contriving plans for it. He was grave and quiet as Hugh had never known
him, with fewer ups and downs of spirits, and seemed to be losing the
boyishness that had clung to him so obstinately; and so the dreaded days
drew near, with nothing whatever to mark their coming, and the first
Sunday in August dawned damp and grey over heathery hills and mossy
valleys. They were at a place where there was no English service.
Arthur went to hear the Welsh one, and Hugh wandered about, anxious and
wretched, and yet with his mind perversely filled with hopeful visions
of Violante. He would have liked to make this a day of penance, but
whenever he let his mind loose, as it were, it sprang back like an
elastic band to the image that daily filled it more and more.
"It has not been at all a bad day, Hugh," said Arthur, gently, as they
parted for the night. "I am glad we came here. To-morrow, if you will,
we'll go for a long walk somewhere."
And so they spent that Monday, so full of memories--though, of course,
the Tuesday was the real anniversary of Mysie's death--beneath cool,
dull skies, over hill-sides half shrouded in mountain mists, heather and
furze for roses and carnations, cloud for sunshine, wild lonely
solitudes for homely quiet. They did not talk very much; but the day
had none of the terror that Hugh had anticipated from it. Rather it had
a kind of sorrowful peace.
In the afternoon the mist thickened into heavy rain; and, as they
approached a small wayside public-house, Hugh suggested that they should
take shelter; find out exactly where they were, and if there was any
chance of a conveyance to Beddgelert, where they had ordered their
luggage to meet them. They had been walking all day, and if their
object had been to look at the scenery, instead of to find some
monotonous occupation, would have been much disappointed.
Accordingly they turned into the little inn, and while Hugh went to
enquire of an English-speaking host as to the possibility of reaching
Beddgelert, Arthur, who had picked up a few words of Welsh, and
generally contrived to make himself understood, was engaged in a lively
pantomime with the tall, dark-eyed girl who waited on them, making her
laugh and talk volubly and incomprehensibly, as he tried to indicate
that he wanted something; hot to drink, and something substantial to
eat. There was no guest-room but the low, spacious kitchen into which
they had first entered, and he was standing before the smouldering peat
fire and pointing with animated gestures first to the bottle and then to
his flask when the house door was burst open, and a whole party of
tourists, struggling with wind, water-proofs and umbrellas, ran hastily
in. There were three ladies and two gentlemen, and they were too much
occupied in shaking themselves free from their wraps to perceive Arthur,
till Hugh came back, saying: "There's nothing to be got here, Arthur,"
when a young lady, letting her waterproof drop on the floor, sprang
forward. "Why, it's Mr Spencer Crichton! How d'ye do?--oh, how funny!
Charlie, Charlie, here's Mr Crichton!"
"Miss Tollemache!" exclaimed Hugh, in equal surprise, as Emily
Tollemache, bright-haired, frank-faced, and smiling, stood confused,
while her brother came forward with--
"Why, Crichton, who in the world would have thought of meeting you
here?"
One or two letters had passed between Hugh and Mr Tollemache since
their parting; but with no reference to the past, the restraint of which
had caused each to be less inclined to seek out the other, and Arthur,
as Hugh made a sort of introduction of his friends, could not fail to be
struck by his look of embarrassment. Emily, however, was equal to the
occasion.
"So, you see, Mr Crichton, we _have_ come to England, and I do like it
so much, quite as much as I expected. Mamma is in London, and we are
travelling with my cousins, only it has rained every day since we came
here."
"Our climate certainly is variable," said Hugh.
"I am afraid you must regret Italian sunshine, Miss Tollemache," put in
Arthur, as he tried to kick the peats into a blaze.
"Oh, no! not yet. But it seems quite natural to see Mr Crichton. And
you know we went away and I have never seen Rosa or my dear Violante. I
wonder what has become of them!"
"I can tell you that," said Hugh, and Arthur saw Mr Tollemache turn and
look at him with an involuntary start; while Hugh grew crimson, as he
continued: "They came to England, and she went, by chance, to school at
Oxley."
"How strange! Do you ever see her? Oh, what a lovely, dear creature
she was when we all went to the classes together! Did _you_ ever see
her?" to Arthur--"Couldn't I find her out?"
Arthur answered with a few words of explanation as to Violante's present
circumstances, but he felt as if he were finding the explanation of all
sorts of trifles which he had thought strange, but had been too much
preoccupied to reason about.
