Part 4, Chapter XXXII.
Old Acquaintance.
“Strange, yet familiar things.”
The scene of Violante’s first party was a great rambling house in Kensington—half old, half new—with odd passages and corners, and steps up and down; incongruous, and yet comfortable; and full of all the daring innovations and the unexpected revivals of an artist’s taste. Mr Stanforth gave his visitors pleasant things to look at, and pleasant people to talk to; and, while a fair share both of things and people were enough out of the common to amuse—by exciting criticism, here and there was a work of art, and here and there a famous person standing on a higher level, and rousing enthusiasm and admiration. Besides, the large and lively family party were always ready for schemes of amusement; and there were no such private theatricals, no such drawing-room concerts and impromptu dances anywhere else—at least, so thought the Miss Greys. To the young Violante the scene had all the wonder of absolute novelty; to her sister the tender interest of an unforgotten past. Rosa remembered the play which she had acted there, when applause had lighted the first spark of ambition; but she seemed to live over again the day, three months later, when that fire had paled before an intenser flame. The scene was the same, but the play had been altered to make room for new actors; and Violante, in her white dress, with Christmas roses crowning her soft cloudy hair, stood in the front.
“That girl is like starlight,” someone said, and Rosa speedily became aware that her sister was one of the things to be looked at to-night. Rosa herself received a warm greeting; and their kind and pleasant host took the two sisters into his studio, that the younger one, at least, might both see and be seen.
“I am afraid the artistic eyes of Italy will see much to criticise,” he said, with a smile.
“You are used to pictures?”
“I thought they were all painted long ago,” said Violante, “except the copies;” for Civita Bella had not offered many facilities or attractions to painters, and having been behind the scenes of one art did not lessen her wonder at the other. She stared in amazement at recognising the original of a peasant-girl on the wall in the fashionably-dressed young lady who was showing off the pictures, and when the same face which she had admired under a helmet in a picture was pointed out to her above a white tie among the guests; and smiled as its owner handed her a seat, she felt as if the world was very wonderful, unconscious of her own similar and very superior claims to be an object of interest.
“Come and see papa’s new picture!” said one of the girls of the house, smiling, to a new arrival, and James Crichton followed her to the door of the studio.
“Isn’t it a lovely one?” she said.
There stood Violante, as he had seen her once before, the centre of a group, not now pale and frightened, but flushed and smiling; silent, indeed, and shy, but with eyes that were full of life; her childish pathetic charm brightened into unmistakable beauty; the great artist enlightening her ignorance, and half the young men in the company seized with artistic fervour.
“Don’t break the spell,” said Jem, drawing back. He had had some vague notion of the possibility of seeing her at this party, but never like this.
There was generally a little dancing at the Stanforths in the course of the evening, and now James beheld the artist’s handsome model petition Violante for a quadrille with considerable empressement. She looked a little shy and doubtful, but finally let him lead her away; while as he passed Miss Stanforth he smiled and whispered triumphantly, “I’ve got the beauty!”
And James was suddenly seized with a sensation of fierce unreasonable jealousy on his brother’s account. “Was this the state of things he had wasted his pity upon? She had not fretted much! After all poor old Hugh had gone through, while he was in trouble and working hard, unable to bear the sound of her name, she could laugh and flirt and enjoy herself. It was always the way!” In short, if James had ardently desired that his brother should win Violante he could not have been more put out at seeing her the object of other men’s attention, or at watching her gradually take courage as her partner evidently took pains to teach her the unfamiliar figures. How graceful she was and how sweet her smile!
Jem’s anger was never very long-lived, and before the end of the quadrille he was smiling to himself and speculating on what she would say when he made himself known to her. He turned a little as this thought occurred to him, and came face to face with Rosa Mattei. She started violently, evidently quite unprepared to see him, and then made a stiff little bow.
“Ah, you have met!” exclaimed Miss Grey, joining them. “I did not tell my cousin she was to meet a friend.”
“I had no notion of it,” said Rosa, abruptly.
“I was not altogether unprepared,” said James. “Signor Mattei is not with you?”
“No. My father is in Florence.”
“And your sister?—I hope she is well.”
“She is very well, thank you.”
Both Jem and Rosa felt antagonistic. “Why,” thought she, “had he come like a ghost to disturb Violante’s peace?”
