work at what they don't like?"
"Oh, yes; but it is much harder, especially when there is so much
besides," said Violante. She did not mean to turn the tables on her
companion, but merely to state simple fact.
"I don't see," said Miss Robertson, "what can be more important than
getting ready to earn one's living."
"Yes--we must do that--if we can," said Violante.
"I assure you," said Miss Robertson, "things would be very different
here if it weren't for Florence Venning. I've been at other schools and
I know. You and I would not have such good times without her."
"Oh, she is good and beautiful!" cried Violante. "I would learn lessons
all day to please her. Where is she now?"
"She is gone to Redhurst?" said Edith, gravely.
"Redhurst?"
"Yes. Have none of the girls told you about poor Mysie Crofton?"
"No, who is she?"
"She used to come here to school, and--it happened last summer before I
came; but they often talk of it--she was drowned."
"Oh, how sad! Did she fall into the water?"
"She was going to be married, and her lover and his cousin were
shooting, and they saw her standing on the lock, and Mr Crichton--"
"Who?"
"Mr Hugh Crichton. He lives at Redhurst, don't you know? She was
going to marry his cousin, Mr Spencer. Well, they were shooting, and--
it was very awful--but Mr Crichton's gun frightened her, and she fell
into the water and was drowned."
Violante sat in the shadow. Her dead silence might have come from her
interest in the story.
"That's not the worst. They say Arthur Spencer told him not to fire--
and he did--"
"Was he jealous?" suddenly cried Violante.
"Good gracious, signorina! What a horrid--what a ridiculous idea! How
foreign! Of course not. He didn't mean to hurt her. He was half mad
with grief. I'm sure _now_ he looks as if he couldn't smile--and Mr
Spencer has been abroad ever since it happened--last August."
Violante sat in her corner, her heart beating, shivering, her face
burning. "He is near--" Then that wild foolish thought of the poor
foreign opera-taught girl gave place to a pang of shame, and then, "He
is unhappy." She had forgotten herself--forgotten where she was; when
Miss Florence came slowly into the room in her hat and jacket. She came
and knelt down by the fire, looking much graver than usual.
"Frederica comes to school on Monday," she said, in rather a strained
voice.
"How were they, Miss Florence?" asked Edith.
"Oh, I don't know. Mrs Crichton is very well. They are hardly
settled."
"I was telling signorina," said Miss Robertson.
Flossy looked at Violante.
"Why, you have frightened her!" she said, "with our sad story."
Violante could not speak; but something in Flossy's trembling lips spoke
to her heart. She pressed up close to her and hid her face on her
shoulder.
"Why, my dear child, how you tremble!" cried Flossy, touched by the
action and by the sympathy, as she thought it. "Hush, _we_ have almost
left off crying for her!"
"I never thought it would make you hysterical," said Miss Robertson,
rather severely.
"Let her alone," said Florence, for all her tenderest strings were still
quivering with the renewal of old associations, and somehow this girl,
who cried for her dear Mysie, spoke to her heart as no one had done
since Mysie's star had set. Violante clung closer and closer, conscious
of nothing but a sense of help and fellowship in the stormy sea that,
had suddenly burst in on her. She had lost all sense of concealment,
she forgot that Flossy did not know her secret; she was only silent
because no words adequate to her bewildered horror suggested themselves.
At last she half sobbed out:
"And he killed her--killed her?"
"Oh, no; you must not say that," said Flossy. "It was a very sad
accident, but poor Hugh could not help it, and Arthur never blamed him.
She was so good, so sweet. But you must not cry, dear; why are you so
startled?" she added, becoming aware that Violante's agitation was
excessive, though, on the score of her Italian actress-ship, she was not
prepared to consider it unnatural.
Violante was slowly coming to herself. She sat up and pushed back her
hair; while things began to arrange themselves in her mind. Hugh
Crichton lived close at hand; she might see him, and he had been in a
great storm of trouble--was that why she had heard nothing of him? Then
Signor Arthur--she remembered how James Crichton had told Rosa that his
cousin's love was dead. Here was something she could say.
"Signora, I met Signor Arthur Spencer in Italy at Caletto. That was
partly--" She stumbled over the truth so like a lie; but Flossy broke
in--
"Saw Arthur? Did you? Oh, tell me--how was he--what did he look like?"
