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Ombra
CHAPTER XXXVII
‘It was you who knew them, Mr. Eldridge,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘Tell me about them—you can’t think how interested I am. She thinks Lady Granton neglected her duty, and she means to behave very differently when she is in the same position. She is delicious! Tell me who she is.’
‘My cousin knows better than I do,’ said Bertie Eldridge, drawing back a step. ‘She is an old friend and neighbour of his.’
‘If your cousin were my son, I should be frightened of so very dangerous a neighbour,’ said Lady Caryisfort. It was one of her ways to distinguish as her possible sons men a few years younger than herself.
‘Even to think her dangerous would be a presumption in me,’ said Bertie Hardwick. ‘She is the great lady at home. Perhaps, though you laugh, you may some day see whether she can keep the resolution to behave differently. She is Miss Courtenay, of Langton-Courtenay, Lady Caryisfort. You must know her well enough by name.’
‘What!—the Vice-Consul’s niece! I must go and tell Lady Granton,’ said an attaché, who was among Lady Caryisfort’s attendants.
She followed him with her eyes as he went away, with an amused look.
‘Now my little friend will have plenty of partners,’ she said. ‘Oh! you men, who have not even courage enough to ask a pretty girl to dance until you have a certificate of her position. But I don’t mean you two. You had the certificate, I suppose, a long time ago?’
‘Yes. She has grown very pretty,’ said Bertie Eldridge, in a patronising tone.
‘How kind of you to think so!—how good of you to make her dance! as the French say. Mr. Hardwick, I suppose she is your father’s squire? Are you as condescending as your cousin? Give me your arm, please, and introduce me to the party. I am sure they must be fun. I have heard of Mrs. Vice-Consul–’
‘I don’t think they are particularly funny,’ said Bertie Hardwick, with a tone which the lady’s ear was far too quick to lose.
‘Ah!’ she said to herself, ‘a victim!’ and was on the alert at once.
‘It is the younger one who is Miss Courtenay, I suppose?’ she said. ‘The other is—her cousin. I see now. And I assure you, Mr. Hardwick, though she is not (I suppose?) an heiress, she is very pretty too.’
Bertie assented with a peculiar smile. It was a great distinction to Bertie Hardwick to be seen with Lady Caryisfort on his arm, and a very great compliment to Mrs. Anderson that so great a personage should leave her seat in order to make her acquaintance. Yet there were drawbacks to this advantage; for Lady Caryisfort had a way of making her own theories on most things that fell under her observation; and she did so at once in respect to the group so suddenly brought under her observation. She paid Mrs. Anderson a great many compliments upon her two girls.
‘I hear from Mr. Hardwick that I ought to know your niece “at home,” as the schoolboys say,’ she said. ‘Caryisfort is not more than a dozen miles from Langton-Courtenay. I certainly did not expect to meet my young neighbour here.’
‘Her uncle wishes her to travel; she is herself fond of moving about,’ murmured Mrs. Anderson.
‘Oh! to be sure—it is quite natural,’ said Lady Caryisfort; ‘but I should have thought Lady Granton would have known who her guest was—and—and all of us. There are so many English people always here, and it is so hard to tell who is who–’
‘If you will pardon me,’ said Mrs. Anderson, who was not without a sense of her own dignity, ‘it is just because of the difficulty in telling who is who that I have brought Kate here. Her guardian does not wish her to be introduced in England till she is of age; and as I am anxious not to attract any special attention, such as her position might warrant–’
‘Is her guardian romantic?’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘Does he want her to be loved for herself alone, and that sort of thing? For otherwise, do you know, I should think it was dangerous. A pretty girl is never quite safe–’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs. Anderson, gravely, ‘there are some risks, which one is obliged to run—with every girl.’
And she glanced at Bertie Hardwick, who was standing by; and either Bertie blushed, being an ingenuous young man, or Lady Caryisfort fancied he did; for she was very busy making her little version of this story, and every circumstance, as far as she had gone, fitted in.
