what is called in country neighbourhoods an "acquisition." They had
done up their house. Colonel Dysart hunted and was anxious to get some
shooting. There were four sons and five daughters, all between nine and
twenty-eight, ready to be sociable. Two of the girls went to school
with Freddie; one of the elder ones was useful in the village; some
among them rode, sang, and drew--it was worth while being attentive to
them; and a promising acquaintance began to spring up. Even old Mrs
Harcourt found visits from the children enlivening to her, and liked to
give them winter apples and Christmas roses. It was a good thing, too,
to have someone to take an interest in the choir, and the curate, whom
Mr Harcourt's age had recently rendered necessary, found work for the
young ladies; while they spoke together with a certain tender curiosity
of her whose sweet life and sad fate was already becoming a tradition,
to give to the scenery of the tragedy a certain mournful interest, and
to make the touching of Mysie's doings and the taking-up of her duties
something of a rare privilege. So, new lives and new possibilities were
springing up, slowly and naturally, as the snowdrops began to peep on
Mysie's grave.
Hugh did not see much of the new comers; he was away all day, and did
not always come out from Oxley in the evening; and he paid so little
attention to the talk going on around him that he neither discovered the
names and ages of the Dysarts, nor heard anything of the charms of
Freddie's new Italian teacher, whose youth and gentleness excited her
surprise and delight. But one sunny morning, as he rode into Oxley, a
little incident occurred to him. He was passing Oxley Manor, riding
slowly under its ivied wall and thinking of nothing less than of its
inhabitants, when, from one of the upper windows that looked out close
on the road, something fell on his horse's neck, and then down into the
dust at his feet. Hugh looked down--it was a little bunch of violets;
then glanced carelessly up at the windows with a laugh. "Those girls
must be very hard up! What would Flossy say?" he thought. But no one
peeped out to see what had become of her violets, and he rode on, amused
as he recalled various boyish pranks of Jem's and Arthur's, and left the
violets lying in the dust.
When he came back that afternoon his mother called him into the
drawing-room. "Hugh," she said, eagerly, "here is a letter from Arthur,
which greatly concerns you."
With the curious sense of reluctance with which he always received
anything connected with his cousin, Hugh took the letter, and read--
"Rome, January 28, 18--
"My dear Aunt Lily,--I am glad to hear you are at home again; I did
not like to think of the place being empty. This is a wonderful city,
and it is impossible even to mention all the objects of interest it
contains. I wish Jem was near to enjoy them. If I tried to describe
them it would be like copying a guide-book, and I would rather tell
you something of what I have seen when me meet; and I hope that will
be soon, for, my dear aunt, I think I have led this wandering life
long enough. I have been thinking over things of late, and I wish, if
you and Hugh consent, to come home again, and take my place in the
Bank, as was originally proposed, and try and do as well as I can. I
am very tired of travelling; and, as for choosing any other
profession, I don't feel that I can turn my mind to anything fresh,
and something I must settle upon. Give my love to Hugh, and tell him
I hope I shall be able to make myself useful to him. I shall be very
glad to see you all again; and, though life is for ever changed to me,
all that is left to me is at Redhurst with you and my sister and my
brother--my brothers, I should say, for so Hugh and Jem have been and
must be. I hope and pray not to be idle or useless for _her_ sake.
"Ever your loving nephew,--
"Arthur Spencer."
Hugh read the letter through, and it touched him to the heart--the
exceeding sadness that the writer could hardly disguise, the unwonted
profession of affection for himself, and yet the coupling of his name
with Jem's, as if to hide that there was any reason for such profession.
He saw how conscientiously Arthur was endeavouring to act, and yet the
proposal was terrible to him.
"Well, Hugh," said his mother, after a long pause, "it is the best thing
for the poor boy, isn't it?"
"Of course, mother," said Hugh, slowly. "Arthur must do exactly as he
pleases, have everything as he wishes it; but--but--I think he is
mistaken."
"Mistaken, how?"
"I think he is trying to do what he will not be equal to. How can he
_bear_ this place?" said Hugh, in a passionate undertone. "Every day
would be an agony to him. It is--it would be to me!"
"Of course," said Mrs Crichton, "there will be much that is painful at
first; but he will get over it, and he cannot be banished for ever.
