Ombra

Mr. Courtenay looked at her very keenly—he saw there was something wrong, but he could not tell what it was—Some girlish quarrel, no doubt, he said to himself. Girls were always quarrelling—about their lovers, or about their dresses, or something. Therefore he went over this ground lightly, and returned to his original attack.

‘You like Florence?’ he said. ‘Tell me what you have been doing, and whom you have met. There must be a great many English here, I suppose?’

However, he had roused Kate’s suspicions, and she was not inclined to answer.

‘We have been doing what everybody else does,’ she said—‘going to see the pictures and all the sights; and we have met Lady Caryisfort. That is about all, I think. She has rather taken a fancy to me, because she belongs to our own country. She takes me to drive sometimes; and I have seen a great deal of her—especially of late.’

‘Why especially of late?’

‘Oh! I don’t know—that is, my aunt and Ombra found some old friends who were not fine enough, they said, to please you, so they left me behind; and I did not like it, I suppose being silly; so I have gone to Lady Caryisfort’s more than usual since.’

‘Oh-h!’ said Mr. Courtenay, feeling that enlightenment was near. ‘It was very honourable of your aunt, I am sure. And this Lady Caryisfort?—is she a match-maker, Kate?’

‘A match-maker! I don’t understand what you mean, uncle.’

‘You have met a certain young Italian, a Count Buoncompagni, whom I have heard of, there?’

Kate reddened, in spite of herself—being on the eve of getting into trouble about him, she began to feel a melting of her heart to Antonio.

‘Do you know anything about Count Buoncompagni?’ she asked, with elaborate calm. This, then, was what her uncle meant—this was what he had come from England about. Was it really so important as that?

‘I have heard of him,’ said Mr. Courtenay, drily. ‘Indeed, five minutes ago, I followed him up the stairs, without knowing who he was, and heard him giving a string of messages and a bunch of flowers to that wretched old woman.’

‘Was it me he was asking for?’ said Kate, quite touched. ‘How nice and how kind he is! He has asked for me every day since I have had this cold. The Italians are so nice, Uncle Courtenay. They are so sympathetic, and take such an interest in you.’

‘I have not the least doubt of it,’ he said, grimly. ‘And how long has this young Buoncompagni taken an interest in you? It may be very nice, as you say, but I doubt if I, as your guardian, can take so much pleasure in it as you do. I want to hear all about it, and where and how often you have met.’

Kate wavered a moment—whether to be angry and refuse to tell, or to keep her temper and disarm her opponent. She chose the latter alternative, chiefly because she was beginning to be amused, and felt that some ‘fun’ might be got out of the matter. And it was so long now (about two weeks and a half) since she had had any ‘fun.’ She did so want a little amusement. Whereupon she answered very demurely, and with much conscious skill,

‘I met him first at the Embassy—at Lady Granton’s ball.

‘At Lady Granton’s ball?’

‘Yes. There were none but the very best people there—the crême de la crême, as auntie says. Lady Granton’s sister introduced him to me. He is a very good dancer—just the sort of man that is nice to waltz with; and very pleasant to talk to, uncle.’

‘Oh! he is very pleasant to talk to, is he?’ said Uncle Courtenay, still more grimly.

‘Very much so indeed. He talks excellent French, and beautiful Italian. It does one all the good in the world talking to such a man. It is better than a dozen lessons. And then he is so kind, and never laughs at one’s mistakes. And he has such a lovely old palace, and is so well known in Florence. He may not be very rich, perhaps–’

‘Rich!—a beggarly adventurer!—a confounded fortune-hunter!—an Italian rogue and reprobate! How this precious aunt of yours could have shut her eyes to such a piece of folly; or your Lady Caryisfort, forsooth–’

‘Why forsooth, uncle? Do you mean that she is not Lady Caryisfort, or that she is unworthy of the name? She is very clever and very agreeable. But I was going to say that though Count Buoncompagni is not rich, he gave us the most beautiful little luncheon the day we went to see his pictures. Lady Caryisfort said it was perfection. And talking of that—if he brought some flowers, as you say, I should like to have them. May I go and speak to Francesca about them?—or perhaps you would rather ring the bell?’

