“My parting advice,” said James, “is that everyone should let everybody else alone.”
The shooting was let for a year to Colonel Dysart without more discussion, and only Hugh discovered that Arthur shrank from every trace of it. But, though some of Jem’s words rankled, he was far too much afraid of seeming to forget his own share in the matter to offer the support and sympathy which might have been better than the let-alone system.
Part 5, Chapter XXXIX
Divided!
“Again I called, and he could not come.”
During the weeks that were so comfortless and disturbed at Redhurst, Violante’s school-life went on, on the whole, peacefully; but, still, with various ups and downs of feeling – fits of longing for Rosa, of loneliness and discouragement; times when she could not learn her lessons nor interest herself in the little trifles that interested her companions. Yet she never thought of giving in and going away from Oxley Manor. When she was unhappy she dreaded lest Rosa should discover it. All the interest of life lay close at hand – here anything might happen, elsewhere the scene was closed. Not that Violante gave herself this reason for her perseverance. No; she could not bear to foil a second time; and Miss Florence was so kind to her, she was learning to bear the little rubs of life. So she mused one soft, line morning, as she stood leaning out of the window of the little upstairs class-room, where she superintended the girls’ practising. As she waited for her pupils she thought to herself that she was growing brave and sensible – more like Rosa – who let nothing interfere with her work.
And then, looking half-expectantly down the road, she saw a man come by on horseback, riding slowly, and looking straight before him, upright and grave. She knew —she saw —he did neither; and, with a sudden impulse, she leant far out of the window and pulled the little bunch of violets from her dress and threw them to him, then darted back behind the curtain. And, as he started, the violets fell down in the dust; and she saw him laugh and ride on and pass her flowers by. Violante could almost have thrown herself out of the window too, in her agony of shame and disappointment. She could not tell whether Hugh knew that she was at Oxley Manor or not – surely he had not intended to repulse her! If he would but smile at her, speak to her!
“If you please, signorina, it’s a quarter to ten.”
Violante turned round to encounter a small fat-fingered child in a pinafore, and sat counting, “One, two, three, four,” and mechanically checking wrong notes, as she wondered if he would look up next time that he rode by. When Miss Venning observed shortly afterwards that she thought it would be more convenient if the history classes preceded the practising, which need not then begin till eleven, she little knew what springs she touched. By one accident and another Violante did not see Hugh again for a long time; but she did once or twice encounter Arthur when in company with Florence, and, therefore, her walks were haunted by a sense of possibility. She also occasionally heard Mr Crichton spoken of at meal-times as an authority in local matters under discussion, and gathered that his opinion was considered important, and that his judgment was generally supposed to be severe. It so happened that at this time the population of Oxley was convulsed with excitement as to various public improvements then under discussion. There was a talk of a new branch line of rail between Fordham and Oxley, and the direction that this was to take involved local interests of the most incompatible description. Some new gas-works were about to be set up by an enterprising company, and one of the sites proposed was a field a great deal nearer Oxley Manor than Miss Venning thought to be pleasant or profitable for her school. As this field belonged to a certain charity, long ago bequeathed, it was thought that the interests of the poor of Oxley would induce the trustees to dispose of it for a high price to the gas-works.
Miss Venning observed that she was not a person to be put upon without a reason, and that she should represent the matter in the proper quarters.
“If you mean Hugh Crichton,” said Clarissa, “you may represent it, and he will do exactly what he has already decided upon.”
“Well, my dear, I shall take care that he has the proper information on which to decide; so I shall ask him to call, and show him the field from the windows, so that he can judge for himself.”
So the tones that were associated for Violante with music and flowers, tenderness and love, first fell on her ears to the following effect:
“But you are aware, Miss Venning, that the gas-works must be somewhere? That field is very convenient for them, and I really think it is too far off to cause you any annoyance.”
“Now, Hugh, I’ll thank you just to step into the little school-room and look out of window. No, you’ll not disturb the girls. Never mind them.”
Violante rose up with her companions as Miss Venning entered. She stood a little behind the others, and could suppose that Hugh did not see her, as he walked up to the window and looked, or pretended to look out.
“It’s a very healthy situation,” he said, vaguely.
“Healthy! And, pray, what consequence can it be to gas-works if they are healthy or not? They would spoil my view; and, really, between them and the railroad, the place won’t be worth living in much longer.”
