The voice was choked in an agony of sobs and tears, and Rosa, hardly less agitated, held her in her arms and tried to soothe her.
As soon as she could speak she sobbed out: “It has come back, and – and I will sing for father – but, oh! I thought I should stay hero always and teach the little ones.”
“Indeed, my darling, you shall not come away from here yet.”
“No, and I could not act.”
“No, that you never shall; but, darling, to hear your voice again!”
There was a little pause; then Violante said:
“I may stay here and learn things a little longer – and afterwards I will sing at concerts – if – if – ”
She faced her probable future; but there was still an “if” in her life.
Part 6, Chapter XLIV
Jem’s Ideal
“Faultily faultless – icily regular – splendidly null.”
The weather favoured the choir festival at H – and the production of spring dresses for the occasion. James cast critical eyes on his mother’s bonnet and on Frederica’s hat; and anxiously consulted Arthur as to whether he liked a flower in the button-hole of a morning.
“Oh, yes, when you want to look festive,” said Arthur, without paying much attention till he was roused from the perusal of the “Times” by a crash in the conservatory; and on hastening to the rescue perceived Jem, contemplating the ruins of his mother’s best azalea, which he had knocked over in trying to reach a bit of fern beyond it. Three dainty little bouquets were already lying in a row.
“Well, Jem, you have done it now!”
“Oh, confound the thing, yes – and it’s time to be off. Isn’t the carriage there?”
“Not yet. Are you going to wear three bouquets?”
“No,” said Jem, looking foolish, “I was only choosing the best. I think I’ll go without.”
“You couldn’t improve on that rosebud, and it might come in handy,” said Arthur, gravely.
“Well,” snatching it up. “Just pick up that pot. I hear the carriage.”
“Pick up the pot!” ejaculated Arthur, as Jem rushed away, “when it’s in fifty pieces! I shall retire before I’m supposed to have thrown it down. I say, Hugh,” as he came back to the house, “who’s the attraction at H – ? Jem is evidently on tenter-hooks.”
It was this easy laughter and readiness to joke on what would have seemed to him a tender subject that had always puzzled Hugh in Arthur; but now he was glad to see him amused on any terms, as he answered, gravely:
“I daresay there are several; but I haven’t heard him mention anyone in particular.”
“Perhaps he wanted a bouquet apiece and I’ve spoiled sport! What a pity!”
James recovered his equanimity as they drove away, and was very smiling and chatty by the time they picked up Flossy, fresh and spring-like, and prepared to enjoy herself, though she had hoped that the party might have been differently constituted. They had about twenty miles to go by train, and James made himself very agreeable to her, mentally thinking her less overpowering than usual. He asked after Violante and listened with much interest to Flossy’s account of the return of her voice, and her subsequent resolution.
“But her sister says she must stay with us till next year, that she may grow quite strong and finish her education. She is going to London in May.”
“Indeed! Perhaps I shall see her there.”
“Is Arthur going with you?” asked Flossy, who had been meditating on this simple question ever since she joined them.
“No. Poor boy, he couldn’t make up his mind to it. I should have had to leave him alone a good deal, and he doesn’t seem up to gaieties.”
“Oh, no!”
“No – he laughed in an odd sort of way – and said: that I’d better not help him to cast off from his moorings; but I’m sure being at home doesn’t answer. He has a bright way with him; but I see more and more how he is altered. His eyes have a sort of wretched look, instead of their old jolly one – don’t you know what I mean?”
“Yes; as if he wanted something.”
“Exactly. I think he’ll have to make a change. I wish he could go abroad and begin a new life altogether – in India, or somewhere.”
“Would that be best?” said Florence, slowly.
“I think so. But there’s one thing – Hugh seems to understand him now, and he has got excellent judgment when he likes to use it.”
Poor Flossy! That conversation did not raise her spirits, or prepare her to enjoy her day. There was a dreadful probability in James’s suggestion, and she mused over it while he was talking to his mother and urging her to drive at once to the Archdeacon’s.
“My dear, we have our tickets – we shall see them afterwards.”
“But, they have ways and means of getting in, you know; and you would avoid the crowd.”