CHAPTER XLVIII

It was thus that Kate evaded the further discussion of the question. She went off gaily bounding along the long passage. ‘Francesca, Francesca, where are my flowers?’ she cried. Her heart had grown light all at once. A little mischief, and a little opposition, and the freshness, yet naturalness, of having Uncle Courtenay to fight with, exhilarated her spirits. Yes, it felt natural. To be out of humour with her aunt was a totally different matter. That was all pain, with no compensating excitement; but the other was ‘fun.’ It filled her with wholesome energy and contradictoriness. ‘If Uncle Courtenay supposes I am going to give up poor Antonio for him–’—she said in her heart, and danced along the passage, singing snatches of tunes, and calling to Francesca. ‘Where are my flowers?—I know there are some flowers for me. Some one cares to know whether I am dead or alive,’ she said.

Francesca came out of the dining-room, holding up her hands to implore silence. Oh! my dear young lady,’ said Francesca, ‘you must not be imprudent. When we receive flowers from a beautiful young gentleman, we take them to our chamber, or we put them in our bosoms—we don’t dance and sing over them—or, at least, young ladies who have education, who know what the world expects of them, must not so behave. In my room, Mees Katta, you will find your flowers. They are sent from the English milady—Milady Caryisfort,’ Francesca added, demurely folding her arms upon her breast.

‘Oh! are they from Lady Caryisfort?’ said Kate, with a little disappointment. After all, it was not so romantic as she thought.

‘My young lady understands that it must be so,’ said Francesca, ‘for young ladies must not be compromised; but the hand that carried them was that of the young Contino, and as handsome a young fellow as any in Florence. I am very glad I am old—I might be his grandmother; for otherwise, look you, Mademoiselle, his voice is so mellow, and he looks so with his eyes, and says Francesca mia, cara amica, and such like, that I should be foolish, even an old woman like me. They have a way with them, these Buoncompagni. His father, I recollect, who was very like Count Antonio, very nearly succeeded in turning the head of my Angelina, my little sister that died. No harm came of it, Mees Katta, or I would not have told. We took her away to the convent at Rocca, where we had a cousin, a very pious woman, well known throughout the country, Sister Agnese, of the Reparazione; and there she got quite serious, and as good as a little saint before she died.’

‘Was it his fault that she died?’ cried Kate, always ready for a story. ‘I should have thought, Francesca, that you would have hated him for ever and ever.’

‘I had the honour of saying to the Signorina that no harm was done,’ said Francesca, with gravity. ‘Why should I hate the good Count for being handsome and civil? It is a way they have, these Buoncompagni. But, for my part, I think more of Count Antonio than I ever did of his father. Milady Caryisfort would speak for him, Mees Katta. She is a lady that knows the Italians, and understands how to speak. She has always supported the Contino’s suit, has not she? and she will speak for him. He is desolated, desolated—he has just told me—to be so many days without seeing Mademoiselle; and, indeed, he looked very sad. We other Italians don’t hide our feelings as you do in your country. He looked sad to break one’s heart; and, Mees Katta, figure to yourself my feelings when I saw the Signora’s uncle come puff-puff, with his difficulty of breathing, up the stair.

‘What did it matter?’ said Kate, putting the best face upon it. ‘Of course I will not conceal anything from my uncle—though there is nothing to conceal.’

‘Milady Caryisfort will speak. If I might be allowed to repeat it to the Signorina, she is the best person to speak. She knows him well through his aunt, who is dei Strozzi, and a very great lady. You will take the Signor Uncle there, Mees Katta, if you think well of my advice.’

‘I do not want any advice—there is nothing to be advised about,’ cried Kate, colouring deeply, and suddenly recognising the character which Francesca had taken upon herself. She rushed into Francesca’s room, and brought out the violets, all wet and fragrant. They were such a secret as could not be hid. They perfumed all the passages as she hurried to her own little room, and separated a little knot of the dark blue blossoms to put in her bodice. How sweet they were! How ‘nice’ of Antonio to bring them! How strange that he should say they were from Lady Caryisfort! Why should he say they were from Lady Caryisfort? And was he really sad because he did not see her? How good, how kind he was! Other people were not sad. Other people did not care, she supposed, if they never saw her again. And here Kate gave a little sigh, and blushed a great indignant blush, and put her face down into the abundant fragrant bouquet. It was so sweet, and love was sweet, and the thought that one was cared for, and thought of, and missed! This thought was very grateful and pleasant, as sweet as the flowers, and it went to Kate’s heart. She could have done a great deal at that moment for the sake of the tender-hearted young Italian, who comforted her wounded feelings, and helped to restore the balance of her being by the attentions which were so doubly consoling in the midst—she said to herself—of coldness and neglect.

