Oxley. The summer heat was beginning to be felt in the air, the summer
look was coming over the woods and fields. The summer silence would
soon succeed to the perpetual song and twitter of the birds. They were
walking on silently, when, tripping down the path came a smartly-dressed
girl, with fair hair flying. It was Alice Wood, who had been absent all
the year. As she recognised them, she started violently and stopped, a
sudden look of agitation in her face as she made a half-curtsey.
Arthur hesitated, then went up rather eagerly, and shook hands with her.
"How d'ye do--you have been away?" he said.
"Yes, sir, at my aunt's, learning dressmaking. I--I hope you are pretty
well, Mr Arthur," she added, faltering.
Arthur seemed unable to say more; he turned away from her, and she
hurried on, crying as she went.
The two young men stood still, each of them overpowered by the sight of
her. Then Hugh saw that Arthur shivered, and was very pale. He turned
towards a tree-trunk near, and sat there with hidden face, trying to
recover himself, while all Hugh's agony of remorse once more came over
him.
"God knows, Arthur, I wish the stroke had fallen on me!" he said. "It
is from _me_ you should shrink. How can you bear the sight of _me_!"
Arthur did not answer, but he looked up after a few minutes, and said
simply:
"I am very sorry. I wish I could get over these things."
"This was not a thing to be got over."
"No. But, Hugh, the canal--the meadows--it's like a nightmare--I can't
forget them. I have trial to go there--to conquer it, but I never
could. Yet I have dreamt over and over again of it."
"You never spoke of this?" said Hugh.
"Oh, no. Hugh, have you ever been there?"
"Yes," said Hugh, "often at first. It was better than thinking of it."
"Will you come with me, and get it done? I think I could--with you."
"Oh, my dear boy, I don't think I ought to let you do that."
"It would be over. But I don't know--In the morning, when it looks
different."
"Yes, not now," said Hugh, firmly. "See here, Arthur. I have guessed
at these feelings of yours. I know too well how natural and inevitable
they are. But Redhurst is no fit place for you just now, and I have a
plan. Should you like to come back to the Bank House and stay there
with me? I think it's comfortable, and you could rest, and there would
be no discussions about society, and no worries. If you _could_ like to
be alone with me?"
"I should like it very much," said Arthur, decidedly. "I know I'm no
good at home, but I cannot bear the thought of wandering about."
"Well, then, shall we come back now? You are tired and shaken, and I
will go and explain things at home."
"Yes. Hugh, we shan't rake up all these matters again; but I want to
tell you, once for all, that you mistook my feeling about yourself. I
need not say I never blamed you--how could I? But all this nervous
folly can only belong to--to indifferent objects. You suffered too,
only at first I could not think of that. But you _do_ help me--you
always know the right thing for me."
"I would lay down my life for you," said Hugh, passionately.
"No. But you will help me to recover myself. I'm glad I have told you.
And as for what must remain, when--when I have `got over it,' as they
say--life without her--though you wouldn't think it after this, I
believe I am learning to look forward to it a little better, and I shall
have you to help me."
"I have been very miserable about it," said Hugh, moved to equal
simplicity by Arthur's straightforwardness. "It was my first comfort
when you said I helped you. Nothing shall ever come between us: you
shall be my first thought, for ever."
Hugh's voice swelled and quivered; he did nothing but hold Arthur's hand
for a moment, but no sign or gesture of passionate emotion would have
seemed exaggerated to his feeling then. "I _can_ make atonement," he
thought.
Arthur, who, after all, cared far less about the relations between them,
though his affectionate expressions had been perfectly genuine, said
more lightly:
"Then are we to turn back to Oxley?"
"Yes; then you will not have to talk it all over at home; I'll settle
it."
So they retraced their steps; and Hugh took Arthur into the Bank House
and upstairs, where he had never been for years. It was rather a large
house, in the time of their grandfather the largest in Oxley, and was
well-furnished and handsome. The drawing-room had never been used by
Hugh; but he had established himself in the library, a stiff,
old-fashioned room, with two long, narrow windows, with high
window-seats in them. His writing-table, with its untidy masculine
papers, had intruded on the orderly arrangements in which his
grandmother, who had long survived her husband, had delighted. Arthur
sat down in one of the window-seats while Hugh gave the orders rendered
necessary by this unexpected decision.
