‘I have been trying to talk to the market-women,’ she said, ‘down in that dark, narrow passage, by the Strozzi Palace. Francesca knows all about it. How pleasant it is going with Francesca—to hear her chatter, and to see her brown little face light up! She tells me such stories of all the people as we go.’
‘How fond you are of stories, Kate!’
‘Is it wrong? Look, auntie, how lovely this vine-branch looks! England is better for some things, though. There willstill be some clematis over our porch—not in flower, perhaps, but in that downy, fluffy stage, after the flower. Francesca promises me everything soon. Spring will begin in December, she says, so far as the flowers go, and then we can make thesalonegay. Do you know there are quantities of English people at the hotel at the corner? I almost thought I heard some one say my name as I went by. I looked up, but I could not see anybody I knew.’
‘I hope there is nobody we know,’ cried Ombra, under her breath.
‘My dear children,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with solemnity, ‘you must recognise this principle in Italy, that there are English people everywhere; and wherever there are English people, there is sure to be some one whom you know, or who knows you. I have seen it happen a hundred times; so never mind looking up at the windows, Kate—you may be sure we shall find out quite soon enough.’
‘Well, I like people,’ said Kate, carelessly, as she went out of the room. ‘It will not be any annoyance to me.’
‘Shedoes not care,’ said Ombra—‘it is not in her nature. She will always be happy, because she will never mind. One is the same as another to her. I wish I had that happy disposition. How strange it is that people should be so different! What would kill me would scarcely move her—would not cost her a tear.’
‘Ombra, I am not so sure——’
‘Oh! but I am sure, mamma. She does not understand how things can matter so much to me. She wonders—I can see her look at me when she thinks I don’t notice. She seems to say, “What can Ombra mean by it?—how silly she is to care!”’
‘But you have not taken Kate into your confidence?’ said Mrs. Anderson, in alarm.
‘I have not taken any one into my confidence—I have no confidence to give,’ said Ombra, with the ready irritation which had come to be so common with her. The mother bore it, as mothers have to do, turning away with a suppressed sigh. What a difference the last year had made on Ombra!—oh! what a thing love was to make such a difference in a girl! This is what Mrs. Anderson said to herself with distress and pain; she could scarcely recognise her own child in this changed manifestation, and she could not approve, or even sympathise with her, in the degree, at least, which Ombra craved.
Thefact was that Ombra, as she said, had not given her confidence to any one; she had betrayed herself to her mother in her first excitement, when she had lost command of herself; but that was all. A real and full confidence she had never given. Ombra’s love of sympathy was great, but it was not accompanied, as it generally is, by that open heart which finds comfort in disclosing its troubles. Her heart was not open. She neither revealed herself nor divined others; she was not selfish, nor harsh in temper and disposition; but all that she was certain of was her own feelings. She did not know how to find out what other people were feeling or thinking, consequently she had a very imperfect idea of those about her, and seldom found out for herself what was going on in their minds. This limited her powers of sympathy in a wonderful way, and it was this which was at the root of all her trouble. She had been wooed, but only when it came to a conclusion had she really known what that wooing meant. In her ignorance she had refused the man whom she was already beginning to love, and then had gone on to think about him, after he had revealed himself—to understand all he had been meaning—to love him, with the consciousness that she had rejected him, and with the fear that his affections were being transferred to her cousin. This was what gave the sting to it all, and made poor Ombra complain so mournfully of her temper. She did not divine what her love meant till it was too late; and then she resented the fact that it was too late—resented the reserve which she had herself imposed upon him, the friendly demeanour she had enjoined. She had begged him, when she rejected him, as the greatest of favours, to keep up his intercourse with the family, and be as though this episode had never been. And when the poor fellow obeyed her she was angry with him. I do not know whether the minds of men are ever similarly affected, but this is a weakness not uncommon with women. And then she took his subdued tone, his wistful looks, his seldom approaches to herself, as so many instances that he had got over what she called his folly. Why should he continue to nourish his folly when she had so promptly announced her indifference? Andthen it was that it became apparent to her that he had transferred his affections to Kate. As it happened, by the fatality which sometimes attends such matters, the unfortunate young man never addressed Kate, never looked at her, but Ombra found him out. When Kate was occupied by others, her cousin took no notice; but when that one step approached, that one voice addressed her, Ombra’s eyes and ears were like the lynx. Kate was unconscious of the observation, by means of being absolutely innocent; and the hero himself was unconscious for much the same reason, and because he felt sure that his hopeless devotion to his first love must be so plain to her as to make any other theory on the subject out of the question. But Ombra, who was unable to tell what eyes meant, or to judge from the general scope of action, set up her theory, and made herself miserable. She had been wretched when watching ‘them;’ she was wretched to go away and be able to watch them no longer. She had left home with a sense of relief, and yet the news that they were not to return home for the winter smote her like a catastrophe. Even the fact that he had loved her once seemed a wrong to her, for then she did not know it; and since then had he not done her the cruel injury of ceasing to love her?
Poor Ombra! this was how she tormented herself; and up to this moment any effort she had made to free herself, to snap her chains, and be once more rational and calm, seemed but to have dug the iron deeper into her soul. Nothing cuts like an imaginary wrong. The sufferer would pardon a real injury a hundred times while nursing and brooding over the supposed one. She hated herself, she was ashamed, disgusted, revolted by the new exhibitions of unsuspected wickedness, as she called it, in her nature. She tried and tried, but got no better. But in the meantime all outward possibilities of keeping the flame alight being withdrawn, her heart had melted towards Kate. It was evident that in Kate’s lighter and more sunshiny mind there was no room for such cares as bowed down her own; and with a yearning for love which she herself scarcely understood, she took her young cousin, who was entirely guiltless, into her heart.
Kate and she were sitting together, the morning of the ball to which the younger girl looked forward so joyfully. Ombra was not unmoved by its approach, for she was just one year over twenty, an age at which balls are still great events, and not unapt to influence life. Her heart was a little touched by Kate’s anxious desire that her dress and ornaments should be as fresh and pretty and valuable as her own. It was good of her; to be sure, there was no reason why one should wish to outshine the other; but still Kate had been brought up a great lady, and Ombra was but the Consul’s daughter. Therefore her heart was touched, and she spoke.
‘It does not matter what dress I have, Kate; I shall look like a shadow all the same beside you. You are sunshine—that was what you were born to be, and I was born in the shade.’
‘Don’t make so much of yourself, Ombra mia,’ said Kate. ‘Sunshine is all very well in England, but not here. Am I to be given over to the Englishmen and the dogs, who walk in the sun?’
A cloud crossed Ombra’s face at this untoward suggestion.
‘The Englishmen as much as you please,’ she said; and then, recovering herself with an effort, ‘I wonder if I shall be jealous of you, Kate? I am a little afraid of myself. You so bright, so fresh, so ready to make friends, and I so dull and heavy as I am, besides all the other advantages on your side. I never was in society with you before.’
‘Jealous of me!’ Kate thought it was an admirable joke. She laughed till the tears stood in her bright eyes. ‘But then there must be love before there is jealousy—or, so they say in books. Suppose some prince appears, and we both fall in love with him? But I promise you, it is I who shall be jealous. I will hate you! I will pursue you to the ends of the world! I will wear a dagger in my girdle, and when I have done everything else that is cruel, I will plunge it into your treacherous heart! Oh! Ombra, what fun!’ cried the heroine, drying her dancing eyes.
