Part 6, Chapter XLIX.
The Lesson of Love.
“Wed a maiden of your people,”
Warning said the old Nokomis;
“Go not eastward, go not westward,
For a stranger whom we know not!
Like a fire upon the hearth-stone
To a neighbour’s homely daughter;
Like the starlight or the moonlight
Is the handsomest of strangers!”
Thus dissuading spake Nokomis,
And my Hiawatha answered
Only this: “Dear old Nokomis,
Very pleasant is the firelight,
But I like the starlight better,
Better do I like the moonlight.”
When Rosa came in from her shopping the first sight her eyes beheld was her white wreath on the floor, but before she could speak Violante sprang into her arms.
“Rosina, oh, Rosina! who do you think is here?”
As Hugh’s tall figure appeared in the background Rosa had not much difficulty in answering this question; but the look in her bright, straightforward eyes was not wholly a welcome, though she held out her hand as he took Violante’s and said:
“You will give her to me now?”
“Mr Crichton,” said Rosa, “my little sister has no mother, and my father is not accustomed to English ways. You will forgive me if I ask you a few questions. She has already suffered a great deal from suspense.”
“You can ask no questions that I am not ready to answer fully,” said Hugh.
Rosa kissed Violante, and sent her upstairs, with a decision that admitted of no question. Then she picked up her wreath, and asked Hugh to sit down, while he forestalled her by saying:
“Miss Mattei, you are aware of the misunderstanding under which I left Civita Bella, and of the repulse I received from your father? I hope he will give me a different answer now.”
“Indeed, Mr Crichton, there have been a great many misunderstandings. Is it only now that you have discovered your mistake?”
“No, Miss Mattei,” said Hugh, colouring, “it is some weeks since I have felt certain that I was mistaken. But if you know in how much trouble we have been during we past year—and—and my share in it, you will, perhaps, understand that it was my cousin Arthur’s discovery of my secret and his encouragement which has made me venture here now.”
Rosa was softened.
“Ah, yes, Violante told me,” she said.
“I could not have raised any discussion about myself at such a time. I don’t think you like protestations, Miss Mattei, but I think a year is long enough to test our constancy, and surely—surely, Signor Mattei’s objections can no longer exist.”
“No, she must choose for herself now. Mr Crichton, I’m afraid I am very ungracious,” said Rosa warmly; “but I have been so anxious for Violante. I know this will be best for her, if—if nothing now comes in the way.”
“Nothing can—nothing shall. And Signor Mattei?”
“I think, Mr Crichton, that it would be a good thing if you spoke first to my uncle, Mr Grey. He has shown Violante and myself so much kindness that we feel he ought to be consulted. You would find him at home, he is not much engaged at this time of year—and—and—life has taken a very different turn for my little sister from anything that we anticipated for her. You will not forget that you are going to take her into a strange world?”
Rosa’s eyes filled with tears as she looked earnestly at Hugh.
“I will try,” said Hugh simply, but something in his tone impressed Rosa, who saw him depart in search of Mr Grey with more satisfaction than she could have imagined possible. Hugh found himself obliged to make a very clear statement of his circumstances, his independence of his mother, and the home at the Bank House, to which he would bring Violante, in all which matters he acquitted himself to Mr Grey’s satisfaction; his own manner and appearance probably being strong arguments in his favour. Nor, of course, could Mr Grey be insensible to the advantage of such a provision for the girl who had failed once in her attempt to earn her living and might easily fail again. He concluded with—
“Well, Mr Crichton, you must not suppose that I am not aware of how good a prospect you offer to my niece; but I hope you have considered well your own feelings. Violante is as sweet a girl as any man could wish to see. Her father is a gentleman born, and I don’t do you the injustice to suppose that you will make yourself unhappy about the accident of her former profession any more than you have about her want of fortune. But she is to all intents and purposes a foreigner, she has none of the training, and probably few of the ideas of an ordinary English girl; do not be disappointed when you find this out.”
“Do you suppose I wish her to be like an ordinary English girl?” exclaimed Hugh.
“No,” said Mr Grey, shrewdly; “but, having chosen your humming-bird, don’t expect her to turn out a robin redbreast.”