Depend upon it, Hugh, the truest kindness will be to let everything be
as much a matter of course as possible. The world could not go on if
everyone shrank from the scenes of their misfortunes. Arthur is
perfectly right, and I am sure he will be much happier in having
something to do; and you'll find his natural cheerfulness will help him
through. We must make it as pleasant and easy as possible."
Hugh rose and gave the letter back to his mother. "Tell him it shall be
as he wishes," he said; "but tell him also that if ever he changes his
mind I will not hold him to his word;" and, without waiting for an
answer, he went hurriedly away to his own room. How should he bear
Arthur's presence, how endure the sight of his sorrow? Could he ride
into Oxley with him every day, when every weary look and dispirited tone
would be like the thrust of a dagger. The more generous and unselfish
Arthur was, the bitterer seemed the reproach. The idea of constant
association was so terrible to him that, just in judgment as Hugh was,
it almost seemed to him as if a choice so unlike his own must be
dictated by feelings less intense and a memory less keen. "How can he
bear the sight of me?" he thought. "_I_ would have gone to the ends of
the earth sooner than come back. If he has any feeling he will not be
able to endure it! However, it doesn't matter what it is to me!"
Hugh honoured the sacrifice, and yet half despised his cousin for the
power of making it. He would have considered it his duty to yield up
his most cherished feelings for Arthur, and yet he regarded him with a
shrinking that, in so passionate a nature, was almost hate. Truly, his
mother was right in thinking that such morbid feelings, did not deserve
encouragement. And then there was the constant haunting belief that he
was enduring in silence a loss and a want similar to that for which
everyone was pitying his cousin. And when Hugh's thoughts took that
turn he sometimes felt as if he were making a sort of secret atonement.
But all this was in the depths of Hugh's soul; his sensible outer
judgment knew the probable risk of reaction for so young a man as
Arthur, and felt that home and work were his best safeguards. And Hugh
remembered that he had still his rooms at the Bank House, where a press
of business might always detain him if Redhurst became quite
unendurable. When Frederica went to school the next morning she told
Flossy, as she came into her Italian class and was waiting for some of
her companions, that Arthur was coming home.
"Signor Arthur?" said Violante, who was standing by.
"Yes," answered Frederica, who, of course, had been informed of the
meeting at Caletto; "he will be surprised to see you, signorina. He is
coming back and going to begin at the Bank, and go on as usual."
"I hope--it will do," said Flossy, rather tremulously. Violante glanced
at her and began to read herself, as the girls came in and took their
places; and Miss Florence let her take the lead, and neither asked nor
answered a question for full five minutes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
End of the Second Volume.
PART FIVE, CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.
BEGINNING AFRESH.
"When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown,
And all the sport is stale, lad.
And all the wheels run down."
It was on a soft mild afternoon early in February that Arthur came
home--an afternoon with a pearly sky and gleams of pale spring sunshine
to light the starry celandines and budding palms. Spring was coming--
there were lambs in the meadows, and birds in the hedges, the
gaily-painted barges floated down the slow water, children and young
ladies tripped along the path--nothing was changed. Redhurst, always a
cheerful place, was at its brightest, fresh and spring-like, yet
familiar as the golden crocuses in the garden-beds.
Mrs Crichton was glad of the sunshine. Though rarely nervous she
longed for the arrival to be over, and sent her young ladies to meet
Frederica as she came from school, so that there was no one to receive
her nephew but herself, arrayed in mourning, purposely lightened before
his return. She heard him ring the bell, perhaps for the first time in
his life, and came out to meet him.
"Well, my dear boy, I hardly expected you so soon; come in--I'm glad to
see you."
Arthur kissed her warmly, and followed her into the drawing-room.
"I think the train was punctual," he said.
"Are you tired--did you stop in London?"
"Oh, yes, and I saw Jem. He says he will run down soon. I crossed
yesterday, so I have had nothing of a journey to-day."
"And--are you quite well, my dear?"
Mrs Crichton did not mean to make much of the meeting; but she put her
hand on his arm and looked at him tenderly, hardly able to speak.
Arthur smiled a little.
"Very well," he said, "and glad to see you."
Arthur was quite quiet and calm; but he was very grave, and made no
attempt to feign an ordinary tone of feeling that could not have been
real; he was always entirely genuine, and rarely thought of the effect
of his own demeanour. Mrs Crichton looked at him anxiously, he was a
good deal tanned and rather thinner than of old; but she thought that he
did look well and wonderfully like himself.
"Isn't Freddie here?" he said.
"Yes--there she is--she has been at school."
