But Hugh, as he went out into the cold night, felt his brain in a whirl. He had had a change, whether he wished for one or not – a change of thought, and feeling, and association; a wave of feeling that seemed to make him conscious of what he used to be like at that time that seemed now like his whole past. But it was past, so completely that he did not even argue with himself against its return. His words were so far true that he could not have pushed his recent life aside, and sought out Violante again.
Only, now and then, as the days went by, she seemed to steal like a vision into his solitary rooms. He saw her finger the quaint old ornaments of his grandmother’s drawing-room at the Bank House, or sit on its narrow window-seats at work. But Redhurst and all his outer life was haunted by another vision – haunted as truly as if a spirit with wet white dress and covered face had really wandered over the frosty autumn meadows, or seemed to float on the dull waters, which no summer sun awoke to sparkling light.
Part 4, Chapter XXXI
Relations New and Old
“The world is full of other folks.”
The Gayworthys.
It was a wintry morning, with pale sunshine struggling through the retiring fog. In the centre of the Greys’ pretty drawing-room, among all the ottomans, tables, and nick-knacks, stood Violante. She wore a dark-blue serge dress, with a linen collar and a little red necktie – attire intended by Rosa to be scrupulously that of a young English lady. Nor was the short hair, tied back with a ribbon, so unusual as to be peculiar. Yet she looked, as she stood glancing around, half shy, half observant, something like a hare in a flower-garden, just ready to dash away. In consideration of the fatigue of her journey, which had ended late the night before, she had had her breakfast upstairs, and was now really making and receiving her first impressions.
Rosa and Beatrice Grey were talking fast to each other in a rapid exchange of question and answer; while the aunt and younger cousins were studying this soft-eyed, fawnlike creature, so utterly unlike their self-possessed selves.
“So, my dear,” said her aunt kindly, “we have got you here at last. And you must tell the girls all you like best to do, that they may be able to amuse you.”
“I do not know what anyone does here exactly,” said Violante, afraid of her own voice, as she wondered if her English was very foreign.
“Hasn’t Rosa told you how we all get on?” said Kitty.
“Yes,” said Violante. “I thought I knew – but, after all, I did not imagine it.”
Kitty laughed kindly.
“You dear little thing!” she said, “you will soon find it all out. And you haven’t got the least bit of voice to sing to us with?”
“No – I cannot sing!” said Violante, shyly.
“All, we shall make you tell us all your history,” said Mary, wishing to set her at her ease; “all about your stage-life and its wonders.”
“That was not very wonderful,” said Violante, while Rosa interposed:
“She had very little time to judge of it before she was ill, and now I think she would be glad to forget it.”
“Ah, well, we must make her into an English girl,” said Mrs Grey. “We will talk of schools and pupils by and by; first we will show her a little of the world. Is she as fond of parties as you were, Rosa? How wild a dance made you, good, sober girl as you were.”
“She has never been to a party,” said Rosa, laughing; “and I am not sure if she can dance – off the stage.”
“Oh, yes, I can, Rosina – Maddalena taught me.”
“Do you remember going to parties at the Stanforths’, Rosa?” said Miss Grey curiously.
“Yes – very well. Do you know them still?” said Rosa.
“Oh, yes – ” and here followed details of old acquaintances and new pictures, to which Violante listened in silent wonder. The Greys were fond of little schemes and surprises, so they told their cousins nothing of the old acquaintance whom they expected them soon to meet; and nothing occurred to make all these perplexing novelties more perplexing still.
“Shall you be happy here, my darling?” said Rosa, anxiously, as, in the first interval of solitude, Violante sprang to her side and eagerly caressed her.
“Oh, yes! – yes!” said Violante; “quite happy when I see you. But how strange it would be to have so many sisters! How lousy they are, and how many things they can do! Rosa mia! I see now what everyone meant by saying that you were so English. But I like it.”
