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Hugh Crichton's Romance

by Christabel R. Coleridge · English · Gutenberg #43162 · 704,352 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Hugh Crichton's Romance

Author: Christabel R. Coleridge


        
Release date: July 8, 2013 [eBook #43162]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43162

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUGH CRICHTON'S ROMANCE ***

Hugh Crichton's Romance
By C.R. Coleridge
Published by Macmillan and Co, London.
This edition dated 1875.

PART ONE, CHAPTER ONE.

HUGH'S STORY.

  "The light that never was on sea or land."

PART ONE, CHAPTER TWO.

VIOLANTE.

  Elle etait pale et pourtant rose,
  Petite, avec de grands cheveux,
  Elle disait souvent, "Je n'ose,"
  Et ne disait jamais, "Je veux."

The sunshine of a summer evening was bathing Civita Bella with an
intensity of beauty rare even in that fair Italian town.  When the
shadows are sharp, and the lights clear, and the sky a serene and
perfect blue, even fustian and broadcloth have a sort of
picturesqueness, slates and bricks show unexpected colours, and chance
tree tops tell with effect even in London squares and suburbs.  Then
harsh tints harmonise and homely faces look fair, while fair ones catch
the eye more quickly; every flower basket in the streets shows whiter
pinks and redder roses than those which were passed unseen in
yesterday's rain, the street gutters catch a sparkle of distant
streamlets, and the street children at their play group into pictures.
For the sun is a great enchanter, and nothing in nature but sad human
hearts can resist his brightness.  Civita Bella needed no adventitious
aid to enhance its beauty.  The fretted spires and carved balconies,
quaint gables and decorated walls, were the inheritance of centuries of
successful art, and their varied hues were only harmonised by the years
that had passed since some master spirit had given them to the world, or
since they had grown up in obedience to the inspiring influence of an
art-loving generation.  Down a side street, apart from the chief centres
of modern life, stood an old ducal palace.  The very name of its
princely owners had long ago faded out of the land, and no one alive
bore on his shield the strange devices carved over its portico.  It lay
asleep in the sunshine, lifting its broken pinnacles and mutilated
carvings to the blue sky, still beautiful with the pathetic beauty of
"the days that are no more."

The old palace was let in flats, and on one of the upper stories
flower-pots and muslin curtains peeped gaily out of the dim, broken
marbles with a kind of pleasant incongruity, like a child in a convent.

Within the muslin curtains was a long, spacious room, with inlaid floor
and coloured walls, with a broad band of bas-reliefs round the top
leading the eye to the carved and painted ceiling above.  There was very
little furniture, a grand piano being the most conspicuous object, and
the lofty windows were shaded by Venetian blinds; but round the
farthest, which was partly open, were grouped a few chairs and tables,
with an unmistakable attempt to give an air of modern, not to say
English, comfort to one part of the vast, half-inhabited chamber.

A brown-faced, shrewd-eyed Italian woman, with gold pins in her grey
hair and gold beads round her neck, and a young lady in an ordinary
muslin dress, were standing together contemplating and criticising a
young girl who stood in front of them, dressed in the costume of an
Italian peasant.  That is to say, she wore a short skirt and a white
bodice, but the skirt was of rose-coloured silk, the bodice of fine
cambric; her tiny hat was more coquettish than correct in detail, and
the little hands playing with the cross round her neck had surely never
toiled for their daily bread.  Yet she looked a little tired and a
little sad, and her companions were noticing her appearance with the
gravity that pertains to a matter of business.

"I think that will do," said the young lady, in a clear, decided voice.
"She looks very pretty."

"Oh, bella--bellissima!" said the old Italian woman, clapping her hands.
"But when is not la signorina charming?"

"It does not alter her much.  Violante, does it inspire you?"

"I think it is very pretty; and you know, Rosa, I shall be rouged, and
perhaps my eyes will be painted if they don't show enough," said
Violante, simply.

"You don't mind that?" said Rosa, curiously.

"No!" with a half-surprised look in the soft pathetic eyes; "I am glad.
Then father will not see when I am pale.  It will be hidden."

"Oh, my child, you will not look pale then.  So, Zerlina, you want
another bow on your apron; and then this great dress is off one's mind.
We must let father look at you."

"Do you think he will say I look handsome enough?" said Violante,
anxiously.

Rosa laughed.  "I don't know what he may say, but I am sure of what he
will think.  And besides, he is not the public.  Thank you, Maddalena,
we need not keep you now."  And, as the old woman departed, Rosa took
the little muslin apron and began to sew a bright bow on it; while
Violante stood by her side, manifestly afraid of injuring her costume by
sitting down in it.  She looked very pretty, as her sister had said, but
her anxious, serious look was little in accordance with her gay stage
costume.

"You see," said Rosa, as she pinched up her loops of ribbon, "we have a
great many friends.  All the members of the singing-class will go, so
you will not feel that you are acting to strangers."

"I think Madame Tollemache will go," said Violante.

"Of course, and her son, and Emily, and they will take Mr Crichton."

A sudden brightness came over the girl's soft eyes and lips, as she
stood behind her sister's chair.

"Rosa, mia," she said, "you understand about England.  What is it il
signor--ah, I cannot say his name--does in his own country?"

"Violante, you talk a great deal of English, why cannot you learn how to
call people's names?  Crichton; Spencer Crichton."

"He should not have two hard names," said Violante, with a little pout.
"I would rather call him il signor Hugo."

"Well, as you like," said Rosa, laughing.  "And he lives in a beautiful
palazzo, with trees and a river?"

"Does he?" said Rosa, "I should doubt it exceedingly.  I dare say he has
a very nice house.  There are no palaces, Violante, in England, except
for bishops, and for the Queen; certainly not for bankers."

"And what is a banker?"

"Well," said Rosa, a little puzzled in her turn; "he takes care of
people's money for them; it is a profession."

"And he is not noble?"

"No; but as he has this country-seat, I suppose he has a position
somewhat equivalent to what we mean here by noble.  You can't understand
it, dear; it is all different.  Mr Crichton works very hard, no doubt,
in his own country, and I suppose his long holiday will soon be over."

Violante started, and as she stood behind her sister's chair, she hid
her face for a moment in her hands.

"But his brother is coming--his brother, who so loves art," she said,
after a pause.

"Ah, yes; then I daresay they will go home together.  But you will have
this artistic gentleman to look at you on Tuesday; and we must take care
and please your chief admirer before all."

"Shall I please him?" said the girl, with a smile shy and yet
half-confident.

"I hope so.  Signor Vasari's opinion is of importance."  Violante's face
fell, as if it were not the manager of the Civita Bella opera-house
whose opinion she had thought of such consequence, but she did not speak
till a hasty step sounded on the stair without.

"That is father!"

"Yes!  Here, the apron is ready; tie it on.  Oh, my darling, do not look
so frightened; you will spoil it all!"

Violante crept close to her sister and took her hand; her bosom heaved,
her mouth trembled.  Manifestly either the result of the inspection was
of supreme importance, or she greatly feared the inspector.

Rosa kissed her, and, with an encouraging pat on the shoulder, put her
away, and Violante stood with her gay fantastic dress, a strange
contrast to the timid, uneasy face of the wearer.

"Ah ha, Mademoiselle Mattei!  So; very pretty, very pretty.  But no;
this is fit for a drawing-room.  She might go and drink tea with Madame
Tollemache at the Consulate; she might wear it on a Sunday to church."

"Oh, father, I am sure I could not!" cried Violante, scandalised.

Signor Mattei stood with his head on one side, contemplating her with
critical attention, and stroking his long grizzled beard the while.
"She will be effaced by the footlights and the distance!  More ribbons,
Rosa; more braid, more chains, more gilding.  A knot there, a bow
_there_; here a streamer, here some--some effect!"

"But, father, Zerlina was only a peasant girl," said Violante, timidly.

"Tut-tut, what do you know about it?" he said, shortly.  "A peasant
girl!  She is the sublimated essence of the coquetry and the charm of a
thousand peasant girls; and till you see that, you silly child, you will
never be her worthy representative!"

"I understand, father," interposed Rosa, hastily.  "It is soon done.
Will you go and take the dress off, Violante?"

But as Violante moved, there was the sound of another arrival, and
Maddalena announced "Il signor Inglese."

"Stay, child," cried Signor Mattei, as Violante was escaping in haste.
She paused with a start which might have been caused by the sudden sound
of her father's voice, for he let his sentences fall much as if he were
cracking a nut.  "Stop!  I have no objection to give the world a tiny
sip of the future cup of joy!  What, how will you face the public on
Tuesday, if you are afraid of one Englishman, uneducated, a child in
Art?"

The little _cantatrice_ of seventeen stood flushing and quivering as if
only one atom of that terrible public were enough to fill her with
dread.  But perhaps her father's eye was more terrible than the
stranger's, for she stood still, a spot of gaudy colour in the centre of
the great bare room, yet shrinking like a little wild animal in the
strange new cage, where it looks in vain for its safe shady hole amid
cool ferns and moss.

Rosa came forward and shook hands with the new comer, saying, in
English, "How do you do, Mr Crichton?  You find us very busy."

"I hope I am not in the way.  I came for one moment to ask if I might
bring my brother to the singing-class to-morrow.  He is very fond of
music."

The speaker had a pleasant voice and accent, spite of a slight formality
of address, and although he carried himself with what Signor Mattei
called "English stiffness," there was also an English air of health and
strength about his tall figure.  The lack of colour and vivacity in his
fair grave features prevented their regularity of form from striking a
casual observer, just as a want of variety in their expression caused
people to say that Hugh Spencer Crichton had no expression at all.  But
spite of all detractors, he looked handsome, sensible, and well bred,
and none of his present companions had ever had reason to say that he
was grave because their society bored him, formal because he was too
proud to be familiar, or silent because he was too unsympathetic to have
anything to say.  Such remarks had sometimes been made upon him, but it
is always well to see people for the first time under favourable
circumstances, and so we first see Hugh Crichton in the old Italian
palace, enjoying a private view of the future _prima donna_ in her stage
dress.

"We shall be delighted to see your brother, signor," said the musician,
"as your brother, and, I understand, as a distinguished patron of our
beloved art."

"He would much enjoy being so considered," said Hugh, with a half smile;
and then, to Violante, "Is that the great dress, signorina?"

"It is only a rehearsal for it," said Rosa, as Violante only answered by
a blush.

"No doubt it is all it should be," said Hugh.

It was not a very complimentary speech, and Hugh offered no opinion as
to the details of the dress.  It were hard to say if he admired it.  But
Violante looked up at him and spoke.

"They don't think it fine enough," she said.

Hugh gave here a quick sudden glance, and a smile as if in sympathy
either with the words or the tremulous voice that uttered them.  Then he
said something both commonplace and extravagant about painting the lily,
which satisfied Signor Mattei, and astonished Rosa, who thought him a
sensible young man, and, saying he was bound to meet his brother, he
rather hastily took his leave.

Violante went into her own room and gladly took off Zerlina's dress, for
it was hot and heavy, and her shabby old muslin was far more
comfortable.  She pulled her soft hair out of the two long plaits into
which Rosa had arranged it, and let it fall about her shoulders, and
then she went to the window and looked out at the deep dazzling blue.
She could see little else from the high casement but the carving of the
little balcony round it, a long wreath of rich naturalistic foliage
among which nestled a dove, with one of its wings broken.  Violante's
pet creepers twined their green tendrils in and out among their marble
likenesses, a crimson passion flower lay close to its white image, and
sometimes a real pigeon lighted on the balcony and caressed the broken
one with its wings.  Violante encouraged the pigeons with crumbs and
sweet noises, and trained her creepers round her own dove, making
stories for it in a fanciful childish fashion, she would go and sing her
songs to it, and treat it like a favourite doll.  But she took no heed
of it now, she gazed past it at the sky as if she saw a vision.  She was
not thinking of the brilliant dreaded future that lay before her, not
consciously thinking of the scene just past.  She was only feeling to
her very finger tips the spell of one glance and smile.  Poor Violante!

PART ONE, CHAPTER THREE.

MR SPENCER CRICHTON.

  "Just in time to be too late."

Hugh Crichton walked away from the musician's apartments towards the
railway station, where he had promised to meet his brother.  His tweed
suit and large white umbrella were objects as incongruous with the
picturesque scene around him as the somewhat similar figure often
introduced into the foreground of photographs of buildings or mountains;
but his thoughts, possibly, were less unworthy of the soft and lovely
land in which he found himself, were less taken up with the home news
which he expected to receive than perhaps they should have been.

Hugh was scarcely eight and twenty, but the responsibilities of more
advanced life had early descended on him, and he owed his present long
holiday to a fall from his horse, from the effects of which, truth to
tell, he had some time since entirely recovered.  But busy men do not
often reach Italy, and his friend, the English consul, was about to
leave Civita Bella for a more lucrative appointment, and why should not
Hugh see as much as possible, when he would never have another chance?
"Never have another chance."  Those words echoed in Hugh's ears and bore
for him more than one meaning.

Some thirty years before, the Bank of Oxley, a large town not very far
from London, with the old red-brick house belonging to it, had descended
to a young James Spencer, who thenceforth held one of the best positions
in the neighbourhood.  For Oxley was a town of considerable importance,
and the Spencers had been bankers there for generations, and had
intermarried with half the families round.  Nevertheless, when Miss
Crichton, sole heiress of Redhurst House, refused Sir William Ribstone
to marry Mr Spencer, it was said by her friends that she might have
looked higher, and by his relations that no name, however aristocratic,
should have been allowed to supersede the old Spencer, with all its
honourable and respected associations.  But Lily Crichton laughed and
said that Sir William's father had drunk himself to death, and had been
known to throw a beef steak at the late Lady Ribstone, and she was
afraid that the practices might be hereditary.  Mr Spencer smiled and
said that he hoped his friends would find Spencer Crichton as safe a
name as Spencer had been before it, he would not refuse his wife's
estate because this condition was attached to it, and he could come into
the Bank every day from Redhurst.  And so, in Redhurst House, Mr and
Mrs Spencer lived and loved each other, and their two sons, Hugh and
James were born; while in course of time the banker's younger brother
died, and his three children, Arthur, Frederica, and George, were
transferred to their uncle's guardianship, and a little cousin of his
wife's, Marion or Mysie Crofton, was left with her eight thousand pounds
in the same kind and efficient care.

These boys and girls, all grew up together in the careless freedom of
so-called brother and sisterhood, till the sudden death of the father
clouded their happiness, and, in the absence of near relations, left all
these various guardianships to his wife and to his son Hugh.

It was a great honour for a young man of twenty-five to be so trusted,
and a great burden; but Hugh was sensible and steady, his cousin Arthur
was already nearly of age, and his mother, whose elastic spirits soon
recovered more or less from the shock of grief, was, of course,
practically responsible for the girls.  Hugh's own career at Rugby and
at Oxford had been unexceptionable: he had no intention of making his
office a sinecure.  Conscientious and inflexible both in opinion and
action, it would have been strange indeed if at twenty-five he had not
been also rather hard and dictatorial; but the mischievous effects of
these qualities was much modified by a certain clearness of judgment and
power of understanding his own position and that of others which almost
seemed to stand him in the stead of skilful tact, or even of gentle
charity.  He was really just, and, therefore, he saw difficulties as
well as duties, and knew exactly where it would be foolish to strain an
authority which he was too young to support, where it was wise to take
the advice of others, and where it was necessary to depend on himself.
He was often lenient in his judgment of others' actions; but then he
thought that there was not much to be expected of most people, and he
was seldom made angry, because other people's folly did not signify much
as long as he was perfectly sure that he was acting rightly himself.  If
a man did do wrong he was a coward if he would not own it, even to a
child.  And so Hugh on the rare occasions when he was cross or unjust,
invariably begged pardon.  But he did not care at all whether he was
forgiven.  He had done his part, and if the other side cherished anger,
that was their own look out.

The ownership of the bank had descended to him, and he lived with his
mother and helped her to manage the Redhurst property, which would some
day be his own, fulfilling all his various offices with much credit to
himself, and, on the whole, much advantage to other people.  For if he
thought most of what was due to himself, his view of his own duty
included great attention to the interests of others, even to
self-sacrifice on their behalf.  Indeed, as his cousin Arthur said,
"although the old saying might have been parodied with regard to Hugh,
that--

"Though he never _did_ a cruel thing, He never _said_ a kind one."

"Neither did he ever say anything unkind, so they might all be thankful.
Most likely old Hugh thought them all prodigies if they could only see
into his heart."

"You never were more mistaken in your life, Arthur," said Hugh with
perfect truth and much coolness.

"Now, why won't you take the credit of having some fine feelings to
repress?" said Arthur, who was often guilty of trying to get a rise out
of Hugh for the benefit of the younger ones.

But Hugh was so unmoved that he did not even reply that he did not care
about credit.

"You'll get a scratch some day, Arthur," said James, who nearest in age
to Hugh, and exempt from his authority might say what he pleased.

"Oh no, he won't," said Hugh, with a not unpleasant smile.  "At least,
if he does, I shall be much ashamed of myself."

"What?" said Arthur, "I should respect myself for ever if I could put
Hugh in a rage."

"People should never be in a rage," said Hugh--"they should control
themselves."

"If they can," said Arthur, conscious of the minor triumph of having
caused Hugh to be very sententious.

Hugh was silent.  It is one thing to have a theory of life, and quite
another to mould your character and tame your passions into accordance
with it.  Years before, when Hugh was at Oxford and James had just left
school for a public office; they, in the curious repetition and reversal
of human events, had come across a certain Miss Ribstone, the daughter
of their mother's old admirer, to whose many charms Hugh, then scarcely
twenty, fell a victim.  For one whole long vacation he had ridden,
danced, talked fun and sentiment with her, until the whole thing had
been put an end to by the announcement of her engagement to--somebody
else.  Then Hugh's pride and self-control proved weak defences against
the sudden shock, and he met the girl and her half-saucy,
half-sentimental demand for congratulations with such passionate
reproaches as she never forgot.  Probably she deserved them, but the
mortification of having so betrayed himself, almost killed regret in
Hugh's bosom.  "It was not my fault, I was not to blame," he said to his
brother.  "I should have remembered that," and as he spoke he made a
holocaust of all the notes and flowers and ribbons he had hitherto
cherished.

"Dear me," said sentimental James, "what a pity, I keep dozens of them."

"I'll never have another," said Hugh.

The incident was only remembered as "Hugh's old flirtation with Nelly
Ribstone," but Hugh forswore fine ladies and folly, and never forgot
that he had once lost all control of his own words and actions.  But all
that was long ago when he had been a mere boy, not a shadow of sentiment
hung over the recollection of it, and Hugh awaited his brother's arrival
at Civita Bella with a certain self-consciousness and desire to appear
specially pleased to see him, which perhaps he had not experienced since
his relations had been wont to wonder "what Hugh _could_ be doing
_again_ at Ribstone House."  He had not left himself much time to wait,
for as he came up to the station, a slender little man in a velvet coat,
with a conspicuously long, silky light brown beard, advanced to meet
him.

"Ah, Hugh, there you are yourself."

"How d'ye do, Jem?  I never knew the train so punctual.  I thought I'd
ten minutes to spare.  I'm so glad you have got your holiday."

James Spencer would have been a much handsomer man than his brother if
he had not been on so small a scale; as it was, the delicacy of his
features, and the fairness of his complexion, gave him something of a
finicking aspect; which was not diminished by the evident pains taken
with his dress, hair, and beard; which were arranged with a view to the
picturesque, rather trying to the patience of an ordinary observer.  But
on a close inspection, he had a good-tempered and kindly expression,
which showed that he combined appreciation of other things and people
with admiration for himself.  And though he was very fond of talking
Bohemianism, he went to his office every morning, and to church every
Sunday with the regularity of a Philistine.

"Well, you look uncommonly jolly," he said.  "The Mum was afraid that as
you had made so few expeditions, your back was not strong yet."

Hugh despised excuses, so we will not suppose that this ready-made one
offered him any temptation as he answered--

"Oh no; I was quite well a week after I got here.  There is plenty to
see here, I assure you."

"I believe you," said James ecstatically.  "Were ever such colours and
such a sky?  Look there," seizing his brother's arm, "there's a girl in
a red petticoat--under that arch in the shadow--white on her head--oh!"

"You will have to get used to girls under archways in red petticoats,"
returned Hugh.

"How were they all at Oxley?"

"Oh, very well; the mother was groaning after you.  She said she
couldn't get the fences mended, and Jones' cow had eaten the geraniums.
Oh, and she wants to have a garden-party."

"Well," said Hugh, "what should hinder her having a dozen if she likes?"

"She can't do it without you."

"Isn't Arthur there?"

"Arthur? yes.  But it isn't worth while asking the Miss Clintons to meet
Arthur."

"I should think that chattering Katie Clinton was just the girl he would
admire."

"Should you?" said Jem, rather meaningly.  "However, Hugh, when are you
coming home?"

"As soon as you do."

"I have only a fortnight."

"Then we can go back together.  That church is considered very fine.
Look at the spire."

James looked with undisguised and genuine delight at the fair
proportions and exquisite colouring of the building before him, and
after various half-finished and inarticulate expressions of delight,
exclaimed: "It's intoxicating!  Can't we go in?"

"Not now.  Mrs Tollemache will be waiting for us.  There are a dozen
such churches, besides the cathedral, and there's an old amphitheatre,
at least the remains of one."

"Perish Oxley and its garden-parties in the ruins of its new town-hall
and its detestable station," cried James, mock-heroically, and striking
an attitude.

