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.