That was a curious day--a day full of strange excitement and suppressed
feeling--suppressed on all sides, yet betraying itself in some
unexplainable way. Mrs. Anderson made no explanation whatever of her
early expedition--at least to Kate; she did not even refer to it. She
gave her a little lecture at breakfast, while they sat alone
together--for Ombra did not appear--about the inexpediency of going with
Francesca to church. ‘I know that you did not mean anything, my
darling,’ she said, tenderly; ‘but it is very touching to see the poor
people at their prayers, and I have known a girl to be led away so, and
to desert her own church. Such an idea must never be entertained for
you; you are not a private individual, Kate--you are a woman with a
great stake in the country, an example to many----’
‘Oh, I am so tired of hearing that I have a stake in the country!’ cried
Kate, who at that moment, to tell the truth, was sick of everything, and
loathed her life heartily, and everything she heard and saw.
‘But that is wrong,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘You must not be tired of such
an honour and privilege. You must be aware, Kate, that an ordinary girl
of your years would not be considered and studied as you have been. Had
you been only my dear sister’s child, and not the mistress of
Langton-Courtenay, even I should have treated you differently; though,
for your own good,’ Mrs. Anderson added, ‘I have tried as much as
possible to forget your position, and look upon you as my younger
child.’
Kate’s heart was full--full of a yearning for the old undoubting love,
and yet a sense that it had been withdrawn from her by no fault of hers,
which made it impossible for her to make overtures of tenderness, or
even to accept them. She said, ‘I like that best;’ but she said it low,
with her eyes fixed upon her plate, and her voice choking. And perhaps
her aunt did not hear. Mrs. Anderson had deliberately mounted upon her
high horse. She had invoked, as it were, the assistance of her chief
weakness, and was making use of it freely. She said a good deal more
about Kate’s position--about the necessity of being faithful to one’s
church, not only as a religious, but a public duty; and thus kept up the
discussion till breakfast was fairly over. Then, as usual, Kate was left
alone. Francesca had a private interview after in her mistress’s room,
but what was said to her was never known to anyone. She left it looking
as if tears still lay very near her eyes, but not a word did she repeat
of any explanation given to her--and, indeed, avoided Kate, so that the
girl was left utterly alone in the very heart of that small, and once so
tender, household.
And thus life went on strangely, in a mist of suppressed excitement, for
some days. How her aunt and cousin spent that time Kate could not tell.
She saw little of them, and scarcely cared to note what visits they
received, or what happened. In the seclusion of her own room she heard
footsteps coming and going, and unusual sounds, but took no notice; and
from that strange morning encounter, saw no more of the Berties until
they made their appearance suddenly one day in the forenoon, when Mr.
Courtenay was there; when they announced their immediate departure, and
took their leave at one and the same moment. The parting was a strange
one; they all shook hands stiffly with each other, as if they had been
mere acquaintances. They said not a word of meeting again; and the young
men were both agitated, looking pale and strange. When they left at
last, Mr. Courtenay, in his airy way, remarked that he did not think
Florence had agreed with them. ‘They look as if they were both going to
have the fever,’ he said; ‘though, by-the-bye, it is in Rome people have
the fever, not in Florence.’
‘I suppose they are sorry to leave,’ said Mrs. Anderson, steadily; and
then the subject dropped.
It seemed to Kate as if the world went round and round, and then
suddenly settled back into its place. And by this time all was
over--everything had stopped short. There was no more shopping, nor even
packing. Francesca was equal to everything that remained to be done; and
the moment of their own departure drew very near.
Ombra drew down her veil as they were carried away out of sight of
Florence on the gentle bit of railway which then existed, going to the
north. And Mrs. Anderson looked back upon the town with her hands
clasped tight together in her lap, and tears in her eyes. Kate noted
both details, but even in her own mind drew no deductions from them. She
herself was confused in her head as well as in her heart, bewildered,
uncertain, walking like some one in a dream. The last person she saw in
the railway-station was Antonio Buoncompagni, with a bunch of violets in
his coat. He walked as far as he could go when the slow little train got
itself into motion, and took off his hat, with a little gesture which
went to Kate’s heart. Poor Antonio!--had she perhaps been unkind to him
after all? There was something sad, and yet not painful--something
almost comforting in the thought.
And so they were really on their way again, and Florence was over like
yesterday when it is past, and like a tale that is told! How strange to
think so! A place never perhaps to be entered again--never, certainly,
with the same feelings as now. Ombra’s veil was down, and it was thick,
and concealed her, and tears stood in Mrs. Anderson’s eyes. They had
their own thoughts, too, though Kate had no clue to them. No clue!
Probably these thoughts dwelt upon things absolutely unknown to
her--probably they too were saying to themselves, ‘How strange to leave
Florence in the past--to be done with it!’ But had they left it in the
past?
As for Mr. Courtenay, he read his paper, which he had just received from
England. There was a debate in it about some object which interested
him, and the _Times_ was full of abuse of some of his friends. The old
man chuckled a little over this, as he sat on the comfortable side, with
his back towards the engine, and his rug tucked over his knees. He did
not so much as give Florence a glance as they glided away. What was
Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba? Nothing had happened to him there.
Nothing happened to him anywhere--though his ward gave him a good deal
of trouble. As for this journey of his, it was a bore, but still it had
been successful, which was something, and he made himself extremely
comfortable, and read over, as they rolled leisurely along, every word
of the _Times_.
And thus they travelled home.