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----
Ombra was happy; and what cared anyone for Kate? She was the one alone
in this little loving household--and that it should be so little made
the desolation all the greater. She was one of three, and yet the others
did not care what she was thinking, how she was feeling. Kate crept to
bed silently, and put out her light, that her aunt might not come to
pity her, after she had said good night to her own happy child, whom
everybody thought of. ‘And yet I might have as good,’ Kate said to
herself. ‘I am not alone any more than Ombra. I have my violets too--my
beau chevalier--if I like.’ Ah! the beau chevalier! Some one had sung
that wistful song at Lady Caryisfort’s that night. It came back upon
Kate’s mind now in the dark, mingled with the whispering of the voices,
and the little breath of chilly night air that came when the door
opened.
‘Ne voyez vous pas que la nuit est profonde,
Et que le monde
N’est que souci.’
Strange, at nineteen, in all the sweetness of her youth, the heiress of
Langton had come to understand how that might be!
Lady Caryisfort took more urgent measures on her side than Mr. Courtenay
had thought it wise to do. She detained her friend, the Countess
Strozzi, and her friend’s nephew, when all the other guests were gone.
This flattered Antonio, who thought it possible some proposition might
be about to be made to him, and made the Countess uncomfortable, who
knew the English better than he. Lady Caryisfort made a very bold
assault upon the two. She took high ground, and assured them that,
without her consent and countenance, to mature a scheme of this kind
under her wing, as it were, was a wrong thing to do. She was so very
virtuous, in short, that Countess Strozzi woke up to a sudden and lively
hope that Lady Caryisfort had more reasons than those which concerned
Kate for disliking the match; but this she kept to herself; and the
party sat late and long into the night discussing the matter. Antonio
was reluctant, very reluctant, to give up the little English maiden,
whom he declared he loved.
‘Would you love her if she were penniless--if she had no lands and
castles, but was as her cousin?’ said Lady Caryisfort; and the young man
paused. He said at last that, though probably he would love her still
better in these circumstances, he should not dare to ask her to marry
him. But was that possible? And then it was truly that Lady Caryisfort
distinguished herself. She told him all that was possible to a ferocious
English guardian--how, though he could not take the money away, he could
bind it up so that it would advantage no one; how he could make the poor
husband no better than a pensioner of the rich wife, or even settle it
so that even the rich wife should become poor, and have nothing in her
power except the income, which, of course, could not be taken from her.
‘Even that she will not have till she is of age, two long years hence,’
Lady Caryisfort explained; and then gave such a lucid sketch of
trustees and settlements that the young Italian’s soul shrank into his
boots. His face grew longer and longer as he listened.
‘But I am committed--my honour is involved,’ he said.
‘_Ah! pazzo, allora hai parlato?_’ cried his kinswoman.
‘No, I have not spoken, not in so many words; but I have been
understood,’ said Antonio, with that imbecile smile and blush of vanity
which women know so well.
‘I think you may make yourself easy in that respect,’ said Lady
Caryisfort. ‘Kate is not in love with you,’ a speech which almost undid
what she had been labouring to do; for Antonio’s pride was up, and could
scarcely be pacified. He had committed himself; he had given Kate to
understand that he was her lover, and how was he now to withdraw? ‘If he
proposes, she is a romantic child--no more than a child--and she is
capable of accepting him,’ Lady Caryisfort said to his aunt in their
last moment of consultation.
‘Leave him to me, _cara mia_,’ said the Countess--‘leave him to me.’ And
that noble lady went away with her head full of new combinations. ‘The
girl will not be of age for two years, and in that time anything may
happen. It would be hard for you to wait two years, Antonio _mio_; let
us think a little. I know another, young still, very handsome, and with
everything in her own power----’
Antonio was indignant, and resented the suggestion; but Countess Strozzi
was not impatient. She knew very well that to such arguments, in the
long run, all Antonios yield.
Mr. Courtenay entered the drawing room in the Lung-Arno next day at
noon, and found all the ladies there. Again the Berties were absent, but
there was no cloud that morning upon Ombra’s face. Kate had made her
appearance, looking pale and ill, and the hearts of her companions had
been touched. They were compunctious and ashamed, and eager to make up
for the neglect of which she had never complained. Even Ombra had kissed
her a second time after the formal morning salutation, and had said
‘Forgive me!’ as she did so.