Ah! he went forward rather eagerly to meet her; but Frederica, nervous
and excited, and by no means sharing his absence of self-consciousness,
kissed him rather boisterously than tenderly, and began to talk fast
because she was afraid of crying.
"I suppose Hugh is at the Bank," said Arthur; but as he spoke there was
a rush and a scamper through the hall, and Snap, his terrier, rushed
upon him with a welcome in which there was no cloud of embarrassment,
and no room for regrets. After that Arthur was glad to get away to look
after his luggage, and when he came back afternoon tea was in progress,
and he sat down and talked about his journey and the wonders of Rome,
and the new coloured curtains Jem had hung up in his highly-decorated
rooms. Arthur was a pleasant talker, and they thought how nice it was
to have him at home again. But he looked vaguely about the room between
whiles, as if its changes perplexed him. He walked over to the window
and looked out, where the light was dying away on the garden-paths. He
had expected to feel the first sight of home severely--he hardly felt
anything except that he had been there for a long time--an interminable
number of hours.
Hugh was, perhaps purposely, late, and at length Mrs Crichton proposed
going to dress, audibly wondering why he did not come.
"There he is!" said Freddie, as a horse's hoofs sounded. "Hugh," she
added, throwing open the door, "here's Arthur!"
Arthur started up and went forward.
"Hugh!" he said with a sort of eagerness:
"Well, Arthur, how d'ye do?" but as Hugh uttered this commonplace
greeting his hand was as cold as ice. They exchanged half-a-dozen words
as to Arthur's journey and the weather, and separated in two minutes to
dress; and the much-dreaded meeting was over.
Everyone was eager to talk at dinner, and a little bit afraid of home
topics, and soon Frederica started what she conceived to be a
delightfully safe and interesting subject.
"Oh, Arthur, we have heard of you lately from someone you met in Italy."
"Really; who is that?"
"Why, a young lady who teaches us Italian--she was at a place called
Caletto."
"Miss Rosa Mattei?" said Arthur. "Has she come here?"
"No--it is her sister. Oh, she is the dearest little thing--her name is
Violante--do you remember?"
"Violante! You don't say so! I remember her perfectly. Is she at Miss
Venning's? Well, that is the most extraordinary chance!" exclaimed
Arthur, much interested. "I never thought she would really go to
school!"
"Oh, yes; Miss Venning knows her aunt, I believe."
"Poor little thing!" said Arthur. "I was so sorry for her. She--she
lost her voice, you know."
"Oh, yes, I know all about it. Flossy told me. She likes being at
school much better than on the stage."
"They were very kind to me. It was like a bit of a romance. She used
to ask me questions about England. Why, they don't make her teach, do
they? What a shame!"
"Arthur, what nonsense!" cried his sister. "But Violante just bewitches
people."
"Well! she doesn't look fit to light her way. By the by, Hugh, Jem told
me that you and he saw her act. It was rather a failure, wasn't it?"
As no one had expected Hugh to take any particular interest in this
conversation his dead silence surprised no one. A great fern hid him
from his mother, and no one else looked at or thought of him. He
answered Arthur, mechanically:
"I believe it was considered so."
"But was her voice so lovely?" said Freddie.
"They said so, I think."
"Oh, Hugh!" said his mother, laughing, "what opportunities you throw
away. We must ask Jem, Arthur?"
"Ay, I should think Jem would have been enraptured. I thought of him
when I saw her in the golden sunshine piling up the grapes, and they
gave me coffee because I was tired and thirsty. I can't believe she
could do anything so prosaic as teach."
The subject in its various branches lasted for some time, and when the
ladies went away Arthur continued it:
"I don't suppose Freddie _does_ know all about her. You know she was
engaged to the manager of the opera-house there, and he threw her over
when she lost her voice. So the poor little thing was fretting her
heart out."
"How do you know?" said Hugh, with a sense of being suffocated.
"Oh, there was an old _cantatrice_ who had charge of the sisters, and
she used to talk to me. And one could see the poor child was unhappy--
indeed, she owned as much."
"She would be quite pleased to see you again."
"Well, I daresay she would," said Arthur, carelessly; "but I don't
suppose Miss Venning would allow--" He stopped, as the words suggested a
different recollection, and after a moment went on, gravely:
"Hugh, I don't want to lose any more time. You will let me begin work
to-morrow?"
"If you wish it," said Hugh, without looking at him. "You can do as you
wish always."
