"We all feel enough sorrow, but this is not a question, of feelings but
of nerves, as it seems to me. Arthur's are naturally strong, and these
things may not affect him as they do you."
"As to that," said Hugh, "one thing is as bad as another. I have
shirked no associations. They don't affect me."
"Then, if not," said his mother, "why did you speak as you did
to-night?"
"Because I was thinking of him," said Hugh. "Must I not feel them
through him? What would he think of me if I seemed not to care? Am I
not bound to spare him?"
"You set to work about it in a very odd manner," said James.
"My dear," said Mrs Crichton, "it is what I always told you. You will
insist on looking on this matter from a morbid point of view. Just drop
that, and time will heal all things--even such grief as ours and poor
Arthur's. And I don't think he will feel these things after the first.
He never had any nerves, as a boy, you know."
"You cannot drop facts," said Hugh, wearily, "but I have been wrong, as
it seems, somehow. There's no use in arguing about it."
"Yes, my dear, you were quite wrong," said Mrs Crichton, cheerfully, as
he left the room; "so there's an end of it."
Arthur, meanwhile, was reflecting on the practical aspect of the case.
Although Redhurst was not a household where sport was made the business
of life, it was one into the ordinary habits of which it entered
considerably; and, perhaps, from his connection with the town, Hugh was
a little tenacious of this privilege of the county. He liked sporting
matters to be well managed, and Arthur was a very good shot and
genuinely fond of the pursuit. He really could not conceive how the
civilities of life could go on, or the ordinary intercourse with their
neighbours be maintained, as the year went round, without it.
Certainly, they must see and hear of it, if they declined to join in it
themselves. Arthur had formed no resolutions about it; and, but for his
experience in the Ashenfold woods, would have been ready to take it up
by degrees, with a heavy heart enough and with little interest, but as
part of the life he had got to struggle back to. And, surely, that
would never happen to him again. Arthur was much more ready to resist
these involuntary sensations than the listlessness and dejection that
seemed to have become natural to him. Hugh's speech had, of course,
been intensely painful; but without it he would have gone gallantly
through the discussion and felt the better for his victory. But he knew
that Hugh had spoken for his sake. He would try not to be such a worry
to them all. He had a bad night, however, and was, perhaps, not in the
best tune the next morning for trying experiments on himself, but he
would not falter; so, coming down early, he went into the little
back-room, where they smoked, and kept and cleaned their guns, and began
to look for his own. He found it in its usual cupboard and took it out;
but the sight, the touch, the very thought of the sound of it, were more
than he could bear. He just managed to put it back, and rushed out into
the garden. No, he could never touch it again! But there was no use in
telling anyone that he had such strange sensations; and James and his
aunt, only seeing the outside, agreed that he was as well and cheerful
as could be expected.
"My parting advice," said James, "is that everyone should let everybody
else alone."
The shooting was let for a year to Colonel Dysart without more
discussion, and only Hugh discovered that Arthur shrank from every trace
of it. But, though some of Jem's words rankled, he was far too much
afraid of seeming to forget his own share in the matter to offer the
support and sympathy which might have been better than the let-alone
system.
PART FIVE, CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.
DIVIDED!
"Again I called, and he could not come."
During the weeks that were so comfortless and disturbed at Redhurst,
Violante's school-life went on, on the whole, peacefully; but, still,
with various ups and downs of feeling--fits of longing for Rosa, of
loneliness and discouragement; times when she could not learn her
lessons nor interest herself in the little trifles that interested her
companions. Yet she never thought of giving in and going away from
Oxley Manor. When she was unhappy she dreaded lest Rosa should discover
it. All the interest of life lay close at hand--here anything might
happen, elsewhere the scene was closed. Not that Violante gave herself
this reason for her perseverance. No; she could not bear to foil a
second time; and Miss Florence was so kind to her, she was learning to
bear the little rubs of life. So she mused one soft, line morning, as
she stood leaning out of the window of the little upstairs class-room,
where she superintended the girls' practising. As she waited for her
pupils she thought to herself that she was growing brave and sensible--
more like Rosa--who let nothing interfere with her work.
