We have said that Ombra’s attention was otherwise occupied. Had it not
been so, it is probable that she would have resented and struggled
against the new and unusual and humiliating consciousness of being but
an appendage to her cousin; but fortunately all such ideas had been
driven out of her head. A new life, a new world, seemed to have begun
for Ombra. All the circumstances of their present existence appeared to
lend themselves to the creation of this novel sphere. Old things seemed
to have passed away, and all had become new. From the moment of the
first call, made in doubt and tribulation, by the two Berties, they had
resumed again, in the most natural manner, the habits of their former
acquaintance, but with an entirely new aspect. Here there was at once
the common bond which unites strangers in a new place--a place full of
beauty and wonder, which both must see, and which it is so natural they
should see together. The two young men fell into the habit of constant
attendance upon the ladies, with a naturalness which defeated all
precautions; and an intercourse began to spring up, which combined that
charming flavour of old friendship, and almost brotherhood, with any
other sentiment that might arise by the way. This conjunction, too, made
the party so independent and so complete. With such an escort the ladies
could go anywhere; and they went everywhere accordingly--to
picture-galleries, to all the sights of the place, and even now and then
upon country excursions, in the bright, cold Winter days. ‘The boys,’ as
Kate called them, came and went all day long, bringing news of
everything that was to be seen or heard, always with a new plan or
suggestion for the morrow.
The little feminine party brightened up, as women do brighten always
under the fresh and exhilarating influence of that breath from outside
which only ‘the boys’ can bring. Soon Mrs. Anderson, and even Ombra
herself, adopted that affectionate phrase--to throw another delightful,
half-delusive veil over all possibilities that might be in the future.
It gave a certain ‘family feeling,’ a mutual right to serve and be
served; and at times Mrs. Anderson felt as if she could persuade herself
that ‘the boys,’ who were so full of that kindly and tender gallantry
which young men can pay to a woman old enough to be their mother, were
in reality her own as much as the girls were--if not sons, nephews at
the least. She said this to herself, by way, I fear, of excusing
herself, and placing little pleasant shields of pretence between her and
the reality. To be sure, she was the soul of propriety, and never left
the young people alone together; but, as she said, ‘at whatever cost to
herself,’ bore them company in all their rambles. But yet sometimes a
recollection of Mr. Courtenay would cross her mind in an uncomfortable
way. And sometimes a still more painful chill would seize her when she
thought of Kate, who was thus thrown constantly into the society of the
Berties. Kate treated them with the easiest friendliness, and they were
sincerely (as Mrs. Anderson believed) brotherly to her. But, still, they
were all young; and who could tell what fancies the girl might take into
her head? These two thoughts kept her uncomfortable. But yet the life
was happy and bright; and Ombra was happy. Her cloud of temper had
passed away; her rebellions and philosophies had alike vanished into the
air. She was brighter than ever she had been in her life--more loving
and more sympathetic. Life ran on like a Summer day, though the
Tramontana sometimes blew, and the dining-room was cold as San Lorenzo;
but all was warm, harmonious, joyous within.
Kate, for one, never troubled her head to ask why. She accepted the
delightful change with unquestioning pleasure. It was perfectly simple
to her that her cousin should get well--that the cloud should disperse.
In her thoughtlessness she did not even attribute this to any special
cause, contenting herself with the happy fact that so it was.
‘How delightful it is that Ombra should have got so well!’ she said,
with genuine pleasure, to her aunt.
‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, looking at her wistfully. ‘It is the
Italian air--it works like a charm.’
‘I don’t think it is the air,’ said Kate--‘privately, auntie, I think
the Italian air is dreadfully chilly--at least, when one is out of the
sun. It is the fun, and the stir, and the occupation. Fun is an
excellent thing, and having something to do---- Now, don’t say no,
please, for I am quite sure of it. I feel so much happier, too.’
‘What makes you happier, my darling?’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a very
anxious look.
‘Oh! I don’t know--everything,’ said Kate; and she gave her aunt a kiss,
and went off singing, balancing a basket on her head with the pretty
action of the girls whom she saw every day carrying water from the
fountain.
Mrs. Anderson was alone, and this pretty picture dwelt in her mind, and
gave her a great deal of thought. Was it only fun and occupation, as
the girl said?--or was there something else unknown to Kate dawning in
her heart, and making her life bright, all unconsciously to herself?
‘They are both as brothers to her,’ Mrs. Anderson said to herself, with
pain and fear; and then she repeated to herself how good they were, what
true gentlemen, how incapable of any pretence which could deceive even
so innocent a girl as Kate. The truth was, Mrs. Anderson’s uneasiness
increased every day. She was doing by Kate as she would that another
should not do by Ombra. She was doubly kind and tender, lavishing
affection and caresses upon her, but she was not considering Kate’s
interest, or carrying out Mr. Courtenay’s conditions. And what could she
do? The happiness of her own child was involved; she was bound hand and
foot by her love for Ombra. ‘Then,’ she would say to herself, ‘Kate is
getting no harm. She is eighteen past--quite old enough to be
“out”--indeed, it would be wrong of me to deny her what pleasure I can,
and it is not as if I took her wherever we were asked. I am sure, so far
as I am concerned, I should have liked much better to go to the
Morrises--nice, pleasant people, not too grand to make friends of--but I
refused, for Kate’s sake. She shall go nowhere but in the _very best
society_. Her uncle himself could not do better for her than Lady
Granton or Lady Caryisfort--most likely not half so well; and he will be
hard to please indeed if he is discontented with that,’ Mrs. Anderson
said to herself. But notwithstanding all these specious pleadings at
that secret bar, where she was at once judge and advocate and culprit,
she did not succeed in obtaining a favourable verdict; all she could do
was to put the thought away from her by times, and persuade herself that
no harm could ensue.
