Part 5, Chapter XXXVII.
Faint-Hearted.
“The grave of all things hath its violet.”
The Redhurst drawing-room was looking uncommonly cheerful on the Saturday week after Arthur’s return; and Jem, recently arrived, was enjoying an unwonted tête-à-tête with his mother. It would be, perhaps, untrue to say that a person with affections so even as Mrs Crichton’s had a favourite son; but there was much in Jem’s ways that suited her, and he had the charm of novelty. He was strolling about the room, criticising the alterations somewhat unfavourably.
“I say, mamma, what did you buy this thing for?” touching the chintz. “I could have chosen you a much better one. Why didn’t you write to me?”
“Really, my dear, I didn’t think of asking you to choose my drawing-room furniture. Why don’t you like it?”
“Why don’t I like it? Why, it’s altogether incorrect. Those autumn leaves are false art.”
“Dear me, don’t you like my leaves? They’re so natural you might sweep them up.”
“Exactly. You might as well be out in the garden. Now, there’s a thing up in one of the spare bed-rooms. It’s yellow, with a faint brown pattern.”
“That, Jem! Why, it belonged to your grandmother Spencer, and was moved here when she came and spent her last year with us. It’s hideous. I was going to have it taken down.”
“It’s about the best thing in the house,” said Jem, critically. “You should have it made up for this room.”
“Ah, my dear fellow, I hope your wife will have some taste of her own.”
“I hope she’ll leave it to me. I shall stipulate she does when I marry and settle.”
“I am afraid, my dear, life in London doesn’t lead young men to marry and settle.”
“Well, mamma, I’m sure I don’t know about that,” said Jem, sitting down on the obnoxious chintz and stroking his beard. “Girls look out for so much now-a-days.”
“I hope, my dear, you haven’t been falling in with any girl,” said Mrs Crichton, composedly—for she was not excitable—but a little struck by Jem’s manner. “You make so many acquaintances. When you were abroad I was quite anxious.”
“I assure you, mamma, I was a miracle of discretion when I was abroad—couldn’t have been better with you at my elbow,” said Jem, unable to resist a little emphasis.
“Well, I am sure, I wonder you did not make a heroine of that little Italian girl, Arthur’s acquaintance. Hugh said you met her.”
“Hugh said I met her!” ejaculated Jem, “Well, if that isn’t cool!”
“Why, something was said of seeing her act, and, of course, my dear boy, I didn’t suppose Hugh had been the one to discover her merits.”
“I assure you, mother, I was quite as discreet as Arthur or Hugh either. But what made Mademoiselle Mattei a subject of conversation?”
“Why, she is at Miss Venning’s at school.”
“Good heavens!” ejaculated Jem, utterly off his guard; then, catching himself up: “At school! Extraordinary!”
“Yes, but I believe there’s nothing extraordinary about her. So pray, my dear, don’t go and do anything foolish.”
“Why am I always to be the black sheep?” said Jem, in an injured tone, but with inward laughter. “Hugh and Arthur saw quite as much of her as I did.”
“Well, we may put poor Arthur out of the question, and as for Hugh, do you think I’ve any reason to be anxious in that way about him?”
“So you wouldn’t like an Italian daughter-in-law?”
“My dear, don’t be absurd,” said Mrs Crichton, contemplating her wool-work. “How can you talk of such a thing? I should like to see both you and Hugh married, but I dread your doing something foolish when I think of the number of times you have been on the verge of it—and as for Hugh—”
“Well, as for Hugh?”
“I really despair of his ever turning his thoughts in that direction.”
“How are you all getting along together?” said Jem, rather glad to change the conversation.
“Oh, pretty well,” said Mrs Crichton, sighing. “Of course, Arthur, poor dear boy, has ups and downs; but he is very cheerful, in and out, and I make a point of going on as usual.”
“And he and Hugh get on comfortably?”
“Yes. I tell Hugh it is absurd to expect that he should not flag sometimes. Now, Sunday was a trial. He went to church in the morning, but he was more knocked up afterwards than I have seen him at all; but the next day he was quite ready to be interested in these pleasant Dysarts who have come to Ashenfold. Hugh was quite angry with me for making him come in to see them; but we can’t shut ourselves up, and I must ask them to dinner in a quiet way. It is much better for Arthur. Then, there was another thing. I wanted him to come to the Rectory with me—to get it over, you know—but Hugh interfered, and said no-one should urge him to make such an effort, in such a peremptory way I had to give it up.”
