Part 4, Chapter XXVII.
Caletto.
“Grapes which swelled from hour to hour,
And tossed their golden tendrils to the sun
For joy at their own richness.”
After that stormy summer, with its joy and its suffering, its excitement and hard work, there ensued for Violante a time of perfect peace. Golden autumn sunshine, beautiful places, entire freedom and rest, could not give back a lost career, or a lost lover, but they were very conducive to the revival of health and spirits; and the absence even of anything peculiarly delightful was welcome to the exhaustion of worn-out nerves and spirits. Never to be scolded, never to be frightened, never to be forced to do what she dreaded and disliked, made a sort of Elysium for her, though even Elysium seems to have been sometimes a little objectless and dreary. Still, it was peace; and all the little tastes and occupations which had been crushed down by over-work, or rendered futile by the one absorbing interest of the past summer, began to spring up again; and Violante knitted and worked, picked flowers and arranged them, and made sweetmeats, salads, and coffee, as she had done in the days when the stage was a distant terror, and when Hugh Crichton had never been heard of. For, though she was very easily overwhelmed by storms, she was a flower that opened readily to a little sunshine, and Rosa caught herself wondering whether so soft and childish a creature had really retained the impression that had seemed so powerful. It was hard to tell, for Violante never spoke of her past troubles; the truth, perhaps, being that she took her sensations very much as they came, and never speculated about herself, nor realised her situation further than she felt it. Rosa hoped that the love, having been very brief, scarcely acknowledged, and utterly crushed at one blow, might really die of want of encouragement; and this was possible, even if its dying hours were soothed by the anodyne of a little unconscious secret hope in the vague future. Since Hugh had been mistaken as to Vasari, some day he might find it out; and in the meantime the sun shone, the flowers were sweet, she was the object of much petting, she felt fresh and well, and Vasari, his theatre and his diamonds, had all passed away like a bad dream.
Caletto, with its vineyards, its little lake, its distant hills, its peaceful and yet animated life, was new to the town-bred girl, and very delightful. It attracted a few visitors, but lay somewhat out of the beat of tourists, though it possessed many charms for them; one of the chief being a garden belonging to the great house of the place, but which, in the dwindling of the fortunes of the great family, and in their frequent and long absences, was open freely to the scanty public of Caletto. Nay, tables and chairs, where grapes could be eaten and cheap wine drunk, had been placed on the marble terrace that overlooked the lake by the enterprising innkeeper; and here, within sound of the plash of fountains, under the shade of tall oleander and pomegranate trees, Madame Cellini and her two young charges were wont to establish themselves to see the sun set over the lake and to enjoy the evening air; and here, in search of the picturesque, or perhaps of that soothing and refreshment which novelty and natural beauty might be supposed to give, arrived one evening an English traveller.
Arthur Spencer’s journey to meet his friend had not turned out exactly as he had intended. He had hurried across France to Marseilles because there was a sort of relief to his misery in the rapid motion; and, besides, he was not quite certain when Captain Seton’s ship would arrive. He was prepared to do anything that his friend might fancy; returning to England or continuing his journey, as might be best for Captain Seton’s health, as to which he did not grow very anxious till he was preparing to enquire for him on board the ship; when the possibility of finding him worse, in danger, or not finding him at all, occurred to him. Then it seemed to poor Arthur as if the only comfort in his trouble would be the telling it to his land, warm-hearted friend who had left India too soon to receive even the letter announcing his engagement. Nevertheless, Arthur resolved that if Seton seemed ill and depressed he would prepare a cheerful countenance and keep silence on his own score for the present.
As he came on board and was looking anxiously round, he was greeted with a shout of delight; and Captain Seton, looking neither ill nor unhappy, seized him by the hands.
“So there you are, my dear good fellow! I’m heartily glad to see you. I knew you would come if you could; but I feel as if I’d brought you out on false pretences after all.”
“So much the better, if this is what being on sick-leave comes to,” said Arthur. “I was very glad to come.”
“Oh, it was no pretence at the beginning; but the voyage has made another man of me—and—and—let me introduce you to my friends—a—very kind companions on board ship, you know. Mrs Raymond, Mr Arthur Spencer—a—Miss Raymond.”
One glance from his friend’s confused yet joyous countenance to the blushing and smiling young lady revealed to Arthur the state of affairs at once; and, after a few words had been exchanged, Captain Seton drew him aside, and informed him how Mrs Raymond, being in bad health, was returning to spend a year in England with her daughter, who had miraculously spent eighteen months in India without getting married; and how he, having met the young lady twice before, and knowing how charming she was—
“Exactly so,” interposed Arthur, “you don’t feel inclined now for a tour in Italy.”