Mrs Crichton yielded after a little demur, and they drove to Archdeacon Hayward’s, where they were politely received and offered an entrance with the Cathedral ladies, Mrs Hayward being glad to be civil to Mrs Spencer Crichton. The girls were introduced to three or four fair, tall young ladies, much alike in dress and demeanour, with aquiline features and graceful figures, and a very proper amount of conversation. Jem sat profoundly silent, with his hat in his hand and his rosebud in his coat, till one of the Miss Haywards, not Helen, said:
“You are fond of music, I believe, Mr Crichton?”
“Oh, devotedly!” said Jem, smiling.
“And there is nothing like Handel?”
“Very fine!” said James.
“Why, Jem, I thought you despised him?” said Freddie, abruptly. “I thought he wasn’t a new light.”
“Is that one of your heresies, Mr Crichton?” said another Miss Hayward, from behind; and Jem turned round, with startling rapidity, and asked who had been setting him down as a heretic?
As the oratorio took place in the Cathedral the conversation was limited, but Mrs Crichton was gratified by observing that Jem sat peacefully with his own party, discovered no odd acquaintances, and afterwards returned with them to the Archdeacon’s, where there was a large party to luncheon.
Miss Helen Hayward was polite to Mrs Crichton, who remarked to Frederica how nice it was to see girls attentive to their guests, and not forgetful, or taken up with their own affairs.
“Yes, auntie; but she always talks in the same tone of voice,” said Freddie, suspecting a didactic motive.
Flossy had a dull neighbour at lunch, and leisure to look about her, and she felt inclined to pity Jem, who sat opposite by the third Miss Hayward, whose mild restrained smiles and obvious, if intelligent, remarks did not strike her as very interesting. Presently, however, she perceived that James had more and more to say on his side; that he made Miss Helen laugh and blush, and look at her plate, and then across the table to see if her sisters were noticing her. This amused Flossy, but she was surprised to observe that Jem looked across at her, and when he met her eyes actually blushed too.
Helen retreated when they moved, and began to entertain some of the young ladies; and very soon the Redhurst party were obliged to start to catch their train for Oxley. The parting was cordial on all sides, and Flossy observed to James:
“I did not know you knew the Miss Haywards so well.”
“Oh,” said James, “I met one of them when she was staying in London, and I came here once to sing at a concert for some schools. They’re very nice girls, Flossy – quite in your line – go to Sunday-school, and everything.”
“I daresay,” said Flossy, who did not think this implied a great stretch of virtue.
“And not at all stiff, when you know them.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Crichton, “I think I should like to ask two of them over to stay for a few days. I am sure Hugh could not say they were chatterboxes, as he does of the Clintons.”
An indescribably comical expression crossed Jem’s face.
“I think it would be a very good plan, mamma,” he said. “You always get on with, nice young ladies.”
“Yes, my dear; I get dull by myself,” said Mrs Crichton, with a sigh. “Not that we have much amusement to offer them.”
“I don’t know that they mind about amusements,” said James.
He was dying for a confidant; for Jem could never keep his affairs to himself, but he did not quite dare to enlighten his mother as to his wishes, for fear she should betray them by over-zeal to the Miss Haywards. It had not quite come to the point of announcing his intentions to Hugh, who would not easily have been convinced of their seriousness. Arthur, who knew the names and charms of most of Jem’s many sweethearts, would have been his natural outlet; but how could he tell his love-story to him? Nevertheless, as they sat smoking together that very evening, out it all came – provoked, certainly, by a little joke about the three bouquets; and Arthur was so much amused at the notion of Jem’s choice that the latter was soon absorbed in convincing him that he had finally made it; which, by his unusual modesty, he at last succeeded in doing.
“Why, you know, you’re irresistible.”
“But she never would be attracted by the same sort of humbug that goes down with most girls.”
“Oh, come now, Jem, you don’t mean to say so. I don’t think I should like her the better for that.”
“She’d look to what one really was.”
“I’d try a little humbug, though, now and then.”
Jem laughed.
“I shan’t be here when they come, you see. It’s supposed they will suit Hugh; and he is just the sort of fellow – ”
“She’d admire? But, you know, Jem, Hugh is tolerably safe; and if you came down on the Saturday we might refer to your excellences beforehand.”
“I wouldn’t say too much,” said Jem, seriously; then suddenly, “Arthur, you are a good fellow. It’s too bad of me to tell you all this – ”
“Don’t! – don’t!” interposed Arthur.