“I am not so unreasonable,” began Hugh; then changing his tone, “You judge me rightly if you think I am apt to be harsh and stern, but if I can be gentle to anyone it is to her. I could not wish her other than she is for a moment.”
In the meantime Rosa had prepared Signor Mattei’s mind for what was coming. He listened to her with tolerable patience, looked ruefully round the room at her wedding presents, and said:
“Was not one enough?”
“We couldn’t well help its happening at the same time, you see, father. And I always felt that there was a great risk that Violante would not be strong enough even for the concerts. I hope you will not oppose her happiness.”
“No, figlia mia, no; my time of opposition is over. My children do not love my art, and are grown beyond me. You are English, rich, respectable; the life of the artist is not for you.”
“Oh, father!” cried Violante, bursting into a flood of tears. “Indeed, it is not so; I am not rich, I am not respectable, only I love him so, father, just as you love music, how can I help it? That is all.”
“Ah, well, you are your mother’s daughters. Perhaps I may hand down to my grandchildren my own ambitions!”
With which distant, and, perhaps, doubtfully-desirable probability, Signor Mattei was forced to content himself; but there was enough truth in his disappointment to make a piece of good fortune that now befell him very delightful to his daughters.
He had been so much separated from his own family that their existence was hardly realised by his children; but about this time he received a letter from Milan, saying that an uncle, his father’s last surviving brother, who had been a physician, had died at an advanced age, and had left him a small competence. He was thus set free from the necessity of seeking engagements which would grow more precarious as he grew older, and could set to work to compose his long-dreamed-of opera in any place which he preferred.
“My children,” he said, when the first surprise was over, “you can live without me, and, doubtless, the gentlemen you are about to marry can do so too. Your England,” (this form of expression always distressed Violante) “is a great country to visit, but I am Italian. I shall go and visit the tomb of my honoured uncle at Milan, and then, perhaps, at Civita Bella old Maddalena and I can lead a quiet life together. She knows my ways.”
“And when we come to see you, father,” whispered Violante, “will you not give me the old china bowl?”
Before, however, things had arrived at this satisfactory condition many other arrangements had been made. Mrs Crichton had been at the sea and was on the point of coming to London, on her way back to Redhurst, for a final inspection of Jem’s arrangements; and, Hugh’s scruples at shortening Arthur’s stay in Wales giving way to the desire for so powerful an ally, he asked him to come to London and join him there. Arthur did so, and found that Hugh had already sought out James, who was tied to his work, in view of the lengthened holiday he meant to take in September, and had informed him of the state of the case. James was quite ready at last to accept the necessity, but revenged himself by giving Arthur the ludicrous side of the old courting timer and enjoying a hearty laugh over Hugh’s secret.
So, to Mrs Crichton’s great surprise, she was met at her hotel, not by James with his hands full of patterns, but by her eldest son, looking so grave that her first words were:
“My dear Hugh, what brings you here? Is anything the matter?”
“No, mother, nothing; but Arthur and I are in town, and I wanted to say a few words to you.”
Frederica was staying with a school-friend, so Mrs Crichton was alone; and Hugh hurried her over her cup of tea, and was unusually attentive and unusually impatient till she had finished with her maid and her orders to the hotel people, and could give her mind to his story, into the midst of which he plunged, hurrying through it with tolerable candour, and at last breaking off abruptly and waiting for his mother’s reply.
She was taken exceedingly by surprise, and though she was a woman of many words at first she hardly said anything. She was honestly desirous that her son should marry, and did not stand in that sort of relation to him which his marriage would disturb, and she was clear-sighted enough at once to recognise that this was no fancy which could be talked away.
“Mother, why don’t you speak to me?” said Hugh.
“I hardly know what to say to you, my dear. You have surprised me exceedingly; but I do not expect that anything that I say could induce you to alter your choice.”
“But, mother, you’ve seen her?” said Hugh, entreatingly.
“Yes; she is very pretty, and everyone speaks well of her; and, I have no doubt what you say about her relations is correct. But, Hugh, she is an Italian.”
“Surely, that is an unworthy prejudice!”
