came down on the Saturday we might refer to your excellences
beforehand."
"I wouldn't say too much," said Jem, seriously; then suddenly, "Arthur,
you are a good fellow. It's too bad of me to tell you all this--"
"Don't!--don't!" interposed Arthur.
"Why should I mind, Jem? It doesn't make any difference."
The invitation was sent and accepted by the right pair of sisters, and
before they arrived Jem's family had a very good notion of what was
expected of them, and were all ready to make the visit pleasant to the
young ladies. Arthur divined that Helen, at any rate, was well inclined
to be pleased. She was apparently a very good girl, cultivated and
intelligent, able to talk on all the subjects expected from a young
lady, polite to himself and Hugh, but not particularly interested in
them. She indulged in a mild but evident enthusiasm for Mrs Crichton,
and made friends with Flossy over school-teaching, books, and favourite
heroes; and she was very pretty and very well dressed. There was, too,
a sort of good-tempered, sunny satisfaction about her, which was not
without its charm, especially as the other sister was rather critical of
their acquaintances, and Arthur overheard between them the following
fragment:
"He goes about smoking on a Sunday afternoon."
"But he always goes to church again in the evening, Constance."
"And I don't think, do you, it's _quite_ good style to wear that sort of
coat?"
"Don't you?"
"A gentleman should have _no_ peculiarities."
"I'm sure, Con, there couldn't be more of a gentleman--"
Here Arthur thought himself bound to retreat, having discovered that the
fair Helen, could lose her composure sometimes. Jem arrived on the
Saturday evening, very much on his best behaviour, and listening to the
Miss Haywards playing the pieces and singing the songs which he had most
been wont to criticise. However, he gave Helen the names of some new
ones, and sang himself, as he well knew how to do, contenting himself
with finding fault with Freddie's touch. Hugh did not show off the
skill acquired under Signor Mattei, which, truth to tell, was not very
considerable.
"I never sing," he said, emphatically; but he sat by and watched, and
when some particular old English ballads were asked for, and Jem began
to wonder where they were, he checked him quietly, knowing by Arthur's
flush and quiver that they were among the books which he could not bear
to see touched. Arthur looked grateful, but Jem found the book on the
piano the next morning.
A slight flaw in the harmony was produced on Sunday afternoon by the
discussion of a new colour, which Miss Constance Hayward declared to be
vulgar, and never worn by any lady "who was very nice."
Jem defended it as found in the old masters. It was very artistic.
"I'd rather look like a lady than like a picture," said Miss Hayward, a
little dryly.
"I quite agree with you, Miss Hayward," said Hugh.
"Hugh's taste _is_ conventional usually," said Jem, in a wicked
undertone.
"I _like_ that funny green," said Helen, in her soft, changeless voice,
as she rose to get ready for church.
"What makes you laugh so, Arthur?" said Hugh, savagely, as they remained
for the purpose of taking a walk together, Arthur having a great
shrinking from Sunday afternoon at Redhurst.
"I was laughing at Jem. He's fairly caught at last!"
"Do you mean that this is more than Jem's way?"
"Oh, yes, and it's coming rapidly to a crisis. Don't you see? I wonder
which will rule the roast? Will Jem dress her in `funny green,' or will
he have to cut his coat according to his lady?"
"It seems to me very unsuitable," said Hugh, after a slightly-puzzled
pause.
"That's the beauty of it, I suppose. One wouldn't have been half so
much surprised if Jem had fallen in love with Mademoiselle Mattei!"
"Mademoiselle Mattei had a great many admirers," said Hugh, as he looked
out of window. "I suppose, now she has recovered her voice, she will
fulfil her engagement to that, scoundrel--I mean that manager--Vasari."
"She was very forlorn at the loss of him, poor child," said Arthur,
making most unconscious mischief.
"She told you so?"
"Yes--pretty much. I told her to keep up her heart, and she picked some
olive-leaves as a reminder. The other day she told me how she had kept
my advice. She is a confiding little creature, and very
simple-hearted."
A silence. Then.
"James is perfectly right to stick to the conventional type--that is, to
a known and proved one. Where shall we go this afternoon?"
"Oh, anywhere--I don't care--I think I won't go out," said Arthur,
irresolutely.
