“The days have vanished, tone and tint,
And yet, perhaps, the hoarding sense
Gives out at times (he knows not whence)
A little flash, a mystic hint.”
Mr Grey lived in a good-sized house in one of the newest squares in South Kensington. He had prospered in the world since his sister’s marriage, and having himself married a lady with money, was, spite of his large family, comfortably off, and belonged to that large class of Londoners who, by clever contrivances and well-managed economies, mix very happily in a society which is created and upheld by people much richer than themselves. The girls went to balls in cabs, but they appeared at them very well dressed and very agreeable. They did a great many things for themselves which many of their friends depended for on their maids; but though they did not give many parties in the season their entertainments were always pleasant ones. They were acquainted with a sprinkling of artists, authors, and actors, and were themselves alive to a good many different interests. They were also very kind, and were ready heartily to welcome their Italian cousins, not wishing in the least to sink Signor Mattei’s occupation; but rather, in a warm-hearted and perfectly genuine way, willing to make capital of what they knew of Violante’s sad little story, and to think that a young cantatrice whose prospects had been so suddenly overclouded was a very interesting kind of cousin. Moreover, Rosa was an old friend, and had always made herself loved and respected.
In some households the father, and in some the mother, is the leading spirit; but at the Greys’ the most prominent people were certainly the girls. Not that they usurped any place or power that did not naturally belong to them; but somehow there were so many of them, they were so available for any kind of entertainment, so good-natured, and so popular, that they were apt to be the first object in making the acquaintance of the family. There had been for a short time four Miss Greys in the world at once—the eldest being about the age of Rosa Mattei, the youngest some seven years younger. They were very much alike, with pretty features, fair skins, and abundant hair. All were good-looking; not one was a beauty. All could sing nicely, dance well, read books intelligently, act pleasantly at private theatricals; but not one of them had any prominent or conspicuous talent. Never were girls so clever with their fingers, so skilful in little matters of dress and contrivance, so obliging and cheerful, so free from jealousies, and so united among themselves. One never grudged another her partners, or her lovers, nor detracted in any way from another’s charms. They exchanged confidences freely on the state of their affections and their prospects, which they felt bound to further whenever they could. Rosa, not being quite prepared for this free and easy confidence, had carefully hidden her experiences from her cousins’ eyes, and had by so doing possibly lost a chance of a happy ending to them.
Since her time Lucy, the second, had married, and Beatrice, the eldest, had been engaged, and again disengaged—a circumstance which she had borne with an amount of common-sense and courage more easy to despise than to imitate, having returned to the interests of young ladyhood with apparently undiminished fervour and invincible good-nature. Mary, the third, was slightly the cleverer of the four, and had aspirations in less obvious directions; consequently, she fulfilled the claims of her actual state in life a little less perfectly; while Kitty, the youngest, was the softest, prettiest, and most attractive of them all, and had the greatest claim to stand alone as a beauty. The eldest son, Charlie, was at Oxford, and the youngest, Ned, in the Navy. Such were the relations who were now preparing to welcome Rosa and Violante among them.
It was early in November; many a tint of gold and russet was still brightening the woods round Oxley, but in the squares of Kensington scarcely a leaf was lingering; fogs began to prevail, and the streets looked more cheerful after the gas was lit than during the hours of dim and struggling daylight. Nothing outside could make the Greys’ drawing-room otherwise than bright and cheerful. With its pink curtains, its bright fire, its variety of little tables and chairs, all in the most convenient situations, and its pleasant, cheerful, young ladyhood, it was a very popular place, and the Greys rarely drank their afternoon tea in solitude.
On the present occasion, however, their only visitor was their sister Lucy. Mrs Compton and they were anxiously discussing the expected cousins.
“You see, Lucy,” said Beatrice, “we are not going to make any mysteries. We have told everyone how Violante was making quite a success in Italy when she lost her voice, and she’ll be quite a little lion for us.”
“Oh, yes, quite a catch,” said Mrs Compton. “And she would get endless pupils.”
“Yes; but you see Rosa writes that she is so very shy and childish she does not think it would be possible for her to go about teaching.”
“And so,” said Mrs Grey, “I have been writing about her to Miss Venning. I thought it well to be prepared before they came.”