“I should avoid discussions,” said James.
“It’s hard work for them both. By the way, mamma,” he added, having conducted the conversation well away from its former matrimonial channel, “do you know that there is going to be a great choir festival at H—, in the cathedral in Easter week—shall you go?”
“Is there? Oh, no, I hadn’t thought of it.”
“I expect it will be rather fine. I shall run down, and if you did care about taking Freddie I daresay the Haywards would get you good places.”
“The Haywards?”
“The Archdeacon, you know. He is a Canon of H—. Young Hayward’s in the War Office. I know him. There are some daughters.”
“Oh, I know Mrs Hayward very well. She was at the only ball to which I ever took dear Mysie at H—, with her daughters; tall, fine girls, rather insipid.”
“They’re very superior,” said Jem, in an odd, meek voice; but, as he was not much in the habit of admiring superior young ladies, his mother only said:
“Are they? Their mother is a very ladylike woman. Well, I should not mind going over if Freddie wished it. I daresay Flossy Venning might like to go with us.”
“Oh, thank you,” began Jem. “I mean the organist is a friend of mine. Oh, there’s Hugh. How d’ye do?”
“I didn’t know you were here, Jem,” said Hugh, as he came into the room.
“I came by the early train. Where’s Arthur?”
“He preferred walking. How long shall you be here, Jem?”
“Till Tuesday.”
“Oh, then,” said Mrs Crichton, “Hugh, I think I shall ask the Dysarts to excuse a short notice and come here quite quietly on Monday night. As it is Lent, that is a reason for having no party.”
“There can be no reason wanted for that,” interrupted Hugh. “Mother, how can you think of such a thing? It is not suitable, and must be intolerable to Arthur.”
“Really, Hugh,” said his mother, for once offended, “I am the best judge of what is suitable. You talk as if I wished to give a ball; and Arthur does not dislike a little society.”
“If he does not,” said Hugh, and then broke off, “Perhaps he does not.”
“Why don’t you ask him?” suggested James.
“Because he has never shown any of this foolish reluctance,” said Mrs Crichton; “and, indeed, my dear, I can’t give into you about it.”
She rose and went away as she spoke, and James said:
“How’s this, Hugh? Things going all crooked?”
“Of course they are,” said Hugh, bitterly. “How could they go right? As for Arthur, I don’t profess to understand him. I daresay he does like amusement, but he can’t bear this place. How they can say he is less altered than they expected! I can feel the chance allusions stab him!”
“Then do you think he is putting a great force on himself?”
“No, no,” said Hugh, in an odd, restless tone. “It’s just as it comes, I believe. But they say he bears it beautifully, because his spirits come back in and out. He is boyish enough still. I daresay in a year’s time it will all be pretty well over.”
“It strikes me, Hugh, you are more out of sorts than Arthur.”
“I?” said Hugh. “If Arthur feels one half—No, he could not choose to be always with me.”
Hugh knitted his brows and walked over to the window. His was the perplexity of an erring, earnest nature watching another live over a difficult piece of life, by means of a more gracious temperament, succeeding, as he felt, without the struggles that went towards his own failures. Arthur behaved much better to him than he did to Arthur, but he did not take half so much pains about it. This is always an unsatisfactory consciousness, and in Hugh’s case it was intensified by the morbid interest that he was forced to take in his cousin.
“Mother’s been telling me all the news,” said James, to change the subject.
Hugh understood his marked tone at once.
“Remember, Jem, that is closed for ever,” he said. “If you breathe one word of the past, in joke or earnest, to my mother or Arthur, it will be past forgiveness.”
“I’m sure I don’t want to stir it up,” said Jem; “but it is a strange turn of fate.”
“It will make no difference,” said Hugh, in a tone that meant “it shall not.”
James was silent. Hugh’s resolve was exactly what he had always counselled him to make, yet he could not help thinking of Violante’s look of joy at seeing him, and wondering whether that light was quenched in her soft eyes for ever.