“Why should I mind, Jem? It doesn’t make any difference.”
The invitation was sent and accepted by the right pair of sisters, and before they arrived Jem’s family had a very good notion of what was expected of them, and were all ready to make the visit pleasant to the young ladies. Arthur divined that Helen, at any rate, was well inclined to be pleased. She was apparently a very good girl, cultivated and intelligent, able to talk on all the subjects expected from a young lady, polite to himself and Hugh, but not particularly interested in them. She indulged in a mild but evident enthusiasm for Mrs Crichton, and made friends with Flossy over school-teaching, books, and favourite heroes; and she was very pretty and very well dressed. There was, too, a sort of good-tempered, sunny satisfaction about her, which was not without its charm, especially as the other sister was rather critical of their acquaintances, and Arthur overheard between them the following fragment:
“He goes about smoking on a Sunday afternoon.”
“But he always goes to church again in the evening, Constance.”
“And I don’t think, do you, it’s quite good style to wear that sort of coat?”
“Don’t you?”
“A gentleman should have no peculiarities.”
“I’m sure, Con, there couldn’t be more of a gentleman – ”
Here Arthur thought himself bound to retreat, having discovered that the fair Helen, could lose her composure sometimes. Jem arrived on the Saturday evening, very much on his best behaviour, and listening to the Miss Haywards playing the pieces and singing the songs which he had most been wont to criticise. However, he gave Helen the names of some new ones, and sang himself, as he well knew how to do, contenting himself with finding fault with Freddie’s touch. Hugh did not show off the skill acquired under Signor Mattei, which, truth to tell, was not very considerable.
“I never sing,” he said, emphatically; but he sat by and watched, and when some particular old English ballads were asked for, and Jem began to wonder where they were, he checked him quietly, knowing by Arthur’s flush and quiver that they were among the books which he could not bear to see touched. Arthur looked grateful, but Jem found the book on the piano the next morning.
A slight flaw in the harmony was produced on Sunday afternoon by the discussion of a new colour, which Miss Constance Hayward declared to be vulgar, and never worn by any lady “who was very nice.”
Jem defended it as found in the old masters. It was very artistic.
“I’d rather look like a lady than like a picture,” said Miss Hayward, a little dryly.
“I quite agree with you, Miss Hayward,” said Hugh.
“Hugh’s taste is conventional usually,” said Jem, in a wicked undertone.
“I like that funny green,” said Helen, in her soft, changeless voice, as she rose to get ready for church.
“What makes you laugh so, Arthur?” said Hugh, savagely, as they remained for the purpose of taking a walk together, Arthur having a great shrinking from Sunday afternoon at Redhurst.
“I was laughing at Jem. He’s fairly caught at last!”
“Do you mean that this is more than Jem’s way?”
“Oh, yes, and it’s coming rapidly to a crisis. Don’t you see? I wonder which will rule the roast? Will Jem dress her in ‘funny green,’ or will he have to cut his coat according to his lady?”
“It seems to me very unsuitable,” said Hugh, after a slightly-puzzled pause.
“That’s the beauty of it, I suppose. One wouldn’t have been half so much surprised if Jem had fallen in love with Mademoiselle Mattei!”
“Mademoiselle Mattei had a great many admirers,” said Hugh, as he looked out of window. “I suppose, now she has recovered her voice, she will fulfil her engagement to that, scoundrel – I mean that manager – Vasari.”
“She was very forlorn at the loss of him, poor child,” said Arthur, making most unconscious mischief.
“She told you so?”
“Yes – pretty much. I told her to keep up her heart, and she picked some olive-leaves as a reminder. The other day she told me how she had kept my advice. She is a confiding little creature, and very simple-hearted.”
A silence. Then.
“James is perfectly right to stick to the conventional type – that is, to a known and proved one. Where shall we go this afternoon?”
“Oh, anywhere – I don’t care – I think I won’t go out,” said Arthur, irresolutely.
“Well, you will have a quiet afternoon,” answered Hugh, glad of the solitude; but even then he paused and retraced his steps.
“Arthur, if this affair of Jem’s worries you – ”
“Oh, no, no. It gives me something fresh to think about,” said Arthur, with evident truth. “I’m only – tired.”