"He was very sad--I knew that, though he used to come and talk and laugh
with us. He was travelling. And when I knew we were coming to England
I asked him what English girls were like? And, oh, Miss Florence, I
knew he spoke of one he loved who was dead. But he told me to be brave.
He is so!"
It did not strike Flossy at the moment to be surprised at Violante's
interest in Arthur and his story; the subject was too interesting to
herself, but the fact dropped into her mind and was recalled in the
future. Now she asked a few more questions about him, and in return
told Violante a little of the circumstances of his trouble, till they
were obliged to separate to dress for tea. Violante crept away to her
room, and as she stood by herself in the dark she felt that she had in a
manner deceived Miss Florence. "But," thought she--"he shall say first
he knows me--if he will. When shall I see him? How shall I see him?
Oh, never--shut up here! Hugo--ah, Hugo mio!"
Yet she felt full of expectation, full of something like hope. "I will
tell Rosa if I see Signor Arthur," she thought; "but if I tell her who
is near she will be angry and foolish and take me away. It will not
hurt me."
So, to excuse herself to her own conscience for thus concealing so
important a fact from her sister, she found heart to go through her work
as usual, teaching and learning, with one question ever before her, one
expectation filling her life. She could tell Rosa when she could talk
to her, she thought; but a letter would give a false impression, and
make her sister anxious to no purpose.
PART FIVE, CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.
DISCORDS.
"Those blind motions of the spring
That show the year has turned."
Redhurst was entirely unused to absenteeism. Mrs Crichton had scarcely
ever spent five months together away from it in her life, and now she
seemed to have taken with her all the movement and interest of the
place. From the time when the little heiress had ridden out with her
father on her long-tailed pony, all through the days of her bright,
joyous young ladyhood, and happy, active wifehood, she had lived among
her own people; and, as she was both an affectionate and conscientious
woman, she had fulfilled her duties towards them well, and found and
given much pleasure in the fulfilment. Moreover, besides the Rector,
the Crichtons had been the only resident gentry in the parish, though
there was a large neighbourhood beyond its bounds. Substantial benefits
were not intermitted, and Hugh was far too conscientious to neglect his
local duties; but kind words and gossip were missing. Mr and Mrs
Harcourt seemed to have grown years older; the girls, who had been wont
to admire Mysie's hats and profit by her teaching missed both; and the
old women had no one to recount their aches and pains to. Some
excitement was, however, derived from the fact that Ashenfold, a large
farm-house in the place, had been taken by a Colonel Dysart, in search
of a country residence, who brought there a large family of girls and
boys--active, helpful, and good-humoured. So the pathway through the
fields was trodden by other girlish feet on their way to school; other
hands hung up the Christmas wreaths in Redhurst Church; and Mysie's
duties were not altogether left undone. The new folks were grumbled at
and sighed over; but they had stirred the dull waters, and on their
side, of course, were ready to welcome eagerly the return of the family
to the great house--none the less eagerly on account of their mournful
story. There would be an acquaintance, for Mr Spencer Crichton had met
Colonel Dysart in Oxley, and had left a card upon him. All business
matters remaining in Hugh's hands he had been obliged sometimes to go to
Redhurst, and he hardly felt one place to be more dreary than another.
Indeed, he was so tired of his self-imposed solitude that he felt glad
to think that his mother was coming back again. Perhaps, things would
be better, somehow. Still, he could not make up his mind to be there to
receive them, but made some excuse of business for the first night, and
then rode home the next day, after the banking hours were over, through
the cold, frosty evening, as he had done all his life till the last few
months, in secure expectation of finding warmth and light, girlish
voices, and little bits of news, small matters to be decided, life and
comfort; in one word--home. Ah, could that busy, troublesome, foolish
home come back how sweet it would have been! What would he find now?
His heart beat fast as he rode up to the door, which was quickly opened,
and Hugh felt an odd sort of relief at sight of the bright hall fire
burning; and in another moment he was in the drawing-room, and held his
mother in his arms, in, perhaps, the fondest embrace he had ever given
to her since he was a little school-boy.
