Yes, packing, without doubt, takes up a great deal of time, and that
must have been the reason why Mrs. Anderson and Ombra were so much
occupied. They had so many things to do. Francesca, of course, was
occupied with the household; she did the greater part of the cooking,
and superintended everything, and consequently had not time for the
manifold arrangements--the selection of things they did not immediately
want, which were to be sent off direct from Leghorn, and of those which
they would require to carry with them. And in this work the ladies
toiled sometimes for days together.
Kate had no occasion to make a slave of herself. She had Maryanne to
attend to all her immediate requirements, and, in her own person, had
nothing better to do than to sit alone, and read, or gaze out of the
window upon the passengers below, and the brown Arno running his course
in the sunshine, and the high roofs blazing into the mellow light on the
other side, while the houses below were in deepest shadow. Kate was too
young, and had too many requirements, and hungers of the heart, to enjoy
this scene for itself so much, perhaps, as she ought to have done. Had
there been somebody by to whom she could have pointed out, or who would
have pointed out to her, the beautiful gleams of colour and sunshine, I
have no doubt her appreciation of it all would have been much greater.
As it was, she felt very solitary; and often after, when life was
running low with her, her imagination would bring up that picture of the
brown river, and the housetops shining in the sun, and all the people
streaming across the Ponte della Trinità, to the other side of the
Arno--stranger people, whom she did not know, who were always coming and
going, coming and going. Morning made no difference to them, nor night,
nor the cold days, nor the rain. They were always crossing that bridge.
Oh! what a curious, tedious thing life was, Kate thought--always the
same thing over again, year after year, day after day. It was so still
that she almost heard her own breathing within the warm, low room, where
the sunshine entered so freely, but where nothing else entered all the
morning, except herself.
To be sure, this was only for a few days; but, after all, what a strange
end it was to the life in Florence, which had begun so differently! In
the afternoon, to be sure, it was not lonely. Her uncle would come, and
Lady Caryisfort, and the Berties, but not so often as usual. They never
came when Mr. Courtenay was expected; but Kate felt, by instinct, that
when she and her uncle were at Lady Caryisfort’s, the two young men
reappeared, and the evenings were spent very pleasantly. What had she
done to be thus shut out? It was a question she could not answer. Now
and then the young clergyman would appear, who was the friend of Bertie
Eldridge, a timid young man, with light hair and troubled eyes. And
sometimes she caught Bertie Hardwick looking at herself with a
melancholy, anxious gaze, which she still less understood. Why should he
so regard her? she was making no complaint, no show of her own
depression; and why should her aunt look at her so wistfully, and beg
her pardon in every tone or gesture? Kate could not tell; but the last
week was hard upon her, and still more hard was a strange accident which
occurred at the end.
This happened two or three days before they left Florence. She was
roused early, she did not know how, by a sound which she could not
identify. Whether it was distant thunder, which seemed unlikely, or the
shutting of a door close at hand, she could not tell. It was still dark
of the winter morning, and Kate, rousing up, heard some early street
cries outside, only to be heard in that morning darkness before the
dawn, and felt something in the air, she could not tell what, which
excited her. She got up, and cautiously peered into the ante-room out of
which her own room opened. To her wonder she saw a bright fire burning.
Was it late, she thought? and hastened to dress, thinking she had
overslept herself. But when she had finished her morning toilette, and
came forth to warm her cold fingers at that fire, there was still no
appearance of anyone stirring. What did it mean? The shutters were still
closed, and everything was dark, except this brisk fire, which must have
been made up quite recently. Kate had taken down a book, and was about
to make herself comfortable by the fireside, when the sound of some one
coming startled her. It was Francesca, who looked in, with her warm
shawl on.
‘I thought I heard some one,’ said Francesca. ‘Mees Katta, you haf give
me a bad fright. Why do you get up so early, without warning anyone? I
hear the sound, and I say to myself my lady is ill--and behold it is
only Mees Katta. It does not show education, waking poor peoples in ze
cold out of their good warm bet.’
‘But, Francesca, I heard noises too; and what can be the matter?’ said
Kate, becoming a little alarmed.
‘Ah! but there is nosing the matter. Madame sleep--she would not answer
even when I knocked. And since you have made me get up so early, it
shall be for ze good of my soul, Mees Katta. I am going to mass.’
‘Oh! let me go too,’ said Kate. ‘I have never been at church so early.
Don’t say a word, Francesca, because I _know_ my aunt will not mind. I
will get my hat in a minute. See, I am ready.’
‘The Signorina will always have her way,’ said Francesca; and Kate found
herself, before she knew, in the street.
It was still dark, but day was breaking; and it was by no means the
particularly early hour that Kate supposed. There were no fine people
certainly about the streets, but the poorer population was all awake and
afoot. It was very cold--the beginning of January--the very heart of
winter. The lamps were being extinguished along the streets; but the
cold glimmer of the day neither warmed nor cleared the air to speak of;
and through that pale dimness the great houses rose like ghosts. Kate
glanced round her with a shiver, taking in a strange wild vision, all in
tints of grey and black, of the houses along the side of the Arno, the
arched line of the bridge, the great dim mass of the other part of the
town beyond, faint in the darkness, and veiled, indistinct figures still
coming and going. And then she followed Francesca, with scarcely a word,
to the little out-of-the-way church, with nothing in it to make a show,
which Francesca loved, partly because it was humble. For poor people
have a liking for those homely, mean little places, where no grandeur of
ornament nor pomp of service can ever be. This is a fact, explain it as
they can, who think the attractions of ritualistic art and splendid
ceremonial are the chief charms of the worship of Rome.