“Well, rest then,” said Hugh, with the kind smile that Arthur liked.
Nothing should ever make him thoughtless of Arthur’s comfort; but, unsatisfactory as the conversation had been, there was growing up in Hugh’s mind the conviction that somehow, somewhere, some when, he would have to ask Violante to tell him the truth.
Part 6, Chapter XLV
Past and Present
“’Tis time my past should set my future free
For life’s renewed endeavour.”
Rosa Mattei was sitting by herself in her aunt’s drawing-room. That afternoon Violante was expected to arrive from Oxley, and the next day they would meet Signor Mattei at the lodging close by, which was to be their home for the present. It would not be nearly so pleasant for Rosa as the ease and companionship of her present quarters; but she had learnt to accommodate herself to circumstances, and did not fret over the prospect of dull evenings. Besides, it would not be for very long. Rosa’s fine, considerate face rounded into a look of satisfaction. She had a great deal to tell Violante and her father. How would they take her news?
“Well, Rosa, sitting and repenting?” said her cousin Beatrice, coming into the room.
“No, Trixy, I’m not going to repent,” said Rosa. “I’m very well satisfied with my arrangements.”
“I think you are a wise girl, and a lucky girl,” said Miss Grey; “but I should like to know how you tamed your wild flights down to this result.”
“Well, Beatrice, I never in all my life saw the use of fretting over what can’t be helped. It seems to me that the present is just as good a time as the past, and deserves at least as much from one. Things aren’t any the better really because they happened ever so long ago.”
“Yes. How long have you been so philosophical?”
Rosa blushed, but held her ground.
“When a thing is impossible it may be the best thing in itself, but something else may be far better than the shadow of it.”
”‘A live dog is better than a dead lion?’”
“Well, yes; now, you see, it was not possible for me to go on the stage, so it was better to put away that, and – and my school-girl fancies with it. I’m not imaginative enough to live on memories, particularly memories of – nothing! And this came – ”
“I’m only afraid you might find it a little humdrum – ”
“Humdrum, Beatrice? How could it be when Mr Fairfax is so clever, and so interesting?”
“Ha, ha, Rosy. Come, confess now. This talk is all very well; but you have just gone and fallen in love with Mr Fairfax, and you’ll begin life fresh.”
“If I have I’m afraid it’s since I accepted him! I thought – that is, I did not think. But you see, Beatrice, it is not often that a girl is so fortunate as to meet with anyone – ”
“Like him? I’m quite content, Rosy. You’ll do. And now tell me about the prudent part of it.”
“The prudent part is,” said Rosa, “that he wishes me to have Violante with me whenever I like – always, if need be. If she gets on better with father, and if this concert scheme comes to good, of course that won’t be necessary; but still I shall be able to take care of her, though she has almost grown into a woman.”
“I suppose she will go back to school?”
“Oh, yes, I trust so. It is so good for her. But it is time, I think, that I should go and meet her.”
Rosa was very happy, and just a little ashamed of herself for being so. As she had said, she could not live, and never had lived, on the memories of her first love; though circumstances had at times brought them vividly before her, the very renewal of them had shown her how entirely they were vain. Rosa had a very passionate but by no means a sentimental nature, and both her common-sense and her craving for a vivid, happy life forbade her to find satisfaction, in shadowy recollections.
“I am neither silly enough, nor unworldly enough,” she thought, as she held Mr Fairfax’s letter in her hand, and felt that its offer would be a good exchange for that bitter old sorrow to which she had offered up sacrifices enough already.
And, as for that other dream of ambition, it was tempting, but it was nearly impossible; and Rosa was a woman and had tried what earning her living meant, and could guess pretty well at the taste of the apples of fame, as well as of the Dead-sea fruits of failure. And, as Rosa made up her mind to say yes, she became aware that she was excusing herself for her readiness to do so, not arguing against any lurking unwillingness. It is needless to say that her uncle and aunt were pleased at her good fortune. Everyone would be pleased. And it was wonderful how well Mr Fairfax understood her ideas. Fancy having Violante to stay with her in a pretty little house; or, still better, going with the master of that pretty house to hear Violante sing and feel proud of her talents! It was from such happy visions that Rosa was roused by the sound of Violante’s voice.