"Then there's a very good opera," said Hugh--"and oh, wouldn't the great
singing-class be in your line to-morrow."

"What singing-class?"

"Why, there's a certain Signor Mattei here.  He is first violin in the
opera orchestra, and a very fine musician.  I believe he followed music
entirely from choice in the first instance."

"Then I respect him," said James.  "What could he do better?"

"Exactly.  I thought you would say so.  Well, he has a great
singing-class--more, I suppose, what would be called a choral society."

"Yes," said Jem; "I belong to the Gipsy Singers, and to Lady Newington's
Glee Society, and sometimes I run down to help the choir of that church
at Richmond.  I took you there once."

"Well, Signor Mattei's class is the popular one here.  Tollemache takes
his little sister, and having nothing better to do, I joined it.
To-morrow is the last of the course, so you can go if you like."

"I should like it immensely.  Quite a new line for you though."

"I don't see why I should not sing as well as you or Arthur.  I mean why
I should not attempt it: of course I am no musician," said Hugh, who had
rather a morbid horror of boasting.

"No," said Jem, "I have a theory that people's lives are divided by too
sharp lines.  They should run into each other.  Let each give something
out, and each will get light and warmth and colour.  Nobody knows how
much there is in other people's worlds till they get a peep at them.  I
should like to teach everybody something of what was most antipathetic
to them, and show everyone a little of the society to which he was _not_
born, whatever that may be."

"There's a great deal in what you say," said Hugh, so meekly that Jem,
on whose theories the sledge hammer of practice was commonly wont to
fall, was quite astonished.

"Why, how mild and mellow Italian sunshine is making you.  You're a case
in point.  We shall have you getting that precious town-hall painted in
fresco, and giving a concert in it, at which you'll sing the first
solo!"

And James burst into a hearty laugh, in which Hugh joined more joyously
and freely than was often his wont.  "Don't you be surprised whatever I
do," he said.  "See if I can't catch some Italian sunshine and bring it
home to Oxley!  But here we are, come in, and you'll see Mrs
Tollemache."  James followed his brother; but an expression of
unmitigated astonishment came over his face.

"Hallo! there's something up," he ejaculated under his breath.  "_Is_ it
Miss Tollemache?"

PART ONE, CHAPTER FOUR.

THE SINGING-CLASS.

  The little maiden cometh,
  She cometh shy and slow,
  I ween she seeth through her lids
  They drop adown so low.
  She blusheth red, as if she said
  The name she only thought.

"So you mean to accompany our party, Mr James Crichton, to the
singing-class?  I am very glad that you should go," said Mrs
Tollemache.

"Yes, for you will see Violante!" cried her daughter, Emily.

Mrs Tollemache was a little gentle lady, who, spite of several years of
widowhood, spent in keeping house for her son in Civita Bella, always
looked as if she were ready for an English country Sunday, with her soft
grey dresses and white ribbons, slightly unfashionable, not very well
made, and yet unmistakably lady-like, just as the diffidence and
unreadiness of her manner did not detract in the least from its good
breeding.  Her daughter was a tall girl of sixteen, with bright,
straight falling hair, and a rosy face, simple and honest, though her
frank, fearless manners, and capacity for conversation, indicated a
young lady who had seen something of the world.  Her brother, the
consul, many years her elder, represented English diplomacy in a
pleasant, cheery, if not very deep or astute fashion to the benighted
foreigners by whom he was surrounded.

"And who is Violante?" asked James.

"Violante," said Mr Tollemache, "is the rising star of Civita Bella."

"Violante," said Emily, "is the dearest, sweetest, most beautiful
creature in the world!"

"Violante," said Mrs Tollemache, "is a very sweet young person, whose
mother I knew something of formerly, and whose sister gives Emily music
and Italian lessons."

"She is Signor Mattei's daughter?" said Hugh.

"I will tell you all about her, Mr Crichton," said Emily.  "Signorina
Rosa--that's her sister--brings her to talk Italian with me.  But some
time ago they found out that she had a wonderful voice, and so she is to
go on the stage.  She is to make her first appearance next Tuesday, as
Zerlina in `Don Giovanni;' but the odd thing is that she hates it, she
is so shy.  Fancy hating it, I wish I had the chance!"

"Emily, my dear!" ejaculated her mother.  "A couple of nights will rub
off all that," said Mr Tollemache, "even if it is genuine."

"Genuine!" cried Emily.  "For shame, Charles.  She cannot help it, and
even singing in the class has not cured her.  It is quite true, isn't
it, Mr Crichton?" turning to Hugh.

Hugh paused for a moment, and--Jem could hardly believe his eyes--
blushed, as he answered decidedly, "Yes, but she is more afraid of her
father than of the public."

"Dear me," said James, "this sounds very interesting.  And she is a
beauty, too, Hugh?"

"I don't know if you would consider her so.  I do, undoubtedly!" said
Hugh, with a sort of desperate gravity.

"Very unlikely acquaintance for old Hugh," thought James.  "See if I
submit to any more criticisms about my mixed society.  Is she very
young?" he said aloud.

"Oh, yes," said Mrs Tollemache.  "You see, the circumstances are
altogether peculiar.  These two sisters are most excellent girls, and
knowing their antecedents, and having them here as occasional companions
for Emily, I could not, I cannot suppose that anything would ever accrue
to cause me to repent the arrangement."

There was a peculiar emphasis in Mrs Tollemache's manner of making this
remark, and it was accompanied by a little blush and nervous movement of
her knitting needles.

"It must be a very pleasant kind of place," said James, wondering if
Charles Tollemache found this young songstress too bewitching.

"Yes, but perhaps it is not altogether inopportune that our leaving
Civita Bella should coincide with Violante's _debut_.  Things will be
altered now, and I shall wish Emily to have more regular instruction."

"Mamma, I shall love Violante as long as ever I live," said Emily, "and
I should not care if she sang at fifty operas."

"You must go to school, Emmy," said her brother, "and attend to the
three R's with twopence extra for manners."

"I shall not mind if you will send me to that nice school Mr Crichton
was talking about, where the governess is nearly as young as I am," said
Emily.

"Not quite," said Hugh, laughing.  "I only told you Miss Venning had a
young sister."

"I shall ask Mr Spencer Crichton about it," said Mrs Tollemache.

"Have you been telling them about Oxley Manor?" said James.  "I am sure
Flossy Venning _is_ the governess, whatever she may be called.  You
would make friends with our girls, Miss Tollemache?"

"Yes, I should like that.  But now I want to show you my friend, and if
we don't make haste we shall be late," said Emily, as she ran out of the
room.

The little party of English took their way through the quaint and richly
coloured streets of the Italian city to Signor Mattei's apartments, and
James could not repress his exclamations of delight at every patch of
colour, every deep full shadow, and every graceful outline that met his
eye.  Emily pointed out the various lions, and asked questions in her
turn about the England which was but a dim memory of her childhood, her
bright English face gaining perhaps something of an added charm from its
fair foreign setting, and itself giving just the last touch of piquante
contrast to her companion's sense of delightful novelty.

Young ladies never came amiss to James, and in the intervals of his
raptures he amused himself by drawing out Emily's ideas of English
society derived from much and earnest study of such novels and tales as
Mrs Tollemache allowed her to peruse, and which had evidently rendered
Sunday-school teachings, parsonages, riding in the park, picnics,
sportsmen, smoke, and rain, as great a jumble of picturesque confusion
as Italian palaces and _prima donnas_ might be to James.  Such a state
of mind entertained him, and while Hugh walked silently beside Mr
Tollemache, he persuaded her to express her admiration of "The Daisy
Chain" and "Dr Thorne," her fervent wish to resemble the heroines of
the former book; her rather more faintly expressed supposition that
English country squires were like Frank Gresham; her desire to be kind
to little girls in straw hats, and old women in red cloaks--though Mr
Crichton says he never saw an old woman in a red cloak--and her evident
belief that benevolent rectors, honest cottagers, and useful young
ladies, were plenty as blackberries in the England that was a land of
romance for her.  "How delightful it would be to know such!"

"I am afraid you will be disappointed, Miss Tollemache," said James.
"Our lives in England are very commonplace, and the real Frank Greshams
are rather stupid fellows, who wear muddy boots, care for little but
riding and shooting, and are out of doors all day."

"But that seems so manly," said Emily, with a romantic vision of heather
and mists, mountains and dashing streams, floating before her
imagination.

"Well," said James, "I suppose the romance is in people's hearts, and
anything may be picturesque if you can get the right point of view, and
see it in the right light, and the truest artists are those who have the
quickest insight, and the widest sympathies.  But your dazzling beauty
in this Palace of Art that we are approaching seems more like romance to
me."

"Violante?" said Emily, to whom the first part of his speech had been an
enigma.  "Oh, there is nothing romantic about her.  She's just a
_cantatrice_, you know, but she is a clear little thing, and I love
her."

As Emily spoke they were mounting the great marble staircase that led to
Signor Mattei's apartments, and presently entered the long room, now
arranged for the convenience of the musical performance that was about
to take place.  James looked round at the painted walls and delicate
carvings, faded and injured, yet still soft and harmonious.  This was a
wonderful enchanted palace; where was the fairy princess?  He was
presented to Signor Mattei, who, in very good English, expressed his
pleasure at seeing him there, and found him a place.  Rosa came and
offered him a copy of the music that they were going to sing, and as his
companions took their seats, and the performance began, he had leisure
to study, not his score, but the motley scene around him.

Signor Mattei was a tall striking man, with a long grizzled beard, a
narrow face with a high forehead and ardent enthusiastic eyes.  His long
slender fingers looked as if they would have been at home on any
instrument, and indeed he was a first-rate violinist as well as an
admirable musician, and as he stood before the class conducting and
teaching, he seemed pervaded by his art from top to toe, and though
James could not follow his rapid vehement Italian, he perceived that no
imperfection escaped him.  Hugh's hint that he might have held a
different position but for his youthful musical enthusiasm seemed
credible enough in sight of his refined features and fervid eyes.

He was a very popular teacher, and the class was a large one.  Three or
four English girls like Emily Tollemache attended it, whose fair
rosiness and bad singing were alike conspicuous.  Several slim, dark,
demure Italian signorinas, with downcast eyes, shy or passionate, under
charge evidently of elder ladies, were to be seen.  Some looked like
teachers, and the professional air of some caused James to guess that
they were being prepared for the stage, or perhaps, their education
already finished, were assisting the class with their voices.  The men
were mostly young teachers or singers, except Hugh and Mr Tollemache,
and an enthusiastic English curate, music-mad, who was taking a holiday
in Italy.

But where was the most beautiful creature in the world?  James looked
for her in vain.  She was Italian, she was going to sing on the stage,
she was a wonder of beauty.  Which could she be?

A handsome girl, with splendid black eyes and crisp black hair, who was
standing at the end of the sopranos and singing with a clear fine voice,
suggested herself to James as the most likely person.  Certainly she was
very handsome, but she did not look a bit shy; however, Tollemache had
insinuated a suspicion that shyness was interesting.  She looked frank
and bright, bold enough to face a crowd.  Very picturesque, she knew
that pomegranates became her.  A model for any artist; but rather an
unlikely friend for Miss Tollemache, and a very unlikely here James'
thoughts suddenly pulled themselves up with a start.  "What an absurd
fellow old Hugh is!" he mused.  "Some one has been chaffing him about
these classes, and he stands on his dignity until anyone would imagine--
but _that_ girl, oh dear, no!"

Suddenly there was a pause for the solo.  Emily looked at James and
nodded.  Hugh gazed intently at his score.  The dark beauty sat down,
and a girl in grey, with a coral necklace, came forward and stood in
front, alone.  She stood in the full stream of the dusty evening
sunlight, and James thought,--

"Why, this is no beauty, they are mad!"

She was tall rather than otherwise, and very slim.  Her soft misty hair
was twisted loosely about her head, and fell partly on her neck; it was
of so dull a shade of brown that the sunshine whitened it instead of
turning it to gold.  Her skin was fair for an Italian, and now pale even
to the lips.  Her eyes were large, dark, and soft, and in them there
dwelt an expression of terror that marred whatever beauty they might
otherwise have possessed.  She did not blush and bridle with a not
unbecoming shyness, but she looked, as the saying goes, frightened to
death.

"Poor little thing, what a shame to make her sing!" thought James, "but
she is no beauty at all."

And yet, what was it?  Was it the fall of her hair, the curve of her
cheek, or the piteous setting of her mouth, that made him look again and
again as she began to sing?

James really loved music, and the sweet birdlike notes entranced him.
It seemed the perfection of voice and execution, and the tones were full
of power and pathos.  She stood quite still with her hands before her--
for she had no music--little child-like hands, and she never smiled or
used her eyes, hardly moved her head, the voice seemed produced without
effort, and she made no attempt to add to its effect.  When it ceased
there was an outburst of applause; she looked towards her father, and at
a sign from him made the ordinary elaborate curtsey of a public singer;
but still with never a smile.  Then she went back to her place, and as
she passed Hugh he whispered a word.  She hung down her head and passed
on, but her face changed as by magic, and then James knew that she was
beautiful.

She did not sing again, her father was very chary of her voice, and she
did not come forward when the music was over, though Signor Mattei hoped
"il signor" had been pleased, and Emily lingered, spite of her brother's
sign to her to make haste.

"Indeed," said James, "I have been delighted; one does not often hear a
voice like your daughter's."

"Her voice is good," said the father, "but she does not give it a
chance; she has no notion what study was in my day."

"Oh, father!" said Rosa Mattei, as these words were evidently intended
to reach the ears of Violante, who was standing at a little distance.
"She does practise, but she is so soon tired.  My sister is only
seventeen," she added to James; "and her voice is not come to its full
strength yet."

"She must not over-strain it--it is so beautiful," said James, while
Emily echoed--

"Oh, it is lovely! oh, cara Violante, come here and let us tell you how
beautifully you sang."

"Violante!" said her father; and she came towards them, while James on a
nearer view saw how lovely were the curves of cheek and throat, and how
delicate the outline of the still white features.  With a view to
hearing her speak, he thanked her for her song, and said--

"I suppose I need not ask you if you are fond of music?"

Violante cast down her eyes, blushed, and stammered out under her
breath,--

"Yes, Signor, thank you;" while her father said, "My daughter is very
glad to have given you pleasure, and very grateful to those who are kind
enough to express it.  You must excuse her, Signor, she is not used to
strangers."

The poor child looked ready to sink into the earth beneath this public
notice of her bad manners.  Hugh looked so stern and fierce that, had he
asked the question, she might well have feared to answer him; but Emily
broke the awkward silence by saying eagerly--

"You will come and give me my lesson to-morrow, Signorina Rosa?  Will
Violante come too?"

"I am afraid," said Rosa, "that she will be too busy."

"Ah, well, I shall see her if she does not see me, next Tuesday.
Good-bye, Violante.  Good-bye, Signorina."

"Why!" exclaimed James, as they emerged into the street, "That poor girl
looked frightened to death."

"Oh," said Emily, "she is always frightened before strangers.  How ever
she will sing on Tuesday I cannot think; but what do you think of her,
Mr Crichton?"

"I think she is very pretty," said James, rather dryly.

"A pretty little simpleton," said Mr Tollemache: "but a month or two's
experience will make all the difference.  It is to be hoped her father
will take care of her.  But I believe she has an admirer--the manager of
the operatic company here--so I suppose she may be considered very
fortunate.  Her voice is valuable, and she will be very handsome."

James nodded assent, but something in the thought of the young childish
girl with her shy solemn face and frightened eyes touched him.

"It's rather a case of `Heaven sending almonds to those who have no
teeth,' isn't it?" he said.  "Poor little thing!"

"Oh, the almonds will taste sweet enough, I daresay," said Mr
Tollemache.  "If not, they must be swallowed, somehow."

"Well," said Emily, "on Tuesday we shall see how she gets on."

PART ONE, CHAPTER FIVE.

THE MATTEI FAMILY.

  Then joining hands to little hands
  Would bid them cling together,
  For there is no friend like a sister
  In calm or stormy weather.

"Violante!  Will you never learn common-sense?  Your want of manners
will give perpetual offence.  And let me tell you, English people of
influence are not patrons to be despised.  It is always well for a
_prima donna_ to have irreproachable private friends.  If ever we should
go to England, and the Signora Tollemache would notice you, it would be
a great advantage; and not amiss that those young men should report well
of you."

"Oh, father!"

"Why!  They see your name announced.  They say, `Ah, Mademoiselle
Mattei!  We knew her in Italy--pretty--fine voice.  My friend, you
should go and see her.'  They take a bouquet and applaud you; and you
become the fashion.  You should be grateful, and show it.  But you--you
are a musical box!  You sing like a statue, like a wax-doll.  Ah, where
is your fire and your expression?  You have no soul--you have no soul!"

"Father, I did try."

"Oh, I have no patience!  Where is my music?  I have a private lesson.
Go and practise, child, and study your part better;" and off whisked
Signor Mattei in a great hurry, and a much disturbed temper.

Such scenes had been frequent ever since one unlucky day, two years ago,
when the great opera manager, Signor Vasari, had heard Violante sing,
and had told her father that she promised to have the sweetest soprano
in Italy, and he must educate her for the stage, where she would make
her fortune.  And the owner of this sweet soprano was so timid that her
music-master made her tremble, and possessed so little dramatic power
that she could scarcely give a song its adequate expression, and was
lost when she attempted to act a part.  But the music is all important
in Italy, and the middle course of concerts and oratorios did not there
lie open to her.  Her father hoped that her voice and her beauty would
carry off her bad acting, and that perpetual scolding would cure her
fears, since he gloried in her talent, and much needed her gains.

He was, as has been said, fairly well born and well educated, and had
chosen music as his profession.  When quite young he had gone to
England, where he played the violin in London orchestras, and gave
private lessons on the piano.  In England he fell in with a young lady,
the daughter of a clergyman, who was governess in the family of Mr
Tollemache's uncle, where Signor Mattei taught.  Rose Grey was
unmistakably a lady, a quiet fair-faced girl, with her share of talent
and originality and a passion for music.  She fell in love with the
handsome enthusiastic Italian, and, having no prospects and no friends
to object, she married him.  They lived for some time in England, where
Rosa was born, and finally returned to Italy.  The world went fairly
well with them, but they were not without debts and difficulties, and
when Rosa grew up, and Madame Mattei's brother, now a London solicitor,
wrote to offer her a year or two's schooling in England, the proposal
was gladly accepted, since she had no voice and could not be made useful
at home.  Rosa went to England, went to school, taught Italian and
music, and learnt the usual branches of education, spent her holidays
with her uncle, and finally helped to educate her cousins, till, three
years before our story opens, her mother died, and Rosa came home to
take care of the little Violante, a girl of fourteen.  Rosa was then
twenty-two, entirely English in manner, accent, and appearance, with
pretty brown hair, a sensible face, bright hazel eyes, full of force and
character, grave manners, a sweet smile, and a strong will of her own
which she was not afraid to enforce if necessary.  She had a warm heart,
too, with nothing much just then to fill it.  She almost idolised the
little sister, who clung to her, sobbing out, "Oh Mamma mia!" and from
that day forward guarded, petted, and, it must be confessed, spoiled
her.

Violante was delicate and sensitive, with a certain Italian fervour of
temperament beneath her timidity, which expended itself in the warmest
affection for her sister.  She was more Italian than Rosa in appearance,
and though she spoke fluent English, and they used either language when
together, her low sweet tones were unmistakably foreign.  Her musical
education was so pressed on her and took up so much of her time that she
learnt little else, and at seventeen was sadly ignorant of much which
she ought to have known.

The two sisters belonged to their mother's Church, which unfortunately
had the practical effect of their belonging to none at all.  When Rosa
went to England she did as others did, but it was not her lot to come
across anyone of sufficient depth to influence her practical
self-reliant temper, and, though a very good and conscientious girl, her
education had made her indifferent to the outward duties of religion.
She thought that she did her duty by Violante when she prevented her
from attending Roman Catholic services unless the music was very fine,
and heard her read a chapter in the Bible on Sunday, while the rest of
the day was spent as usual.  Madame Mattei had never had health or
opportunity to attend English services, and the two girls only went
occasionally; though lately, under Mrs Tollemache's influence, they had
been a little more conscious of their nationality and the duties
involved in it.  Rosa impressed Violante with a strong sense of the
necessity of doing right, and believed that circumstances absolved her
from attending to anything further.  Violante was of a different mould,
and when she saw beautiful ritual and devout worshippers she felt sad,
she did not know why.

Rosa was well aware that she could not protect Violante from the
approaching ordeal of her first appearance, and knew too of debts that
rendered it necessary; but she interposed between her sister and many a
reproof, and tried by her alternate coaxing, sympathy, and argument to
diminish the girl's dread of the future that lay before her.  Violante
had made fewer complaints of late, and Rosa hoped that she was becoming
more reconciled to the inevitable.

On the present occasion Rosa's pleasant cheerful voice was heard talking
to Maddalena, who, besides doing all their housework, took Violante to
her lessons and rehearsals when Rosa was busy, the latter retaining her
English habit of walking alone.  She reentered the room as her father
quitted it, and began to divest it of its concert-room air, to put away
music-stands and books, and to give once more a look of English comfort
to the further end of it, where Violante had thrown herself into a big
chintz-covered chair, turning her face towards the cushion, when Rosa
said,--

"Well dear, you were very successful to-day.  I never heard you in
better voice."

"I wish--I wish I had no voice at all."

