misinterpret the facts of what they had seen; and, besides, Arthur's
voice and manner were essentially unloverlike; but it seemed to Hugh as
if those sweet looks and smiles were for all alike, awakened by his
cousin as well as by himself. _Something_ there was between them, and
what might there not come of it by and by? while to Flossy the first
sharp pang of uncontrollable jealousy was not unnaturally aggravated by
Violante's look of utter confusion and perplexity, as a turn of her head
revealed their presence and they stepped down the bank beside her. She
had not known that Hugh was with Arthur.
"You are still fond of flowers, Mademoiselle Mattei?" said Hugh, dryly.
She looked at him.
"These flowers are different," she said. Perhaps she hardly knew what
she meant.
"Fresher and newer," said Hugh. Hugh was the worst of hypocrites, and
Arthur had never seen him look quite as he looked now. Impossible,
incredible!
"Flossy," he began, "let us come--" when a sudden outbreak of voices and
laughter near them made them all turn. Two of the Dysart girls had been
of the party and had previously coaxed their mother to surprise Miss
Venning with a supply of cake and new milk to be eaten in the wood, as
an impromptu picnic, and Mrs Dysart had now made her appearance,
followed by two of her little boys carrying the provisions.
Miss Venning did not emulate the schoolmistress who desired her charges
to turn their faces to the hedge when a man passed by; still, she was
conscious that Mrs Dysart might think the situation unusual; while, as
for Hugh, he looked so indignant, so ashamed, and so uncomfortable that
Rosa could hardly help laughing, and Arthur's face of amusement was a
study. But Mrs Dysart was a lady who took things easily, even the
presence of two of her elder sons, who declared that they had followed
as the milk was too heavy for their little brothers.
"What quantities of primroses you have got!" she said.
"You see, Hugh picked so many!" said Arthur. He could not resist the
little joke, any more than he could help the bright courtesy that made
him enter into the spirit of the thing, and pour out the milk and hand
the cake.
"Drink, signorina!" he said, gaily, as he gave a cup to Violante.
And yet, when the thought came over him of what such a merry-making
would have been to him last year, perhaps Hugh, angry and full of
miserable misunderstanding as he was, need hardly have envied his
cousin's smile. For Violante stood, living and beautiful, before him;
and though he shut his eyes to the sun-rays of possibility, he felt
their warmth.
It was all over in ten minutes. Miss Venning summoned her flock; Hugh
asked if Colonel Dysart was at home, and, with Arthur, followed the
milk-jugs back to Ashenfold. Flossy, feeling miserable, cross, ready to
cry, and utterly unheroic, thought she should hate the sight of
primroses for ever; and Violante--flushed, excited, knowing that,
whatever Hugh's tone indicated, it was _not_ indifference--thought the
fair, tender blossoms had just a little of the sweetness that had clung
to the white bouquet, one precious trophy of her stage-life.
PART SIX, CHAPTER FORTY TWO.
AT THE YEAR'S END.
"This, only this; through sorrow cometh learning.
Through suffering, greater growth.
In patience, therefore, wait the golden morning
That draweth near us both."
PART SIX, CHAPTER FORTY THREE.
ANOTHER CHANCE.
"Only the sound of a voice,
Tender and sweet and low--
That made my heart rejoice
A year ago!"
James Crichton was spending a few days at home, with a view to the
proposed oratorio at H--, which was to take place the week after Easter.
He was, however, obliged to go up to town on most days, and was rather
fond of calling in at the Bank on his way from the station and walking
or driving back with his brother and Arthur. Perhaps, this practice had
partly induced Hugh's visit to Ashenfold on the day of the primrose
picnic. For Hugh was not fond of walking down Oxley High-street with
Jem. It was all very well, he thought, to know every man, woman, and
child in Redhurst, and even to be on civil terms with the inhabitants of
Oxley; but Jem carried things too far.
When they passed the greengrocer's--"Well, Mr Coleman, how d'ye do?
How's your little girl? Gone to boarding-school?--hope she'll get on
with her French. Why, Hugh, there's Kitty Morris--how dark her hair's
grown! She's not as pretty as she used to be."
"I never saw her before, to my knowledge," Hugh would probably reply.
"Never saw Kitty--oh, she belongs to that little print-shop. She's
always standing at the door. I declare, there's old Tomkins! I must
just cross over and speak to him."