"Mamma wants me to go to school," said Emily, "and, though I consider
myself much too old, I should like to go to school with Violante."
Here Mr Tollemache changed the conversation decidedly, and Hugh said
aside to Arthur:
"This is very unlucky! That we should have encountered all these
people! Cannot we get away?"
Arthur glanced expressively at the window, against which the
mountain-rain was beating almost in sheets of water.
"It cannot be helped," he said, "and I do not mind it."
He had only meant to reassure Hugh's anxiety for him; but he was
surprised at the colour and hurry with which Hugh disclaimed minding it
on his own account. So they were obliged to stay and eat fried ham and
eggs together; and Arthur, by cultivating Miss Tollemache's acquaintance
discovered a good deal that was new about Hugh's visit to Civita Bella,
and by the time their meal was over the clouds had lifted, and the
Tollemaches' carriage, which they had left some two or three miles
behind them for the sake of the mountain walk, came in search of them.
Hugh and Arthur found that they were only five or six miles from
Beddgelert; and after Hugh had extorted from himself an invitation to
the Tollemaches to come to Redhurst, which he was sure that his mother
would follow up, and had parted cordially with his friends, they set
forth on their walk once more alone together.
PART SIX, CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.
"And the brooklet has found the billow,
Though they flowed so far apart,
And has filled with its passionate sweetness
That turbulent, bitter heart."
The heavy walls of mist slowly lifted themselves, and the purple
mountain-sides showed dark and close at hand. The passionate rush of
the mountain torrents sounded full and free after the violent rain, and
their foam showed white against the grass and heather, ready to dance in
the first rays of returning sunshine. Arthur and Hugh walked on for
some distance in silence--a silence that confirmed Arthur's suspicions.
It was so strange a revelation, so much in contrast with his life-long
surface knowledge of Hugh's character, that he hesitated to believe it.
Yet all Violante's looks and sayings, which he had understood as
referring to Vasari, were now, he perceived, capable of another
interpretation. He now recollected his impression that there had been
something amiss with Hugh on his first return from Italy, the passing
thought that had flashed across him when he had seen them together at
the primrose-picking; Violante's wish to go to England, and her content
when she found herself there; and, more than all, Hugh's flushed,
agitated look as he walked on now beside him.
"Hugh," said Arthur, with sudden courage, "I think I have found the clue
to a great deal that has puzzled me. I thought it was the manager-lover
for whom Violante was fretting at Caletto. I think now--"
"What do you mean? Fretting? You told me it was Vasari--you confirmed
all my suspicions. Tell me the real truth, what was it?" cried Hugh,
stopping suddenly, and facing round upon him.
"I made mischief, I am afraid," said Arthur, "but I had a preconceived
idea. I see now that her hints and her little sorrowful ways were on
your account only. How _could_ I guess _you_ had anything to do with
her?"
"Don't laugh at me!" cried Hugh, fiercely.
"I don't want to laugh. I want you to tell me the whole story."
"Tell _you_--now?" said Hugh, recollecting himself. "No, no,
impossible."
"You can't leave me in such a state of conjecture. Here, it's quite
fine and sunny now. Let us stop by this stile, and tell me all about
it."
As he spoke Arthur perched himself on the stone step of the stile, while
Hugh leaned against the wall beside him. The white masses of cloud torn
in every direction rolled rapidly away, showing great wells of blue
between them. Every stone and puddle shone and sparkled in the
sunshine; sharp peaks, and large, round masses of rock came one by one
into view.
In this unfamiliar scene, to the last person and at the last moment that
he could possibly have anticipated, Hugh began to tell his story.
Arthur listened with a few well-timed questions, till Hugh spoke of
"trying to convince Jem," when he could not repress a laugh.
"Jem in the seat of judgment!"
Hugh laughed too, and went on, more comfortably:
"He said nothing I did not know before. I meant to carry it through. I
could have done so."
"Then you did not come to an explanation with her?"
"Yes, I did. I thought _then_ I had found out the secret of life," said
Hugh, with an intensity of feeling, which Arthur could well sympathise
with.
"But what on earth upset it all?"
"Didn't I see her with the diamonds, taking them from him?--ah!" Hugh
broke off, and drove his heel into the ground, unable to recall the
scene without passion that was almost uncontrollable, and turning white
with the effort to restrain language and gesture to the dry composure
which he had adopted.
"Her father said she was already engaged to him," he said, after a
pause; then hurried on with his story, and demanded:
"Now, what do you say to that?"