Violante’s life during the next week or two was not such as to make a figure in history. She was the prettiest plaything her cousins had ever seen. Her ignorance of ordinary life, her shy softness, and absence of self-assertion, made her seem to them as a specially-lovely kitten, and they never guessed that anything lay beneath. They interpreted all her actions in accordance with the impression that she had made on them. They were fond of reading aloud to each other, and when a passionate and mournful love-scene moved Violante, unused to the echoes of her own heart, to tears and blushes, they laughed at her naïveté and simplicity. When she shrank from questions about her theatrical life they concluded that she had nothing to tell of it, and they treated the idea of her teaching Italian at school as an absurd joke.
“But I must earn my living,” said Violante, gravely.
“You earn your living – you kitten!” said Beatrice.
“Yes – one must do something, and I cannot sing – or marry,” said Violante, and her cousins’ laughter at what seemed to the foreign girl a perfectly natural suggestion blinded them to the fact that there was more knowledge of the struggle of life in her words than had ever come to them over their drawing-room carpets. But they taught her to talk, and diminished her shyness so that she could not have been in a better atmosphere.
To Rosa the life came with no strangeness; rather her four years of Italy were like a dream. Surely – surely it was but yesterday that she had trimmed her dresses for other parties at the Stanforths’ and Comptons’, where Lucy was then so anxious to go. Was there now nothing to give the old zest to her preparations? Only the desire to set off Violante, and to see her enjoying herself. But Rosa’s world was, indeed, full of “other folks;” and she did not decide on her actions with regard to herself. And great questions were agitating themselves in her mind during these early and apparently peaceful days. Her aunt told her of the fortunate opening which she had found for her at Mrs Bosanquet’s.
“And you see, my dear, the money is as much as you would get anywhere. You could continue it if your father does come to England in the spring, as he proposes. It leaves you time for a few occasional pupils, and you would have your evenings at home – an inestimable advantage if Violante is with you.”
“I know my father thinks that, if her voice returns and we stay in England, she might sing at concerts and oratorios. But I don’t think she will ever be able to do anything in public.”
“Oh, dear me, Rosa, she is a child; she will be a different person in a year or two. But I agree with you, she is not suited for it, and must be well taken care of.”
“Indeed, I must take care of her!” Rosa said no more, and her aunt never supposed that she had any hesitation as to availing herself of the excellent opportunity before her; and, indeed, as Rosa listened, she felt that her alternative grew more remote. But it lost nothing in fascination.
After they had been about a week at Kensington some tickets were sent to Mrs Grey for ‘The School for Scandal’ – then being performed. Violante did not go: she shrank from the very thought of a theatre; and, as Rosa was by no means anxious to expose her to unnecessary cold and fatigue, she remained at home, while Mr Grey took his eldest daughter and Rosa.
It was a long time since Rosa had seen any acting, and she sat like one bewitched, with hot cheeks and bright eyes, her hands clasped before her – now delighted, now impatient – her lips moving in sympathy or correction – absorbed as she had not been for years. Mr Grey thought what a very handsome young woman his niece was, with her fine eyes and intense expression; but her cousin Beatrice, who had been in the old days more than anyone else her friend, watched her curiously, and when they came home said:
“Come into my room, and brush your hair, and then you will not disturb Violante! So you are as fond of acting as ever, Rosa?”
“Fond of it!” ejaculated Rosa. “Oh, Trixy, I must, I must! I can’t give it up again. Surely there must be some way!”
“Rosa! you don’t mean to say you are thinking of it seriously?”
“It would be just life to me,” said Rosa, passionately, and almost crying, as she brushed her hair over her face.
Miss Grey laid aside a modest portion of accessory plaits as she said, gravely —
“You see, Rosa, ‘life,’ as you call it, is just what most people don’t get. And I’m sure you would not like it; you are not the sort of girl.”