‘That is foolish—that is not what I mean,’ said serious Ombra. ‘I am very much in earnest. I am fond of you, Kate——’
This was said with a little effort; but Kate, unconscious of the effort, only conscious of the love, threw her caressing arm round her cousin’s waist, and kissed her.
‘Yes,’ she said, softly; ‘how strange it is, Ombra! I, who had nobody that cared for me,’ and held her close and fast in the tender gratitude that filled her heart.
‘Yes, I am fond of you,’ Ombra continued; ‘but if I were to see you preferred to me—always first, and I only second, more thought of, more noticed, better loved! I feel—frightened, Kate. It makes one’s heart so sore. One says to oneself, “It is no matter what I do or say. It is of no use trying to be amiable, trying to be kind—she is sure to be always the first. People love her the moment they see her; and at me they never look.” You don’t know what it is to feel like that.’
‘No,’ said Kate, much subdued; and then she paused. ‘But, Ombra, I am always so pleased—I have felt it fifty times; and I have always been so proud. Auntie and I go into a corner, and say to each other, “What nice people these are—they understand our Ombra—they admire her as she should be admired!” We give each other little nudges, and nod at eachother, and are so happy. You would be the same, of course, if—though it don’t seem likely——’ And here Kate broke off abruptly, and blushed and laughed.
‘You are the youngest,’ said Ombra—‘that makes it more natural in your case. And mamma, of course, is—mamma—she does not count. I wonder—I wonder how I shall take it—in my way or in yours?’
‘Are you so sure it will happen?’ said Kate, laughing. Kate herself did not dislike the notion very much. She had not been brought up with that idea of self-sacrifice which is inculcated from their cradles on so many young women. She felt that it would be pleasant to be admired and made much of; and even to throw others into the shade. She did not make any resolutions of self-renunciation. The visionary jealousy which moved Ombra, which arose partly from want of confidence in herself, and partly from ignorance of others, could never have arisen in her cousin. Kate did not think of comparing herself with any one, or dwelling upon the superior attractions of another. If people did not care for her, why, they did not care for her, and there was an end of it; so much the worse for them. To be sure she never yet had been subjected to the temptation which had made Ombra so unhappy. The possibility of anything of the kind had never entered her thoughts. She was eighteen and a half, and had lived for years on terms of sisterly amity with all the Eldridges, Hardwicks, and the ‘neighbours’ generally; but as yet she had never had a lover, so far as she was aware. ‘The boys,’ as she called them, were all as yet the same to Kate—she liked some more than others, as she liked some girls more than others; but to be unhappy or even annoyed because one or another devoted himself to Ombra more than to her, such an idea had never crossed the girl’s mind. She was fancy free; but it did not occur to her to make any pious resolution on the subject, or to decide beforehand that she would obliterate herself in a corner, in order to give the first place and all the triumph to Ombra. There are young saints capable of doing this; but Kate Courtenay was not one of them. Her eyes shone; her rose-lips parted with just the lightest breath of excitement. She wanted her share of the triumphs too.
Ombra shook her head, but made no reply. ‘Oh,’ she said, to herself, ‘what a hard fate to be always the shadow!’ She exerted all the imagination she possessed, and threw herself forward, as it were, into the evening which was coming. Kate was in all the splendour of her first bloom—that radiance of youth and freshness which is often the least elevated kind of beauty, yet almost always the most irresistible. The liquid brightness of her eyes, the wild-rose bloom of her complexion,the exquisite softness, downiness, deliciousness of cheek and throat and forehead, might be all as evanescent as the dew upon the sunny grass, or the down on a peach. It was youth—youth supreme and perfect in its most delicate fulness, thebeauté de diable, as our neighbours call it. Ombra, being still so young herself, did not characterise it so; nor, indeed, was she aware of this glory of freshness which, at the present moment, was Kate’s crowning charm. But she wondered at her cousin’s beauty, and she did not realise her own, which was so different. ‘Shall I be jealous—shall I hate her?’ she asked herself. At home she had hated her for a moment now and then. Would it be the same again?—was her own mind so mean, her character so low, as that? Thinking well of one’s self, or thinking ill of one’s self, requires only a beginning; and Ombra’s experience had not increased her respect for her own nature. Thus she prepared for the Ambassadress’s ball.
It was a strange manner of preparation, the reader will think. Our sympathy has been trained to accompany those who go into battle without a misgiving—who, whatever jesting alarm they may express, are never really afraid of running away; but, after all, the man who marches forward with a terrible dread in his mind that when the moment comes he will fail, ought to be as interesting, and certainly makes a much greater claim upon our compassion, than he who is tolerably sure of his nerves and courage. The battle of the ball was to Ombra as great an event as Alma or Inkermann. She had never undergone quite the same kind of peril before, and she was afraid as to how she should acquit herself. She represented to herself all the meanness, misery, contemptibleness, of what she supposed to be her besetting sin—that did not require much trouble. She summed it all up, feeling humiliated to the very heart by the sense that under other circumstances she had yielded to that temptation before, and she asked herself—shall I fail again? She was afraid of herself. She had strung her nerves, and set her soul firmly for this struggle, but she was not sure of success. At the last moment, when the danger was close to her, she felt as if she must fail.
Katethought she had never imagined anything so stately, so beautiful, so gay, so like a place for princes and princesses to meet, as the suite of rooms in the Palazzo occupied by the English Embassy, where the ball was held. The vista which stretched before her, one room within another, the lines of light infinitely reflected by the great mirrors—the lofty splendid rooms, rich in gold and velvet; the jewels of the ladies, the glow of uniforms and decorations; the beautiful dresses—all moved her to interest and delight. Delight was the first feeling; and then there came the strangest sensation of insignificance, which was not pleasant to Kate. For three years she had lived in little cottage rooms, in limited space, with very simple surroundings. But the first glance at this new scene brought suddenly before the girl’s eyes her native dwelling-place, her own home, which, of course, was but an English country-house, yet was more akin to the size and splendour of the Palazzo than to the apartments on the Lung-Arno, or the little Cottage on the Undercliff. Kate found herself, in spite of herself, making calculations how the rooms at Langton-Courtenay would look in comparison; and from that she went on to consider whether any one here knew of Langton-Courtenay, or was aware that she herself was anything but Mrs. Anderson’s niece. She was ashamed of herself for the thought, and yet it went quick as lightning through her excited mind.
Lady Granton smiled graciously upon them, and even shook hands with the lady whom she knew as Mrs. Vice-Consul, with more cordiality than usual, with a gratitude which would have given Mrs. Anderson little satisfaction had she known it, to the woman who had already amused her so much; but then the group passed on like the other groups, a mother and two unusually pretty daughters, as people thought, but strangers, nobodies, looking a littlegauche, and out of place, in the fine rooms, where they were known to no one. Ombra knew what the feeling was of old, and was not affronted by it; but Kate had never been deprived of a certain shadow of distinction among her peers. The people at Shanklin had, to their ownconsciousness, treated her just as they would have done any niece of Mrs. Anderson’s; but, unconsciously to themselves, the fact that she was Miss Courtenay, of Langton-Courtenay, had produced a certain effect upon them. No doubt Kate’s active and lively character had a great deal to do with it, but the fact of her heiress-ship, her future elevation, had much to do with it also. A certain pre-eminence had been tacitly allowed to her; a certain freedom of opinion, and even of movement, had been permitted, and felt to be natural. She was the natural leader in half the pastimes going, referred to and consulted by her companions. This had been her lot for these three years past. She never had a chance of learning that lesson of personal insignificance which is supposed to be so salutary. All at once, in a moment, she learned it now. Nobody looked up to her, nobody considered her, nobody knew or cared who she was. For the first half-hour Kate was astonished, in spite of all her philosophy, and then she tried to persuade herself that she was amused. But the greatest effort could not persuade her that she liked it. It made her tingle all over with the most curious mixture of pain, and irritation, and nervous excitement. The dancing was going on merrily, and there was a hum of talking and soft laughter all around; people passing and repassing, greeting each other, shaking hands, introducing to each other their common friends. But the three ladies who knew nobody stood by themselves, and felt anything but happy.