"That I would not have believed you could be such a fool," would have
been Arthur's natural answer, but he modified it into, "Well, I think
you were very hasty, and rather hard on the poor child--"
"Hard? Do you think I was hard--don't you think I was justified in what
I did?"
"I don't think you allowed enough for her father's authority and her own
timidity--certainly."
"Sometimes I think I acted like a brute," said Hugh.
"Well, but you see the worse you acted the less you were deceived in
_her_," said Arthur, plainly. "Well, then you came home and thought it
was all over?"
"Yes. Perhaps you can understand now what caused the temper and the
conduct which led to--to--. Could I have had _any_ conscience, _any_
feeling, and have renewed _my_ happiness after last year?"
"But how was it?" said Arthur, hardly comprehending a view so unlike his
own instincts.
"Well, you know recent circumstances as well as I do. I have become
aware that, however it may have been once--I think now she is not
indifferent to me, but I saw all the difficulties more plainly--that was
not it, she is more than all the world to me--but _how_ could I do it?"
"But, Hugh," said Arthur, gently, "what good could it possibly do me for
you to make yourself miserable?"
"No good," said Hugh. "I know that now. But I could bear better to see
you. I should have hated my own happiness." Arthur did not answer for
a moment, he was thinking how little they had any of them known of Hugh.
"But you make me out rather a dog in the manger," he said, with a
half-smile.
"No, no! You are all that is unselfish. But I was not thinking of you.
I know I was mistaken, but lately I have seen things differently."
"It has been a great comfort to me to have you to look after me lately,"
said Arthur, with tact to say the most soothing thing; "and, no doubt,
last year you did not know what you felt. But I should not have thought
you heartless. There is one person whose feelings I think you have
forgotten--Violante herself."
"When I believed she loved me it seemed too good a thing for me to put
out my hand to take," said Hugh, in a low voice.
"Oh, Hugh," said Arthur, sadly and earnestly, "don't throw away a great
love. Neither she nor you will ever most likely feel the like again.
It is much too good to lose. It's the best thing in the world, you
know."
"And I must have it. _I_, while _you_..." said Hugh, with much
agitation.
"You _have_ it. She loves you, and you only can make her happy."
"You don't imagine," said Hugh, passionately, "that I don't know how
precious, how utterly good it is! You don't think I don't love her?"
"No, no, I don't think that."
There was a moment's silence, and then Hugh said, more lightly:
"And how about my mother, and all that part of the business?"
"As to that, Jem was right, of course, at an early stage of the
proceedings; but it is not such an extreme case but what I think it may
all be managed. Violante is differently placed now, and is herself all
anyone could wish. And you wouldn't be worth much without her, Hugh."
"Just nothing," said Hugh.
"Well, then," said Arthur, boldly, "why don't you go home to-morrow
morning and see her?"
Hugh leant over the wall in silence, enduring a conflict of feeling that
only such natures ever know. He desired this thing with passionate
intensity; he knew, from bitter experience, that he could not bear its
loss. He was not one whose feet went creditably along the paths of
self-denial, or from whom voluntary self-sacrifice came with any grace.
And yet he felt how little he deserved this blessing, how utterly beyond
his merits it would be, with such humiliation that he could hardly bear
to put out his hand to take it. To feel himself crowned with such
undeserved joy, to take it almost from Arthur's hand--to find that there
was left for him no expiation, no penance even for the wrong he had
done--to know "that no man may deliver his brother, nor make agreement
unto God for him," was a pang unknown to humbler, simpler souls, but
bitter as death to him.
It was almost inconceivable to Arthur, with his unconquerable instinct
for making the best of things, and his readiness to accept consolation
from any quarter. He had no particular insight into character, nor any
inclination to sit in judgment on his neighbours; but he did perceive
that Hugh was distressed by the contrast between their fortunes, and
that he was suffering under an access of self-reproach, so he said:
"You can't tell how much good you have done me lately. It has been the
greatest rest to be with you; but this will only be pleasure to me. I
know you would put it all off to save me any pain, but I shall be
happier for it--I shall indeed--don't have a single scruple."
Hugh hung down his head; he knew that to seek his own happiness was the
only right thing left.
"Utterly undeserved," he murmured.
