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Kate’s heart was full—full of a yearning for the old undoubting love, and yet a sense that it had been withdrawn from her by no fault of hers, which made it impossible for her to make overtures of tenderness, or even to accept them.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.