“Not at all. She may be as good as any English girl, but she will be different. She will not like the life of an English lady. Differences will start up in an unexpected manner. I have seen a great deal of life; and I don’t see how people are to be happy together with such thoroughly different antecedents. You will puzzle her, and she will disappoint you.”
“I would rather she disappointed me than that anyone else should fulfil my most perfect ideal,” said Hugh, ardently.
“But, indeed, Hugh, had you none of these doubts when you delayed so long in carrying out your intentions?”
“I delayed,” said Hugh colouring, “because I did not wish to raise this discussion at a time of such trouble—because I could not grieve Arthur. He approves of this.”
“And you have really set your heart on her all this year?”
“Set my heart!” exclaimed Hugh, starting up. “Mother, she was never out of my heart all the time when my mind was full of Arthur, when I thought renouncing her was the only atonement I could make to him!”
“How could it affect Arthur?”
“I thought no devotion, no sacrifice would be enough to make up to him ever so little. And what right have I to any happiness of my own? Oh, I have been very miserable; the only softness, the only sweetness, was the thought of her!” said Hugh, vehemently.
“My dear boy,” said Mrs Crichton, “that view was wrong. You could not give Arthur back what he lost. I think you blame yourself unduly; but, be that as it may, though we cannot undo the consequences of our actions, you seem to have forgotten that pardon was granted to the greatest of sinners not for any atonement that they could make, but for their repentance and love. We do not stand on our own merits—surely I need not say this to you.”
Mrs Crichton was a woman who very rarely spoke on serious subjects, and her sons could almost count the few occasions in their lives when she had so addressed them. She rarely criticised their behaviour; but they knew that her judgment of them was almost invariably true.
“Yes mother,” said Hugh, “I have had need to work out that truth. But if I have in any way done so it has been through Arthur’s love and forgiveness, so undeserved—so unmerited. But mother, I could not even have turned to that but for the one thing that kept my heart alive—my love for Violante. I would have taken all my happiness from her—I loved her! Though I injured her I let her forgive me!”
Hugh’s speech was somewhat confused; and, perhaps, his mother only partially understood him. He was only beginning to understand himself. For his history, with its attempt at atonement, hopeless till humble love made the offering acceptable and the pardon possible, was surely like a parable of the Greatest of all Histories, of human sin and Divine love, which this deep personal experience might help him profitably to realise. But Mrs Crichton did see that, through all this storm and conflict, the natural spontaneous love for Violante had been as a star in his heart—often obscured, indeed, by clouds of doubt and suspicion; but shining in and out till day returned. Whatever sorrow it had brought, however unwise it might be, it had kept Hugh from despair, and she could not scorn it.
“My dear,” she said, “it is too late for me to oppose what has survived so much. Nor have I the right; at your age you must please yourself. Of course, I wish you had chosen otherwise.”
“I think you will not wish so for long,” said Hugh, as he kissed her warmly.
Mrs Crichton was not ready to accede to this remark; she was troubled and anxious; and when Arthur presently came to see her and Hugh left him with her she expressed her doubts strongly.
“You wouldn’t wish Hugh to lose his better half, Aunt Lily,” he said, half playfully, and then he told of Violante’s simplicity and sweetness till Mrs Crichton was half convinced, though she still held to—
“Yes, my dear, it was very delightful for you all to rave about her; but can you imagine her Hugh’s wife, and an English lady of position?”
“Well, Aunt Lily, I can imagine Hugh very well as her husband, which is the point to interest you, I suppose.”
Mrs Crichton behaved beautifully. She forestalled Hugh’s proposals for an introduction, by going with him the next day to call on Violante, who was now staying with the Greys, from whose house Rosa was to be married.
Violante was alone in the drawing-room, and she started up flushing and trembling, then, without heeding Hugh, she went right up to Mrs Crichton and put her little hand in hers.
“I will try so hard to please you, Signora,” she said, with faltering lips.
“My dear, I am not difficult to please,” said Mrs Crichton, and somehow her fears of incongruity and incompleteness went into the background before the charm of the soft eyes and the sweet humility of the heroine of her son’s romance, which, for good or for evil, was to be the one great reality of his life.