‘Rich!—a beggarly adventurer!—a confounded fortune-hunter!—an Italian rogue and reprobate! How this precious aunt of yours could have shut her eyes to such a piece of folly; or your Lady Caryisfort, forsooth——’
‘Why forsooth, uncle? Do you mean that she is not Lady Caryisfort, or that she is unworthy of the name? She is very clever and very agreeable. But I was going to say that though Count Buoncompagni is not rich, he gave us the most beautiful little luncheon the day we went to see his pictures. Lady Caryisfort said it was perfection. And talking of that—if he brought some flowers, as you say, I should like to have them. May I go and speak to Francesca about them?—or perhaps you would rather ring the bell?’
CHAPTER XLVIII.
It was thus that Kate evaded the further discussion of the question. She went off gaily bounding along the long passage. ‘Francesca, Francesca, where are my flowers?’ she cried. Her heart had grown light all at once. A little mischief, and a little opposition, and the freshness, yet naturalness, of having Uncle Courtenay to fight with, exhilarated her spirits. Yes, it felt natural. To be out of humour with her aunt was a totally different matter. That was all pain, with no compensating excitement; but the other was ‘fun.’ It filled her with wholesome energy and contradictoriness. ‘If Uncle Courtenay supposes I am going to give up poor Antonio for him——’—she said in her heart, and danced along the passage, singing snatches of tunes, and calling to Francesca. ‘Where are my flowers?—I know there are some flowers for me. Some one cares to know whether I am dead or alive,’ she said.
Francesca came out of the dining-room, holding up her hands to implore silence. Oh! my dear young lady,’ said Francesca, ‘you must not be imprudent. When we receive flowers from a beautiful young gentleman, we take them to our chamber, or we put them in our bosoms—we don’t dance and sing over them—or, at least, young ladies who have education, who know what the world expects of them, must not so behave. In my room, Mees Katta, you will find your flowers. They are sent from the English milady—Milady Caryisfort,’ Francesca added, demurely folding her arms upon her breast.
‘Oh! are they from Lady Caryisfort?’ said Kate, with a little disappointment. After all, it was not so romantic as she thought.
‘My young lady understands that it must be so,’ said Francesca, ‘for young ladies must not be compromised; but the hand that carried them was that of the young Contino, and as handsome a young fellow as any in Florence. I am very glad I am old—I might be his grandmother; for otherwise, look you, Mademoiselle, his voice is so mellow, and he looks so with his eyes, and says Francesca mia, cara amica, and such like, that I should be foolish, even an old woman like me. They have a way with them, these Buoncompagni. His father, I recollect, who was very like Count Antonio, very nearly succeeded in turning the head of my Angelina, my little sister that died. No harm came of it, Mees Katta, or I would not have told. We took her away to the convent at Rocca, where we had a cousin, a very pious woman, well known throughout the country, Sister Agnese, of the Reparazione; and there she got quite serious, and as good as a little saint before she died.’
‘Was it his fault that she died?’ cried Kate, always ready for a story. ‘I should have thought, Francesca, that you would have hated him for ever and ever.’
‘I had the honour of saying to the Signorina that no harm was done,’ said Francesca, with gravity. ‘Why should I hate the good Count for being handsome and civil? It is a way they have, these Buoncompagni. But, for my part, I think more of Count Antonio than I ever did of his father. Milady Caryisfort would speak for him, Mees Katta. She is a lady that knows the Italians, and understands how to speak. She has always supported the Contino’s suit, has not she? and she will speak for him. He is desolated, desolated—he has just told me—to be so many days without seeing Mademoiselle; and, indeed, he looked very sad. We other Italians don’t hide our feelings as you do in your country. He looked sad to break one’s heart; and, Mees Katta, figure to yourself my feelings when I saw the Signora’s uncle come puff-puff, with his difficulty of breathing, up the stair.