Hugh Crichton's Romance. Coleridge Christabel Rose
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 he answered decidedly, “Yes, but she is more afraid of her father than of the public.”
“Dear me,” said James, “this sounds very interesting. And she is a beauty, too, Hugh?”
“I don’t know if you would consider her so. I do, undoubtedly!” said Hugh, with a sort of desperate gravity.
“Very unlikely acquaintance for old Hugh,” thought James. “See if I submit to any more criticisms about my mixed society. Is she very young?” he said aloud.
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs Tollemache. “You see, the circumstances are altogether peculiar. These two sisters are most excellent girls, and knowing their antecedents, and having them here as occasional companions for Emily, I could not, I cannot suppose that anything would ever accrue to cause me to repent the arrangement.”
There was a peculiar emphasis in Mrs Tollemache’s manner of making this remark, and it was accompanied by a little blush and nervous movement of her knitting needles.
“It must be a very pleasant kind of place,” said James, wondering if Charles Tollemache found this young songstress too bewitching.
“Yes, but perhaps it is not altogether inopportune that our leaving Civita Bella should coincide with Violante’s début. Things will be altered now, and I shall wish Emily to have more regular instruction.”
“Mamma, I shall love Violante as long as ever I live,” said Emily, “and I should not care if she sang at fifty operas.”
“You must go to school, Emmy,” said her brother, “and attend to the three R’s with twopence extra for manners.”
“I shall not mind if you will send me to that nice school Mr Crichton was talking about, where the governess is nearly as young as I am,” said Emily.
“Not quite,” said Hugh, laughing. “I only told you Miss Venning had a young sister.”
“I shall ask Mr Spencer Crichton about it,” said Mrs Tollemache.
“Have you been telling them about Oxley Manor?” said James. “I am sure Flossy Venning is the governess, whatever she may be called. You would make friends with our girls, Miss Tollemache?”
“Yes, I should like that. But now I want to show you my friend, and if we don’t make haste we shall be late,” said Emily, as she ran out of the room.
The little party of English took their way through the quaint and richly coloured streets of the Italian city to Signor Mattei’s apartments, and James could not repress his exclamations of delight at every patch of colour, every deep full shadow, and every graceful outline that met his eye. Emily pointed out the various lions,