She looked a little paler and graver than when they had last met, not quite so happy or so much at her ease; and almost her first words were:
“I have been singing a great deal, Rosina, and I think my voice is good.”
“So you have made up your mind to try to sing again?” said Rosa.
“Yes, Rosina, after the summer I will come home and sing.”
“You shall not do it if it frightens you and makes you unhappy, my darling.”
“But – father will wish it. And I think everyone is unhappy.”
“My dear child, what makes you take such a gloomy view of life?”
“Why, look, Rosa. Signor Arthur’s heart is breaking for his Mysie; while Miss Florence loves him, ah, I know how much!”
“Miss Florence! Does she? I thought her head was full of classes and school-girls.”
“Yes, she will not sit and cry; but I know how she listens when Freddie talks of him, and she will not begin herself to speak of him, but when I ask her questions then she will tell me. She thinks I am only a little girl and know nothing.”
“And you, yourself, dear?”
“I,” said Violante; “Rosa, I think he is ashamed of having loved me, and that he will never speak to me again.”
“Violante, it is wrong to let you stay there! I shall not consent to it.”
“Ah, no, Rosina, no! There I can see that he does not care for me; away, I should think – and hope – and fancy – and – and – oh, let me stay!”
“I am afraid that is not true,” said Rosa, and Violante blushed; for she knew in her heart that Rosa was right.
“You look well, Rosina mia,” she said.
“Yes, Violante, I shall surprise you very much. How should you like – you never thought that I should be engaged to anyone?”
“Rosina mia!” exclaimed Violante, with eyes opening wide, and accents of blank astonishment, and then a shower of kisses and questions.
She listened to the story with all the delight that Rosa had anticipated, and after every detail had been discussed between them there was a silence, as Violante sat in her favourite place, leaning against her sister’s knee.
“Now,” she said at last, “now Rosa, you can tell how hard – ”
She paused, and Rosa could hardly help laughing.
“My dear child, I knew that long ago. Listen, Violante, I think it is good for you to know, I was older than you when my trouble came, and I think it was as bad as yours. Yet, you see, I am happy.”
“Did you know Mr Fairfax then?” eagerly said Violante.
“No, no,” said Rosa, “quite another person. It doesn’t signify who he was. It’s all gone now.”
“Oh, Rosina, was it when I was a tiresome little girl, and troubled you?”
“You were my one comfort, my darling, never any trouble. But, you see, I told you to show you that one day happiness may come to you, though quite in a different way from what you now fancy.”
Violante started up, clasping her hands. “No, no, Rosina! I will not be happy so! I would rather have my sorrow. There would be nothing left in my heart without it. If he is cruel, he cannot take that away!”
She spoke so because she was a passionate untaught creature, with instinctive impulses, which she had never learnt to resist. Yet, did not her lover feel every day the force of her words; had he not lost with her the best of himself? Was not Florence, with all her sense, and all her intellect, resigning herself to the same fate? What would Arthur be without the memory that was breaking his heart? Her words awakened an echo strong enough in Rosa’s heart to silence her for the moment.
“If I changed, I should be nothing!” repeated Violante.
“You would be what your life had made you, Violante,” said Rosa, “ready for what might come. And you would want something real. But, dear, how should you know anything about it? I should have said the same.”
Violante said no more; but she thought that, after all, Rosa’s circumstances were different, for her unknown lover could never have been like “Signor Hugo.”
Probably both the girls prepared to meet their father the next day with some trepidation, and as they awaited his arrival they owned to each other that it was very strange to be thinking of supper, and making coffee again.
“It makes me want Maddalena,” said Violante.
“Poor Maddalena! She would not like London fogs. But if I did not make the coffee I am sure there is no one else who could make it fit to drink.”
In due time Signor Mattei arrived, very affectionate, very voluble, and strangely familiar to his daughters.
“Ah, my children; how I have pined for you! While I have been toiling, you have prospered, and I find you richly clothed;” here he indicated a piece of new pink ribbon that was tied round Violante’s neck.
“Yes, father,” said Rosa, “we have some good news for you, each of us. Will you have mine first?” and, Signor Mattei assenting, she made her communication, while Violante sat by wondering how this love-story would be received.
But Signor Mattei was romantic only on one point.
