Ombra

However, things were settling steadily this way when Christmas came. Already Count Antonio had made up his mind to begin operations by speaking to Lady Caryisfort on the subject, and Kate had felt vaguely that she would have to choose between the position of a great lady in England on her own land and that of a great lady in beautiful Florence. The last was not without its attractions, and Antonio was so kind, while other people were so indifferent. Poor Kate was not as happy as she looked. More and more it became apparent to her that something was going on at home which was carefully concealed from her. They even made new friends, whom she did not know—one of whom, in particular, a young clergyman, a friend of the Berties, stared at her now and then from a corner of the drawing-room in the Lung-Arno, with a curiosity which she fully shared. ‘Oh! he is a friend of Mr. Hardwick’s; he is here only for a week or two; he is going on to Rome for the Carnival,’ Mrs. Anderson said, without apparently perceiving what an evidence Kate’s ignorance was of the way in which their lives had fallen apart. And the Berties now were continually in the house. They seemed to have no other engagements, except when, now and then, they went to the opera with the ladies. Sometimes Kate thought one or the other of them showed signs of uneasiness, but Ombra was bright as the day, and Mrs. Anderson made no explanation. And how could she, the youngest of the household, the one who was not wanted—how could she interfere or say anything? The wound worked deeper and deeper, and a certain weariness and distrust crept over Kate. Oh, for some change!—even Antonio’s proposal, which was coming. For as it was only her imagination and her vanity, not her heart, which were interested, Kate saw with perfect clear-sightedness that the proposal was on its way.

But before it arrived—before any change had come to the state of affairs in the Lung-Arno—one evening, when Kate was at home, and, as usual, abstracted over a book in a corner; when the Berties were in full possession, one bending over Ombra at the piano, one talking earnestly to her mother, Francesca suddenly threw the door open, with a vehemence quite unusual to her, and without a word of warning—without even the announcement of his name to put them on their guard—Mr. Courtenay walked into the room.

CHAPTER XLVI

The scene which Mr. Courtenay saw when he walked in suddenly to Mrs. Anderson’s drawing-room, was one so different in every way from what he had expected, that he was for the first moment as much taken aback as any of the company. Francesca, who remembered him well, and whose mind was moved by immediate anxiety at the sight of him, had not been able to restrain a start and exclamation, and had ushered him in suspiciously, with so evident a feeling of alarm and confusion that the suspicious old man of the world felt doubly convinced that there was something to conceal. But she had neither time nor opportunity to warn the party; and yet this was how Mr. Courtenay found them. The drawing-room, which looked out on the Lung-Arno, was not small, but it was rather low—not much more than an entresol. There was a bright wood fire on the hearth, and near it, with a couple of candles on a small table by her side, sat Kate, distinctly isolated from the rest, and working diligently, scarcely raising her eyes from her needlework. The centre table was drawn a little aside, for Ombra had found it too warm in front of the fire; and about this the other four were grouped—Mrs. Anderson, working, too, was talking to one of the young men; the other was holding silk, which Ombra was winding; a thorough English domestic party—such a family group as should have gladdened virtuous eyes to see. Mr. Courtenay looked at it with indescribable surprise. There was nothing visible here which in the least resembled a foreign Count; and Kate was, wonderful to tell, left out—clearly left out. She was sitting apart at her little table near the fire, looking just a little weary and forlorn—a very little—not enough to catch Mrs. Anderson’s eye, who had got used to this aspect of Kate. But it struck Mr. Courtenay, who was not used to it, and who had suspected something very different. He was so completely amazed, that he could not think it real. That little old woman must have given some signal; they must have been warned of his coming; otherwise it was altogether impossible to account for this extraordinary scene. They all jumped to their feet at his appearance. There was first a glance of confusion and embarrassment exchanged, as he saw; and then everyone rose in their wonder.

‘Mr. Courtenay! What a great, what a very unexpected–,’ said Mrs. Anderson. She had meant to say pleasure; but even she was so much startled and confounded that she could not carry her intention out.

‘Is it Uncle Courtenay?’ said Kate, rising, too. She was not alarmed—on the contrary, she looked half glad, as if the sight of him was rather a relief than otherwise. ‘Is it you, Uncle Courtenay? Have you come to see us? I am very glad. But I wonder you did not write.’

