love my art, and are grown beyond me. You are English, rich,
respectable; the life of the artist is not for you."
"Oh, father!" cried Violante, bursting into a flood of tears. "Indeed,
it is not so; I am not rich, I am not respectable, only I love him so,
father, just as you love music, how can I help it? That is all."
"Ah, well, you are your mother's daughters. Perhaps I may hand down to
my grandchildren my own ambitions!"
With which distant, and, perhaps, doubtfully-desirable probability,
Signor Mattei was forced to content himself; but there was enough truth
in his disappointment to make a piece of good fortune that now befell
him very delightful to his daughters.
He had been so much separated from his own family that their existence
was hardly realised by his children; but about this time he received a
letter from Milan, saying that an uncle, his father's last surviving
brother, who had been a physician, had died at an advanced age, and had
left him a small competence. He was thus set free from the necessity of
seeking engagements which would grow more precarious as he grew older,
and could set to work to compose his long-dreamed-of opera in any place
which he preferred.
"My children," he said, when the first surprise was over, "you can live
without me, and, doubtless, the gentlemen you are about to marry can do
so too. Your England," (this form of expression always distressed
Violante) "is a great country to visit, but I am Italian. I shall go
and visit the tomb of my honoured uncle at Milan, and then, perhaps, at
Civita Bella old Maddalena and I can lead a quiet life together. She
knows my ways."
"And when we come to see you, father," whispered Violante, "will you not
give me the old china bowl?"
Before, however, things had arrived at this satisfactory condition many
other arrangements had been made. Mrs Crichton had been at the sea and
was on the point of coming to London, on her way back to Redhurst, for a
final inspection of Jem's arrangements; and, Hugh's scruples at
shortening Arthur's stay in Wales giving way to the desire for so
powerful an ally, he asked him to come to London and join him there.
Arthur did so, and found that Hugh had already sought out James, who was
tied to his work, in view of the lengthened holiday he meant to take in
September, and had informed him of the state of the case. James was
quite ready at last to accept the necessity, but revenged himself by
giving Arthur the ludicrous side of the old courting timer and enjoying
a hearty laugh over Hugh's secret.
So, to Mrs Crichton's great surprise, she was met at her hotel, not by
James with his hands full of patterns, but by her eldest son, looking so
grave that her first words were:
"My dear Hugh, what brings you here? Is anything the matter?"
"No, mother, nothing; but Arthur and I are in town, and I wanted to say
a few words to you."
Frederica was staying with a school-friend, so Mrs Crichton was alone;
and Hugh hurried her over her cup of tea, and was unusually attentive
and unusually impatient till she had finished with her maid and her
orders to the hotel people, and could give her mind to his story, into
the midst of which he plunged, hurrying through it with tolerable
candour, and at last breaking off abruptly and waiting for his mother's
reply.
She was taken exceedingly by surprise, and though she was a woman of
many words at first she hardly said anything. She was honestly desirous
that her son should marry, and did not stand in that sort of relation to
him which his marriage would disturb, and she was clear-sighted enough
at once to recognise that this was no fancy which could be talked away.
"Mother, why don't you speak to me?" said Hugh.
"I hardly know what to say to you, my dear. You have surprised me
exceedingly; but I do not expect that anything that I say could induce
you to alter your choice."
"But, mother, you've seen her?" said Hugh, entreatingly.
"Yes; she is very pretty, and everyone speaks well of her; and, I have
no doubt what you say about her relations is correct. But, Hugh, she is
an Italian."
"Surely, that is an unworthy prejudice!"
"Not at all. She may be as good as any English girl, but she will be
different. She will not like the life of an English lady. Differences
will start up in an unexpected manner. I have seen a great deal of
life; and I don't see how people are to be happy together with such
thoroughly different antecedents. You will puzzle her, and she will
disappoint you."
"I would rather _she_ disappointed me than that anyone else should
fulfil my most perfect ideal," said Hugh, ardently.
"But, indeed, Hugh, had you none of these doubts when you delayed so
long in carrying out your intentions?"
"I delayed," said Hugh colouring, "because I did not wish to raise this
discussion at a time of such trouble--because I could not grieve Arthur.
