At this moment nothing could be more delightful than their new friend. She called for them when she went out driving, and took them to Fiesole, to La Pioggia, to the Cascine—wherever fashion went. She lent them her carriage when she was indolent, as often happened, and did not care to go out. She asked them to her little parties when she had ‘the best people’—a compliment which Mrs. Anderson felt deeply, and which was very different from the invitation to the big ball at the Embassy, to which everybody was invited. In short, Lady Caryisfort launched the little party into the best society of English at Florence, such as it is. And the pretty English heiress became as well known as if she had gone through a season at home previous to this Italian season. Poor Uncle Courtenay! Had he seen Antonio Buoncompagni, who danced like an angel, leading his ward through the mazes of a cotillon, what would that excellent guardian’s feelings have been?
Wehave said that Ombra’s attention was otherwise occupied. Had it not been so, it is probable that she would have resented and struggled against the new and unusual and humiliating consciousness of being but an appendage to her cousin; but fortunately all such ideas had been driven out of her head. A new life, a new world, seemed to have begun for Ombra. All the circumstances of their present existence appeared to lend themselves to the creation of this novel sphere. Old things seemed to have passed away, and all had become new. From the moment of the first call, made in doubt and tribulation, by the two Berties, they had resumed again, in the most natural manner, the habits of their former acquaintance, but with an entirely new aspect. Here there was at once the common bond which unites strangers in a new place—a place full of beauty and wonder, which both must see, and which it is so natural they should see together. The two young men fell into the habit of constant attendance upon the ladies, with a naturalness which defeated all precautions; and an intercourse began to spring up, which combined that charming flavour of old friendship, and almost brotherhood, with any other sentiment that might arise by the way. This conjunction, too, made the party so independent and so complete. With such an escort the ladies could go anywhere; and they went everywhere accordingly—to picture-galleries, to all the sights of the place, and even now and then upon country excursions, in the bright, cold Winter days. ‘The boys,’ as Kate called them, came and went all day long, bringing news of everything that was to be seen or heard, always with a new plan or suggestion for the morrow.
The little feminine party brightened up, as women do brighten always under the fresh and exhilarating influence of that breath from outside which only ‘the boys’ can bring. Soon Mrs. Anderson, and even Ombra herself, adopted that affectionate phrase—to throw another delightful, half-delusive veil over all possibilities that might be in the future. It gave a certain ‘family feeling,’ a mutual right to serve and be served; and at times Mrs. Anderson felt as if she could persuade herself that ‘the boys,’ who were so full of that kindly and tendergallantry which young men can pay to a woman old enough to be their mother, were in reality her own as much as the girls were—if not sons, nephews at the least. She said this to herself, by way, I fear, of excusing herself, and placing little pleasant shields of pretence between her and the reality. To be sure, she was the soul of propriety, and never left the young people alone together; but, as she said, ‘at whatever cost to herself,’ bore them company in all their rambles. But yet sometimes a recollection of Mr. Courtenay would cross her mind in an uncomfortable way. And sometimes a still more painful chill would seize her when she thought of Kate, who was thus thrown constantly into the society of the Berties. Kate treated them with the easiest friendliness, and they were sincerely (as Mrs. Anderson believed) brotherly to her. But, still, they were all young; and who could tell what fancies the girl might take into her head? These two thoughts kept her uncomfortable. But yet the life was happy and bright; and Ombra was happy. Her cloud of temper had passed away; her rebellions and philosophies had alike vanished into the air. She was brighter than ever she had been in her life—more loving and more sympathetic. Life ran on like a Summer day, though the Tramontana sometimes blew, and the dining-room was cold as San Lorenzo; but all was warm, harmonious, joyous within.
Kate, for one, never troubled her head to ask why. She accepted the delightful change with unquestioning pleasure. It was perfectly simple to her that her cousin should get well—that the cloud should disperse. In her thoughtlessness she did not even attribute this to any special cause, contenting herself with the happy fact that so it was.
‘How delightful it is that Ombra should have got so well!’ she said, with genuine pleasure, to her aunt.
‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, looking at her wistfully. ‘It is the Italian air—it works like a charm.’
‘I don’t think it is the air,’ said Kate—‘privately, auntie, I think the Italian air is dreadfully chilly—at least, when one is out of the sun. It is the fun, and the stir, and the occupation. Fun is an excellent thing, and having something to do—— Now, don’t say no, please, for I am quite sure of it. I feel so much happier, too.’
‘What makes you happier, my darling?’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a very anxious look.
‘Oh! I don’t know—everything,’ said Kate; and she gave her aunt a kiss, and went off singing, balancing a basket on her head with the pretty action of the girls whom she saw every day carrying water from the fountain.
Mrs. Anderson was alone, and this pretty picture dwelt in her mind, and gave her a great deal of thought. Was it onlyfun and occupation, as the girl said?—or was there something else unknown to Kate dawning in her heart, and making her life bright, all unconsciously to herself? ‘They are both as brothers to her,’ Mrs. Anderson said to herself, with pain and fear; and then she repeated to herself how good they were, what true gentlemen, how incapable of any pretence which could deceive even so innocent a girl as Kate. The truth was, Mrs. Anderson’s uneasiness increased every day. She was doing by Kate as she would that another should not do by Ombra. She was doubly kind and tender, lavishing affection and caresses upon her, but she was not considering Kate’s interest, or carrying out Mr. Courtenay’s conditions. And what could she do? The happiness of her own child was involved; she was bound hand and foot by her love for Ombra. ‘Then,’ she would say to herself, ‘Kate is getting no harm. She is eighteen past—quite old enough to be “out”—indeed, it would be wrong of me to deny her what pleasure I can, and it is not as if I took her wherever we were asked. I am sure, so far as I am concerned, I should have liked much better to go to the Morrises—nice, pleasant people, not too grand to make friends of—but I refused, for Kate’s sake. She shall go nowhere but in thevery best society. Her uncle himself could not do better for her than Lady Granton or Lady Caryisfort—most likely not half so well; and he will be hard to please indeed if he is discontented with that,’ Mrs. Anderson said to herself. But notwithstanding all these specious pleadings at that secret bar, where she was at once judge and advocate and culprit, she did not succeed in obtaining a favourable verdict; all she could do was to put the thought away from her by times, and persuade herself that no harm could ensue.
‘Look at Ombra now,’ Kate said, on the same afternoon to Francesca, whose Florentine lore she held in great estimation. Her conversation with her aunt had brought the subject to her mind, and a little curiosity about it had awakened within her when she thought it over. ‘See what change of air has done, as I told you it would—and change of scene.’
‘Mees Katta,’ said Francesca, ‘change of air is very good—I say nothing against that—but, as I have remarked on other occasions, one must not form one’s opinion on ze surface. Mademoiselle Ombra haschanged ze mind.’
‘Oh! yes, I know you said she must do that, and you never go back from what you once said; but, Francesca, I don’t understand you in the least. How has she changed her mind?’
‘If Mademoiselle would know, it is best to ask Mees Ombra her-self,’ said Francesca, ‘not one poor servant, as has no way to know.’