And then, looking half-expectantly down the road, she saw a man come by
on horseback, riding slowly, and looking straight before him, upright
and grave. _She_ knew--_she_ saw--_he_ did neither; and, with a sudden
impulse, she leant far out of the window and pulled the little bunch of
violets from her dress and threw them to him, then darted back behind
the curtain. And, as he started, the violets fell down in the dust; and
she saw him laugh and ride on and pass her flowers by. Violante could
almost have thrown herself out of the window too, in her agony of shame
and disappointment. She could not tell whether Hugh knew that she was
at Oxley Manor or not--surely he had not intended to repulse her! If he
would but smile at her, speak to her!
"If you please, signorina, it's a quarter to ten."
Violante turned round to encounter a small fat-fingered child in a
pinafore, and sat counting, "One, two, three, four," and mechanically
checking wrong notes, as she wondered if he would look up next time that
he rode by. When Miss Venning observed shortly afterwards that she
thought it would be more convenient if the history classes preceded the
practising, which need not then begin till eleven, she little knew what
springs she touched. By one accident and another Violante did not see
Hugh again for a long time; but she did once or twice encounter Arthur
when in company with Florence, and, therefore, her walks were haunted by
a sense of possibility. She also occasionally heard Mr Crichton spoken
of at meal-times as an authority in local matters under discussion, and
gathered that his opinion was considered important, and that his
judgment was generally supposed to be severe. It so happened that at
this time the population of Oxley was convulsed with excitement as to
various public improvements then under discussion. There was a talk of
a new branch line of rail between Fordham and Oxley, and the direction
that this was to take involved local interests of the most incompatible
description. Some new gas-works were about to be set up by an
enterprising company, and one of the sites proposed was a field a great
deal nearer Oxley Manor than Miss Venning thought to be pleasant or
profitable for her school. As this field belonged to a certain charity,
long ago bequeathed, it was thought that the interests of the poor of
Oxley would induce the trustees to dispose of it for a high price to the
gas-works.
Miss Venning observed that she was not a person to be put upon without a
reason, and that she should represent the matter in the proper quarters.
"If you mean Hugh Crichton," said Clarissa, "you may represent it, and
he will do exactly what he has already decided upon."
"Well, my dear, I shall take care that he has the proper information on
which to decide; so I shall ask him to call, and show him the field from
the windows, so that he can judge for himself."
So the tones that were associated for Violante with music and flowers,
tenderness and love, first fell on her ears to the following effect:
"But you are aware, Miss Venning, that the gas-works must be somewhere?
That field is very convenient for them, and I really think it is too far
off to cause you any annoyance."
"Now, Hugh, I'll thank you just to step into the little school-room and
look out of window. No, you'll not disturb the girls. Never mind
them."
Violante rose up with her companions as Miss Venning entered. She stood
a little behind the others, and could suppose that Hugh did not see her,
as he walked up to the window and looked, or pretended to look out.
"It's a very healthy situation," he said, vaguely.
"Healthy! And, pray, what consequence can it be to gas-works if they
are healthy or not? They would spoil my view; and, really, between them
and the railroad, the place won't be worth living in much longer."
"It doesn't rest with me, you know, Miss Venning. Can you suggest a
better situation?"
"I should place them the other side of the town," said Miss Venning,
with decision, "out towards Blackwood."
"Yes," said Hugh, still staring out of the window and hearing nothing.
It may seem a somewhat contemptible state of mind to record; but Hugh
was overpowered by a sense of embarrassment, of utter uncertainty as to
what to do, as to how to greet her. Why should he evade the previous
acquaintance acknowledged by James and Arthur? And yet he felt there
was but one way in which he _could_ speak to her. As he half turned,
and hesitated as he talked confusedly to Miss Venning, the class of
girls filed out of the room. Violante passed him. All the short-lived
fire of her nature was roused by his hesitation. She gave him no glance
of appealing timidity or hopeless love. She flung up her head and
looked at him with an indignation such as he had never dreamt of seeing
in her soft eyes, and, in answer to his confused bow, she made the
slightest of curtseys and walked out of the room.
"You have met Mr Crichton?" said Clarissa, who had been with the class.
