“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?”