A Heart-Song of To-day (Disturbed by Fire from the 'Unruly Member'): A Novel
came to him; when now fully awake again in slippered feet, and with
his pipe, he noiselessly steps out into the night, pacing the verandah
to and fro, or leaning against one of its columns, thinks on of the
past and present, when in the dim future, the vast unknown, he feels
the necessity of calm; else this scandal will so overwhelm him in the
waves of unrest, as to cause his life to be a wreck, and Vaura to be
indeed, and in truth, lost to him forever more. In the determined
quiet of a man controling self, he now again, this time undressing,
takes to his bed and gains an hour's sleep ere it is time to rise for
a new day.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
HEART-STIRS TO DIVINE MUSIC.
At break of day, springing from bed, and after a cold plunge bath,
feeling more like himself, he went out into the half slumbering city;
but the sunbeams give their roseate kiss and mists roll up the great
mountain slopes, and the lazy Italian rubs his black eyes not seeing
the beauties in nature that surround him--they are part of his life--
but only wondering how easiest he can pass the day, while Trevalyon
bending his steps to a favourite restaurant, after a pretty fair
breakfast, for the fresh air of the morning has given him an appetite,
hiring a horse, goes for a long ride, and turning his horse's head for
the country, determines by getting away with nature to find that old
self that he has lost, or by thinking out his plan to how best use the
information received from Father Lefroy, recover his customary
tranquility of mind, for just now he is torn by doubts and fears; he
should be in England, but dreads to leave Vaura, lest the Marquis
hearing of his departure would endeavour personally to press his suit.
And so putting spurs to his horse he is nearer the pure lofty
mountains on whose breast he hopes to find peace.
While at the villa, the woman he loves, after a somewhat sleepless
night in which she is haunted by the faces of her Spanish admirer and
the hero of her early girlhood, descends from her room to find Lady
Esmondet not yet up, though it is luncheon hour, and Trevalyon away
for the day. The afternoon is occupied until it is time to dress for
dinner by visitors. With dinner comes Lady Esmondet, Trevalyon not
having returned it is a _tete-a-tete_ affair; afterwards in the
salons, the conversation drifts from fair Italia, the after-luncheon
visitors, and the London _Times_ to Lionel.
"Poor fellow, one can easily see how unsettled and worried he is at
times over this wretched scandal," said Lady Esmondet.
"I should treat the whole matter with perfect contempt," Vaura
answered haughtily.
"In this instance it won't answer."
"Why not? if he is sure it is false."
"Vaura! Vaura, you know it is false."
"The fact is, god-mother, I know nothing about it, nor do I care to,
unless he tells me himself; my life, that is my woman life as you
know, has been spent _a_ Paris, and so my ears have not been a
receptacle for London scandal."
"Dear Lionel has been too independent."
"Yes, god-mother, that's just it; it's his character; had he had a
town house, a French cook, and given half a dozen big dinners during
the season, he might indulge in secret marriage if his fancy ran that
way, and society would smile at him through rose-coloured spectacles."
"Too true, Vaura, _ma chere_; Madame Grundy is an odd mixture of
inconsistencies; should a vulgar _parvenu_ pay society's tolls in
shape of boastful charities, balls and dinners, he is one of the pets
of the season, and is allowed any latitude as to his little
weaknesses. Had Lionel made atonement by marriage, all would have been
forgiven; but he has dared to please himself, and so they at the first
chance pelt their idol."
"Their idol, yes," said Vaura, musingly; "could this falsehood be the
invention of some disappointed woman who has taken for her motto the
words of Honorius, that 'there is a sweeter strain than that of
grief-revenge, that drowns it.'"
As she ceased speaking, the voice of Trevalyon is heard quieting Mars,
who is leaping wildly in welcome. And now he is with them; and as with
smiles and warm hand-clasps he is welcomed, he feels that this is
home. Vaura, who has been colouring some photographs, lets her hands
fall idly to her lap, as she listens to the manly voice which, coming
in and joining its music with their own, she feels makes their life
complete.
"Yes, I have dined, thank you, and do feel more like myself than I
have done since the weight of this scandal has been upon me; but I
shall not worry myself or you with naming it. I turned my horse's head
east, and always find a day with Nature so exalts and uplifts my whole
being that life, again is filled with the calm, clear star of hope,
and that my burden of care falls to the dust under my horse's feet; my
spirit is again buoyant; I again live. And what have you both, my
charming home angels, been about? you look yet as if a sun-warm bath
would be your best medicine, Lady Alice."
"You are right, Lionel; you have had the sunbeams to-day; I must bask
in them on to-morrow (D.V.) I feel fatigued even yet, though lazy
enough to have kept my room until dinner hour."
"You have explored the gardens, I suppose, _ma belle_."
"No, that is a pleasure to come; I, too, was lazy today."
"I am selfish enough to be almost glad, as we can roam there to-morrow
together," and there is a lingering emphasis on the last word as his
blue eyes in a long gaze rest on her face.
"Come, Lionel, you and Vaura give me some music; draw the screen
between my eyes and the firelight; I shall lie on this lounge and
listen."
"Is not this an ideal music-room?" said Vaura, "opening as it does
into the conservatory; and see Euterpe, standing in her niche, with
flute and cornet at her feet, violin and guitar on either side, and
the perfection of pianos, with this sweet-stringed harp;" and, sinking
into the low chair beside it, she drew her fingers over the strings.