"As to that," said Arthur, with much feeling, "who could deserve love
like--like theirs? I felt that, thoughtless fellow as I was, always. I
had done nothing. I _was_ nothing much, you know. I said so once to
Mysie, and she thought it over, and that last Sunday afternoon I
remember she said as we walked back together, that she had been
considering what I said--I'm afraid I had never thought of it again--and
that she did not think anyone need trouble about not deserving the love
that was given them; for did not undeserved love lie at the very
foundation of the Christian religion, yet the love of God made people
happy, and we made each other happy by our love? Wasn't it a wonderful,
wise thing for a girl to say? And it's true; when I think of her love,
I can better bear the want of herself."
How well Hugh recognised the sweet, well-expressed wisdom of Mysie's
little sayings! It struck home with an application far deeper than
Arthur guessed. Had not his whole history during the past year been one
long attempt to expiate his own sin, to atone himself for his errors, to
absolve his own conscience from its remorse?
He looked up, with his eyes swimming in tears, at Arthur.
"I shall go, then," was all he said.
"That's right; let's get on, then, and you can have a look at Bradshaw."
Hugh laughed at this practical suggestion, and presently remembered
that, as Miss Venning's holidays had begun, Violante would not be in
Oxley.
"Well, you could find out her uncle's address--Jem knows it."
"Oh, I know where he lives," said Hugh, declining to encounter Jem.
"Come what may, I shall come back to you at once," he said.
"Well--send me a telegram, and I could come and meet you. You know we
should have gone home in a week or so, anyhow." Violante was alone at
Signor Mattei's lodgings. Rosa's wedding was to take place in about a
fortnight, and the little drawing-room was full of preparations for it.
Rosa's modest trousseau, her uncle's gift, looked magnificent lying on
the chairs and sofa, where her cousins had been inspecting it before
taking her out to make further purchases. It was a hot, sunny
afternoon, and Violante, as she stood in the window, thought how dusty
the trees looked in the little garden, how brown the grass, and how
shabby altogether was the aspect of London in August. For almost the
first time she thought, with a faint sense of regret, of Civita Bella,
with its harmonious colours, its fretted spires, the deep blue of the
skies, the flowers. She glanced at Rosa's white bridal wreath, just
sent home, and took it up in her hand--orange flowers, myrtle, and
stephanotis, but these were dry and false; those other blossoms--
Violante heard a little noise, she turned her head, and there stood Hugh
Crichton, tall and stately, just as he had come towards her over the old
palace floor more than a year ago. She was so utterly surprised, and
yet his presence fitted in so justly with her thoughts that she stood
waiting, with her eyes on his face, without one conventional word of
greeting. Hugh had rehearsed a thousand greetings; what he uttered was
a new one--
"Violante--Violante! will you forgive me?--can you love me still?"
He held out both hands imploringly. Violante looked up in his face; she
dropped the wreath, and in a moment, neither knew how, he held her in
his arms, and the long year of parting was a year that was past. He had
come back; what had she to do with mistrust or pride?
"My darling--oh, my darling! I have not been so faithless as I seemed,"
he said.
"I was misled, and then--"
"I never broke my promise," sobbed Violante; "before you were gone I
threw the diamonds away. I was never engaged to him--never."
"It was all my own wrong-headed folly and suspicion. And then, you know
our terrible story?"
"I know many things now," said Violante, withdrawing a little. "Mr
Crichton, I have seen your home, and I know the difference between us.
I have not wondered lately that you did not come back."
"Never think of that," cried Hugh, "for my life is worth nothing without
you. I have been so miserable that I could lead no life at all. Oh, my
darling, give yourself back to me, and I will--I will be good to you! I
will make you happy. I have loved you every moment of this bitter year.
Oh, make the rest of my life better!"
So Hugh pleaded, with all that past bitterness giving force to his
words. And she, who needed no urging, whose love had been his without
an hour's wavering, felt all her troubles floating away, till the dusty
suburban drawing-room was filled with a sunlight as glorious as the
Italian palace, and there needed no scent of southern flowers to bring
back the charm of their one half-hour of happiness. It had come back to
them, and by the long want of it they knew far better what it was worth.
PART SIX, CHAPTER FORTY NINE.
THE LESSON OF LOVE.
"Wed a maiden of your people,"
Warning said the old Nokomis;
"Go not eastward, go not westward,
For a stranger whom we know not!
Like a fire upon the hearth-stone
To a neighbour's homely daughter;
Like the starlight or the moonlight
Is the handsomest of strangers!"