‘If this is what you call a ball, I should much rather have been at home,’ said Kate, with indignation.
‘It is not cheerful, is it?’ said Ombra. ‘But we must put up with it till we see somebody we know. I wish only we could find a seat for mamma.’
‘Oh! never mind me, my dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘I can stand very well, and it is amusing to watch the people. Lady Barker will come to us as soon as she sees us.’
‘Lady Barker! As if any one cared for her!’ said Kate; but even Kate, though she could have cried for mortification, kept looking out very sharply for Lady Barker. She was not a great lady, nor of any importance, so far as she herself was concerned, but she held the keys of the dance, of pleasure, and amusement, and success, for that night, at least, for both Ombra and Kate. The two stood and looked on while the pairs of dancers streamed past them, with the strangest feelings—or at least Kate’s feelings were very strange. Ombra had been prepared for it, and took it more calmly. She pointed out the pretty faces, the pretty dresses to her cousin, by way of amusing her.
‘What do you think of this toilette?’ she said. ‘Look, Kate, what a splendid dark girl, and how well that maizebecomes her! I think she is a Roman princess. Look at her diamonds. Don’t you like to see diamonds, Kate?’
‘Yes,’ said Kate, with a laugh at herself, ‘they are very pretty; but I thought we came to dance, not to look at the people. Let us have a dance, you and I together, Ombra—why shouldn’t we? If men won’t ask us, we can’t help that—but I must dance.’
‘Oh! hush, my darling,’ said Mrs. Anderson, alarmed. ‘You must not really think of anything so extraordinary. Two girls together! It was all very well at Shanklin. Try to amuse yourself for a little, looking at the people. There are some of the great Italian nobility here. You can recognise them by their jewels. That is one, for instance, that lady in velvet——’
‘It is very interesting, no doubt,’ cried Kate, ‘and if they were in a picture, or on a stage, I should like to look at them; but it is very queer to come to a ball only to see the people. Why, we might be their maids, standing in a corner to see the ladies pass. Is it right for the lady of the house to ask us, and then leave us like this? Do you call that hospitality? If this was Langton-Courtenay,’ said Kate, bringing her own dignity forward unconsciously, for the first time for years, ‘and it was I who was giving this ball, I should be ashamed of myself. Am I speaking loud? I am sure I did not mean it; but I should be ashamed——’
‘Oh! hush, dear, hush!’ cried Mrs. Anderson. ‘Lady Barker will be coming presently.’
‘But it was Lady Granton who invited us, auntie. It is her business to see——’
‘Hush, my dearest child! How could she, with all these people to attend to? When you are mistress of Langton-Courtenay, and give balls yourself, you will find out how difficult it is——’
‘Langton-Courtenay?’ said some one near. The three ladies instantaneously roused up out of their languor at the sound. Whose voice was it? It came through the throng, as if some one half buried in the crowd had caught up the name, and flung it on to some one else. Mrs. Anderson looked in one direction, Kate, all glowing and smiling, in another, while the dull red flush of old, the sign of surprised excitement and passion, came back suddenly to Ombra’s face. Though they had not been aware of it, the little group had already been the object of considerable observation; for the girls were exceptionally pretty, in their different styles, and they were quite new, unknown, and piquant in their obvious strangeness. Even Kate’s indignation had been noted by a quick-witted English lady, with an eyeglass, who was surrounded by a little court. This lady was slightly beyond the age for dancing, or, if not really so, had been wise enough tomeet her fate half-way, and to retire gracefully from youth, before youth abandoned her. She had taken up her place, resisting all solicitations.
‘Don’t ask me—my dancing-days are over. Ask that pretty girl yonder, who is longing to begin,’ she had said, with a smile, to one of her attendants half an hour before.
‘Je ne demande pas mieux, if indeed you are determined,’ said he. ‘But who is she? I don’t know them.’
‘Nobody seems to know them,’ said Lady Caryisfort; and so the observation began.
Lady Caryisfort was very popular. She was a widow, well off, childless, good-looking, and determined, people said, never to marry again. She was the most independent of women, openly declaring, on all hands, that she wanted no assistance to get through life, but was quite able to take care of herself. And the consequence was that everybody about was most anxious to assist in taking care of her. All sorts of people took all sorts of trouble to help her in doing what she never hesitated to say she could do quite well without them. She was something of a philosopher, and a good deal of a cynic, as such people often are.
‘You would not be so good to me if I had any need of you,’ she said, habitually; and this was understood to be ‘Lady Caryisfort’s way.’
‘Nobody knows them,’ she added, looking at the party through her eyeglass. ‘Poor souls, I daresay they thought it was very fine and delightful to come to Lady Granton’s ball. And if they had scores of friends already, scores more would turn up on all sides. But because they know nobody, nobody will take the trouble to know them. The younger one is perfectly radiant. That is what I call the perfection of bloom. Look at her—she is a real rosebud! Now, whatfainéantsyou all are!’
‘Why are wefainéants?’ said one of the court.
‘Well,’ said Lady Caryisfort, who professed to be a man-hater, within certain limits, ‘I am aware that the nicest girl in the world, if she were not pretty, might stand there all the night, and nobody but a woman would ever think of trying to get any amusement for her. But there is what you are capable of admiring—there is beauty, absolute beauty; none of your washy imitations, but real, undeniable loveliness. And there you stand and gape, and among a hundred of you she does not find one partner. Oh! what it is to be a man! Why, my pet retriever, who is fond of pretty people, would have found her out by this, and made friends with her, and here are half a dozen of you fluttering about me!’
There was a general laugh, as at a very good joke; and some one ventured to suggest that the flutterers round Lady Caryisfort could give a very good reason——
‘Yes,’ said that lady, fanning herself tranquilly, ‘because I don’t want you. In society that is the best of reasons; and that pretty creature there does want you, therefore she is left to herself. She is getting indignant. Why, she grows prettier and prettier. I wonder those glances don’t set fire to something! Delicious! She wants her sister to dance with her. What a charming girl! And the sister is pretty, too, but knows better. And mamma—oh! how horrified mamma is! This is best of all!’
Thus Lady Caryisfort smiled and applauded, and her attendants laughed and listened. But, curiously enough, though she was so interested in Kate, and so indignant at the neglect to which she was subjected, it did not occur to her to take the young stranger under her protection, as she might so easily have done. It was her way to look on—to interfere was quite a different matter.
‘Now this is getting quite dramatic,’ she cried; ‘they have seen some one they know—where is he?—or even where is she?—for any one they know would be a godsend to them. How do you do, Mr. Eldridge? How late you are! But please don’t stand between me and my young lady. I am excited about her; they have not found him yet—and how eager she looks! Mr. Eldridge—why, good heavens! where has he gone?’