"Yes, Miss Clarissa, at my father's classes, but I have no acquaintance
with him. It was Mr Spencer who met us at Caletto. Come, Katie--come,
Agnes. Your exercises have too many faults. I shall scold." And she
sat down and took up her pen, and felt for the moment as if she could
defy every turn of fortune. Clarissa looked at her, and went back to
where Hugh, confused and wretched, was talking at random, having heard
Violante's parting shot. She had turned the tables on him; she was no
vision, no holiday dream, as he had sometimes called her; but a living
woman, first misjudged and then neglected. _He_ might be right and
self-denying, might be giving up his greatest good for the sake of
others; but she was wronged, and she had made him feel it.
"I have given it all up!--all--to make some slight atonement for the
wrong I have done," he thought; "and I must seem a sneak and a scoundrel
to myself. How little they know! What a lie life is! If I were a boy
I'd run away to sea and have done with it. And I must go this eternal
round of committees and business--and--_gas_-works--" with passionate
impatience at the momentary matter in hand, as he hurried away, having
wildly pledged himself to vote for the locating of the gas-works in the
midst of Lord Lidford's park at Blackwood.
He was stung to the very quick by Violante's anger, yet he had made up
his mind that all should be at an end between them, and he had too much
self-respect to try "to make the worse appear the better reason," and to
offer her any explanation, since he withheld the one that was her due.
Perhaps, the very renewal of regret that the sight of her face--more
womanly and more beautiful than when he had left her--caused him was a
sort of support, as it strengthened the sense of self-sacrifice. But he
was sufficiently upset and perturbed by what had passed to forget one or
two important pieces of business, and was forced to accept Arthur's help
in hastily repairing his neglect, though he had begun the day by
resolving that he would not let much work fall on his cousin when the
soft spring weather made him look so pale and languid.
With Violante anger was a short-lived passion, and an hour had not
passed before she longed to recall her scornful words and look, before
she was making a hundred excuses for her lover. The sight of Hugh in
his own place affected her as it, doubtless, had, however unconsciously,
affected him. She felt miles farther away from him here in his own town
than among the flowers of Italy. The pleasant novelty around her was
beginning to lose its effect; she began to grow scared and stupid, to be
again the little helpless Violante of Civita Bella.
One afternoon--it was a half-holiday--Miss Florence came sweeping into
the school-room, penetrating it like a fresh sunny wind, darting into
its corners, touching the sports, employments, humours of all its
inhabitants, criticising a drawing, suggesting a book, adjusting a
little quarrel; fresh currents of air seemed to follow her bright flaxen
head as she whisked about till she beheld Violante standing by herself
in the window and looking very disconsolate.
"Why, signorina, what's the matter?"
"I am so sorry, Miss Florence."
"Sorry, what for?"
"La signora is displeased with me."
"My sister? Is she? Why, what have you been doing?"
Violante blushed, and with much confusion answered that they had been
reading English poetry, and something in it made her cry. "Only a
little, Miss Florence," but the girls laughed and she had burst into
tears, and Miss Venning had told her she ought to command her feelings
better.
"Well, don't let them get the better of you now," said Flossy. "What
was this dreadfully touching poem?"
"It was a play called Hamlet, Miss Florence, and he was angry with the
girl who loved him."
"The sentiment was not sufficiently disguised, as our old English
teacher used to say," said Flossy, laughing heartily. "Did you feel as
if you might act Ophelia?"
"Signorina, it seemed too true for acting. It is not like an opera. It
might be oneself. But I should not have cried at it."
"No. School-girls don't like sentiment. But, come, it doesn't signify.
My sisters are out. Come into the drawing-room and have some tea with
me; and I want to sing something to you and ask your advice." Violante
followed gladly into the cheerful drawing-room, with its sunny flowery
windows, and its look of feminine pleasantness. She sat down in a low
easy chair and rested passively. She was tired of her own emotions; she
wanted Rosa. Miss Florence was kind, and bright, and strong, but she
did not dare to creep into her arms and lay her head on her shoulder--
she did not dare even to cry over her troubles. Excellent discipline,
doubtless, but, perhaps, the hardest that could have been devised for so
dependent a creature.
