Part 3

“Art!” cried Miss Grandville, disdainfully, “art! What is art, I should like to know, but the worship of the creature. Art is more nearly successful, Madame Floriani, than I am afraid you think it is?”

“Ah, mademoiselle! pity me, spare me! I have been brought up among the great things of art, and opened my eyes on the Coliseum--I have lived where Michelangelo worked--I have drank in love of art with my first breath. I cannot forget its rich lessons in this ascetic doctrine of yours. On the contrary, I find in your beautiful country so much to love and admire, that I wonder you are so little gifted with the power of appreciating and reproducing the beauty He has created.”

This was a long speech for Madame Rosa, and strangely free from foreign idioms. For she was excited, and forgot to be careful.

“My dear Madame,” said Mrs. Bentley, solemnly; “you speak of natural religion only.”

“Come! come! we must not discuss theology at a soirée,” she exclaimed, “that would be a misuse of time indeed. Will you waltz, Miss Grandville!” And before that horrified lady could return an answer, the pretty widow had glided across the room in her peculiar manner of grace and lightness; and, going to the piano, dashed into a maddening waltz. Now, to begin with, only two young ladies of the Langthwaite’s society could waltz, and these were the daughters of a retired Captain, who had the good luck to own relatives in London. But they were thought bold and light in Langthwaite (although as good girls as ever breathed), because they went to the opera and the theatres when they were in town, and confessed to the polka, and waltzing. They were very pretty, lively, and good-natured; and when Madame Rosa played her waltz, they both stood up and said, that if others would dance they would. There was no response. Some said, “What bold girls those Miss Winters are!” and others, “Oh! Laura and Helen Winter will go the whole way with any woman of the world! We can’t expect anything from them.” And one old maid, who had never had an offer, nor heard a word of love in her life, bit the end off the adjective “disgusting,” and flounced her shawl--Shetland--tightly round her, as she thanked Heaven, that she had never done such a thing when she was young! And then when Rosa turned round on her music-stool, with her hands in her lap, and said, “Eh bien! who will dance?” Mr. Bentley came up, “Excuse me, Madame Floriani,” he said rather nervously, for the widow looked so arch and lovely, that it required all Langthwaite severity to resist her. “You are a stranger to our customs, and you do not understand us yet. I hope that after you have been among us for a little time we shall be good friends and be able to work together. But we have banished all these frivolities from Langthwaite. My flock, I am happy to say, does not dance.”

“Not dance, Monsieur! and why?” cried Rosa, with a burst of laughter, real southern laughter, such as you never hear in polite society in England now.

“I look on dancing, Madame Floriani, as an invention of the enemy.”

“What enemy?--the Russians? Oh no, I assure you, les Russes did not introduce the dance. That is drôle; I did not know you were such good patriots down here!” And she laughed again.

“But Madame Floriani,” said Miss Grandville, coming to the rescue; “we don’t ourselves think dancing proper.”

“Not proper!” said Rosa, flushing to her temples, “what monstrous ideas! What impropriety can there be in a party of young people amusing themselves with dancing or anything else convenable?”

“It is a worldly amusement,” said Miss Grandville stiffly.

“And a degradation of the immortal nature,” said Mr. Bentley.

Madame Rosa looked from one to the other as if they had been Aztecs or Red Indians, or any other unusual specimens of humanity; then, utterly unable to find any sort of answer to such sentiments, turned back to the piano and rattled off a brilliant fantasia, which no one understood and every one thought noisy.

It was the same with the games that Madame Rosa proposed. For, when dancing was forbidden, she thought she would enliven her society by games. At first every one refused to take part in them. They were dull, childish, uninteresting, a waste of time; but at last she gained over some of the younger girls to a stray Cantab or two, whom she had managed to get hold of somehow, no one knew how. “She must have fished them out of the lake,” said Miss Grandville; for, indeed, Cantabs were rare animals in Langthwaite, owing to the character for dullness and cant which that beautiful vale had gained in the university. A few used to come, certainly: generally pale young men wearing spectacles and afflicted with colds; but Madame Floriani soon learnt to distinguish the various types, and to fly this type as she would poison. Yet even when she had gone so far as to positively establish games at her soirées, the Miss Grandvilles and the Bentleyites used to sit by grimly, and protest in loud whispers against the downward course of things in Langthwaite.