‘Who was it that said Langton-Courtenay?’ cried Kate; ‘it must be some one who knows the name, and I am sure I know the voice. Did you hear it, auntie? Langton-Courtenay!—I wonder who it could be?’
A whole minute elapsed before anything more followed. Mrs. Anderson looked one way, and Kate another. Ombra did not move. If the lively observer, who had taken so much interest in the strangers, could have seen the downcast face which Kate’s bright countenance threw into the shade, her drama would instantly have increased in interest. Ombra stood without moving a hair’s-breadth—without raising her eyes—without so much as breathing, one would have said. Under her eyes that line of hot colour had flushed in a moment, giving to her face the look of something suppressed and concealed. The others wondered who it was, but Ombra knew by instinct who had come to disturb their quiet once more. She recognised the voice, though neither of her companions did; and if there had not been any evidence so clear as that voice—had it been a mere shadow, an echo—she would have known. It was she who distinguished in the ever-moving, ever-rustling throng, the one particular movement which indicated that some one was making his way towards them. She knew he—they—were there, without raising her eyes, before Kate’s cry of joyful surprise informed her.
‘Oh, the Berties!—I beg your pardon—Mr. Hardwick and Mr. Eldridge. Oh, fancy!—that you should be here!’
Ombra neither fell nor fainted, nor did she even speak. The room swam round and round, and then came back to its place; and she looked up, and smiled, and put out her hand.
The two pretty strangers stood in the corner no longer; they stood up in the next dance, Kate in such a glow of delight and radiance that the whole ball-room thrilled with admiration. There had been a little hesitation as to which of the two should be her partner—a pause during which the two young men consulted each other by a look; but she had herself so clearly indicated which Bertie she preferred, that the matter was speedily decided. ‘I wanted to have you,’ she said frankly to Bertie Hardwick, as he led her off, ‘because I want to hear all about home. Tell me about home. I have not thought of Langton for two years at least, and my mind is full of it to-night—I am sure I don’t know why. I keep thinking, if I ever give a ball at Langton, how much better I will manage it. Fancy!’ cried Kale, flushing with indignation, ‘we have been here an hour, and no one has asked us to dance, neither Ombra nor me.’
‘That must have been because nobody knew you,’ said Bertie Hardwick.
‘And whose fault was that? Fancy asking two girls to a dance, and then never taking the trouble to look whether they had partners or not! If I ever give a ball, I shall behave differently, you may be sure.’
‘I hope you will give a great many balls, and that I shall be there to see.’
‘Of course,’ said Kate, calmly; ‘but if you ever see me neglecting my duty like Lady Granton, don’t forget to remind me of to-night.’
Lady Granton’s sister was standing next to her, and, of course, heard what she said.
‘Itwas you who knew them, Mr. Eldridge,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘Tell me about them—you can’t think how interested I am. She thinks Lady Granton neglected her duty, and she means to behave very differently when she is in the same position. She is delicious! Tell me who she is.’
‘My cousin knows better than I do,’ said Bertie Eldridge, drawing back a step. ‘She is an old friend and neighbour of his.’
‘If your cousin were my son, I should be frightened of so very dangerous a neighbour,’ said Lady Caryisfort. It was one of her ways to distinguish as her possible sons men a few years younger than herself.
‘Even to think her dangerous would be a presumption in me,’ said Bertie Hardwick. ‘She is the great lady at home. Perhaps, though you laugh, you may some day see whether she can keep the resolution to behave differently. She is Miss Courtenay, of Langton-Courtenay, Lady Caryisfort. You must know her well enough by name.’
‘What!—the Vice-Consul’s niece! I must go and tell Lady Granton,’ said anattaché, who was among Lady Caryisfort’s attendants.
She followed him with her eyes as he went away, with an amused look.
‘Now my little friend will have plenty of partners,’ she said. ‘Oh! you men, who have not even courage enough to ask a pretty girl to dance until you have a certificate of her position. But I don’t mean you two. You had the certificate, I suppose, a long time ago?’
‘Yes. She has grown very pretty,’ said Bertie Eldridge, in a patronising tone.
‘How kind of you to think so!—how good of you to make her dance! as the French say. Mr. Hardwick, I suppose she is your father’s squire? Are you as condescending as your cousin? Give me your arm, please, and introduce me to the party. I am sure they must be fun. I have heard of Mrs. Vice-Consul——’
‘I don’t think they are particularly funny,’ said Bertie Hardwick, with a tone which the lady’s ear was far too quick to lose.
‘Ah!’ she said to herself, ‘a victim!’ and was on the alert at once.
‘It is the younger one who is Miss Courtenay, I suppose?’ she said. ‘The other is—her cousin. I see now. And I assure you, Mr. Hardwick, though she is not (I suppose?) an heiress, she is very pretty too.’
Bertie assented with a peculiar smile. It was a great distinction to Bertie Hardwick to be seen with Lady Caryisfort on his arm, and a very great compliment to Mrs. Anderson that so great a personage should leave her seat in order to make her acquaintance. Yet there were drawbacks to this advantage; for Lady Caryisfort had a way of making her own theories on most things that fell under her observation; and she did so at once in respect to the group so suddenly brought under her observation. She paid Mrs. Anderson a great many compliments upon her two girls.
‘I hear from Mr. Hardwick that I ought to know your niece “at home,” as the schoolboys say,’ she said. ‘Caryisfort is not more than a dozen miles from Langton-Courtenay. I certainly did not expect to meet my young neighbour here.’
‘Her uncle wishes her to travel; she is herself fond of moving about,’ murmured Mrs. Anderson.
‘Oh! to be sure—it is quite natural,’ said Lady Caryisfort; ‘but I should have thought Lady Granton would have known who her guest was—and—and all of us. There are so many English people always here, and it is so hard to tell who is who——’
‘If you will pardon me,’ said Mrs. Anderson, who was not without a sense of her own dignity, ‘it is just because of the difficulty in telling who is who that I have brought Kate here. Her guardian does not wish her to be introduced in England till she is of age; and as I am anxious not to attract any special attention, such as her position might warrant——’
‘Is her guardian romantic?’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘Does he want her to be loved for herself alone, and that sort of thing? For otherwise, do you know, I should think it was dangerous. A pretty girl is never quite safe——’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs. Anderson, gravely, ‘there are some risks, which one is obliged to run—with every girl.’
And she glanced at Bertie Hardwick, who was standing by; and either Bertie blushed, being an ingenuous young man, or Lady Caryisfort fancied he did; for she was very busy making her little version of this story, and every circumstance, as far as she had gone, fitted in.
‘But an heiress is so much more dangerous than any other girl. Suppose she should fancy some one beneath—some one not quite sufficiently—some one, in short, whom her guardianswould not approve of? Do you know, I think it is a dreadful responsibility for you.’
Mrs. Anderson smiled; but she gave her adviser a sudden look of fright and partial irritation.
‘I must take my chance with others,’ she said. ‘We can only hope nothing will happen.’
‘Nothing happen! When it is girls and boys that are in question something always happens!’ cried Lady Caryisfort, elevating her eyebrows. ‘But here come your two girls, looking very happy. Will you introduce them to me, please? I hope you will not be affronted with me for an inquisitive old woman,’ she went on, with her most gracious smile; ‘but I have been watching you for ever so long.’