“Yes, I am!” said Rosa, with petulance. “Nobody understands. They think because I can work and teach, and take care of myself and other people, and look serious, that that’s all of me, and that I’m good and quiet. But I’m not, if being good means being contented in – in a pond with a fence all round it. I should like to knock about, have to take care of myself, and live in a lodging! I like the gas and the fun, and the ups and downs of it, and not being sure of succeeding; and if Violante was married I’d do it to-morrow!”
“But, Rosa – ”
“But, Trixy, I mean what I say. I can act as I can do nothing else; but whether it is possible for me to be an actress is another thing, I know very well. It couldn’t make much difference to all of you – could it?”
“Well, no,” said Beatrice, “I don’t think, we should consider that it did. But, Rosa, you would either have to begin in the smallest possible way, or else study for years; and how could you pay for getting yourself taught? You might ask Mr A – ,” mentioning an eminent actor of well-known kindness and respectability; “he sometimes comes here. But when there’s the other thing all ready for you!”
“Oh, Trixy, I know,” said Rosa. “But of course,” she added, “I can’t be expected to feel that it would be unsuitable. If I had a voice – oh! if I had – what it would have saved Violante and me!”
“You gave up the idea once before,” said Beatrice.
“Yes,” said Rosa, rather faintly.
“There was something then you would have liked better still, eh! Rose?”
“Yes,” said Rosa, with a sudden heart-throb.
“I’m afraid he wasn’t good for much, Rosy,” said her cousin, patting her hair.
“You never hear of him now?” said Rosa.
“Never. Everyone doesn’t get Lucy’s luck, you know, and when things go wrong one must put up with second-best.”
“I am to have neither first or second,” said Rosa.
“Well, there’s a good deal of third in the world, and one gets on with it.”
“The long and the short of it is,” said Rosa, as she stood up to go, “that that’s my wish, but I can’t turn the world upside down to get it, and I can live without it, as I’ve done before. Why, I almost forgot it till things went wrong with Violante. Anyhow, I must take care of her.”
Beatrice Grey, spite of her easy life, had not found the world accommodate itself so exactly to her wishes as to be surprised at the necessity for submission, but she was struck by Rosa’s last words, and said: “You’re the best girl I know, Rosa.”
“I mustn’t go to many plays if you are to hold that opinion long,” replied Rosa, as she went away.
“Did you enjoy yourself, Rosina mia?” said Violante, sleepily.
“Yes, my darling,” said Rosa, “so much so that next time you must come and look after me.”
Violante gave a little sleepy laugh at this absurd notion, as her sister, wakeful with excitement, lay down by her side.
Rosa was not exactly conscious of making a sacrifice: she rather felt herself yielding to a powerful necessity. Of course, the family well-being and Violante’s happiness must come first, whatever happened. She must act prudently. Life had taught her prudence; only her hot nature rebelled sometimes. Her age and experience taught her that she could live without being an actress. She lay thinking of her life and her sister’s – not cynically, but without any youthful illusions. Her first ambition seemed impracticable – her first love was a thing of the past.
Part 4, Chapter XXXII
Old Acquaintance
“Strange, yet familiar things.”
The scene of Violante’s first party was a great rambling house in Kensington – half old, half new – with odd passages and corners, and steps up and down; incongruous, and yet comfortable; and full of all the daring innovations and the unexpected revivals of an artist’s taste. Mr Stanforth gave his visitors pleasant things to look at, and pleasant people to talk to; and, while a fair share both of things and people were enough out of the common to amuse – by exciting criticism, here and there was a work of art, and here and there a famous person standing on a higher level, and rousing enthusiasm and admiration. Besides, the large and lively family party were always ready for schemes of amusement; and there were no such private theatricals, no such drawing-room concerts and impromptu dances anywhere else – at least, so thought the Miss Greys. To the young Violante the scene had all the wonder of absolute novelty; to her sister the tender interest of an unforgotten past. Rosa remembered the play which she had acted there, when applause had lighted the first spark of ambition; but she seemed to live over again the day, three months later, when that fire had paled before an intenser flame. The scene was the same, but the play had been altered to make room for new actors; and Violante, in her white dress, with Christmas roses crowning her soft cloudy hair, stood in the front.