‘Thanks for your welcome, Kate. Thanks, Mrs. Anderson. Don’t let me disturb you. I made up my mind quite suddenly. I had not thought of it a week ago. Ah! some more acquaintances whom I did not expect to see.’

Mr. Courtenay was very gracious—he shook hands all round. The Berties shrank, no one could have quite told how—they looked at each other, exchanging a glance full of dismay and mutual consultation. Mr. Courtenay’s faculties were all on the alert; but he had been thinking only of his niece, and the young men puzzled him. They were not near Kate, they were not ‘paying her attention;’ but, then, what were they doing here? He was not so imaginative nor so quick in his perceptions as to be able to shift from the difficulty he had mastered to this new one. What he had expected was a foreign adventurer making love to his niece; and instead of that here were two young Englishmen, not even looking at his niece. He was posed; but ever suspicious. For the moment they had baffled him; but he would find it out, whatever they meant, whatever they might be concealing from him; and with that view he accepted the great arm-chair blandly, and sat down to make his observations with the most smiling and ingratiating face.

‘We are taking care of Kate—she is a kind of invalid, as you will see,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘It is not bad, I am glad to say, but she has a cold, and I have kept her indoors, and even condemned her to the fireside corner, which she thinks very hard.’

‘It looks very comfortable,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘So you have a cold, Kate? I hear you have been enjoying yourself very much, making troops of friends. But pray don’t let me disturb anyone. Don’t let me break up the party–’

‘It is time for us to keep our engagement,’ said Bertie Hardwick, who had taken out his watch. ‘It is a bore to have to go, just as there is a chance of hearing news of home; but I hope we shall see Mr. Courtenay again. We must go now. It is actually nine o’clock.’

‘Yes. I did not think it was nearly so late,’ said his cousin, echoing him. And they hurried away, leaving Mr. Courtenay more puzzled than ever. He had put them to flight, it was evident—but why? For personally he had no dread of them, nor objection to them, and they had not been taking any notice of Kate.

‘I have disturbed your evening, I fear,’ he said to Mrs. Anderson. She was annoyed and uncomfortable, though he could not tell the reason why.

‘Oh! no, not the least. These boys have been in Florence for some little time, and they often come in to enliven us a little in the evenings. But they have a great many engagements. They can never stay very long,’ she said, faltering and stammering, as if she did not quite know what she was saying. But for this Kate would have broken out into aroused remonstrance. Can never stay very long! Why, they stayed generally till midnight, or near it. These words were on Kate’s lips, but she held them back, partly for her aunt’s sake, partly—she could not tell why. Ombra, overcast in a moment from all her brightness, sat behind, drawing her chair back, and began to arrange and put away the silk she had been winding. It shone in the lamplight, vivid and warm in its rich colour. What a curious little picture this made altogether! Kate, startled and curious, in her seat by the fire; Mrs. Anderson, watchful, not knowing what was going to happen, keeping all her wits about her, occupied the central place; and Ombra sat half hidden behind Mr. Courtenay’s chair, a shadowy figure, with the lamplight just catching her white hands, and the long crimson thread of the silk. In a moment everything had changed. It might have been Shanklin again, from the aspect of the party. A little chill seemed to seize them all, though the room was so light and warm. Why was it? Was it a mere reminiscence of his former visit which had brought such change to their lives? He was uncomfortable, and even embarrassed, himself, though he could not have told why.

‘So Kate has a cold!’ he repeated. ‘From what I heard, I supposed you were living a very gay life, with troops of friends. I did not expect to find such a charming domestic party. But you are quite at home here, I suppose, and know the customs of the place—all about it? How sorry I am that your young friends should have gone away because of me!’

‘Oh! pray don’t think of it. It was not because of you. They had an engagement,’ said Mrs. Anderson. Yes, I have lived in Florence before; but that was in very different days, when we were not left such domestic quiet in the evenings,’ she added, elevating her head a little, yet sighing. She did not choose Mr. Courtenay, at least, to think that it was only her position as Kate’s chaperon which gave her importance here. And it was quite true that the Consul’s house had been a lively one in its day. Two young wandering Englishmen would not have represented society then; but perhaps all the habitués of the house were not exactly on a level with the Berties. ‘I have kept quiet, not without some trouble,’ she continued, ‘as you wished it so much for Kate.’