She was watching them now, closely, scientifically, under her drooped eyelids. Bertie had brightened so at their approach, there could be no mistaking that symptom. And the pale girl, the dark girl, the quiet one, who, now that she had time to examine her, proved almost more interesting than the beauty—had changed, too, lighting up like a sky at sunset. The red line had gone from under Ombra’s eyes; there was a rose-tint on her cheek which came and went; her eyes were dewy, like the first stars that come out at evening. A pretty, pensive creature, but bright for the moment, as was the other one—the one who was all made of colour and light.
‘This is my niece, Lady Caryisfort,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with an effort; and she added, in a lower tone, ‘This is Ombra, my own child.’
‘Do you call her Ombra? What a pretty name! and how appropriate! Then of course the other one is sunshine,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘I hope I shall see something of them while I stay here; and, young ladies, I hope, as I said, that you do not consider me a very impertinent old woman because I have been watching you.’
Kate laughed out the clearest, youthful laugh.
‘Are you an old woman?’ she said. ‘I should not have guessed it.’
Lady Caryisfort turned towards Kate with growing favour. How subtle is the effect of wealth and greatness (she thought). Kate spoke out frankly, in the confidence of her own natural elevation, which placed her on a level with all these princesses and great ladies; while Ombra, though she was older and more experienced, hung shyly back, and said nothing at all. Lady Caryisfort, with her quick eyes, perceived, or thought she perceived, this difference in a moment, and, half-unconsciously, inclined towards the one who was of her own caste.
‘Old enough to be your grandmother,’ she said; ‘and I am your neighbour, besides, at home, so I hope we shall be greatfriends. I suppose you have heard of the Caryisforts? No! Why, you must be a little changeling not to know the people in your own county. You know Bertie Hardwick, though?’
‘Oh! yes—I have known him all my life,’ said Kate, calmly, looking up at her.
How different the two girls were! The bright one (Lady Caryisfort remarked to herself) as calm as a Summer day; the shadowy one all changing and fluttering, with various emotions. It was easy to see what that meant.
This conversation, however, had to be broken up abruptly, for already the stream of partners which Lady Caryisfort had prophesied was pouring upon the girls. Lady Barker, indeed, had come to the rescue as soon as the appearance of the two Berties emancipated the cousins. When they did not absolutely require her help, she proffered it, according to Lady Caryisfort’s rule; and even Lady Granton herself showed signs of interest. An heiress is not an everyday occurrence even in the highest circles; and this was not a common heiress, a mere representative of money, but the last of an old family, the possessor of fair and solid English acres, old, noble houses, a name any man might be proud of uniting to his own; and a beauty besides. This was filling the cup too high, most people felt—there was no justice in it. Fancy, rich, well-born, and beautiful too! She had no right to have so much.
‘I cannot think why you did not tell me,’ said Lady Barker, coming to Mrs. Anderson’s side. She felt she had made rather a mistake with her Mrs. Vice-Consul; and the recollection of her jokes about Kate’s possible inheritance made her redden when she thought of them. She had put herself in the wrong so clearly that even her stupidattachéhad found it out.
‘I had no desire to tell anybody—I am sorry it is known now,’ said Mrs. Anderson.
Long before this a comfortable place had been found for Kate’s aunt. Her heiress had raised her out of all that necessity of watching and struggling for a point of vantage which nobodies are compelled to submit to when they venture among the great. But it is doubtful whether Mrs. Anderson was quite happy in her sudden elevation. Her feelings were of a very mixed and uncertain character. So far as Lady Barker was concerned, she could not but feel a certain pride—she liked to show the old friend, who was patronising and kind, that she needed no exercise of condescension on her part; and she was pleased, as that man no doubt was pleased, who, having taken the lower room at the feast, was bidden, ‘Friend, go up higher.’ That sensation cannot be otherwise than pleasant—the little commotion, the flutter of apologies and regrets with which she was discovered ‘to have been standing all this time;’ theslight discomfiture of the people round, who had taken no notice, on perceiving after all that she was somebody, and not nobody, as they thought. All this had been pleasant. But it was not so pleasant to feel in so marked and distinct a manner that it was all on Kate’s account. Kate was very well; her aunt was fond of her, and good to her, and would have been so independent of her heiress-ship. But to find that her own value, such as it was—and most of us put a certain value on ourselves—and the beauty and sweetness of her child, who, to her eyes, was much more lovely than Kate, should all go for nothing, and that an elevation which was half contemptuous, should be accorded to them solely on Kate’s account, was humiliating to the good woman. She took advantage of it, and was even pleased with the practical effect; but it wounded her pride, notwithstanding, in the tenderest point. Kate, whom she had scolded and petted into decorum, whom she had made with her own hands, so to speak, into the semblance she now bore, whose faults and deficiencies she was so sensible of! Poor Mrs. Anderson, the position of dignity ‘among all the best people’ was pleasant to her; but the thought that she had gained it only as Kate’s aunt put prickles in the velvet. And Ombra, her child, her first of things, was nothing but Kate’s cousin. ‘But that will soon be set to rights,’ the mother said to herself, with a smile; and then she added aloud—
‘I am very sorry it is known now. We never intended it. A girl in Kate’s position has enough to go through at home, without being exposed to—to fortune-hunters and annoyances here. Had I known these boys were in Florence, I should not have come. I am very much annoyed. Nothing could be further from her guardian’s wishes—or my own.’
‘Oh, well, you can’t help it!’ said Lady Barker. ‘It was not your fault. But you can’t hide an heiress. You might as well try to put brown holland covers on a lighthouse. By-the-bye, young Eldridge is very well connected, and very nice—don’t you think?’
‘He is Sir Herbert Eldridge’s son,’ said Mrs. Anderson, stiffly.
‘Yes. Not at all bad looking, and all that. Nobody could consider him, you know, in the light of a fortune-hunter. But if you take my advice you will keep all those young Italians at arm’s length. Some of them are very captivating in their way; and then it sounds romantic, and girls are pleased. There is that young Buoncompagni, that Miss Courtenay is dancing with now. He is one of the handsomest young fellows in Florence, and he has not a sou. Of course he is looking out for some one with money. Positively you must take great care. Ah! I see it is Mr. Eldridge your daughter is dancing with. You are old friends, I suppose?’
‘Very old friends,’ said Mrs. Anderson; and she was not sorry when her questioner was called away. Perhaps, for the moment, she was not much impressed by Kate’s danger in respect to the young Count Buoncompagni. Her eyes were fixed upon Ombra, as was natural. In the abstract, a seat even upon velvet cushions (with prickles in them), against an emblazoned wall, for hours together, with no one whom you know to speak to, and only such crumbs of entertainment as are thrown to you when some one says, ‘A pretty scene, is it not? What a pretty dress! Don’t you think Lady Caryisfort is charming? And dear Lady Granton, how well she is looking!’ Even with such brilliant interludes of conversation as the above, the long vigil of a chaperon is not exhilarating. But when Mrs. Anderson’s eye followed Ombra she was happy; she was content to sit against the wall, and gaze, and would not allow to herself that she was sleepy. ‘Poor dear Kate, too!’ she said to herself, with a compunction, ‘sheis as happy as possible.’ Thus nature gave a compensation to Ombra for being only Miss Courtenay’s cousin—a compensation which, for the moment, in the warmth of personal happiness, she did not need.