“No,” Captain Seton apologised and laughed and explained; but he wanted to escort his lady-love to England, to settle his affairs, and to be introduced to various Raymond relations. Perhaps afterwards—
Arthur listened, smiled, and congratulated him, and managed to escape without any questions on his own affairs from his preoccupied friend. He went back to his room at the hotel, and sat down, feeling as if he had lost his one remaining object, and as if the future were an entire blank. He was almost inclined to go away without seeing Seton again. “But no,” he thought, “that would be an unkind, melodramatic sort of proceeding, and he would reproach himself for having given me pain—it would spoil his pleasure.”
So Arthur, feeling that he could not speak of what must come out sooner or later, wrote a note, and told his story in a few brief words. He had been engaged to Miss Crofton, whom, no doubt, Seton remembered, and she was dead. He had come away for rest and change.
Arthur had no cause to complain of Captain Seton’s want of feeling or sympathy. He came hastily to find him; was full of compunction for not having guessed at anything amiss; would come with him anywhere, stay with him, or join him after he had taken the Raymonds to England. Anyway, he would not leave him alone. Arthur, however, though not ungrateful, decided in favour of solitude for the present; and, with a half-proposal for meeting again in Italy after a few weeks, they parted; and Arthur drifted somewhat aimlessly about from one place to another, trying to make an object of sightseeing, but feeling lost and lonely. He was fond of travelling, and even then got some amusement out of its little incidents, finding in it something to do, but very little to think about; climbing mountains and making long expeditions one day, and doing nothing whatever the next; trying to write cheerful letters home, yet shrinking from the answers to them; making acquaintances when they came in his way, and doing much as other travellers, but quite unable to rouse himself to any sort of plan for the future, and neither knowing nor caring where the next week would find him. There was no one for whose companionship he exactly wished, or who could now have been quite the friend he wanted; but, though the solitude and absence of association were productive of present ease, they offered nothing to fill the dead blank, nothing to wake “the low beginnings of content.” The days slipped by somehow, but it was hardly possible to imagine a greater contrast than between them and the days that had been lightened by the hope of such a bright and definite future.
By way of occupation he did a good deal of travelling on foot; and, in the course of his wandering, found himself one evening walking into Caletto and thinking it one of the prettiest places he had ever seen. The lake was shining in the sunset; the tawny colours of the old palace were deepened by the glow; the rich southern foliage clothed the sides of the water, and showed glimpses of picturesque houses in between. There were statues and urns here and there in the palace garden; while its marble balustrade, with steps at either end, gave it something the air of a picture on a fan. There were one or two tables on this terrace, and at one of them stood a girl in white, with a big, flat, straw hat, piling great bunches of white and purple grapes on to a dish before her. Another figure, dressed in some pleasant sort of buff colour, was sitting on the balustrade reading. It was a pretty scene, yet it gave Arthur a pang; for, granting beauty for quaintness, romance for homely simplicity, it was a sort of glorified parody of the little tea-garden at “The Pot of Lilies,” with its wall overhanging the river, its urn of geraniums, its statue holding a lamp, its vine-tressed arbour, and its table with the mustard-pot and the ginger-beer. He turned quickly away, but found himself face to face with a stout, dark-eyed lady who was toiling up the ascent towards the terrace. She scanned Arthur curiously; and he, mustering his best Italian, asked the name of the village and if he could get a night’s lodging there.
She gave him a hearty, gracious smile that showed all her white teeth, and replied by such voluble information that Arthur, quite at fault, begged her pardon and repeated his question.
“I am English,” he said; “I speak very little Italian.”
“Ah, English, yes,” she answered in that language. “I speak it—but not well. But here are two ladies who will comprehend perfectly. Will you accompany me, signor?” Much surprised at the invitation Arthur followed her up the steps of the terrace.
“Rosa carina,” she said, “here is an English gentleman who has lost his way. Explain to him the situation.”
“I have not lost my way, signorina,” said Arthur, catching the words, as the lady in buff rose and bowed to him. “I took the liberty of asking if a lodging could be got in this lovely place.”
“Oh, yes, I think so,” replied Rosa. “Do you see the house with a balcony by the water? That is an inn, and there is almost sure to be a room there if you are not very particular.”
“Thank you very much. I am quite used to traveller’s fare,” returned Arthur, surprised at the English accent and manner.
“And this place is called?”
“Caletto. English tourists don’t often find it out.”
“So we should make them welcome. Pray, signor, sit down, and take some wine; you have been walking—you are tired. Ah, you understand?”
“Yes, many thanks. But I am so hot and dusty—I am ashamed,” said Arthur, fancying he saw a look of slight disapproval in the younger lady’s face.
“Ah, we can excuse you. We are artists, signor; all comers are welcome. I have been in your country and sung on your boards, and so will Mademoiselle Mattei one of these days, I hope.”