"I perceive," said Lionel, handling the flute, "your friend is a maker
of sweet sounds."
"Awake the echo."
"To hear is to obey, _ma belle_."
Whereupon Lionel, looking down at the face upturned to him as her head
lay on the cushioned chair-back, or droops as she draws her fingers
across the harp-strings; and with the fever of love hot within him he
sang in his sweet tenor the songs of Italia with the passion of a
living love breathing in their every note and word.
Thus song after song was softly sung, Vaura sometimes blending her
voice with his, and he was so near, and it was an intoxicating hour;
and Trevalyon, bound in honour not to speak his love, forgot that one
of our poets, Sterne I think, says that "talking of love is making
it," and sings on, as he drinks in fresh draughts from the warmth of
her eyes, and her face is pale with emotion, her lips, that "thread of
scarlet," and her neck, gleams in its whiteness as her bosom heaves
with her quickened heart-beats, as she feels his meaning in his warm
words; and fearing for herself, she is so sympathetic, and knows it is
only because of the "difficulty," that he has not spoken, starts to
her feet, laying her hand gently on his arm, says softly:
"You must be tired."
"Tired! no; this hour has been so perfect, my heart yearns for many
such."
"See, my god-mother has deserted us unnoticed; ah! what a spell is
there in music."
"The magnetism of your dear presence; ah, Circe! Circe what spells you
weave," and there is a tender light in his eyes. She lets him look so,
for a second, when she says gently, giving him her hand in good-night;
"it would not do to leave you all the power of witchery," and she lets
him put her hand through his arm and lead her to the foot of her
stairs, where, with a silent hand-clasp they part for the night.
Dismissing her maid, whom she found asleep on the rug before the fire:
"I dare say you are tired, Saunders; you may retire; give me my
dressing gown; there, that will do, I shall comb out my hair."
And, arrayed in dainty dressing gown, of white embroidered flannel,
the combing of the bright tresses is a lengthy affair, for thought is
busy; "Yes, this intense sympathy, this earnest tenderness, this
languor and sweet sense of a new joy in living, all mean that I love
him; and, as 'tis so, I am not at one with the poet when he says,
''tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all;'
lost! lost! what a world of loneliness it would be to me, what a world
of loneliness in the very word; my love, your mesmeric eyes seem to be
on me now; I wonder," and a smile comes to the dark eyes and the sweet
mouth, "I wonder what you would think of me in this robe; but what
nonsense I am dreaming," and the _robe de nuit_ is on; the short,
fluffy hair pushed up a little from the eyes, which close as the soft
cheek presses the pillow, and Somnus, the sleepy god, claims his dues.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE UNRULY MEMBER IS HEARD.
The following morn is bright and glorious, the mountains, ah! the
grandeur of them, their peaks in changing hues as the sun's breath
grows warmer, cut the azure of the heavens, and rest there; one
involuntarily feels on a morning like this one cannot love nature
intensely enough; and now, Old Sol, giving his brightest beams to the
Italian, who loves him, shines into every corner of the Eternal City,
from the King in his palace, and the Pope in the palace of the
Vatican, to the peasant stretched on his door-step; for the good king
Victor Emmanuel is sick, and the bright beams shining through his
window, cheer him; and he thinks of his people who are poor and ill,
and also welcomes the sunbeams for their sake. And his gentle
Holiness, Pius IX, in walking past the great painting of the
Transfiguration, thinks "how glorious it looks in the sun's rays," and
he too was glad. And the lazy peasant lying in the sun, stretched
himself and was glad, for surely many noble ladies and gentlemen would
be abroad in the sweet warm air, and he would beg many _soldi_ and buy
macaroni.
Vaura, usually an early riser, but not having slept until dawn, was
only awakened an hour ago by a sunbeam opening her eyelids, so that it
was luncheon hour ere she made her appearance in the aesthetic little
morning-room, whither Lady Esmondet had ordered it to be brought; on
entering kissed her god-mother, and giving her hand to Lionel, her
eyes drooping under his long gaze,
"You look quite yourself, god-mother mine, after your nights rest,"
she said.
"Yes, I am feeling very well to-day; but your roses are of a pale
tint, how is that?"
"Whose roses could bloom with undimmed lustre surrounded by flowers of
such brilliant colouring?" she answered, evasively, indicating by a
gesture the floral beauties filling the vases and jars, not wishing to
own before Lionel her sweet sleeplessness of the night.
Captain Trevalyon's man now brought letters from the post-office.
"Ah," said Vaura, taking her share, "one from Haughton Hall in the
handwriting of madame, and to me."
On opening it a very well-executed photograph of the Hall fell to the
floor, which Lionel picked up, while Vaura read aloud as follows:
"DEAR MISS VERNON,--
"I enclose you a photo of the Hall as I have made it. It was a perfect
barracks when I saw it first; see what money can do. The American
eagle is a great bird, eh? You must marry money. I shall have a
gentleman here at Christmas with lots of land and a title. The Duchess
of Hatherton would sound well."
"A _bete noire_ of yours," said Lady Esmondet.
"Yes," said Vaura, carelessly, with a shrug of shoulders, going on
with the letter.
"I must also settle Blanche this coming season. You observed, I
suppose, how, much flesh she had; well, she loses weight every month;