‘Francesca, go away! You have no right to speak to me so. What have I done?’
‘Done!’ cried Francesca, ‘done!—all the evil things you can do. You have driven all away from you who cared for you. Figure to yourself that a little ship went away from the golf last night, and the two young signorini in it. You will say to me that it is not you who have done it; but I believe you not. Who but you, Mees Ombra, Mees Ice and Snow? And so you will do with all till you are left alone, lone in the world—I know it. You turn to ze wall, you cry, you think you make me cry too, but no, Francesca will speak ze trutt to you, if none else. Last night, as soon as you come home, ze little ship go away—cacciato—what you call dreaven away—dreaven away, like by ze Tramontana, ze wind from ze ice-mountains! That is you. Already I haf said it. You are Ghiaccia—you will leave yourself lone, lone in ze world, wizout one zing to lof!’
Francesca’s English grew more and more broken as she rose into fervour. She stood now by Ombra’s bedside, with all the eloquence of indignation in her words, and looks, and gestures; her little uncovered head, with its knot of scanty hair twisted tightly up behind, nodding and quivering; her brown little hands gesticulating; her foot patting the floor; her black eyes flashing. Ombra had turned to the wall, as she said. She could discomfit her gentle mother, but she could not put down Francesca. And then this news which Francesca brought her went like a stone to the depths of her heart.
‘But I will tell you vat vill komm,’ she went on, with sparks of fire, as it seemed, flashing from her eyes—‘there vill komm a day when the ice will melt, like ze torrents in ze mountains. There will be a rush, and a flow, and a swirl, and then the avalanche! The ice will become water—it will run down, it will flood ze contree; but it will not do good to nobody, Mademoiselle. They will be gone the persons who would have loved. All will be over. Ze melting and ze flowing will be too late—it will be like the torrents in May, all will go with it, ze home, ze friends, ze comfort that you love, you English. All will go. Mademoiselle will be sorry then,’ said Francesca, regaining her composure, and making a vindictive courtesy. She smiled at the tremendous picture she was conscious of having drawn, with a certain complacency. She had beaten down with her fierce storm of words the white figure which lay turned away from her with hidden face. But Francesca’s heart did not melt. ‘Now I have told you ze trutt,’ she said, impressively. ‘Ze bath, and all things is ready, if Mademoiselle wishes to get up now.’
‘What have you been saying to my child, Francesca?’ said Mrs. Anderson, who met her as she left the room, looking very grave, and with red eyes.
‘Nozing but ze trutt,’ said Francesca, with returning excitement; ‘vich nobody will say but me—for I lof her—I lof her! She is my bébé too. Madame will please go downstairs, and have her breakfast,’ she added calmly. ‘Mees Ombra is getting up—there is nothing more to say. She will come down in quarter of an hour, and all will be as usual. It will be better that Madame says nothing more.’
Mrs. Anderson was not unused to such interference on Francesca’s part; the only difference was that no such grave crisis had ever happened before. She was aware that, in milder cases, her own caressing and indulgent ways had been powerfully aided by the decided action of Francesca, and her determination to speak ‘ze trutt,’ as she called it, without being moved by Ombra’s indignation, or even by her tears. Her mistress, though too proud to appeal to her for aid, had been but too glad to accept it ere now. But this was such an emergency as had never happened before, and she stood doubtful, unable to make up her mind what she should do, at the door of Ombra’s room, until the sounds within made it apparent that Ombra had really got up, and that there was, for the moment, nothing further to be done. She went away half disconsolate, half relieved, to the bright little dining-room below, where the pretty breakfast-table was spread, with flowers on it, and sunshine straying in through the network of honeysuckles and roses. Kate was at her favourite occupation, arranging flowers in the hall, but singing under her breath, lest she should disturb her cousin.
‘How is Ombra?’ she whispered, as if the sound of a voice would be injurious to her.
‘She is better, dear; I think much better. But oh, Kate, for heaven’s sake, take no notice, not a word! Don’t look even as if you supposed—— ’
‘Of course not, auntie,’ said Kate, with momentary indignation that she should be supposed capable of such unwomanly want of comprehension. They were seated quite cheerfully at breakfast when Ombra appeared. She gave them a suspicious look to discover if they had been talking of her—if Kate knew anything; but Kate (she thanked heaven), knew better than to betray herself. She asked after her cousin’s headache, on the contrary, in the most easy and natural way; she talked (very little) of the events of the preceding day. She propounded a plan of her own for that afternoon, which was to drive along the coast to a point which Ombra had wished to make a sketch of. ‘It will be the very thing for to-day,’ said Kate. ‘The rain is over, and the sun is shining; but it is too misty for sea-views, and we must be content with the land.’