Lady Caryisfort called soon afterwards, and was delighted to make Mr. Courtenay’s acquaintance; and, as Kate was better, she took them both to the Cascine. That was the first morning—Kate remembered afterwards, with many wondering thoughts—that the Berties had not called before luncheon, and Ombra did not appear until that meal, and was less agreeable than she had been since they left Shanklin. But these thoughts soon fled from her mind, and so did a curious, momentary feeling, that her aunt and cousin looked relieved when she went away with Lady Caryisfort. They did not go. Mrs. Anderson, too, had a cold, she said, and would not go out that day, and Ombra was busy.

‘Ombra is very often busy now,’ said Lady Caryisfort, as they drove off. ‘What is it, Kate? She and Mrs. Anderson used to find time for a drive now and then at first.’

‘I don’t know what it is,’ Kate said, with some pain; and then a little ebullition of her higher spirits prompted her to add an explanation, which was partly malicious, and partly kind, to save her cousin from remark. ‘She writes poetry,’ said Kate, demurely. ‘Perhaps it is that.’

‘Oh! good heavens, if I had known she was literary!’ cried Lady Caryisfort, with gentle horror. But here were the Cascine, and the flower-girls, and the notabilities who had to be pointed out to the new-comer; and the Count, who had appeared quite naturally by Kate’s side of the carriage. Mr. Courtenay said little, but he kept his eyes open, and noted everything. He looked at the lady opposite to him, and listened to her dauntless talk, and heard all the compliments addressed to her, and the smiling contempt with which she received them. This sort of woman could not be aiding and abetting in a vulgar matrimonial scheme, he said to himself. And he was puzzled what to make of the business, and how to put a stop to it. For the Italian kept his place at Kate’s side, without any attempt at concealment, and was not a person who could be sneered down by the lordly British stare, or treated quite as a nobody. Mr. Courtenay knew the world, and he knew that an Englishman who should be rude to Count Buoncompagni on his own soil, on the Cascine at Florence, must belong to a different class of men from the class which, being at the top of the social ladder, is more cosmopolitan than any other, except the working people, who are at its lower level. An indignant British uncle from Bloomsbury or Highgate might have done this, but not one whose blood was as blue as that of the Buoncompagni. It was impossible. And yet it was hard upon him to see all this going on under his very eyes. Lady Caryisfort had insisted that he and Kate should dine with her, and it was with the farewell of a very temporary parting glance that Count Antonio went away. This was terrible, but it must be fully observed before being put a stop to. He tried to persuade himself that to be patient was his only wisdom.

‘But will not your aunt be vexed, be affronted, feel herself neglected, if we go to dine with Lady Caryisfort? Ladies, I know, are rather prompt to take offence in such matters,’ he said.

‘Oh! my aunt!—she will not be offended. I don’t think she will be offended,’ said Kate, in the puzzled tone which he had already noticed. And the two young men of last night were again in the drawing-room when he went upstairs. Was there some other scheme, some independent intrigue, in this? But he shrugged his shoulders and said, what did it matter? It was nothing to him. Miss Ombra had her mother to manage her affairs. Whatever their plans might be they were not his business, so long as they had the good sense not to interfere with Kate.

The dinner at Lady Caryisfort’s was small, but pleasant. The only Italian present was a Countess Strozzi, a well-bred woman, who had been Ambassadress from Tuscany once at St. James’s, and whom Mr. Courtenay had met before—but no objectionable Counts. He really enjoyed himself at that admirable table. After all, he thought, there is no Sybarite like your rich, accomplished, independent woman—no one who combines the beautiful and dainty with the excellent in such a high degree; so long as she understands cookery; for the choice of guests and the external arrangements are sure to be complete. And Lady Caryisfort did understand cookery. It was the pleasantest possible conclusion to his hurried journey and his perplexity. It was London, and Paris, and Florence all in one; the comfort, the exquisite fare, the society, all helped each other into perfection; and there was a certain flavour of distance and novelty in the old Italian palace which enhanced everything—the flavour of the past. This was not a thing to be had every day, like a Paris dinner. But in the evening Mr. Courtenay was less satisfied. When the great salon, with its warm velvet hangings and its dim frescoes, began to fill, Buoncompagni turned up from some corner or other, and appeared as if by magic at Kate’s side. The guardian did the only thing which could be done in the circumstances. He approached the sofa under the picture, which was the favourite throne of the lady of the house, and waited patiently till there was a gap in the circle surrounding her, and he could find an entrance. She made room for him at last, with the most charming grace.

