Part 65 (2/2)

It stirred his mocking sense of English hypocrisy that the point should be even raised. But now--how can any individual, he asked himself, with political work to do, affect to despise the opinions and prejudices of society? A politician with great reforms to put through will make no friction round him that he can avoid--unless he is a fool. It weighed sorely, therefore, on his present mind that Madame d'Estrees was in Venice--that she was a person of blemished repute--that he must be and was ashamed of her. It would have been altogether out of consonance with his character to put any obstacle in the way of Kitty's seeing her mother. But he chafed as he had never yet chafed under the humiliation of his relations.h.i.+p to the notorious Margaret Fitzgerald of the forties, who had been old Blackwater's _chere amie_ before she married him, and, as Lady Blackwater, had sacrificed her innocent and defenceless step-daughter to one of her own lovers, in order to secure for him the step-daughter's fortune--black and dastardly deed!

Was it all part of the general growth and concentration that any shrewd observer might have read in William Ashe?--the pressure--enormous, unseen--of the traditional English ideals, English standards, a.s.serting itself at last in a brilliant and paradoxical nature? It had been so--conspicuously--in the case of one of his political predecessors.

Lord Melbourne had begun his career as a person of idle habits and imprudent adventures, much given to coa.r.s.e conversation, and unable to say the simplest thing without an oath. He ended it as the man of scrupulous dignity, tact, and delicacy, who moulded the innocent youth of a girl-queen, to his own lasting honor and England's grat.i.tude. In ways less striking, the same influence of vast responsibilities was perhaps acting upon William Ashe. It had already made him a sterner, tougher, and--no doubt--a greater man.

The defection of William only left Kitty, it seemed, still more greedy of things to see and do. Innumerable sacristans opened all possible doors and unveiled all possible pictures. Bellini succeeded Tintoret, and Carpaccio Bellini. The two sable gondoliers wore themselves out in Kitty's service, and Margaret's kind, round face grew more and more puzzled and distressed. And whence this strange impression that the whole experience was a _flight_ on Kitty's part?--or, rather, that throughout it she was always eagerly expecting, or eagerly escaping from some unknown, unseen pursuer? A glance behind her--a start--a sudden s.h.i.+vering gesture in the shadows of dark churches--these things suggested it, till Margaret herself was caught by the same suppressed excitement that seemed to be alive in Kitty. Did it all point merely to some mental state--to the nervous effects of her illness and her loss?

When they reached home about five o'clock, Kitty was naturally tired out. Margaret put her on the sofa, gave her tea, and tended her, hoping that she might drop asleep before dinner. But just as tea was over, and Kitty was lying curled up, silent and white, with that brooding look which kept Margaret's anxiety about her constantly alive, there was a sudden sound of voices in the anteroom outside.

”Margaret!” cried Kitty, starting up in dismay--”say I'm not at home.”

Too late! Their smiling Italian housemaid threw the door open, with the air of one bringing good-fortune. And behind her appeared a tall lady, and an old gentleman hat in hand.

”May we come in, Kitty?” said Mary Lyster, advancing. ”Cousin Elizabeth told us you were here.”

Kitty had sprung up. The disorder of her fair hair, her white cheeks, and the ghostly thinness of her small, black-robed form drew the curious eyes of Sir Richard. And the oddness of her manner as she greeted them only confirmed the old man's prejudice against her.

However, greeted they were, in some sort of fas.h.i.+on; and Miss French gave them tea. She kept Sir Richard entertained, while Kitty and Mary conversed. They talked perfunctorily of ordinary topics--Venice, its sights, its hotels, and the people staying in them--of Lady Tranmore and various Ashe relations. Meanwhile the inmost thought of each was busy with the other.

Kitty studied the lines of Mary's face and the fas.h.i.+on of her dress.

”She looks much older. And she's not enjoying her life a bit. That's my fault. I spoiled all her chances with Geoffrey--and she knows it. She _hates_ me. Quite right, too.”

”Oh, you mean that nonsensical thing last night?” Sir Richard was saying to Margaret French. ”Oh no, I didn't go. But Mary, of course, thought she must go. Somebody invited her.”

Kitty started.

”You were at the serenata?” she said to Mary.

”Yes, I went with a party from the hotel.”

Kitty looked at her. A sudden flush had touched her pale cheeks, and she could not conceal the trembling of her hands.

”That was marvellous, that light on the Salute, wasn't it?”

”Wonderful!--and on the water, too. I saw two or three people I knew--just caught their faces for a second.”

”Did you?” said Kitty. And thoughts ran fast through her head. ”Did she see Geoffrey?--and does she mean me to understand that she did? How she detests me! If she did see him, of course she supposes that I know all about it, and that he's here for me. Why don't I ask her, straight out, whether she saw him, and make her understand that I don't care twopence?--that she's welcome to him--as far as I'm concerned?”

But some hidden feeling tied her tongue. Mary continued to talk about the serenata, and Kitty was presently conscious that her every word and gesture in reply was closely watched. ”Yes, yes, she saw him. Perhaps she'll tell William--or write home to mother?”

And in her excitement she began to chatter fast and loudly, mostly to Sir Richard--repeating some of the Venice tales she had told in the gondola--with much inconsequence and extravagance. The old man listened, his hands on his stick, his eyes on the ground, the expression on his strong mouth hostile or sarcastic. It was a relief to everybody when Ashe's step was heard stumbling up the dark stairs, and the door opened on his friendly and courteous presence.

”Why, Polly!--and Cousin Richard! I wondered where you had hidden yourselves.”

Mary's bright, involuntary smile transformed her. Ashe sat down beside her, and they were soon deep in all sorts of gossip--relations, acquaintance, politics, and what not. All Mary's stiffness disappeared.

She became the elegant, agreeable woman, of whom dinner-parties were glad. Ashe plunged into the pleasant malice of her talk, which ranged through the good and evil fortunes--mostly the latter--of half his acquaintance; discussed the debts, the love-affairs, and the follies of his political colleagues or Parliamentary foes; how the Foreign Secretary had been getting on at Balmoral--how so-and-so had been ruined at the Derby and restored to sanity and solvency by the Oaks--how Lady Parham, at Hatfield, had been made to know her place by the French Amba.s.sador--and the like; pa.s.sing thereby a charming half-hour.

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