“It doesn’t rest with me, you know, Miss Venning. Can you suggest a better situation?”
“I should place them the other side of the town,” said Miss Venning, with decision, “out towards Blackwood.”
“Yes,” said Hugh, still staring out of the window and hearing nothing.
It may seem a somewhat contemptible state of mind to record; but Hugh was overpowered by a sense of embarrassment, of utter uncertainty as to what to do, as to how to greet her. Why should he evade the previous acquaintance acknowledged by James and Arthur? And yet he felt there was but one way in which he could speak to her. As he half turned, and hesitated as he talked confusedly to Miss Venning, the class of girls filed out of the room. Violante passed him. All the short-lived fire of her nature was roused by his hesitation. She gave him no glance of appealing timidity or hopeless love. She flung up her head and looked at him with an indignation such as he had never dreamt of seeing in her soft eyes, and, in answer to his confused bow, she made the slightest of curtseys and walked out of the room.
“You have met Mr Crichton?” said Clarissa, who had been with the class.
“Yes, Miss Clarissa, at my father’s classes, but I have no acquaintance with him. It was Mr Spencer who met us at Caletto. Come, Katie – come, Agnes. Your exercises have too many faults. I shall scold.” And she sat down and took up her pen, and felt for the moment as if she could defy every turn of fortune. Clarissa looked at her, and went back to where Hugh, confused and wretched, was talking at random, having heard Violante’s parting shot. She had turned the tables on him; she was no vision, no holiday dream, as he had sometimes called her; but a living woman, first misjudged and then neglected. He might be right and self-denying, might be giving up his greatest good for the sake of others; but she was wronged, and she had made him feel it.
“I have given it all up! – all – to make some slight atonement for the wrong I have done,” he thought; “and I must seem a sneak and a scoundrel to myself. How little they know! What a lie life is! If I were a boy I’d run away to sea and have done with it. And I must go this eternal round of committees and business – and —gas-works – ” with passionate impatience at the momentary matter in hand, as he hurried away, having wildly pledged himself to vote for the locating of the gas-works in the midst of Lord Lidford’s park at Blackwood.
He was stung to the very quick by Violante’s anger, yet he had made up his mind that all should be at an end between them, and he had too much self-respect to try “to make the worse appear the better reason,” and to offer her any explanation, since he withheld the one that was her due. Perhaps, the very renewal of regret that the sight of her face – more womanly and more beautiful than when he had left her – caused him was a sort of support, as it strengthened the sense of self-sacrifice. But he was sufficiently upset and perturbed by what had passed to forget one or two important pieces of business, and was forced to accept Arthur’s help in hastily repairing his neglect, though he had begun the day by resolving that he would not let much work fall on his cousin when the soft spring weather made him look so pale and languid.
With Violante anger was a short-lived passion, and an hour had not passed before she longed to recall her scornful words and look, before she was making a hundred excuses for her lover. The sight of Hugh in his own place affected her as it, doubtless, had, however unconsciously, affected him. She felt miles farther away from him here in his own town than among the flowers of Italy. The pleasant novelty around her was beginning to lose its effect; she began to grow scared and stupid, to be again the little helpless Violante of Civita Bella.
One afternoon – it was a half-holiday – Miss Florence came sweeping into the school-room, penetrating it like a fresh sunny wind, darting into its corners, touching the sports, employments, humours of all its inhabitants, criticising a drawing, suggesting a book, adjusting a little quarrel; fresh currents of air seemed to follow her bright flaxen head as she whisked about till she beheld Violante standing by herself in the window and looking very disconsolate.
“Why, signorina, what’s the matter?”
“I am so sorry, Miss Florence.”
“Sorry, what for?”
“La signora is displeased with me.”
“My sister? Is she? Why, what have you been doing?”
Violante blushed, and with much confusion answered that they had been reading English poetry, and something in it made her cry. “Only a little, Miss Florence,” but the girls laughed and she had burst into tears, and Miss Venning had told her she ought to command her feelings better.
“Well, don’t let them get the better of you now,” said Flossy. “What was this dreadfully touching poem?”
“It was a play called Hamlet, Miss Florence, and he was angry with the girl who loved him.”
“The sentiment was not sufficiently disguised, as our old English teacher used to say,” said Flossy, laughing heartily. “Did you feel as if you might act Ophelia?”