‘But an heiress is so much more dangerous than any other girl. Suppose she should fancy some one beneath—some one not quite sufficiently—some one, in short, whom her guardians would not approve of? Do you know, I think it is a dreadful responsibility for you.’
Mrs. Anderson smiled; but she gave her adviser a sudden look of fright and partial irritation.
‘I must take my chance with others,’ she said. ‘We can only hope nothing will happen.’
‘Nothing happen! When it is girls and boys that are in question something always happens!’ cried Lady Caryisfort, elevating her eyebrows. ‘But here come your two girls, looking very happy. Will you introduce them to me, please? I hope you will not be affronted with me for an inquisitive old woman,’ she went on, with her most gracious smile; ‘but I have been watching you for ever so long.’
She was watching them now, closely, scientifically, under her drooped eyelids. Bertie had brightened so at their approach, there could be no mistaking that symptom. And the pale girl, the dark girl, the quiet one, who, now that she had time to examine her, proved almost more interesting than the beauty—had changed, too, lighting up like a sky at sunset. The red line had gone from under Ombra’s eyes; there was a rose-tint on her cheek which came and went; her eyes were dewy, like the first stars that come out at evening. A pretty, pensive creature, but bright for the moment, as was the other one—the one who was all made of colour and light.
‘This is my niece, Lady Caryisfort,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with an effort; and she added, in a lower tone, ‘This is Ombra, my own child.’
‘Do you call her Ombra? What a pretty name! and how appropriate! Then of course the other one is sunshine,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘I hope I shall see something of them while I stay here; and, young ladies, I hope, as I said, that you do not consider me a very impertinent old woman because I have been watching you.’
Kate laughed out the clearest, youthful laugh.
‘Are you an old woman?’ she said. ‘I should not have guessed it.’
Lady Caryisfort turned towards Kate with growing favour. How subtle is the effect of wealth and greatness (she thought). Kate spoke out frankly, in the confidence of her own natural elevation, which placed her on a level with all these princesses and great ladies; while Ombra, though she was older and more experienced, hung shyly back, and said nothing at all. Lady Caryisfort, with her quick eyes, perceived, or thought she perceived, this difference in a moment, and, half-unconsciously, inclined towards the one who was of her own caste.
‘Old enough to be your grandmother,’ she said; ‘and I am your neighbour, besides, at home, so I hope we shall be great friends. I suppose you have heard of the Caryisforts? No! Why, you must be a little changeling not to know the people in your own county. You know Bertie Hardwick, though?’
‘Oh! yes—I have known him all my life,’ said Kate, calmly, looking up at her.
How different the two girls were! The bright one (Lady Caryisfort remarked to herself) as calm as a Summer day; the shadowy one all changing and fluttering, with various emotions. It was easy to see what that meant.
This conversation, however, had to be broken up abruptly, for already the stream of partners which Lady Caryisfort had prophesied was pouring upon the girls. Lady Barker, indeed, had come to the rescue as soon as the appearance of the two Berties emancipated the cousins. When they did not absolutely require her help, she proffered it, according to Lady Caryisfort’s rule; and even Lady Granton herself showed signs of interest. An heiress is not an everyday occurrence even in the highest circles; and this was not a common heiress, a mere representative of money, but the last of an old family, the possessor of fair and solid English acres, old, noble houses, a name any man might be proud of uniting to his own; and a beauty besides. This was filling the cup too high, most people felt—there was no justice in it. Fancy, rich, well-born, and beautiful too! She had no right to have so much.
‘I cannot think why you did not tell me,’ said Lady Barker, coming to Mrs. Anderson’s side. She felt she had made rather a mistake with her Mrs. Vice-Consul; and the recollection of her jokes about Kate’s possible inheritance made her redden when she thought of them. She had put herself in the wrong so clearly that even her stupid attaché had found it out.
‘I had no desire to tell anybody—I am sorry it is known now,’ said Mrs. Anderson.