"Well, you will have a quiet afternoon," answered Hugh, glad of the
solitude; but even then he paused and retraced his steps.
"Arthur, if this affair of Jem's worries you--"
"Oh, no, no. It gives me something fresh to think about," said Arthur,
with evident truth. "I'm only--tired."
"Well, rest then," said Hugh, with the kind smile that Arthur liked.
Nothing should ever make him thoughtless of Arthur's comfort; but,
unsatisfactory as the conversation had been, there was growing up in
Hugh's mind the conviction that somehow, somewhere, some when, he would
have to ask Violante to tell him the truth.
PART SIX, CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.
PAST AND PRESENT.
"'Tis time my past should set my future free
For life's renewed endeavour."
Rosa Mattei was sitting by herself in her aunt's drawing-room. That
afternoon Violante was expected to arrive from Oxley, and the next day
they would meet Signor Mattei at the lodging close by, which was to be
their home for the present. It would not be nearly so pleasant for Rosa
as the ease and companionship of her present quarters; but she had
learnt to accommodate herself to circumstances, and did not fret over
the prospect of dull evenings. Besides, it would not be for very long.
Rosa's fine, considerate face rounded into a look of satisfaction. She
had a great deal to tell Violante and her father. How would they take
her news?
"Well, Rosa, sitting and repenting?" said her cousin Beatrice, coming
into the room.
"No, Trixy, I'm not going to repent," said Rosa. "I'm very well
satisfied with my arrangements."
"I think you are a wise girl, and a lucky girl," said Miss Grey; "but I
should like to know how you tamed your wild flights down to this
result."
"Well, Beatrice, I never in all my life saw the use of fretting over
what can't be helped. It seems to me that the present is just as good a
time as the past, and deserves at least as much from one. Things aren't
any the better _really_ because they happened ever so long ago."
"Yes. How long have you been so philosophical?"
Rosa blushed, but held her ground.
"When a thing is _impossible_ it may be the best thing in itself, but
something else may be far better than the shadow of it."
"`A live dog is better than a dead lion?'"
"Well, yes; now, you see, it was not possible for me to go on the stage,
so it was better to put away that, and--and my school-girl fancies with
it. I'm not imaginative enough to live on memories, particularly
memories of--nothing! And this came--"
"I'm only afraid you might find it a little humdrum--"
"Humdrum, Beatrice? How could it be when Mr Fairfax is so clever, and
so interesting?"
"Ha, ha, Rosy. Come, confess now. This talk is all very well; but you
have just gone and fallen in love with Mr Fairfax, and you'll begin
life fresh."
"If I have I'm afraid it's since I accepted him! I thought--that is, I
did not think. But you see, Beatrice, it is not often that a girl is so
fortunate as to meet with anyone--"
"Like him? I'm quite content, Rosy. You'll do. And now tell me about
the prudent part of it."
"The prudent part is," said Rosa, "that he wishes me to have Violante
with me whenever I like--always, if need be. If she gets on better with
father, and if this concert scheme comes to good, of course that won't
be necessary; but still I shall be able to take care of her, though she
has almost grown into a woman."
"I suppose she will go back to school?"
"Oh, yes, I trust so. It is so good for her. But it is time, I think,
that I should go and meet her."
Rosa was very happy, and just a little ashamed of herself for being so.
As she had said, she could not live, and never had lived, on the
memories of her first love; though circumstances had at times brought
them vividly before her, the very renewal of them had shown her how
entirely they were vain. Rosa had a very passionate but by no means a
sentimental nature, and both her common-sense and her craving for a
vivid, happy life forbade her to find satisfaction, in shadowy
recollections.
"I am neither silly enough, nor unworldly enough," she thought, as she
held Mr Fairfax's letter in her hand, and felt that its offer would be
a good exchange for that bitter old sorrow to which she had offered up
sacrifices enough already.
And, as for that other dream of ambition, it was tempting, but it was
nearly impossible; and Rosa was a woman and had tried what earning her
living meant, and could guess pretty well at the taste of the apples of
fame, as well as of the Dead-sea fruits of failure. And, as Rosa made
up her mind to say yes, she became aware that she was excusing herself
for her readiness to do so, not arguing against any lurking
unwillingness. It is needless to say that her uncle and aunt were
pleased at her good fortune. Everyone would be pleased. And it was
wonderful how well Mr Fairfax understood her ideas. Fancy having
Violante to stay with her in a pretty little house; or, still better,
going with the master of that pretty house to hear Violante sing and
feel proud of her talents! It was from such happy visions that Rosa was
roused by the sound of Violante's voice.
