Francesca found out this squalid little church by instinct, as a poor woman of her class in England would find a Bethesda chapel. But at this moment the little church looked cheery, with its lighted altar blazing into the chilly darkness. Kate followed into one of the corners, and kneeled down reverently by her companion. Her head was confused by the strangeness of the scene. She listened, and tried to join in what was going on, with that obstinate English prejudice which makes common prayer a necessity in a church. But it was not common prayer that was to be found here. The priest was making his sacrifice at the altar; the solitary kneeling worshippers were having their private intercourse with God, as it were, under the shadow of the greater rite. While Francesca crossed herself and muttered her prayer under her breath, Kate, scarcely capable of that, covered her eyes with her hand, and pondered and wondered. Poor little church, visited by no admiring stranger; poor unknown people, snatching a moment from their work, market-people, sellers of chestnuts from the streets, servants, the lowliest of the low; but morning after morning their feeble candles twinkled into the dark, and they knelt upon the damp stones in the unseen corners. How strange it was! Not like English ideas—not like the virtuous ladies who patronised the daily service at Shanklin. Kate’s heart felt a great yearning towards those badly-dressed poor folks, some of whom smelled of garlic. She cried a little silently, the tears dropping one by one, like the last of a summer shower, from behind the shelter of her hand. And when Francesca had ended her prayers, and Kate, startled from her thinking, took her hand from her eyes, the little grey church was all full of the splendour of the morning, the candles put to flight, the priest’s muttering over.
‘If my young lady will come this way,’ whispered Francesca, ‘she will be able to kiss the shrine of the famous Madonna—she who stopped the cholera in the village, where my blessed aunt Agnese, of the Reparazione, was so much beloved.’
‘I would rather kiss you, Francesca,’ cried Kate, in a little transport, audible, so that some praying people raised their heads to look at her, ‘for you are a good woman.’
She spoke in English; and the people at their prayers looked down again, and took no more notice. It was nothing wonderful for an English visitor to talk loud in a church.
It was bright daylight when they came out, and everything was gay. The sun already shone dazzling on all the towers and heights, for it was no longer early; it was half-past eight o’clock, and already the forenoon had begun in that early Italian world. As they returned to the Lung-Arno the river was sparkling in the light, and the passengers moving quickly, half because of the cold, and half because the sun was so warm and exhilarating.
‘My aunt and Ombra will only be getting up,’ said Kate, with a little laugh of superiority; when suddenly she felt herself clutched by Francesca, and, looking round, suddenly stopped short also in the uttermost amaze. In front of her, walking along the bright street, were the two whom she had just named—her aunt and Ombra—and not alone. The two young men were walking with them—one with each lady. Ombra was clinging to the arm of the one by her side; and they all kept close together, with a half-guilty, half clandestine air. The sight of them filled Kate with so much consternation, as well as wonder, that these particulars recurred to her afterwards, as do the details of an accident to those who have been too painfully excited to observe them at the moment of their occurrence.
Francesca clutched her close and held her back as the group went on. They passed, almost brushing by the two spectators, yet in their haste perceiving nothing. But Kate had no inclination to rush forward and join herself to the party, as the old woman feared. After a moment’s interval the two resumed their walk, slowly, in speechless wonder. What did it mean? Perhaps Francesca guessed more truly than Kate did; but even she was not in the secret. Before, however, they reached the door, Kate had recovered herself. She quickened her steps, though Francesca held her back.
‘They must know that we have seen them,’ she said over and over to herself, with a parched throat.
And when the door was reached, the two parties met. It was Ombra who made the discovery first. She had turned round upon her companion to say some word of parting; her face was pale, but full of emotion; she was like one of the attendant saints at a martyrdom, so pale was she, and with a strange look of trance and rapture. But when her eye caught Kate behind, Ombra was strangely moved. She gave a little cry, and without another word ran into the house and up the stairs. Mrs. Anderson turned suddenly round when Ombra disappeared. She stood before the door of the house, and faced the new comers.
‘What, Kate!’ she said, half frightened, half relieved, ‘is it you? What has brought you out so early—and with Francesca, too?’