‘Oh!’ cried Kate, flushing scarlet, ‘when, you are so humblethere is an end of everything—I know that much by this time. There! I will ask Ombra herself; I will not have you make me out to be underhand. Ombra, come here one moment, please. I am so glad you are better; it makes me happy to see you look like your old self; but tell me one thing—my aunt says it is the change of air, and I say it is change of scene and plenty to do. Now, tell me which it is—I want to know.’
Ombra had been passing the open door; she came and stood in the doorway, with one hand upon the lintel. A pretty, flitting, evanescent colour had come upon her pale cheek, and there was now always a dewy look of feeling in her eyes, which made them beautiful. She stood and smiled, in the soft superiority of her elder age, upon the girl who questioned her. Her colour deepened a little, her eyes looked as if there was dew in them, ready to fall. ‘I am better,’ she said, in a voice which seemed to Kate to be full of combined and harmonious notes—‘I am better without knowing why—I suppose because God is so good.’
And then she went away softly, crooning the song which she had been humming to herself, in the lightness of her heart, as her cousin called her. Kate was struck with violent shame and self-disgust. ‘Oh, how wicked I am!’ she said, rushing to her own room and shutting herself in. And there she had a short but refreshing cry, though she was by no means given to tears. She had been brought up piously, to be sure—going to church, attending to her ‘religious duties,’ as a well-brought-up young woman ought to do. But it had not occurred to her to give any such visionary reason for anything that had happened to her. Kate preferred secondary causes, to tell the truth. But there was something more than met the ear in what Ombra said. How was it that God had been so good? Kate was very reverential of this new and unanswerable cause for her cousin’s restoration. But how was it?—there was still something, which she did not fathom, beyond.
Such pleasant days these were! When ‘the boys’ came to pay their greetings in the morning, ‘Where shall we go to-day?’ was the usual question. They went to the pictures two or three days in the week, seeing every scrap of painting that was to be found anywhere—from the great galleries, where all was light and order, to the little out-of-the-way churches, which hid, in the darkness of their heart of hearts, some one precious morsel of an altar-piece, carefully veiled from the common public. And, in the intervals, they would wander through the streets, learning the very houses by heart; gazing into the shop windows, at the mosaics, on the Lung-Arno; at the turquoises and pearls, which then made the Ponte Vecchio a soft blaze of colour, blue and white; at the curiosity shops, and those hungabout with copies in which Titian was done into weakness, and Raphael to imbecility. Every bit of Florence was paced over by these English feet, one pair of which were often very tired, but never shrunk from the duty before them. Most frequently ‘the boys’ returned to luncheon, which even Mrs. Anderson, who knew better, was prejudiced enough to create into a steady-going English meal. In the afternoon, if they drove with Lady Caryisfort to the Cascine, the Berties came to the carriage-windows to tell them all that was going on; to bring them bouquets; to point out every new face. When they went to the theatre or opera in the evening, again the same indefatigable escort accompanied and made everything smooth for them. When they had invitations, the Berties, too, were invariably of the party. When they stayed at home the young men, even when not invited, would always manage to present themselves during the evening, uniting in pleasant little choruses of praise to Mrs. Anderson for staying at home. ‘After all, this is the best,’ the young hypocrites would say; and one of them would read while the ladies worked; or there would be ‘a little music,’ in which Ombra was the chief performer. Thus, from the beginning of the day to the end, they were scarcely separated, except for intervals, which gave freshness ever renewed to their meeting. It was like ‘a family party;’ so Mrs. Anderson said to herself a dozen times in a day.
‘Comeand tell me all about yourself, Kate,’ said Lady Caryisfort, from her sofa. She had a cold, and was half an invalid. She had kept Kate with her while the others went out, after paying their call. Lady Caryisfort had enveloped her choice of Kate in the prettiest excuses: ‘I wish one of you girls would give up the sunshine, and stay and keep me company,’ she had said. ‘Let me see—no, I will not choose Ombra, for Ombra has need of all the air that is to be had; but Kate is strong—an afternoon’s seclusion will not make any difference to her. Spare me Kate, please, Mrs. Anderson. I want some one to talk to—I want something pleasant to look at. Let her stay and dine with me, and in the evening I will send her home.’
So it had been settled; and Kate was in the great, somewhat dim drawing-room, which was Lady Caryisfort’s abode. The house was one of the great palazzi in one of the less-known streets of Florence. It was on the sunny side, but long ago the sun had retreated behind the high houses opposite. The great lofty palace itself was like a mountain side, and half way down this mountain side came the tall windows, draped with dark velvet and white muslin, which looked out into the deep ravine, called a street, below. The room was very large and lofty, and had openings on two sides, enveloped in heavy velvet curtains, into two rooms beyond. The two other side walls were covered with large frescoes, almost invisible in this premature twilight; for it was not late, and the top rooms in the palace, which were inhabited by Cesare, the mosaic-worker, still retained the sunshine. All the decorations were of a grandiose character; the velvet hangings were dark, though warm in colour; a cheerful wood fire threw gleams of variable reflection here and there into the tall mirrors; and Lady Caryisfort, wrapped in a huge soft white shawl, which looked like lace, but was Shetland wool, lay on a sofa under one of the frescoes. As the light varied, there would appear now a head, now an uplifted arm, out of the historical composition above. The old world was all about in the oldwalls, in the waning light, in the grand proportions of the place; but the dainty lady in her shawl, the dainty table with its pretty tea-service, which stood within reach of her hand, and Kate, whose bloom not even the twilight could obliterate, belonged not to the old, but the new. There was a low, round chair, a kind of luxurious shell, covered with the warm, dark velvet, on the other side of the little table.
‘Come and sit down beside me here,’ said Lady Caryisfort, ‘and tell me all about yourself.’
‘There is not very much to tell,’ said Kate, ‘if you mean facts; but if it ismeyou want to know about, then there is a little more. Which would you like best?’
‘I thought you were a fact.’
‘I suppose I am,’ said Kate, with a laugh. ‘I never thought of that. But then, of course, between the facts that have happened to me and this fact, Kate Courtenay, there is a good deal of difference. Which would you like best? Me? But, then, where must I begin?’
‘As early as you can remember,’ said the inquisitor; ‘and, recollect, I should most likely have sought you out, and known all about you long before this, if you had stayed at Langton—so you may be perfectly frank with me.’
To tell the truth, all the little scene had been got up on purpose for this confidential talk; the apparently chance choice of Kate as a companion, and even Lady Caryisfort’s cold, were means to an end. Kate was of her own county, she was of her own class, she was thrown into a position which Lady Caryisfort thought was not the one she ought to have filled, and with all the fervour of a lively fancy and benevolent meaning she had thrown herself into this little ambush. The last words were just as near a mistake as it was possible for words to be, for Kate had no notion of being anything but frank; and the little assurance that she might be so safely almost put her on her guard.