Francesca found out this squalid little church by instinct, as a poor
woman of her class in England would find a Bethesda chapel. But at this
moment the little church looked cheery, with its lighted altar blazing
into the chilly darkness. Kate followed into one of the corners, and
kneeled down reverently by her companion. Her head was confused by the
strangeness of the scene. She listened, and tried to join in what was
going on, with that obstinate English prejudice which makes common
prayer a necessity in a church. But it was not common prayer that was to
be found here. The priest was making his sacrifice at the altar; the
solitary kneeling worshippers were having their private intercourse with
God, as it were, under the shadow of the greater rite. While Francesca
crossed herself and muttered her prayer under her breath, Kate, scarcely
capable of that, covered her eyes with her hand, and pondered and
wondered. Poor little church, visited by no admiring stranger; poor
unknown people, snatching a moment from their work, market-people,
sellers of chestnuts from the streets, servants, the lowliest of the
low; but morning after morning their feeble candles twinkled into the
dark, and they knelt upon the damp stones in the unseen corners. How
strange it was! Not like English ideas--not like the virtuous ladies who
patronised the daily service at Shanklin. Kate’s heart felt a great
yearning towards those badly-dressed poor folks, some of whom smelled of
garlic. She cried a little silently, the tears dropping one by one, like
the last of a summer shower, from behind the shelter of her hand. And
when Francesca had ended her prayers, and Kate, startled from her
thinking, took her hand from her eyes, the little grey church was all
full of the splendour of the morning, the candles put to flight, the
priest’s muttering over.
‘If my young lady will come this way,’ whispered Francesca, ‘she will be
able to kiss the shrine of the famous Madonna--she who stopped the
cholera in the village, where my blessed aunt Agnese, of the
Reparazione, was so much beloved.’
‘I would rather kiss you, Francesca,’ cried Kate, in a little transport,
audible, so that some praying people raised their heads to look at her,
‘for you are a good woman.’
She spoke in English; and the people at their prayers looked down again,
and took no more notice. It was nothing wonderful for an English visitor
to talk loud in a church.
It was bright daylight when they came out, and everything was gay. The
sun already shone dazzling on all the towers and heights, for it was no
longer early; it was half-past eight o’clock, and already the forenoon
had begun in that early Italian world. As they returned to the Lung-Arno
the river was sparkling in the light, and the passengers moving quickly,
half because of the cold, and half because the sun was so warm and
exhilarating.
‘My aunt and Ombra will only be getting up,’ said Kate, with a little
laugh of superiority; when suddenly she felt herself clutched by
Francesca, and, looking round, suddenly stopped short also in the
uttermost amaze. In front of her, walking along the bright street, were
the two whom she had just named--her aunt and Ombra--and not alone. The
two young men were walking with them--one with each lady. Ombra was
clinging to the arm of the one by her side; and they all kept close
together, with a half-guilty, half clandestine air. The sight of them
filled Kate with so much consternation, as well as wonder, that these
particulars recurred to her afterwards, as do the details of an accident
to those who have been too painfully excited to observe them at the
moment of their occurrence.
Francesca clutched her close and held her back as the group went on.
They passed, almost brushing by the two spectators, yet in their haste
perceiving nothing. But Kate had no inclination to rush forward and join
herself to the party, as the old woman feared. After a moment’s interval
the two resumed their walk, slowly, in speechless wonder. What did it
mean? Perhaps Francesca guessed more truly than Kate did; but even she
was not in the secret. Before, however, they reached the door, Kate had
recovered herself. She quickened her steps, though Francesca held her
back.
‘They must know that we have seen them,’ she said over and over to
herself, with a parched throat.
And when the door was reached, the two parties met. It was Ombra who
made the discovery first. She had turned round upon her companion to say
some word of parting; her face was pale, but full of emotion; she was
like one of the attendant saints at a martyrdom, so pale was she, and
with a strange look of trance and rapture. But when her eye caught Kate
behind, Ombra was strangely moved. She gave a little cry, and without
another word ran into the house and up the stairs. Mrs. Anderson turned
suddenly round when Ombra disappeared. She stood before the door of the
house, and faced the new comers.
‘What, Kate!’ she said, half frightened, half relieved, ‘is it you? What
has brought you out so early--and with Francesca, too?’
‘You too are out early, aunt.’
‘That is true; but it is not an answer,’ said Mrs. Anderson with a flush
that rose over all her face.
And the two young men stood irresolute, as if they did not know whether
to go or stay. Bertie Eldridge, it seemed to Kate, wore his usual
indifferent look. He was always _blasé_ and languid, and did not give
himself much trouble about anything; but Bertie Hardwick was much
agitated. He turned white, and he turned red, and he gave Kate looks
which she could not understand. It seemed to her as if he were always
trying to apologise and explain with his eyes; and what right had Bertie
Hardwick to think that she wanted anything explained or cared what he
did? She was angry, she did not quite know why--angry and wounded--hurt
as if some one had struck her, and she did not care to stop and ask or
answer questions. She followed Mrs. Anderson upstairs, listening
doubtfully to Francesca’s voluble explanation--how Mademoiselle had been
disturbed by some sounds in the house, ‘possibly my lady herself, though
I was far from thinking so when I left,’ said Francesca, pointedly; and
how Mees Katta had insisted upon going to mass with her?
Mrs. Anderson shook her head, but turned round to Kate at the door with
a softened look, which had something in it akin to Bertie’s. She kissed
Kate, though the girl half averted her face.
‘I do not blame you, my dear, but your uncle might not like it. You must
not go again,’ she said, thus gently placing the inferior matter in the
first place.
And they went in, to find the fire in the ante-room burning all alone,
as when Kate had left, and the calm little house looking in its best
order, as if nothing had ever happened there.