‘That was very kind of you,’ he said; ‘but see, now, what odd reports get about. I heard that Kate had plunged into all sorts of gaiety—and was surrounded by Italians—and I don’t know what besides.’

‘And you came to take care of her?’ said Ombra, quietly, at his elbow.

Mr. Courtenay started. He did not expect an assault on that side also.

‘I came to see you all, my dear young lady,’ he said; ‘and I congratulate you on your changed looks, Miss Ombra. Italy has made you look twice as strong and bright as you were in Shanklin. I don’t know if it has done as much for Kate.’

‘Kate has a cold,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘but otherwise she is in very good looks. As for Ombra, this might almost be called her native air.’

This civil fencing went on for about half an hour. There was attack and defence, but both stealthy, vague, and general; for the assailant did not quite know what he had to find fault with, and the defenders were unaware what would be the point of assault. Kate, who felt herself the subject of contention, and who did not feel brave enough or happy enough to take up her rôle as she had done at Shanklin, kept in her corner, and said very little. She coughed more than was at all necessary, to keep up her part of invalid; but she did not throw her shield over her aunt as she had once done. With a certain mischievous satisfaction she left them to fight it out: they did not deserve Mr. Courtenay’s wrath, but yet they deserved something. For that one night Kate, who was somewhat sick and sore, felt in no mood to interfere. She could not even keep back one little arrow of her own, when her uncle had withdrawn, promising an early visit on the morrow.

‘As you think I am such an invalid, auntie,’ she said, with playfulness, which was somewhat forced, when the door closed upon that untoward visitor, ‘I think I had better go to bed.’

‘Perhaps it will be best,’ said Mrs. Anderson, offended. And Kate rose, feeling angry and wicked, and ready to wound, she could not tell why.

‘It is intolerable that that old man should come here with his suspicious looks—as if we meant to take advantage of him or harm her,’ cried Ombra, in indignation.

‘If it is me whom you call her, Ombra—’

‘Oh! don’t be ridiculous!’ cried Ombra, impatiently. ‘I am sure poor mamma has not deserved to be treated like a governess or a servant, and watched and suspected, on account of you.’

By this time, however, Mrs. Anderson had recovered herself.

‘Hush,’ she said, ‘Ombra; hush, Kate—don’t say things you will be sorry for. Mr. Courtenay has nothing to be suspicious about, that I know of, and it is only manner, I dare say. It is a pity that he should have that manner; but it is worse for him than it is for me.’

Now Kate did not love her Uncle Courtenay, but for once in her life she was moved to defend him. And she did love her aunt; but she was wounded and sore, and felt herself neglected, and yet had no legitimate ground for complaint. It was a relief to her to have this feasible reason for saying something disagreeable. The colour heightened in her face.

‘My Uncle Courtenay has always been good to me,’ she said, ‘and if anxiety about me has brought him here, I ought to be grateful to him at least. He does not mean to be rude to anyone, I am sure; and if I am the first person he thinks of, you need not grudge it, Ombra. There is certainly no one else in the world so foolish as to do that.’

The tears were in Kate’s eyes; she went away hastily, that they might not fall. She had never known until this moment, because she had never permitted herself to think, how hurt and sore she was. She hurried to her own room, and closed her door, and cried till her head ached. And then the dreadful thought came—how ungrateful she had been!—how wicked, how selfish! which was worse than all.

The two ladies were so taken by surprise that they stood looking after her with a certain consternation. Ombra was the first to recover herself, and she was very angry, very vehement, against her cousin.

‘Because she is rich, she thinks she should always be our tyrant!’ she cried.

‘Oh! hush, Ombra, hush!—you don’t think what you are saying,’ said her mother.

‘You see now, at least, what a mistake it would have been to take her into our confidence, mamma. It would have been fatal. I am so thankful I stood out. If she had us in her power now what should we have done?’ Ombra added, more calmly, after the first irritation was over.

But Mrs. Anderson shook her head.

‘It is never wise to deceive anyone; harm always comes of it,’ she said, sadly.

‘To deceive! Is it deceiving to keep one’s own secrets?’

‘Harm always comes of it,’ answered Mrs. Anderson, emphatically.