“Signorina, it seemed too true for acting. It is not like an opera. It might be oneself. But I should not have cried at it.”
“No. School-girls don’t like sentiment. But, come, it doesn’t signify. My sisters are out. Come into the drawing-room and have some tea with me; and I want to sing something to you and ask your advice.” Violante followed gladly into the cheerful drawing-room, with its sunny flowery windows, and its look of feminine pleasantness. She sat down in a low easy chair and rested passively. She was tired of her own emotions; she wanted Rosa. Miss Florence was kind, and bright, and strong, but she did not dare to creep into her arms and lay her head on her shoulder – she did not dare even to cry over her troubles. Excellent discipline, doubtless, but, perhaps, the hardest that could have been devised for so dependent a creature.
“Miss Florence,” she said, after a minute; “did Hamlet ever forgive Ophelia?”
“Why, don’t you know? She went mad and drowned herself,” said Flossy, cheerfully.
“I wonder how miserable anyone must be before they go mad!”
“Why,” said Florence, as she sat down and began to knit some bright wools together, quite ready for a lively discussion on the characters of the play. “I suppose no one would who had a well-balanced mind to begin with.”
“I am sure Rosa would not,” said Violante, thoughtfully.
“No, your sister looks like the last person to do anything so silly,” said Flossy, laughing.
“But when there are long years, and friends are cruel, and one has a hard fate, and there is nothing in the world that could happen to set it right – ”
The deep, passionate trouble in her voice made Florence look up surprised: she was constantly puzzled by the mixture of ignorance and experience in this girl whose life had been so unlike her own.
“You know, Violante,” she said, “we are Christians, and so we must not despair.” Violante looked perplexed and thoughtful; yet the words had a meaning for her, for these weeks had been in one respect a period of development. She had from the first taken very kindly to the religious practices which were observed at Oxley Manor, and set to work to cure her deficiency in religious knowledge. Whether because she thought it was English, or because she wished to imitate Flossy, or from some blessed instinct leading her to what was for her good, she showed a love for going to church and for all sorts of Church teaching which the Miss Vennings were half-inclined to ascribe to novelty only. Many of the girls were under preparation for Confirmation, and she acquiesced eagerly in the suggestion that she should join their number. They were carefully taught by the Oxley clergy; and Flossy, who was an enthusiastic Sunday-school teacher, had delighted in explaining difficulties and doctrines to the little Italian. How much Violante comprehended intellectually may be doubtful, but she began to see better reasons for trying to do what was distasteful than the fear of being scolded, began to have some notion of abstract duties. This she was carefully taught; but it was surely no human words, but the blessing of God on her innocent humble spirit, that opened her loving heart to a new and Divine love. There dawned upon her the thought of a Friend who was with her when Rosa was away, who loved her when Hugh was cold. It was but a dim conception, but it had capabilities of growth. Hymns and texts were something more than words, and her endeavours to fulfil these new requirements had something of the fervour of enthusiasm. She used to forget the new comfort, let it be swept away in the tumult of exciting feeling; but when the thought came back it was like Rosa’s kiss when she was in trouble and disgrace. Flossy’s hint recalled it now, and she said, with childish directness:
“Because our Saviour loves us. Ah! I love Him very much!”
There was something in the soft, earnest naïveté that made the words touching and sweet even to the English Florence, with whom reverence and reality meant reserve, and who, however she had felt, would have thought such an avowal presumptuous.
“Then, you must try to be good, Violante,” she said, rather repressively.
“Yes,” said Violante, “and then He will be pleased with me.”
Florence had taught this truth hundreds of times; but she had never heard it thus echoed and claimed; and it came with a new force, as the Bible words are said to do when read in a strange language.
Part 5, Chapter XL
Mr Blandford of Fordham
“Like some long childish dream
Thy life has run.”
Easter was now drawing near, but, owing to the approaching Confirmation and one or two other reasons connected with the girls’ studies, though some of the pupils went home, there was no general break-up of the school; and a week’s holiday was to be given in the beginning of May, when Violante was to go to London and meet her father, who was then expected in England. Moreover, the Miss Vennings, interested in the affection between the two lonely sisters, invited Rosa to spend a few days at Easter, and see for herself what sort of home Violante had found, and to this meeting Violante herself looked forward with a mixture of delight and alarm, as she reflected on the facts hitherto concealed from her sister.