"Miss Florence," she said, after a minute; "did Hamlet ever forgive
Ophelia?"
"Why, don't you know? She went mad and drowned herself," said Flossy,
cheerfully.
"I wonder how miserable anyone must be before they go mad!"
"Why," said Florence, as she sat down and began to knit some bright
wools together, quite ready for a lively discussion on the characters of
the play. "I suppose no one would who had a well-balanced mind to begin
with."
"I am sure Rosa would not," said Violante, thoughtfully.
"No, your sister looks like the last person to do anything so silly,"
said Flossy, laughing.
"But when there are long years, and friends are cruel, and one has a
hard fate, and there is nothing in the world that could happen to set it
right--"
The deep, passionate trouble in her voice made Florence look up
surprised: she was constantly puzzled by the mixture of ignorance and
experience in this girl whose life had been so unlike her own.
"You know, Violante," she said, "we are Christians, and so we must not
despair." Violante looked perplexed and thoughtful; yet the words had a
meaning for her, for these weeks had been in one respect a period of
development. She had from the first taken very kindly to the religious
practices which were observed at Oxley Manor, and set to work to cure
her deficiency in religious knowledge. Whether because she thought it
was English, or because she wished to imitate Flossy, or from some
blessed instinct leading her to what was for her good, she showed a love
for going to church and for all sorts of Church teaching which the Miss
Vennings were half-inclined to ascribe to novelty only. Many of the
girls were under preparation for Confirmation, and she acquiesced
eagerly in the suggestion that she should join their number. They were
carefully taught by the Oxley clergy; and Flossy, who was an
enthusiastic Sunday-school teacher, had delighted in explaining
difficulties and doctrines to the little Italian. How much Violante
comprehended intellectually may be doubtful, but she began to see better
reasons for trying to do what was distasteful than the fear of being
scolded, began to have some notion of abstract duties. This she was
carefully taught; but it was surely no human words, but the blessing of
God on her innocent humble spirit, that opened her loving heart to a new
and Divine love. There dawned upon her the thought of a Friend who was
with her when Rosa was away, who loved her when Hugh was cold. It was
but a dim conception, but it had capabilities of growth. Hymns and
texts were something more than words, and her endeavours to fulfil these
new requirements had something of the fervour of enthusiasm. She used
to forget the new comfort, let it be swept away in the tumult of
exciting feeling; but when the thought came back it was like Rosa's kiss
when she was in trouble and disgrace. Flossy's hint recalled it now,
and she said, with childish directness:
"Because our Saviour loves us. Ah! I love Him very much!"
There was something in the soft, earnest _naivete_ that made the words
touching and sweet even to the English Florence, with whom reverence and
reality meant reserve, and who, however she had felt, would have thought
such an avowal presumptuous.
"Then, you must try to be good, Violante," she said, rather
repressively.
"Yes," said Violante, "and then He will be pleased with me."
Florence had taught this truth hundreds of times; but she had never
heard it thus echoed and claimed; and it came with a new force, as the
Bible words are said to do when read in a strange language.
PART FIVE, CHAPTER FORTY.
MR BLANDFORD OF FORDHAM.
"Like some long childish dream
Thy life has run."
Easter was now drawing near, but, owing to the approaching Confirmation
and one or two other reasons connected with the girls' studies, though
some of the pupils went home, there was no general break-up of the
school; and a week's holiday was to be given in the beginning of May,
when Violante was to go to London and meet her father, who was then
expected in England. Moreover, the Miss Vennings, interested in the
affection between the two lonely sisters, invited Rosa to spend a few
days at Easter, and see for herself what sort of home Violante had
found, and to this meeting Violante herself looked forward with a
mixture of delight and alarm, as she reflected on the facts hitherto
concealed from her sister.
In the meantime Redhurst had filled up all the leisure in Flossy's busy
life; and, perhaps, more than all the leisure in her busy soul. She was
always welcome there, with her inveterate freshness and brightness,
which even the associations of the place could not destroy; she was
almost the only visitor whom Arthur really liked to see; and,
consequently, the only one to whose coming Hugh did not object. But she
was not encouraged to bring Violante there with her, Mrs Crichton
secretly thinking that the young men had talked quite enough about their
old acquaintance with her, and Miss Venning being by no means desirous
of bringing about a renewal of it. So Hugh only suffered from hearing
her progress and her charms described by the unconscious Flossy to
Arthur, while he expressed a hope that "she had forgotten the manager."
