“So you especially enjoyed your stay at Florence,” said Isa, after the conversation had taken a less serious turn.
“I was very happy there; it was so beautiful, and we knew such very nice people. I should have liked to have stayed there much longer.”
“And why did you not remain there?” asked Isa. “Did not Sir Digby enjoy Florence too?”
“Very much indeed, until—until a lady came to stay there who spoilt all his pleasure in the place.”
“How was that?” said Isa.
“Why, the lady was witty; at least people said so; but if her kind of talking was wit, I wish that there were no such thing in the world. All her delight seemed to be to gossip and make her friends merry; and so long as they laughed, she did not much mind what they laughed at. You see,” continued Edith in a confidential tone, “her mother had lived in the Castle, and she talked a great deal about that. Now, of course, it was quite right and noble in papa to let strangers come here while we were away—and there had been difficulties, as you know—but he did not like its being talked about to every one.”
Isa could easily comprehend that her proud uncle had been very sensitive on the subject of the letting of his ancestral mansion.
“And then,” pursued Edith, “she mixed up what was true with what was not true; and how could strangers tell whether she spoke in jest or in earnest? She said that papa had been harsh and violent to his servants; and that was shamefully false!” exclaimed the girl, with a flush of indignation on the face usually so gentle and calm—“he had been only too indulgent and trustful. In short, this lady made Florence so unpleasant by her gossip, that papa could bear it no longer. He said that he would never willingly be for a day in the same city with Cora Madden.”
“Cora Madden!” repeated Isa, with a little start; and Edith, who had been looking up at her cousin, saw with surprise a stern, gloomy expression pass over her countenance like a shadow.