“What had brought these girls to England?” thought he. “Did they want to seek Hugh out?”
There was an awkward little pause, which, was broken by a lady, a friend of James’s mother, who came up to him and asked after his brother.
“Very well, thank you. He is at home—not here,” returned James, conscious that Rosa looked relieved at the intelligence.
“And your cousin Arthur?”
“Well, we have pretty good accounts from him, I think. Miss Mattei,” he added, “I believe you met my cousin at Caletto.”
“Your cousin! Mr Pinsher—Spencer. Ah, I see! our Italian friend mistook the name; but we certainly did meet an English gentleman at Caletto.”
James never could endure to be on bad terms with anyone. The first attempt at a snub, far from repelling him, only set him to work to find a vulnerable point. Rosa’s stiffness was irresistible, and, besides, he was anxious to hear of Arthur.
“How very singular!” he said. “He mentioned you in one of his letters. Do tell me, Miss Mattei, if he struck you as looking out of health or spirits?”
“No; I think he was quite well,” said Rosa; then, remembering Violante’s impression: “He may have seemed rather sad at times, but I did not see much of him.”
“He went abroad to try to recover from a great shock. The lady he was engaged to died.”
“How very sad!” exclaimed Rosa, feeling that this was much at variance with her distrustful impressions.
“Yes. We have had a good deal of trouble since we met last, Miss Mattei. Holidays are soon over in this work-a-day world.”
James looked rather sentimental, though his expressions were quite genuine.
“We have had some trouble too,” said Rosa, “but it is now, I hope, over. I have occupation in London, and my sister is going to school.”
“To school! Well, this is a world of changes; but there was something in all that sunshine and blue sky after all. And the Tollemaches; oh, weren’t the Tollemaches really nice people—so kind!”
Before Rosa could answer, Violante’s partner brought her back. James drew out of sight for a moment. Away from the overpowering force of Hugh’s reality, he was possessed by a lively interest in the strange turns events were taking. He studied the situation as if it had been a work of art and he a collector, not cynically or critically, but with the affectionate interest of an amateur in picturesque episodes.
Violante looked bright-eyed and rosy.
“Did you see, Rosina? I have been dancing. That was such a nice partner! I was not afraid of him long. And there is his picture. Did you see?”
“Oh, yes, dear; I saw it all,” said Rosa; while James thought: “Not inconsolable!” Suddenly Violante looked up and saw him. She turned pale, then suddenly out of her eyes flashed a look of unspeakable joy, that outshone her childish gaiety and put it out of sight. She glanced all round the room with an eagerness more touching and convincing than any degree of alarm or agitation; and, perhaps, her stage-training in self-command stood her in good stead, for she made no scene, but took James’s offered hand, and looked in his face with a look of happy expectation that touched him more than he could say.
“So you have come to England, mademoiselle,” he said. “Do you like it? I have been talking to your sister, and she tells me you met my cousin—in Italy.”
“Signor Arthur!” exclaimed Violante, with instant comprehension.
“Yes—Arthur Spencer—do you recollect him?”
“Oh, yes! he told me about England,” said Violante, eagerly; but even while she spoke the brightness began to fade out of her face. She knew that Hugh was not there, and that James was not going to speak to her about him. He, on his side, felt the attitude he was forced to assume so embarrassing that he gladly availed himself of the first excuse to turn away. She, poor child, could only feel that suddenly her part in this delightful party became like a part in a play. She must act her own character, crush back her surprise and pain, and look as usual. Perhaps, nothing but long habit could have enabled her to do so; she found herself smiling her old stage smile, her fingers felt cold as they used to do at the opera, her eyes took their old stupid look, and the music surged in her ears like the music of the opera orchestra. She was not going to cry or faint now any more than then, but all her sweet spontaneous pleasure was destroyed.
“I felt as if I was acting,” was all she said to Rosa, afterwards, when the confusing scene was over, and she and her sister were alone.
“My darling,” said Rosa, “it was too hard that your pleasure should be spoilt like this.” Rosa was sitting by their bed-room lire, and Violante, half-undressed, sat on the rug leaning against her knees. She did not answer for a moment, and then said, rather imperiously:
“Tell me everything he said to you.”