"Do you remember how we used to come here to see grandmamma?" he said.
"Yes, but I should have thought you were too small to recollect it."
"I remember it, perfectly. You used to be desired to keep Jem and me
from walking on the grass; and you obeyed implicitly!"
"You may walk on the grass now, if you like," said Hugh.
"It was a nice old garden. And, I declare, Hugh, there are the cats!"
"Cats? I haven't got a cat."
"The velvet cats on the mantelpiece--the first works of art I ever
appreciated."
And he pointed out two cats cut out in black velvet, and painted into
tortoiseshell, with fierce eyes and long whiskers, objects of delight to
the infant mind of any generation.
"I declare I never noticed them. You had better find out some more old
friends, while I go over to Redhurst."
The experiment proved very successful on both sides. It gave Arthur the
rest he needed; the absence of association without the strain of
novelty. His cheerfulness revived; and, perhaps, Hugh had rarely found
life more pleasant: for, though he was tenderly desirous of making his
cousin comfortable, of saving him fatigue, and amusing without
oppressing him, it was really Arthur who twisted the things about till
the room looked homelike and cheerful; found out how cool and shady the
garden was, and how pretty a few changes might make it, and started
agreeable subjects of conversation. Though not so amusing and
argumentative as Jem, he was a wonderfully pleasant person to live with,
even when languid and only half himself; and Hugh, delighted to find
that the companionship suited Arthur, grew quite lively himself under
its influence. They saw James whenever he came to Oxley, and frequently
Mrs Crichton; and Hugh dutifully went over, at short intervals, to
Redhurst, and, though he avoided without regret many summer gaieties,
was obliged to share in a few, and, among others, went to a large
musical party given by Mrs Dysart.
There had been some croquet and archery in the afternoon; but Hugh did
not make his appearance till just as the music was going to begin.
"How late you are, Hugh!" said his mother, as he came up and joined her.
"And no Arthur?"
"No; he was tired with the heat. I never meant to let him come. I am
sure I'm early enough. They're just going to begin."
And Hugh sat down by his mother, and listened decorously to an
instrumental piece. It was still early, some of the company were still
wandering in the gardens, and the windows were open, letting in the soft
evening air. But some wax candles were lighted at one end of the
drawing-room, where the performers were gathered, and as Hugh, after
listening to one or two songs and to a violin solo, was politely
suppressing a yawn, a young lady stepped into the light. It was
Violante--Violante, the same as when she had stood in the hot Italian
sunlight, and sung to her father's pupils. The same, and yet different.
It seemed to Hugh's confused eyes that she had turned into a
fashionable lady, in her trailing white muslin, with its puffs and
flounces, with her soft, curling hair, done up in an attempt at the
prevailing fashion. She looked taller, older somehow--more unmistakably
a beauty; but not, he thought, at first--his own Violante. She held her
head up too, and if she was frightened managed to conceal it. Hugh made
a snatch at his mother's programme.
"Who--what--how?"
"Don't you know?" said Clarissa Venning, who was near them. "Miss
Mattei's voice has come back. I suppose she will sing again in public;
but _this_ you know is quite in a private capacity. She was asked to
come with Florence."
Hugh looked at the programme:--"Song.--Miss Violante Mattei."
He was just about to commit himself to a vehement exclamation of
astonishment that no one had thought of telling him she was going to
sing--how could they overlook such a fact?--when the old, sweet notes
fell again on his ear, as lovely as ever he thought, and he listened,
breathless, till they ceased amid loud applause and exclamations of
admiration.
Violante smiled and curtseyed her thanks, with elaborate grace, and as
no young lady amateur would have thought of doing.
"She has such pretty foreign manners," cried a lady; and one of the
young men of the house, laughing, tossed her a little bunch of flowers,
and she picked it up and curtseyed again, just as she had been taught to
do by old Madame Cellini, long ago in Civita Bella.
She was to sing once again, and Hugh waited in breathless expectation;
but though the applause was as ardent as ever, she only acknowledged it
this time by a dignified little bow, and retreated.
"Oh," said one of the Dysarts, "someone has been telling her her pretty
curtsey was not _selon les regles_. What a shame!"
"She is a very beautiful girl," said Mrs Crichton, who, now that there
was no need to fear Jem's foolishness, was ready to be interested in
Violante.