"Violante!  That is really quite wrong.  You should not despise such a
glorious gift."

"It only makes me wretched.  Oh, what shall I do!"

Now Rosa had resolved against weak-minded sympathy, and had made up her
mind that her sister must not, at this last moment, be permitted to
flinch, so, though the hidden face and despairing attitude went to her
heart, she replied briskly,--

"Do?  Win a dozen bouquets and bring the house down.  What a silly child
you are, Violante!"

Violante lifted her head, astonished at the shadow of a reproof from
Rosa, who little guessed at the tumult of feeling that was making the
poor child's heart beat so terribly.

"You angry, too, Rosa!" she said, for reproaches never made Violante
angry, only miserable.

"Angry, my darling, no," exclaimed Rosa.  "I only want you to take heart
and courage.  My child, don't cry so dreadfully.  What is it, did father
scold you?"

Violante crept into the warm comforting embrace, and, laying her head on
Rosa's shoulder, wept so bitterly that her sister could only think how
to soothe her; till Violante's sobs grew quieter and she put up her
quivering lips to be kissed, while Rosa smoothed back her hair and began
to try the effect of argument.

"You see, darling, father is so anxious.  When Tuesday is over and he
sees how successful you are, he will be delighted.  And you will feel
quite differently.  Just think of the pleasure of seeing everyone
hanging on your voice, and of hearing the applause, and seeing the
bouquets thrown at you!"  (Violante shivered.) "Oh! it would be worth
living for."

"Oh, Rosa mia, if the voice was yours!"

"Ah, if--But, darling, I shall be as much pleased to see your triumph as
if it were mine."

"But if I fail--and my bad acting--"

"You won't fail.  And as for the acting, you will act much better when
you are less nervous.  People will care for your voice and your beauty--
they won't be hard on you."

"Rosa, you are so different, you cannot understand.  I should not mind
so much about failing if it did not vex father.  It is doing it at all.
When I stand up to sing it is as if all the eyes turned me cold and
sick, and my own eyes get dizzy so that I cannot see, and if they
applaud--even here at the class--it is like the waves of the sea, and I
cannot sleep at night for thinking of it."

"You don't know how pleasant the real applause will be," said Rosa,
feeling as if she were telling a snowdrop to hold up its head, for the
sun was so pleasant to stare at.  What could she say to the child, who
had no vanity and no ambition--nothing but a loving heart.

"You will like to please me and father?"

"Yes," said Violante, "but if I should cry, father would--would--"

"Oh, nonsense, you won't cry."

"If father would let me--I would rather teach singing all day!"

"But you know you could not make nearly so much money in that way.  And
father wants the money, Violante, indeed he does."

"Oh yes--I know it must be done--I will not make a fuss."

"That's a good child.  And you will not have to sing only to strangers.
Think how kind the Tollemaches are to us, how pleased they will be with
you."

Violante flushed to her very finger tips, and Rosa felt her heart throb.

"They will not like me _then_," she murmured.

"Not like you, what can you mean?  Why should they not like you?"

"English people don't like actresses."

"Well, but you don't suppose Mrs Tollemache has any prejudice of that
sort?"

"She would not like Emily to do it."

"Emily!  Of course not.  Young ladies like Emily don't sing in public.
She would not be a governess or do anything to get her living.  But they
would think it quite right for you.  Why, you will have Mr Crichton and
his brother to throw bouquets at you!"

"Yes!" exclaimed Violante, with sudden passion.  "He will throw bouquets
at _me_.  He will `tell his friends I am pretty,' and he will think--"

"He?  Mr Crichton?  Violante, what can it matter to you what he
thinks?"

Violante shrank away from her sister, and covered her face with her
hands.

"Violante," cried Rosa, too anxious to pick her words, "don't tell me
you have been so silly as to think about him--that you have let yourself
care for him."

"Oh--I do--I do, with all my heart," cried Violante, with all the
fervour of her Italian nature, speaking from her shining eyes and parted
lips.

"What has he said to you--what has he done?  He has not made love to
you--child--surely."

"I don't know," murmured Violante.

"Oh, I must have been mad--what have I been doing to let this go on?"
cried Rosa, starting up and walking about in her agitation, while
Violante cowered, frightened, into the great chair, but with a certain
self-assertion in her heart, too.

"Now," said Rosa, recovering prudence, and sitting down on the arm of
the chair, "you see, I have not taken care of my pretty sister.  Tell me
all about it."

"You are not angry with me, Rosa?"

"Angry, my little one," said Rosa, while tears, rare in her eyes, fell
on her cheeks--"no, only angry with myself.  Now, tell me what it is;
how long have you felt in this way?  What has he said to you?"

"All, how can I tell?  He looks at me--he gives me flowers--he speaks to
my heart," said Violante with downcast eyes, but lips that smiled and
needed no sympathy in their satisfaction.

"Don't be silly," said poor Rosa, irritated both by the smile and the
sentiment.  "Is that all?"

"He told me of his home--he said we should be friends--he asked me for a
rose, and kissed my hand for it--he said he thought it was Italian
fashion."

"Oh, Violante, why didn't you tell me before?"

"Oh," with a funny little air of superiority, "one does not think of
telling."

Rosa pressed Violante tight in her arms, and set her lips hard, and when
she spoke it was very low and steadily.

"My child, you know how I love you, that I only think how to make you
happy.  Mr Crichton had no right to play with you so; but it was my
fault for letting you be thrown in his way.  Young men will do those
things, just to amuse themselves."

"Some will."

"_Some_?" said Rosa bitterly.  "You little foreign girl--he would think
of you just as of a pretty flower, to please him for a time, and then he
will go home and leave you to repent that you have ever known him!"

"Never--never," cried Violante, clasping her hands.  "Never--if my heart
should break."

Rosa stamped her foot, and hot, cruel tears, that burnt as they fell,
half choked her.

"I dare say he has never thought that you would take what he said
seriously.  If he likes you, he could not marry you--he must marry some
English girl of his own rank.  You must put him out of your head, and I
must take better care of you."

Violante's views of the future were scarcely so definite as these words
implied, but she shivered, and a chill fell on her spirits.

"Now," said Rosa, "I believe Signor Vasari does really care for you."

"Signor Vasari!  I hate him!" cried Violante.  "Rosa, I will be good--I
will act--I will sing--but I will not hear of Signor Vasari.  If he
kissed me, I would kill him!"

"For shame, Violante, that is a very improper way of speaking.  Oh, my
child, will you promise me to be good?"

Violante did not answer.  Was there a secret rebellion in the heart that
had always given Rosa back love for love?

"Violante mia--you don't think me unkind to you?"

Violante looked up and smiled, and taking Rosa's face between her two
little hands, covered it with sweet, fond kisses.

"Rosa, carissima mia, shall you do anything?"

"No," said Rosa, considering.  "I think not.  If you will be a good
child, and steady--now father will be coming back."

"Oh, you will not tell him?"

"No, no--certainly not; but you have not practised."

"I could not sing a note!"

"No, not now," said Rosa steadily.  "You must drink some coffee, and go
and lie down for a little.  And then you must bathe your eyes, and put
up your hair, and come and sing for as long as father wishes."

Violante obeyed, and Rosa having administered the coffee, and seen that
no more tears were likely to result from solitude, left her to rest, and
came back to await her father and consider the situation.  She did not
like the look of it at all.  Violante was a good, obedient child, who
tried to do as she was told, and had no power to rebel against fate.
But she knew nothing of self-conquest or of self-control, and when she
was unhappy had no thought but to cling to Rosa, and cry till she was
comforted; while under all her timidity lay the power of a certain
fervour of feeling against which she had never dreamed of struggling.
Sweet and humble, innocent and tender, yet with a most passionate
nature, how could she contend with feelings which were more

  "Than would bear
  Of daily life the wear and tear,"

how endure the pangs of disappointment, added to the strain of an
uncongenial life?

"I think she will break her heart," thought Rosa to herself.  But then
arose the consolatory thought that a life which seemed attractive to
herself could not be so painful to her sister, and the probability that
Violante's feeling for her lover had not gone beyond the region of
sentimental fancy.

Rosa, being naturally of a sanguine temperament, inclined to the latter
opinion, and rose up smiling as her father came in.

"Well, and where is Violante--has she practised yet?" demanded Signor
Mattei.

"No, father; she was too tired, she will come directly and sing for as
long as you like."

"The child is possessed," muttered Signor Mattei.

"Now, father," said Rosa, in a tone rather too decided to be quite
filial, "you must leave Violante to me.  I will manage her, and take
care that she sings her best on Tuesday.  But if she is scolded and
frightened, she will break down.  I know she will."

"Well, figlia mia," said Signor Mattei, somewhat meekly, for Rosa was
the domestic authority, and was at that moment chopping up an excellent
salad for him, and pouring on abundance of oil with her own hands.  "But
it is hard that my daughter should be such a little fool."

"So it is," said Rosa laughing, "but she will be good now.  Now then,
Violante," opening the bedroom door.

There lay Violante, her sweet round lips smiling, her soft eyes serene,
her own fears and Rosa's warnings driven into the back-ground by the
excitement of her confession, and by the thought of how Hugh had thanked
her for her song.

She threw her arms round Rosa with a hearty, girlish embrace, quite
different from the despairing clinging of an hour before.

"Yes, I am coming.  My hair?  Oh, father likes it so," brushing it out
into its native ripples.  "There, my red ribbon.  Now I will be buona--
buonissima figlia."  And she ran into the sitting-room and up to her
father, pausing with a full, sweeping curtsey.

"Grazie--mille grazie--signore e signori," she said.  "Is that right,
padre mio?"

And her father, seeing her with her floating hair, her eyes and cheeks
bright with the excitement that was making her heart beat like a bird in
its cage, might well exclaim--"Child, you might bring the house down if
you would.  Come and kiss me, and go and sing `Batti batti,' before you
have your supper."

PART ONE, CHAPTER SIX.

IL DON GIOVANNI.

  Oh, the lute,
  For that wondrous song were mute,
  And the bird would do her part,
  Falter, fail and break her heart--
  Break her heart and furl her wings,
  On the inexpressive strings.

  "My dearest Hugh,--

  "I write at once to tell you our good news.  The class lists are out,
  and Arthur has got a second.  I am sure he deserves it, for he has
  worked splendidly, and I always thought he would do well.  I hope his
  success will not alter his wishes with regard to the bank where your
  dear father so much wished to see him take a place; but the life may
  seem rather hum-drum, and Arthur is naturally much flattered at all
  the things that have been said to him at Oxford.  The girls are
  delighted.  I am so glad you are enjoying yourself, but how much time
  you have spent at Civita Bella!  When do you think of returning?  I am
  going to give some parties as a sort of introduction for Mysie.  The
  Clintons are coming.  I don't know if _you_ admire Katie Clinton; she
  is a _very_ nice girl, and she is thought a beauty.  That fence by the
  oak copse is in a sad state; do you think James Jennings ought to mend
  it?  We have a very good hay crop.  I have had a rapturous letter from
  Jem, but you say less about your delights.  I wish you would choose a
  present for me for each of the girls from Italy, and I should like to
  give Arthur something on his success, but I dare say he would rather
  choose some books for himself.

  "Ever my dearest boy,--

  "Your loving mother,--

  "L.  Spencer Crichton."

  Redhurst House, Oxley.

This letter was brought to Hugh Crichton as he was dressing for the
performance of "Don Giovanni," at which "Mademoiselle Mattei" was to
make her first appearance before the public of Civita Bella.  The
Tollemaches were full of interest in her success; and Hugh and James had
selected the bouquets which were to be thrown to her, with both the
ladies to help them, and Hugh's choice of white and scented flowers was
declared by Emily to be remarkably appropriate to Violante.

The pleasant commonplace letter came like a breath of fresh, sharp wind
from Oxley into the midst of the soft Italian air, good in itself, may
be, but incongruous.  Arthur's success?  Hugh was gratified; but not
immoderately so, and it crossed his mind to think "What a fuss every one
will make!  But he shall have his way about the bank; it is not fair to
tie any one down to other men's wishes.  Katie Clinton!  If the mother
only knew!"  If his mother had only known how his heart beat and his
face burnt with excitement at the crisis in one little foreign girl's
life, if she knew how far Redhurst seemed away to him!  If she knew that
he had fallen entirely in love with Violante Mattei!  Would she ever
know?  And Hugh, perhaps for the first time, saw that question and all
it implied looming in the distance.  Was it to be "all for love and the
world well lost?"  Would the world be lost?  What did he mean to do?
Hugh knew quite well what he would have advised Jem to do under similar
circumstances.  It was a foolish, unsuitable thing, likely to make every
one unhappy, it--.  "I must sing, but I am frightened, Signor Hugo."

"Will she be so frightened to-night?  She said she liked stephanotis.  I
wonder if they can see on the stage where a bouquet comes from!  I have
not seen her for days.  We should all be at sixes and sevens.  Well,
there's no time now for consideration; but this letter has given me a
shake, and I'll play neither with her nor myself," and Hugh took up his
bouquet, and resolved for the moment to do the one thing possible to
him--look at and think of Violante.

The house was full, but the Tollemaches had taken care to secure good
places.  Emily was full of excitement, proud of having a private
interest in the public singer, and eagerly wondering how Violante felt
then.  Jem discoursed to her on the various great stars whom he had seen
fulfilling Zerlina's part, nothing loth to show his acquaintance with
little scraps of their history, and with some of the technicalities of
their profession, for Jem was great in private and semi-public
theatricals and concerts, and was much amused and interested by what he
had seen and heard of Mademoiselle Mattei.

Hugh sat leaning forward on the front of the box, and during the two
first scenes he kept his eyes fixed on the stage as if he had never seen
an opera before, and though he was not continuously attending, he never
all his life long heard a note of the music without recalling that
little Italian opera-house, with its dim lights and imperfect scenery,
its true sweet singers, and the throb of excitement and expectation as
the third scene in which Zerlina makes her first appearance opened.

"There she is!" cried Emily, and there was nothing more in the theatre
for Hugh but one little terrified face.  Ah, so terrified, so white, he
knew, under all its rouge, with eyes that saw nothing and looked through
the carefully practised smiles as if longing and appealing for the help
no one could give her.  Hugh felt a wild desire to jump down and snatch
her in his arms, stop the music, drive away all those fantastic
figures--anything, rather than that she should suffer such fear.  What
right had anyone to applaud her, to look at her--ah! she was going to
sing!

She sang; and after a few faint notes the exquisite quality of her voice
asserted itself, and, with her look of extreme youth and shyness,
excited an interest that made the audience lenient to the stiffness of
her gestures and the gravity and formality of what should have been
coquettish dalliance between the peasant and the noble lover.

The notes were true and pure as those of a bird; but in their beautiful
inflexions was no human passion, no varieties of meaning.  Her face was
lovely; but it did not image Zerlina's affectionateness, vanity,
triumph, and hesitation, her mischievous delight in the new admirer, and
her lingering concern for the old one; it spoke nothing to the audience,
and to Hugh only Violante's fear and pain.  But the music was perfect,
and Violante, with her gay dress and mournful eyes, was a sweet sight to
look on; so she was well received enough, and Hugh, as he saw her mouth
quiver, thought that the noisy plaudits would make her cry.

"Oh, doesn't she look just as sweet as ever?" cried Emily.

"She looks just the same as ever; she has no notion of her part," said
Mr Tollemache, "but the voice is first-rate."

"She would be a study for a picture, `The Unwilling Actress,'" said Jem.
"What say you, Hugh?"

"Oh; it is a great success--it is very good," said Hugh vaguely; but his
face was crimson, and he felt as if he could scarcely breathe.

The piece went on, and when the famous songs were heard in those perfect
tones, when it was only necessary for her to stand and sing instead of
to act, her voice and her youth and her beauty gained the day, there was
a storm of applause, and a shower of bouquets fell at her feet.  Hugh
flung his white one, and Don Giovanni took it up and put it in her hand.
Then suddenly the eyes lit up, the face was radiant, and the real
passion which she had no power to assume or to mimic seemed to change
her being.

"By Jove, she _is_ lovely!" cried Jem.  The next moment she had hidden
her face in the flowers, and her next notes were so faltering that they
were hardly heard.  Hugh felt a fury of impatience as the public
interest turned to the other heroines of the piece, and yet he had time
to watch Violante as she stood motionless and weary, forgetting the
bye-play that should have kept her in view while she remained silent.
Hugh did not think that she saw him; he could not catch her eye, and
felt angrily jealous of the stage lovers.

"Now's the trial," said Mr Tollemache.  "Let us see how she will make a
fool of Masetto."  Masetto was a fine actor as well as a good singer,
and the part of Don Giovanni was played by Signor Vasari, the manager of
the company himself.  Even Hugh, preoccupied as he was, could not but
perceive that Zerlina gave them few chances of making a point.

"I feel just as if it was Violante herself who was unhappy," said Emily.
"She looks as if Signor Mattei had been scolding her."

Hugh, at any rate, felt as if it were Violante whom Don Giovanni was
persecuting, and was utterly carried away by the excitement of the
scene, till, just as the wild dance came to a climax, and Zerlina's
screams for help were heard, his brother touched his arm.  Hugh started,
and came suddenly to himself.  James was gazing decorously at the stage.
Hugh was conscious of having been so entirely absorbed as not to know
how he might have betrayed his excitement.  Of course he was in a rage
with Jem for noticing it, but he sat back in his place and became aware
that his hand trembled as he tried to put up his opera glasses, and that
he had been biting his lip hard.  He saw very little of the concluding
scenes, and could not have told afterwards whether Don Giovanni died
repentant or met the reward of his deeds.  Even when the curtain dropped
and Mademoiselle Mattei was led forward, to receive perhaps more
bouquets and more "bravas" than she deserved, he felt a dull cold sense
of disenchantment, though he clapped and shouted with the rest.

"It is all very well," said Mr Tollemache, as he cloaked his mother;
"her extreme youth and her voice attract for the present, but she is too
bad an actress for permanent success."

"She hasn't the physical strength for it," said Jem; "her voice will
go."

"It is to be hoped Vasari will marry her," said Mr Tollemache.

"It is a very pretty opera," said Hugh; "and I thought Donna Elvira had
a fine voice."

"The theatre was very hot," said Mr Tollemache, when they reached home;
"has it made your head ache, Mr Crichton?"

"No, thank you, but I'll go to bed, I think.  I don't care for a smoke,
Jem, to-night."

"Jem," said Mr Tollemache, as they parted after a desultory discussion
of Violante, the opera, the Matteis, and the chances of Violante's voice
being profitable to Signor Vasari, "if you and Hugh care to go on and
see a bit more of Italy, to push on to Rome, for instance, for the few
days you have left, you mustn't stand on ceremony with me."

"Thank you," said James.  "I'll see what Hugh says; I should like to see
the--the Vatican, immensely."

PART ONE, CHAPTER SEVEN.

BROTHERLY COUNSEL.

  "They were dangerous guides, the feelings--"

James Crichton had a certain taste for peculiarity, and anything
unexpected and eccentric attracted him as much as it repels many other
people.  He piqued himself on his liberality, and had friends and
acquaintances in many grades of society, to whom he behaved with
perfectly genuine freedom and equality.  He also loved everything that
the word "Bohemian" implies to those classes who use it entirely _ab
extra_.  His mother's vision of Jem's daily life was a confused mixture
of shabby velveteen, ale in queer mugs, colours which she was told to
admire but thought hideous, mingled with musical instruments of all
descriptions.  He teased her to ask the Oxley photographer to dinner,
and perpetually shocked her by revealing the social standing of
acquaintances, whom he spoke of in terms of the greatest enthusiasm,
till her dread was that he would marry some of "the sweet girls and
perfect ladies" who supported their families by their own exertions in
ways, which, though doubtless genteel, were not exactly aristocratic.
She would have expected him to fall a victim to Violante at once.

But people do not always act in the way that is expected of them, and
Mrs Crichton would have been saved much uneasiness had she known that
Jem's affections, so far as they were developed, were placed on the
daughter of an Archdeacon, who dressed at once fashionably and quietly,
did her hair in accordance with custom and not art, was such a lady that
no one ever called her lady-like, and so exactly what she ought to have
been that no one would have ventured to say she was dull.  Jem had a
great many flirtations, but if ever a vision of the wife that years
hence might reward his devotion to his work at the Foreign Office,
crossed his mind that vision bore the form of Miss Helen Hayward.  It
takes a great deal of theory and very strong opinions to contend in
practice with the instincts to which people are born; but instincts have
less chance where feeling and passion rise up to do battle with them.

James looked into Hugh's dazzled absent eyes as they stood at his room
door on their return from the opera, and felt that it was a bad moment
for trying to bring him to reason; but the awkwardness of taking his
elder brother to task in cold blood on the following morning made him
seek for a conversation at once.  So he followed him into his room and
began:--

"Did you hear what Tollemache said about going to Rome?"

"Rome?  No; do you want to go there?"

"Why, yes!  Of course.  Who doesn't?"

"I don't," said Hugh quietly.

"No; but isn't it a pity to miss the opportunity?  In short, Hugh,--I
say,--you know, aren't you coming it rather strong in that quarter?"
said Jem, who was so astonished at the novel position in which he found
himself that he plunged into his task of Mentor at once.  "In short,
suppose it was Arthur, you know, what should you say?"

"I should say exactly what you want to say to me," said Hugh, and made a
little pause.  "If I do this thing," he went on, looking straight before
him, "it will, I know, cause a great deal of vexation for the moment."