Thus dissuading spake Nokomis,
And my Hiawatha answered
Only this: "Dear old Nokomis,
Very pleasant is the firelight,
But I like the starlight better,
Better do I like the moonlight."
When Rosa came in from her shopping the first sight her eyes beheld was
her white wreath on the floor, but before she could speak Violante
sprang into her arms.
"Rosina, oh, Rosina! who do you think is here?"
As Hugh's tall figure appeared in the background Rosa had not much
difficulty in answering this question; but the look in her bright,
straightforward eyes was not wholly a welcome, though she held out her
hand as he took Violante's and said:
"You will give her to me now?"
"Mr Crichton," said Rosa, "my little sister has no mother, and my
father is not accustomed to English ways. You will forgive me if I ask
you a few questions. She has already suffered a great deal from
suspense."
"You can ask no questions that I am not ready to answer fully," said
Hugh.
Rosa kissed Violante, and sent her upstairs, with a decision that
admitted of no question. Then she picked up her wreath, and asked Hugh
to sit down, while he forestalled her by saying:
"Miss Mattei, you are aware of the misunderstanding under which I left
Civita Bella, and of the repulse I received from your father? I hope he
will give me a different answer now."
"Indeed, Mr Crichton, there have been a great many misunderstandings.
Is it only now that you have discovered your mistake?"
"No, Miss Mattei," said Hugh, colouring, "it is some weeks since I have
felt certain that I was mistaken. But if you know in how much trouble
we have been during we past year--and--and my share in it, you will,
perhaps, understand that it was my cousin Arthur's discovery of my
secret and his encouragement which has made me venture here now."
Rosa was softened.
"Ah, yes, Violante told me," she said.
"I could not have raised any discussion about myself at such a time. I
don't think you like protestations, Miss Mattei, but I think a year is
long enough to test our constancy, and surely--surely, Signor Mattei's
objections can no longer exist."
"No, she must choose for herself now. Mr Crichton, I'm afraid I am
very ungracious," said Rosa warmly; "but I have been so anxious for
Violante. I know this will be best for her, if--if nothing _now_ comes
in the way."
"Nothing can--nothing _shall_. And Signor Mattei?"
"I think, Mr Crichton, that it would be a good thing if you spoke first
to my uncle, Mr Grey. He has shown Violante and myself so much
kindness that we feel he ought to be consulted. You would find him at
home, he is not much engaged at this time of year--and--and--life has
taken a very different turn for my little sister from anything that we
anticipated for her. You will not forget that you are going to take her
into a strange world?"
Rosa's eyes filled with tears as she looked earnestly at Hugh.
"I will try," said Hugh simply, but something in his tone impressed
Rosa, who saw him depart in search of Mr Grey with more satisfaction
than she could have imagined possible. Hugh found himself obliged to
make a very clear statement of his circumstances, his independence of
his mother, and the home at the Bank House, to which he would bring
Violante, in all which matters he acquitted himself to Mr Grey's
satisfaction; his own manner and appearance probably being strong
arguments in his favour. Nor, of course, could Mr Grey be insensible
to the advantage of such a provision for the girl who had failed once in
her attempt to earn her living and might easily fail again. He
concluded with--
"Well, Mr Crichton, you must not suppose that I am not aware of how
good a prospect you offer to my niece; but I hope you have considered
well your own feelings. Violante is as sweet a girl as any man could
wish to see. Her father is a gentleman born, and I don't do you the
injustice to suppose that you will make yourself unhappy about the
accident of her former profession any more than you have about her want
of fortune. But she is to all intents and purposes a foreigner, she has
none of the training, and probably few of the ideas of an ordinary
English girl; do not be disappointed when you find this out."
"Do you suppose I wish her to be like an ordinary English girl?"
exclaimed Hugh.
"No," said Mr Grey, shrewdly; "but, having chosen your humming-bird,
don't expect her to turn out a robin redbreast."
"I am not so unreasonable," began Hugh; then changing his tone, "You
judge me rightly if you think I am apt to be harsh and stern, but if I
can be gentle to anyone it is to her. I could not wish her other than
she is for a moment."
In the meantime Rosa had prepared Signor Mattei's mind for what was
coming. He listened to her with tolerable patience, looked ruefully
round the room at her wedding presents, and said:
"Was not one enough?"
"We couldn't well help its happening at the same time, you see, father.
And I always felt that there was a great risk that Violante would not be
strong enough even for the concerts. I hope you will not oppose her
happiness."