She looked a little paler and graver than when they had last met, not
quite so happy or so much at her ease; and almost her first words were:
"I have been singing a great deal, Rosina, and I think my voice is
good."
"So you have made up your mind to try to sing again?" said Rosa.
"Yes, Rosina, after the summer I will come home and sing."
"You shall not do it if it frightens you and makes you unhappy, my
darling."
"But--father will wish it. And I think everyone is unhappy."
"My dear child, what makes you take such a gloomy view of life?"
"Why, look, Rosa. Signor Arthur's heart is breaking for his Mysie;
while Miss Florence loves him, ah, I know how much!"
"Miss Florence! Does she? I thought her head was full of classes and
school-girls."
"Yes, she will not sit and cry; but I know how she listens when Freddie
talks of him, and she will not begin herself to speak of him, but when I
ask her questions then she will tell me. She thinks I am only a little
girl and know nothing."
"And you, yourself, dear?"
"I," said Violante; "Rosa, I think he is ashamed of having loved me, and
that he will never speak to me again."
"Violante, it is wrong to let you stay there! I shall not consent to
it."
"Ah, no, Rosina, no! _There_ I can see that he does not care for me;
away, I should think--and hope--and fancy--and--and--oh, let me stay!"
"I am afraid that is not true," said Rosa, and Violante blushed; for she
knew in her heart that Rosa was right.
"_You_ look well, Rosina mia," she said.
"Yes, Violante, I shall surprise you very much. How should you like--
you never thought that I should be engaged to anyone?"
"Rosina _mia_!" exclaimed Violante, with eyes opening wide, and accents
of blank astonishment, and then a shower of kisses and questions.
She listened to the story with all the delight that Rosa had
anticipated, and after every detail had been discussed between them
there was a silence, as Violante sat in her favourite place, leaning
against her sister's knee.
"Now," she said at last, "now Rosa, you can tell how hard--"
She paused, and Rosa could hardly help laughing.
"My dear child, I knew that long ago. Listen, Violante, I think it is
good for you to know, I was older than you when _my_ trouble came, and I
think it was as bad as yours. Yet, you see, I am happy."
"Did you know Mr Fairfax then?" eagerly said Violante.
"No, no," said Rosa, "quite another person. It doesn't signify who he
was. It's all gone now."
"Oh, Rosina, was it when I was a tiresome little girl, and troubled
you?"
"You were my one comfort, my darling, never any trouble. But, you see,
I told you to show you that one day happiness may come to you, though
quite in a different way from what you now fancy."
Violante started up, clasping her hands. "No, no, Rosina! I will not
be happy so! I would rather have my sorrow. There would be nothing
left in my heart without it. If he is cruel, he cannot take that away!"
She spoke so because she was a passionate untaught creature, with
instinctive impulses, which she had never learnt to resist. Yet, did
not her lover feel every day the force of her words; had he not lost
with her the best of himself? Was not Florence, with all her sense, and
all her intellect, resigning herself to the same fate? What would
Arthur be without the memory that was breaking his heart? Her words
awakened an echo strong enough in Rosa's heart to silence her for the
moment.
"If I changed, I should be nothing!" repeated Violante.
"You would be what your life had made you, Violante," said Rosa, "ready
for what might come. And you would want something real. But, dear, how
should you know anything about it? I should have said the same."
Violante said no more; but she _thought_ that, after all, Rosa's
circumstances were different, for _her_ unknown lover could never have
been like "Signor Hugo."
Probably both the girls prepared to meet their father the next day with
some trepidation, and as they awaited his arrival they owned to each
other that it was very strange to be thinking of supper, and making
coffee again.
"It makes me want Maddalena," said Violante.
"Poor Maddalena! She would not like London fogs. But if I did not make
the coffee I am sure there is no one else who could make it fit to
drink."
In due time Signor Mattei arrived, very affectionate, very voluble, and
strangely familiar to his daughters.