"It's not that; but it could not possibly answer, Hugh, you can't be
such a fool.  Go away and take time to reflect; no one is more
reasonable than you."

Hugh roused himself as if with an effort, and, sitting down on the edge
of his bed, looked up at his brother and prepared for the contest.  "I
will tell you all you are going to say," he said.  "This young lady--for
she _is_ a lady, Jem, and the daughter of a lady--is half a foreigner;
she is only seventeen, she has no money, she has hardly any education,
she has sung in public, on compulsion, and much against her will.  If I
marry her--"

"You will break mamma's heart," said Jem, going back in his vexation to
his childish mode of speech.

"No, I shall not.  She won't like it, of course, but she'll come round
to it.  Of course some women would not, but she would never make the
worst of a thing.  There's an end of her plans for me, what else is
there to matter?"

"No one would visit her," muttered Jem, who had often inveighed at the
folly of social prejudice.

"Oh, yes, they would, if my mother received her.  It would be a bad
match, of course, but not so bad as that when all the circumstances were
explained."

"You seem to have considered it all."

"Did you suppose I should do it without considering?  I'm not the man,
James, not to see all these difficulties; I am not going to take a leap
in the dark."

"It's just as bad if you leap over a precipice in the light!"

Hugh was silent.  It was perhaps owing to his clear sense of what was
due to everyone, and to his power of seeing both sides of a question,
that he was not offended by his brother's displeasure.  What else could
James say?  He himself, as he had told him, could say it all, had said
it, did say it still.  And what could he answer?  That, though a broken
heart was a form of speech, his would in future be a broken life without
Violante was a statement that he could not bring himself to make, and
which James would not have believed.  "Of course I can give her up," he
thought; "but if I do shall I ever live my life whole and perfect again?
Is it not in me to be to her what I never have been, never could be, to
anyone else?"

Hugh was a self-conscious person, as well as a conscientious one; he was
not very young, and thus it will be perceived that he knew well what he
was about.  He was enough himself to wonder at himself; but in these
sweet holiday weeks something had possessed him beyond his own control.
He could fly from it, but he could not conquer it.

"Well," he said, as James continued his arguments, "grant that I should
forget her, what should I be worth then? how much of myself should I
have lost!"

"Anyone might say that about any temptation of the sort," said Jem.

"And truly.  But--`halt or maimed,' you know, Jem.  There are times when
we must pay the price.  You can't say this is a case in point."

"But how about the girl?" said Jem.  "Have you involved yourself with
her?"

"No," said Hugh, and then added: "Not intentionally."

"Ah!" said Jem, with a whistle.  He was surprised to perceive that the
argument of Violante's probable disappointment had not been the first to
be put forward by Hugh.  His brother had argued out the question of
right and wrong for himself first, though now he eagerly took up this
point.

"I think she _does_ like me," he said, in a much more lover-like manner;
"and her father tyrannises over her, poor child: she hates her
profession; she would never want to hear of it again."

"Well, and how did it all come about?"  To this question James did not
obtain a direct answer; but after about half-an-hour of explanation,
description, and rapture, he said:

"Well, Hugh, you _are_ in for it, and no mistake.  I'm sorry for you.
And, pray, what do you intend to do?"

"I wish to act as considerately as possible to everyone," said Hugh.  "I
shall go home and tell my mother myself--"

"Without engaging yourself to Violante?"

"I shall do nothing in a hurry; but you cannot suppose that it needs
spoken words to bind me now."

"But I say," said James suddenly, "did not some one say she was engaged
to the manager?"

"That is not true," said Hugh, colouring up; "she cannot endure him."

"Oh!" said James, dryly.  "All things considered, I wonder you did not
speak before to-night."

"I should not have expected _you_ to take that view," returned his
brother.

"Well, she's none the worse for it, of course; but, still, when it comes
to one's wife, you see, Hugh, there are advantages in plain sailing."

"Look here, James," cried Hugh, starting up, "we have talked long
enough; I'll take care of my mother, but I love Violante, and I believe
she loves me, and our lives shall not be spoilt for anyone's scruples.
Do you suppose _I_ don't know my own mind? do you think _I_ should act
in a hurry, and repent of it afterwards?  I would give her up now if I
thought it right.  It might be right in some cases, but this stands
apart from ordinary rules--"

"I _think_ I've heard that remark before," James could not resist
interposing.

"Very likely.  In my case it is true.  Not answer?  It _shall_ answer!
Do you think I shall ever be afraid of the consequences of my actions?"

Hugh had the advantage of definite purpose and strong feeling.  He spoke
low, but his whole face lighted up as he, usually scrupulously
self-distrustful in his speech, uttered this mighty boast.  James,
fluent and enthusiastic as he was, had for the moment nothing to say.
He meant well; but his objections were vague and inconsistent with much
of his own conduct.  Hugh had the better of him, and reduced him to
looking dissatisfied and cross.

"Well, if you will make a fool of yourself," he muttered, "I'll say good
night."

"Good night!" said Hugh, coming out of the clouds.  "You were quite
right to say your say, Jem."

James was a very good-tempered person, but this was a little more than
he could stand.

"Some day you may wish you had listened to it," he said.  "If you had
seen as much of girls as I have, you would know there was nothing
extraordinary in being extra silly and sentimental.  Good heavens!  I
might have been married a dozen times over if I'd been so heroic over
every little flirtation."

Not being a woman, Hugh left the last word to his brother.  He had no
particular respect for Jem's opinion, and did not care at all whether he
approved of his choice or not.  He believed that he could make his
mother content with it; and his mother's contentment would silence all
active opposition of the outer world.  His boy and girl cousins had no
right to a remark: he supposed he could put up with Arthur's nonsense.
Here he took the flower out of his coat, and thought that the scent of
stephanotis would always remind him of Violante.  And then he went and
leaned out of his window in the soft starlit southern night, and
wondered if Violante was dreaming of her success or of him.

How strange it was that to him, of all people, should have come this
wonderful and poetical experience!  Hugh was not aware that the beauty
of the scene, the clearness of the sky, the delicate shadowy spires and
pinnacles that stood out soft and clear against it, the light of the
stars, the breath of the south, in any way influenced him; he would have
laughed even then at a description of a lover looking at the stars and
thinking of his lady.  It never occurred to him to call to mind any song
or poem that put into words such commonplace romance.  For the place,
the circumstances, Violante herself, the flower in his hand, the notes
yet ringing in his ears, appealed to a simplicity of sentiment any
school-girl might have shared with him.  Yet real honest feeling might
give for once reality to these hackneyed images, just as it could as
easily have dispensed with them altogether.

PART ONE, CHAPTER EIGHT.

WHITE FLOWERS.

                  "True love
  Lives among the false loves, knowing
      Just their peace and strife;
  Bears the self-same look, but always
      Has an inner life.

  "Tell me, then, do you dare offer
      This true love to me?
  Neither you nor I can answer:
      We must--wait and see!"

The fearful ordeal was over; the first night had come and gone, and the
earth had not opened to swallow Violante up; the disgraceful tears had
been successfully controlled; and through all the fear and confusion,
the dread of the audience and of her fellow-actors, the physical
discomfort of the noise and the heat, had penetrated a little thrill of
pleasure; and for one moment, when all the "Bravas" seemed to ring with
Hugh's voice, and his sweet white bouquet fell at her feet, the
excitement was not all pain.  But, painful or joyful, it was far too
intense for so delicate a creature to bear; and tears, sleeplessness,
and excessive exhaustion, were its natural result.  Both Rosa and her
father were so much relieved that no break-down had taken place that,
though both were fully capable of criticising her performance, they
rejoiced as if it had been an absolute success; and even the tender
sister could not believe but that the pleasure must have predominated
over the pain.  So poor Violante dried her tears as fast as she could,
conscious of being too silly a child even for Rosa's sympathy, and not
daring to say that the worst terror of all was Signor Vasari's
commendation.  She had no need to suffer from Masetto's, who declared
with indignation that it was impossible to execute scenes of passion and
sentiment with so irresponsive a soprano.  On the Wednesday another
opera was to be given; on the Thursday "Don Giovanni" would be repeated,
and then there loomed before Violante the dreadful impossible archness
of the playful heroine of "Il Barbiere."  Surely, when she came back
from the rehearsal on Wednesday, some one would come to hear how she had
fared!  There was no one.  Even Emily Tollemache neither came nor wrote.
So he only wanted to throw bouquets at her!

"Oh, I hate the flowers!  I hate their very smell," sobbed poor Violante
to herself; but she did not throw them away; and when, on Thursday
night, as the opera proceeded, no white bouquet fell, her spirit died
utterly within her, and then rose in passionate despair.  She could not
bear her troubles--this poor child--for one day; but, weak and soft as
she was, it was no mere tender sentiment that gave her face a sort of
power and thrilled her voice with a new energy.

When the curtain rose on the performers after the opera was over, a
great white bridal-looking bouquet fell at Violante's feet.  Don
Giovanni, impelled perhaps by various jealousies of the favour shown to
the little debutante, picked it up and gave it to Donna Elvira, who
graciously curtseyed thanks.  Zerlina started; she could see no one; and
the curtain fell.

"Mademoiselle, I think those are my flowers."

Donna Elvira burst out laughing and pointed the bouquet scornfully at
Zerlina.

"Eccola--Brava, brava!  Mademoiselle learns quickly.  She wants other
ladies' bouquets, not content with her own!"

"Mademoiselle's thoughts are elsewhere than on the stage," sneered
Masetto.

"All--it is a love token!  Is it il Signor Inglese?  Ah, ha, ha!"

Violante, in an agony of shame at her own folly, with burning cheeks and
beating heart, shrank away without a word; but when she reached home and
could hide her face on Rosa's shoulder, her first words were--

"Oh, my flowers, my flowers!" and when Rosa understood the story she
could give no adequate consolation.

"Oh, child--child!" she cried at last, "do not sob and cry in this way.
Who ever cured their troubles so?  Now I will not have it.  Perhaps he
did not throw the flowers after all!  Lie down and go to sleep."

Violante endeavoured to obey; she put the damp tumbled hair off her
face, and lay down and closed her eyes.  "But he did throw them," she
thought to herself; but she did not say so to Rosa, for her sorrow was
beginning to give the child a stand-point of her own.

Hugh, meanwhile, was the victim of circumstances.  Mrs Tollemache had
planned an excursion, which carried them off early on the morning after
the first opera, and from which they did not return till late in the
evening of the second day.  Hugh was annoyed; but he knew that he should
have other opportunities of seeing Violante, and he could not escape
without more commotion than was expedient.  So he went and enjoyed
himself all the more, because the excitement of his whole nature made
him more than usually open to enjoyment.  Hugh had never thought scenery
so beautiful or sights so interesting; he was ready to be amused by
every trifling incident of their trip.  _He_ knew that Violante would be
there when he came back; while _she_, poor child, knew nothing.  But he
managed to look in at the end of the opera and throw his bouquet; and on
the next day he thought no one could have objected to his making a visit
of enquiry, particularly as most likely Violante would not be at home.
James's remarks had not been without their effect, in so far as they
increased his desire to act with the greatest possible tact and caution;
and he much wished to secure his mother's consent, certainly before any
public disturbance took place, and even, if possible, before actually
engaging himself to Violante, and this for her sake.  He had no dreams
of hiding himself from the world with her: he could do no other than
follow his profession, and live with his wife in the midst of his
friends.  In short, Hugh wished to eat his cake and have it--to do a
wild, foolish, utterly romantic thing, and yet sacrifice no conventional
or real advantage.  And he had quite sense enough to know that
conventional advantages _were_ real in this case, and quite confidence
enough in himself to believe that, he, in his wisdom, could succeed in
doing what most other men had failed in attempting.

"There shall be no secrecy and no quarrelling," he thought; "and yet I
will judge for myself."

However, this evening, politeness would have prompted a call on Signor
Mattei had Violante never existed; and as Jem had promised to take some
drive with the Tollemaches it was not worth while to ask for his
company; so he asked if Signor Mattei was at home.  "No--il signor was
out."

"La signorina Rosa?"

"Out too, she was giving a lesson--ah, it was only English people who
went out in such a sun.  What a pity!  Even Mademoiselle Mattei
(Maddalena proudly gave Violante the French title by which she was known
to the public) was not there; she was tired with the rehearsals; she was
lying down.  Would il signor wait?  They would be in soon."  Hugh
thought that he would wait.  This was not the first time that he had
seen Maddalena.

Hugh came into the great shady room, where the Venetian blinds were down
and the light was green and cool.  Only one window was open--a little
one at the end facing east--and on its ledge stood a great bowl of
flaming flowers, the blue sky and a distant marble pinnacle, fretted and
pierced, behind them; a girl in an old white dress on the low cushioned
bench beneath--Violante's delicate face and floating hair clear against
the sky.  There were red flowers and blue flowers in the great china
bowl, but white ones in Violante's little hands; and as Hugh's foot fell
on the old scratched inlaid work of the floor she held them to her lips.
Then the foot-fall sounded, and she turned her head and sprang up with
such a start that down fell flowers, red, white, and blue, with the
china bowl in one common ruin.  In another moment Hugh and Violante,
both laughing and exclaiming, were picking them up, and Hugh was
pursuing the bowl as it rolled along the polished floor.

"No harm done," he said, as he brought it back, "it is not broken."

"Oh, I am so glad!  Father is so fond of it.  Oh, how wet the cushion
is!"

"Hang it out of window," said Hugh, as he pulled it off the seat.  "I
don't want it.  And there," taking it from the chair, "is another one
for you."

And Hugh sat down on the vacant half of the window-seat; and, replacing
the bowl on the ledge, began to arrange the wet flowers in it.  Violante
sat down also; and, shaking the drops from the roses and oleanders, held
them to him one by one.

She felt quite happy; past and future had floated away from her.  She
did not think of saying anything; the flowers were enough.

"I don't think I understand much about arranging flowers," said Hugh.

"They were dying, or I should not have taken them to pieces," said she,
with a glance at the white bouquet.

"You had a _white_ bouquet?"

"Oh--I had so many--this beautiful one--all roses," said Violante,
trying, in her heightened spirits, this elementary piece of coquetting.

"Too many to count?"

"Oh, yes--quite too many.  There were three red ones and this--all
colours--and _one_ white."

She looked at Hugh, seized with a sudden fear.  Perhaps he had not
thrown the white one, after all!

"Your trophies, Mademoiselle Mattei.  Were you very proud of them as you
were counting the spoils?" said the equally foolish Hugh, as he thought:
"Of course, she _does_ care for it, after all."

Violante blushed intensely and her lips quivered.

"I like the _flowers_," she said.

"And the applause?" said Hugh, jealously.  "Don't you know you had a
great triumph?  We shall all boast of your acquaintance."  Violante bent
her head low, her lashes heavy and wet.

"Still, you don't like it," cried Hugh; and suddenly the tones were
tender.  "Does it still frighten you so much, Violante?"

"Oh yes--so much!"

"Ah, I saw you were frightened.  It was Violante, not Zerlina, that I
was looking at."

"Yes, that's the worst of it."

"The worst of it?"

"I never act enough, they say.  I can only sing."

"Well, what more would anyone have?  You sing like an angel.  And
Violante is much better worth looking at than Zerlina, any day."

"Ah," said Violante, more brightly, "but you would not think so if you
were Signor Rubini."

"What--Masetto--shouldn't I?"

"He said," continued Violante, with penitence, "that he would rather act
with a wax-doll, and--and that I show off my own voice and do not think
of his.  But I cannot help it, indeed."

"What an insolent scoundrel!  You shall--why do you ever act with him
again?"

"Oh, but it is a great honour!  I ought to please him if I could.  But I
don't know how."

The sorrowful, contrite tones, and the droop of her lip were almost more
than Hugh could bear.  James had told him that it would be cruel to make
this poor little child unhappy by the uncertainties of an engagement
that could not be immediately-fulfilled.  Would she be any happier if he
left her to cry over her bad acting, and to be criticised by Italian
singers?  He was coming to a resolution, but for a moment he held it
back.

"Give yourself airs," he said.  "Say you'll never sing again if they
find fault with you!  See what they will say then."

"I?" said Violante, opening round eyes of amazement.  "How could I?"

"All," said Hugh, with growing excitement, "but one of these days you
will say, `_I_ will not act with Signor Rubini!'  We are going home, you
know, when I come back--"

He paused, and Violante turned cold and sick, as when the eyes of the
whole theatre were fixed upon her.  He was going away!  Hugh started up
and walked away from her for a moment; then he came back and stood
before her, and spoke.

"No, you cannot say that.  I will tell you what to say.  Say you have
promised to be my wife, my darling; and it does not matter if you act
well or ill.  Listen to me one moment.  Signorina, I love you; though I
cannot tell you so in persuasive words.  If you will trust me for a
little while, I will come back and bring my mother, who will welcome you
and love you.  Can you care for me, Violante?"

Hugh, scrupulous and self-conscious, wasted many words.  He had said
within himself that he would show more deference to Violante than he
would have thought necessary to a princess; that with his first words he
would make it plain, both that there were difficulties, and that he
would overcome them.  There was a suppressed fire in the eyes generally
so quiet, and a sort of courtliness in the manners that were sometimes
so stiff, a deference that would soon be tender, an earnestness just
held back from passionate force.

Violante heard but three words: "I love you."  Shy as she was, she was
utterly trustful, and was too innocent and too fervent for any pretence
of coyness.

"Do you love me, Violante?"

"Oh, yes!" and she let him take her in his arms, while her tears fell
with the soft relief of having found a comforter.  She was won, this
little southern Juliet, won--ah, how easily!--and Hugh vowed to himself
that he would justify her innocent trust, and give her all she knew not
how to demand.

"You are not frightened now, my child?"

"Oh, no!"

"Let me look and see;" and, as Hugh drew away the veiling fingers, she
did not shrink from the kiss that came in their stead.

"What will father say?" murmured she presently.

Now, it would have suited Hugh better could he have left Signor Mattei
in ignorance until he had settled the affair with his own people; but he
was too generous to involve Violante in the toils of a secret.  Never
should she be tempted by him to one doubtful action.  So he answered--

"That I will soon find out; and to do so, my darling, I must go."

And so, with many tender words, and with a wonderful delight in his own
love as well as in the sweet child who had awakened it, Hugh took his
leave for the present; and she, who was conscious of no delight but ill
him, watched him for a moment, then came and turned the old lock of the
door, which he suddenly found so perplexing; so that, as he went away,
he saw her standing in the dim, lofty corridor, with the sunlight
shining halo-wise behind her hair, and the still brighter aureole of his
passionate fancy glorifying her innocent face.

PART TWO, CHAPTER NINE.

CONTRASTS.

  "There's none so sure to pay his debt.
  As wet to dry, and dry to wet."

PART TWO, CHAPTER TEN.

THE TIME OF ROSES.

  "When all the world was young, lad,
  And all the trees were green."

While the bright southern sunshine was filling the old palace with its
rays; and while, beneath the blue Italian sky, Hugh Crichton was
arranging Violante's flowers; the same fair summer weather was making
life enchanting in the English county where Oxley lay.  Instead of deep,
unbroken azure, see a paler tint, with fleecy, snowy clouds; and, for
the fretwork and the imagery, the marble, and the alabaster of Civita
Bella, broad, green, low-lying meadows, where dog-roses tossed in the
hedges, and dog-daisies and buttercups were falling beneath the scythe;
a slow, sleepy canal, with here and there a bright-painted boat; and, on
the low hill side, the clustering white villas and modern streets,
surmounted, not by innumerable pinnacles and domes, but by one tall,
grey spire.

Oxley was a large, flourishing town, some forty miles from London--next
to the county town in dignity, and before it in size and enterprise.  It
could boast no architecture and no antiquities, save a handsome church--
neither very old nor very new--and some tumble-down, red-tiled, dirty
streets, sloping down from the back of the town to the canal--unless,
indeed, like some of its townsmen, you counted the Corinthian facade of
the railway station, the Gothic gables of the new Town-Hall, or the
sober eighteenth-century squareness of the Oxley Bank.  These two latter
public buildings opened on to a broad, sunny market-place; from which
started a clean, white, sunny road, which led past villas, nursery
gardens, meadows, and bits of furzy, heathery waste, all the way to
Redhurst, and was the old coach-road from the county town to London.

Along this road were the prettiest residences, the gayest little
conservatories, the most flowery lilacs, laburnums, and acacias of
suburban Oxley.  Here was the "best neighbourhood," and here, on the
clean, gravelled footway, the nursery-maids and children went to walk on
fine mornings; ladies and little dogs paid calls of an afternoon; and
groups of slim, long-haired girls came out to attend classes at Oxley
Manor, the famous Young Ladies' School.  The Manor House lay back from
the road behind high, substantial, red-brick walls, with mossy crevices,
and bushy ivy peeping over the top; showing beyond, garden trees,
walnuts, acacias, and horse-chestnuts, surrounding the big, substantial
house, where, from the small-paned windows, peeped now and then a girl's
face.

There was no better school in the country than the Miss Vennings' at
Oxley Manor; and it was considered a great privilege for the girls of
Oxley that certain classes there were opened to them; and a still
greater that Miss Spencer and Miss Crofton were allowed to attend
regularly as day scholars.  But these young ladies did not come from
Redhurst by the road.  There was a pretty, quiet path through the
meadows--half-way between the public road and the towing-path by the
canal--that led here through a bit of copsewood famous for primroses,
there across a sunny, open meadow; now over a low, wooden stile, then
between high hedges, full of brambles, honey-suckles, and roses; till
the hedges grew neater and closer, and terminated in the high red wall
of the Manor kitchen-garden, from which opened a little green gate.  On
the other side of the road was a paddock, with a shallow pond where
ducks flourished, and where, on the opposite bank, an old pollard willow
threw its slender branches across the muddy water.

