‘No,’ said Francesca, turning round upon her, ‘not the change of air, but the change of mind, will cure Mees Ombra. What she wants is the change of mind.’
‘I do not understand you,’ said Kate. ‘I suppose you mean the change of scene, the novelty, the——’
‘I mean the change of ze mind,’ said Francesca; ‘when she will understand herself, and the ozer people’s; when she knows to do right, and puts away her face of stone, then she will be well—quite well. It is not sickness; it is her mind that makes ill, Mees Katta. When she will put ze ice away and be true, then she shall be well.’
‘Oh, Francesca, you talk like an old witch, and I am frightened for you!’ cried Kate. ‘I don’t believe in illness of the mind; you will see Ombra will get better as soon as we begin to move about.’
‘As soon as she change her mind she will be better,’ said the oracular Francesca. ‘There is nobody that tells her the truth but me. She is my child, and I lof her, and I tell her the trutt.’
‘I think I see my aunt in the garden,’ said Kate, hurrying on; for though she was very curious, she was honourable, and did not wish to discover her cousin’s secrets through Francesca’s revelations.
‘If your aunt kill me, I care not,’ said Francesca, ‘but my lady is the most good, the most sense—— She knows Mees Ombra, and she lets me talk. She is cured when she will change the mind.’
‘I don’t want to hear any more, please,’ said honourable Kate. But Francesca went on nodding her head, and repeating her sentiment: ‘When she change the mind, she will be well,’ till it got to honest Kate’s ears, and mixed with her dreams. The mother and daughter were in the garden, talking not too cheerfully. A certain sadness was in the air. The lamp burned dimly in the drawing-room, throwing a faint, desolate light over the emptiness. ‘This is what it will look like to-morrow,’ said Kate; and she cried. And the others were very much disposed to follow her example. It was the last night—words which are always melancholy; and presently poor Mr. Sugden stole up in the darkness, and joined them, with a countenance of such despair that poor Kate, excited, and tired, and dismal as she herself felt, had hard ado to keep from laughing. The new-comer added no cheer to the little party. He was dismal as Don Quixote, and, poor fellow, as simple-minded and as true.
And next morning they went away. Mr. Courtenay himself, who had lingered in the neighbourhood, paying a visit to some friends, either from excess of kindness, or determination to see the last of them, met them at Southampton, and put them into the boat for Havre, the nearest French port. Kate had her Maryanne, who, confounded by the idea of foreign travel, was already helpless; and the two other ladies were attended by old Francesca, as brisk and busy as a little brown bee, who was of use to everybody, and knew all about luggage and steamboats. Mr. Sugden, who had begged that privilege from Mrs. Anderson, went with them so far, and pointed out the ships of the fleet as they passed, and took them about the town, indicating all its principal wonders to them, as if he were reading his own or their death-warrants.
‘If it goes on much longer, I shall laugh,’ whispered Kate, in her aunt’s ear.