A delay of two or three minutes listening to old Tomkins; and then,
still worse, an elaborate bow to two Miss Harrisons--and, though Hugh
knew that neither the popularity nor the familiarity of the "Oh, Mr
Crichton, _'ow_ pleased ma _will_ be to see you!" could be intended for
him, he would grow desperate, and march on, while Jem would finish up by
saying:
"Ah, when you want to represent the borough send me to canvass--that's
all!" Jem had not been at home long before he proposed that Arthur
should come back to London with him for the sake of a little change and
variety. It was evident, he said, that a change was wanted, and the
proposal was eagerly taken up by his mother, who pressed it upon Arthur
in a way that hardly left him a choice.
"You see, my dear boy, you don't look well, and are sadly out of
spirits," she said, in her outspoken way; "and this will be the very
thing to do you good."
"Jem is very kind; but it would not do me any good," said Arthur.
"Oh, yes, my dear, it will. Change is always good for people, and you
haven't been much in London. You know we must all make efforts."
"There is nothing the matter with me," said Arthur, escaping from the
room; while his aunt went on: "Poor boy, it's time he should be a little
cheerful, and he is not half so bright as he was at first."
"No; that's just what I say," returned Jem; "everything here reminds him
of her, and London will be all fresh."
Even Flossy Venning was moved to give the same counsel, which she did
with rather suspicious eagerness, half-afraid to seem unwilling to part
with him. Arthur had no counter-arguments to urge but his own
unwillingness, and this seemed only to prove the necessity of the
measure; but he did not yield readily, though he half-believed they were
right, and had not the energy to put an end to the discussion by a more
emphatic refusal. Hugh would not interfere, save by the brief remark:
"Yes, things are wrong; but it will take more than that to set them
right;" but at last he said:
"You do not wish to go, Arthur?"
"Oh, no," said Arthur, in a sort of matter-of-course tone.
"Is there anything you would like better to do?" said Hugh, with the
elaborate gentleness with which he often addressed his cousin.
"Oh, no," said Arthur again. "I am sorry to make such a bad business of
it. Perhaps, I ought to get away somewhere, and not make you all
miserable."
"It is not that," said Hugh; "but Jem is always cheerful; you and he
have tastes in common, and sometimes you do seem brighter for a little
amusement."
"That's only because I'm such a fool, Hugh, you are so wonderfully good
to me. Don't you think I know how I put you out? I take up with
things--sometimes I forget how I've changed--then I get deadly sick of
it all and tired out. Or else a word--a look! Oh, I know well enough
what I ought to do; but it's making bricks without straw--I've no pluck
left."
Perhaps because he _had_, with whatever shortcomings, tried very hard to
be "good" to Arthur, perhaps because the confidence was made to himself,
Hugh was able to conceal the personal pain which these passionate words
caused him; and it was with real tenderness that he answered:
"I think you have shown no want of pluck; but when you first talked of
coming back I was afraid you would not be able to bear it; this place is
full of sword-pricks for you. Aren't you straining your nerves too far
by staying here?"
Arthur did not answer, and Hugh, watching him as he stood leaning
against the shutter and staring fixedly out into the sunshine, said,
with more hesitation:
"Or is it that the want of an aim, of an object is worse than anything
else, and that you feel less at sea when you are obliged to do
something?"
"Yes," said Arthur, quickly. "Yes. Ah, _you_ understand! I _want_
something to hold by."
"But then," said Hugh, "you mustn't be too hard on yourself. You look
ill, and sometimes you feel so; you don't sleep, and then you are not
fit for these efforts."
"You seem to know all about me," said Arthur; but not as if the
comprehension hurt him.
"Yes, I believe I do," said Hugh, looking away from him; but with a
curious sense of a fresh spring in his heart. Was all that bitter
involuntary watching, that keen, morbid analysis of Arthur's feelings,
which had cost him so much pain, to bear fruit at last? Had the
sympathetic suffering which he had looked on as expiation been no
fruitless penance, but a training that might enable him to make some
poor amends? Was it possible that he, who had caused and shared the
sorrow, could be the one to comfort and help?
"I think I do understand," he said. "It will be best for you to stay
here quietly, and join when you can in what goes on, or pass it by
without any comment being made. Only, you must promise to tell me if
you feel that it is getting too much for you--that is, if you will," he
added, with a little return to his self-distrust.
"Oh, yes, I'll tell you, if you don't find out," said Arthur, with some
of his natural liveliness; then added, earnestly and affectionately:
"You have done me a great deal of good."