Madame Floriani was almost disheartened. Had it not been for that strange little bit of principle in her, that she owed it to the society of her place to do something pleasant for it, she would have given up the attempt of amusing it in despair. But it was a matter of conscientiousness, and she did not like to be defeated. Fortunately, just at the moment when she was most dispirited, she found that she had really made some way. Her fascinating manners, her beauty, her grace, her knowledge of the world, the purity and innocence of her mind, her tact, and her imperturbable good-humour, at last had their weight. Added to which exterior circumstances, that great want of the human heart--that want of life, of pleasure, of sensation, which no ascetic folly can destroy, however it may distort--began to make itself felt. The Miss Winters and many of the younger girls ranged themselves on Madame Floriani’s side. They helped her in her soirées; they played at her games; they shared her picnics; they shot at her archery meetings, nay, they even danced to her waltzes; though Mr. Bentley was so angry that he did not speak to Miss Laura when he met her the next day, because he said, as the eldest, she ought to have known better, and was leading her younger sisters to destruction. Which made Laura cry, poor girl; but Helen called their incumbent a detestable little fellow; though she felt as if she had spoken blasphemy when she said it. Altogether Langthwaite was decidedly divided into two parties, because of the waltzing that went on at Madame Floriani’s Wednesday evenings.

No one could understand Mr. Bentley. He was the bitterest enemy Madame Floriani had; at least to judge by his conversation; and, yet, if it were so, why did he go so constantly to Whitefield House? and why, if he disapproved so highly of her conduct, did he still continue to attend her evening parties? He never missed one, by any chance, though the Miss Grandvilles and others were only waiting for his lead to follow him to open secession. And why did he turn pale when he saw her coming down the lane, and why did he turn red when he shook her hand? Miss Augusta Grandville, the youngest--she was thirty-four--who had been the beauty of the family and gave herself still the airs of a juvenile--Miss Augusta who had always been his fast ally, his most indefatigable district visitor, his head class teacher, his unfailing satellite, who would not have missed a missionary meeting nor a bible class for all the world--Miss Augusta was uneasy. She did not like these symptoms; she did not like Mr. Bentley’s leniency in still continuing to visit Madame Rosa; her voice was for war, an open declared right honest war, and she would be the incumbent’s shield-bearer. So, she said to him one day, after a peculiarly joyous evening at Whitefield House; adding what she thought an irresistible argument, or rather inducement: “If you will give up Madame Floriani, my sisters and I will follow you.” At which Mr. Bentley stammered and blushed; then sighed, and said nasally, “We must still hope for her conversion.”

Apple-cheeked Mr. Bentley was unhappy. He began even to look so: which was somewhat difficult to that insignificant countenance of his. But apple-cheeked Mr. Bentley was in love. Disguise it as he might to himself and to others, deny it, scorn and reject it--it was none the less true--he was in love with Madame Floriani. True, she was a heathen; but then her natural graces were so many! True, she was a woman of the world, an artist, a lover of frivolity--but then she was kind to the poor and so gentle in her temper! True, she was all that he most reprobated, all that he most abhorred; but then he loved her. What should he do? Marry her, and so lose his influence over the world he had governed so long? But should he lose his influence? The Grandvilles would be angry; perhaps they would leave Langthwaite--he wished they might; but he could manage all the rest. He should be rich too; very rich; and money always gives power. Mr. Bentley had no pious horror of that side of worldliness. Yes, on the whole he should be better off; even in Langthwaite. Yes, he would marry her.

These were his reasonings spread out over many days and weeks, during which time he was much at Whitefield House, often to Madame Rosa’s great inconvenience and annoyance. And indeed of late she had adopted the habit of denying herself; an offence which took all Mr. Bentley’s love to forgive. For it was a falsehood, he said; and worse--forcing her servants to lie for her. While Rosa only answered, “Mais, Monsieur l’Abbé, it is a thing seen--it is understood--everybody knows what it means when one says that Madame is not at home, or does not receive to-day.”

“In the world, that may be,” said Mr. Bentley; “but we do not understand such positions here.”

“Monsieur l’Abbé! are you not the same here as any where else? What is there so peculiarly virtuous in Langthwaite that you must make laws for yourselves against all the rest of the world, and condemn all the rest of the world? You don’t seem to think that there is any crime in pride and hatred, and self-sufficiency, and all that--only in happiness and gaiety of heart. It is monstrous!” cried Rosa, excited.

“Madame Floriani, I beg of you one favour, I have asked it before. Do not call me monsieur l’abbé, I am not a Romish priest, but a Protestant minister,” said Mr. Bentley, gravely.

“Oh, pardon!” cried Rosa, with a toss of her graceful head, and making that pretty little noise with her lips which you hear every Italian make when perplexed or dissatisfied. “Oh, pardon! It is so natural to me to call men of your profession abbés or curés, that I forget. I will try to remember.”

“At least there is one great difference between us,” said Mr. Bentley, turning very red.

“What do you mean?” asked the pretty widow tranquilly.