‘You would not have been allowed to seek me out,’ said Kate. ‘Uncle Courtenay had made up his mind I was to know nobody—I am sure I don’t know why. He used to send me a new governess every year. It was the greatest chance that I was allowed to keep even Maryanne. He thought servants ought to be changed; and I am afraid,’ said Kate, with humility, ‘that I was not at allnicewhen I was at home.’
‘My poor child! I don’t believe you were ever anything but nice.’
‘No,’ said Kate, taking hold of the caressing hand which was laid on her arm; ‘you can’t think how disagreeable I was till I was fifteen; then my dear aunt—my good aunt, whom you don’t like so much as you might——’
‘How do you know that, you little witch?’
‘Oh, I know very well! She came home to England, after being years away, and she wrote to my uncle, asking if she might see me, and he was horribly worried with me at the time,’ said Kate. ‘I had worried him so that he could not eat his dinner even in peace—and Uncle Courtenay likes his dinner—so he wrote and said she might have me altogether if she pleased; and though he gave the very worst account of me, and said all the harm he could, auntie started off directly and took me home.’
‘That was kind of her, Kate.’
‘Kind of her! Oh, it was a great deal more than kind! Fancy how I felt when she cried and kissed me! I am not sure that anybody had ever kissed me before, and I was such a stupid—such a thing without a soul—that I was quite astonished when she cried. I actually asked her why? Whenever I think of it I feel my cheeks grow crimson.’ And here Kate, with a pretty gesture, laid one of Lady Caryisfort’s soft rose-tipped fingers upon her burning cheek.
‘You poor dear child! Well, I understand why Mrs. Anderson cried, and it was nice of her; butaprès,’ said Kate’s confessor.
‘Après?I was at home; I was as happy as the day was long. I got to be like other girls; they never paid any attention to me, and they petted me from morning to night.’
‘But how could that be?’ said Lady Caryisfort, whose understanding was not quite equal to the strain thus put upon it.
‘I forgot all about myself after that,’ said Kate. ‘I was just like other girls. Ombra thought me rather a bore at first; but, fortunately, I never found that out till she had got over it. She had always been auntie’s only child, and I think she was a trifle—jealous; I have an idea,’ said Kate——‘But how wicked I am to go and talk of Ombra’s faults to you!’
‘Never mind; I shall never repeat anything you tell me,’ said the confidante.
‘Well, I think, if she has a weakness, it is that perhaps she likes to be first. I don’t mean in any vulgar way,’ said Kate, suddenly flushing red as she saw a smile on her companion’s face, ‘but with people she loves. She would not like (naturally) to see her mother love anyone else as much as her! or even she would not like to see me——’
‘And how about other people?’ cried Lady Caryisfort, amused.
‘About other people I do not know what to say; I don’t think she has ever been tried,’ said Kate, with a grave and puzzled look. ‘She has always been first, without any question—or, at least, so I think; but that is puzzling—that is more difficult. I would rather not go into that question, for, by-the-bye, this is all about Ombra—it is not about me.’
‘That is true,’ said Lady Caryisfort; ‘we must change the subject, for I don’t want you to tell me your cousin’s secrets, Kate.’
‘Secrets! She has not any,’ said Kate, with a laugh.
‘Are you quite sure of that?’
‘Sure of Ombra! Of course I must be. If I were not quite sure of Ombra, whom could I believe in? There are no secrets,’ said Kate, with a little pride, ‘among us.’
‘Poor child!’ thought Lady Caryisfort to herself; but she said nothing, though, after a while, she asked gently, ‘Were you glad to come abroad? I suppose it was your guardian’s wish?’
Once more Kate laughed.
‘That is the funniest thing of all,’ she said. ‘He came to pay us a visit; and fancy he, who never could bear me to have a single companion, arrived precisely on my birthday, when we were much gayer than usual, and had a croquet party! It was as good as a play to see his face. But he made my aunt promise to take us abroad. I suppose he thought we could make no friends abroad.’
‘But in that he has evidently been mistaken, Kate.’
‘I don’t know. Except yourself, Lady Caryisfort, what friends have we made? You have been very kind, and as nice as it is possible to be——’
‘Thanks, dear. The benefit has been mine,’ said Lady Caryisfort, in an undertone.
‘But we don’t call Lady Granton a friend,’ continued Kate, ‘nor the people who have left cards and sent us invitations since they met us there. And until we came to Florence we had not met you.’
‘But then there are these two young men—Mr. Eldridge and Mr. Hardwick.’
‘Oh! the Berties,’ said Kate; and she laughed. ‘Theydon’t count, surely; they are old friends. We did not require to come to Italy to make acquaintance with them.’
‘Perhaps you came to Italy to avoid them?’ said Lady Caryisfort, drawing her bow at a venture.
Kate looked her suddenly in the face with a start; but the afternoon had gradually grown darker, and neither could make out what was in the other’s face.
‘Why should we come to Italy to avoid them?’ said Kate, gravely.
Her new seriousness quite changed the tone of her voice. She was thinking of Ombra and all the mysterious things that had happened that Summer day after the yachting. It was more than a year ago, and she had almost forgotten; but somehow, Kate could not tell how, the Berties had been woven in with the family existence ever since.
Lady Caryisfort gave her gravity a totally different meaning, ‘So that is how it is,’ she said to herself.
‘If I were you, Kate,’ she said aloud, ‘I would write and tell my guardian all about it, and who the people are whom you are acquainted with here. I think he has a right to know. Would he be quite pleased that the Berties, as you call them, should be with you so much? Pardon me if I say more than I ought.’
‘The Berties!’ said Kate, now fairly puzzled. ‘What has Uncle Courtenay to do with the Berties? He is not Ombra’s guardian, but only mine: andtheyhave nothing to do with me.’
‘Oh! perhaps I am mistaken,’ said Lady Caryisfort; and she changed the subject dexterously, leading Kate altogether away from this too decided suggestion. They talked afterwards of everything in earth and heaven; but at the end of that little dinner, which they atetête-à-tête, Kate returned to the subject which in the meantime had been occupying a great part of her thoughts.
‘I have been thinking of what you said about Uncle Courtenay,’ she said, quite abruptly, after a pause. ‘I do write to him about once every month, and I always tell him whom we are seeing. I don’t believe he ever reads my letters. He is always paying visits through the Winter when Parliament is up, and I always direct to him at home. I don’t suppose he ever reads them. But that, of course, is not my fault, and whenever we meet anyone new I tell him. We don’t conceal anything; my aunt never permits that.’
‘And I am sure it is your own feeling too,’ cried Lady Caryisfort. ‘It is always best.’
And she dismissed the subject, not feeling herself possessed of sufficient information to enter into it more fully. She was a little shaken in her own theory on the subject of the Berties, one of whom at least she felt convinced must have designs on Kate’s fortune. That was ‘only natural;’ but at least Kate was not aware of it. And Lady Caryisfort was half annoyed and half pleased when one of her friends asked admittance in the evening, bringing with her the young Count Buoncompagni, whom Kate had met at the Embassy. It was a Countess Strozzi, an aunt of his, and an intimate of Lady Caryisfort’s, who was his introducer. There was nothing to be said against the admission of a good young man who had come to escort his aunt in her visit to her invalid friend, but it was odd that they should have chosen that particular night, and no other. Kate was in her morning dress, as she had gone to make a morning call, and was a little troubled to be so discovered; but girls look well in anything, as Lady Caryisfort said to herself, with a sigh.