Hugh had never felt so nearly happy since he had come back to England as
at those words. If Arthur could feel so he should never want for
comfort again. The first effort at really helping him for his own sake
had broken through his self-conscious shrinking; and Hugh felt that,
with so ready a response, he could comfort Arthur and find his own
consolation in doing it.
There was no doubt of the response. Arthur never theorised about what
he could or could not do and feel, and he turned instantly to Hugh's
offered comprehension and sympathy. Indeed, he was so easily cheered
for the moment, and almost always so bright in manner, that it was
difficult to believe how completely he had been thrown off his balance,
and how much the strain was telling upon him. It was by his
irresolution and changeableness and excitable vehemence, ending in utter
indifference, rather than by absolute low spirits that his grief told.
Sometimes he could not decide on the merest trifle, such as a walk
_versus_ a ride; and, again, he would involve himself in some
undertaking, just because he was asked to do so, and then a voice, a
look, the name of a place or a person--anything that jarred his nerves
with a sudden recollection--would make the act impossible to him. In
the same way, though he rarely had even a headache to complain of, he
was often utterly unequal to an exertion which another day would be easy
to him.
It was just the state for which change of scene seemed most desirable;
but to which by itself it would do little good; and it was well, indeed,
for Arthur that fate, or his own judgment, had placed him where all this
irresolution and want of ballast was likely to result in nothing worse
than idleness and uselessness. Had he been thrown in the way of
temptation at this critical period neither his own principles nor the
memory of Mysie might have supplied an adequate resisting force, while
he would probably have broken down under solitude altogether.
That conversation was like the lifting of a veil. Hugh had always known
where Arthur's shoe pinched him; he only needed to act on his knowledge
to be the very help that was wanted, and he had not won Arthur's glance
of thanks and relief twice before he began to look for it as his own
greatest pleasure. Like many severe people when once softened, he was
almost over-tender, and could not bear to see his cousin struggle with
himself. He would not, therefore, allow the expedition to H--to be
urged upon him; so Jem, Mrs Crichton, Frederica, and Flossy set off on
the day appointed.
Hugh found time, in spite of this new interest, to display what the
Vicar of Oxley called "a very proper feeling on the part of one of the
chief laymen of the parish," by attending the Confirmation. He had
meditated much on the scene of the olive-leaves; but, in the new light
thrown on Arthur's mind, it had lost much of its sting. Not so with
Flossy. She had never dreamt that her unselfish love could be marred by
such foolish, miserable jealousy. Did silent devotion mean that she was
to be wretched whenever he spoke to another woman? Her thoughts
wandered, her mind was disturbed, she wondered as to Violante's past
history, it was an effort to think of the scene before her.
Hugh watched Violante from a distance, and perceived that she was not
aware of his presence. The impressionable Italian nature was lifted
into enthusiasm by the first religious ceremony in which she had ever
taken part. Her eyes were bright and tearful, her cheeks flushed. This
epoch in her life did not present itself to her as a moral crisis, as a
new resolve to fulfil difficult duties, a strain after a recollectedness
and gravity respected but hardly attained to. It came to her as a new
happiness, a new love and a new sense of protection. She was not
conscious that she felt differently from her companions; and Flossy
watched this beautiful fervour with a sort of awe, even while she
half-distrusted it as a lasting motive of action.
Before they left the church a hymn was sung and as Violante's heart
swelled with the words and the music, unconsciously she raised her voice
too, and its long silent notes smote on her ear, clear and full, as when
she had sung last in the opera-house of Civita Bella. She dropped down
on her knees and hid her face. Had it come back to her--this invaluable
gift, this terrible, beautiful possession? Was her new ease of living
to slip away from her, and must she return to the "pains austere" of the
talent which belonged to her and to no other? She had heard a great
deal lately about her duty, and for her "her duty" had always meant
singing in public. And her father was coming; and he had not been
successful. But no one had heard her--no one would know! Hitherto she
had but helplessly yielded to the will of others--_this_ was the first
moral struggle she had ever known. She saw and heard no more of what
was passing till they reached home, when she escaped from the others and
ran away by herself down to the farther end of the garden. She stood
still in the shrubbery under its budding green, and listened. All was
silent, but the twitter of the birds; and softly, timidly, she began
again to sing the hymn that she had just heard:
"Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire!" and as she went on the notes rose
fuller and clearer, and she could not but rejoice in their sweetness.