"Ah, my children; how I have pined for you! While I have been toiling,
you have prospered, and I find you richly clothed;" here he indicated a
piece of new pink ribbon that was tied round Violante's neck.
"Yes, father," said Rosa, "we have some good news for you, each of us.
Will you have mine first?" and, Signor Mattei assenting, she made her
communication, while Violante sat by wondering how _this_ love-story
would be received.
But Signor Mattei was romantic only on one point.
"He is, no doubt," he said, "a fascinating youth, and respectable, since
he is your uncle's friend; but, figlia mia, his income? Ah, you cannot
live on air!"
"Mr Fairfax is not a youth, father," said Rosa, slightly hurt; "he is
five-and-thirty, and he has a very good income, which he will explain to
you, himself, to-night, if you will allow him. I shouldn't think of
living on air."
Violante had not a strong sense of the ludicrous; but even she could
hardly help smiling a little at Rosa's aggrieved air, and could not help
wondering how her father would have managed to coerce her resolute,
independent sister, even if he had been dissatisfied with "the
fascinating youth's" prospects, as he replied:
"Then, Rosina, if that point is clear, I will consent."
"Thank you, father."
"And will Violante bake a crust of bread for her poor old father when
you have left us?"
"Yes, father. I--My voice is come back. I can sing now."
Signor Mattei's whole face changed from its sentimental air to a look of
fiery enthusiasm. He started to his feet, and caught her hands.
"Your voice, child? All your voice--every note? Let me hear, let me
hear."
He pulled her towards the piano, which had been esteemed by Rosa a
necessary part of the furniture of their lodgings, and, controlling her
heart-beating, with a great effort she sang up and down the scale.
Signor Mattei fairly wept for joy. He kissed her over and over again,
he made her repeat the notes, he crossed himself, and thanked the Saints
in devouter language than his daughters had often heard from him; but
finally exclaimed, with an air of chagrin:
"And Vasari has married a woman with a voice like a screech-owl!"
"That is surely of no consequence," said Rosa. "Violante can never try
opera-singing again. She will never be an actress, and her health would
fail again directly if she attempted it. But she is willing, after her
year at school is over, to try what she can do in the way of
concert-singing. And you know that, here in England, no career could be
better or more profitable."
"If you wish it, padre mio," said Violante, "I will try now to do what
you wish."
"My sacrifices are repaid!" said Signor Mattei, though he could hardly
have defined what the sacrifices were.
The interview with Mr Fairfax, who shortly arrived, was beyond Rosa's
hopes. Violante, though secretly wondering at her sister's taste, could
not but be pleased at his kindness, and was forced to acknowledge to
herself that, under the most favourable circumstances, she could not
have imagined Signor Hugo either condescending to so many explanations,
managing to praise exactly the music Signor Mattei liked, or giving
quite such a comprehending and encouraging smile and nod as the one
received by Rosa, when her father was a little argumentative.
Signor Mattei obtained one or two evening engagements, and a good many
pupils, so that Violante did not feel bound to begin her new life in a
hurry; and Rosa began with a good heart her modest preparations for the
wedding, which was to take place in the middle of August. The Greys
gave a musical party, at which Signor Mattei played, and once Mr
Fairfax took them all to the opera. Rather to Rosa's surprise, Violante
showed no reluctance to make one of the party. How did she feel when
she sat and looked on at "Il Don Giovanni," and saw another, and how
superior, performer playing her old part of Zerlina? _Her_ voice, at
its sweetest and clearest, had never been quite such as this, and she
seemed for the first time to know what was meant by acting, as she
looked on at the world-famous _prima donna_.
This power, this popularity, this applause was what the father had
looked for; the loss of this was what he had mourned. Could she ever
have had it, or anything like it? Did she regret now that she could
not? Did the woman see the value of what the girl had turned from with
tears and distaste? For in this past year, what with trouble, change,
and experience, Violante had grown into a woman.
She sat quite still, with her delicate face, pale and passive, and her
eyes fixed on the stage. She had pushed all this away from her, all
this light and sparkle, this splendour and excitement that had seemed so
hard and glaring, so utterly untempting to her shy, tender spirit. What
had she gained from that other vision that had worn such a lovely hue?