“I don’t think he was pleased to see us,” said Rosa. “I heard him say his brother was in the country, and that he was quite well.”
“Ah!” murmured Violante.
“And he told me that Signor Arthur, as you call him, had lost the girl he was engaged to—that she is dead.”
“I knew she was dead: he told me so.”
“Did he? but, in short, Violante, I hope you won’t let this meeting dwell in your mind. What is past, is past; and—you won’t be unhappy, my child, will you?”
“No,” said Violante, slowly, and with some reserve.
She was disturbed and agitated; but she was very far from hopeless. Now that the seas did not divide them, anything seemed possible: she might meet him in the street—he might seek her again. But slow days passed, and she did not see him, while James, the Greys heard, went out of town for Christmas. The poor child had many weary yearning hours; but pleasure and novelty and affectionate kindness were not powerless; nor was she miserable. During these days Rosa’s choice of an occupation was determined—at any rate, for the present. Her uncle offered her a home in his house until her father came to England, if she accepted the situation of daily governess to Mrs Bosanquet. She found that the stage could not be for the present remunerative: and, even with Violante’s schooling provided for, the two sisters had to clothe themselves; and she could not bear to be a burden on such kind relations. So when the moment of decision came she told her aunt that she would do her best for the little Bosanquets, and thanked her heartily for her recommendation.
“I can do it, as I’ve done before,” she said, “and I will. But now, Aunt Beatrice, will you tell me something about this school for Violante? Do they know who she is?”
“Oh, yes. Miss Venning is an old friend of mine. We haven’t met for some years now; but she is a most excellent and kind-hearted person; and her two sisters, who are quite young, are, I believe, admirable. I am sure Violante will meet with nothing but kindness, and it will do her good to fend for herself a little.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Rosa doubtfully, “and she must learn self-reliance, poor child!”
She thought secretly that it would be well to shield Violante from encounters with James Crichton, and that at least she would be safe at school. But Rosa was very miserable at this time. She had not given up her prospects without scorching tears of disappointment. Four years back seemed nearly as recent to her regretful memory as four months to Violante’s; and now she must part with her child and lose the caresses that were the sweetest things in life to her. Violante grew frightened as the time drew near, and clung to her more closely than ever; but she never uttered a word of resistance, and regarded the going to school, as she had done the coming to England, with the same curious under-current of inclination.
In the middle of January Mrs Grey received a letter from Miss Venning, saying:
“My sister Florence has been in London, and will return on the 18th. If you would like it she will bring your niece back with her—it is the day we re-open school.”
This arrangement was gladly acceded to; and on a clear cold morning Violante, well wrapped up, walked up and down the long platform from which she was to start, furtively holding Rosa’s fingers in her muff, and looking about for a school-mistress very unlike the tall, fair, rosy-faced girl who came rapidly up to the appointed meeting-place.
“Miss Florence Venning?” said Mrs Grey. “How do you do? Here are my nieces, and this is Violante.”
Florence shook hands with them, and answered enquiries for her eldest sister, and then, as Mrs Grey said something aside about her niece’s shyness and grief at leaving her sister, she answered, in a kind, yet matter-of-course manner:
“Oh, yes. I daresay she minds it very much; but she’ll soon be quite happy again, I’m sure. I hope we shall be very good friends.”
“You are a governess, too, aren’t you?” she added, to Rosa, with a view to making acquaintance.
“Yes,” said Rosa, rather faintly.
“I think one is quite glad to get to work again after the holidays. I always feel ready to begin. We ought to get in, I think. Will you come now, signorina? That is what we must call you, I suppose?”
Flossy’s breezy abruptness was better, perhaps, than a more open sympathy. But when she saw the two sisters cling together, and heard Rosa’s murmured “My darling, my darling!” her blue eyes filled with quick, kindly tears.
“I’ll take ever so much care of her!” she said, impulsively. “Don’t be afraid.”
Poor Rosa looked quite fierce with misery; but the inexorable bell rang, the door was shut between the sisters, and while the many struggles of Rosa’s last few weeks found vent in a fit of uncontrollable sobbing, Violante was whirled away, through the frosty fields and wintry hedgerows, to Oxley and Redhurst—to the very neighbourhood of Hugh Crichton.