"Thanks; you're very good, Hugh. I'll do my best. You'll be patient?"
Poor boy, he was naturally outspoken, and wanted, perhaps, a word of
sympathy and support in this painful home-coming; but Hugh only
answered, as they left the room: "I could not be otherwise," and the
coldness of the tone neutralised the kindness of the words. He lingered
behind as Arthur turned towards the drawing-room, and went into his
study. He would not have believed beforehand how little he would have
thought about his cousin on that first day of meeting, which he had
dreaded so much beforehand. His cold, short answers had come, not from
embarrassment, but because he was wholly absorbed in something else.
Had he avoided Violante to find her close at his side? Had he really
passed her every morning and evening? Ah--and the violets--he had
thrown them away! Perhaps this fact gave to the sensible Mr Spencer
Crichton the keenest sense of lost opportunity that he had ever
experienced. She had not, then, forgotten him. Had she come there
knowing of his neighbourhood? Or had she really never cared for him at
all? Arthur confirmed her engagement to the manager, and seemed
well-informed, much _too_ well-informed as to her sentiments with regard
to the breach of it. Hugh was not naturally trustful, and through all
his passion he had never trusted Violante, never forgotten that she was
a foreigner and of altogether different training from his own. Besides,
she _had_ been false to him. He had seen her with the diamonds on her
neck--he had been deceived by her confiding softness--hadn't she been
just as ready to tell her troubles to Arthur as to himself? At home
Hugh was much more convinced of the unsuitableness of his choice than he
had been in Italy; and now, after all that had passed, what right had he
to create such a family convulsion as would be caused by any renewal of
it? His love remained, but the charm of it seemed to have faded. The
bitter hours he had lately passed had half awakened him from his
dazzling holiday dream, taking from it the force it might else have had
to bend his pride to own what had been passing in his mind all the
summer, and to shake the conviction that had a sort of uncomfortable
attraction to him--that he had lost the right to choose his own
happiness against the pleasure of his family. How could he say to his
mother now, "Consent to this--I cannot live without her,"--when, through
him, Arthur must live without his love? To do so he must have been
careless and selfish--and Hugh was neither, in intention, or he must
have been able to sound the depths and rise to the height of a humility
of which he could not even conceive. Besides, this unlucky love paid
the penalty of all feelings that are unlikely and, as it were, against
the nature and the circumstances of those who experience them. It was
sweet and enticing, but it was insecure and beset by doubts and
misgivings.
But yet, when he and Arthur rode away together the next morning, Hugh's
sense of being alone with his cousin was lost in the knowledge that he
must pass Oxley Manor. He looked up at it, and his heart thrilled; but
no face was at the window, no violets, cool and fragrant, touched his
hand. Where was she? What was she doing? He was absorbed in the
present, full of an excitement which enraged him, but which made life
worth having after all. Arthur, by his side, had his own vision, but it
was back in the past. Those walls held no imprisoned princess for him.
That little green gate could never open again and show her standing
under the ivy, with her happy eyes and brisk light tread. During his
long absence Arthur had felt continuously that he had lost Mysie; he
began now to realise that the world was going on without her. He found
the home life hard. He had never expected to be other than sad; but he
had not foreseen that one thing would be worse than another, that there
would be some paths that he dared not tread, some faces that he could
not bear to see. When, as he strolled through the garden after
breakfast, he suddenly felt that he _could_ not turn down the path
towards the river, when he counted with nervous dread each familiar
object yet to be met, he was surprised and vexed with himself. He had
thought that everything that recalled his darling must be sweet: what
was the meaning of this horror which he tried to forget in taking part
in the family talk and life around him; when his natural cheerfulness
asserted itself, and Hugh looked at him with wonder? And then, when he
fancied that he should rather like some occupation or amusement, why did
he suddenly break down in the attempt to share in it, and only long to
get away by himself? Even his work at the Bank--which was less trying,
since it was entirely new--was sometimes a great burden to him after his
long desultoriness; but in this case there was something definite to
struggle with, and he could succeed in conquering himself; but at home
he could not tell what was the matter with him, and no one helped him to
find out--his aunt continuously ignoring his fluctuating spirits, and
congratulating herself when he was lively and talkative; while Hugh,
seeing that the cheerfulness was spontaneous when it came, marvelled at
it, and, while he could not bear to see him dispirited, wondered what
his world would think if he showed his moods so plainly. Nevertheless,
he was not always even-tempered, and, as Arthur had lost his careless
good-humour, Hugh would be shocked to find himself arguing hotly or
speaking sharply to one with whom he was bound to have entire patience;
and Arthur would wonder why, with such a weight at his heart, things
should seem all out of joint--not because Mysie was dead--but because
Hugh frowned, or Freddie laughed, or some trifle put him out of his way.