Long before this a comfortable place had been found for Kate’s aunt. Her heiress had raised her out of all that necessity of watching and struggling for a point of vantage which nobodies are compelled to submit to when they venture among the great. But it is doubtful whether Mrs. Anderson was quite happy in her sudden elevation. Her feelings were of a very mixed and uncertain character. So far as Lady Barker was concerned, she could not but feel a certain pride—she liked to show the old friend, who was patronising and kind, that she needed no exercise of condescension on her part; and she was pleased, as that man no doubt was pleased, who, having taken the lower room at the feast, was bidden, ‘Friend, go up higher.’ That sensation cannot be otherwise than pleasant—the little commotion, the flutter of apologies and regrets with which she was discovered ‘to have been standing all this time;’ the slight discomfiture of the people round, who had taken no notice, on perceiving after all that she was somebody, and not nobody, as they thought. All this had been pleasant. But it was not so pleasant to feel in so marked and distinct a manner that it was all on Kate’s account. Kate was very well; her aunt was fond of her, and good to her, and would have been so independent of her heiress-ship. But to find that her own value, such as it was—and most of us put a certain value on ourselves—and the beauty and sweetness of her child, who, to her eyes, was much more lovely than Kate, should all go for nothing, and that an elevation which was half contemptuous, should be accorded to them solely on Kate’s account, was humiliating to the good woman. She took advantage of it, and was even pleased with the practical effect; but it wounded her pride, notwithstanding, in the tenderest point. Kate, whom she had scolded and petted into decorum, whom she had made with her own hands, so to speak, into the semblance she now bore, whose faults and deficiencies she was so sensible of! Poor Mrs. Anderson, the position of dignity ‘among all the best people’ was pleasant to her; but the thought that she had gained it only as Kate’s aunt put prickles in the velvet. And Ombra, her child, her first of things, was nothing but Kate’s cousin. ‘But that will soon be set to rights,’ the mother said to herself, with a smile; and then she added aloud—
‘I am very sorry it is known now. We never intended it. A girl in Kate’s position has enough to go through at home, without being exposed to—to fortune-hunters and annoyances here. Had I known these boys were in Florence, I should not have come. I am very much annoyed. Nothing could be further from her guardian’s wishes—or my own.’
‘Oh, well, you can’t help it!’ said Lady Barker. ‘It was not your fault. But you can’t hide an heiress. You might as well try to put brown holland covers on a lighthouse. By-the-bye, young Eldridge is very well connected, and very nice—don’t you think?’
‘He is Sir Herbert Eldridge’s son,’ said Mrs. Anderson, stiffly.
‘Yes. Not at all bad looking, and all that. Nobody could consider him, you know, in the light of a fortune-hunter. But if you take my advice you will keep all those young Italians at arm’s length. Some of them are very captivating in their way; and then it sounds romantic, and girls are pleased. There is that young Buoncompagni, that Miss Courtenay is dancing with now. He is one of the handsomest young fellows in Florence, and he has not a sou. Of course he is looking out for some one with money. Positively you must take great care. Ah! I see it is Mr. Eldridge your daughter is dancing with. You are old friends, I suppose?’