On that sunny afternoon a sunnier spot could hardly have been found than
the narrow path under the wall; and yet here lingered two figures: a
girl, who had poised herself on the end of a great garden-roller, and a
young man who leaned against the white railing of the pond beside her.
She was a graceful little lady, small and soft-faced; with brown hair,
shining and neat, round rosy lips, and clear, steady eyes of a hazel
tint.  Her white dress was elaborately trimmed with handsome embroidery,
and all her blue ribbons were fresh and smart, as if they had no need to
see sunny days enough to dim their brightness.  There was a bag of books
at her feet, and her pretty eyes were cast down towards them; and her
pink cheeks were flushed with considerable, yet not excessive,
embarrassment.

"But, Arthur," she said, with a clear, distinct, and yet soft utterance,
"but, Arthur, I think we ought to consider about it a great deal."

"I have never considered it at all," said Arthur Spencer.

He was a tall young man, slight and graceful; with--spite of his second
class and his cultivated expression--a sort of happy-go-lucky air, that
seemed hardly to have outgrown the right to his old appellation of a
"very pretty boy," earned by his bright colour, dark hair, with a
picturesque wave in it, and black-lashed eyes, of that distinct shade of
grey which cannot be mistaken for blue or hazel.  He was an elegant,
rather handsome young man at three-and-twenty, with a light-hearted,
self-reliant manner that might have been careless and even conceited had
a less earnest and genuine affection looked out from his bright eyes at
the pretty creature beside him.  Arthur thought himself clever,
good-looking, rather a fine fellow in his way; but what did he not think
of Mysie Crofton?

"There's nothing _new_ in it; is there, Mysie?" he continued, as he took
her prettily-gloved hand, with the freedom of old intercourse, just
touched with something sweeter.  "Nothing new.  We were always the
friends of the family, and it _must_ have come to this soon."

"Yes," said Mysie, simply; "but I thought--I thought--those things never
_did_ come to anything."

"You thought?  Ah, Mysie, I have my answer now: You thought, you little
worldly-minded thing, that first love was all humbug, eh?  Well, we'll
be an instance to the contrary."

Mysie blushed.

"I'm sure," she said, "you were always telling me about young ladies."

"But I always told you about them, Mysie!  And now I could not go on any
longer without having it out.  _I_ knew it; and _you_ knew it--oh, yes,
you did; and Aunt Lily was beginning to find out."

"But there's Hugh?"

"Ah, Hugh.  I daresay he won't quite like it; those things are not in
his line.  But he is too good to make foolish objections.  To be sure,
there is one he may fairly make."

"What's that?" said Mysie, frightened.

"Your fortune, Mysie; and when I think of it, it half frightens me."

"I don't think it is so very much," said Mysie.

"It is enough to give you a right to all this," said Arthur, touching
her pretty dress; "and if I thought I could not give it you, I would be
silent.  But, Mysie, I have not much of my own; but I think I have
earned the right to say I have a good chance of success in any career I
might choose; and there is always the Bank.  I know I cannot marry you
now, Mysie, my darling," he continued, with a sort of frank, eager
deference; "and if anyone you like better comes by I will never hold you
to your promise.  But in the meantime are we the worse for acknowledging
that which has existed so long--so long?  Oh, Mysie, I don't know how to
make love to you.  I think it's all made, but you are part of myself.  I
could have no life without you.  I cannot imagine myself _not_ loving
you, not looking to have you one day for my own."

If Mysie was a little slow to answer, it was not because she could
imagine her life without Arthur.  All this was only the right name for
that which had always been.  They _were_ Arthur and Mysie; and they
would be Arthur and Mysie to the end of the chapter.

"Yes," she said, "that's quite true.  It just is.  But I'll try and be a
great deal better to you than ever I have been.  It ought to be like
`John Anderson.'"

Mysie had ideas, and was not afraid to express them.  She used nice,
pretty language, and when a thought struck her she would say it out in a
way sometimes formal, but always genuine and sweet.

"John Anderson?" said Arthur--not that he did not know.

And Mysie repeated the sweetest of all sweet love-songs, the one
fulfilment in the midst of so much longing desire.

As Arthur heard her gentle, fearless voice, and saw her clear eyes
raised to his own, as she repeated, without fear or falter:

  "And sleep thegither at the foot,
  John Anderson, my jo,"

a great awe came over him.

"Oh, Mysie, my love, my darling, may God grant it!  For nothing in life
could ever come between us."

And with this hope, that in its intensity was almost fear, he drew her
towards him, and gave her his first _lover's_ kiss.  She was silent; and
then, recovering herself, said, in a different tone:

"And I don't think it will be inconvenient to have a little money!"

The revulsion of ideas made Arthur laugh.

"Worldly wisdom!" he exclaimed; then suddenly sprang up from the other
end of the roller as a tall handsome lady, in a garden hat, came out of
the green gate.

"Miss Crofton!"

"I--I was only taking Mysie to school, Miss Venning," said Arthur; while
Mysie, pink and fluttered, picked up her books and hurried off up the
path.

Miss Venning was a stately, blue-eyed woman of forty or thereabouts;
with a fair, fresh complexion, and a manner that twenty-years of
school-keeping had rendered somewhat condescending, as if the world
consisted of pupils to be at once governed and encouraged; while her
blue eyes had a certain look of enquiry in them, as if she was in the
habit of passing judgment on those who came before her.  But, that the
judgment would be just and kind, the handsome face gave every promise;
and, perhaps, the scales might even drop a little in favour of a kind of
culprit that did not often come before her.  Besides, if Arthur Spencer
had brought the girls to school once within her recollection, he had
done so fifty times.

But Arthur did not give time for this awful monosyllable to frame itself
into an objection.

"Miss Venning," he said, persuasively, "I'm doing no harm.  I daresay
you have often thought of it before; it couldn't be helped, you see, any
longer."

"Arthur," said Miss Venning, in a deep, full voice, somewhat appalling
to hear, "if you had anything particular to say to Miss Crofton, you
have ample opportunities without following her here."

Arthur did not look much discomfited.  Perhaps there was the slightest
turn in the formidable voice that showed that the humour of the
situation was not quite lost on the speaker.

He blushed, and then said, with a straightforwardness that few ladies
would have resisted:

"Miss Venning, I want to have Mysie for my wife, if my aunt and Hugh
will consent to our engagement.  I don't know when we began to think of
it, but I suppose to-day it--well--came to a head."

"And what does Mysie say?" said Miss Venning, still judicial, but
interested.  She considered Arthur Spencer a very promising young man.

"Mysie sees no objection, Miss Venning.  I didn't mean to take a
liberty, I'm sure, with the sacred precincts of the Manor House; but,
since it has happened so, I do wish you would let me consult you."

Whether this appeal was the result of a delicate tact, or of the
overflowing happiness that longed for sympathy, it caused Miss Venning
to walk along the path beside him, saying:

"Well?"

"Well," said Arthur, "you see how it is with us; and we have our lives
before us, and there is time for me to make myself worthy of Mysie's
money--I'll not say of herself," he added, with a little softening of
his confident voice.

"Well?" said Miss Venning again, with a yet deeper intonation.

"I have not hitherto made up my mind as to my profession," said Arthur.
"I hardly looked beyond the examination; but the Bank has always been my
destination, and you know my uncle's kindness marked out my career there
long ago."

"And haven't you any further ambition?" said Miss Venning, who thought
young men ought to push themselves.

"Why," said Arthur, "I don't like teaching, in which career my degree
would be of most use to me; and the bar is very slow work.  Hugh really
wants help; and, in short, Miss Venning, when life is so crowded and the
world so over-full I think if a man has the good luck to have a line
marked out for him he ought to stick to it, unless his tastes point very
decidedly the other way.  Besides, I like Oxley.  And I think," he
added, laughing and colouring, "I should say this under _any_
circumstances.  But if not, one must take life as a whole, you know."

Miss Venning thought Oxley Bank rather a flat ending to so creditable a
career as Arthur's had been; but then, on the other hand, it was
eminently safe and respectable, and, with this early marriage, would
effectually "keep him out of mischief."

"But what will your cousin say?" she asked.

"Why, I'm afraid he'll think it his duty to object a little.  But Hugh
is such a good fellow, and has always been so thoroughly kind to me, and
is so fair in judgment, that I am sure he will own I have as good a
right to try for the prize as anyone else.  It's very odd that he has
never looked out for himself.  But, dear me! he would be so awfully
particular!"

"Well, Arthur," said Miss Venning, "I approve of young men marrying.
It's far more necessary for them than for girls."

"One couldn't well manage it without a girl," murmured Arthur.

"So that," said Miss Venning, "it's well young women have different
opinions on the subject.  Go home, and take the responsibility off my
shoulders by telling your aunt at once."

"I'll never do it in your garden again, Miss Venning," cried Arthur, as
he left her with a very hearty shake of the hand.

Certainly life lay fair before and behind Arthur Spencer.  He was
clever, with the technical skill needed for the attainment of his
scholastic honours more developed than the general power behind it.
That is to say, all his brains--and they were good ones--had been given
to the composition of Greek and Latin, and to the acquirement of the
knowledge necessary to the attainment of a good degree.  He was
naturally active, and industrious; and ambition and conscience had both
urged him to do well the work that nature had made easy to him.  He had
won plenty of praise, which he liked exceedingly; and plenty of
popularity, which came so naturally that he was hardly conscious of it.
But he had hitherto taken life outside the schools very much for
granted; thought Hugh infallible on matters of business, and James an
oracle in matters of art.  Indeed, Arthur's power of appreciation was
one of his best points.  Unlike many of her sons, he loved and believed
in Oxford--perhaps because he had given her his best and she had well
repaid him; and, while there, his time and thoughts had been fully
occupied with the work before him.  At once affectionate and
self-reliant, he took readily to the independence that circumstances
indicated, and at a very early age took good care of himself.  And,
though there was no one in his boyhood to bestow on him exclusive
affection, his warm heart gave out enough to all to make his kindly home
a happy and sunny one.  For Arthur liked most people.  It had been said
with some truth that one person was much the same as another to him, he
"got on" so well with all.  It would be praising the gay untried boy far
too highly to say that he had a spirit of universal charity; but he did
possess a sort of loving-kindness, a gift in whose soil the greatest of
all graces might grow; an entire absence of depreciating ill-nature.

But Arthur himself had long known that for him the human race was
divided into two parts--Mysie and other people.

PART TWO, CHAPTER ELEVEN.

OXLEY MANOR.

  "Oh, so many, many, many maidens!"

Under the great walnut-tree on the lawn the three Miss Vennings were
assembled in consultation.  The Manor House possessed one of the most
enchanting gardens that the past has ever handed down to the present.
High walls shutting it in safe, on winch grew jessamine and wisteria and
sweet old-fashioned roses; a narrow path running round the lawn, and
leading away into vistas of shrubbery; while on the soft turf grew
beautiful trees, and, in especial, an immense walnut.  Miss Venning sat
on a garden-bench communicating to her sisters the important event that
had just electrified her maidenly precincts.

"It _was_ very inconsiderate of Arthur to select our garden-roller for
the purpose," said Miss Clarissa, the second of the trio.

"Why, Clarissa?  You don't suppose people settle the exact spot
beforehand!" said Miss Florence, the third.

Miss Florence, as she now aspired to be called, had been little Flossy
not many years back; and the thick bright hair of fairest
flaxen--"Flossy's tow," as her sisters called it--now twisted round her
head, had not so very long ago hung down her back in all its native
lustre.  She was a tall girl of twenty, with a fine open face, handsome
in form, and coloured with a pink--"as pink as pink ribbon," Clarissa
said--bright enough to allow for a little fading as the years went by;
and her blue eyes were full of thought and energy.  Young as she was,
everyone knew that she was a much greater power in the house than Miss
Clarissa, and was hardly second to Miss Venning herself.  All the girls
obeyed her; she was full of life and force to the very tips of her
strong, slender fingers; could learn better than the girls, teach better
than the governesses, thought school-keeping a vocation and not a
drudgery, and spent her half-holidays in the parish; was never ill,
never tired, and never unhappy; and possessed such a store of spirits
and energy that--to quote again from Clarissa--if Flossy was not marked
out for misfortune Nature had wasted a great deal of good stuff in the
making of her.

Flossy was Miss Venning's darling, and need never have corrected an
exercise nor set a sum if she had not been so minded; but she had
replied to the offer of freedom with scorn and contempt: "Did sister
think she should be happier for being idle?" and set to work with all
her might and main to "enlarge the minds and improve the tone" of her
sister's pupils, introducing new studies, new authors, and new ideas;
talking over Miss Venning--or sometimes, perhaps, talking her down--with
an equal amount of self-confidence and self-devotion.

In Miss Clarissa's girlish days no such possibility of freedom had been
offered to her.  Nine or ten years ago, during the long illness of their
mother, and while the brothers who filled up the wide gaps between the
three sisters had been yet unsettled in life, the circumstances of the
school had required more personal exertion; and when Clarissa was at the
end of her teens she had been too busy--teaching all the English, that
the resident governess might be French--to consider if it was desirable
for the pupils to read Thackeray or to learn Latin and Euclid.  Clarissa
was a good girl and did her duty; but now, at eight and twenty, she felt
as if life might have offered her something more than school-keeping.
She told Flossy that she should like to marry a Duke and drink chocolate
out of Sevres china--and the scandalised Flossy perceived neither the
twinkle of the sleepy blue eyes nor the wistful fall of the well-curved
mouth, the delicate prettiness of which gave to the small curly-haired
Clarissa a look of youth which neither the absence of Sevres china nor
the presence of young ladies had hitherto impaired.  Flossy's eyes were
always wide open and rarely twinkled, though they often laughed.

They brightened into a laugh now, as she repeated her remark--

"You don't suppose, Clarissa, that people settle the exact spot
beforehand!"

"Really, Flossy, my experience is limited; but, as Mary says, as Arthur
lives in the house with Mysie, I think he might have managed matters at
home."

"Oh, but," said Flossy, "now he has sister on his side, you see."

"Yes, Mary; you're in the scrape," said Clarissa.

"Really, my dear, I don't see that at all.  I am not responsible for
Miss Crofton now, beyond her German and music lessons."

"I suppose she might do much better," said Clarissa.

"She couldn't do better," said Florence, decidedly, in her full rich
voice.  Will it quite detract from Flossy's character for feminine
softness if it be owned that she spoke rather loud?  "Arthur has very
good prospects, and is the very nicest young man I know."

"Dear me!  Flossy," said Clarissa.  "I thought you considered matrimony
a mistake."

"By no means," emphatically returned Flossy; "when everything is
suitable and people are fond of each other.  I don't think I shall ever
wish to marry anyone myself; and how anyone can say life is wanting in
interest I can't conceive; but I should never be so absurd as to lay
down general principles.  That is where people fall into error.  And
besides," she concluded heartily, "anyone could see dear little Mysie
was fond of Arthur, and I am so glad she will be happy!"

"Well, there are more words than hers and Arthur's to that," said
Clarissa.

"Mrs Crichton never objects to anything," said Flossy; "and as for Mr
Crichton, surely he won't be so horrid."

"Well, _I_ could not help it," said Miss Venning.

"No," returned Flossy; "and as Mysie is not exactly a girl it doesn't
signify."

Mysie was eighteen and a week; but Flossy used the term "girl" in a
strictly technical sense.

"Dear me!" she continued, "my class will be waiting for me."  And as she
ran into the house Miss Venning looked after her.

"I think young men have very strange tastes," she said.

"Because _Flossy_ has no lovers?" said Clarissa, with a slight emphasis.

"Well, I am sure I do not want her to have any," returned Miss Venning,
with a smile at her sisterly partiality.

"Dear me, no, Mary!  Flossy won't be fit for a lover for five years at
least.  She has all the world to reform first!"

Miss Venning laughed as she went to tend her beautiful roses, and
Clarissa, left alone, wandered on till she sat down under an acacia
tree.  She threw herself back on the soft turf, and gazed up at the sky
through its veil of delicate dancing foliage, while she caught the
fast-falling white blossoms in her hand.  It was a childish attitude and
a childish action; but it may have been absently done, for she was still
smiling at the joke of the surprised lovers.  At last the smile trembled
and ceased, and she hid her face on the mossy turf.  Lying there on the
grass, with her little slim figure and curly head, she looked like a
girl escaped from school, fretting over her tasks or dreaming of fairy
princes.  But Miss Clarissa was twenty-eight, and a schoolmistress; and
had tasks to set instead of to learn, and no lovers to dream of, past,
present, or future.  So she soon sat upright, brushed off the acacia
blossoms, and went into the house to get ready for tea.

Meanwhile, Flossy had taken her way to the long sunny school-room, where
sat some twelve or fifteen girls reading Wilhelm Tell with the German
governess--all, save one or two, evincing in tone, look, or manner a
conviction that German and hot afternoons were incompatible elements.
There was a little brightening as Miss Florence paused on her way to the
dining-room, where her own class of younger ones were preparing their
lessons.  Mysie sat with her clear eyes fixed on her book, her soft
round face pinker than usual, her little figure very still, her pencil
in her hand.  Was she taking notes of the lesson?

"Have you written out your translation, Mysie?" said Flossy,
mischievously.

"No, Miss Florence," said Mysie, in formal school-girl fashion; but she
could hardly restrain her little quivering smile.

"These young ladies are idle, Miss Florence," said their teacher.

"That is very wrong of them," returned Flossy.  "There is only one
excuse for being idle--" then, as Mysie looked up with a start, she
added, "the hot weather."

Neither romance not hot weather interfered with Miss Florence's energy
over her German lesson, and the sleepy little schoolgirls had small
chance with their brisk young teacher.  A bell rang, Flossy fired a
concluding question at the sleepiest and stupidest, extracted an
entirely wrong answer, and, but slightly disconcerted--for was not she
used to it?--ran off to her room, arranged her dress, stuck a great red
rose in her hair, and came down to tea.

Miss Florence was much admired by her pupils, and had a sort of
half-sympathetic, half-genial pleasure in their admiration.  Besides,
her rose was as a flag to celebrate the festal occurrence of the
afternoon.  "I always like to wear pretty things when I feel jolly," she
would say; "and if ever you see me going about in a drab dress and a
brown veil you may be quite sure I've had a disappointment!"

"Then," said Clarissa, "if you buy that very pink silk I shall think you
have had an offer."

"Oh, no; think I don't want one."

Flossy crushed her rose under a big straw hat, when she was set free
after tea, and took her way merrily along the fields to Redhurst.  The
way was very pretty, and the evening lights very charming; but Flossy
scurried along, much too full of human nature to care for any other.
She had been half playfellow and half teacher to Mysie for years, and
had grown up in familiar intercourse with all the household, and was on
terms with Arthur of mutual lecturing and teasing.

Redhurst was a square, red house, with white facings; and stood in the
midst of pretty, park-like meadows, through which ran the shallow,
sedge-grown river, which, nearer Oxley, merged in the sleepy canal.  The
garden came down to the river's brim, and great white fierce swans and
little furry black ducks swam up and down under the willows.  The
field-path led to an old white stone bridge, looking like a small model
of one of those over the Thames, and across it Flossy came into the
garden which led up to a terrace and steps in front of the house.  So
far the garden was rather stiff and old-fashioned, but croquet hoops
profaned the soft turf, garden chairs and a tea-table enlivened the
terrace; a girl of fifteen, with a mane of dark rusty hair, stood on the
step, and a lady was sitting in the most comfortable of the chairs above
her.

Mrs Spencer Crichton was as like her son Hugh as a stout,
cheerful-looking lady of eight-and-forty can be to a grave young man of
eight-and-twenty.  She was pale and handsome and fair, and hardly looked
her age, so smooth was her brow, so contented her mouth, so ready the
smiles that came with equal kindliness for all the young ones who had
grown up under her easy sway.  It was said that the young people at
Redhurst were sadly spoiled--spoiled, that is to say, not by being the
objects of devoted affection or too partial admiration, but by being
allowed their own way to an extent incredible to more idealistic
mothers.  Whether from the absence of any very marked individual
affections, or from something of the same cast of mind that produced in
her eldest son such even-handed justice, she not only treated all her
young kinsfolk with the same kindness, but, so far as they knew, felt
for them much the same amount of interest.  She did not think it
incredible that Arthur should surpass James; or that, in the few
contentions that crossed their sunshiny life, Hugh should sometimes be
mistaken.  All were sure of a kind judgment, and often of a sense of the
rights of their story: none of them made a demand for an exclusive or
individual tenderness; for their bringing-up had made them independent.
Mrs Crichton did not trouble herself much as to whether their
idiosyncrasies were suitable or desirable or likely to lead to any one
result.  It was all right that Hugh should keep to his business; she did
not wish that James was as fond of books as Arthur, since he preferred
Art and a great deal of conversation.  George preferred rats and rabbits
to either.  "Well, poor George did not like his lessons."  Mysie liked
needlework, and flowers, and Sunday schools--"so good of little Mysie."
Frederica thought happiness consisted in a day's hunting.  "She was
growing up quite a different sort of girl."  But Mrs Crichton was not
at all surprised when George got flogged at school for not knowing the
lessons, observing "that George was so stupid he was always in scrapes;"
and when Frederica pouted, sobbed, and scowled when some special friend
called her a Tom-boy she only heard: "But you are a Tom-boy, my dear,"
as consolation.  And when in young enthusiasm, anyone brought his or her
special hobby into notice, he or she well knew that, though that hobby
might prance unrebuked through the family circle, it was regarded as
nothing but "so-and-so's hobby," whether it concerned the destinies of
the human race or the best way of laying-out flower-beds.  There are two
sides to everything.  It is very pleasant never to be scolded; but when
Hugh had laid down some law in a way that bore heavily on his juniors,
it was not always quite pleasant to hear his mother placidly say: "My
dear, don't resist, it's Hugh's way to be particular"--as if Hugh's way,
and not the thing itself, were all that mattered.  Still, light hearts
and good tempers had resulted from the kindly, peaceable rule, and the
young Spencers lived their own lives and took each other for granted.
Hugh might hope that his little Italian song-bird might be accepted as
"Hugh's way," and Arthur and Mysie need fear no opposition, either
tyrannical or conscientious, little as the necessity of each to the
other's life might be realised.