He had returned home on a Tuesday, and by the end of the week had grown
fairly perplexed with himself. On the Saturday afternoon, however, he
walked out early from Oxley by himself, and, taking a roundabout way
through some of the woods belonging to Ashenfold, felt soothed and
cheered by the pleasant light and air of the early spring. When he was
thus alone, and could let quiet thoughts of Mysie have their way
unchecked and undisturbed, he lost the sense of discord and trouble;
and, as was, perhaps, too much his wont, the sensations of the hour
obliterated all others, and he stood leaning over a gate, watching the
faint, pinky tints on the woods, and listening to a robin singing close
at hand. Suddenly, in the copse beside him, there was a sharp noise--
the report of a gun. Arthur started, as if he had been shot himself,
his heart beat violently; he caught at the gate, and held it hard; the
sound struck his ears like a repetition of that one fatal shot. It was
some minutes before he recovered himself sufficiently to be conscious of
anything but his own sensations, and when he looked up at last and drew
breath he was fairly exhausted. He had thought so little of himself,
and so much of his sorrow, that he had had no conception how severe the
shock to his nerves had been. He was annoyed with himself and very
thankful that no one had been there to see, so that he carefully
concealed the incident from everybody; but it set him on the look-out,
as it were, for his own feelings; and, while it certainly roused him to
attempt to conceal them, he so dreaded a recurrence of the shock, and
was so ignorant as to what might cause it, that he shrank from many old
associations which he had previously never thought of avoiding. The
sound rang in his ears, and he tried vehemently to distract his mind
from it by talking and laughing with his aunt's guests; and when Hugh
saw him playing bezique he wondered whether he was to envy him for
heroic self-control or for boyish carelessness and reaction.
PART FIVE, CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.
FAINT-HEARTED.
"The grave of all things hath its violet."
The Redhurst drawing-room was looking uncommonly cheerful on the
Saturday week after Arthur's return; and Jem, recently arrived, was
enjoying an unwonted _tete-a-tete_ with his mother. It would be,
perhaps, untrue to say that a person with affections so even as Mrs
Crichton's had a favourite son; but there was much in Jem's ways that
suited her, and he had the charm of novelty. He was strolling about the
room, criticising the alterations somewhat unfavourably.
"I say, mamma, what did you buy this thing for?" touching the chintz.
"I could have chosen you a much better one. Why didn't you write to
me?"
"Really, my dear, I didn't think of asking you to choose my drawing-room
furniture. Why don't you like it?"
"Why don't I like it? Why, it's altogether incorrect. Those autumn
leaves are false art."
"Dear me, don't you like my leaves? They're so natural you might sweep
them up."
"Exactly. You might as well be out in the garden. Now, there's a thing
up in one of the spare bed-rooms. It's yellow, with a faint brown
pattern."
"_That_, Jem! Why, it belonged to your grandmother Spencer, and was
moved here when she came and spent her last year with us. It's hideous.
I was going to have it taken down."
"It's about the best thing in the house," said Jem, critically. "You
should have it made up for this room."
"Ah, my dear fellow, I hope your wife will have some taste of her own."
"I hope she'll leave it to me. I shall stipulate she does when I marry
and settle."
"I am afraid, my dear, life in London doesn't lead young men to marry
and settle."
"Well, mamma, I'm sure I don't know about that," said Jem, sitting down
on the obnoxious chintz and stroking his beard. "Girls look out for so
much now-a-days."
"I hope, my dear, you haven't been falling in with any girl," said Mrs
Crichton, composedly--for she was not excitable--but a little struck by
Jem's manner. "You make so many acquaintances. When you were abroad I
was quite anxious."
"I assure you, mamma, _I_ was a miracle of discretion when I was
abroad--couldn't have been better with you at my elbow," said Jem,
unable to resist a little emphasis.
"Well, I am sure, I wonder you did not make a heroine of that little
Italian girl, Arthur's acquaintance. Hugh said you met her."
"Hugh said I met her!" ejaculated Jem, "Well, if that isn't cool!"