James could obtain no word of explanation—no single particular—as he tried to help Hugh to pack up his things and to arrange some decent sort of leave-taking. Hugh was too desperate to care who was surprised at his proceedings. The ladies were out, and he wrote three lines of courteous thanks to Mrs Tollemache, but wished her son good-bye without any reason given, and never gave his brother a chance of sympathising with or restraining him.
“I am going straight home,” he said, as he went away.
“Well!” exclaimed Mr Tollemache, “who could have expected such a tornado?”
“Oh,” said Jem, “Hugh never could take circumstances into consideration. I believe the poor little thing was as much in love with him as she knew how. How could he expect her to tell the truth about the manager? Of course she liked Hugh, and of course she told fibs, and now she will cry her eyes out, and then marry Vasari after all. What else can she do, poor little victim? And then there’s Hugh, who won’t dance four times with a girl for fear of ‘exciting false expectations,’ has gone and broken her heart—if hearts ever are broken. Much he knows about the tricks girls will play to avoid an uproar! Poor little, pretty thing!”
“I don’t care for the girl,” said Mr Tollemache, “but it’s no joke about Hugh.”
“Poor old fellow, no; but those things pass off, you know; and, after all, anything’s better than that he should have married her.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Mr Tollemache.
“Poor little child!” repeated Jem, with a not unkindly pity, but which yet made small account of Violante beside the other interests involved.
And so Hugh Crichton went away from Civita Bella, and Violante was left behind him.