"Ah, Flossy," said Mrs Crichton, "I thought we should see you to-night.
I suppose Miss Venning told you of what she saw?"

"Yes," returned Flossy, rather shyly; "so I came to see Mysie."

"Mysie is somewhere.  I have told them they must wait in secrecy and
silence till Hugh comes home, or he will never forgive us."

"Then you don't object, Mrs Crichton?" said Flossy, eagerly.

"No.  Mysie might do better, perhaps, but there is no use in making her
miserable if she does not think so herself.  Surely people _must_ choose
for themselves in these matters," said Mrs Crichton, uttering this
sentiment--so often practically ignored--as if it were such a truism
that Flossy felt as if life was really so easy as to be quite flat.

"I am sure Arthur will get on," she said.

"Oh, yes; and I don't know a nicer fellow anywhere.  Dear children, how
surprised Hugh will be!  I wish he would follow their example.  But,
dear me!  I cannot expect him to see with my eyes.  There is Arthur!"

Arthur came up and exchanged a hearty squeeze of the hand and delighted
smile with Flossy.

"Mysie is in the garden," he said; "do come and find her."

"Oh, Arthur, I am so glad," cried Flossy, impulsively, as she walked
away with him.  "I am so glad that Mrs Crichton--"

"Aunt Lily?  I prepared several irresistible arguments, and felt as if--
well, as if I might have kept them for Hugh.  How kind she is!  But,
now, Flossy, you are unprejudiced; don't you think I shall make Mysie as
happy as that swell in the air who is supposed to loom in the future?"

"Now, how angry you would be if I did not say yes!  How can you expect
me to sacrifice your friendship to a disinterested regard for truth?"

"I want somebody to convince!  I feel as if I had been reading hard and
the examiners had asked me to decline `Dominus.'"

"Oh, Arthur, anyone may see where you have been lately.  How ungrateful
you are!"

"No, I am not, Flossy," said Arthur; "but I really feel as if I ought to
object to myself as a duty to the family."

"Do wait for your cousin," said Flossy; "he will do that duty for you,
no doubt.  No, I am _very_ glad."

"Thank you--thank you," said Arthur, pleased at the hearty sympathy in
her voice.  "Ah, there's Mysie, picking roses."

"Now, Arthur, do stay away for five minutes.  How can we talk with you
there to listen?"

"Well--make haste."

Flossy ran away from him and seized Mysie in a warm, and--considering
their respective sizes--somewhat overwhelming embrace.

"My little darling, it's delightful.  I always meant you to have a fairy
prince, and to think it should be Arthur!"

"I am very glad he is not a fairy prince," said Mysie, smiling.

"What is he, then?" cried Flossy.

"Why, Flossy," said Mysie, "I think he's only what old Miss Rogers used
to call `Mr Right.'"

PART TWO, CHAPTER TWELVE.

PROS AND CONS.

  "Go back, my lord, across the moor!"

Signor Mattei was coming out from a rehearsal.  He often told Violante
that her work was nothing to his; and, indeed, his violin was always in
its place in the orchestra.  His work was his life, he would have been
miserable without it; and yet, with a not uncommon inconsistency, he
liked to pity himself for having got it to do.  He was a man with an
ideal, with a dream that was very difficult of fulfilment; and, perhaps,
did not need sympathy less than the girl who suffered so much and
disappointed him so sorely.  Whatever may have been Signor Mattei's
youthful hopes, in the days when he had thrown away the chance of a more
eligible profession to follow the art he so loved, he had long been
forced to limit them to making a fair livelihood by it.  Aspirations are
not always capabilities; and, spite of self-devotion and enthusiasm and
much technical skill, he was not destined to rise to the top of the
tree.  He was not, indeed, great enough to do as he liked; and his
temper and touchiness often brought good engagements to a premature end;
and, though he had never hitherto failed in obtaining fresh ones, there
was an element of uncertainty in his fortunes.  However different things
might be with him from what he had once desired, Signor Mattei had not
been a discontented man.  Small successes which he would once have
despised were much pleasanter than small failures; and he had grown to
limit his desires to such as were possible of fulfilment; when ambition,
desire of gain, and burning enthusiasm were all reawakened by the
discovery of Violante's wonderful voice.  Here was his chance again.
His daughter's name should be heard in every capital in Europe: the
fortunes of the whole family should be assured.  What sacrifices were
too great, what toil too arduous by which the possessor of this glorious
gift could turn it to account!  If such a voice had belonged to
Violante's father how he would have gloried and rejoiced, how he would
have worked early and late, how intoxicating would have been the success
that crowned his efforts!  People bear much harder on each other by the
inevitable workings of their alien natures than by wilful selfishness or
cruelty.  Violante and her father made each other miserable; yet he was
anxious to give her what would have been to himself the greatest good,
and she wore herself out in trying to obey and to please him.  It is not
easy for a bystander to judge between distaste and incapacity; it is
difficult to say which is the most provoking.  No amount of idleness on
Violante's part would have so provoked her father as did her
unenthusiastic performance of the amount of study required of her, her
tears and terror when she achieved a success.  Such folly _must_ be
curable by a sufficient amount of scolding and argument.  A person
_must_ enjoy what is enjoyable when the advantage is pointed out to them
with sufficient strength.  And Violante had been just successful enough
to make her father believe that it entirely depended on herself to
succeed better still.  Violante thought this belief cruel; and Rosa,
standing between both, while she prevented either from feeling the very
sharpest edge of the other's opinion, if she pitied her little sister
the most, to a certain extent sympathised with Signor Mattei.

So much for sentiment.  Violante was unworthy of her gift, but she
possessed it, and it brought substantial gains, much needed; for in a
life with so many ups and downs Signor Mattei had not held himself free
from debt.  Besides, no engagement had ever suited him so well as his
present one, and was not that confirmed to him by Signor Vasari's
interest in his young _prima donna_?  If Violante married the manager
_her_ success was certain, and the fortunes of the whole family were
assured; but if Vasari were offended there was an end of everything.

Her gains for her present engagement would belong to her father; and he
felt, though he would not own, that there was enough uncertainty about
her future to make the solid good of her marriage most desirable.  And
Signor Vasari had just made the flattering suggestion that Mdlle.
Mattei's timidity and reluctance might be in part owing to a maidenly
coyness and consciousness towards himself.  Once acknowledged as his
_promessa sposa_ she would gain courage and self-confidence.  Signor
Mattei joyously pledged himself to do everything in his power to favour
the manager's views.  Art, fame, and fortune all smiled upon him; and no
experience could make Signor Mattei believe that Violante was so unlike
other girls as not to view such a proposal with rapture.  Full of this
pleasing prospect he was walking hastily home from the theatre to his
own dwelling, when he was accosted by Hugh Crichton, who begged the
favour of a few words with him.

Hugh was courteous and deferential, but he had no expectation that his
proposal would not be received with pleasure; and was desirous, since he
must speak to Signor Mattei, to have so far committed himself before he
again encountered his brother, whose co-operation when he reached home
he felt that he could not altogether afford to despise.  Spite, however,
of his not unnatural confidence in the result, he felt very hot and shy;
blundered through a few unintelligible sentences; tried Italian, with a
view of being polite; forgot the Italian for "daughter," "proposal," for
every thing; and finally, with startling abruptness, hoped in plain
English that Signor Mattei would consent to his engagement to his
daughter.  Signor Mattei stopped short in the street, struck an attitude
of astonishment, and loudly exclaimed:

"Signor Hugo!  Do my ears deceive me?"

"No, sir, assuredly not," said Hugh, much discomposed at the sudden
standstill.  "I have long admired la signorina Violante, and to-day I
have ventured to tell her so."

"Tell her so! tell her so!" ejaculated Signor Mattei.  "Tell her so, in
her father's absence!  Signor, is this the conduct I could expect?"

"If I have acted in ignorance of Italian customs," said Hugh, "your long
residence in England must have informed you that in coming to you at
once I have done all that is required by our own.  If you will walk on,
sir," for Signor Mattei was still figuring about on the pavement in a
way that worried all the sense out of Hugh's head, "I will explain
myself further."

Signor Mattei, who had really been taken utterly by surprise by Hugh's
application, and was not undesirous to gain a little time for
consideration, bowed profoundly and walked on by Hugh's side; while the
latter, who, with all his desire to make a good impression, felt
irritated by his companion's way, began stiffly:

"I should tell you, Signor Mattei, that I am in all respects my own
master, and quite independent of everyone.  I am not afraid that my
mother will not give Mdlle.  Mattei a welcome; and of my own feelings, I
assure you, sir, they are most--most strong.  I love her, and I hope I
shall make her happy--happier than she can be in a profession to which
she is so unsuited."

Hugh was a good speaker, and generally said what he had to say on all
public and private occasions with perfect fluency and distinctness; but
his eloquence foiled him now, and he coloured up and looked entreatingly
at Signor Mattei as he made this false step.

"Unsuited to her profession, signor! unsuited to her profession!  Do you
mean to insult my daughter?"

"I mean that the profession is unsuited to her," said Hugh, not mending
matters.

"Signor, she has been dedicated to my beloved art from her earliest
years.  Music is her vocation, as in a lesser--I am proud to say in a
lesser--degree it is mine."

Hugh was not naturally conciliatory; and to listen patiently to what he
considered such nonsense, uttered with a flash of the eyes that proved
its sincerity, jarred upon him so much that there was as much annoyance
as entreaty in his voice as he answered:

"I venture to set myself up as a rival to your art, and I ask you for--
Violante.  Indeed, I don't think she will regret the fame she gives up."

Hugh was so sure that it was better for Violante to marry him, an
English gentleman, than to sing at all the operas in Europe, he felt
that he was making so good an offer, and yet he wanted her so much, that
the humility born of passionate desire conquered his sense of his own
merits, and he finished pleadingly:

"If I can help it she never shall."

"Signor, my daughter is already promised, and the arrangements for her
marriage will shortly be begun."

"That is impossible," exclaimed Hugh; "she has given her promise to me."

"Her promise?" cried Signor Mattei; "the promise of a little, foolish,
most foolish, girl!  No, sir, she knows what my views are, and she is
Signor Vasari's promised wife."

"She knows!"  She--the loving, trustful child whom he had seen kiss his
white flowers, who had given herself to him without one word of
misgiving.  Impossible, indeed.

"She shall not be sacrificed," cried Hugh, in his turn stopping short.
"She has told me that she loves me.  Whatever you may have intended her
to do is without her will or knowledge."

Now, in thus asserting Violante's individuality Hugh made a great
mistake.  The Italian father did not think that it made much difference
if Violante had told Hugh that she loved him twenty times.  It was his
part to arrange a marriage for her; and her little wishes, her foolish
tongue, went for nothing.

"I do not believe Mademoiselle Mattei is aware of your wishes," said
Hugh again, hotly.

Now this was an assertion which Signor Mattei could fairly face.
Violante _was_ well aware of her father's wishes.  That she was involved
in any positive promise she could not know, insomuch as the promise had
been made for her at the very time when she had been making a far
different one for herself.  Nor had she fully known her danger, since
Rosa, for the sake of peace and composure, had carefully kept the
subject out of sight.

"Nevertheless, she is aware of them," said Signor Mattei; and while Hugh
paused, silenced for the moment, he went on, not without dignity:

"Signor, I thank you.  Your proposal honours my little girl, and honours
you, since you mean to sacrifice much to win her.  But I know your
country and your manners, and I will not give up my daughter.  Your
noble ladies will not receive her well."

"There is nothing of the sort--we have no rank at all," interposed Hugh,
"and I will answer for my mother."

"My daughter, sir, has a great future before her; she shall not
sacrifice it.  She shall not marry out of her class and away from her
country and give up what Fortune has laid at her feet.  Your fancy,
Signor, will pass as it came, and hers--pshaw--she has nothing strong in
her but her voice, her voice of an angel."

Signor Mattei was a single-minded man, though he had not dealt singly
with Hugh.  The good match for his daughter shrank to nothing compared
to the career from which it would shut her out.  That underneath lurked
some consciousness of the advantage to himself is true; but never would
he have dreamed of claiming any like advantages from this other suitor.

Hugh walked on by his side pale and bewildered, a horrible doubt of
Violante weakening his arguments and chilling his entreaties.  At last
he said, desperately, "Signor Mattei, after what has passed I cannot
take my answer from you.  She told me nothing of a former promise.  She
must tell me that she has made none, and then I swear to you her life
shall have none of the trials you dread.  I will either go home and
bring you my mother's words of welcome--my mother herself," he
continued, rashly, "or I will seek no consent at all--none is needed.  I
would marry her to-morrow if you care for such a test."

"You in England, Signor, may marry spite of a parent's curse."

"Curse! nonsense," said Hugh, impatiently.

"But here a father's word is enough.  She _can_ give you no answer but
mine."

"I will have an answer from her," said Hugh; "and if she can tell me she
is not promised to that fellow I will never give her up till--till I
have persuaded you to take a different view of this."

"But she is promised, sir, and I refuse to entertain your proposals for
her."

"She never told me so!"

"She is timid," said Signor Mattei, with a shrug, "timid, and, like all
girls, a fool.  Enough; I can say no more, Signor.  I have the honour to
wish you good evening."  And, with a rapidity for which Hugh was
unprepared, Signor Mattei darted down a side street, and left him to
himself.

Baffled as he was, Hugh did not mean to rest satisfied with his answer.
He could not believe that the opposition would hold out after he had
proved himself to be thoroughly in earnest.  If only the horrible doubt
of Violante's own fair dealing could be removed!--and removed it should
be the first time he had the chance of a word with her.  For Hugh was
not a suspicious person, and it would have been hard indeed to doubt the
shy yet passionate tenderness of Violante's voice and face.  He did not
understand the entanglement, but he was not going to convict her without
a trial.  Still, this later interview had effectually brought him down
to earth; and he went back to the Consulate with the arguments which
were to bring James over to his side by no means in such order as he had
hoped.  He found the ladies drinking coffee and James discoursing on the
delights of his afternoon ramble.

"I assure you, Miss Tollemache, she had eyes like a gazelle, and her
smile--there was intelligence and intellect in it; you could see by the
way that she smiled that she had a mind, you know."

"But flower-girls always do smile, Mr Crichton."

"Ah, but how different this was from the made-up smiles you see in
England--such a sense of art, too, in her white handkerchief--no hats
and feathers.  She only said, `Grazie, signor!' but there was a sort of
recognition, you know, of one's interest in her."

"I shall go and look at her," said Emily.

"Now, if one lived in a simpler state of society," pursued Jem, "what
curious intercourse one might have with such a being--how much she might
add to one's knowledge of existence!  How one can imagine the great men
of old--Raphael in search of the Beautiful--dancing in the evening!  Oh,
Hugh, I didn't see you!  Where have you been?"

"Where have _you_ been would be more to the point," retorted Hugh.  "In
one of Bulwer's novels?"

"He has fallen in love with a flower-girl," said Emily.

"Emily, my dear," said her mother, "Mr Crichton was only describing an
artistic effect.  It is very desirable to cultivate a love of nature."

"Very," said Jem.  His enthusiasm had been perfectly genuine, though he
had not been without a desire to interest his audience; and he could not
resist a side glance at Hugh, who looked hot and cross.

"Have you seen any flower-girls, Mr Crichton?" said Emily, wickedly.

"No, Miss Tollemache, nothing so interesting;" and then a sudden sense
of the extreme falsity of his words came over him; and he blushed in a
violent, foolish way, which completed his annoyance with things in
general.

James saw the blush and knew that something had happened.  He did not,
how ever, quite like to question his brother; and when the ladies left
them they went out on the balcony and for some time smoked in silence.

At last Hugh knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and said, in a formal,
uncomfortable tone:

"James, I have made a proposal to Mdlle.  Mattei."

"The deuce you have!" ejaculated Jem.

"And what did she say?"

"She accepted it.  But, Jem, you may entirely disabuse your mind of the
idea that there has been any attempt to--to catch me; for her father has
just given me to understand that he will not consent to it."

"What! he prefers the manager!"

"So he says."

"And she doesn't?"

"No," very shortly.  "But I cannot suppose that if he was fully aware of
the genuineness of my intentions and knew that my mother would receive
her--In short, Jem, another person's words--"

"Another person?  Do you mean me?  Answer for mamma?  I declare, Hugh,
that's a little too much.  You're going to raise such a row at home as
was never heard of, and you want me to help you!"

Hugh said nothing, and James's momentary perturbation subsided.

"This is good!" he said.  "_You_ wanting help!  Did you ever live in
Oxley, Hugh, or is it all a mistake?  `Jones at the opera abroad' _is_
so _very_ unlike `Jones at the opera at home.'"

"I am in earnest, Jem," said Hugh, as James did all the laughing at his
own joke.

"It's a great mistake being in earnest," said Jem.  "Here have you
spoilt all your fun by it."

"I don't understand you."

"Why," said Jem, mischievously.  "Of course, Violante was intended to
amuse you during your holiday.  A little sentiment--study of life."

"I have asked Mdlle.  Mattei to be my wife," interrupted Hugh, in a tone
of high offence.

"I beg your pardon," said Jem, after a moment's pause.  "I'll be
serious.  So Signor Mattei is the difficulty?  H'm!  How far do you
suppose he is involved with this dangerous rival?"

"That is what I cannot make out.  He says that she, Violante, is engaged
to him but she never mentioned his name."

"Told you nothing about him?"

"No.  So the question is," said Hugh, in a voice that he tried hard to
keep at an even level, "the question is, who is deceiving me?"

"Both and neither," returned Jem.  "What?"

"I dare say she likes you best, and thinks she will try to get out of
her previous entanglement."

"She should have spoken the truth," said Hugh, frowning.

"Come, Hugh, that's expecting a great deal of a poor little frightened
thing like that, and an Italian, too.  What would you have?"

"You did not see her?" said Hugh.

James looked at him, and saw that his hand shook as he put his pipe back
into its case while he kept his face turned away.

"What shall you do?" he said.

"Find out," returned Hugh, "and act accordingly."

He walked away as he spoke.  James did not suppose it likely that
Violante would come out of the ordeal with such flying colours as to
satisfy his brother; and, though he was very little inclined to judge
the poor child harshly, he could not help hoping that here was a way of
escape for Hugh from a most unlucky prepossession, though, as he was
forced to acknowledge, at the cost of considerable pain.

PART TWO, CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

CONTRARY WINDS.

  "Oh, well for him whose will is strong!"

"Rosa! you were mistaken!  He loves me--he says so.  Oh, I am so happy--
he is so good!" cried Violante, as she ran to meet her sister and threw
herself into her arms.  Timid as the southern maiden might be she had
none of the proud, reticent "shamefastness" that would have led an
English girl to conceal her joy even from herself.  It was all right and
natural; and as Rosa, aghast, dropped into a chair she knelt beside her,
her sweet, pathetic eyes and lips transfigured as a flower by the sun.

"What did he say to you?" exclaimed Rosa.

"He loves me--he is coming back again.  He does not mind about my
singing--Ah, I cannot tell you," and the bright face drooped with sudden
bashfulness.

"Oh!" cried Rosa, passionately, as she pulled off her hat and fanned
herself with it; "what a foolish world this is!  What has he said? what
has he done?" she repeated, almost fiercely.

"He asked me to marry him," said Violante, with a sort of dignity.

"Oh, dear! he is a very foolish young man.  What is to come of it?--what
_can_ come of it?  Nothing but trouble."

Violante gazed at her, mute and frightened; then her face brightened
with an incredulous smile.

"Oh, if you had never seen him!"

"Rosa!" cried Violante, springing to her feet, "rather than that, I
would be miserable for ever--rather than _that_, I would die."

"Because you are as silly as the rest!  Oh, you unlucky child! don't you
see that it is impossible?  Either he will go back to his own people and
they will talk him out of it, or he will marry you in spite of them.
But no, he shall never do that!"

"But he said it would be right," said Violante; then, as Rosa laughed
bitterly, she went on, pleadingly: "Oh, Rosa mia, it is you who are
silly.  _He_ will make it right.  Indeed, I am happy; but I cannot bear
to see you cry.  I will act, I shall not care now, and you must keep
father from being vexed."  There was much in Violante's speech of the
unconscious selfishness of one to whom the part of comforter was a
strange reversion of ordinary life; but her caresses were very sweet to
Rosa, who, recovering herself with an effort, said:

"Well, Violante, you can't expect me to believe in him as you do!  I
never thought it would come to this!"

