Hugh Crichton's Romance

“Tell you– now?” said Hugh, recollecting himself. “No, no, impossible.”

“You can’t leave me in such a state of conjecture. Here, it’s quite fine and sunny now. Let us stop by this stile, and tell me all about it.”

As he spoke Arthur perched himself on the stone step of the stile, while Hugh leaned against the wall beside him. The white masses of cloud torn in every direction rolled rapidly away, showing great wells of blue between them. Every stone and puddle shone and sparkled in the sunshine; sharp peaks, and large, round masses of rock came one by one into view.

In this unfamiliar scene, to the last person and at the last moment that he could possibly have anticipated, Hugh began to tell his story. Arthur listened with a few well-timed questions, till Hugh spoke of “trying to convince Jem,” when he could not repress a laugh.

“Jem in the seat of judgment!”

Hugh laughed too, and went on, more comfortably:

“He said nothing I did not know before. I meant to carry it through. I could have done so.”

“Then you did not come to an explanation with her?”

“Yes, I did. I thought then I had found out the secret of life,” said Hugh, with an intensity of feeling, which Arthur could well sympathise with.

“But what on earth upset it all?”

“Didn’t I see her with the diamonds, taking them from him? – ah!” Hugh broke off, and drove his heel into the ground, unable to recall the scene without passion that was almost uncontrollable, and turning white with the effort to restrain language and gesture to the dry composure which he had adopted.

“Her father said she was already engaged to him,” he said, after a pause; then hurried on with his story, and demanded:

“Now, what do you say to that?”

“That I would not have believed you could be such a fool,” would have been Arthur’s natural answer, but he modified it into, “Well, I think you were very hasty, and rather hard on the poor child – ”

“Hard? Do you think I was hard – don’t you think I was justified in what I did?”

“I don’t think you allowed enough for her father’s authority and her own timidity – certainly.”

“Sometimes I think I acted like a brute,” said Hugh.

“Well, but you see the worse you acted the less you were deceived in her,” said Arthur, plainly. “Well, then you came home and thought it was all over?”

“Yes. Perhaps you can understand now what caused the temper and the conduct which led to – to – . Could I have had any conscience, any feeling, and have renewed my happiness after last year?”

“But how was it?” said Arthur, hardly comprehending a view so unlike his own instincts.

“Well, you know recent circumstances as well as I do. I have become aware that, however it may have been once – I think now she is not indifferent to me, but I saw all the difficulties more plainly – that was not it, she is more than all the world to me – but how could I do it?”

“But, Hugh,” said Arthur, gently, “what good could it possibly do me for you to make yourself miserable?”

“No good,” said Hugh. “I know that now. But I could bear better to see you. I should have hated my own happiness.” Arthur did not answer for a moment, he was thinking how little they had any of them known of Hugh.

“But you make me out rather a dog in the manger,” he said, with a half-smile.

“No, no! You are all that is unselfish. But I was not thinking of you. I know I was mistaken, but lately I have seen things differently.”

“It has been a great comfort to me to have you to look after me lately,” said Arthur, with tact to say the most soothing thing; “and, no doubt, last year you did not know what you felt. But I should not have thought you heartless. There is one person whose feelings I think you have forgotten – Violante herself.”

“When I believed she loved me it seemed too good a thing for me to put out my hand to take,” said Hugh, in a low voice.

“Oh, Hugh,” said Arthur, sadly and earnestly, “don’t throw away a great love. Neither she nor you will ever most likely feel the like again. It is much too good to lose. It’s the best thing in the world, you know.”

“And I must have it. I, while you…” said Hugh, with much agitation.

“You have it. She loves you, and you only can make her happy.”

“You don’t imagine,” said Hugh, passionately, “that I don’t know how precious, how utterly good it is! You don’t think I don’t love her?”

“No, no, I don’t think that.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Hugh said, more lightly:

“And how about my mother, and all that part of the business?”

“As to that, Jem was right, of course, at an early stage of the proceedings; but it is not such an extreme case but what I think it may all be managed. Violante is differently placed now, and is herself all anyone could wish. And you wouldn’t be worth much without her, Hugh.”

“Just nothing,” said Hugh.

“Well, then,” said Arthur, boldly, “why don’t you go home to-morrow morning and see her?”

Hugh leant over the wall in silence, enduring a conflict of feeling that only such natures ever know. He desired this thing with passionate intensity; he knew, from bitter experience, that he could not bear its loss. He was not one whose feet went creditably along the paths of self-denial, or from whom voluntary self-sacrifice came with any grace. And yet he felt how little he deserved this blessing, how utterly beyond his merits it would be, with such humiliation that he could hardly bear to put out his hand to take it. To feel himself crowned with such undeserved joy, to take it almost from Arthur’s hand – to find that there was left for him no expiation, no penance even for the wrong he had done – to know “that no man may deliver his brother, nor make agreement unto God for him,” was a pang unknown to humbler, simpler souls, but bitter as death to him.