“Shall I tell you?” said the incumbent, in a voice that was meant to be caressing.

“If you please,” answered Rosa, nestling herself back in her easy chair, and putting up her feet on a tabouret.

“I mean,” said Mr. Bentley, after a short pause, and making a desperate rush, like a cart-horse at a fence. “I mean, that we Protestant clergy may marry, and the Romanist priest cannot.”

“Yes, that is true; and I don’t like married priests,” said Rosa quietly.

“Why, Madame Floriani?” asked the incumbent, trembling.

“From association, I suppose. It is distasteful to me.”

“Then you would not yourself?--” stammered Mr. Bentley.

“What?” and Rosa lifted up her eyes in astonishment at his voice.

“Marry a clergyman!” said Mr. Bentley, with a kind of roar; and down he came on his knees, first seizing her hand.

Madame Floriani slowly raised herself from a reclining posture. She looked at the young incumbent blushing and trembling on the ground before her; and gently drew away the hand he was holding between his own. And his own were so red! She was going to speak seriously; but--I am grieved to say it of Rosa who ought to have known better--the young man’s apple-face and awkward attitude were so ludicrous--the remembrance of all his absurd attempts at solemnity and asceticism came up so vividly in contrast with the ridicule and humiliation of his present position--it was such an unlooked-for offer, and was made so clumsily, that her gravity gave way, and she burst into a fit of laughter.

It was very wrong, and there was no excuse to be made for her; but the situation was very ridiculous--though she should not have laughed for all that. Mr. Bentley started up, seized his hat and very tight umbrella--it was a glorious day in July, but Mr. Bentley patronised umbrellas--and rushed from the house; turning round at the door to say, angrily, “Your place shall know me no more, madame!”

And so war was finally declared, and Miss Augusta Grandville was satisfied. I doubt if she would have been as content if she had known the full particulars of the casus belli. Mr. Bentley said it was the hardened and impenetrable nature of Madame Floriani--how that he had sought to convert her, and she had answered him only with mockery--and Madame Floriani said nothing. She only laughed; and drew a certain sketch, which she showed to the Winter girls under the strictest vows of secresy. Which, to their honour be it said, they religiously kept. Though, when Helen Winter met Mr. Bentley the day after she had seen that drawing, she turned so red in trying to look grave, that Laura pinched her arm, and said, “Helen! don’t be silly,” below her breath.

The Bentleyites were the strongest. In a short time Madame Rosa’s Wednesday evenings were almost deserted. All the very good avoided her and her house as if a moral plague existed around her. The Miss Grandvilles, indeed, very nearly cut her. They scarcely bowed when they saw her, and passed her very stiffly even in church. Sometimes they were afflicted with sudden short-sightedness, and did not see her at all. Miss Augusta, through being triumphant, could afford to be magnanimous; and she was a shade less distant in her manner: when met with Mr. Bentley, she was positively gracious. Then the Cantabs went back to their respective colleges, and the leaves began to fall. In the dreary autumn weather--the rain and fog and drizzling mist--that now came on, even her own adherents could not come out so often to see her; so that the sweet face grew sad in thinking of the bright sky and the warm hearts of Italy; and the joyous spirits sank in this social solitude, for want of love and sympathy to sustain it. The days were so grey and dark, she could not even paint; and in the Langthwaite lending library, were only dull histories or biographies. The mud and the rain frightened the soft half-foreigner, and kept her much within doors, moping in a dull Cumberland house, where the clouds came down so low, that they sometimes rested on the roof; and where the only visitors she saw were half-a-dozen good-hearted country girls, with not an idea amongst them beyond Berlin work or babies’ caps; which, to a woman accustomed to the best and most intellectual society of Rome, was scarcely sufficient mental distraction. What was she to do?--fight or retire? She thought of Italy, of her friends there, of the treasures of art, of the beauty, the free life, the ease, the love, the fulness of existence,--and she covered her face in her hands, while tears forced their way through her fingers. Then she thought of Mr. Bentley, and of his offer and of how he looked when he was down on his knees before her; and she laughed till she had a pain in her side. But she could not laugh for ever at Mr. Bentley and his offer, and the ennui of her life began to grow insupportable. It was reported at last that she was going away. It was Laura Winter who said so first, by Rosa’s permission, one day after she had been at Whitefield House. Madame Floriani had cried, and said that she was ill: the constant damp did not agree with her; and she had grown very thin and sallow rather than pale as she used to be; and she said, too, that she was dull; she could not bear it any longer. Her heart was Italian. It would not live in such an atmosphere; and then she had cried dreadfully, and Laura had cried too, for sympathy. As girls in the country always do.