‘Whyshould you get up this morning, Signoramia?’ said old Francesca. ‘The young ladies are fast asleep still. And it was a grand success,a che lo dite. Did not I say so from the beginning? To be sure it was a grand success. The Signorine are divine. If I were a young principe, or a marchesino, I know what I should do. Mees Katta is charming, my dearest lady; but,nostraOmbra—ah!nostraOmbra——’
‘Francesca, we must not be prejudiced,’ said Mrs. Anderson, who was taking her coffee in bed—a most unusual indulgence—while Francesca stood ready for a gossip at the bedside. The old woman was fond of petting her mistress when she had an opportunity, and of persuading her into little personal indulgences, as old servants so often are. The extra trouble of bringing up the little tray, with the fragrant coffee, the little white roll from the English baker, which the Signora was so prejudiced as to prefer, and one white camelia out of last night’s bouquet, in a little Venetian glass, to serve the purpose of decoration, was the same kind of pleasure to her as it is to a mother to serve a sick child who is not ill enough to alarm her. Francesca liked it. She liked the thanks, and the protest against so innocent an indulgence with which it was always accompanied.
‘I must not be so lazy again. I am quite ashamed of myself. But I was fatigued last night.’
‘Si! si!’ cried Francesca. ‘To be sure the Signora was tired. What! sit up till four o’clock, she who goes to bed at eleven; and my lady is not twenty now, as she once was! Ah! I remember the day when, after a ball, Madame was fatigued in a very different way.’
‘Those days are long past, Francesca,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a smile, shaking her head. She did not dislike being reminded of them. She had known in her time what it was to be admired and sought after; and after sitting for six hours against the wall, it was a little consolation to reflect that she too had had her day.
‘As Madame pleases, so be it,’ said Francesca; ‘thoughmy lady could still shine with the best if she so willed it; but for my own part I think she is right. When one has a child, and such a child as our Ombra——’
‘My dear Francesca, we must not be prejudiced,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘Ombra is very sweet to you and me; and I think she is very lovely; but Kate is more beautiful than she is—Kate has such a bloom. I myself admire her very much—not of course so much as—my own child.’
‘If the Signora had said it, I should not have believed her,’ said Francesca. ‘I should be sorry to show any want of education to Madame, but I should not have believed her. Mademoiselle Katta is good child—I love her—I am what you call fond; but she is not like our Ombra. It is not necessary that I should draw the distinction. The Signora knows it is quite a different thing.’
‘Yes, yes, Francesca, I know—I know only too well; and I hope I am not unjust,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘I hope I am not unkind—I cannot help it being different. Nothing would make me neglect my duty, I trust; and I have no reason to be anything but fond of Kate—I love her very much; but still, as you say——’
‘The Signora knows that I understand,’ said Francesca. ‘Two gentlemen have called already this morning—already, though it is so early. They are the same young Signorini who came to the Cottage in IsleofWite.’ (This Francesca pronounced as one word.) ‘Now, if the Signora would tell me, it would make me happy. There is two, and I ask myself—which?’
Mrs. Anderson shook her head.
‘And so do I sometimes,’ she said; ‘and I thought I knew; but last night—— My dear Francesca, when I am sure I will tell you. But, indeed, perhaps it is neither of them,’ she added, with a sigh.
Francesca shook her head.
‘Madame would say that perhaps it is bose.’
I have not thought it necessary always to put down Francesca’s broken English, nor the mixture of languages in which she spoke. It might be gratifying to the writer to be able to show a certain acquaintance with those tongues; but it is always doubtful whether the reader will share that gratification. But when she addressed her mistress, Francesca spoke Italian, and consequently used much better language than when she was compelled to toil through all the confusing sibilants andthsof the English tongue.
‘I do not know—I cannot tell,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘Take the tray,mia buona amica. You shall know when I know. And now I think I must get up. One can’t stay in bed, you know, all day.’
When her mistress thus changed the subject, Francesca saw that it was no longer convenient to continue it. She was not satisfied that Mrs. Anderson did not know, but she understood that she was in the meantime to make her own observations. Keener eyes were never applied to such a purpose, but at the present moment Francesca was too much puzzled to come to any speedy decision on the subject; and notwithstanding her love for Ombra, who was supreme in her eyes, Francesca was moved to a feeling for Kate which had not occurred to the other ladies. ‘Santissima Madonna! it is hard—very hard for the little one,’ she said to herself, as she mused over the matter. ‘Who is to defend her from Fate? She will see them every day—she is young—they are young—what can anyone expect? Ah! Madonnamia, send some good young marchesino, some piccolo principe, to make the Signorina a great lady, and save her from breaking her little heart. It would be good forla patria, too,’ Francesca resumed, piously thinking of Kate’s wealth.
She was a servant of the old Italian type, to whom it was natural to identify herself with her family. She did not even ‘toil for duty, not for meed,’ but planned and deliberated over all their affairs with the much more spontaneous and undoubting sentiment that their affairs were her own, and that they mutually belonged to each other. She said ‘our Ombra’ with as perfect good faith as if her young mistress had been her own child—and so indeed she was. The bond between them was too real to be discussed or even described—and consequently it was with the natural interest of one pondering her own business that Francesca turned it all over in her mind, and considered how she could best serve Kate, and keep her unharmed by Ombra’s uncertainty.
When Count Antonio Buoncompagni came with his card and his inquiries, the whole landscape lighted up around her. Francesca was a Florentine of the Florentines. She knew all about the Buoncompagni; her aunt’s husband’s sister had beencamerierato the old Duchessa, Antonio’s grandmother; so that in a manner, she said to herself, she belonged to the family. The Contessina, his mother, had made her first communion along with Francesca’s younger sister, Angiola. This made a certain spiritual bond between them. The consequence of all these important facts, taken together, was that Francesca felt herself the natural champion of Count Buoncompagni, who seemed thus to have stepped in at the most suitable moment, and as if in answer to her appeal to the Madonna, to lighten her anxieties, and free her child Ombra from the responsibility of harming another. The Count Antonio was young and very good-looking. He addressed Francesca in those frank and friendly tones which she had so missed in England; he called her amica mia, thoughhe had never seen her before. ‘Ah! Santissima Madonna,quella differenza!’ she said to herself, as he went down the long stair, and the young Englishmen, who had known her for years, and were very friendly to the old woman, came up, and got themselves admitted without one unnecessary word. They had no caressing friendly phrase for her as they went and came. Francesca was true as steel to her mistress and all her house; she would have gone through fire and water for them; but it never occurred to her that to take the part of confidante and abettor to the young Count, should he mean to present himself as a suitor to Kate, would be treacherous to them or their trust. Of all things that could happen to the Signorina, the best possible thing—the good fortune most to be desired—would be that she should get a noble young husband, who would be very fond of her, and to whose house she would bring joy and prosperity. The Buoncompagni, unfortunately, though noble as the king himself, were poor; and Francesca knew very well what a difference it would make in the faded grand palazzo if Kate went there with her wealth. Even so much wealth as she had brought to her aunt would, Francesca thought, make a great difference; and what, then, would not the whole fabulous amount of Kate’s fortunes do? ‘It will be good forla patria, too,’ she repeated to herself; and this not guiltily, like a conscious conspirator, but with the truest sense of duty.
