‘Why should you get up this morning, Signora _mia_?’ 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, _nostra_ Ombra--ah! _nostra_ Ombra----’
‘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; ‘though my 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 and _ths_ of 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! Madonna _mia_, 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 for _la 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 been _cameriera_ to 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, though he
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 for
_la 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 the _salone_ where 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 what
_I_ say 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! What a consolation to me to
be in my own country; to be called _amica mia_ once 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 them so 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.