So, Rosa owned herself beaten. Langthwaite morality had been too strong for her, and Langthwaite coldness too severe. Mr. Bentley had won the battle, and she cared now only for her retreat. She packed up her pictures and her books, her statues and her blue silk curtains; advertised Whitefield House for sale; and sold it well too. A retired sugar-broker bought it, and furnished it in gold and velvet. He had not a picture, nor a bust, nor a book; but he had hangings that cost a small fortune, and an assortment of colours that must surely please some one, as none in the whole rainbow were absent. Rosa had nothing to do with this; all she cared for, was to get out of Langthwaite, and to leave Cumberland clouds for Italian sunshine. She went to make her farewell calls. And, after having kissed all the Miss Grandvilles on both cheeks--for she was a generous, forgiving woman, with a loving heart and a perfect temper, and would not bear malice if she died for it--and after having shaken hands cordially with Mr. Bentley--who, like a foolish fat schoolboy, attempted to sulk--she turned her sweet face to the south, and left a climate that was killing her, and a people who did not love her, for the beauty and the graciousness of Italy.

But she left the seeds of discord behind her that soon bore deadly fruit. Deprived of their patroness, the Florianites sank to the ground. They were snubbed, maltreated, slighted, and all but extinguished. And when Miss Augusta Grandville at last got Mr. Bentley to consent to their marriage, not one of them was invited to the wedding. It was the day of retribution, and the Bentley faction were unsparing.

Madame Floriani did not forget her old adherents when she was established in her Roman home again; and after the Grandville marriage had turned out notoriously ill--for Miss Augusta was imperious, and Mr. Bentley obstinate--she invited the two Winter girls to Rome, and actually sent a man-servant all the way down to Langthwaite to take care of them on their journey. Which royal act nearly canonised her, though Mrs. Bentley said it was ridiculous, “And, good gracious! could not those two girls take care of themselves--if indeed they went at all, which if they had been her sisters they should not have done?”

Madame Floriani was very kind to her old friends. She took them everywhere, and fêted and petted them beyond measure. Their soft, pretty English faces, with their bright cheeks and long fair ringlets, made a sensation among the dark eyes and raven locks at Rome. The Miss Winters were decidedly the belles of their society--which is a woman’s state of paradise. Madame Floriani with her foreign notions set about marrying her young ladies. A task not very difficult; for foreigners like English wives; because they can trust them so much; and English women like foreign husbands, because they are more polite than their own countrymen. So Madame Rosa married them both--one to a count and the other to a baron. And when they went back to Langthwaite, which they did for their wedding trip, the people called them my lord and my lady, and treated them like queens. Even Mrs. Bentley yielded the past, which was a marvellous distinction, and made up for a great deal of the past. After all, then, Rosa had not entirely lost; the days of her teaching survived in her disciples, for Laura Winter settled at Langthwaite, and remodelled society there after the Floriani system. And now that Mr. Bentley was married, of course his influence was lessened; and all the young ladies who had tried to touch his heart by their austerity, now thought more of Laura’s foreign friends who came to see her, and who thought life without innocent laughter not worth the living.

MURMURS.

Why wilt thou make bright music Give forth a sound of pain? Why wilt thou weave fair flowers Into a weary chain?

Why turn each cool grey shadow Into a world of fears? Why think the winds are wailing? Why call the dewdrops tears?

Voices of happy Nature, And Heaven’s sunny gleam, Reprove thy sick heart’s fancies, Upbraid thy foolish dream.

Listen! I will tell thee The song Creation sings, From humming bees in heather, To fluttering angels’ wings:

Not alone did angels sing it To the poor shepherds’ ear, But the spherèd Heavens chant it, And listening Ages hear.

Above thy poor complaining Rises that holy lay; When the starry night grows silent, Then speaks the sunny day.

O, leave thy sick heart’s fancies, And lend thy little voice To the silver song of Glory, That bids the World rejoice!

OUR WICKED MIS-STATEMENTS.

We meant to say no more upon the subject of the strike of Lancashire masters against Factory law, until we had seen the issue of a question raised before one of the superior courts; but the publication, by the National (or, as it should read, Lancashire) Association, of a pamphlet written by Miss Martineau, which attacks our veracity, compels us to speak, or to hazard misinterpretation of our silence. If no question of public justice were involved, we should prefer misinterpretation to the task of showing weakness in a sick lady whom we esteem. We have a respect for Miss Martineau, won by many good works she has written and many good deeds she has done, which nothing that she now can say or do will destroy; and we most heartily claim for her the respect of our readers as a thing not to be forfeited for a few hasty words, or for a scrap or two of argument too readily adopted upon partial showing.