Ombra

‘Je ne demande pas mieux, if indeed you are determined,’ said he. ‘But who is she? I don’t know them.’

‘Nobody seems to know them,’ said Lady Caryisfort; and so the observation began.

Lady Caryisfort was very popular. She was a widow, well off, childless, good-looking, and determined, people said, never to marry again. She was the most independent of women, openly declaring, on all hands, that she wanted no assistance to get through life, but was quite able to take care of herself. And the consequence was that everybody about was most anxious to assist in taking care of her. All sorts of people took all sorts of trouble to help her in doing what she never hesitated to say she could do quite well without them. She was something of a philosopher, and a good deal of a cynic, as such people often are.

‘You would not be so good to me if I had any need of you,’ she said, habitually; and this was understood to be ‘Lady Caryisfort’s way.’

‘Nobody knows them,’ she added, looking at the party through her eyeglass. ‘Poor souls, I daresay they thought it was very fine and delightful to come to Lady Granton’s ball. And if they had scores of friends already, scores more would turn up on all sides. But because they know nobody, nobody will take the trouble to know them. The younger one is perfectly radiant. That is what I call the perfection of bloom. Look at her—she is a real rosebud! Now, what fainéants you all are!’

‘Why are we fainéants?’ said one of the court.

‘Well,’ said Lady Caryisfort, who professed to be a man-hater, within certain limits, ‘I am aware that the nicest girl in the world, if she were not pretty, might stand there all the night, and nobody but a woman would ever think of trying to get any amusement for her. But there is what you are capable of admiring—there is beauty, absolute beauty; none of your washy imitations, but real, undeniable loveliness. And there you stand and gape, and among a hundred of you she does not find one partner. Oh! what it is to be a man! Why, my pet retriever, who is fond of pretty people, would have found her out by this, and made friends with her, and here are half a dozen of you fluttering about me!’

There was a general laugh, as at a very good joke; and some one ventured to suggest that the flutterers round Lady Caryisfort could give a very good reason–

‘Yes,’ said that lady, fanning herself tranquilly, ‘because I don’t want you. In society that is the best of reasons; and that pretty creature there does want you, therefore she is left to herself. She is getting indignant. Why, she grows prettier and prettier. I wonder those glances don’t set fire to something! Delicious! She wants her sister to dance with her. What a charming girl! And the sister is pretty, too, but knows better. And mamma—oh! how horrified mamma is! This is best of all!’

Thus Lady Caryisfort smiled and applauded, and her attendants laughed and listened. But, curiously enough, though she was so interested in Kate, and so indignant at the neglect to which she was subjected, it did not occur to her to take the young stranger under her protection, as she might so easily have done. It was her way to look on—to interfere was quite a different matter.

‘Now this is getting quite dramatic,’ she cried; ‘they have seen some one they know—where is he?—or even where is she?—for any one they know would be a godsend to them. How do you do, Mr. Eldridge? How late you are! But please don’t stand between me and my young lady. I am excited about her; they have not found him yet—and how eager she looks! Mr. Eldridge—why, good heavens! where has he gone?’

‘Who was it that said Langton-Courtenay?’ cried Kate; ‘it must be some one who knows the name, and I am sure I know the voice. Did you hear it, auntie? Langton-Courtenay!—I wonder who it could be?’

A whole minute elapsed before anything more followed. Mrs. Anderson looked one way, and Kate another. Ombra did not move. If the lively observer, who had taken so much interest in the strangers, could have seen the downcast face which Kate’s bright countenance threw into the shade, her drama would instantly have increased in interest. Ombra stood without moving a hair’s-breadth—without raising her eyes—without so much as breathing, one would have said. Under her eyes that line of hot colour had flushed in a moment, giving to her face the look of something suppressed and concealed. The others wondered who it was, but Ombra knew by instinct who had come to disturb their quiet once more. She recognised the voice, though neither of her companions did; and if there had not been any evidence so clear as that voice—had it been a mere shadow, an echo—she would have known. It was she who distinguished in the ever-moving, ever-rustling throng, the one particular movement which indicated that some one was making his way towards them. She knew he—they—were there, without raising her eyes, before Kate’s cry of joyful surprise informed her.

‘Oh, the Berties!—I beg your pardon—Mr. Hardwick and Mr. Eldridge. Oh, fancy!—that you should be here!’

Ombra neither fell nor fainted, nor did she even speak. The room swam round and round, and then came back to its place; and she looked up, and smiled, and put out her hand.

The two pretty strangers stood in the corner no longer; they stood up in the next dance, Kate in such a glow of delight and radiance that the whole ball-room thrilled with admiration. There had been a little hesitation as to which of the two should be her partner—a pause during which the two young men consulted each other by a look; but she had herself so clearly indicated which Bertie she preferred, that the matter was speedily decided. ‘I wanted to have you,’ she said frankly to Bertie Hardwick, as he led her off, ‘because I want to hear all about home. Tell me about home. I have not thought of Langton for two years at least, and my mind is full of it to-night—I am sure I don’t know why. I keep thinking, if I ever give a ball at Langton, how much better I will manage it. Fancy!’ cried Kale, flushing with indignation, ‘we have been here an hour, and no one has asked us to dance, neither Ombra nor me.’

‘That must have been because nobody knew you,’ said Bertie Hardwick.

‘And whose fault was that? Fancy asking two girls to a dance, and then never taking the trouble to look whether they had partners or not! If I ever give a ball, I shall behave differently, you may be sure.’

‘I hope you will give a great many balls, and that I shall be there to see.’

‘Of course,’ said Kate, calmly; ‘but if you ever see me neglecting my duty like Lady Granton, don’t forget to remind me of to-night.’

Lady Granton’s sister was standing next to her, and, of course, heard what she said.

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.