‘Very old friends,’ said Mrs. Anderson; and she was not sorry when her questioner was called away. Perhaps, for the moment, she was not much impressed by Kate’s danger in respect to the young Count Buoncompagni. Her eyes were fixed upon Ombra, as was natural. In the abstract, a seat even upon velvet cushions (with prickles in them), against an emblazoned wall, for hours together, with no one whom you know to speak to, and only such crumbs of entertainment as are thrown to you when some one says, ‘A pretty scene, is it not? What a pretty dress! Don’t you think Lady Caryisfort is charming? And dear Lady Granton, how well she is looking!’ Even with such brilliant interludes of conversation as the above, the long vigil of a chaperon is not exhilarating. But when Mrs. Anderson’s eye followed Ombra she was happy; she was content to sit against the wall, and gaze, and would not allow to herself that she was sleepy. ‘Poor dear Kate, too!’ she said to herself, with a compunction, ‘she is as happy as possible.’ Thus nature gave a compensation to Ombra for being only Miss Courtenay’s cousin—a compensation which, for the moment, in the warmth of personal happiness, she did not need.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
‘Why should you get up this morning, Signora mia?’ said old Francesca. ‘The young ladies are fast asleep still. And it was a grand success, a che lo dite. Did not I say so from the beginning? To be sure it was a grand success. The Signorine are divine. If I were a young principe, or a marchesino, I know what I should do. Mees Katta is charming, my dearest lady; but, nostra Ombra—ah! nostra Ombra–’
‘Francesca, we must not be prejudiced,’ said Mrs. Anderson, who was taking her coffee in bed—a most unusual indulgence—while Francesca stood ready for a gossip at the bedside. The old woman was fond of petting her mistress when she had an opportunity, and of persuading her into little personal indulgences, as old servants so often are. The extra trouble of bringing up the little tray, with the fragrant coffee, the little white roll from the English baker, which the Signora was so prejudiced as to prefer, and one white camelia out of last night’s bouquet, in a little Venetian glass, to serve the purpose of decoration, was the same kind of pleasure to her as it is to a mother to serve a sick child who is not ill enough to alarm her. Francesca liked it. She liked the thanks, and the protest against so innocent an indulgence with which it was always accompanied.
‘I must not be so lazy again. I am quite ashamed of myself. But I was fatigued last night.’
‘Si! si!’ cried Francesca. ‘To be sure the Signora was tired. What! sit up till four o’clock, she who goes to bed at eleven; and my lady is not twenty now, as she once was! Ah! I remember the day when, after a ball, Madame was fatigued in a very different way.’
‘Those days are long past, Francesca,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a smile, shaking her head. She did not dislike being reminded of them. She had known in her time what it was to be admired and sought after; and after sitting for six hours against the wall, it was a little consolation to reflect that she too had had her day.
‘As Madame pleases, so be it,’ said Francesca; ‘though my lady could still shine with the best if she so willed it; but for my own part I think she is right. When one has a child, and such a child as our Ombra–’
‘My dear Francesca, we must not be prejudiced,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘Ombra is very sweet to you and me; and I think she is very lovely; but Kate is more beautiful than she is—Kate has such a bloom. I myself admire her very much—not of course so much as—my own child.’
‘If the Signora had said it, I should not have believed her,’ said Francesca. ‘I should be sorry to show any want of education to Madame, but I should not have believed her. Mademoiselle Katta is good child—I love her—I am what you call fond; but she is not like our Ombra. It is not necessary that I should draw the distinction. The Signora knows it is quite a different thing.’
‘Yes, yes, Francesca, I know—I know only too well; and I hope I am not unjust,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘I hope I am not unkind—I cannot help it being different. Nothing would make me neglect my duty, I trust; and I have no reason to be anything but fond of Kate—I love her very much; but still, as you say–’
‘The Signora knows that I understand,’ said Francesca. ‘Two gentlemen have called already this morning—already, though it is so early. They are the same young Signorini who came to the Cottage in IsleofWite.’ (This Francesca pronounced as one word.) ‘Now, if the Signora would tell me, it would make me happy. There is two, and I ask myself—which?’
Mrs. Anderson shook her head.
‘And so do I sometimes,’ she said; ‘and I thought I knew; but last night– My dear Francesca, when I am sure I will tell you. But, indeed, perhaps it is neither of them,’ she added, with a sigh.
Francesca shook her head.
‘Madame would say that perhaps it is bose.’
I have not thought it necessary always to put down Francesca’s broken English, nor the mixture of languages in which she spoke. It might be gratifying to the writer to be able to show a certain acquaintance with those tongues; but it is always doubtful whether the reader will share that gratification. But when she addressed her mistress, Francesca spoke Italian, and consequently used much better language than when she was compelled to toil through all the confusing sibilants and ths of the English tongue.
‘I do not know—I cannot tell,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘Take the tray, mia buona amica. You shall know when I know. And now I think I must get up. One can’t stay in bed, you know, all day.’