“That girl is like starlight,” someone said, and Rosa speedily became aware that her sister was one of the things to be looked at to-night. Rosa herself received a warm greeting; and their kind and pleasant host took the two sisters into his studio, that the younger one, at least, might both see and be seen.
“I am afraid the artistic eyes of Italy will see much to criticise,” he said, with a smile.
“You are used to pictures?”
“I thought they were all painted long ago,” said Violante, “except the copies;” for Civita Bella had not offered many facilities or attractions to painters, and having been behind the scenes of one art did not lessen her wonder at the other. She stared in amazement at recognising the original of a peasant-girl on the wall in the fashionably-dressed young lady who was showing off the pictures, and when the same face which she had admired under a helmet in a picture was pointed out to her above a white tie among the guests; and smiled as its owner handed her a seat, she felt as if the world was very wonderful, unconscious of her own similar and very superior claims to be an object of interest.
“Come and see papa’s new picture!” said one of the girls of the house, smiling, to a new arrival, and James Crichton followed her to the door of the studio.
“Isn’t it a lovely one?” she said.
There stood Violante, as he had seen her once before, the centre of a group, not now pale and frightened, but flushed and smiling; silent, indeed, and shy, but with eyes that were full of life; her childish pathetic charm brightened into unmistakable beauty; the great artist enlightening her ignorance, and half the young men in the company seized with artistic fervour.
“Don’t break the spell,” said Jem, drawing back. He had had some vague notion of the possibility of seeing her at this party, but never like this.
There was generally a little dancing at the Stanforths in the course of the evening, and now James beheld the artist’s handsome model petition Violante for a quadrille with considerable empressement. She looked a little shy and doubtful, but finally let him lead her away; while as he passed Miss Stanforth he smiled and whispered triumphantly, “I’ve got the beauty!”
And James was suddenly seized with a sensation of fierce unreasonable jealousy on his brother’s account. “Was this the state of things he had wasted his pity upon? She had not fretted much! After all poor old Hugh had gone through, while he was in trouble and working hard, unable to bear the sound of her name, she could laugh and flirt and enjoy herself. It was always the way!” In short, if James had ardently desired that his brother should win Violante he could not have been more put out at seeing her the object of other men’s attention, or at watching her gradually take courage as her partner evidently took pains to teach her the unfamiliar figures. How graceful she was and how sweet her smile!
Jem’s anger was never very long-lived, and before the end of the quadrille he was smiling to himself and speculating on what she would say when he made himself known to her. He turned a little as this thought occurred to him, and came face to face with Rosa Mattei. She started violently, evidently quite unprepared to see him, and then made a stiff little bow.
“Ah, you have met!” exclaimed Miss Grey, joining them. “I did not tell my cousin she was to meet a friend.”
“I had no notion of it,” said Rosa, abruptly.
“I was not altogether unprepared,” said James. “Signor Mattei is not with you?”
“No. My father is in Florence.”
“And your sister? – I hope she is well.”
“She is very well, thank you.”
Both Jem and Rosa felt antagonistic. “Why,” thought she, “had he come like a ghost to disturb Violante’s peace?”
“What had brought these girls to England?” thought he. “Did they want to seek Hugh out?”
There was an awkward little pause, which, was broken by a lady, a friend of James’s mother, who came up to him and asked after his brother.
“Very well, thank you. He is at home – not here,” returned James, conscious that Rosa looked relieved at the intelligence.
“And your cousin Arthur?”
“Well, we have pretty good accounts from him, I think. Miss Mattei,” he added, “I believe you met my cousin at Caletto.”
“Your cousin! Mr Pinsher – Spencer. Ah, I see! our Italian friend mistook the name; but we certainly did meet an English gentleman at Caletto.”