She carried in Count Antonio’s card to thesalonewhere the ladies were sitting with their visitors. Ombra was seated at one of the windows, looking out; beside her stood Bertie Hardwick, not saying much; while his cousin, scarcely less silent, listened to Kate’s chatter. Kate’s gay voice was in full career; she was going over all last night’s proceedings, giving them a dramatic account of her feelings. She was describing her own anger, mortification, and dismay; then her relief, when she caught sight of the two young men. ‘Not because it was you,’ she said gaily, ‘but because you were men—or boys—things we could dance with; and because you knew us, and could not help asking us.’
‘That is not a pleasant way of stating it,’ said Bertie Eldridge. ‘If you had known our delight and amaze and happiness in finding you, and how transported we were——’
‘I suppose you must say that,’ said Kate; ‘please don’t take the trouble. I know you could not help making me a pretty speech; but whatIsay is quite true. We were glad, not because it was you, but because we felt in a moment, here are some men we know, they cannot leave us standing here all night; we must be able to get a dance at last.’
‘I have brought the Signora a card,’ said Francesca, interrupting the talk. ‘Ah, such a beautiful young Signor! Whata consolation to me to be in my own country; to be calledamica miaonce again. You are very good, you English Signori, and very kind in your way, but you never speak as if you loved us, though we may serve you for years. When one comes like this handsome young Count Antonio, how different! “Cara mia,” he says, “put me at the feet of their Excellencies. I hope the beautiful young ladies are not too much fatigued!” Ah, my English gentlemen, you do not talk like that! You say, “Are they quite well—Madame Anderson and the young ladies?” And if it is old Francesca, or a new domestic, whom you never saw before, not one word of difference! You are cold; you are insensible; you are not like our Italian. Signorina Katta, do you know the name on the card?’
‘It’s Count Antonio Buoncompagni!’ said Kate, with a bright blush and smile. ‘Why, that was my partner last night! How nice of him to come and call—and what a pretty name! And he dances like an angel, Francesca—I never saw any one dance so well!’
‘That is a matter of course, Signorina. He is young; he is a Buoncompagni; his ancestors have all been noble and had education for a thousand years—what should hinder him to dance? If the Signorina will come to me when these gentlemen leave you, I will tell her hundreds of beautiful stories about the Buoncompagni. We are, as it were, connected—the sister-law of my aunt Filomena was once maid to the old Duchessa—besides other ties,’ Francesca added, raising her head with a certain careless grandeur. ‘Nobody knows better than I do the history of the Buoncompagni; and the Signorina is very fond of stories, as Madame knows.’
‘My good Francesca, so long as you don’t turn her head with your stories,’ said Mrs. Anderson, good-humouredly. And she added, when the old woman had left the room, ‘Often and often I have been glad to hear Francesca’s stories myself. All these Italian families have such curious histories. She will go on from one to another, as if she never would have done. She knows everybody, and whom they all married, and all about them. And there is some truth, you know, in what she says—we are very kind, but we don’t talk to our servants nor show any affection for them. I am very fond of Francesca, and very grateful to her for her faithful service, but even I don’t do it. Kate has a frank way with everybody. But our English reserve is dreadful!’
‘We don’t say everything that comes uppermost,’ said one of the young men. ‘We do not wear our hearts on our sleeves,’ said the other.
‘No,’ said Ombra; ‘perhaps, on the contrary, you keep themso covered up that one never can tell whether you have any hearts at all.’
Ombra’s voice had something in it different from the sound of the others; it had a meaning. Her words were not lightly spoken, but fully intended. This consciousness startled all the little party. Mrs. Anderson flung herself, as it were, into the breach, and began to talk fast on all manner of subjects; and Ombra, probably repenting the seriousness of her speech, exerted herself to dissipate the effect of it. But Kate kept the Count’s card in her hand, pondering over it. A young Italian noble; the sort of figure which appears in books and in pictures; the kind of person who acts as hero in tale and song. He had come to lay himself at the feet of the beautiful young ladies. Well! perhaps the two Berties meant just as much by the clumsy shy visit which they were paying at that moment—but they never laid themselves at anybody’s feet. They were well-dressed Philistines, never allowing any expression of friendship or affectionateness to escape them. Had they no hearts at all, as Ombra insinuated, or would they not be much pleasanter persons if they wore their said hearts on their sleeves, and permitted them to be pecked at? Antonio Buoncompagni! Kate stole out after a while, on pretence of seeking her work, and flew to the other end of the long, straggling suite of rooms to where Francesca sat. ‘Tell me all about them,’ she said, breathlessly. And Francesca clapped her hands mentally, and felt that her work had begun.
‘Itis very interesting,’ said Kate; ‘but it is about this Count’s grandfather you are talking, Francesca. Could not we come a little lower down?’
‘Signorina mia, when one is a Buoncompagni, one’s grandfather is very close and near,’ said Francesca. ‘There are some families in which a grandfather is a distant ancestor, or perhaps the beginning of the race. But with the Buoncompagni you do not adopt that way of reckoning. Count Antonio’s mother is living—she is a thing of to-day, like the rest of us. Then I ask, Signorina Katta, whom can one speak of? That is the way in old families. Doubtless in the Signorina’s own house——’
‘Oh, my grandpapa is a thousand years off!’ said Kate. ‘I don’t believe in him—he must have been so dreadfully old. Even papa was old. He married when he was about fifty, I suppose, and I never saw him. My poor little mother was different, but I never saw her either. Don’t speak of my family, please. I suppose they were very nice, but I don’t know much about them.’
‘Mademoiselle would not like to be without them,’ said Francesca, nodding her little grey head. ‘Mademoiselle would feel very strange if all at once it were said to her, “You never had a grandpapa. You are a child of the people, my young lady. You came from no one knows where.” Ah, you prefer the old ones to that! Signorina Katta. If you were to go into the Buoncompagni Palazzo, and see all the beautiful pictures of the old Cavalieri in their armour, and the ladies with pearls and rubies upon their beautiful robes! The Contino would be rich if he could make up his mind to sell those magnificent pictures; but the Signorina will perceive in a moment that to sell one’s ancestors—that is a thing one could never do.’
‘No, I should not like to sell them,’ said Kate, thoughtfully. ‘But do you mean that? Are the Buoncompagni poor?’
‘Signorina mia,’ said Francesca, with dignity, ‘when were they rich—our grand nobili Italiani! Not since the days when Firenze was a queen in the world, and did what she would. That was ended a long, long time ago. And what, then, was it the duty of the great Signori to do? They had to keep their old palaces, and all the beautiful things the house had got when it was rich, for the good ofla patria, when she should wake upagain. They had to keep all the old names, and the recollections. Signorina Katta, a common race could not have done this. We poor ones in the streets, we have done what we could; we have kept up our courage and our gaiety of heart for our country. The Buoncompagni, and such like, kept up the race. They would rather live in a corner of the old Palazzo than part with it to a stranger. They would not sell the pictures, and thebelle cose, except now and then one small piece, to keep the family alive. And now, look you, Signorina mia,la patriahas woke up at last, andecco! Her old names, and her old palaces, and thebelle coseare here waiting for her. Ah! we have had a great deal to suffer, but we are not extinguished. Certainly they are poor, but what then? They exist; and every true Italian will bless them for that.’