Itwas about this time, about two months after their arrival in Florence, and when the bright and pleasant ‘family life’ we have been describing had gone on for about six weeks in unbroken harmony, that there began to breathe about Kate, like a vague, fitful wind, such as sometimes rises in Autumn or Spring, one can’t tell how or from whence, a curious sense of isolation, of being somehow left out and put aside in the family party. For some time the sensation was quite indefinite. She felt chilled by it; she could not tell how. Then she would find herself sitting alone in a corner, while the others were grouped together, without being able to explain to herself how it happened. It had happened several times, indeed, before she thought of attempting to explain so strange an occurrence; and then she said to herself that of course it was mere chance, or that she herself must have been sulky, and nobody else was aware.
A day or two, however, after her visit to Lady Caryisfort, there came a little incident which could not be quite chance. In the evening Mrs. Anderson sat down by her, and began to talk about indifferent subjects, with a little air of constraint upon her, the air of one who has something not quite pleasant to say. Kate’s faculties had been quickened by the change which she had already perceived, and she saw that something was coming, and was chafed by this preface, as only a very frank and open nature can be. She longed to say, ‘Tell me what it is, and be done with it.’ But she had no excuse for such an outcry. Mrs. Anderson only introduced her real subject after at least an hour’s talk.
‘By-the-bye,’ she said—and Kate knew in a moment that now it was coming—‘we have an invitation for to-morrow, dear, which I wish to accept, for Ombra and myself, but I don’t feel warranted in taking you—and, at the same time, I don’t like the idea of leaving you.’
‘Oh! pray don’t think of me, aunt,’ said Kate, quickly. A flush of evanescent anger at this mode of making it known suddenlycame over her. But, in reality, she was half stunned, and could not believe her ears. It made her vague sense of desertion into something tangible at once. It realised all her vague feelings of being one too many. But, at the same time, it stupefied her. She could not understand it. She did not look up, but listened with eyes cast down, and a pain which she did not understand in her heart.
‘But I must think of you, my darling,’ said Mrs. Anderson, in a voice which, at this moment, rung false and insincere in the girl’s ears, and seemed to do her a positive harm. ‘How is it possible that I should not think of you? It is an old friend of mine, a merchant from Leghorn, who has bought a place in the country about ten miles from Florence. He is a man who has risen from nothing, and so has his wife, but they are kind people all the same, and used to be good to me when I was poor. Lady Barker is going—for she, too, you know, is of my old set at Leghorn, and, though she has risen in the world, she does not throw off people who are rich. But I don’t think your uncle would like it, if I tookyouthere. You know how very careful I have been never to introduce you to anybody he could find fault with. I have declined a great many pleasant invitations here, for that very reason.’
‘Oh! please, aunt, don’t think of doing so any more,’ cried Kate, stung to the heart. ‘Don’t deprive yourself of anything that is pleasant, for me. I am very well. I am quite happy. I don’t require anything more than I have here. Go, and take Ombra, and never mind me.’
And the poor child had great difficulty in refraining from tears. Indeed, but for the fact that it would have looked like crying for a lost pleasure, which Kate, who was stung by a very different feeling, despised, she would not have been able to restrain herself. As it was, her voice trembled, and her cheeks burned.
‘Kate, I don’t think you are quite just to me,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘You know very well that neither in love, nor in anything else, have I made a difference between Ombra and you. But in this one thing I must throw myself upon your generosity, dear. When I say your generosity, Kate, I mean that you should put the best interpretation on what I say, not the worst.’
‘I did not mean to put any interpretation,’ said Kate, drawn two ways, and ashamed now of her anger. ‘Why should you explain to me, auntie, or make a business of it? Say you are going somewhere to-morrow, and you think it best I should not go. That is enough. Why should you say a word more?’
‘Because I wanted to treat you like a woman, not like a child, and to tell you the reason,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘Butwe will say no more about it, as those boys are coming. I do hope, however, that you understand me, Kate.’
Kate could make no answer, as ‘the boys’ appeared at this moment; but she said to herself sadly, ‘No, I don’t understand—I can’t tell what it means,’ with a confused pain which was very hard to bear. It was the first time she had been shaken in her perfect faith in the two people who had brought her to life, as she said. She did not rush into the middle of the talk, as had once been her practice, but sat, chilled, in her corner, wondering what had come over her. For it was not only that the others were changed—a change had come upon herself also. She was chilled; she could not tell how. Instead of taking the initiative, as she used to do, in the gay and frank freshness which everybody had believed to be the very essence of her character, she sat still, and waited to be called, to be appealed to. Even when she became herself conscious of this, and tried to shake it off, she could not succeed. She was bound as in chains; she could not get free.
And when the next morning came, and Kate, with a dull amaze which she could not overcome, saw the party go off with the usual escort, the only difference being that Lady Barker occupied her own usual place, her feelings were not to be described. She watched them from the balcony while they got into the carriage, and arranged themselves gaily. She looked down upon them and laughed too, and bade them enjoy themselves. She met the wistful look in Mrs. Anderson’s eyes with a smile, and, recovering her courage for the moment, made it understood that she meant to pass an extremely pleasant day by herself. But when they drove away, Kate went in, and covered her eyes with her hands. It was not the pleasure, whatever that might be; but why was she left behind? What had she done that they wanted her no longer?—that they found her in the way? It was the first slight she had ever had to bear, and it went to her very heart.
It was a lovely bright morning in December. Lovely mornings in December are rare in England; but even in England there comes now and then a winter day which is a delight and luxury, when the sky is blue, crisper, profounder than summer, when the sun is resplendent, pouring over everything the most lavish and overwhelming light; when the atmosphere is still as old age is when it is beautiful—stilled, chastened, subdued, with no possibility of uneasy winds or movement of life; but all quietness, and now and then one last leaf fluttering down from the uppermost boughs. Such a morning in Florence is divine. The great old houses stand up, expanding, as it were, erecting their old heads gratefully into the sun and blueness of the sphere; the old towers rise, poising themselves, light asbirds, yet strong as giants, in that magical atmosphere. The sun-lovers throng to the bright side of the way, and bask and laugh and grow warm and glad. And in the distance the circling hills stand round about the plain, and smile from all their heights in fellow-feeling with the warm and comforted world below. One little girl, left alone in a sunny room on the Lung-Arno in such a morning, with nothing but her half-abandoned tasks to amuse her, nobody to speak to, nothing to think of but a vague wrong done to herself, which she does not understand, is not in a cheerful position, though everything about her is so cheerful; and Kate’s heart sank down—down to her very slippers.
‘I don’t understand why you shouldn’t come,’ said some one, bursting in suddenly. ‘Oh! I beg your pardon; I did not mean to be so abrupt.’