"But, Rosa, you will not try to stop it?"  Rosa hesitated.  Even
supposing Hugh entirely faithful, what doubtful happiness lay before her
sister; and, if not, what a blank of disappointment, what hopeless
injury, what misery how unendurable to the girl who shrank and trembled
at a harsh word!

Rosa sat upright and gazed straight before her, while Violante watched,
unable to understand her face.

"No!" at length she exclaimed, "you must take your chance with the rest
of us.  How can I or anyone help it?  But--but--I'll never stop anyone's
love--oh, my little darling, my little darling!" and Rosa broke down
into tears, hiding her face in the girl's soft hair.

"Rosa, you think I could not bear any trouble; but I could--for him."

There was a new fervour in her voice, and Rosa yielded to it.  "Oh, I
hope you will be happy," she said.

"Why, you see I am happy!" said Violante, with a childish laugh.
"Father is late; let us have some coffee--you are so hot and tired, I
will get it.  There is no terrible opera to-night.  Maddalena!
Maddalena!"

"Ah! signorina, _I_ know who nearly broke the china bowl."

"Why, _I_ did, Maddalena!  _I_ threw it down," said Violante, as she
tripped about after the old woman, whose gold hair-pins were quivering
with sly triumph.  "But it is quite safe--not a crack in it."

The coffee was finished; the bright, hot sun went down; and the sisters
sat long by the open window in the warm, pleasant twilight.  Violante
fell into dreamy silence; Rosa also.  But there was a great gulf between
their meditations, though they were thinking of the same subject and,
partly, of the same person.

"There's father!" cried Violante, as a step sounded.  "Oh, I will run
away, and you shall tell him."

"No, no, you little coward; he will be sure to ask for you--stay a
minute."

Violante leant back against the window-sill, her eyes drooping, her
breast heaving, and yet her face flushing and dimpling,--the new
confidence almost conquering the old fear.  Rosa looked far the more
frightened of the two.  Signor Mattei's step came up the great staircase
quick as a boy's; he seemed almost to skate across the polished floor,
so instantaneously did he bear down on his daughters.  In a moment his
roll of music was cast aside in one direction, his great white umbrella
in another; and, with accents rising every moment into higher
indignation, he exclaimed: "Violante, what folly is this that I hear?
Is this what all your idleness and obstinacy mean?  I'll not hear a word
of it.  A lover, indeed!  Never let me hear of it again!"

Violante stood breathless, but Rosa interposed:

"Has Mr Crichton been talking to you, father?"

"Ay, and a fine story he brought me.  Talking of promises, indeed!  How
dare she dream of making promises?  And you--what have you been doing?
Taking care of your sister?  No!  No!  Encouraging her in disobedience
and deceit!"

Now Signor Mattei was wont, on all occasions of domestic disturbance, to
relieve his feelings by the most voluble scoldings that the Italian
temperament could suggest and the Italian tongue express.  Had Violante
broken the china bowl she would probably have heard nearly as many
reproaches; but no amount of experience ever accustomed her to these
outbreaks; and, though practically she had never been ill-treated, she
feared her father far more than: he guessed; while Rosa usually answered
him back more promptly than respectfully, and, loving him better than
Violante did, often ended by having her own way.  Now she said:

"Why are you angry with Violante, father?  She has done nothing wrong.
Is it her fault if Mr Crichton loves her and has asked her to marry
him?"

"Asked her--asked _her_!  How dared he ask _her_?  Now, most undutiful,
most ungrateful child, how long has this conspiracy lasted?"

"He came to-day," stammered Violante.

"To-day?  You tell me this folly has begun to-day!  You, who have been
secretly sighing for this stranger, sighing for him instead of singing!
Ah--shame on you!--tell me--tell me--_tell me_!" in a rapid _crescendo_,
as he seized her wrist and pulled her towards him.

Violante burst into tears.

"Father! how can you speak to her so?" cried Rosa.  "Let her go--and I
will tell you.  Mr Crichton never said a word to her till to-day.  Why
will you not consent to their encasement?"

"Because I know my duty as a father better.  But it is all over.  Do you
hear, Violante?  I have ended it for ever!"

"Oh, father," cried Violante, holding out her hands imploringly, "I will
not neglect my singing, I will practise all day long; but you would
break my heart--oh, dear father, I love him;" and the poor child, with
unwonted courage, went up to her father and put her arms round his neck
with a look and gesture that, could she have called them up at will,
would have settled her stage difficulties for ever.

"No, Violante!"  Signor Mattei said.  "You know what my wish has been.
You were not free to promise yourself; and to-day I have made my
arrangements with Signor Vasari and have promised you to him."

"Father, father, I would kill myself first!" cried Violante, dropping on
her knees and hiding her face.  "Oh, Rosa--Rosa--help me!"

"Hugh, hush, my child.  Stand up and control yourself," said Rosa, with
English dislike to a scene--a kind of self-consciousness shared by
neither father nor sister.  "Go away--go into our room.  I will talk to
father first."

Violante rushed away with her hands over her face, and then the other
two prepared for war.

Signor Mattei divested himself of his neck-tie, rubbed his hands through
his hair, marched up and down the room, and said:

"Now, Rosa, be reasonable, be dutiful, and hear what I have to say."

Rosa sat down by the table, with a red spot on each cheek, and took up
her knitting.

"Yes, father, that is just what I wish.  I want to know what has
happened."

"Am I a cruel father?  Do I beat or starve you, or do I work all day for
my ungrateful children?"

"I think you were cruel to Violante, father, when you called her
deceitful."

"Violante is a little fool.  Now, once for all, Rosa, I will have no
disputes.  This very day I have promised her to Vasari."

"Father!" cried Rosa, in high indignation.  "It is one thing to forbid
her engagement to Mr Crichton, and quite another to insist on her
marrying Vasari.  _I_ would not stand it."

"But you, figlia mia, have the sense to decide for yourself," said
Signor Mattei, with a little flattery inexpressibly provoking to the
downright Rosa.  "Your sister is a child, and cannot judge.  Consider.
This young Englishman goes home.  The proud ladies of his house would
see him mouldering in his grave before they blessed his betrothal."

"I don't believe they would be so ridiculous!  And he is quite
independent.  But I agree with you, father, that it would be a very
unfortunate thing if he married her without his friends' consent, and
what we could not agree to.  But he speaks confidently of being able to
gain it."

"He speaks!" echoed Signor Mattei, with scorn.  "He speaks!  He goes
home--he sees his folly.  Flattered by the flowers of his own
aristocracy will he remember Violante?"

"I don't believe he has anything to do with the aristocracy!  Of course,
father, I see _all_ the risks--they are fearful ones; but the other way
is such certain misery," said Rosa, faltering.  "How will she bear it!"

"Rosa, I am surprised at you.  Can you not see the benefits of this
marriage?"

"Yes, I know all that," said Rosa, sturdily.  "I know, _if_ she could
make up her mind to it, it would be a very good thing for her and for
all of us.  But, father, married or single, she will never make an
actress, it will kill her; and she _hates_ Vasari."

Then Signor Mattei's patience fairly gave way.

"Hates him!  Don't tell me of anything so absurd.  How many girls, do
you think, have hated their suitors and been happy enough!  _That_ is no
reason."

In spite of Rosa's English breeding she had seen instances enough of the
truth of this remark not to have an instant contradiction ready.  It
_might_ turn out well; which was all that could be said in favour of
Hugh Crichton; and yet Rosa felt that, had she been Violante, she would
have willingly risked her all in favour of that one glorious
possibility.  "But it doesn't always pay," she thought, and while she
hesitated, thinking how such a risk had once been run and run in vain,
her father spoke again.

"Now, Rosa, listen.  Mild as a lamb in daily life, in emergencies I am a
lion; and my will is law, you cannot change it.  Violante shall be
Vasari's wife.  I have promised, I will perform."  Here Signor Mattei
struck his hand on the table in a highly effective manner.  "She will be
raised above all the uncertainties of our profession, need not work
beyond her strength, and we shall share in her success.  To this she
must agree, and if you will not promise to see that she does so I shall
send her to Madame Cellini's."

Madame Cellini was a fine old opera-singer who had married and settled
in Civita Bella.  She had shown much kindness to the motherless girls
and had not been an injudicious friend to them; but her contempt for
Violante's fears and her strenuous efforts to rouse her to a sense of
her privileges had rendered her instructions and herself an object of
dread; and Rosa answered, after a pause:

"I will promise to remain neutral.  If Violante can be happy without
Hugh Crichton I had far rather she did not marry him.  But if she is
sent away or too much coerced she will be utterly unable to act.  Let
her alone, and I don't suppose she will hold out very long."

"You will send no letters or messages?"

"No," said Rosa; "I promise that I will not.  I shall leave her to
herself."

To herself!  To her weak will and her cowardly spirit!  How long would
they hold out?

Rosa went in search of her; and, as Violante sprang towards her
exclaiming,--

"Oh, Rosa, you will help me!" she held her back.

"No, Violante, I cannot help and I will not hinder you.  Father is
determined, and you must do it, if do it you will, all yourself.  If I
move a finger, you will be sent away from me; but I will not try to
persuade you either way."

Violante stood still, with despair in her face.  How could she resist
her father for an hour?  She crept away to bed, at Rosa's suggestion;
received her kisses with passive absence of offence; and, as she hid her
face on her pillow, thought not of self-support but of the only help
left to her.  "_He_ will come again to-morrow--they will listen to
_him_."

PART TWO, CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

LEFT TO HERSELF.

  "As we have met, we shall not meet again
  For ever, child, for ever!"

Left to herself!  In the early morning Violante's senses awoke from the
confusion of disturbed and dreamy sleep; and, with burning eyes and
throbbing temples, she sat upright and tried to think "for herself."

"_He_ will come and persuade father."  She repeated this watchword over
and over again to herself; but the new confidence could hardly combat
the old experience, and she could not realise that "father" would be
over-persuaded--even by her lover.  Childish as Violante was she had
grown up too much in the constant discussion of ways and means not to be
quite aware of the worldly advantages of Signor Vasari's offer.  Those
attaching to Hugh Crichton's were like a dim and distant dream, scarcely
to be realised; nor had she, in the abstract, any sense that she would
be unfairly treated by being deprived of her right of choice.  Perhaps
no creature ever entered on a conflict with less hope of success.  She
felt so sure that neither prayers nor tears would move her father that
she never thought of trying their effect; while Signor Vasari seemed
still more inexorable.  If Hugh did not somehow set it right for her
what remained but submission?  "I had rather die; but I shall be so
frightened, I shall say yes," she thought.  "They have always made me do
what they wish.  I could not help it!  There's no one to help me--no
one!"  Her cowardice and weakness had been so often cast in the poor
child's teeth that she had lost every scrap of confidence in her own
powers.  Her father said, "You _shall_ give in," Rosa said, "You cannot
hold out;" and Violante knew nothing of a Strength not her own, of a
Hand that would hold hers more firmly than sister's or lover's.  Her
love was the strongest thing about her: would it hold her up?  She
thought with a kind of ardour of resisting and refusing, of holding out
and dying rather than yielding.  But all the time she knew that she
should yield; that she could not act and sing between the two fires of
father and suitor; that the long days of conflict would not kill her all
at once, but would each one be very miserable and hard to endure, and
would each one wear out a little of her strength.  For Violante had some
experience of troublous times, and knew very well what it meant to be
unhappy and in disgrace.

"He will come; he will help me."  She pushed aside the thought of what
was to follow and resolved to please her father as much as possible, in
the hope of protracting matters till Hugh should have time to interfere.
So, to Rosa's surprise, she appeared in a clean muslin dress and a pink
ribbon and sat down to sing her scales, instead of lying in bed and
crying, as inclination would have prompted.  Nay, she carried her father
his cup of chocolate, and kept her hand from trembling as he took it
from her.  Signor Mattei viewed all this as betokening intended
submission: Rosa was puzzled.  For the first time she could not
understand Violante.

The morning hours wore away; there was, fortunately, no rehearsal.
Violante sat in the window with some knitting in her lap.  She did not
say one word to Rosa of her fears or her intentions.  Steps came up the
stairs and across the corridor, and Signor Mattei ushered in the great
Vasari himself.  Rosa started up and came forward to receive him.
Violante shrank into her corner; she grew white and cold, but she set
her mouth, and under her long eyelashes her eyes looked hard and
strange.

"Signor," said Signor Mattei, "here is my daughter.  I give her to you
with profound pleasure, and assure you that she is sensible of the
honour of your choice."

Violante spoke not a word.  She rose up, obedient to her father's eye,
and, perhaps, somewhat urged by the long habit of obedience to the
manager.  She dared not utter the refusal on her lips.  What would they
do to her; what would they say?  It was better to submit--to submit till
_he_ came.  Signor Vasari took her by the hand, bowed profoundly, and
offered to her a handsome diamond cross and chain of pearls.

"Permit me, Signorina; they were the jewels of a princess."

He fastened it on her neck, and then, putting his arm around her, drew
her towards him as he had done before now--on the stage.  Violante
started and lifted her eyes.  There stood Hugh Crichton within the door,
his eyes fixed on her, his face as pale as hers.

"Signor Mattei, you were right, and I thank you," he said in English,
and in a hard, fierce voice.  Then he turned and was gone, before anyone
spoke a word.

Suddenly Violante wrenched herself out of Vasari's grasp.  She pulled
the cross off her neck, scattering the pearls far and wide as she threw
it on the floor.

"I hate you!" she said, "I hate you!  And if you marry me I will kill
you."

"Signorina!" ejaculated the astonished manager.

"Violante, Violante!" cried Rosa.

"I hate, you!" she repeated, and then she threw herself on her knees.

"Father, father, father, kill me, kill me first."

"Ungrateful, wicked child, you are driving a dagger into my breast!"
cried Signor Mattei.

"I am deceived, I am deceived, but I will have my rival's blood!"
exclaimed Vasari.

"Signor Vasari, you are treading on that cross and spoiling it," said
Rosa.  "Violante, for shame!  You don't know what you say."

"I do know," said Violante; but the quick reaction was coming, and she
let Rosa lift her up and cowered into her arms, trembling and shivering.
Her defiance was over, and had come, like the actions of most cowards,
five minutes too late.

"Signor Vasari," said Rosa, "I think you had better leave us and--and--
come again when my sister is more herself.  I will pick up the pearls,
and--and, father, isn't that best?"

"La Signorina has no lack of passion when it suits her turn," said
Vasari, with a sneer.  "Yes, I will go--but, as to coming again, that is
another matter."

Then Signor Mattei broke out into a perfect storm of invective and
adjuration, calling the Saints to witness his own honest dealing, and
speaking of and to Violante in terms of such anger and contempt as were
hardly calculated to excuse her to her lover.  Violante shook like a
leaf, but made no attempt at an answer, and Rosa at last pulled her away
from the room, leaving her father still in the full flow of his
eloquence and Signor Vasari stiff and upright with offended dignity, yet
casting involuntary and half-unconscious glances at his scattered
pearls.

Hugh Crichton, on the other hand, had suffered since his interview with
Signor Mattei, from a kind of doubt, not unnatural to a man treading on
unknown ground.  He would have had far more confidence in Violante had
she been the Miss Katie Clinton whose cause his mother advocated, little
as he would have believed anyone who had echoed the sentiment; and when
Mr Tollemache came in before dinner and said that all the world was
talking of Mademoiselle Mattei's great good luck in her encasement to
Signor Vasari, Hugh turned visibly pale, and James said:

"Is it a fact or a rumour, Mr Tollemache?"

"A fact, I believe.  I had it from young Contarini, who haunts the
musical world; and he said Vasari had told him of it himself."  Neither
looked at Hugh, who sat still for a moment and then got up and went
away.  James could not help a look of consternation, and Mr Tollemache
said:

"I assure you, Crichton, I had no notion anything serious was going on.
Hugh's the last fellow I should have suspected of--of--"

"Making such a fool of himself?" said James.  "Well--you see he never
could take things in moderation."

"He's well out of the scrape, in my opinion."

"Yes, poor old boy, I suppose he is.  The rest of us are, at any rate."

Dinner passed, of course, with no reference to the subject; nor did Hugh
mention it till the next morning, when, alone with Jem, he said, with a
nervous laugh but an odd twitch in his voice:

"Jem, you profess to understand young women.  Which should you have said
was the favoured one?"

Jem was driven into a corner.  He certainly had thought that Violante
had favoured Hugh.  He thought so still, and felt pretty sure that she
was not a free agent; but he did not wish to say so, and yet he could
not but be touched by the eager wistful look with which Hugh regarded
him.

"Well," he said, "I thought she looked graciously on you; but you see
the--"

"If so," interrupted Hugh, "I'd marry her to-morrow, spite of them all."

"Good heavens, Hugh!" cried Jem.  "Don't think of such a thing!  I don't
believe Tollemache would consent.  It's impossible!"

"Tollemache?"

"British Consul, you know.  You _can't_ get married out here as if it
was Gretna Green; and I won't have a hand in it; I declare, Hugh, I
won't," cried Jem.  "It's all very well, but I won't, you know; and
there's an end of it."

"I did not ask you," said Hugh, coldly, but becoming conscious that to
marry Violante without the consent of her friends or his was, under the
circumstances, utterly impossible.

He said no more to James, but resolved to see Violante once again at all
hazards.  How he saw her, and what effect the scene he beheld had on a
mind already full of doubts and suspicions, has been already told.
Anger, intensified by the recollection of how he had once before been
treated, swallowed up every other feeling.  He went back to the
Consulate and met his brother on the stairs.

"I shall go home, Jem," he said.  "I cannot stay here.  You can explain
and follow when you like.  Yes, it's all at an end.  Never speak of it
any more."

James could obtain no word of explanation--no single particular--as he
tried to help Hugh to pack up his things and to arrange some decent sort
of leave-taking.  Hugh was too desperate to care who was surprised at
his proceedings.  The ladies were out, and he wrote three lines of
courteous thanks to Mrs Tollemache, but wished her son good-bye without
any reason given, and never gave his brother a chance of sympathising
with or restraining him.

"I am going straight home," he said, as he went away.

"Well!" exclaimed Mr Tollemache, "who could have expected such a
tornado?"

"Oh," said Jem, "Hugh never could take circumstances into consideration.
I believe the poor little thing was as much in love with him as she
knew how.  How could he expect her to tell the truth about the manager?
Of course she liked Hugh, and of course she told fibs, and now she will
cry her eyes out, and then marry Vasari after all.  What else can she
do, poor little victim?  And then there's Hugh, who won't dance four
times with a girl for fear of `exciting false expectations,' has gone
and broken her heart--if hearts ever are broken.  Much he knows about
the tricks girls will play to avoid an uproar!  Poor little, pretty
thing!"

"I don't care for the girl," said Mr Tollemache, "but it's no joke
about Hugh."

"Poor old fellow, no; but those things pass off, you know; and, after
all, anything's better than that he should have married her."

"Undoubtedly," said Mr Tollemache.

"Poor little child!" repeated Jem, with a not unkindly pity, but which
yet made small account of Violante beside the other interests involved.

And so Hugh Crichton went away from Civita Bella, and Violante was left
behind him.

PART THREE, CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

ARTHUR'S STORY.

  "I love thee to the level of every day's
  Most quiet need--by sun and candle-light."

PART THREE, CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

MYSIE.

  "Oh, happy spirit, wisely gay!"

"What are you doing, Mysie?" said Florence Venning, as she came one
afternoon into the Redhurst drawing-room.

"I am sewing a button on Arthur's glove," returned Mysie, who was
sitting by herself on a low chair in the window with a smart little
work-basket by her side.  "Do you know, Floss, Hugh is coming back
to-night?  Aunt Lily had a line from him from Paris."

"Dear me!  And do you want to get the button sewn on before he comes?"

Mysie shook her head, smiling, while Flossy went on: "Seriously, Mysie,
aren't you in a great fright?"

"No!" answered Mysie, "I cannot see why I should be in a fright.  You
know, Flossy, I have never been at all afraid of Hugh.  I know he always
does what he thinks right.  And he knows what _is_ right, too."

"Well, but suppose he says you are too young?"

"But I shall explain to him," said Mysie, "that I am not young.  Now,
don't laugh, Flossy; but I can't help feeling that when people are so
very sure of themselves as I am they must be able to make others believe
in them."

"That's a profound remark," said Flossy.

"I'm not at all changeable," said Mysie, "and I know I shall be able to
make Hugh understand that I am quite in earnest."  There was a peculiar
intensity in her quiet voice; and as she lifted up her eyes, clear and
serene, Flossy felt that they would have convinced her of anything.

"It will be very unromantic if you don't get anything to try your
constancy," said Flossy, teasingly.

"Well, one can be very happy without romance," said Mysie, laughing.
"Romance generally means something rather uncomfortable."

"Well," said Flossy, in her full, dear tones, "so does love--generally.
I always observe that when a girl can't do her lessons, or can't eat her
dinner, and is dismal and rather a bore, Mary has a confidence from home
about her.  And if one happens to see the man he's generally such a
_creature_.  Now, I can imagine regarding Saint Ambrose--"

"Flossy!"

"Well, of course, I mean some one like him.  I think my ideal is a
mixture of intellect and strong common-sense, something like King
Alfred.  And I greatly admire the strength of Luther and Hampden; only
those people are so often on the wrong side.  But you see, Mysie, I
shall never meet the great man of the age, and I shall never care for
anyone unless he is wiser, cleverer, and better than I am myself!"

"That would be so difficult to find," said Mysie.

"Mysie, how dare you be so sarcastic!" cried Flossy, with a great,
hearty laugh.  "But I don't care; I can do without him, and when he
turns up I'll let you know."