‘Look at Ombra now,’ Kate said, on the same afternoon to Francesca,
whose Florentine lore she held in great estimation. Her conversation
with her aunt had brought the subject to her mind, and a little
curiosity about it had awakened within her when she thought it over.
‘See what change of air has done, as I told you it would--and change of
scene.’
‘Mees Katta,’ said Francesca, ‘change of air is very good--I say nothing
against that--but, as I have remarked on other occasions, one must not
form one’s opinion on ze surface. Mademoiselle Ombra has _changed ze
mind_.’
‘Oh! yes, I know you said she must do that, and you never go back from
what you once said; but, Francesca, I don’t understand you in the least.
How has she changed her mind?’
‘If Mademoiselle would know, it is best to ask Mees Ombra her-self,’
said Francesca, ‘not one poor servant, as has no way to know.’
‘Oh!’ cried Kate, flushing scarlet, ‘when, you are so humble there is
an end of everything--I know that much by this time. There! I will ask
Ombra herself; I will not have you make me out to be underhand. Ombra,
come here one moment, please. I am so glad you are better; it makes me
happy to see you look like your old self; but tell me one thing--my aunt
says it is the change of air, and I say it is change of scene and plenty
to do. Now, tell me which it is--I want to know.’
Ombra had been passing the open door; she came and stood in the doorway,
with one hand upon the lintel. A pretty, flitting, evanescent colour had
come upon her pale cheek, and there was now always a dewy look of
feeling in her eyes, which made them beautiful. She stood and smiled, in
the soft superiority of her elder age, upon the girl who questioned her.
Her colour deepened a little, her eyes looked as if there was dew in
them, ready to fall. ‘I am better,’ she said, in a voice which seemed to
Kate to be full of combined and harmonious notes--‘I am better without
knowing why--I suppose because God is so good.’
And then she went away softly, crooning the song which she had been
humming to herself, in the lightness of her heart, as her cousin called
her. Kate was struck with violent shame and self-disgust. ‘Oh, how
wicked I am!’ she said, rushing to her own room and shutting herself in.
And there she had a short but refreshing cry, though she was by no means
given to tears. She had been brought up piously, to be sure--going to
church, attending to her ‘religious duties,’ as a well-brought-up young
woman ought to do. But it had not occurred to her to give any such
visionary reason for anything that had happened to her. Kate preferred
secondary causes, to tell the truth. But there was something more than
met the ear in what Ombra said. How was it that God had been so good?
Kate was very reverential of this new and unanswerable cause for her
cousin’s restoration. But how was it?--there was still something, which
she did not fathom, beyond.
Such pleasant days these were! When ‘the boys’ came to pay their
greetings in the morning, ‘Where shall we go to-day?’ was the usual
question. They went to the pictures two or three days in the week,
seeing every scrap of painting that was to be found anywhere--from the
great galleries, where all was light and order, to the little
out-of-the-way churches, which hid, in the darkness of their heart of
hearts, some one precious morsel of an altar-piece, carefully veiled
from the common public. And, in the intervals, they would wander through
the streets, learning the very houses by heart; gazing into the shop
windows, at the mosaics, on the Lung-Arno; at the turquoises and pearls,
which then made the Ponte Vecchio a soft blaze of colour, blue and
white; at the curiosity shops, and those hung about with copies in
which Titian was done into weakness, and Raphael to imbecility. Every
bit of Florence was paced over by these English feet, one pair of which
were often very tired, but never shrunk from the duty before them. Most
frequently ‘the boys’ returned to luncheon, which even Mrs. Anderson,
who knew better, was prejudiced enough to create into a steady-going
English meal. In the afternoon, if they drove with Lady Caryisfort to
the Cascine, the Berties came to the carriage-windows to tell them all
that was going on; to bring them bouquets; to point out every new face.
When they went to the theatre or opera in the evening, again the same
indefatigable escort accompanied and made everything smooth for them.
When they had invitations, the Berties, too, were invariably of the
party. When they stayed at home the young men, even when not invited,
would always manage to present themselves during the evening, uniting in
pleasant little choruses of praise to Mrs. Anderson for staying at home.
‘After all, this is the best,’ the young hypocrites would say; and one
of them would read while the ladies worked; or there would be ‘a little
music,’ in which Ombra was the chief performer. Thus, from the beginning
of the day to the end, they were scarcely separated, except for
intervals, which gave freshness ever renewed to their meeting. It was
like ‘a family party;’ so Mrs. Anderson said to herself a dozen times in
a day.