In the meantime Redhurst had filled up all the leisure in Flossy’s busy life; and, perhaps, more than all the leisure in her busy soul. She was always welcome there, with her inveterate freshness and brightness, which even the associations of the place could not destroy; she was almost the only visitor whom Arthur really liked to see; and, consequently, the only one to whose coming Hugh did not object. But she was not encouraged to bring Violante there with her, Mrs Crichton secretly thinking that the young men had talked quite enough about their old acquaintance with her, and Miss Venning being by no means desirous of bringing about a renewal of it. So Hugh only suffered from hearing her progress and her charms described by the unconscious Flossy to Arthur, while he expressed a hope that “she had forgotten the manager.”
Flossy was too busy a person to be entirely absorbed in one subject; but beneath all her daily occupations Redhurst was for ever present in her mind, and – though she was herself scarcely aware of it – Redhurst as it affected Arthur Spencer. She never heard of any incident taking place there without wondering whether it was pleasant or not to him; and, though she did not rival Hugh in the keenness of his self-conscious insight into the passing phases of Arthur’s humour, her sympathy enabled her to draw much kinder, and, on the whole, truer conclusions from them. For Arthur was in an unsatisfactory state, languid and inconsistent, sometimes indolent and careless, and sometimes over-vehement as to his work, in a way really trying to Hugh’s patience; sometimes silent and listless, and sometimes apparently excited by any change, and even ready to seek it in the companionship of the young Dysarts and Ribstones. He was so uncertain as to be sometimes very provoking; but he did not look well; and Hugh, though secretly despising what he thought want of self-control, was outwardly marvellously patient, when his own secret fretting vexations were considered. Flossy did Arthur a great deal of good. She believed in his faith, patience, and courage, and helped to create the qualities that she believed in. She liked to coax him into an argument, to induce him to tease her in the old fashion, and she was the only person to whom he ever mentioned Mysie’s name, or to whom he ever talked about himself. All this was very good for Arthur, who sorely needed a friend; but, even for the simple unsentimental Flossy, it was very dangerous work. How long the peculiar circumstances of the case might have blinded her eyes to her danger may be doubtful, as an incident happened, extremely startling to her in itself, and which caused her to make a still more startling discovery. At twenty-one she had never even been accredited with an admirer, and had thought far less of young men than of young maidens; but, of late, possibilities had begun to dawn on the minds of her sisters. A short time before Colonel Dysart had taken Ashenfold the living of Fordham had been given to a connection of his, a Mr Blandford, who had made some stir in the clerical world of Oxley by his fine sermons and by the superior manner in which he organised his new parish. He was about five-and-thirty and unmarried; and, through a whole dinner-party, was observed to discuss Church matters, practical and theoretical, with Miss Florence Venning, who dearly loved good conversation.
“So exactly the sort of man to suit Flossy!” said Miss Venning, confidentially, to Clarissa. “So superior and with such kindred tastes!”
“It’s much too good to be true,” said Clarissa, with one of her quaint little grimaces. “I shouldn’t wonder if he is in favour of the celibacy of the clergy.”
“Oh, my dear, with that nice vicarage! But I’m sure I don’t wish to lose Flossy. She is young enough yet.”
Flossy was much flattered at finding that Mr Blandford adopted some of her suggestions in his Sunday-school, and even went so far as to pity his parish for having no lady to look after it, and to wish that he could prepare the girls for their Confirmation; but, though she met Mr Blandford tolerably often, she did not regard him in the light of a probable lover, till one morning, as she read her letters at breakfast, Miss Florence’s pink cheeks grew redder and redder, and at the first opportunity she pursued her sisters into the drawing-room, and, with a sort of half-dignified fright, communicated the alarming fact that Mr Blandford had actually made her an offer.
“My dear Flossy! Well, it is no surprise to me,” said Miss Venning.
“I’m sure it’s a surprise to me,” said Flossy, rather ruefully.
“Why, you don’t mean to say you never thought of it?” said Clarissa.
“I did,” said Flossy, “of course, when everyone was wondering if he would marry; but, as he never paid me any attentions, I decided that – that he would not.”
“Never paid you attention?”
“Why, you don’t call talking about Sunday-schools and districts attention, do you?” said Flossy.