He approves of this."
"And you have really set your heart on her all this year?"
"Set my heart!" exclaimed Hugh, starting up. "Mother, she was never out
of my heart all the time when my mind was full of Arthur, when I thought
renouncing her was the only atonement I could make to him!"
"How could it affect Arthur?"
"I thought no devotion, no sacrifice would be enough to make up to him
ever so little. And what right have I to any happiness of my own? Oh,
I have been very miserable; the only softness, the only sweetness, was
the thought of her!" said Hugh, vehemently.
"My dear boy," said Mrs Crichton, "that view was wrong. You could not
give Arthur back what he lost. I think you blame yourself unduly; but,
be that as it may, though we cannot undo the consequences of our
actions, you seem to have forgotten that pardon was granted to the
greatest of sinners not for any atonement that they could make, but for
their repentance and love. We do not stand on our own merits--surely I
need not say this to you."
Mrs Crichton was a woman who very rarely spoke on serious subjects, and
her sons could almost count the few occasions in their lives when she
had so addressed them. She rarely criticised their behaviour; but they
knew that her judgment of them was almost invariably true.
"Yes mother," said Hugh, "I have had need to work out that truth. But
if I have in any way done so it has been through Arthur's love and
forgiveness, so undeserved--so unmerited. But mother, I could not even
have turned to that but for the one thing that kept my heart alive--my
love for Violante. I would have taken all my happiness from her--I
loved her! Though I injured her I let her forgive me!"
Hugh's speech was somewhat confused; and, perhaps, his mother only
partially understood him. He was only beginning to understand himself.
For his history, with its attempt at atonement, hopeless till humble
love made the offering acceptable and the pardon possible, was surely
like a parable of the Greatest of all Histories, of human sin and Divine
love, which this deep personal experience might help him profitably to
realise. But Mrs Crichton did see that, through all this storm and
conflict, the natural spontaneous love for Violante had been as a star
in his heart--often obscured, indeed, by clouds of doubt and suspicion;
but shining in and out till day returned. Whatever sorrow it had
brought, however unwise it might be, it had kept Hugh from despair, and
she could not scorn it.
"My dear," she said, "it is too late for me to oppose what has survived
so much. Nor have I the right; at your age you must please yourself.
Of course, I wish you had chosen otherwise."
"I think you will not wish so for long," said Hugh, as he kissed her
warmly.
Mrs Crichton was not ready to accede to this remark; she was troubled
and anxious; and when Arthur presently came to see her and Hugh left him
with her she expressed her doubts strongly.
"You wouldn't wish Hugh to lose his better half, Aunt Lily," he said,
half playfully, and then he told of Violante's simplicity and sweetness
till Mrs Crichton was half convinced, though she still held to--
"Yes, my dear, it was very delightful for you all to rave about her; but
can you imagine her Hugh's wife, and an English lady of position?"
"Well, Aunt Lily, I can imagine Hugh very well as her husband, which is
the point to interest you, I suppose."
Mrs Crichton behaved beautifully. She forestalled Hugh's proposals for
an introduction, by going with him the next day to call on Violante, who
was now staying with the Greys, from whose house Rosa was to be married.
Violante was alone in the drawing-room, and she started up flushing and
trembling, then, without heeding Hugh, she went right up to Mrs
Crichton and put her little hand in hers.
"I will try so hard to please you, Signora," she said, with faltering
lips.
"My dear, I am not difficult to please," said Mrs Crichton, and somehow
her fears of incongruity and incompleteness went into the background
before the charm of the soft eyes and the sweet humility of the heroine
of her son's romance, which, for good or for evil, was to be the one
great reality of his life.
PART SIX, CHAPTER FIFTY.
THE LESSON OF LIFE.
"His days with others will the sweeter be
For those brief days he spent in loving me."
Towards the end of August Florence Venning returned from a visit to her
brother, eager, of course, to hear the details of the wonderful event
that had taken place during her absence. Her sisters, however, had not
much to tell her, as Mrs Crichton had only just returned to Redhurst.