In the meantime, Arthur had not taken his solitary walk without a purpose. However far Hugh might be right in supposing that he allowed his feelings to drift as they would, he was becoming conscious that there was some cowardice in shrinking from anything that could excite them. He must stand by Mysie’s grave—and he must stand there alone; for on Sunday he had not dared to lift his eyes as he walked down the path. She was buried in a corner of the churchyard where it was especially green and still close by the wall of the Rectory garden, over which a bright pink almond-tree was visible. Snowdrops and violets were thrusting their heads through the short turf between the graves, and were blooming in sweet abundance round the white cross that marked where she lay, while several half-faded wreaths were placed above them. There was nothing here to make Arthur nervous,—he wondered why he had stayed away so long. He was full of grief, yet something of the peaceful spirit of the past came shining back into his heart as he knelt there in the spring sunshine, and kissed the letters of Mysie’s name. It was better, he thought, than being far away. He had risen to his feet, and was still dreamily gazing, when he heard a startled step at his side, and, turning, saw Florence Venning, bright, tall, and blooming, with a basket of flowers in her hand.
“Flossy!”
“Oh, I did not see you—I—I’ll go!” said Flossy, crimson with the sense of intrusion.
“No, don’t go. I am very glad to see you,” he said, as he took her hand and held it, while they looked down at the grave together.
“Did you put these?” he said, touching the wreaths.
“Only this cross. The school-girls bring them on Sunday,” faltered Flossy, as she bent down and showed how the frame of the cross was made to hold water, which she now replenished from a little jug she had brought with her. Arthur, with a look of entreaty, and with trembling inapt fingers took the flowers and began to place them in the cross. Poor fellow, he did it very badly; but she refrained from helping him, and let him put the last snowdrop in himself.
“Flossy,” he said, suddenly, “if I were lying there, and she were left, do you think she could have—have endured to live?”
“Yes, Arthur,” Flossy said, in her full tones, which vibrated with intense feeling, “I think she could. I think she would have found a good life somehow; like—like a robin in the snow,” as one fluttered down beside them. “She was so clear and real—I think she would.”
Arthur had sat down on a broad, flat stone near, still gazing at the flowers.
“She was not so weak,” he murmured.
“Oh, Arthur, you have not been weak. Everyone says—”
“No one knows,” he answered. “All that should help me has no reality apart from her.”
“But it is not apart from her, Arthur,” said Flossy, earnestly. “I—”
“Yes?” said Arthur, looking up.
“Even I,” said Flossy, humbly, “I think of her at church, and doing my work, or on beautiful days like this.”
“Yes, dear Flossy, I’m sure you do,” said Arthur, gratified; but not as if he took the words home.
“And I hope,” said Flossy, “that it will make me a better girl, and more like her.”
“You are right, Flossy,” said Arthur, after a pause, with more spirit. “I don’t want to give up, and everyone is so kind to me; they all think of what I like. But,” he added, in a passionate undertone, “she was my angel; and all prayers, Sundays, all the things that comfort a good girl like you, are filled with longing for her!”
“But they won’t be less dear for that?” whispered Flossy.
“No,” he said, “No, I’ll hold on!”
And he felt then that through such holy associations his lost love might still be a star in his path, and lead him, not back to his old self, but on to something better, and even brighter. But, then, how could he tune his life to such a solemn melody as this? He longed for the joy-bells, and even the jingling tunes of his old, easy boyhood. He was so weary of his heavy heart. He knew, as Flossy could not know, why men plunged into folly, and even sin, to drown grief. He would, not do that; but he thought how incredible it would have been to Flossy that there were times when he wanted to forget Mysie—times that came oftener as the months went by. He would have walked so contentedly on the easy, unheroic meadows of every-day life, and fate, or the hand of God, had forced him on to the rocky paths of sorrow. Just at that moment he caught a glimpse of the golden gate above them.
“How many birds there are here!” he said, after a silence.
“Do you know why?” said Flossy. “Mrs Harcourt comes and feeds them here every morning and evening, because she was so fond of birds.”
“And I have never been to see her. I’ll go now,” said Arthur, rising with sudden energy.
“I came from there,” said Flossy. “This is Mrs Harcourt’s jug.”
“Well, then, let us come,” he said, without giving himself time to hesitate, and Florence took up her basket and followed him into the garden.