For Kate had been crying. She dashed away her tears with an indignant hand, and looked at Bertie with defiance. Then the natural reaction came to her assistance. He looked so scared and embarrassed standing there, with his hat in his hand, breathless with haste, and full of compunction. She laughed in spite of herself.
‘I am not so ashamed as if it had been anyone else,’ she said. ‘Youhave seen me cry before. Oh! it is not for the expedition; it is only because I thought they did not want me, that was all.’
‘Iwanted you,’ said Bertie, still breathless, and under his breath.
Kate looked up wondering, and suddenly met his eye, and they both blushed crimson. Why? She laughed to shake it off, feeling, somehow, a pleasanter feeling about her heart.
‘It was very kind of you,’ she said; ‘but, you know, you don’t count; you are only one of the boys. You have come back for something?’
‘Yes, Lady Barker’s bag, with her fan and her gloves, and her eau-de-Cologne.’
‘Oh! Lady Barker’s. There it is, I suppose. I hate Lady Barker!’ cried Kate.
‘And so do I; and to see her in your place——’
‘Never mind about that. Go away, please, or you will be late; and I hope you will have a pleasant day all the same.’
‘Not without you,’ said Bertie; and he took her hand, and for one moment seemed doubtful what to do with it. What was he going to do with it? The thought flashed through Kate’s mind with a certain amusement; but he thought better of the matter, and did nothing. He dropped her hand, blushing violently again, and then turned and fled, leaving her consoled and amused, and in a totally changed condition. What did hemean to do with the hand he had taken? Kate held it up and looked at it carefully, and laughed till the tears came to her eyes. He had meant to kiss it, she felt sure, and Kate had never yet had her hand kissed by mortal man; but he had thought better of it. It was ‘like Bertie.’ She was so much amused that her vexation went altogether out of her mind.
And in the afternoon Lady Caryisfort called and took her out. When she heard the narrative of Kate’s loneliness, Lady Caryisfort nodded her head approvingly, and said it was very nice of Mrs. Anderson, and quite what ought to have been. Upon which Kate became ashamed of herself, and was convinced that she was the most ungrateful and guilty of girls.
‘A distinction must be made,’ said Lady Caryisfort, ‘especially as it is now known who you are. For Miss Anderson it is quite different, and her mother, of course, must not neglect her interests.’
‘How funny that anyone’s interests should be affected by an invitation!’ said Kate, with one of those unintentional revelations of her sense of her own greatness which were so amusing to her friends. And Count Buoncompagni came to her side of the carriage when they got to the Cascine. It was entirely under Lady Caryisfort’s wing that their acquaintance had been formed, and nobody, accordingly, could have a word to say against it. Though she could not quite get Bertie (as she said) out of her head after the incident of the morning, the young Italian was still a very pleasant companion. He talked well, and told her about the people as none of the English could do. ‘There is Roscopanni, who was the first out in ’48, he said. ‘He was nearly killed at Novara. But perhaps you do not care to hear about our patriots?’
‘Oh! but I do,’ cried Kate, glowing into enthusiasm; and Count Antonio was nothing loth to be her instructor. He confessed that he himself had been ‘out,’ as Fergus MacIvor, had he survived it, might have confessed, to the ’45. Kate had her little prejudices, like all English girls—her feeling of the inferiority of ‘foreigners,’ and their insincerity and theatrical emotionalness. But Count Antonio took her imagination by storm. He was handsome; he had the sonorous masculine voice which suits Italian best, and does most justice to its melodious splendour; yet he did not speak much Italian, but only a little now and then, to give her courage to speak it. Even French, however, which was their general medium of communication, was an exercise to Kate, who had little practice in any language but her own. Then he told her about his own family, and that they were poor, with a frankness which went to Kate’s heart; and she told him, as best she could, about Francesca, and how she had heard the history of the Buoncompagni—‘before ever I saw you,’ Kate said, stretching the fact a little.
Thus the young man was emboldened to propose to Lady Caryisfort a visit to his old palace and its faded glories. There were some pictures he thought thatces dameswould like to look at. ‘Still some pictures, though not much else,’ he said, ending off with a bit of English, and a shrug of his shoulders, and a laugh at his own poverty; and an appointment was made before the carriage drove off.
‘The Italians are not ashamed of being poor,’ said Kate, with animation, as they went home.
‘If they were, they might as well give in at once, for they are all poor,’ said Lady Caryisfort, with British contempt. But Kate, who was rich, thought all the more of the noble young Florentine, with his old palace and his pictures. And then he had been ‘out.’
Katetook it upon herself to make unusual preparations for the supper on that particular evening. She decorated the table with her own hands, and coaxed Francesca to the purchase of various dainties beyond the ordinary.
‘They will be tired; they will want something when they come back,’ she said.
‘Mademoiselle is very good; it is angelic to be so kind after what has passed—after the affair of the morning,’ said Francesca. ‘If I had been in Mademoiselle’s place, I do not think I should have been able to show so much education. For my part, it has yet to be explained to me how my lady could go to amuse herself and leave Mees Katta alone here.’
‘Francesca, don’t talk nonsense,’ said Kate. ‘I quite approve what my aunt did. She is always right, whatever anyone may think.’
‘It is very likely, Mees Katta,’ said Francesca; ‘but I shall know ze why, or I will not be happy. It is not like my lady. She is no besser than a slave with her Ombra. But I shall know ze why; I shall know ze reason why!’
‘Then don’t tell me, please, for I don’t wish to be cross again,’ said Kate, continuing her preparations. ‘Only I do hope they won’t bring Lady Barker with them,’ she added to herself. Lady Barker was the scapegoat upon whom Kate spent her wrath. She forgave the other, but her she had made up her mind not to forgive. It was night when the party came home. Kate rushed to the balcony to see them arrive, and looked on; without, however, making her presence known. There was but lamplight this time, but enough to show how Ombra sprang out of the carriage, and how thoroughly the air of a successful expedition hung about the party. ‘Well!’ said Kate to herself, ‘and I have had a pleasant day too.’ She ran to the door to welcome them, but, perhaps, made her appearance inopportunely. Ombra was coming upstairs hand in hand with some one—it was not like her usual gravity—and when the pair saw the door open they separated, and came up the remaining steps each alone. This was odd, and startled Kate. Then, when she asked, ‘Have you had a pleasant day?’ some one answered, ‘The most delightful day that ever was!’ withan enthusiasm that wounded her feelings—she could not tell why. Was it indeed Bertie Hardwick who said that? he who had spoken so differently in the morning? Kate stood aghast, and asked no more questions. She would have let the two pass her, but Ombra put an arm round her waist and drew her in.
‘Oh Kate, listen, I am so happy!’ said Ombra, whispering in her ear. ‘Don’t be vexed about anything, dear; you shall know it all afterwards. I am so happy!’
This was said in the little dark ante-room, where there were no lights, and Kate could only give her cousin a hasty kiss before she danced away. Bertie, for his part, in the dark, too, said nothing at all. He did not explain the phrase—‘The most delightful day that ever was!’ ‘Well!’ said poor Kate to herself, gulping down a little discomfort—‘well! I have had a pleasant day too.’
