‘I am going, at least,’ said Kate, ‘with Lady Caryisfort. Count Buoncompagni said there were some nice pictures; and I like old houses, though you may not be of my opinion. Auntie, you will come?’
‘Miss Courtenay’s taste is peculiar,’ said Bertie. ‘One knows what an old palace, belonging to an impoverished family, means in Italy. It means mouldy hangings, horrible old frescoes, furniture (and very little of that) crumbling to pieces, and nothing in good condition but the coat of arms. Buoncompagni is quite a type of the class—a young, idle, do-nothing fellow, as noble as you like, and as poor as Job; good for leading a cotillion, and for nothing else in this world; and living in his mouldy old palace, like a snail in its shell.’
‘I don’t think you need to be so severe,’ said Kate, with flashing eyes. ‘If he is poor, it is not his fault; and he is not ashamed of it, as some people are. And, indeed, I don’t think you young men work so very hard yourselves as to give you a right to speak.’
This was a blow most innocently given, but it went a great deal deeper than Kate had supposed. Bertie’s countenance became crimson; he was speechless; he could make no reply; and, like every man whose conscience is guilty, he felt sure that she meant it, and had given him this blow on purpose. It was a strange quarter to be assailed from; but yet, what else could it mean? He sat silent, and bit his nails, and remembered Mr. Sugden, and asked himself how it was that such strange critics had been moved against him. We have said that this episode was refreshing to Kate; but not so were the somewhat anxious arrangements which followed on Mrs. Anderson’s part, ‘for carrying out Kate’s plan, which would be delightful.’
‘I always like going over an old palace,’ she said, with a certain eagerness; ‘and if you gentlemen have not done it already, I am sure it will be worth your while.’
But there was very little response from anyone; and in a few minutes more the interruption seemed to be forgotten, and they had all resumed their discussion of the everlasting history of the previous day. Once more Kate felt her isolation, and after awhile she escaped silently from the room. She did not trust herself to go to her own chamber, but retired to the chilly dining-room, and sat down alone over her Italian, feeling rather desolate. She tried to inspire herself with the idea of putting the Italian into practice, and by the recollection of Count Antonio’s pretty compliments to her on the little speeches she ventured to make in answer to his questions. ‘I must try not to make any mistakes this time,’ she said to herself; but after five minutes she stopped and began thinking. With a conscious effort she tried to direct her mind to the encounter of yesterday—to Lady Caryisfort and Count Buoncompagni; but somehow other figures would always intrude; and a dozen times at least she roused up sharply, as from a dream, and found herself asking again, and yet again, what had happened yesterday? Was it something important enough to justify concealment? Was it possible, whatever it was, that it could be concealed from her? What was it? Alas! poor Count Antonio was but the ghost whom she tried to think of; while these were the real objects that interested her. And all the time the party remained in the drawing-room, not once going out. She could hear their voices now and then when a door was opened. They stayed indoors all the morning—a thing which had never happened before. They stayed to luncheon. In the afternoon they all went out walking together; but even that was not as of old. A change had come over everything—the world itself seemed different; and what was worst of all was that this change was pleasant to all the rest and melancholy only to Kate. She said to herself, wistfully, ‘No doubt I would be pleased as well as the rest if only I knew.’
CHAPTER XLIV.
For the next few days everything was merry as marriage-bells; and though Kate felt even the fondness and double consideration with which she was treated when she was alone with her aunt and cousin to belong somehow to the mystery, she had no excuse even to herself for finding fault with it. They were very good to her. Ombra, at least, had never been so kind, so tender, so anxious to please her. Why should she be anxious to please her? She had never done so before; it had never been necessary; it was a reversal of everything that was natural; and, like all the rest, it meant something underneath, something which had to be made up for by these superficial caresses. Kate did not go so far as this in her articulate thoughts; but it was what she meant in the confused and painful musings which now so often possessed her. But she could not remonstrate, or say, ‘Why are you so unnecessarily, unusually tender? What wrong have you done me that has to be made up for in this way?’ She could not say this, however much she might feel it. She had to hide her wonder and dissatisfaction in her own heart.
At last the day came for the visit to the Buoncompagni palace. They were to walk to Lady Caryisfort’s, to join her, and all had been arranged on the previous night. The ladies were waiting, cloaked and bonneted, when Bertie Eldridge made his appearance alone.
‘I hope I have not kept you waiting,’ he said; ‘that ridiculous cousin of mine won’t come. I don’t know what has come over him; he has taken some absurd dislike to poor Buoncompagni, who is the best fellow in the world. I hope you will accept my company alone.’