‘Mr. Courtenay, you are not like the rest of my friends. I have not heard all your good things, nor all your news, as I have theirs. You are a real comfort to talk to, and I did not have the good of you at dinner. Sit by me, please, and tell me something new. Nobody does,’ she added, with a little flutter of her fan,—‘nobody ever seems to think that fresh fare is needful sometimes. Let us talk of Kate.’

‘If I am bound to confine myself to that subject,’ said the old man of society, ‘I reserve the question whether it is kind to remind me thus broadly that I am a Methuselah.’

‘Oh! I am a Methusela myself, without the h,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘The young people interest me in a gentle, grandmotherly way. I like to see them enjoy themselves, and all that.’

‘Precisely,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘I quite understand and perceive the appropriateness of the situation. You are interested in that, for example?’ he said, suddenly changing his tone, and indicating a group at the other side of the room. Kate, with some flowers in her hand, which had dropped from the bouquet still in her bosom, with her head drooping over them, and a vivid blush on her cheek—while Count Antonio, bending over her, seemed asking for the flowers, with a hand half extended, and stooping so low that his handsome head was close to hers. This attitude was so prettily suggestive of something asked and granted, that a bewildered blush flushed up upon Lady Caryisfort’s delicate face at the sight. She turned to her old companion with a startled look, in which there was something almost like pain.

‘Well?’ she said, with mingled excitement, surprise, and defiance, which he did not understand.

‘I don’t think it is well,’ he said. ‘Will you tell me—and pardon an old disagreeable guardian for asking—how far this has gone?’

‘You see as well as I do,’ she said, with a little laugh; and then, changing her tone—‘But, however far it is gone, I have nothing to do with it. It seems extremely careless on my part; but I give you my word, Mr. Courtenay, I never really noticed it till to-night.’

This was true enough, notwithstanding that she had perceived the dangers of the situation, and warned both parties against it at the outset. For up to this moment she had not seen the least trace of emotion on the part of Kate.

‘Nothing could make me doubt a lady’s word,’ said the old man; ‘but one knows that in such matters the code of honour is held lightly.’

‘I am not holding it lightly,’ she said, with sudden fire; and then, pausing with an effort—‘It is true I had not noticed it before. Kate is so frank and so young; such ideas never seem to occur to one in connection with her. But, Mr. Courtenay, Count Buoncompagni is no adventurer. He may be poor, but he is—honourable—good–’

‘The woman is agitated,’ Mr. Courtenay said to himself. ‘What fools these women are! My stars!’ But he added, with grim politeness, ‘It is utterly out of the question, Lady Caryisfort. You are the girl’s countrywoman—even her countywoman. You are not one to incur the fatal reputation of match-making. Help me to break off this folly completely, and I will be grateful to you for ever. It must be done, whether you will help me or not.’

As he spoke, somehow or other she recovered her calm.

‘Are you so hard-hearted,’ she said,—‘so implacable a model of guardians? And I, innocent soul, who had supposed you romantic and Arcadian, wishing Kate to be loved for herself alone, and all the sentimental et ceteras. So it must be put a stop to, must it? Well, if there is nothing to be said for poor Antonio, I suppose, as it is my fault, I must help.’

‘There can be no doubt of it,’ said Mr. Courtenay.

Lady Caryisfort kept her eyes upon the two, and her lively brain began to work. The question interested her, there could be no doubt. She was shocked at herself, she said, that she had allowed things to go so far without finding it out. And then the two people of the world laid their heads together, and schemed the destruction of Kate’s fanciful little dream, and of poor Antonio’s hopes. Mr. Courtenay had no compunction; and though Lady Caryisfort smiled and made little appeals to him not to look so implacable, there was a certain gleam of excitement quite unusual to her about her demeanour also.