James never could endure to be on bad terms with anyone. The first attempt at a snub, far from repelling him, only set him to work to find a vulnerable point. Rosa’s stiffness was irresistible, and, besides, he was anxious to hear of Arthur.
“How very singular!” he said. “He mentioned you in one of his letters. Do tell me, Miss Mattei, if he struck you as looking out of health or spirits?”
“No; I think he was quite well,” said Rosa; then, remembering Violante’s impression: “He may have seemed rather sad at times, but I did not see much of him.”
“He went abroad to try to recover from a great shock. The lady he was engaged to died.”
“How very sad!” exclaimed Rosa, feeling that this was much at variance with her distrustful impressions.
“Yes. We have had a good deal of trouble since we met last, Miss Mattei. Holidays are soon over in this work-a-day world.”
James looked rather sentimental, though his expressions were quite genuine.
“We have had some trouble too,” said Rosa, “but it is now, I hope, over. I have occupation in London, and my sister is going to school.”
“To school! Well, this is a world of changes; but there was something in all that sunshine and blue sky after all. And the Tollemaches; oh, weren’t the Tollemaches really nice people – so kind!”
Before Rosa could answer, Violante’s partner brought her back. James drew out of sight for a moment. Away from the overpowering force of Hugh’s reality, he was possessed by a lively interest in the strange turns events were taking. He studied the situation as if it had been a work of art and he a collector, not cynically or critically, but with the affectionate interest of an amateur in picturesque episodes.
Violante looked bright-eyed and rosy.
“Did you see, Rosina? I have been dancing. That was such a nice partner! I was not afraid of him long. And there is his picture. Did you see?”
“Oh, yes, dear; I saw it all,” said Rosa; while James thought: “Not inconsolable!” Suddenly Violante looked up and saw him. She turned pale, then suddenly out of her eyes flashed a look of unspeakable joy, that outshone her childish gaiety and put it out of sight. She glanced all round the room with an eagerness more touching and convincing than any degree of alarm or agitation; and, perhaps, her stage-training in self-command stood her in good stead, for she made no scene, but took James’s offered hand, and looked in his face with a look of happy expectation that touched him more than he could say.
“So you have come to England, mademoiselle,” he said. “Do you like it? I have been talking to your sister, and she tells me you met my cousin – in Italy.”
“Signor Arthur!” exclaimed Violante, with instant comprehension.
“Yes – Arthur Spencer – do you recollect him?”
“Oh, yes! he told me about England,” said Violante, eagerly; but even while she spoke the brightness began to fade out of her face. She knew that Hugh was not there, and that James was not going to speak to her about him. He, on his side, felt the attitude he was forced to assume so embarrassing that he gladly availed himself of the first excuse to turn away. She, poor child, could only feel that suddenly her part in this delightful party became like a part in a play. She must act her own character, crush back her surprise and pain, and look as usual. Perhaps, nothing but long habit could have enabled her to do so; she found herself smiling her old stage smile, her fingers felt cold as they used to do at the opera, her eyes took their old stupid look, and the music surged in her ears like the music of the opera orchestra. She was not going to cry or faint now any more than then, but all her sweet spontaneous pleasure was destroyed.
“I felt as if I was acting,” was all she said to Rosa, afterwards, when the confusing scene was over, and she and her sister were alone.
“My darling,” said Rosa, “it was too hard that your pleasure should be spoilt like this.” Rosa was sitting by their bed-room lire, and Violante, half-undressed, sat on the rug leaning against her knees. She did not answer for a moment, and then said, rather imperiously:
“Tell me everything he said to you.”
“I don’t think he was pleased to see us,” said Rosa. “I heard him say his brother was in the country, and that he was quite well.”
“Ah!” murmured Violante.
“And he told me that Signor Arthur, as you call him, had lost the girl he was engaged to – that she is dead.”
“I knew she was dead: he told me so.”