It was almost inconceivable to Arthur, with his unconquerable instinct for making the best of things, and his readiness to accept consolation from any quarter. He had no particular insight into character, nor any inclination to sit in judgment on his neighbours; but he did perceive that Hugh was distressed by the contrast between their fortunes, and that he was suffering under an access of self-reproach, so he said:

“You can’t tell how much good you have done me lately. It has been the greatest rest to be with you; but this will only be pleasure to me. I know you would put it all off to save me any pain, but I shall be happier for it – I shall indeed – don’t have a single scruple.”

Hugh hung down his head; he knew that to seek his own happiness was the only right thing left.

“Utterly undeserved,” he murmured.

“As to that,” said Arthur, with much feeling, “who could deserve love like – like theirs? I felt that, thoughtless fellow as I was, always. I had done nothing. I was nothing much, you know. I said so once to Mysie, and she thought it over, and that last Sunday afternoon I remember she said as we walked back together, that she had been considering what I said – I’m afraid I had never thought of it again – and that she did not think anyone need trouble about not deserving the love that was given them; for did not undeserved love lie at the very foundation of the Christian religion, yet the love of God made people happy, and we made each other happy by our love? Wasn’t it a wonderful, wise thing for a girl to say? And it’s true; when I think of her love, I can better bear the want of herself.”

How well Hugh recognised the sweet, well-expressed wisdom of Mysie’s little sayings! It struck home with an application far deeper than Arthur guessed. Had not his whole history during the past year been one long attempt to expiate his own sin, to atone himself for his errors, to absolve his own conscience from its remorse?

He looked up, with his eyes swimming in tears, at Arthur.

“I shall go, then,” was all he said.

“That’s right; let’s get on, then, and you can have a look at Bradshaw.”

Hugh laughed at this practical suggestion, and presently remembered that, as Miss Venning’s holidays had begun, Violante would not be in Oxley.

“Well, you could find out her uncle’s address – Jem knows it.”

“Oh, I know where he lives,” said Hugh, declining to encounter Jem. “Come what may, I shall come back to you at once,” he said.

“Well – send me a telegram, and I could come and meet you. You know we should have gone home in a week or so, anyhow.” Violante was alone at Signor Mattei’s lodgings. Rosa’s wedding was to take place in about a fortnight, and the little drawing-room was full of preparations for it. Rosa’s modest trousseau, her uncle’s gift, looked magnificent lying on the chairs and sofa, where her cousins had been inspecting it before taking her out to make further purchases. It was a hot, sunny afternoon, and Violante, as she stood in the window, thought how dusty the trees looked in the little garden, how brown the grass, and how shabby altogether was the aspect of London in August. For almost the first time she thought, with a faint sense of regret, of Civita Bella, with its harmonious colours, its fretted spires, the deep blue of the skies, the flowers. She glanced at Rosa’s white bridal wreath, just sent home, and took it up in her hand – orange flowers, myrtle, and stephanotis, but these were dry and false; those other blossoms – Violante heard a little noise, she turned her head, and there stood Hugh Crichton, tall and stately, just as he had come towards her over the old palace floor more than a year ago. She was so utterly surprised, and yet his presence fitted in so justly with her thoughts that she stood waiting, with her eyes on his face, without one conventional word of greeting. Hugh had rehearsed a thousand greetings; what he uttered was a new one —

“Violante – Violante! will you forgive me? – can you love me still?”

He held out both hands imploringly. Violante looked up in his face; she dropped the wreath, and in a moment, neither knew how, he held her in his arms, and the long year of parting was a year that was past. He had come back; what had she to do with mistrust or pride?

“My darling – oh, my darling! I have not been so faithless as I seemed,” he said.

“I was misled, and then – ”

“I never broke my promise,” sobbed Violante; “before you were gone I threw the diamonds away. I was never engaged to him – never.”

“It was all my own wrong-headed folly and suspicion. And then, you know our terrible story?”

“I know many things now,” said Violante, withdrawing a little. “Mr Crichton, I have seen your home, and I know the difference between us. I have not wondered lately that you did not come back.”

“Never think of that,” cried Hugh, “for my life is worth nothing without you. I have been so miserable that I could lead no life at all. Oh, my darling, give yourself back to me, and I will – I will be good to you! I will make you happy. I have loved you every moment of this bitter year. Oh, make the rest of my life better!”

So Hugh pleaded, with all that past bitterness giving force to his words. And she, who needed no urging, whose love had been his without an hour’s wavering, felt all her troubles floating away, till the dusty suburban drawing-room was filled with a sunlight as glorious as the Italian palace, and there needed no scent of southern flowers to bring back the charm of their one half-hour of happiness. It had come back to them, and by the long want of it they knew far better what it was worth.

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-stoneTo a neighbour’s homely daughter;Like the starlight or the moonlightIs the handsomest of strangers!”Thus dissuading spake Nokomis,And my Hiawatha answeredOnly 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.”