“He is, no doubt,” he said, “a fascinating youth, and respectable, since he is your uncle’s friend; but, figlia mia, his income? Ah, you cannot live on air!”
“Mr Fairfax is not a youth, father,” said Rosa, slightly hurt; “he is five-and-thirty, and he has a very good income, which he will explain to you, himself, to-night, if you will allow him. I shouldn’t think of living on air.”
Violante had not a strong sense of the ludicrous; but even she could hardly help smiling a little at Rosa’s aggrieved air, and could not help wondering how her father would have managed to coerce her resolute, independent sister, even if he had been dissatisfied with “the fascinating youth’s” prospects, as he replied:
“Then, Rosina, if that point is clear, I will consent.”
“Thank you, father.”
“And will Violante bake a crust of bread for her poor old father when you have left us?”
“Yes, father. I – My voice is come back. I can sing now.”
Signor Mattei’s whole face changed from its sentimental air to a look of fiery enthusiasm. He started to his feet, and caught her hands.
“Your voice, child? All your voice – every note? Let me hear, let me hear.”
He pulled her towards the piano, which had been esteemed by Rosa a necessary part of the furniture of their lodgings, and, controlling her heart-beating, with a great effort she sang up and down the scale. Signor Mattei fairly wept for joy. He kissed her over and over again, he made her repeat the notes, he crossed himself, and thanked the Saints in devouter language than his daughters had often heard from him; but finally exclaimed, with an air of chagrin:
“And Vasari has married a woman with a voice like a screech-owl!”
“That is surely of no consequence,” said Rosa. “Violante can never try opera-singing again. She will never be an actress, and her health would fail again directly if she attempted it. But she is willing, after her year at school is over, to try what she can do in the way of concert-singing. And you know that, here in England, no career could be better or more profitable.”
“If you wish it, padre mio,” said Violante, “I will try now to do what you wish.”
“My sacrifices are repaid!” said Signor Mattei, though he could hardly have defined what the sacrifices were.
The interview with Mr Fairfax, who shortly arrived, was beyond Rosa’s hopes. Violante, though secretly wondering at her sister’s taste, could not but be pleased at his kindness, and was forced to acknowledge to herself that, under the most favourable circumstances, she could not have imagined Signor Hugo either condescending to so many explanations, managing to praise exactly the music Signor Mattei liked, or giving quite such a comprehending and encouraging smile and nod as the one received by Rosa, when her father was a little argumentative.
Signor Mattei obtained one or two evening engagements, and a good many pupils, so that Violante did not feel bound to begin her new life in a hurry; and Rosa began with a good heart her modest preparations for the wedding, which was to take place in the middle of August. The Greys gave a musical party, at which Signor Mattei played, and once Mr Fairfax took them all to the opera. Rather to Rosa’s surprise, Violante showed no reluctance to make one of the party. How did she feel when she sat and looked on at “Il Don Giovanni,” and saw another, and how superior, performer playing her old part of Zerlina? Her voice, at its sweetest and clearest, had never been quite such as this, and she seemed for the first time to know what was meant by acting, as she looked on at the world-famous prima donna.
This power, this popularity, this applause was what the father had looked for; the loss of this was what he had mourned. Could she ever have had it, or anything like it? Did she regret now that she could not? Did the woman see the value of what the girl had turned from with tears and distaste? For in this past year, what with trouble, change, and experience, Violante had grown into a woman.
She sat quite still, with her delicate face, pale and passive, and her eyes fixed on the stage. She had pushed all this away from her, all this light and sparkle, this splendour and excitement that had seemed so hard and glaring, so utterly untempting to her shy, tender spirit. What had she gained from that other vision that had worn such a lovely hue? It seemed just then to Violante as if both love and fame had played her false. Since she had lost the first, would it not be better to try and regain the second? It was but a passing thought, but it touched her to the quick. She put put her hand, and held Rosa’s tight, as Zerlina curtseyed, and picked up her bouquets.
“Oh,” she thought, “I would be Zerlina. I would do it all, all, if he would throw one. It was better to have all the trouble when he loved me – when he gave me my flowers – my flowers – ”
Rosa was not surprised that the old association cost Violante that night such tears as she had not shed for many a month, and Violante wept in silence, uttering no word of her secret yearning and regret.