"Yes," said Clarissa. "She is too fine a bird for us, which is a pity,
as she is a nice little thing; and never so happy as when she is playing
with the little ones. Ah, here she comes!"
Violante came up to Clarissa, without immediately perceiving her
companions.
"Miss Clarissa, Miss Florence says they are going to dance. May we stay
a little longer?"
"No one could think of carrying you away, Miss Mattei," said Mr Dysart.
"Pray, let me thank you for your songs. And, of course, Miss Venning,
you are not thinking of stirring yet? Let me find you a partner."
"Thank you, I am acting chaperone. You may stay if Florence likes,
Violante. I think you have not seen Mrs Crichton?"
"Let me thank you for your sweet music, my dear," said Mrs Crichton, in
her kind way. "I think it was my other son you knew in Italy?"
"Mother, you mistake. It was I. I knew Mademoiselle Mattei _once_."
And Hugh started forward and held out his hand, imploringly. Violante
put hers into it; but she stood passive and still.
"You were not so gracious, Miss Mattei, when we applauded you the second
time," said young Mr Dysart.
"I saw that the young ladies did not curtsey, signor," said Violante,
simply; "but I thank you for listening to me."
As she spoke the lights flashed up and revealed her standing, facing
Hugh, with a sort of desperate self-possession, as the first notes of
the dance-music sounded.
"Mr Crichton, I think you don't dance. Miss Mattei, will you give me
this waltz?" said another Dysart, approaching.
Violante was no coquette, but she was a woman, and her pride had been
hurt by Hugh's neglect. So she smiled graciously, and moved away as
Florence joined them, before Hugh could get out a somewhat undignified
and hurried declaration that he did dance--sometimes.
"We must only stay for three dances, Flossy," said Clarissa.
But Violante had promised the three dances before she had left their
side five minutes; and Hugh returned home, with the discovery that he
was not the only man of taste in the world, and the firm conviction that
Violante was wholly indifferent to him. It is also remarkable that at
the same time he forgot entirely all the excellent arguments by which he
had endeavoured to render himself indifferent to her.
PART SIX, CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.
THUNDER-SHOWERS.
"But whither would my fancy go?
How out of place she makes
The violet of a legend blow
Among the chops and steaks!"
After Mrs Dysart's party there ensued a fortnight of intensely hot
weather; so close and sultry that it wore a shade or two of pink even
off Flossy's rosy cheeks and accounted partly for Violante's demeanour
being unusually languid and _distraite_.
Mrs Crichton had gone to London to superintend some of James'
preparations and Frederica had been left at Oxley Manor, so nothing, of
course, was heard there of the young men at the Bank House. It seemed
to poor Flossy as if, with the discovery of her new feelings for Arthur
their old intercourse had vanished away, for on his removal to Redhurst,
she ceased to see him, and she could not feel that she counted for
anything in his life. Thus separated from him, she felt with and for
him every pang of memory and association more keenly than he always felt
them for himself.
Poor Flossy! To have given her affection not only without thought of
return, but to one lying under such a heavy cloud of trouble, was enough
to tame her exuberant brightness; and her lessons lost their liveliness,
her own occupations their interest. Miss Venning might have seen that
something was amiss; but she was greatly occupied in receiving the two
little sons of the brother just older than Clarissa, who had been
settled in India for some time; and, if she thought Flossy looking pale,
merely suggested a holiday visit to the eldest brother, who was a
Lancashire clergyman, or observed that the care of the little boys would
make a nice change for her. Flossy was too young to have had much home
intercourse with any of her brothers, and not just then in the humour to
take up with anything new.
But Clarissa had never been so fond of anyone as of the brother Walter,
whose youthful scrapes and youthful interests had all been confided to
her ear, and whose departure for India had been the great grief of her
girlhood.
"What a blessing they're not girls!" was her comment on the letter
announcing their arrival.
"Indeed!" said Miss Venning. "It would be easier to do for them here if
they were."
"Oh, I daresay they'll fit in," said Clarissa. "We want a little
change."
And she went herself to Southampton to fetch them, and took them
silently under her special protection, making exquisite and ever-varying
grimaces for their amusement and jealous of the character of their
favourite aunt. Miss Venning was glad that the children were so well
provided for, and Flossy perceived that Clarissa had at last found an
interest in life.