“Did he? but, in short, Violante, I hope you won’t let this meeting dwell in your mind. What is past, is past; and – you won’t be unhappy, my child, will you?”
“No,” said Violante, slowly, and with some reserve.
She was disturbed and agitated; but she was very far from hopeless. Now that the seas did not divide them, anything seemed possible: she might meet him in the street – he might seek her again. But slow days passed, and she did not see him, while James, the Greys heard, went out of town for Christmas. The poor child had many weary yearning hours; but pleasure and novelty and affectionate kindness were not powerless; nor was she miserable. During these days Rosa’s choice of an occupation was determined – at any rate, for the present. Her uncle offered her a home in his house until her father came to England, if she accepted the situation of daily governess to Mrs Bosanquet. She found that the stage could not be for the present remunerative: and, even with Violante’s schooling provided for, the two sisters had to clothe themselves; and she could not bear to be a burden on such kind relations. So when the moment of decision came she told her aunt that she would do her best for the little Bosanquets, and thanked her heartily for her recommendation.
“I can do it, as I’ve done before,” she said, “and I will. But now, Aunt Beatrice, will you tell me something about this school for Violante? Do they know who she is?”
“Oh, yes. Miss Venning is an old friend of mine. We haven’t met for some years now; but she is a most excellent and kind-hearted person; and her two sisters, who are quite young, are, I believe, admirable. I am sure Violante will meet with nothing but kindness, and it will do her good to fend for herself a little.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Rosa doubtfully, “and she must learn self-reliance, poor child!”
She thought secretly that it would be well to shield Violante from encounters with James Crichton, and that at least she would be safe at school. But Rosa was very miserable at this time. She had not given up her prospects without scorching tears of disappointment. Four years back seemed nearly as recent to her regretful memory as four months to Violante’s; and now she must part with her child and lose the caresses that were the sweetest things in life to her. Violante grew frightened as the time drew near, and clung to her more closely than ever; but she never uttered a word of resistance, and regarded the going to school, as she had done the coming to England, with the same curious under-current of inclination.
In the middle of January Mrs Grey received a letter from Miss Venning, saying:
“My sister Florence has been in London, and will return on the 18th. If you would like it she will bring your niece back with her – it is the day we re-open school.”
This arrangement was gladly acceded to; and on a clear cold morning Violante, well wrapped up, walked up and down the long platform from which she was to start, furtively holding Rosa’s fingers in her muff, and looking about for a school-mistress very unlike the tall, fair, rosy-faced girl who came rapidly up to the appointed meeting-place.
“Miss Florence Venning?” said Mrs Grey. “How do you do? Here are my nieces, and this is Violante.”
Florence shook hands with them, and answered enquiries for her eldest sister, and then, as Mrs Grey said something aside about her niece’s shyness and grief at leaving her sister, she answered, in a kind, yet matter-of-course manner:
“Oh, yes. I daresay she minds it very much; but she’ll soon be quite happy again, I’m sure. I hope we shall be very good friends.”
“You are a governess, too, aren’t you?” she added, to Rosa, with a view to making acquaintance.
“Yes,” said Rosa, rather faintly.
“I think one is quite glad to get to work again after the holidays. I always feel ready to begin. We ought to get in, I think. Will you come now, signorina? That is what we must call you, I suppose?”
Flossy’s breezy abruptness was better, perhaps, than a more open sympathy. But when she saw the two sisters cling together, and heard Rosa’s murmured “My darling, my darling!” her blue eyes filled with quick, kindly tears.
“I’ll take ever so much care of her!” she said, impulsively. “Don’t be afraid.”
Poor Rosa looked quite fierce with misery; but the inexorable bell rang, the door was shut between the sisters, and while the many struggles of Rosa’s last few weeks found vent in a fit of uncontrollable sobbing, Violante was whirled away, through the frosty fields and wintry hedgerows, to Oxley and Redhurst – to the very neighbourhood of Hugh Crichton.