Hugh had been perforce busy since he came back, and Arthur had remained
for some little time with Jem. They were all at home now, however, and
Flossy set off on the afternoon after her return to call on Mrs
Crichton and hear the news, with which Oxley was ringing from
head-quarters. As she walked along the road she was overtaken by
Arthur, who greeted her cordially.
"I am so glad I have met you," he said; "I have a great deal to tell
you, and it is a very long time since we had the chance of a
conversation."
"Yes," said Flossy. "I never was so astonished, _never_! Latterly, I
had half fancied that Violante had some one on her mind; but that it
should be Hugh!"
"No one ever suspected him of such a romance, did they? However, it is
all turning out very well, and Aunt Lily likes her very much."
"I suppose she won't come back to school?"
"Well, no, I think under the circumstances that would hardly answer.
But she, with Mr and Mrs Fairfax--you know her sister was married last
week--are to come and pay us a visit; so you will soon see Violante,
and, no doubt, she will tell you all her little secrets."
"I shall be so glad to see her. We shall miss her very much--she is as
good and sweet as she is pretty. When?"
"When are they going to be married, do you mean?--I think in October."
"That is very soon," said Flossy.
"Yes, but there are reasons. Her father is going to live in Italy, at
Civita Bella, and Hugh thinks he will take her there once more. And
besides--I have something to tell you, Flossy, about myself."
Flossy looked up at him, struck by the grave tone. He looked quite
well, and had lost his air of languor and preoccupation; but his manner
was serious, though now he looked in her face and smiled.
"Well, it is a long story, and I think you will be surprised. I can't
tell you how thoughtful Hugh has been for me through all this, and he
_knows_ I have come to a right decision, though he does not like it."
Flossy still looked at him, unable to frame a question, and he went on:
"Perhaps you don't know that our Bank has a sort of branch in Calcutta,
not absolutely in connection with this one, but belonging to a cousin of
my father's. Our grandfather, I believe, owned them both. Hugh had a
letter last week from this cousin, saying that his son, who has been
educated in England--I don't know if you remember him--Walter Spencer--
he spent Christmas with us once--had found, on coming out, that India
did not suit his health, and had to throw up the good opening out there.
He is a very clever fellow, I believe; and, though his father did not
exactly say so, I think he hoped that Hugh would make some proposal to
him. He offers his vacant place to me, or to George, if I was otherwise
provided for--you see he knows nothing of the circumstances."
Arthur had made many pauses during this long speech; but Flossy did not
answer him a word. She turned deadly pale, and there was an expression
in her large blue eyes as she resolutely returned his enquiring looks so
miserable that he could not forget it. He could not but see that his
words affected her very strongly.
"You are going, then?" she said, at length.
"Yes," said Arthur, "I have made up my mind to go. I should like to
tell you all my reasons, because, Flossy, you have always listened to my
troubles, and I know how you grieved with me as well as for me."
"Oh, yes--yes!" faltered Flossy, thankful for the tears that seemed to
bring her senses back, and for this excuse for them.
"The idea made Hugh wretched," said Arthur, "but yet he knew there was a
great deal of sense in it. He knows that _here_ everything brings back
what's lost. I cannot bear it. I _cannot_ forget what I hoped my life
would be. The best would be a sort of make-shift. But my life is
before me, and I _must_ not look on it as only fit to throw away. I
_must_ make something of it yet, if I can. And as for the parting with
them all, that's the lot of hundreds. I have fewer ties than most."
"It is such an ending, Arthur!" said Flossy, sadly.
"No. I hope it will be a beginning--with God's help. You told me once
that _she_ would have made a life for herself without _me_. I don't
think she would wish mine to have no future."
"And has Hugh consented?"
"Yes. You know he said at first that I made a mistake in coming home;
but that is not so. Last winter I could not have decided on such a step
as this. And now he has made me promise that I will give it up if I am
ill, or if I dislike it very much. But the first is not likely to
happen, and the second--shall not."
"But what does Mrs Crichton say?" asked Flossy.
"Oh, they are all very sorry, Flossy, and so am I," said Arthur, with an
odd sort of smile, "but--they'll get on very well without me, and I must
make my way for myself as others do. I cannot be the worse," he added,
in a lower tone, "for--for _her_ memory."