One sultry afternoon early in July Flossy, with Violante and two or
three elder girls, had been to a lecture which had been held in Oxley by
some celebrated personage. Miss Venning had taken the opportunity of
paying a visit and had desired them to meet her at a certain shop in the
town. As they crossed the marketplace ominous sounds were heard and
heavy drops began to fall.
"We're going to have a thunderstorm," said Flossy, looking up at the
bank of heavy clouds that was rolling up.
"Oh, Miss Florence, what shall we do?" said Violante, rather timidly.
"My new hat!" exclaimed one girl.
"It's going to pour," said another.
"We must run across to the station," said Flossy, "or down to Cooper's,
as my sister said."
As they stood for a moment hesitating which way to turn, they were
suddenly accosted.
"Flossy! There's going to be a great storm. Come in with me. You will
all be wet through," and Arthur hurried up to them.
"The station--Mary," murmured Flossy.
"The station? Nonsense! you'll all be drenched. I'll send after Miss
Venning. Come, Flossy, don't drown your flock from a sense of
propriety. I'm sure Mademoiselle Mattei doesn't like thunder."
The gay voice, the familiar address, chased away half Flossy's fears and
sentiments. She laughed and yielded, and they hurried through the
plashing rain-drops across the road and into the Bank House--unknown
ground to them all.
"Come upstairs," said Arthur, and he led the way into his grandmother's
drawing-room, into which for the sake of coolness he had lately
penetrated.
The delighted school-girls gathered into a knot, smiling and whispering.
Violante glanced round, as in sacred precincts, and Arthur, pointing to
the lashing rain, laughed boyishly.
"Here you are, fairly caught in the ogre's castle. What shall I do--
shall I have up Mrs Stedman?"
"Don't be so absurd," said Flossy, aside. "What will the girls think of
you?"
"No? Then I'll try to be polite. Isn't this a quaint room, Miss
Mattei?"
It was a long room with three high windows, looking over the garden,
against which the rain was beating violently. Everything was slender,
prim, and pale-coloured. Old-fashioned prints hung on the walls, on the
paper of which long-tailed birds drank out of wonderful vases. Old
china was varied by wax flowers and queer little bits of fancy work.
Elaborate wool-work chairs were preserved with tight-fitting muslin
covers. Arthur made Violante sit down in a tall straight-backed one; he
opened a cabinet of curiosities for the amusement of the girls, and was
just beginning: "I don't know when I've seen you, Flossy," when the door
opened and Hugh walked in, to find the stiff grandmotherly chamber full
of laughing, summer-clothed girls, and in the centre, soft and smiling,
Violante herself.
"Hugh looks like a man who has ridden into a fairy ring," said Arthur,
as his cousin paused in utter surprise.
Hugh made a few polite speeches, Flossy some rather hurried
explanations, and then their host fell silent, till, after a minute or
two, he said, gravely:
"Arthur, don't you think we could give these young ladies some tea?"
"To be sure. I'll go and see what can be produced."
"Arthur has made the house quite habitable," said Hugh to Flossy.
"He looks much better than when I saw him last."
"Yes, I think he is better; but he has felt the hot weather, and he
always turns the brightest side up, you know."
Hugh's affectionate tone turned up quite a new side of himself to
Flossy; but Violante recognised the familiar accents which she had
missed so sorely at first. He did not speak a word to her; but her
heart was beating, she felt intensely happy.
Arthur presently reappeared, followed by Mrs Stedman, with preparations
for tea and such a plentiful supply of cakes of all descriptions as
Flossy suspected had cost the office-boy a wetting to obtain from the
neighbouring pastry-cook's. The girls were in a state of blissful
delight. Was there ever such a fortunate thunder-shower? and, perhaps,
their young teachers were not far from the same opinion.
"I'm afraid it's going to clear up," whispered one of the younger ones.
"There's not a chance of it," said Arthur, gravely. "It's going to pour
for an hour yet." But struggling sunbeams began to force their way
through the clouds and to dance on the rain-drops. Arthur flung up the
window and a great rainbow was arching over the sky, while trees, grass,
and flowers were brilliant with reflected light.