This was in English, and then in a half-aside to Rosa in Italian: “Why not, Rosina? He is a handsome youth—and society is agreeable.”
Handsome young Englishmen were not quite the society Rosa desired at that moment. However, she could not be uncivil, and Arthur really looked both hot and tired so she said politely:
“Pray sit down and rest—it has been a hot day.”
“Thank you, since you are so kind,” said Arthur, seating himself, and thinking, as they drew near the table and Violante silently pushed the bottle of wine towards him: “How Jem would rave at such an encounter!”
“This is a beautiful place,” he said. “I wonder that it is so little known to English people generally.”
“Perhaps we like to keep some places a little to ourselves,” said Rosa, smiling.
“But, excuse me, are you not English?”
“Not exactly. I was brought up in England. I did not mean to be uncivil to English tourists, but you know they do rather spoil a place for the natives.”
“Tourists always do,” said Arthur. “I don’t know, though, what else I can call myself.”
“I suppose tourists are people who travel for pleasure, and not because they are obliged.”
“Well, I am not obliged to travel, certainly.”
“Then you are a tourist,” said Rosa, brightly. “But then you come alone, and an English stranger is rare enough in Caletto to be very welcome. Is it not so, madame?” repeating her words in Italian.
“Oh, as welcome as shade in summer. I have lived in your smoke, sir, and I do not wonder you all escape from it.”
“I am not prepared to admit that we never see the sun,” said Arthur, who all this time was wondering much who his entertainers might be. Rosa, with the address and appearance of a well-bred English lady, completely puzzled him, more especially as he supposed her to be the Mademoiselle Mattei to whom Madame Cellini had referred, and whom he never dreamed of identifying with the silent, childish-looking girl beside him. They were very amusing, out-of-the-way sort, of people, and the scene was wonderfully lovely and picturesque; but he was tired, and admiration was an effort; so he soon rose, and with very courteous thanks prepared to leave them. Madame Cellini accompanied him to the steps to point out the way, and said when she returned: “Ah, I have practised my English. I told him my name. Doubtless he will have heard it, and his—is—ah—Spinchere—Pinchere.”
“Pincher!” said Rosa, with an involuntary accent of disappointment: “That is an English name, certainly.”
“It is not pretty,” said Violante, thinking in her own mind that Spencer Crichton far exceeded it.
So no identity of name came to rouse a suspicion of any connection between their new acquaintance and their old one. There was scarcely any family likeness between Hugh’s pale, regular face, grave and rather massive, and Arthur’s bright, tanned skin, and pleasant though unremarkable features. Besides, Rosa and Violante did not know Hugh’s face without a look of interest and purpose, nor his light, deep-set eyes without the ardour of an eager hope; while, when they saw Arthur, his dark-lashed eyes were absent and languid, and his mouth, though he smiled often, set into sad lines when he fell silent.
But one young English gentleman was sufficiently like another in foreign eyes, and the association of ideas was close enough to make Rosa anxious as to the effect of this encounter on her sister.
“Madame Cellini is so fond of company she cannot pass anyone by,” she said, rather petulantly, when the two girls were alone.
“She is very fond of talking,” replied Violante, “but I like her now that I am not forced to sing to her. And it would not have been kind not to ask Signor—what did you call him?—Pincher, to rest, when he looked so hot and tired.”
“All Englishmen like to tire themselves out,” said Rosa.
“You told him we were not English, Rosa; that was not true.”
“My dear child, I could not tell him our family history—what did it matter? I daresay he thought us very odd; but I am not tired of solitude, even if Madame Cellini is.”
“Oh, no, nor I. I should like to stay here always.”
“Some time we must, I suppose, go back to Civita Bella.”
“Yes!” with a long sigh. “Rosa mia, I will be good and useful if I can. Perhaps father is dull without us.”
“His engagement is almost over. Violante, how should you like to go to England?”
“To England?” echoed Violante, with a startled blush. “I shall never go there—now. Now I cannot sing,” she added.
“I think Uncle and Aunt Grey will perhaps ask us—you and me, I mean, to stay for a time and see what we could do.”
“But what would become of father?”
“I think he would like to travel about for a little. Perhaps he would come to England too.”
“And should you teach our cousins as you used to do?” said Violante.
“No, the girls are all grown up, and so are the boys. But I might find other children to teach—or—or—In short, Violante, I cannot tell exactly; but you know Uncle Grey has always wished to see you, and now that you are free to leave home I should not wonder if he asked us.”
Violante sat musing.
“I will go, then,” she said, after a pause. Rosa could hardly help laughing at the unconscious decision of the tone, which, though Violante had merely meant acquiescence, showed that the idea was not distasteful to her.