"Is he to be anything like that man in your old story who never smiled?"
said Mysie.

"No, no, that was a _very_ juvenile idea.  But, Mysie," coming nearer
and speaking with slight embarrassment, "there _is_ a story and a hero
in it.  I wonder if you would like him."

"Oh, do show it to me."

"Then, you must promise not to tell Arthur.  Ah, is Arthur so cool as
you are about your cousin?"

"No," said Mysie, "he says that he should say `no' in Hugh's place.
But," she concluded quietly, "that is because it is coming so near."

"And what has become of Arthur now?"

"There's a cricket-match between Redhurst and Oxley, and Arthur is
playing.  Will you come down to the ground?  Aunt Lily's there and
Frederica; they went to pay a call first."

Flossy assented, and Mysie went upstairs to put on her hat.  She was a
girl with a great many quiet little tastes of her own, and her room gave
opportunities for the study of them.  There was something about her far
removed from the ordinary hurry and bustle of modern young-ladyhood.
She was noted in the family for always having time for everything.  So
on her table lay an album and a book of photographs, set in little
paintings, and a basket containing pincushions and needle-books of
wonderful shapes and capable workmanship, besides other varieties of
fancy-work.  Mysie dearly loved needlework, and secretly regretted the
days when she could have stitched Arthur's shirts for him.  There were
flowers, gathered and growing, and quiet, dainty little birds--avadevats
and the like--hanging in the window; while on the mantelpiece was almost
every little possession of Mysie's short existence: the China dogs and
the China shepherds of her babyhood, the little glass tea-set and the
spun-glass boxes of advancing childhood, up to the pots and scent
bottles--her schoolfellows' presents in later years.  For Mysie never
lost or broke anything, and never grew tired of anything because it was
old.  She kept her big wax-doll in her wardrobe, and all her old
story-books on the shelf in company with Arthur's birthday present of
Tennyson's poems, and such and so many works of fiction as might be
expected on a young lady's book-shelves whose taste was exceedingly
correct and who was able to gratify it.  Mysie had, however, two little
tastes of her own.  She was fond of very sentimental poetry, which she
read, copied, and learnt by heart quietly to herself, not feeling at all
hurt if Arthur laughed at it or Flossy declared that it lowered her
spirits; but, being an exceedingly happy little person, she had somehow
a peculiar relish for faded flowers, bygone days, sad hearts, and all
such imagery.  She also liked all books containing quaint and pregnant
sayings of wit or wisdom; read George Herbert and Bacon's essays; and
when asked, as a little girl, which part of the Bible she liked best to
read had replied: "The Book of Proverbs: it was so exceedingly true."

With every possibility of being an idle young lady Mysie was really
useful and industrious, good, and pious--in the simplest meaning of that
much abused word.  She was a far more developed person than her lover,
young as she was; and she loved him with all the force of old
association, sisterly admiration and anxiety, mingling with the newer
and sweeter dependence on his talents and his counsel.  She believed in
him, but her instinct was to advise him and to take care of him and to
think of what was good for him, even while his opinions had
unconsciously moulded many of her own; and to please him was her
greatest delight.

Carefully she arranged her little hat, with its wild-rose trimming, and
settled her pretty summer dress before she rejoined Flossy and started
with her for the cricket-field, where several ladies and other
spectators were already watching Arthur making runs in a white flannel
suit edged with scarlet, which Mysie thought exceedingly becoming.

Mrs Crichton made room for them on a bench beside her.  Frederica and
Flossy began to compare notes of the runs; while Mysie sat in the bright
sun, dreamily contemplating her lover's prowess.  Some of the cricketers
came up to speak to them; one of the Oxley curates, in black trousers
and a grey shirt, eagerly pointed out to Flossy the performance of a
mutual protege.  Mrs Harcourt, the wife of the old rector of Redhurst,
made the welcome announcement that she had ordered afternoon tea to be
brought into the field.  Mysie's Redhurst Sunday scholars curtseyed and
smiled at her from a distance; and the far more elegant damsels of
Oxley, who absorbed all Flossy's unprofessional efforts in the way of
teaching, made her gracious bows, and offered her an opportunity of
studying how to dress, or not to dress, hair of every shade of black,
brown, flaxen, and auburn.  A detachment from Oxley Manor, headed by
Clarissa and the German governess, appeared at a discreet distance.
Mysie became aware that Arthur saw her, and was making his thirtieth run
under the inspiring influence of her eyes when a tall shadow fell on the
dry, sunny grass, and a well-known voice said, "Well, mother, how are
you?"

"My dear Hugh!  _How_ you surprised me; we did not expect you till
dinner time!"

"I came half-an-hour ago; and finding you were all down here I thought I
would follow you."

"Quite right.  How are you, and have you enjoyed yourself?"

"Very well; and I have enjoyed myself exceedingly," said Hugh.

"Where's Jem?"

"In London, to-day, I believe, but we did not travel back together.  He
wanted to see some other places."

"And Civita Bella was charming?  You are sunburnt, Hugh."

"Civita Bella is a very charming place, with sun enough to burn anyone.
How d'ye do, Mysie?  I did not see you."

Mysie put her hand into Hugh's and felt her courage sink to her toes.

"I'm very well, Hugh, thank you," she said, in a small voice; and then
she perceived that Arthur had caught sight of his cousin, found himself
"out," he hardly knew how, and came over towards them with his face much
more crimson than exertion need have made it.

"Well, Arthur, I congratulate you," said Hugh.  "On your degree," he
added, as Arthur started and looked blank.

"Oh, I forgot," said Arthur, as he turned his back on Hugh and Mysie, in
an awkward boyish way, and began to talk vehemently to the two Miss
Dickensons, daughters of the Oxley doctor, with whom he had been
sometimes accused of flirting; while Hugh turned to receive various
greetings.  To all this he had looked forward, and his manner and look
did him credit, for, as his mother said, "he seemed as if he had never
been away."

Poor Hugh!  When miles away from Civita Bella he had come to himself, as
it were, after the passion of rage and grief in which he had left the
city, he had resolved to cut the past seven weeks out of his life and to
let them leave no trace behind.  No one knew anything about them but
James, who could well be trusted to keep the secret at home; they were
utterly apart from all the rest of his life, and they should remain so.
All their joy and all their pain should be buried for ever.  These few
short days should not influence all the rest of his life.  What
difference could it make to Redhurst and Oxley that a little Italian
girl had made a fool of him?  He had plenty of interests which remained
unaltered, and this thing should be, what James had called it, a foolish
holiday incident that was over and done.  This resolution, though
prompted by resentment, was agreeable to common-sense; and Hugh was not
likely to betray himself.  He knew that he must suffer a certain amount
of pain, and then he supposed it would be over; if not he must bear it.
What was there to see here while he waited for the train?  A cathedral:
he would go and see it.

And a girl offered him a great bouquet of roses and oleanders, such as
Violante had put in the china bowl.  Hugh turned off with a sharp
refusal; but suddenly thought: "What, if after all I was mistaken!  If I
had waited one moment longer--" and the torment of that doubt, which yet
was not strong enough to prompt any measure for its own satisfaction,
haunted him and fretted him as the actual sorrow could not do, for it
was a doubt of himself.

He had always been grave, and he was too strong and vigorous for trouble
to tell easily on his health; so his appearance struck no one as
unnatural, while he answered his mother's enquiries about the
Tollemaches, and described the beauties of Civita Bella--rather proud to
find that he could do it so easily.  Moreover, the home party had an
absorbing interest of their own; and as soon as the match had ended, in
the triumph of Redhurst, Mrs Crichton took her son's arm to walk home
with him, and Mysie and Arthur slipped away by a different path through
the lanes.

Arthur put out his hand and took hold of Mysie's, and they walked on for
a bit hand in hand--a fashion Mysie favoured, perhaps as reminding her
of holiday afternoons, when Arthur's big-boy companionship had been so
flattering and delightful to the little school-girl.  The air was
scented with meadow-sweet and with hay; the elms, in full leaf, threw
heavy shadows across their path; a thrush was singing; the church clock
chimed half-past six; everything was full of peaceful beauty.  Mysie
looked shyly into Arthur's eyes, and then they both laughed; they were
not really afraid or in suspense as to their fate, only Arthur wished
that the decisive interview was over.  "Suppose, for the sake of
supposing," he said, "that Hugh was really to act the cruel parent and
send me away.  What should you do, Mysie?"

"I don't know," said Mysie, lightly.  "If he locked me up I think I
should give in to him."

"Then I should blow my brains out!" said Arthur.  "I don't know why I am
talking such nonsense," he added.  "I know there is no reasonable
likelihood of any interference; but sometimes, Mysie, it comes over me
to think what have I done to deserve, what so few fellows get--my first
love--nothing in the way?  Everything in my life has gone well with me."

"We must be very good," said Mysie, in a low voice.

Arthur half shook his head.  He was not given to talk about himself, or
even to think much about himself from a critical point of view, but he
felt that life had been made uncommonly easy to him, by circumstances,
by temperament, and by the lodestar of Mysie's love; and it, perhaps,
proved that he was not spoiled by prosperity; since, with the stirring
of the deepest feeling that he had ever known, there came a profound
sense of these blessings and an almost exaggerated conviction of the
absence of effort by which they had been attained.

"I have done nothing to deserve any of it," he thought.  "My work was
pleasant to me.  How could I go wrong with _her_ before my eyes?"  The
kind actions, the ready aid which won much affection, the quick interest
in all around him which made him helpful and useful everywhere--what had
these ever cost him?  More pains, perhaps, and more virtuous effort than
he remembered or thought worth mentioning; but it was true that Arthur's
was a gracious nature, so kindly and genial that, though his life had
been singularly blameless, he had hardly been conscious of aims above
the average.

Mysie cut into the heart of his perplexity.

"I think it would be very ungrateful," she said, "not to be glad that we
are happy.  We should be very thankful to God for it, and try to make
other people happy, too; and trials are sure to come in this life," she
added, in her sweet, fearless, untried voice.

"You shall have few, my darling, if I can keep them away.  But you are
right; and it would be strange, indeed, if one were not thankful--for
you."

"The _Christian Year_ says," said Mysie, in her free, simple way:

  "`Thankful for all God takes away,
  Humbled by all He gives--'

"That is what you meant, isn't it?"

Arthur listened, half in admiration of Mysie's goodness--he thought, as
others like him have done, his lady-love so good--and half with the
shyness of young manhood of devotional, apart from theological,
language.

"Nothing so saintly, I fear, as that," he said.  "But I see what the
last part means.  What!"--as Mysie started and shrank up to him--"not
afraid of cows, still, my little one!"

"N-o," said Mysie, doubtfully, as half-a-dozen cows and a couple of
woolly little calves turned out of a field, noisily and quickly.  "No;
it is very silly, and I am almost cured; but I did not expect them."

Arthur put a protecting arm around her, very willing to forgive the fear
that made her cling to him.

"Flossy does tease me so about it; but I shall always hate cows and
strange dogs and guns," said Mysie, in whom a sort of physical timidity
contrasted strangely with her quiet self-possession in other ways.

"You must not walk by yourself if they frighten you, darling," said
Arthur; "but these are very harmless beasts.  Come, here's the
garden-gate--and there's Hugh.  Tastes differ, but a herd of buffaloes
would be a trifle; here goes!"

Mysie vanished, and Arthur advanced towards his cousin, into whose ears
Mrs Crichton had already poured the whole story.

Hugh had listened, but he was annoyed and unsympathetic.

"Arthur is too young."

"Oh, my dear Hugh, so much the better.  Your dear father was very little
older, and I only wish I could see you--"

"Mysie has a right to a wider out-look."

"But, my dear, she quite _adores_ him; she always did.  And she is the
most constant little creature.  There cannot be a word against Arthur."

"Oh, no; he is exceedingly well-conducted," said Hugh, dryly.

"And what a pity to come between young people!  It always does them
harm, even where it's inevitable.  Disappointments are very bad things."

"Most people have to survive them.  However, mother, if you are
satisfied on Mysie's behalf, I can have nothing to say.  I see Arthur.
I'll get it over at once."

Hugh crossed the lawn, but had he wished to win Mysie for himself he
could hardly have felt a bitterer pang of jealousy than that which came
upon him as he looked at Arthur's gladsome eyes and heard the proud
satisfaction in his tones through all their embarrassment.

"I have nothing to say, Hugh, but that we have chosen each other.  I
think I can make her happy, and I will do my best to be helpful to you,
and to place myself in a less unequal position as regards her fortune."

"As mother consents," said Hugh, "I cannot have a different opinion; but
as regards the Bank, you must know your own mind, and I shall not
consent to your taking any place there till you have taken time to
consider of it.  It is not exciting work nor satisfying, if you are
ambitious."

"I repeat," said Arthur, "I have chosen my lot in life.  I want Mysie,
and Oxley, and the Bank, if you'll have me; and Heaven knows I think
myself a lucky fellow!"

"You know," said Hugh, "by the terms of my father's will you have the
offer, but I should wish you to consider well of it."

"Oh, I'll consider," said Arthur, in rather an off-hand manner; "but why
lose time?  And you'll be very busy and want help now Simpson's getting
past his work."

"Thank you."  Hugh paused, and then said, he hardly knew how
ungraciously: "I shall not interfere with you: you can, of course, do as
you like.  I believe I ought to speak to Mysie; but, of course, you know
what she will say."

Arthur laughed joyously, little knowing how the gay, confident sound
smote on Hugh's ears.

"You're _very_ good, old fellow," he said.  "Don't imagine I think my
good fortune a matter of course.  But I want to hear all your
adventures.  We have set upon you before you have even had your dinner,
which is cruel.  How many girls did Jem fall a victim to?  Have you
brought him home safe?"

"Jem took very good care of himself.  But, as you say, it is dinner
time.  I must see if my things have come."

"You've never wished me good luck!  Well, you have assured it to me,
which is better."

"Oh, yes," said Hugh; "I wish you joy, and certainly would not be the
means of interfering with your good fortune."

PART THREE, CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

SMOOTH WATERS.

  "--The old June weather,
  Blue above lane and wall."

"You are quite sure of your own mind, Mysie?"

"Yes, Hugh.  I am quite certain."

"Because I ought to set before you that you might do much better for
yourself.  You have seen very few people, and I ought not to let you act
upon impulse," said Hugh, in the driest of voices.

Mysie had been prepared for this appeal; and, though she blushed crimson
and kept her eyes on her lap, she replied, not by protestations, but by
the arguments which she thought ought to prove convincing.  Hugh had
called her into the study, a little room looking out on the garden, and
more or less appropriated to himself.  There was another room which all
the young men shared when at home, and where pipes, guns, dogs, and
books were to be found in wild confusion; but this was Hugh's sanctum,
where he wrote letters and transacted business and possibly read the
highly-respectable volumes that lined its wails.  Mysie sat in a great
leather chair by the window, with the flickering sun on her bright brown
hair and the shadows of the roses on her gay green and white dress.

"I know," she said modestly, but quite clearly, "that perhaps some one
richer than Arthur might--might meet me by-and-by."

"Exactly," said Hugh.

"But then, Hugh, you cannot be sure of that, and what would it matter,
when--when my mind was made up?"

"If you know your own mind, Mysie."

"I might not know it if I had only just met him.  People often make
mistakes then.  But--but--"

"Well," said Hugh, kindly, as she stammered and stopped, "what is it,
Mysie?  Don't be afraid.  I only want to know your thoughts exactly."

"I think," said poor Mysie, though with much confusion, "that I ought to
say them, as you seem to think it is I who have the advantage.  I could
never give Arthur up, and there will be plenty of time for you to see,
as he says he thinks that--that--there must be a year at least.  I would
promise to tell you if I did change, and _I_ should not mind not being
_called_ engaged to him, though he wishes it.  I hope you believe me,
because I know it depends on that."

"Yes, Mysie," said Hugh, "I believe you.  You mean to say nothing can
change your love for Arthur, no one could over-persuade you, no one
could frighten you; you are so sure of it and of him that you don't care
for any outward tie to bind you?"

"Yes," said Mysie, rather appalled at the emphasis with which this
speech was uttered, but holding bravely to her colours; "that is what I
mean.  For you see, Hugh, we know all about each other so well."

"Then, Mysie, I shall not consider it necessary to make any opposition."

Mysie got up and said: "Thank you, Hugh," and slowly moved away.  She
thought Hugh would have congratulated her and kissed her, as he had done
all her life on set occasions; but he let her go in silence, and, left
alone, stood staring into the empty grate with bitter thoughts in his
heart.  Here was _this_ girl had won her way by her own fearless
confidence, her absolute trust in herself and her lover.  How fortune
smiled on the wishes of this pair!  How sure might Arthur be of his
happy future!  He turned restlessly round and, looking out of the
window, saw Mysie run down the garden-path with flying feet, saw Arthur
spring up from the grass, meet her, and draw her away into the
shrubbery; heard the low murmur of their voices, and the gay, careless
laughter, called forth by the reaction from Mysie's anxiety and
suspense.  It was but a fortnight since he, too, had laughed idly and
carelessly over Violante's flowers; but a fortnight since he, too, had
thought himself happy in his love.  But he had lost his faith in the
poor child who was all unknown and unvouched for, and she had had no
power to stand up for herself.  The difference between this perfectly
simple, straightforward engagement and the foolish, impossible dream
from which he told himself that it was well to wake struck him forcibly.
It was the contrast between good and ill fortune, between success and
failure.  There were times when Hugh felt utterly miserable, and when
the profound silence in which his short, wild love-story was buried was
intolerable to him--thankful as he was for it in cooler moments; times
when he longed so to hear Violante's name that he felt the wildest
desire to tell his foolish secret.  It is needless to say that he never
did tell it, not being of a confiding nature; but concealment is nearly
as fatal, in many cases, to the temper as to the complexion; and poor
Hugh was unaccountably and unromantically cross.  Why, when Arthur was
teaching his Skye terrier to jump over a stick, did Hugh feel that if
that little beast jumped over at exactly the same height once more he
must wring its neck?  Why, when his mother complained that the rabbits
had eaten her carnations, did he positively assert that no mortal rabbit
could possibly have come near them.  And was it not unworthy of him to
feel so exceedingly irritated when Arthur produced the corpse of the
offender, having shot it from his bedroom window the next morning in the
act of eating the one remaining shoot?  Why should he oppose the Mayor
of Oxley on the subject of gas and the Rector of Redhurst about the new
schools?  He advocated neither physical nor mental darkness, and when he
became aware that he was resting his objections on the colour of the
bricks proposed to be used in the building he pulled himself up and gave
in with a good grace.  But, surely, anyone with ordinary self-control
would not allow these trifles to irritate him.  Hugh sometimes felt a
dim suspicion that, though he had a very good self on the whole,
controlling it was not his strong point.  Moreover, Mrs Crichton had
made the engagement an occasion for a great deal of country summer
gaiety, and Hugh was persecuted by croquet and archery-parties, picnics
and dances.  He was usually very particular in what he called "doing his
duty to society;" but now these things were intolerable to him; and,
worst of all, perhaps, was the sunshiny, peaceful mirth of the happy
love-story that was working itself out beside him.  Arthur shrewdly
suspected that there was something amiss with his cousin; but they were
not on terms for him to invite a confidence, and he contented himself
with the idea of consulting Jem, and by taking on himself, with
unobtrusive good-nature, all the trouble of the many small arrangements
that devolve on the young men of a country house in times of unusual
gaiety, even to entertaining the visitors when Hugh might have been free
from business and when a stroll with Mysie would have been far
preferable to himself.

"Hugh doesn't like it," he would say; "and I think he's rather out of
sorts; so we mustn't bother him."

Hugh rewarded him by wondering how he could care for such trifles, and
by somewhat despising the comfortable, unsentimental terms of the two
lovers, even while he envied them only too bitterly.

Doubtless they were enviable; for in between-times many a sweet morsel
fell to their lot, and one shining hour rested in Arthur's memory in the
days to come as the typical instance of the warm home-like sunshine, the
everyday happiness, of the summer when he was engaged to Mysie.

Once upon a time--there seems no fitter beginning--on a still, hot
summer afternoon, Arthur and Mysie went down the new-mown meadows to the
water-side.  They were going in a boat down the canal to where it joined
the river at a place called Fordham Beeches, where Frederica and Flossy
Venning were to meet them, having walked through the woods.

Oxley canal was but a canal.  Its waters sparkled over no pebbles,
revealed no pellucid depths; but to-day its dull and sluggish face
reflected the "blue, unclouded weather," and the slow oars splashed up
living light.  The speedwells were hardly faded, the pink bindweed
blossomed all over its grassy edges.  The flat meadows were green as
emerald.  Pollard willows hung over one side, and brightly-painted
barges were tugged along by the towing-path on the other.

Arthur rowed slowly, and Mysie sat, in her big straw hat, facing him;
and they talked of the time when they should live together in the old
red-brick Bank House, in Oxley, unless Hugh married; and then there were
the pretty little villas on the Redhurst road.  They talked of ways and
means, pounds, shillings, and pence; and laid their plans, and settled
what they would and what they would not do; and how, in a year's time,
Hugh would be satisfied of Arthur's capacity and steadiness, and would
admit him to that share in the Bank proposed for him by his father.
And, as they talked, they passed along the back of Redhurst village and
past the turnip-fields, where the little partridges were beginning to
run and flutter, and Hugh's bit of copse, where little brown rabbits
were already taking their evening airing.

"Too many by half," said Arthur, and 

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