And then what a gay supper it was!—gayer than usual; gayer than she had ever known it! She did not feel as if she were quite in the secret of their merriment. They had been together all day, while she had been alone; they had all the jokes of the morning to carry on, and a hundred allusions which fell flat upon Kate. She had been put on her generosity, it was true, and would not, for the world, have shown how much below the general tone of hilarity she was; but she was not in the secret, and very soon she felt ready to flag. When she put in her experiences of the day, a momentary polite attention was given, but everybody’s mind was elsewhere. Mrs. Anderson had a half-frightened, half-puzzled look, and now and then turned affecting glances upon Kate; but Ombra was radiant. Never had she looked so beautiful; her eyes shone like two stars; her faint rose-colour went and came; her face was lit with soft smiles and happiness. All sorts of fancies crossed Kate’s mind. She looked at the young men, who were both in joyous spirits—but either her discrimination failed her, or her eyes were dim, or her understanding clouded. Altogether Kate was in a maze, and did not know what to do or think; they stayed till it was very late, and both Ombra and her mother went to close and lock the door after them when they went away, leaving Kate once more alone. She sat still at a corner of the table, and listened to the voices and laughter still at the door. Bertie Hardwick’s voice, she thought, was the one she heard most. They were all so happy, and she only listening to it, not knowing what it meant! Then, when the door was finally locked, Mrs. Anderson came back to her alone. ‘Ombra has gone to bed,’ she said. ‘She is tired, though she has enjoyed it so very much. And, my dear child, you must go to bed too. It is too late for you to be up.’
‘But you have had a very pleasant day.’
‘They have—oh yes!’ said Mrs Anderson. ‘The youngones have been very happy; but it has not been a pleasant day to me. I have so many anxieties; and then to think of you by yourself at home.’
‘I was not by myself,’ said Kate. Lady Caryisfort called and took me out.’
‘Ah! Lady Caryisfort is very kind,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a tone, however, in which there was neither delight nor gratitude; and then she put her arm round her niece, and leaned upon her. ‘Ah!’ she said again, ‘I can see how it will be! They will wean you away from me. You who have never given me a moment’s uneasiness, who have been such a good child to me! I suppose it must be so—and I ought not to complain.’
‘But, auntie,’ said Kate, bewildered, ‘nobody tries to take me from you—nobody wants me, that I know of—even you——’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘even I. I know. And I shall have to put up with that too. Oh! Kate, I know more than one of us will live to regret this day;—but nobody so much as I.’
‘I don’t understand you. Auntie, you are over-tired. You ought to be asleep.’
‘You will understand me some time,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘and then you will recollect what I said. But don’t ask me any questions, dear. Good-night.’
Good night! She had been just as happy as any of the party, Kate reflected, half an hour before, and her voice had been audible from the door, full of pleasantness and the melody of content. Was the change a fiction, got up for her own benefit, or was there something mysterious lying under it all? Kate could not tell, but it may be supposed how heart-sick and weary she was when such an idea as that her dearest friend had put on a semblance to deceive her, could have entered her mind. She was very, very much ashamed of it, when she woke in the middle of the night, and it all came back to her. But what was she to think? It was the first mystery Kate had encountered, and she did not know how to deal with it. It made her very uneasy and unhappy, and shook her faith in everything. She lay awake for half an hour pondering it; and that was as much to Kate as a week of sleepless nights would have been to many, for up to this time she had no need to wake o’ nights, nor anything to weigh upon her thoughts when she woke.
Next morning, however, dissipated these mists, as morning does so often. Ombra was very gay and bright, and much more affectionate and caressing than usual. Kate and she, indeed, seemed to have changed places—the shadow had turned into sunshine. It was Ombra who led the talk, who rippled over into laughter, who petted her cousin and her mother, and was the soul of everything. All Kate’s doubts and difficulties fled before the unaccustomed tenderness of Ombra’s looks and words. She had no defence against this unexpected means ofsubjugation, and for some time she even forgot that no explanation at all was given to her of the events of the previous day. It had been ‘a pleasant day,’ ‘a delightful day,’ the walk had been perfect, ‘and everything else,’ Ombra had said at breakfast, ‘except that you were not with us, Kate.’
‘And that we could not help,’ said Mrs. Anderson, into whose face a shade of anxiety had crept. But she was not as she had been in that mysterious moment on the previous night. There was no distress about her. She had nearly as much happiness in her eyes as that which ran over and overflowed in Ombra’s. Had Kate dreamed that last five minutes, and its perplexing appearances? But Mrs. Anderson made no explanations any more than Ombra. They chatted about the day’s entertainment, their hosts, and many things which Kate could only half understand, but they did not say, ‘We are so happy because of this or that.’ Through all this affectionateness and tenderness this one blank remained, and Kate could not forget it. They told her nothing. She was left isolated, separated, outside of some magic circle in which they stood.
The young men joined them very early, earlier even than usual; and then this sense of separation became stronger and stronger in Kate’s mind. Would they never have done talking of yesterday? The only thing that refreshed her spirit a little was when she announced the engagement Lady Caryisfort had made—‘for us all,’ Kate said, feeling a little conscious, and pleasantly so, that she herself was, in this case, certainly to be the principal figure—to visit the Buoncompagni palace. Bertie Hardwick roused up immediately at the mention of this.
‘Palace indeed!’ he said. ‘It is a miserable old house, all mildewed and moth-eaten! What should we do there?’
‘I am going, at least,’ said Kate, ‘with Lady Caryisfort. Count Buoncompagni said there were some nice pictures; and I like old houses, though you may not be of my opinion. Auntie, you will come?’
‘Miss Courtenay’s taste is peculiar,’ said Bertie. ‘One knows what an old palace, belonging to an impoverished family, means in Italy. It means mouldy hangings, horrible old frescoes, furniture (and very little of that) crumbling to pieces, and nothing in good condition but the coat of arms. Buoncompagni is quite a type of the class—a young, idle, do-nothing fellow, as noble as you like, and as poor as Job; good for leading a cotillion, and for nothing else in this world; and living in his mouldy old palace, like a snail in its shell.’
‘I don’t think you need to be so severe,’ said Kate, with flashing eyes. ‘If he is poor, it is not his fault; and he is not ashamed of it, as some people are. And, indeed, I don’t think you young men work so very hard yourselves as to give you a right to speak.’
This was a blow most innocently given, but it went a great deal deeper than Kate had supposed. Bertie’s countenance became crimson; he was speechless; he could make no reply; and, like every man whose conscience is guilty, he felt sure that she meant it, and had given him this blow on purpose. It was a strange quarter to be assailed from; but yet, what else could it mean? He sat silent, and bit his nails, and remembered Mr. Sugden, and asked himself how it was that such strange critics had been moved against him. We have said that this episode was refreshing to Kate; but not so were the somewhat anxious arrangements which followed on Mrs. Anderson’s part, ‘for carrying out Kate’s plan, which would be delightful.’
‘I always like going over an old palace,’ she said, with a certain eagerness; ‘and if you gentlemen have not done it already, I am sure it will be worth your while.’
