"costanza is so cross," said bianca, drawing me aside, in her childish fashion; "she talks of going back at once to florence, and i don't know who would be sorry if she did."
"oh, for shame, bianca; she is your guest," i said, really shocked.
it was the morning after the ball, and all the ladies were assembled in the sitting-room, displaying every one of them unmistakable signs of what is sometimes called "hot coppers."
i had been greeted coldly on my entrance, a fact which had dashed my own cheerful mood, and had set me seriously considering plans of departure. "if they are going to dislike me, there's an end of the matter," i thought; but i hated the idea of retiring beaten from the field.
i did not succeed in making my escape for a single[pg 85] hour throughout the day. every one wanted miss meredith's services; now she must hold a skein of wool, now accompany costanza's song on the piano, now shout her uncertain italian down the trumpet of a deaf old visitor. i was quite worn out by dinner-time; and afterwards the whole party drove off to a reception, leaving me behind.
"does not the signorina accompany us?" said andrea to his mother, as they stood awaiting the carriage.
"miss meredith is tired and goes to bed," answered the marchesa in her dry, impenetrable way. i had not been invited, but i made no remark. andrea opened his eyes wide, and came over deliberately to the sofa where i sat.
there was such a determined look about the lines of his mouth, about his whole presence, that i found myself unconsciously thinking: "you are a very, very obstinate person, marchesino, and i for one should be sorry to defy you. you looked just like that five years ago, when they were trying to tie you to the ancestral apron-strings, and i don't know that costanza is to be envied, when all is said."
"miss meredith," said his lowered voice in my ear, "this is the first opportunity you have given me to-day[pg 86] of telling you what i think of your conduct. i do not wonder that you are afraid of me."
"marchesino!"
"to make engagements and to break them is not thought good behaviour either in italy or in america. perhaps in england it is different."
i looked up, and meeting his eyes forgot everything else in the world. forgot the marchesa hovering near, only prevented by a certain awe of her son from swooping down on us; forgot costanza champing the bit, as it were, in the doorway; forgot the cold, unfriendly glances which had made life dark for me throughout the day.
"i had no partner for number ten," went on andrea, "though a lady had promised to dance it with me. now what do you think of that lady's behaviour?"
his gravity was too much for my own, and i smiled.
"you suffer from too keen a sense of humour, miss meredith," he said, and i scarcely knew whether to take him seriously or not. i only knew that my heart was beating, that my pulses were throbbing as they had never done before.
"the carriage is at the door, andrea," cried[pg 87] bianca, bouncing up to us, and looking inquisitive and excited.
he rose at once, holding out his hand.
"good-night, miss meredith," he said, aloud; "i am sorry that you do not accompany us."
costanza flounced across the passage noisily; the marchesa looked me full in the face, then turned away in silence; and even annunziata was grave. i felt suddenly that i had been brought up before a court of justice, tried, and found guilty of some heinous but unknown offence.
light still lingered in the gallery, and when the carriage had rolled off i sought shelter there, pacing to and fro with rapid, unequal tread. what had happened to me? what curious change had wrought itself not only in myself, but in my surroundings, during these last two days? was it only two days since andrea had come towards me down this very gallery? unconsciously the thought shaped itself, and then i grew crimson in the solitude. what had andrea to do with the altered state of things? how could his home-coming affect the little governess, the humblest member of that stately household?
there in the glow of the fading sunlight hung the bronzino, its eyes—so like some other eyes—gazing[pg 88] steadily at me from the canvas. "beautiful eyes," i thought; "honest eyes, good eyes! there was never anything very bad in that person's life. i think he was good and happy, and that every one was fond of him."
and then again i blushed, and turned away suddenly. to blush at a picture!
down in the deserted garden the spring was carrying on her work, in her own rapid, noiseless fashion. no doubt it was the spring also that was stirring in my heart; that was causing all sorts of new, unexpected growths of thought and feeling to sprout into sudden life; that was changing the habitual serenity of my mood into something of the fitfulness of an april day.
alternately happy and miserable, i continued to pace the gallery till the last remnant of sunlight had died away, and the brilliant moonlight came streaming in through the windows.
then my courage faded all at once. the stony place struck chill, my own footsteps echoed unnaturally loud; the eyes of the bronzino staring through the silver radiance, filled me with unspeakable terror.
with a beating heart i gathered up my skirts and fled up the silent stairs, along the corridor, to my room.