And after all was still in the house, and everybody asleep, she stole through the dark passage in her dressing-room, and opened Kate’s door softly, and went in and kissed the girl in her bed. Kate was not asleep, and the tears were wet on her cheeks. She caught the dark figure in her arms.

‘Oh! forgive me. I am so ashamed of myself!’ she cried.

Mrs. Anderson kissed her again, and stole away without a word. ‘Forgive her! It is she who must forgive me. Poor child! poor child!’ she said, in her heart.

CHAPTER XLVII

Next morning, when Mr. Courtenay took his way from the hotel to the Lung-Arno, his eye was caught by the appearance of a young man who was walking exactly in front of him with a great bouquet of violets in his hand. He was young, handsome, and well-dressed, and the continual salutes he received as he moved along testified that he was well known in Florence. The old man’s eye (knowing nothing about him) dwelt on him with a certain pleasure. That he was a genial, friendly young soul there could be no doubt; so pleasant were his salutations to great and small, made with hat and hand and voice, as continually as a prince’s salutations to his subjects. Probably he was a young prince, or duke, or marchesino; at all events, a noble of the old blue blood, which, in Italy, is at once so uncontaminated and so popular.

Mr. Courtenay had no premonition of any special interest in the stranger, and consequently he looked with pleasure on this impersonation of youth and good looks and good manners. Yes, no doubt he was a nobleman of the faithful Italian blood, one of those families which had kept in the good graces of the country, by what these benighted nations considered patriotism. A fine young fellow—perhaps with something like a career before him, now that Italy was holding up her head again among the nations—altogether an excellent specimen of a patrician; one of those well-born and well-conditioned beings whom every man with good blood in his own veins feels more or less proud of. Such were the thoughts of the old English man of the world, as he took his way in the Winter sunshine to keep his appointment with his niece.

It was a bright cold morning—a white rim of snow on the Apennines gave a brilliant edge to the landscape, and on the smaller heights on the other side of Arno there was green enough to keep Winter in subjection. The sunshine was as warm as Summer; very different from the dreary dirty weather which Mr. Courtenay had left in Bond Street and Piccadilly, though Piccadilly sometimes is as bright as the Lung-Arno. Though he was as old as Methuselah in Kate’s eyes, this ogre of a guardian was not so old in his own. And he had once been young, and when young had been in Florence; and he had a flower in his button-hole and no overcoat, which made him happy. And though he was perplexed, he could not but feel that the worst that he been threatened with had not come true, and that perhaps the story was false altogether, and he was to escape without trouble. All this made Mr. Courtenay walk very lightly along the sunny pavement, pleased with himself, and disposed to be pleased with other people; and the same amiable feelings directed his eyes towards the young Italian, and gave him a friendly feeling to the stranger. A fine young fellow; straight and swift he marched along, and would have distanced the old man, but for those continual greetings, which retarded him. Mr. Courtenay was just a little surprised when he saw the youth whom he had been admiring enter the doorway to which he was himself bound; and his surprise may be imagined when, as he climbed the stairs towards the second floor where his niece lived, he overheard a lively conversation at Mrs. Anderson’s very door.

‘Amica mia, I hope your beautiful young lady is better,’ said the young man. ‘Contrive to tell her, my Francesca, how miserable I have been these evil nights, while she has been shut up by this hard-hearted lady-aunt. You will say, cara mia, that it is the Lady Caryisfort who sends the flowers, and that I am desolated—desolated!—and all that comes into your good heart to say. For you understand—I am sure you understand.’

‘Oh, yes, I understand, Signor Cont’ Antonio,’ said Francesca. ‘Trust to me, I know what to say. She is not very happy herself, the dear little Signorina. It is dreary for her seeing the other young lady with her lovers; but, perhaps, my beautiful young gentleman, it is not bad for you. When one sees another loved, one wishes to be loved one’s self; but it is hard for Mees Katta. She will be glad to have the Signor Conte’s flowers and his message.’

‘But take care, Francesca mia, you must say they are from my Lady Caryisfort,’ said Count Antonio, ‘and lay me at the feet of my little lady. I hunger—I thirst—I die to see her again! Will she not see my Lady Caryisfort to-day? Is she too ill to go out to-night? The new prima donna has come, and has made a furore. Tell her so, cara mia. Francesca make her to come out, that I may see her. You will stand my friend—you were always my friend.’