They had settled their plan before Kate had decided that, on the whole, it was best to thrust the dropped violets back into her belt, and not to give them to Antonio. It was nice to receive the flowers from him; but to give one back, to accept the look with which it was asked, to commit herself in his favour—that was a totally different question. Kate shrank into herself at the suit which was thus pressed a hair’s-breadth further than she was prepared for. It was just the balance of a straw whether she should have yielded or taken fright. And, happily for her, with those two pair of eyes upon her, it was the fright that won the day, and not the impulse to yield.

CHAPTER XLIX

Kate had a good deal to think of when she went home that evening, and shut herself up in the room which was full of the sweetness of Antonio’s violets. Francesca, with an Italian’s natural terror of flower-scents, had carried them away; but Kate had paused on her way to her room to rescue the banished flowers.

‘They are enough to kill Mademoiselle in her bed, and leave us all miserable,’ said Francesca.

‘I am not a bit afraid of violets,’ said Kate.

On the contrary, she wanted them to help her. For she did not go into the drawing-room, though it was still early. The two young men, she heard, were there; and Kate felt a little sick at heart, and did not care to go where she was not wanted—‘Where her absence,’ as she said to herself, ‘was never remarked.’ Oh! how different it was from what it had been! Only a few weeks ago she had been unable to form an idea of herself detached from her aunt and cousin, who went everywhere with her, and shared everything. Even Lady Caryisfort had shown no favouritism towards Kate at first. She had been quite as kind to Ombra, quite as friendly to Mrs. Anderson. It was their own doing altogether. They had snatched, as it were, at Lady Caryisfort, as one who would disembarrass them of the inconvenient cousin—‘the third, who was always de trop,’ poor Kate said to herself, with a sob in her throat, and a dull pang in her heart. They still went through all the formulas of affection, but they got rid of her, they did not want her. When she had closed the door of her room even upon Maryanne, and sat down over the fire in her dressing-gown, she reflected upon her position, as she had never reflected on it before. She was nobody’s child. People were kind to her, but she was not necessary to anyone’s happiness; she belonged to no home of her own, where her presence was essential. Her aunt loved her in a way, but, so long as she had Ombra, could do without Kate. And her uncle did not love her at all, only interfered with her life, and turned it into new channels, as suited him. She was of no importance to anyone, except in relation to Langton-Courtenay, and her money, and estates.

This is a painful and dangerous discovery to be made by a girl of nineteen, with a great vase full of violets at her elbow, the offering of such a fortune-hunter as Antonio Buoncompagni, one who was mercenary only because it was his duty to his family, and in reality meant no harm. He was a young man who was quite capable of having fallen in love with her, had she not been so rich and so desirable a match; and as it was he liked her, and was ready to swear that he loved her, so as to deceive not only her, but himself. But perhaps, after all, it was he, and not she, who was most easily deceived. Kate, though she did not know it, had an instinctive inkling of the real state of the case, which was the only thing which saved her from falling at once and altogether into Antonio’s net. Had she been sure that he loved her, nothing could have saved her; for love in the midst of neglect, love which comes spontaneous when other people are indifferent, is the sweetest and most consolatory of all things. Sometimes she had almost persuaded herself that this was the case, and had been ready to rush into Antonio’s arms; but then there would come that cold shudder of hesitation which precedes a final plunge—that doubt—that consciousness that the Buoncompagni were poor, and wanted English money to build them up again. As for the poverty itself, she cared nothing; but she felt that, had her lover been even moderately well off, it would have saved her from that shrinking chill and suspicion. And then she turned, and rent herself, so to speak, remembering the sublime emptiness of that space on the wall where the Madonna dei Buoncompagni used to be.

‘If I can ever find it out anywhere, whatever it may cost, I will buy it, and send it back to him,’ Kate said, with a flush on her cheek. And next moment she cried with real distress, feeling for his disappointment, and asking herself why should not she do it?—why not? To make a man happy, and raise up an old house, is worth a woman’s while, surely, even though she might not be very much in love. Was it quite certain that people were always very much in love when they married? A great many things, more important, were involved in any alliance made by a little princess in her own right; and such was Kate’s character to her own consciousness, and in the eyes of other people. The violets breathed all round her, and the soft silence and loneliness of the night enveloped her; and then she heard the stir in the drawing-room, the movement of the visitors going away, and whispering voices which passed her door, and Ombra’s laugh, soft and sweet, like the very sound of happiness–