Then she paused, and, with a sense of desperation, began to sing the
melody so fraught with memories of every sort, the never-to-be-forgotten
"Batti, batti." And, as she sang, Rosa came down the garden path, and
beheld her standing under the trees, in her white confirmation dress,
and singing the passionate operatic love-song with a curious look of
resolution on her face. She broke off suddenly, and threw herself into
her sister's arms: "Rosa, Rosa! I will be good. I meant to tell you.
My voice, my voice! Oh, father, father!"
The voice was choked in an agony of sobs and tears, and Rosa, hardly
less agitated, held her in her arms and tried to soothe her.
As soon as she could speak she sobbed out: "It has come back, and--and I
will sing for father--but, oh! I thought I should stay hero always and
teach the little ones."
"Indeed, my darling, you shall not come away from here yet."
"No, and I could not act."
"No, that you never shall; but, darling, to hear your voice again!"
There was a little pause; then Violante said:
"I may stay here and learn things a little longer--and afterwards I will
sing at concerts--if--if--"
She faced her probable future; but there was still an "_if_" in her
life.
PART SIX, CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.
JEM'S IDEAL.
"Faultily faultless--icily regular--splendidly null."
The weather favoured the choir festival at H--and the production of
spring dresses for the occasion. James cast critical eyes on his
mother's bonnet and on Frederica's hat; and anxiously consulted Arthur
as to whether he liked a flower in the button-hole of a morning.
"Oh, yes, when you want to look festive," said Arthur, without paying
much attention till he was roused from the perusal of the "Times" by a
crash in the conservatory; and on hastening to the rescue perceived Jem,
contemplating the ruins of his mother's best azalea, which he had
knocked over in trying to reach a bit of fern beyond it. Three dainty
little bouquets were already lying in a row.
"Well, Jem, you have done it now!"
"Oh, confound the thing, yes--and it's time to be off. Isn't the
carriage there?"
"Not yet. Are you going to wear three bouquets?"
"No," said Jem, looking foolish, "I was only choosing the best. I think
I'll go without."
"You couldn't improve on that rosebud, and it might come in handy," said
Arthur, gravely.
"Well," snatching it up. "Just pick up that pot. I hear the carriage."
"Pick up the pot!" ejaculated Arthur, as Jem rushed away, "when it's in
fifty pieces! I shall retire before I'm supposed to have thrown it
down. I say, Hugh," as he came back to the house, "who's the attraction
at H--? Jem is evidently on tenter-hooks."
It was this easy laughter and readiness to joke on what would have
seemed to him a tender subject that had always puzzled Hugh in Arthur;
but now he was glad to see him amused on any terms, as he answered,
gravely:
"I daresay there are several; but I haven't heard him mention anyone in
particular."
"Perhaps he wanted a bouquet apiece and I've spoiled sport! What a
pity!"
James recovered his equanimity as they drove away, and was very smiling
and chatty by the time they picked up Flossy, fresh and spring-like, and
prepared to enjoy herself, though she had hoped that the party might
have been differently constituted. They had about twenty miles to go by
train, and James made himself very agreeable to her, mentally thinking
her less overpowering than usual. He asked after Violante and listened
with much interest to Flossy's account of the return of her voice, and
her subsequent resolution.
"But her sister says she must stay with us till next year, that she may
grow quite strong and finish her education. She is going to London in
May."
"Indeed! Perhaps I shall see her there."
"Is Arthur going with you?" asked Flossy, who had been meditating on
this simple question ever since she joined them.
"No. Poor boy, he couldn't make up his mind to it. I should have had
to leave him alone a good deal, and he doesn't seem up to gaieties."
"Oh, no!"
"No--he laughed in an odd sort of way--and said: that I'd better not
help him to cast off from his moorings; but I'm sure being at home
doesn't answer. He has a bright way with him; but I see more and more
how he is altered. His eyes have a sort of wretched look, instead of
their old jolly one--don't you know what I mean?"
"Yes; as if he wanted something."
"Exactly. I think he'll have to make a change. I wish he could go
abroad and begin a new life altogether--in India, or somewhere."
"Would that be best?" said Florence, slowly.
"I think so. But there's one thing--Hugh seems to understand him now,
and he has got excellent judgment when he likes to use it."
Poor Flossy! That conversation did not raise her spirits, or prepare
her to enjoy her day. There was a dreadful probability in James's
suggestion, and she mused over it while he was talking to his mother and
urging her to drive at once to the Archdeacon's.