Flossy was too busy a person to be entirely absorbed in one subject; but
beneath all her daily occupations Redhurst was for ever present in her
mind, and--though she was herself scarcely aware of it--Redhurst as it
affected Arthur Spencer. She never heard of any incident taking place
there without wondering whether it was pleasant or not to him; and,
though she did not rival Hugh in the keenness of his self-conscious
insight into the passing phases of Arthur's humour, her sympathy enabled
her to draw much kinder, and, on the whole, truer conclusions from them.
For Arthur was in an unsatisfactory state, languid and inconsistent,
sometimes indolent and careless, and sometimes over-vehement as to his
work, in a way really trying to Hugh's patience; sometimes silent and
listless, and sometimes apparently excited by any change, and even ready
to seek it in the companionship of the young Dysarts and Ribstones. He
was so uncertain as to be sometimes very provoking; but he did not look
well; and Hugh, though secretly despising what he thought want of
self-control, was outwardly marvellously patient, when his own secret
fretting vexations were considered. Flossy did Arthur a great deal of
good. She believed in his faith, patience, and courage, and helped to
create the qualities that she believed in. She liked to coax him into
an argument, to induce him to tease her in the old fashion, and she was
the only person to whom he ever mentioned Mysie's name, or to whom he
ever talked about himself. All this was very good for Arthur, who
sorely needed a friend; but, even for the simple unsentimental Flossy,
it was very dangerous work. How long the peculiar circumstances of the
case might have blinded her eyes to her danger may be doubtful, as an
incident happened, extremely startling to her in itself, and which
caused her to make a still more startling discovery. At twenty-one she
had never even been accredited with an admirer, and had thought far less
of young men than of young maidens; but, of late, possibilities had
begun to dawn on the minds of her sisters. A short time before Colonel
Dysart had taken Ashenfold the living of Fordham had been given to a
connection of his, a Mr Blandford, who had made some stir in the
clerical world of Oxley by his fine sermons and by the superior manner
in which he organised his new parish. He was about five-and-thirty and
unmarried; and, through a whole dinner-party, was observed to discuss
Church matters, practical and theoretical, with Miss Florence Venning,
who dearly loved good conversation.
"So exactly the sort of man to suit Flossy!" said Miss Venning,
confidentially, to Clarissa. "So superior and with such kindred
tastes!"
"It's much too good to be true," said Clarissa, with one of her quaint
little grimaces. "I shouldn't wonder if he is in favour of the celibacy
of the clergy."
"Oh, my dear, with that nice vicarage! But I'm sure I don't wish to
lose Flossy. She is young enough yet."
Flossy was much flattered at finding that Mr Blandford adopted some of
her suggestions in his Sunday-school, and even went so far as to pity
his parish for having no lady to look after it, and to wish that he
could prepare the girls for their Confirmation; but, though she met Mr
Blandford tolerably often, she did not regard him in the light of a
probable lover, till one morning, as she read her letters at breakfast,
Miss Florence's pink cheeks grew redder and redder, and at the first
opportunity she pursued her sisters into the drawing-room, and, with a
sort of half-dignified fright, communicated the alarming fact that Mr
Blandford had actually made her an offer.
"My dear Flossy! Well, it is no surprise to me," said Miss Venning.
"I'm sure it's a surprise to me," said Flossy, rather ruefully.
"Why, you don't mean to say you never thought of it?" said Clarissa.
"I did," said Flossy, "of course, when everyone was wondering if he
would marry; but, as he never paid me any attentions, I decided that--
that he would not."
"Never paid you attention?"
"Why, you don't call talking about Sunday-schools and districts
attention, do you?" said Flossy.
"That depends. Did you expect him to talk about hearts and darts and
forget-me-nots?" laughed Clarissa.
"I thought anyone would do _something_," cried Flossy, crimson and
nervous, as she twisted the letter in her hand.