‘For what?’ said Kate, with the intention of being proud and
unconscious. But when she had looked up, and met her aunt’s anxious
look, and Ombra’s eyes with tears in them, her own overflowed. ‘Oh! I am
so ill-tempered,’ she said, ‘and ungrateful. Don’t speak to me.’
‘You are just as I was a little while ago,’ said Ombra. ‘But, Kate, with
you it is all delusion, and soon, very soon, you will know better. Don’t
be as I was.’
As Ombra was! Kate dried her eyes, yet she did not know whether to be
gratified or to be angry. Why should she be as Ombra had been? But yet
even these few words brought about a better understanding. And the
three were seated together, in the old way, when Mr. Courtenay entered.
He had the air of a man full of business. In his hand he carried a
packet of letters, some of which he had not yet opened.
‘I have just had letters from Langton,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if you
take any interest in Langton--or these ladies, who have never even seen
it----’
‘Of course I do, uncle,’ cried Kate. ‘Take interest in my own house, my
dear old home!’
‘It does not follow that young ladies who are fond of Italy should care
about a dull old place in the heart of England,’ said this wily old man.
‘Grieve tells me it is going to rack and ruin, which is not pleasant
news. He says it is wicked and shameful to leave it so long without
inhabitants; that the village is discontented, and dirty, and wretched,
with no one to look after it. In short, ladies, if I look miserable, you
must forgive me, for I have not got over Grieve’s letter.’
‘Who is Grieve, uncle?’
‘The new estate-agent, Kate. Didn’t you know? Ah! you must begin to take
an interest in the estate. My time is drawing to a close, and I shall be
glad, very glad, to be rid of it. If I could go down and live there, I
might do something; but as that is impossible, I suppose things must
continue going to the bad till you come of age.’
Kate sat upright in her chair; her cheeks began to glow, and her eyes to
shine.
‘Why should things go to the bad?’ she said. ‘I would rather they did
not, for my part.’
‘How can they do otherwise,’ said Mr. Courtenay, ‘while the house is
shut up, and there is no one to see to anything? Grieve is a good
fellow, but I can’t give him Langton to live in, or make him into a
Courtenay.’
‘I should hope not,’ said Kate, setting her small white teeth. By this
time her whole countenance began to gleam with excitement and
resolution, and that charm to which she always responded with such
delight and readiness, the charm of novelty. Then she made a pause, and
drew in her breath. ‘Uncle,’ she said, ‘I am not a child any longer. Why
shouldn’t I go home, and open the house, and live as I ought? I want
something to do. I want duty, such as other people have. It is my
business to look after Langton. Let me go home.’
‘You foolish child!’ he said; which was a proof, though Kate did not see
it, that everything was working as he wished. ‘You foolish child! How
could you, at nineteen, go and live in that house alone?’
She looked up. Her crimson cheek grew white, her eyes went in one
wistful, imploring look from her aunt to Ombra, from Ombra back again
to Mrs. Anderson. Her lips parted in her eagerness, her eyes shone out
like lights. She was as if about to speak--but stopped short, and
referred to them, as it were, for the answer. Mr. Courtenay looked at
them too, not without a little anxiety; but the interest in his face was
of a very different kind from that shown by Kate.
‘If you mean,’ said Mrs. Anderson, faltering, and, for her part,
consulting Ombra with her eyes, ‘that you would like me to go with
you--Kate, my darling, thank you for wishing it--oh! thank you, I have
not deserved---- But most likely your uncle would not like it, Kate.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Mr. Courtenay, with his best bow, ‘if you would
entertain the idea--if it suits with your other plans to go to Langton
till Kate comes of age, it would be everything that I could desire.’
The three looked at each other for a full moment in uncertainty and
wonder. And then Kate suddenly jumped up, overturned the little table by
her side, on which stood the remains of her violets, and danced round
the room with wild delight.
‘Oh! let us go at once!--let us leave this horrid old picture-gallery!
Let us go home, home!’ she cried, in an outburst of joy. The vase was
broken, and the dead violets strewed over the carpet. Francesca came in
and swept them away, and no one took any notice. That was over. And now
for home--for home!