This old woman, with her ruddy-brown, dried-up little face, and her scanty hair, tied into a little knot at the top of it—curious little figure, whom Kate had found it hard work to keep from laughing at when she arrived first at Shanklin—was a politician, a visionary, a patriot-enthusiast. Kate now, at eighteen, looked at Francesca with respect, which was just modified by an inclination, far down at the bottom of her heart, to laugh. But for this she took herself very sharply to task. Kate had not quite got over the natural English inclination to be contemptuous of all ‘foreigners’ who took a different view of their duty from that natural to the British mind. If the Buoncompagni had tried to make money, and improve their position; if they had emigrated, and fought their way in the world; if they had done some active work, instead of vegetating and preserving their old palaces, she asked herself? Which was no doubt an odd idea to have got into the Tory brain of the young representative of an old family, bound to hate revolutionaries; but Kate was a revolutionary by nature, and her natural Toryism was largely tinctured by the natural Radicalism of her age, and that propensity to contradict, and form theories of her own, which were part of her character. It was part of her character still, though it had been smoothed down, and brought under subjection, by her aunt’s continual indulgence. She was not so much impressed as she felt she ought to have been by Francesca’s speech.
‘I am glad they exist,’ she said. ‘Of course we must all really have had the same number of grandfathers and grandmothers, but still an old family is pleasant. The only thing is, Francesca—don’t be angry—suppose they had done something, while thepatria, you know, has been asleep; suppose they had tried to get on, to recover their money, to do something more than exist! It is only a suggestion—probably I am quite wrong, but——
‘The Signorina perhaps will condescend to inform me,’ said Francesca, with lofty satire, ‘what, in her opinion, it would have been best for our nobles to do?’
‘Oh! I am sure I don’t know. I only meant—I don’t know anything about it!’ cried Kate.
‘If the Signorina will permit me to say so, that is very visible,’ said Francesca; and then, for full five minutes, she plied her needle, and was silent. This, perhaps, was rather a hard punishment for Kate, who had left the visitors in the drawing-room to seek a more lively amusement in Francesca’s company, and who, after the excitement of the ball, was anxious for some other excitement. She revenged herself by pulling the old woman’s work about, and asking what was this, and this. Francesca was making a dress for her mistress, and Mrs. Anderson, though she did not despise the fashion, was sufficiently sensible to take her own way, and keep certain peculiarities of her own.
‘Why do you make it like this?’ said Kate. ‘Auntie is not a hundred. She might as well have her dress made like other people. She is very nice-looking, I think, for her age. Don’t you think so? She must have been pretty once, Francesca. Why, you ought to know—you knew her when she was young. Don’t you think she has been——?’
‘Signorina, be so good as to let my work alone,’ said Francesca. ‘What! do you think there is nothing but youth that is to be admired? I did not expect to find so little education in one of my Signorinas. Know, Mademoiselle Katta, that there are many persons who think Madame handsomer than either of the young ladies. There is an air of distinction and of intelligence. You, for instance, you have thebeauté de diable—one admires you because you are so young; but how do you know that it will last? Your features are not remarkable, Signorina Katta. When those roses are gone, probably you will be but an ordinary-looking woman; but my Signora Anderson, she has features, she has the grand air, she has distinction——’
‘Oh! you spiteful old woman!’ cried Kate, half vexed, half laughing. ‘I never said I thought I was pretty. I know I am just like a doll, all red and white; but you need not tell me so, all the same.’
‘Mademoiselle is not like a doll,’ said Francesca. ‘Sometimes, when she has a better inspiration, Mademoiselle has something more than red and white. I did not affirm that it would not last. I said how do you know? But my Signora has lasted. She is noble!—she is distinguished! And as for what she has been——’
‘That is exactly what I said,’ said Kate.
‘We do not last in Italy,’ said Francesca, pursuing the subject with the gravity of an abstract philosopher. ‘It is, perhaps,our beautiful climate. Your England, which has so much of mist and of rain, keeps the grass green, and it preserves beauty. The Contessa Buoncompagni has lost all her beauty. She was of the Strozzi family, and made her first communion on the same day as my little Angiolina, who is now blessed in heaven. Allow me to say it to you, Signorina mia, they were beautiful as two angels in their white veils. But the Contessina has grown old. She has lost her hair, which does not happen to the English Signore, and—other things. I am more old than she, and when I see it I grieve. She does not go out, except, of course, which goes without saying, to the Duomo. She is a good woman—a very good woman. If she cannot afford to give the best price for her salad, is it her fault? She is a great lady, as great as anybody in all Firenze—Countess Buoncompagni, born Strozzi. What would you have more? But, dear lady, it is no shame to her that she is not rich. Santissima Madonna, why should one hesitate to say it? It is not her fault.’
‘Of course it cannot be her fault; nobody would choose to be poor if they could help it,’ said Kate.
‘I cannot say, Signorina Katta—I have not any information on the subject. To be rich is not all. It might so happen—though I have no special information—that one would choose to be poor. I am poor myself, but I would not change places with many who are rich. I should esteem more,’ said Francesca, raising her head, ‘a young galantuomo who was noble and poor, and had never done anything against thepatria, nor humbled himself before the Tedeschi, a hundred and a thousand times more than those who hold places and honours. But then I am a silly old woman, most likely the Signorina will say.’
‘Is Count Buoncompagni like that?’ asked Kate; but she did not look for an answer.
And just then the bell rang from the drawing-room, and Francesca put down her work and bustled away to open the door for the young Englishmen whose company Kate had abandoned. The girl took up Francesca’s work, and made half a dozen stitches; and then went to her own room, where Maryanne was also at work. Kate gave a little sketch of the dresses at the ball to the handmaiden, who listened with breathless interest.
‘I don’t think anyone could have looked nicer than you and Miss Ombra in your fresh tarlatane, Miss,’ said Maryanne.
‘Nobody took the least notice of us,’ said Kate. ‘We are not worth noticing among so many handsome, well-dressed people. We were but a couple of girls out of the nursery in our white. I think I will choose a colour that will make some show if I ever go to a ball again.’
‘Oh! Miss Kate, you will go to a hundred balls!’ cried Maryanne, with fervour.
Kate shrugged her shoulders with sham disdain; but she felt, with a certain gentle complacency, that it was true. A girl who has once been to a ball must go on. She cannot be shut up again in any nursery and school-room; she is emancipated for ever and ever; the glorious world is thrown open to her. The tarlatane which marked her bread-and-butter days would no doubt yield to more splendid garments; but she could not go back—she had made her entry into life.
Lady Caryisfort called next day—an event which filled Mrs. Anderson with satisfaction. No doubt Kate was the chief object of her visit; and as it was the first time that Kate’s aunt and cousin had practically felt the great advantage which her position gave her over them, there was, without doubt, some difficulty in the situation. But, fortunately, Ombra’s attention was otherwise occupied; and Mrs. Anderson, though she was a high-spirited woman, and did not relish the idea of deriving consequence entirely from the little girl whom she had brought up, had yet that philosophy which more or less is the accompaniment of experience, and knew that it was much better to accept the inevitable graciously, than to fight against it. And if anything could have neutralised the wound to her pride, it would have been the ‘pretty manners’ of Lady Caryisfort, and the interest which she displayed in Ombra. Indeed, Ombra secured more of her attention than Kate did—a consoling circumstance. Lady Caryisfort showed every inclination to ‘take them up.’ It was a thing she was fond of doing; and she was so amiable and entertaining, and so rich, and opened up such perfectly good society to herprotégées, that few people at the moment of being taken up realised the fact that they must inevitably be let down again by-and-by—a process not so pleasant.