When her mistress thus changed the subject, Francesca saw that it was no longer convenient to continue it. She was not satisfied that Mrs. Anderson did not know, but she understood that she was in the meantime to make her own observations. Keener eyes were never applied to such a purpose, but at the present moment Francesca was too much puzzled to come to any speedy decision on the subject; and notwithstanding her love for Ombra, who was supreme in her eyes, Francesca was moved to a feeling for Kate which had not occurred to the other ladies. ‘Santissima Madonna! it is hard—very hard for the little one,’ she said to herself, as she mused over the matter. ‘Who is to defend her from Fate? She will see them every day—she is young—they are young—what can anyone expect? Ah! Madonna mia, send some good young marchesino, some piccolo principe, to make the Signorina a great lady, and save her from breaking her little heart. It would be good for la patria, too,’ Francesca resumed, piously thinking of Kate’s wealth.
She was a servant of the old Italian type, to whom it was natural to identify herself with her family. She did not even ‘toil for duty, not for meed,’ but planned and deliberated over all their affairs with the much more spontaneous and undoubting sentiment that their affairs were her own, and that they mutually belonged to each other. She said ‘our Ombra’ with as perfect good faith as if her young mistress had been her own child—and so indeed she was. The bond between them was too real to be discussed or even described—and consequently it was with the natural interest of one pondering her own business that Francesca turned it all over in her mind, and considered how she could best serve Kate, and keep her unharmed by Ombra’s uncertainty.
When Count Antonio Buoncompagni came with his card and his inquiries, the whole landscape lighted up around her. Francesca was a Florentine of the Florentines. She knew all about the Buoncompagni; her aunt’s husband’s sister had been cameriera to the old Duchessa, Antonio’s grandmother; so that in a manner, she said to herself, she belonged to the family. The Contessina, his mother, had made her first communion along with Francesca’s younger sister, Angiola. This made a certain spiritual bond between them. The consequence of all these important facts, taken together, was that Francesca felt herself the natural champion of Count Buoncompagni, who seemed thus to have stepped in at the most suitable moment, and as if in answer to her appeal to the Madonna, to lighten her anxieties, and free her child Ombra from the responsibility of harming another. The Count Antonio was young and very good-looking. He addressed Francesca in those frank and friendly tones which she had so missed in England; he called her amica mia, though he had never seen her before. ‘Ah! Santissima Madonna, quella differenza!’ she said to herself, as he went down the long stair, and the young Englishmen, who had known her for years, and were very friendly to the old woman, came up, and got themselves admitted without one unnecessary word. They had no caressing friendly phrase for her as they went and came. Francesca was true as steel to her mistress and all her house; she would have gone through fire and water for them; but it never occurred to her that to take the part of confidante and abettor to the young Count, should he mean to present himself as a suitor to Kate, would be treacherous to them or their trust. Of all things that could happen to the Signorina, the best possible thing—the good fortune most to be desired—would be that she should get a noble young husband, who would be very fond of her, and to whose house she would bring joy and prosperity. The Buoncompagni, unfortunately, though noble as the king himself, were poor; and Francesca knew very well what a difference it would make in the faded grand palazzo if Kate went there with her wealth. Even so much wealth as she had brought to her aunt would, Francesca thought, make a great difference; and what, then, would not the whole fabulous amount of Kate’s fortunes do? ‘It will be good for la patria, too,’ she repeated to herself; and this not guiltily, like a conscious conspirator, but with the truest sense of duty.
She carried in Count Antonio’s card to the salone where the ladies were sitting with their visitors. Ombra was seated at one of the windows, looking out; beside her stood Bertie Hardwick, not saying much; while his cousin, scarcely less silent, listened to Kate’s chatter. Kate’s gay voice was in full career; she was going over all last night’s proceedings, giving them a dramatic account of her feelings. She was describing her own anger, mortification, and dismay; then her relief, when she caught sight of the two young men. ‘Not because it was you,’ she said gaily, ‘but because you were men—or boys—things we could dance with; and because you knew us, and could not help asking us.’