It seemed just then to Violante as if both love and fame had played her
false. Since she had lost the first, would it not be better to try and
regain the second? It was but a passing thought, but it touched her to
the quick. She put put her hand, and held Rosa's tight, as Zerlina
curtseyed, and picked up her bouquets.
"Oh," she thought, "I would be Zerlina. I would do it all, _all_, if he
would throw one. It was better to have all the trouble when he loved
me--when he gave me my flowers--my flowers--"
Rosa was not surprised that the old association cost Violante that night
such tears as she had not shed for many a month, and Violante wept in
silence, uttering no word of her secret yearning and regret.
PART SIX, CHAPTER FORTY SIX.
PERPLEXITIES.
"Does the road wind up-hill all the way?"
While Violante was in London James Crichton, at some happy juncture,
brought his wooing to a crisis, and became the accepted lover of Helen
Hayward. His choice was equally surprising and delightful to his
mother, who threw herself with the greatest interest into all his
preparations for his marriage in the autumn, invited Helen whenever her
mother would spare her, and regained all her elastic spirits in this new
interest; while James smiled more than ever, and talked about Helen to
everyone who would listen. Both his cousin and his brother were
naturally strongly affected by this new love-story working itself out
beside them. Lengthening days, summer weather, summer flowers, and
summer habits, could not but remind both of them of what these young
days of last year had been to them. There awoke in Hugh all the old
questioning with himself; all the old arguments that he had thought laid
at rest for ever; all the old passion, which jealousy and self-reproach
had for the time overclouded. He hardly knew how; but his belief in the
causes which he had for jealousy had gradually faded, and he no longer
believed that Violante was either engaged to the manager or that she was
pining for his loss. A little reflection convinced him that all that
Arthur had told him of her sadness _might_ have been caused by the
memory of himself, and something in the look of her eyes at their two
brief meetings confirmed this thought. As Hugh's mind gradually freed
itself from the hard, bitter judgment of himself and of others that had
followed the stern self-reproach and self-pity which had for so long
occupied it, as his new kindliness towards Arthur warmed and softened
him, he came to view things in a more natural light, and ceased to tell
himself that his love, like everything else, was turned to bitterness.
No, it was sweet and soft and strong as in the May-days of last year;
but Hugh had become far more conscious of the difficulties attending it,
and Hugh had lost in this year of sorrow and self-distrust the bounding
energy by which he had intended to overcome them. Besides, he was no
longer quite the authority that he had been at home, and, though
Violante was doubtless really more fitted to marry him by her
school-life, she had lost a great advantage in having become known first
to his mother as a girl whom there was not the slightest likelihood of
his fancying. A wonderful Italian unknown beauty was one thing; a
little foreign, penniless girl, half-singer, half-school-teacher, was
quite another. And though Hugh was, of course, his own master, his
relations to his family formed so large a part of his life that he
hardly knew how to disturb them, and the Crichtons belonged to exactly
the class most easily disturbed by an incongruous marriage. He had
given up the notion that he ought to punish himself for the destruction
of Arthur's happiness by destroying his own; but his feelings strongly
revolted against any deliberate effort to secure it just at the time
then coming, and there was nothing morbid in the belief that he was
bound to make Arthur his first consideration; for Arthur's sake, not for
that of his own conscience. And what was to become of Arthur was a
problem that grew in difficulty.
The recurrence of these once happy summer days, perhaps spite of
himself, Jem's bright hopes, and the return to the amusement and
occupations of which Mysie had been the centre, were more than he could
bear, and cost him such heart-sickness as he had never yet known.
It seemed as if his light-hearted youth had been beaten at last in the
struggle, and efforts to brave it out only made matters worse; and,
though he had, perhaps, never fought so hard with himself, he got none
of the credit that had attached to his first home-coming. They did not
cease to pity him for his sorrow, but it did become wearisome to
sympathise with the indications of it, and it was impossible to order
matters only with reference to him. He was out of place among them, and
he felt it keenly, yet he could not resolve to go away by himself, he
had grown very reserved, and certainly tried as much as possible to
avoid notice; and even Hugh, who saw the most of him, found it very
difficult to know how to deal with him, and turned over many plans in
his mind, none of which appeared to him quite satisfactory.