‘The Signor Conte forgets what I have told him; that I am as a connection of the family. I will do my very best for him. Hist! hush! oh, miserecordia! Ecco il vecchio!’ cried Francesca, under her breath.

Mr. Courtenay had heard it all, but as his Italian was imperfect he had not altogether made it out, and he missed this warning about il vecchio altogether. The young man turned and faced him as he reached the landing. He was a handsome young fellow, with dark eyes, which were eloquent enough to get to any girl’s heart. Mr. Courtenay felt towards him as an old lady in the best society might feel, did she see her son in the fatal clutches of a penniless beauty. The fact that Kate was an heiress made, as it were, a man of her, and transferred all the female epithets of ‘wilful’ and ‘designing’ to the other side. Antonio, with the politeness of his country, took off his hat and stood aside to let the older man pass. ‘Thinks he can come over me too, with his confounded politeness,’ Mr. Courtenay said to himself—indeed, he used a stronger word than confounded, which it would be unladylike to repeat. He made no response to the young Italian’s politeness, but pushed on, hat on head, after the vigorous manner of the Britons. ‘Who are these for?’ he asked, gruffly, indicating with his stick the bunch of violets which made the air sweet.

‘For ze young ladies, zare,’ said Francesca, demurely, as she ushered him out of the dark passage into the bright drawing-room.

Mr. Courtenay went in with suppressed fury. Kate was alone in the room waiting for him, and what with the agitation of the night, and the little flutter caused by his arrival, she was pale, and seemed to receive him with some nervousness. He noticed, too, that Francesca carried away the bouquet, though he felt convinced it was not intended for Ombra. She was in the pay of that young adventurer!—that Italian rogue and schemer!—that fortune-hunting young blackguard! These were the intemperate epithets which Mr. Courtenay applied to his handsome young Italian, as soon as he had found him out!

‘Well, Kate,’ he said, sitting down beside her, ‘I am sorry you are not well. It must be dull for you to be kept indoors, after you have had so much going about, and have been enjoying yourself so much.’

‘Did you not wish me to enjoy myself?’ said Kate, whom her aunt’s kiss the night before had once more enlisted vehemently on the other side.

‘Oh! surely,’ said her guardian. ‘What do persons like myself exist for, but to help young people to enjoy themselves. It is the only object of our lives!’

‘You mean to be satirical, I see,’ said Kate, with a sigh, ‘but I don’t understand it. I wish you would speak plainly out. You taunted me last night with having made many friends, and having enjoyed myself—was it wrong? If you will tell me how few friends you wish me to have, or exactly how little enjoyment you think proper for me, I will endeavour to carry out your wishes—as long as I am obliged.’

This was said in an undertone, with a grind and setting of Kate’s white teeth which, though very slight, spoke volumes. She had quite taken up again the colours which she had almost let fall last night. Mr. Courtenay was prepared for remonstrance, but not for such a vigorous onslaught.

‘You are civil, my dear, he said, ‘and sweet and submissive, and, indeed, everything I could have expected from your character and early habits; but I thought Mrs. Anderson had brought you under. I thought you knew better by this time than to attempt to bully me.’

‘I don’t want to bully you,’ cried Kate, with burning cheeks; ‘but why do you come like this, with your suspicious looks, as if you came prepared to catch us in something?—whereas, all the world may know all about us—whom we know, and what we do.’

‘This nonsense is your aunt’s, I suppose, and I don’t blame you for it,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘Let us change the subject. You are responsible to me, as it happens, but I am not responsible to you. Don’t make yourself disagreeable, Kate. Tragedy is not your line, though it is your cousin’s. By the way, that girl is looking a great deal better than she did; she is a different creature. She has grown quite handsome. Is it because Florence is her native air, as her mother said?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Kate. Though she had taken up her aunt’s colours again vehemently, she did not feel so warmly towards Ombra. A certain irritation had been going on in her mind for some time. It had burst forth on the previous night, and Ombra had offered no kiss, said no word of reconciliation. So she was not disposed to enter upon any admiring discussion of her cousin. She would have resented anything that had been said unkindly, but it was no longer in her mind to plunge into applause of Ombra. A change had thus come over them both.