‘That is not a pleasant way of stating it,’ said Bertie Eldridge. ‘If you had known our delight and amaze and happiness in finding you, and how transported we were–’
‘I suppose you must say that,’ said Kate; ‘please don’t take the trouble. I know you could not help making me a pretty speech; but what I say is quite true. We were glad, not because it was you, but because we felt in a moment, here are some men we know, they cannot leave us standing here all night; we must be able to get a dance at last.’
‘I have brought the Signora a card,’ said Francesca, interrupting the talk. ‘Ah, such a beautiful young Signor! What a consolation to me to be in my own country; to be called amica mia once again. You are very good, you English Signori, and very kind in your way, but you never speak as if you loved us, though we may serve you for years. When one comes like this handsome young Count Antonio, how different! “Cara mia,” he says, “put me at the feet of their Excellencies. I hope the beautiful young ladies are not too much fatigued!” Ah, my English gentlemen, you do not talk like that! You say, “Are they quite well—Madame Anderson and the young ladies?” And if it is old Francesca, or a new domestic, whom you never saw before, not one word of difference! You are cold; you are insensible; you are not like our Italian. Signorina Katta, do you know the name on the card?’
‘It’s Count Antonio Buoncompagni!’ said Kate, with a bright blush and smile. ‘Why, that was my partner last night! How nice of him to come and call—and what a pretty name! And he dances like an angel, Francesca—I never saw any one dance so well!’
‘That is a matter of course, Signorina. He is young; he is a Buoncompagni; his ancestors have all been noble and had education for a thousand years—what should hinder him to dance? If the Signorina will come to me when these gentlemen leave you, I will tell her hundreds of beautiful stories about the Buoncompagni. We are, as it were, connected—the sister-law of my aunt Filomena was once maid to the old Duchessa—besides other ties,’ Francesca added, raising her head with a certain careless grandeur. ‘Nobody knows better than I do the history of the Buoncompagni; and the Signorina is very fond of stories, as Madame knows.’
‘My good Francesca, so long as you don’t turn her head with your stories,’ said Mrs. Anderson, good-humouredly. And she added, when the old woman had left the room, ‘Often and often I have been glad to hear Francesca’s stories myself. All these Italian families have such curious histories. She will go on from one to another, as if she never would have done. She knows everybody, and whom they all married, and all about them. And there is some truth, you know, in what she says—we are very kind, but we don’t talk to our servants nor show any affection for them. I am very fond of Francesca, and very grateful to her for her faithful service, but even I don’t do it. Kate has a frank way with everybody. But our English reserve is dreadful!’
‘We don’t say everything that comes uppermost,’ said one of the young men. ‘We do not wear our hearts on our sleeves,’ said the other.
‘No,’ said Ombra; ‘perhaps, on the contrary, you keep them so covered up that one never can tell whether you have any hearts at all.’
Ombra’s voice had something in it different from the sound of the others; it had a meaning. Her words were not lightly spoken, but fully intended. This consciousness startled all the little party. Mrs. Anderson flung herself, as it were, into the breach, and began to talk fast on all manner of subjects; and Ombra, probably repenting the seriousness of her speech, exerted herself to dissipate the effect of it. But Kate kept the Count’s card in her hand, pondering over it. A young Italian noble; the sort of figure which appears in books and in pictures; the kind of person who acts as hero in tale and song. He had come to lay himself at the feet of the beautiful young ladies. Well! perhaps the two Berties meant just as much by the clumsy shy visit which they were paying at that moment—but they never laid themselves at anybody’s feet. They were well-dressed Philistines, never allowing any expression of friendship or affectionateness to escape them. Had they no hearts at all, as Ombra insinuated, or would they not be much pleasanter persons if they wore their said hearts on their sleeves, and permitted them to be pecked at? Antonio Buoncompagni! Kate stole out after a while, on pretence of seeking her work, and flew to the other end of the long, straggling suite of rooms to where Francesca sat. ‘Tell me all about them,’ she said, breathlessly. And Francesca clapped her hands mentally, and felt that her work had begun.