"My dear, we have our tickets--we shall see them afterwards."
"But, they have ways and means of getting in, you know; and you would
avoid the crowd."
Mrs Crichton yielded after a little demur, and they drove to Archdeacon
Hayward's, where they were politely received and offered an entrance
with the Cathedral ladies, Mrs Hayward being glad to be civil to Mrs
Spencer Crichton. The girls were introduced to three or four fair, tall
young ladies, much alike in dress and demeanour, with aquiline features
and graceful figures, and a very proper amount of conversation. Jem sat
profoundly silent, with his hat in his hand and his rosebud in his coat,
till one of the Miss Haywards, _not_ Helen, said:
"You are fond of music, I believe, Mr Crichton?"
"Oh, devotedly!" said Jem, smiling.
"And there is nothing like Handel?"
"Very fine!" said James.
"Why, Jem, I thought you despised him?" said Freddie, abruptly. "I
thought he wasn't a new light."
"Is that one of your heresies, Mr Crichton?" said another Miss Hayward,
from behind; and Jem turned round, with startling rapidity, and asked
who had been setting him down as a heretic?
As the oratorio took place in the Cathedral the conversation was
limited, but Mrs Crichton was gratified by observing that Jem sat
peacefully with his own party, discovered no odd acquaintances, and
afterwards returned with them to the Archdeacon's, where there was a
large party to luncheon.
Miss Helen Hayward was polite to Mrs Crichton, who remarked to
Frederica how nice it was to see girls attentive to their guests, and
not forgetful, or taken up with their own affairs.
"Yes, auntie; but she always talks in the same tone of voice," said
Freddie, suspecting a didactic motive.
Flossy had a dull neighbour at lunch, and leisure to look about her, and
she felt inclined to pity Jem, who sat opposite by the third Miss
Hayward, whose mild restrained smiles and obvious, if intelligent,
remarks did not strike her as very interesting. Presently, however, she
perceived that James had more and more to say on his side; that he made
Miss Helen laugh and blush, and look at her plate, and then across the
table to see if her sisters were noticing her. This amused Flossy, but
she was surprised to observe that Jem looked across at her, and when he
met her eyes actually blushed too.
Helen retreated when they moved, and began to entertain some of the
young ladies; and very soon the Redhurst party were obliged to start to
catch their train for Oxley. The parting was cordial on all sides, and
Flossy observed to James:
"I did not know you knew the Miss Haywards so well."
"Oh," said James, "I met one of them when she was staying in London, and
I came here once to sing at a concert for some schools. They're very
nice girls, Flossy--quite in your line--go to Sunday-school, and
everything."
"I daresay," said Flossy, who did not think this implied a great stretch
of virtue.
"And not at all stiff, when you know them."
"Yes," said Mrs Crichton, "I think I should like to ask two of them
over to stay for a few days. I am sure Hugh could not say they were
chatterboxes, as he does of the Clintons."
An indescribably comical expression crossed Jem's face.
"I think it would be a very good plan, mamma," he said. "You always get
on with, _nice_ young ladies."
"Yes, my dear; I get dull by myself," said Mrs Crichton, with a sigh.
"Not that we have much amusement to offer them."
"I don't know that they mind about amusements," said James.
He was dying for a confidant; for Jem could never keep his affairs to
himself, but he did not quite dare to enlighten his mother as to his
wishes, for fear she should betray them by over-zeal to the Miss
Haywards. It had not quite come to the point of announcing his
intentions to Hugh, who would not easily have been convinced of their
seriousness. Arthur, who knew the names and charms of most of Jem's
many sweethearts, would have been his natural outlet; but how could he
tell his love-story to him? Nevertheless, as they sat smoking together
that very evening, out it all came--provoked, certainly, by a little
joke about the three bouquets; and Arthur was so much amused at the
notion of Jem's choice that the latter was soon absorbed in convincing
him that he had finally made it; which, by his unusual modesty, he at
last succeeded in doing.
"Why, you know, you're irresistible."
"But _she_ never would be attracted by the same sort of humbug that goes
down with most girls."
"Oh, come now, Jem, you don't mean to say so. I don't think I should
like her the better for that."
"She'd look to what one really was."
"I'd try a little humbug, though, now and then."
Jem laughed.
"I shan't be here when they come, you see. It's supposed they will suit
Hugh; and he is just the sort of fellow--"