"Oh, mother, I'm glad you're come home!" he said. Frederica came up
promptly to kiss him, and he felt that it was all very comfortable and
pleasant, and much more cheerful than he had expected. He had retained
the impression of the sorrowful faces and heavy mourning of their last
parting. Now there was white about his mother's dress, and Freddie's
hair was tied with violet ribbons. He could have dispensed with the
presence of the two Miss Brabazons, whose acquaintance had been made at
Bournemouth; but, perhaps, as Mrs Crichton had thought, they helped to
fill up blank spaces. Hugh was not a very observant person, but as he
glanced round the room he saw that it had a different aspect; the
coverings were of another colour, the tables and sofas had been moved,
the lamp stood in a new part of the room; there seemed to be no
well-known corner or combination left.
"The place looks different," said Hugh, who was not easily affected by
externals.
"Ah, yes," said his mother, "it was best to make a few changes."
Hugh shivered, and seemed to see the old scene through the new.
"You don't look very well, my dear," said Mrs Crichton. "Have you been
working too hard?"
"Oh, no, mother, thank you; I'm well enough. I'll go now and dress for
dinner." The changes in the drawing-room had caused Hugh to look out
for old associations; but his mother followed him upstairs.
"You see, Hugh," she said, "for all the young ones' sakes it was
necessary to get over old impressions. You know this old door was shut
up"--suddenly opening it--"and, by closing the other, and changing the
furniture, there is nothing to recall our darling's room."
Hugh shrank back. He saw vaguely that it all looked very different; but
he could not cross the threshold.
"Yes, mother, I daresay you're right," he said, hurriedly; "it may make
a difference."
"And, Hugh, we must not let the house be mournful. When Arthur comes
back it will be much better for him to find us cheerful."
Hugh made no reply. He could not contemplate the thought of Arthur's
return. How had any of them come back, he thought, as he dressed
hastily and went downstairs. At dinner his mother asked him if he had
seen anything of the new comers to Ashenfold.
"Yes, I have seen Colonel Dysart. He is a gentleman. There are a great
many of them."
"I must go and call. Didn't you tell me, Freddie, that some of them
were going to Miss Venning's?"
"So Flossy said in her letter," returned Freddie.
"They have been kind and helpful, I hear. It is a great thing to have
that house occupied."
"We did very well with the old Horehams," said Hugh, "though Colonel
Dysart is likely to be a good neighbour. Have you been to the Rectory?"
"Oh, yes, we went over at once. I think the dear old folks want us back
again. You should have looked in on them now and then on a Sunday,
Hugh."
"It is you they want, not me," he said. "I went to Oxley parish church
generally. You have not seen the town yet, I suppose, Miss Brabazon?"
he added, to change the conversation.
Before the evening was over, Hugh was doubtful whether the cheerfulness
around him was not dearly bought by the effort to join in it. There was
no want of affectionate feeling in Mrs Crichton; she missed Mysie every
hour, and acknowledged their loss to the full; but she was determined
that it should be regarded as nothing more than a loss, and that, as she
phrased it, "no morbid feelings should be allowed to exist;" and she
would not acknowledge that Hugh had any special occasion for
sensitiveness. Being, with all her good-nature and easiness of
discipline, a person of strong will she was determined to create
external cheerfulness. Frederica, who had now, of course, become a more
important element in the household, was reserved by nature, and, like
many young girls, afraid of the force of her own emotions. She could
not bear to speak or hear of Mysie, so she turned vehemently to other
things; while, the more her high spirits regained their sway, the less
she liked any infringement on them.
Hugh was away at the Bank on the day that Flossy came to see them: but
she, too, nervous, and inwardly agitated, was glad to talk of external
things--about the new people, and their girls coming to school, and the
dear little signorina of whom she was growing so fond, and whose
wonderful sweet face was like a poem or a picture.
"You must bring her to see us, Flossy, when Freddie asks some of her
schoolfellows," said Mrs Crichton.
So, little pleasant plans were made, and Redhurst came back into
Flossy's life. Yet, as she walked home through the cold afternoon, the
tears rolled down her cheeks. It seemed cruel for the home to be
regaining its cheerfulness while Arthur was away, solitary and unhappy.
Yet she, herself, how full her life was; how fast the world went on!
"And we forget because we _must_ And not because we will," thought
Flossy, and in this mood Violante's tears had surely met with warm
sympathy.