“That depends. Did you expect him to talk about hearts and darts and forget-me-nots?” laughed Clarissa.
“I thought anyone would do something,” cried Flossy, crimson and nervous, as she twisted the letter in her hand.
“My dear, don’t be so childish,” said Miss Venning. “You are startled; but, depend upon it, Mr Blandford’s feelings are just as sincere as if he had talked more about them. And I’m sure a more excellent person – ”
Miss Venning paused, rather overcome by her feelings; and Flossy said, gravely:
“I am afraid I have been childish. It is because I think so much of the things that interest me. But, indeed, I didn’t mean to – to flirt and lead him on.”
“Whatever you meant, my dear,” said Miss Venning, “you see the result.”
“What in the world shall I do, Mary? What shall I say?”
“Why, my darling, if you can care about him – ”
“Oh, dear, no!” interrupted Flossy. “Of course, I can’t say yes. I never dreamt of such a thing!”
“Flossy, don’t be such a goose!” suddenly cried Clarissa. “Do bring your mind down to the realities of life, and think of something besides school-girls.”
“If one mayn’t talk to an old clergyman about his parish,” cried Flossy, who was chiefly concerned in exculpating herself from the dreadfully unfamiliar notion of having trifled with the lover’s feelings.
“Old! Flossy, you are too silly,” said Clarissa, angrily. But Miss Venning interposed:
“Now give yourself time to recover. Mr Blandford should have tried to prepare your mind for it. Go up to your room and think it over, and try to understand yourself.” Miss Venning spoke somewhat as if Flossy had been a naughty child; but the girl was glad of the respite, and hurried away to her own room. There she soon began to recover herself. A lover in the flesh is a startling novelty to many maidens of this latter nineteenth century, and Flossy’s heart had not prepared her so to regard Mr Blandford. Her sisters were unmarried, and she had thought it very likely that she should not marry herself. But she had no doubt as to her own feelings, and too much sense to reproach herself after the first flutter was over. It was a simple, honest, womanly answer that she was beginning to write, when a knock interrupted her, and Clarissa came in.
“Flossy,” she said, in an agitated voice, “Don’t – don’t be a silly child! You don’t know what you are throwing away.”
“Indeed, Clary!” said Flossy, “I am quite sure that I do not love Mr Blandford. I am very sorry. I misunderstood him, but I am quite clear in my own mind; and if I talked nonsense at first it was just the fluster of the thing.”
“Oh, Flossy, you don’t know,” said Clarissa, with tears in her eyes. “Don’t be in a hurry! You think your life will always be like it is now; but you’ll get tired of it – you will, indeed. You’ll want something more. You’ll grow into a woman – and – and you will have missed your chance, and you’ll be sorry.”
“Do you wish me to accept him for the sake of being married?” said Flossy, in superb disdain.
“Oh, I cannot tell,” said Clarissa. “But, Flossy, I want you to think what you are making up your mind to. Girls now-a-days don’t have many chances, and, though you’re handsome, you are not so very taking. Don’t you see that it means, perhaps, never to be married – never to have – Flossy, think, think!”
“Why, Clarissa, anyone would think you had said no yourself and repented.”
“I? I never said no – nor yes either.”
“You can’t suppose I am going to marry a man I don’t love?”
“No; but there are different ways of putting things, and if there is no one else – ”
“Is it likely?” interrupted Flossy. “Clarissa, how can I go and marry a man when I don’t care as much for him as for hundreds of things – as I care for you and Mary, and the girls – ”
“Or Arthur Spencer?” whispered Clarissa, with a sudden mischievous twinkle.
Flossy stood still; a great throb passed through her, and she quivered to her fingertips.
“Oh, Flossy, Flossy, forgive me,” cried Clarissa, clinging to her. “Indeed, I didn’t know – I didn’t mean to – ”
“No!” said Flossy, putting her little, slight sister back, and standing up, tall and straight; her blue eyes lightening as they had never lightened before. “No! I don’t care half so much for him as I do for Arthur Spencer – as I did for my dear Mysie. I care exceedingly for Arthur, and Mr Blandford is only an acquaintance. You said no harm, Clarissa.” She stood grandly to her colours; but the sharp-eyed Clarissa saw it all. She ceased her arguments – they had their answer.