But there was very little response from anyone; and in a few minutes more the interruption seemed to be forgotten, and they had all resumed their discussion of the everlasting history of the previous day. Once more Kate felt her isolation, and after awhile she escaped silently from the room. She did not trust herself to go to her own chamber, but retired to the chilly dining-room, and sat down alone over her Italian, feeling rather desolate. She tried to inspire herself with the idea of putting the Italian into practice, and by the recollection of Count Antonio’s pretty compliments to her on the little speeches she ventured to make in answer to his questions. ‘I must try not to make any mistakes this time,’ she said to herself; but after five minutes she stopped and began thinking. With a conscious effort she tried to direct her mind to the encounter of yesterday—to Lady Caryisfort and Count Buoncompagni; but somehow other figures would always intrude; and a dozen times at least she roused up sharply, as from a dream, and found herself asking again, and yet again, what had happened yesterday? Was it something important enough to justify concealment? Was it possible, whatever it was, that it could be concealed fromher? What was it? Alas! poor Count Antonio was but the ghost whom she tried to think of; while these were the real objects that interested her. And all the time the party remained in the drawing-room, not once going out. She could hear their voices now and then when a door was opened. They stayed indoors all the morning—a thing which had never happened before. They stayed to luncheon. In the afternoon they all went out walking together; but even that was not as of old. A change had come over everything—the world itself seemed different; and what was worst of all was that this change was pleasant to all the rest and melancholy only to Kate. She said to herself, wistfully, ‘No doubt I would be pleased as well as the rest if only I knew.’
Forthe next few days everything was merry as marriage-bells; and though Kate felt even the fondness and double consideration with which she was treated when she was alone with her aunt and cousin to belong somehow to the mystery, she had no excuse even to herself for finding fault with it. They were very good to her. Ombra, at least, had never been so kind, so tender, so anxious to please her. Why should she be anxious to please her? She had never done so before; it had never been necessary; it was a reversal of everything that was natural; and, like all the rest, it meant something underneath, something which had to be made up for by these superficial caresses. Kate did not go so far as this in her articulate thoughts; but it was what she meant in the confused and painful musings which now so often possessed her. But she could not remonstrate, or say, ‘Why are you so unnecessarily, unusually tender? What wrong have you done me that has to be made up for in this way?’ She could not say this, however much she might feel it. She had to hide her wonder and dissatisfaction in her own heart.
At last the day came for the visit to the Buoncompagni palace. They were to walk to Lady Caryisfort’s, to join her, and all had been arranged on the previous night. The ladies were waiting, cloaked and bonneted, when Bertie Eldridge made his appearance alone.
‘I hope I have not kept you waiting,’ he said; ‘that ridiculous cousin of mine won’t come. I don’t know what has come over him; he has taken some absurd dislike to poor Buoncompagni, who is the best fellow in the world. I hope you will accept my company alone.’
Ombra had been the first to advance to meet him, and he stood still holding her hand while he made his explanation. She dropped it, however, with an air of disappointment and annoyance.
‘Bertie will not come—when he knows that I—that we are waiting for him! What a strange thing to do! Bertie, who is always so good; how very annoying—when he knew we depended on him!’
‘I told him so,’ said the other,—‘I told him what you would say; but nothing had any effect. I don’t know what has come to Bertie of late. He is not as he used to be; he has begun to talk of work, and all sorts of nonsense. But to-day he will not come, and there is nothing more to be said. It is humbling to me to see how I suffer without him; but I hope you will try to put up with me by myself for one day.’
‘Oh! I cannot think what Bertie means by it. It is too provoking!’ said Ombra, with a clouded countenance; and when they got into the street their usual order of march was reversed, and Ombra fell behind with Kate, whose mind was full of a very strange jumble of feeling, such as she could not explain to herself. On ordinary occasions one or other of the Berties was always in attendance on Ombra. To-day she indicated, in the most decided manner, that she did not want the one who remained. He had to walk with Mrs. Anderson, while the two girls followed together. ‘I never knew anything so provoking,’ Ombra continued, taking Kate’s arm. ‘It is as if he had done it on purpose—to-day, too, of all days in the world!’
‘What is particular about to-day?’ said Kate, who, to tell the truth, was at this moment less in sympathy with Ombra than she had ever been before.
‘Oh! to-day—why, there is—— well,’ said Ombra, pausing suddenly, ‘of course there is nothing particular about to-day. But he must have known how it would put us out—how it would spoil everything. A little party like ours is quite changed when one is left out. You ought to see that as well as I do. It spoils everybody’s pleasure. It changes the feeling altogether.’
‘I don’t think it does so always,’ said Kate. But she was generous even at this moment, when a very great call was made on her generosity. ‘I never heard you call Mr. Hardwick Bertie before,’ she added, not quite generous enough to pass this over without remark.
‘To himself, you mean,’ said Ombra with a slight blush. ‘We have always called them the Berties among ourselves. But I think it is very ridiculous for people who see so much of each other to go on saying Mr. and Miss.’
‘Do they call you Ombra, then?’ said Kate, lifting her eyebrows. Poor child! she had been much, if secretly, exasperated, and it was not in flesh and blood to avoid giving a mild momentary prick in return.
‘I did not say so,’ said Ombra. ‘Kate, you, too, are contradictory and uncomfortable to-day; when you see how much I am put out——’
‘But I don’t see why you should be so much put out,’ said Kate, in an undertone, as they reached Lady Caryisfort’s door.
What did it mean? This little incident plunged her into a sea of thoughts. Up to this moment she had supposed Bertie Eldridge to be her cousin’s favourite, and had acquiesced in that arrangement. Somehow she did not like this so well. Kate had ceased for a long time to call Bertie Hardwick ‘my Bertie,’ as she had once done so frankly; but still she could not quite divest herself of the idea that he was more her own property than anyone else’s—her oldest friend, whom she had known before any of them. And he had been so kind the other morning, when the others had deserted her. It gave her a strange, dull, uncomfortable sensation to find him thus appropriated by her cousin. ‘I ought not to mind—it can be nothing to me,’ she said to herself; but, nevertheless, she did not like it. She was glad when they came to Lady Caryisfort’s door, and hertête-à-têtewith Ombra was over; and it was even agreeable to her woundedamour-proprewhen Count Antonio came to her side, beaming with smiles and self-congratulations at having something to show her. He kept by Lady Caryisfort as they went on to the palazzo, which was close by, with the strictest Italian propriety; but when they had entered his own house the young Count did not hesitate to show that his chief motive was Kate. He shrugged his shoulders as he led them in through the great doorway into the court, which was full of myrtles and greenness. There was a fountain in the centre, which trickled shrilly in the air just touched with frost, and oleanders planted in great vases along a terrace with a low balustrade of marble. The tall house towered above, with all its multitudinous windows twinkling in the sun. There was a handsomeloggia, or balcony, over the terrace on the first floor. It was there that the sunshine dwelt the longest, and there it was still warm, notwithstanding the frost. This balcony had been partially roofed in with glass, and there were some chairs placed in it and a small white covered table.