Flossy walked on in silence--it was almost more than she could bear.
She hardly knew which was the saddest--that no one seemed to depend on
Arthur for happiness, or that he seemed to regret their independence so
little.
"What shall _I_ do?" was in her heart, and she was speechless, lest it
should find its way to her tongue.
"You know, Flossy," he said, after a pause, "a sorrow like mine swallows
up everything. I can't care very much for lesser partings. Don't think
me heartless. I shall never forget any of you; but things are so
changed that, now that I have partly got over the shock, I feel as if an
outward change were only the natural consequence of the inner one."
It was natural enough. Arthur had had many affections, but only one
love. There had always been a sort of self-reliance about him; while he
had taken gratefully all the sympathy and all the tenderness that was
offered him he had never been able to depend on any of it. There was a
great risk of hardening; but he had the safeguards of an unselfish
disposition, the pure and perfect love that could not die with its
object, and a most earnest desire not to fall short of what Mysie's
betrothed had hoped to be. He would try hard to hold himself upright,
and it might be trusted that, with the blessing of the prayers of those
who loved him, he might realise a yet higher love than Mysie's, and keep
his heart soft and open for the days when even another earthly love
might come to fill it. There was no thought of such a time in the heart
of the poor girl by his side, who endured, not, indeed, the most
passionate, or the most keen, but, perhaps, the most depressing grief a
woman can know. But Flossy was young and bright and strong; and,
moreover, the passion that only an idealistic nature could have
entertained needed very little nourishment, and could find some
satisfaction in imagination, admiration, and just the spark of
possibility that would not define itself into hope.
In other words, so long as Flossy knew that Arthur's life was all she
could wish it to be, she would lead her own, _having no closer ties to
remember_, without intolerable disturbance or dissatisfaction. It would
not spoil all other interests, because the world held for her an
interest surpassing them all.
But the last days were very hard to endure; and, though the impulsive
outspoken girl guarded every word and look, though Arthur parted from
her as from a sister, there came a day when the new depths in her clear,
honest eyes, the new tones in her fresh, firm voice, came back on his
recollection and suggested a new ending to her story.
To Hugh, in the midst of his own happiness, and such happiness as he had
never imagined for himself, it was a great pang to find that Arthur must
seek content without his help, and find it away from his side. His
judgment acquiesced, and, perhaps, nothing showed how well he had learnt
his late hard lessons as the way in which he made everything easy, and
secured for his cousin the lot that he had chosen as best for himself.
So Arthur went forth from among them whither these pages cannot follow
him, as his young energies recovered their force, and a new life
gradually roused his old interest in new hopes and new ambitions.
At home the old canal gave place to the new railroad, and the wedding
parties no longer drank tea at the "Pot of Lilies;" but rushed over it
and beyond it to more distant and exciting places of entertainment,
before the old rector and his wife entered into the promise of their
golden wedding, after the fifty years that "were such a little bit of
eternity."
A new generation of girls, among whom Emily Tollemache was for a short
time numbered, found Miss Florence still bright and enthusiastic, Miss
Clarissa full of her little nephews, while, away in London, Rosa Fairfax
congratulated herself that teaching was over for her for ever. Signor
Mattei, in sunny Italy, dreamed over and composed the opera that was to
be more famous than his daughter's voice; while the precious china bowl
held the place of honour in the Bank House drawing-room, and was
discovered by Jem to be quite in the highest style of art, and worth
_anything_ to a collector.
"People find things out in time," said Hugh, with a smile, as his
romantic choice was justified by the real happiness that resulted from
it. For Violante was all that Hugh needed, and what more could she need
herself? His love and his happiness made her own.
But there never came a day that Hugh forgot to look for Arthur's
letters, or to feel responsible for his fortunes; never a day when the
incompleteness of Arthur's life did not mar the perfection of his own.
Nor ever will, till, amid the scenes of the sorrow that closed his
youth, Arthur finds the happiness of his manhood.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.
End of Project Gutenberg's Hugh Crichton's Romance, by C.R. Coleridge