“You’ve got your life-story, anyhow,” she said, “and you will do as you please. I haven’t got any experience to give you the benefit of.”
It is sometimes thought impossible that a woman should give her heart away, wholly without solicitation, utterly without hope of return; and, perhaps, the fire of passion cannot be quite spontaneous. But, whatever Flossy’s young, fresh nature understood by love, the absorbing interest, the unselfish devotion, the romantic idealism had gone out to Arthur Spencer, as she thought, for ever. To use an expression prevalent among the gentle, self-restrained heroines of an earlier day, “she had allowed her affections to become engaged,” and she faced the fact with all her natural sense and honesty. He was the one man in the world for her, and she would have —
Poor Flossy burst into tears of shame and fright as she thought that there was nothing she would not have done for his sake. But as she was not “disappointed,” as she had never for a moment connected any personal hopes or fears with him, she could bear to think that this feeling must be carried about with her, hopeless of result; without being utterly wretched, or fancying that she could never care for life again. And as she was proud and brave, and was his true friend before all things, she could resolve to make no perceptible change in her behaviour, but to be as kind to him as ever, while no single soul should guess how kindly she felt. The idea had its attraction. Flossy’s young eyes were half-blinded by the sunrise still; her loves and her sorrows had still some of the fascination of romance, were still fresh from the stately dreamland of hero-worship and self-sacrifice. And so, fearless, she turned her back on cloudland, and came out “into the light of common day,” which would soon show the stones in her path plainly enough. But as she was sensible and practical too, and not inexperienced – if experience can ever be other than personal – she was aware also that it was an unlucky thing that had come to her, and one to solemnise, if not sadden, her life; and she was seized with a fit of self-distrust. “I feel as if my case was just the one exception to all rules; but I never heard any girl talk nonsense who didn’t think that,” she said, bitterly, to herself. “Well, any way, someone has liked me,” and with that she burst into a great flood of tears; and, though she was far too single-minded to waver in her determination, the result of her discovery that she had given her heart to another was that poor Mr Blandford received a much softer and more tenderly-expressed refusal than he would have got before, and that she thought of him with a much greater amount of gratitude. However, between tears and excitement, she had worried herself into a bad headache, and was quite unable to go down to her teaching – a circumstance nearly as unusual as the event which had caused it, and which cost her another half-hour’s argument before she could convince Miss Venning that she did not regret her decision, and could induce her anxious sister to leave her in peace. She had been lying on her bed, half-asleep, for some time, when there was a little tap, and Violante came in with a cup of coffee in her hand.
“Miss Clarissa said I might bring you this. Are you better, signorina mia?”
“Oh, yes,” said Flossy, sitting up. “My headache is gone, I think. Thank you, Violante; this is very good. Oh, dear! Whatever became of the Italian?”
“I did it, Miss Florence, all myself; and Miss Clarissa sat in the room,” said Violante, in accents of pride.
“Why, Violante, how clever you are getting!”
“All, Miss Florence, I would do anything to help you a little bit!” said Violante, kissing her hand. “The house is sad when you are ill.”
Flossy was in a soft mood, and thought that she might yield to the girl’s caressing sweetness, without the possibility of a suspicion that she was fretting for Mr Fordham or for anyone else. She little thought that Violante – who, it is to be feared, considered being in love as the normal condition of young maidens, and who had heard Florence talk a great deal about Arthur – was only deterred from guessing the true state of the case by her conviction that such a being as Miss Florence could only find her equal in “Signor Hugo.” To be sure, when, in a fit of holiday-gossip, some glib-tongued girl had made this suggestion, Edith Robertson had silenced her with a sharp “Oh, dear, no; not likely at all! Mr Crichton will marry into a county family,” which remark had seemed to show innumerable vistas between herself and Hugh; still, could Flossy know him and be insensible? Flossy little guessed these thoughts, as Violante caressed her and helped her to twist up her long bright hair – the flossy flaxen – which the little Italian girl thought the most beautiful colour in the world; and Florence was comforted, she hardly knew how, and went once more about her business, perhaps a little graver, a little less ready for unnecessary interests; but giving Miss Venning no reason to suppose that she regretted Mr Blandford. When she looked back on her interview with Clarissa it struck her that sister’s manner had been singular; and one day she said to Miss Venning: “Mary, did Clarissa ever have any lovers?”