‘This is the best of my old house,’ said Count Antonio, leading them in, hat in hand, with the sun shining on his black hair. ‘Such as it is, it is at the service ofces dames; but its poor master must beg them to be very indulgent—to make great allowances for age and poverty.’ And then he turned and caught Kate’s eye, and bowed to the ground, and said, ‘Sia padrona!’ with the pretty extravagance of Italian politeness, with a smile for the others, but with a look for herself which made her heart flutter. ‘Sia padrona—consider yourself the mistress of everything,’—words which meant nothing at all, and yet might mean so much! And Kate, poor child, was wounded, and felt herself neglected. She was left out by others—banished from the love and confidence that were her due—her very rights invaded. It soothed her to feel that the youngItalian, in himself as romantic a figure as heart could desire, who had been ‘out’ for his country, whose pedigree ran back to Noah, and perhaps a good deal further, was laying his half-ruined old house and his noble history at her feet. And the signs of poverty, which were not to be concealed, and which Count Antonio made no attempt to conceal, went to Kate’s heart, and conciliated her. She began to look at him, smiling over the wreck of greatness with respect as well as interest; and when he pointed to a great empty space in one of the noble rooms, Kate’s heart melted altogether.
‘There was our Raphael—the picture he painted for us. That went off in ’48, when my father fitted out the few men who were cut to pieces with him at Novara. I remember crying my eyes out, half for our Madonna, half because I was too small to go with him. Nevare mind’ (he said this in English—it was one of his little accomplishments of which he was proud). ‘The country is all the better; but no other picture shall ever hang in that place—that we have sworn, my mother and I.’
Kate stood and gazed up at the vacant place with an enthusiasm which perhaps the picture itself would scarcely have called from her. Her eyes grew big and luminous, ‘each about to have a tear.’ Something came into her throat which prevented her from speaking; she heard a little flutter of comments, but she could not betray the emotion she felt by trying to add to them. ‘Oh!’ she said to herself with that consciousness of her wealth which was at times a pleasure to her—‘oh! if I could find that Madonna, and buy it and send it back!’ And then other thoughts involuntarily rushed after that one—fancies, gleams of imagination, enough to cover her face with blushes. Antonio turned back when the party went on, and found her still looking up at the vacant place.
‘It is a sad blank, is it not?’ he said.
‘It is the most beautiful thing in all the house,’ said Kate; and one of the tears fell as she looked at him, a big blob of dew upon her glove. She looked at it in consternation, blushing crimson, ashamed of herself.
Antonio did what any young Italian would have done under the circumstances. Undismayed by the presence of an audience, he put one knee to the ground, and touched the spot upon Kate’s little gloved thumb with his lips; while she stood in agonies of shame, not knowing what to do.
‘The Signorina’s tear was for Italy,’ he said, as he rose; ‘and there is not an Italian living who would not thank her for it on his knees.’
He was perfectly serious, without the least sense that there could be anything ridiculous or embarrassing in the situation; but it may be imagined what was the effect upon the English party, all with a natural horror of a scene.
Lady Caryisfort, I am sorry to say, showed herself the most ill-bred upon this occasion—she pressed her handkerchief to her lips, but could not altogether restrain the very slightest of giggles. Ombra opened her eyes, and looked at her mother; while poor Kate, trembling, horrified, and overwhelmed with shame, shrank behind Mrs. Anderson.
‘It was not my fault,’ she gasped.
‘Don’t think anything of it, my love,’ whispered Mrs. Anderson, in consolation. ‘They mean nothing by it—it is the commonest thing in the world.’ A piece of consolation which was not, however, quite so consolatory as it was intended to be.
But she kept her niece by herself after this incident as long as it was practicable; and so it came about that the party divided into three. Lady Caryisfort and Antonio went first, Mrs. Anderson and Kate next, and Ombra and Bertie Eldridge last of all. As Kate moved gradually on, she heard that a very close and low-toned conversation was going on behind her; and Ombra did not now seem so much annoyed by Bertie Hardwick’s absence as she had been a little while ago. Was she—an awful revelation seemed to burst upon Kate—was Ombra a coquette? She dismissed the thought from her mind as fast as possible; but after feeling so uncomfortable about her cousin’s sudden interest in Bertie, she could not help feeling now a certain pity for him, as if he too, like herself, were slighted now. Not so would Kate herself have treated anyone. It was not in her, she said to herself, to take up and cast down, to play with any sentiment, whether friendship or anything else; and in her heart she condemned Ombra, though secretly she was not sorry. She was a coquette—that was the explanation. She liked to have both the young men at her feet, without apparently caring much for either. This was a sad accusation to bring against Ombra, but somehow Kate felt more kindly disposed towards her after she had struck this idea out.
When they reached theloggia, the table was found to be covered with an elegant little breakfast, which reminded Kate of the pretty meals to be seen in a theatre, which form part of so many pretty comedies. It was warm in the sunshine, and there was ascaldina, placed Italian fashion, under the table, for the benefit of the chilly; and an old man, in a faded livery, served the repast, which he had not cooked, solely because it had been ordered from an hotel, to poor old Girolamo’s tribulation. But his master had told him the reason why, and the old servant had allowed that the expenditure might be a wise one. Kate found, to her surprise, that she was the special object of the old man’s attention. He ran off with a whole string of ‘Che! che’s,’ when he had identified her, which he did by consultation of his master’s eye. ‘Bella Signorina, this is fromthe old Buoncompagni vineyards,’ he said, as he served to her some old wine; and, with another confidential movement, touched her arm when he handed her the fruit, ‘From the gardens, Signorina mia,’ he whispered; and the honey ‘from Count Antonio’s own bees up on the mountains;’ and, ‘Cara Signorina mia, this the Contessa’s own hands prepared for those beautiful lips,’ he said, with the preserves. He hung about her; he had eyes for no one else.
‘What is the old man saying to you, Kate?’ said her aunt.
‘Nothing,’ answered Kate, half amused and half distressed; and she met Count Antonio’s eye, and they both blushed, to the admiration of the beholders.
This was how the visit terminated. Old Girolamo followed them obsequiously down the great staircase, bowing, with his hand upon his breast, and his eyes upon the young English lady, who was as rich as the Queen of Sheba, and as beautiful as the Holy Mother herself. And Kate’s heart beat with all the little magic flutter of possibilities that seemed to gather round her. If her heart had been really touched, she would not have divined what it all meant so readily; but it was only her imagination that was touched, and she saw all that was meant. It was the first time that she had seen a man pose himself before her in the attitude of love, and (though no doubt it is wrong to admit it) the thing pleased her. She was not anxious, as she ought to have been, to preserve Antonio’s peace of mind. She was flattered, amused, somewhat touched. That was what he meant. And for herself, she was not unwilling to breathe this delicate incense, and be, as other women, wooed and worshipped. Her ideas went no further. Up to this moment it was somewhat consolatory, and gave her something pleasant to think of. Poor old Girolamo! Poor old palace! She liked their master all the better for their sake.