It _had_ cleared up, and Miss Venning made her appearance in her
friend's waterproof cloak, with--
"Well, young ladies, I need not have been anxious about your getting
wet!"
"You're just in time to have some tea, Miss Venning," said Arthur.
"They were just getting wet through when I met them."
Miss Venning drank her tea, and carried off her flock; but, though no
one had exchanged a word in private, somehow that tea-drinking had left
three people much happier than it found them.
It seemed to have restored to Flossy a natural intercourse with Arthur,
and to have brought his real self before her again; while to Violante it
had restored the gentle, smiling Signor Hugo of last year. The effect
on Hugh was less definite, but it was long since he had laughed so much
as at Arthur's account of his finding the girls hesitating and wondering
in the fast-coming rain.
He was engaged the next morning for some time by a meeting at which the
plans for the gas-works, which had been invested with so incongruous an
interest, and the plans for the new railway were brought forward and
discussed, and it was with a very grave face that he came back to Arthur
with some papers in his hand.
"Look, Arthur," he said. "I must show you what has been proposed about
this railroad. You know they want to connect Fordham and Oxley, and the
line proposed would cut right through the Ashenfold woods and along the
bed of the canal (which would not be worth keeping up if there was a
railroad), and keep by the bank of the river up to the `Pot of Lilies'
and then strike across the heath to Fordham. Redhurst would have a
station somewhere down by the lock. This is much the most direct line;
but it is possible that they might take one round at the back of the
woods, and as the property nearly all belongs to my mother we might,
perhaps, get it adopted. I want to know how it strikes you."
Hugh made this long, business-like explanation without pausing, and now
he drew the plan forward and pointed out the proposed route.
"It _shall_ not be done if you mind it very much," he said, vehemently,
as there was no answer.
"Does Aunt Lily know?" said Arthur.
"Yes. She is not unwilling. I would not have it talked of till it was
necessary to tell you about it."
"I remember it was talked of once before. We thought it dreadful
destruction; but you said then that a good many local interests were
involved in it, that it would be a good thing for the place, and that it
would be a very unpopular act to oppose it."
"I don't care a straw about the unpopularity," said Hugh.
"What, when you know you're the Member of the future? No, Hugh; what
reason could you give for opposing it? Don't vex yourself about me.
Why should one cling to the mere empty shell of things? To oppose a
real public advantage for--for our feelings. It would just be
ridiculous, and can't be done. You would be the first to say so."
This was perfectly true; yet Hugh could as little bear to hear the
effort in Arthur's voice as if he had not been a sensible, clearheaded
man of business, who scorned the notion of acting on sentimental
motives. For his own part the removal of all these haunted places was a
positive relief; but he knew that to Arthur it was like rifling a grave.
"When is this likely to be carried out?" said Arthur, presently.
"Why, very soon--if they get it through Parliament before the end of the
session. To-day is the fifteenth of July--"
Arthur started up and walked away to the window. Was the fate of the
poor old "Pot of Lilies" to be sealed on the very day of the year when,
with such mirth and merry-making, they had agreed to revisit it and
renew their innocent little celebration; to live over once more the
hours that had been so cloudless and so gay? Ah, never, never again!
There came over Arthur one of those agonies of regret that were worse to
bear than any nervous horror, even than the daily loneliness to which he
was trying to grow accustomed. He seemed to feel again Mysie's little
hand in his; to see her sweet round eyes looking into his own. The air
was sweet again with summer fragrance; the sun shone hot and clear in as
blue a sky; but that hand--those eyes--He hurried away, and Hugh dared
not follow him, and, having no mental picture of the daily events of the
past summer till it had broken up into storm and misery, could not tell
what had affected him so strongly.
He could only try to be doubly tender and considerate, and, as soon as
he thought Arthur could bear any discussion about himself, suggested
that they should go together for a little trip to North Wales. He had
not been away himself for more than a year, and could easily contrive to
take the holiday. His mother, he knew, meant to go to the sea almost
immediately; so Redhurst would be shut up, and Oxley was too hot and
dusty in August to be endurable. Arthur acquiesced, rather languidly,
but as if he knew it was right.
"Jem asked me if I would like to take a last bachelor trip with him; but
I should have known all the time that his heart was elsewhere," he said.
"You will not think I want to be anywhere else," said Hugh, and,
perhaps, just at that time he hardly did.