Hugh Crichton's Romance. Coleridge Christabel Rose

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СКАЧАТЬ have to get used to girls under archways in red petticoats,” returned Hugh.

      “How were they all at Oxley?”

      “Oh, very well; the mother was groaning after you. She said she couldn’t get the fences mended, and Jones’ cow had eaten the geraniums. Oh, and she wants to have a garden-party.”

      “Well,” said Hugh, “what should hinder her having a dozen if she likes?”

      “She can’t do it without you.”

      “Isn’t Arthur there?”

      “Arthur? yes. But it isn’t worth while asking the Miss Clintons to meet Arthur.”

      “I should think that chattering Katie Clinton was just the girl he would admire.”

      “Should you?” said Jem, rather meaningly. “However, Hugh, when are you coming home?”

      “As soon as you do.”

      “I have only a fortnight.”

      “Then we can go back together. That church is considered very fine. Look at the spire.”

      James looked with undisguised and genuine delight at the fair proportions and exquisite colouring of the building before him, and after various half-finished and inarticulate expressions of delight, exclaimed: “It’s intoxicating! Can’t we go in?”

      “Not now. Mrs Tollemache will be waiting for us. There are a dozen such churches, besides the cathedral, and there’s an old amphitheatre, at least the remains of one.”

      “Perish Oxley and its garden-parties in the ruins of its new town-hall and its detestable station,” cried James, mock-heroically, and striking an attitude.

      “Then there’s a very good opera,” said Hugh – “and oh, wouldn’t the great singing-class be in your line to-morrow.”

      “What singing-class?”

      “Why, there’s a certain Signor Mattei here. He is first violin in the opera orchestra, and a very fine musician. I believe he followed music entirely from choice in the first instance.”

      “Then I respect him,” said James. “What could he do better?”

      “Exactly. I thought you would say so. Well, he has a great singing-class – more, I suppose, what would be called a choral society.”

      “Yes,” said Jem; “I belong to the Gipsy Singers, and to Lady Newington’s Glee Society, and sometimes I run down to help the choir of that church at Richmond. I took you there once.”

      “Well, Signor Mattei’s class is the popular one here. Tollemache takes his little sister, and having nothing better to do, I joined it. To-morrow is the last of the course, so you can go if you like.”

      “I should like it immensely. Quite a new line for you though.”

      “I don’t see why I should not sing as well as you or Arthur. I mean why I should not attempt it: of course I am no musician,” said Hugh, who had rather a morbid horror of boasting.

      “No,” said Jem, “I have a theory that people’s lives are divided by too sharp lines. They should run into each other. Let each give something out, and each will get light and warmth and colour. Nobody knows how much there is in other people’s worlds till they get a peep at them. I should like to teach everybody something of what was most antipathetic to them, and show everyone a little of the society to which he was not born, whatever that may be.”

      “There’s a great deal in what you say,” said Hugh, so meekly that Jem, on whose theories the sledge hammer of practice was commonly wont to fall, was quite astonished.

      “Why, how mild and mellow Italian sunshine is making you. You’re a case in point. We shall have you getting that precious town-hall painted in fresco, and giving a concert in it, at which you’ll sing the first solo!”

      And James burst into a hearty laugh, in which Hugh joined more joyously and freely than was often his wont. “Don’t you be surprised whatever I do,” he said. “See if I can’t catch some Italian sunshine and bring it home to Oxley! But here we are, come in, and you’ll see Mrs Tollemache.” James followed his brother; but an expression of unmitigated astonishment came over his face.

      “Hallo! there’s something up,” he ejaculated under his breath. “Is it Miss Tollemache?”

      Part 1, Chapter IV

      The Singing-Class

      The little maiden cometh,

      She cometh shy and slow,

      I ween she seeth through her lids

      They drop adown so low.

      She blusheth red, as if she said

      The name she only thought.

      “So you mean to accompany our party, Mr James Crichton, to the singing-class? I am very glad that you should go,” said Mrs Tollemache.

      “Yes, for you will see Violante!” cried her daughter, Emily.

      Mrs Tollemache was a little gentle lady, who, spite of several years of widowhood, spent in keeping house for her son in Civita Bella, always looked as if she were ready for an English country Sunday, with her soft grey dresses and white ribbons, slightly unfashionable, not very well made, and yet unmistakably lady-like, just as the diffidence and unreadiness of her manner did not detract in the least from its good breeding. Her daughter was a tall girl of sixteen, with bright, straight falling hair, and a rosy face, simple and honest, though her frank, fearless manners, and capacity for conversation, indicated a young lady who had seen something of the world. Her brother, the consul, many years her elder, represented English diplomacy in a pleasant, cheery, if not very deep or astute fashion to the benighted foreigners by whom he was surrounded.

      “And who is Violante?” asked James.

      “Violante,” said Mr Tollemache, “is the rising star of Civita Bella.”

      “Violante,” said Emily, “is the dearest, sweetest, most beautiful creature in the world!”

      “Violante,” said Mrs Tollemache, “is a very sweet young person, whose mother I knew something of formerly, and whose sister gives Emily music and Italian lessons.”

      “She is Signor Mattei’s daughter?” said Hugh.

      “I will tell you all about her, Mr Crichton,” said Emily. “Signorina Rosa – that’s her sister – brings her to talk Italian with me. But some time ago they found out that she had a wonderful voice, and so she is to go on the stage. She is to make her first appearance next Tuesday, as Zerlina in ‘Don Giovanni;’ but the odd thing is that she hates it, she is so shy. Fancy hating it, I wish I had the chance!”

      “Emily, my dear!” ejaculated her mother. “A couple of nights will rub off all that,” said Mr Tollemache, “even if it is genuine.”

      “Genuine!” cried Emily. “For shame, Charles. She cannot help it, and even singing in the class has not cured her. It is quite true, isn’t it, Mr Crichton?” turning to Hugh.

      Hugh paused for a moment, and – Jem could hardly believe his eyes – blushed, as СКАЧАТЬ