Part 6, Chapter XLVIII.
The Meeting of the Waters.
“And the brooklet has found the billow,
Though they flowed so far apart,
And has filled with its passionate sweetness
That turbulent, bitter heart.”
The heavy walls of mist slowly lifted themselves, and the purple mountain-sides showed dark and close at hand. The passionate rush of the mountain torrents sounded full and free after the violent rain, and their foam showed white against the grass and heather, ready to dance in the first rays of returning sunshine. Arthur and Hugh walked on for some distance in silence—a silence that confirmed Arthur’s suspicions. It was so strange a revelation, so much in contrast with his life-long surface knowledge of Hugh’s character, that he hesitated to believe it. Yet all Violante’s looks and sayings, which he had understood as referring to Vasari, were now, he perceived, capable of another interpretation. He now recollected his impression that there had been something amiss with Hugh on his first return from Italy, the passing thought that had flashed across him when he had seen them together at the primrose-picking; Violante’s wish to go to England, and her content when she found herself there; and, more than all, Hugh’s flushed, agitated look as he walked on now beside him.
“Hugh,” said Arthur, with sudden courage, “I think I have found the clue to a great deal that has puzzled me. I thought it was the manager-lover for whom Violante was fretting at Caletto. I think now—”
“What do you mean? Fretting? You told me it was Vasari—you confirmed all my suspicions. Tell me the real truth, what was it?” cried Hugh, stopping suddenly, and facing round upon him.
“I made mischief, I am afraid,” said Arthur, “but I had a preconceived idea. I see now that her hints and her little sorrowful ways were on your account only. How could I guess you had anything to do with her?”
“Don’t laugh at me!” cried Hugh, fiercely.
“I don’t want to laugh. I want you to tell me the whole story.”