Itwas a week later before Bertie came. He was brought to call by his mother and sisters in great delight and pomp; and then there ensued the strangest scene, of which only half the company had the least comprehension. The room which Kate had chosen as their sitting-room was an oblong room, with another smaller one opening from it. This small room was almost opposite the fireplace in the larger one, and made a draught which some people—indeed, most people—objected to; but as the broad open doorway was amply curtained, and a great deal of sun came in along with the imaginary draught, the brightness of the place won the day against all objections. The little room was thus preserved from the air of secrecy and retirement common to such rooms. No one could retire to flirt there; no one could listen unseen to conversations not intended for them. The piano was placed in it, and the writing-table, under the broad recessed window, which filled the whole end of it. It was light as a lantern, swept by the daylight from side to side, and the two fires kept it as warm as it was bright. When Mrs. Hardwick sailed in, bearing under her convoy her two blooming girls close behind her, and the tall brother towering over their heads, a more proud or happy woman could not be.
‘I have brought my Bertie to see you,’ she said, all the seriousness of that ‘sense of duty’ which weighed upon her ordinary demeanour melting for the moment in her motherly delight and pride. ‘He was so modest, we could scarcely persuade him to come. He thought you might think he was presuming on your acquaintance abroad, and taking as much liberty as if he had been an intimate——’
‘I think Mr. Hardwick might very well take as much liberty as that,’ cried Kate, moved, in spite of herself, to resentment with this obstinate make-believe. Her aunt looked up at her with such pain in her eyes as is sometimes seen in the eyes of animals, who can make us no other protest.
‘We are very glad to see Mr. Bertie again,’ said Mrs. Anderson, holding out her hand to him with a smile. ‘He is a Shanklin acquaintance, too. We are old friends.’
And he shook hands with all of them solemnly, his face turning all manner of colours, and his eyes fixed on the ground. Ombra was the last to approach, and as she gave him her hand, she did not say a word; neither did she lift her eyes to look at him. They stood by each other for a second, hand in hand, with eyes cast down, and a flush of misery upon both their faces. Was it merely misery? It could not but be painful, meeting thus, they who had parted so differently; but Kate, who could not remove her eyes from them, wondered, out of the midst of the sombre cloud which seemed to have come in with Bertie, and to have wrapped her round—wondered what other feeling might be in their minds. Was it not a happiness to stand together even now, and here?—to be in the same room?—to touch each other’s hands? Even amid all this pain of suppression and concealment was not there something more in it? She felt as if fascinated, unable to withdraw her eyes from them; but they remained together only for a moment; and Bertie’s sisters, who did not think Miss Anderson of much importance, did not even notice the meeting. Bertie himself withdrew to Mrs. Anderson’s side, and began to talk to her and to his mother. The girls, disappointed (for naturally they would have preferred that he should make himself agreeable to the heiress), sat down by Kate. Ombra dropped noiselessly on a chair close to the doorway between the two rooms; and after a few minutes she said to her cousin, ‘Will you pardon me if I finish my letter for the post?’ and went into the inner room, and sat down at the writing-table.
‘She writes a great deal, doesn’t she?’ said Edith Hardwick. ‘Is she literary, Miss Courtenay? I asked Bertie, but he could not tell me. I thought she would not mind doing something perhaps for the “Parish Magazine.”’
‘Edith does most of it herself,’ said Minnie. (‘Oh! Minnie, for shame!’) ‘And do you know, Miss Courtenay, she had something in the last “Monthly Packet.”’ (‘Please don’t, Minnie, please! What do you suppose Miss Courtenay cares?’) ‘I shall bring it up to show you next time I come.’
‘Indeed, you shall do nothing of the kind!’ said Edith, blushing. And Kate made a pretty little civil speech, which would have been quite real and genuine, had not her mind been so occupied with other things; but with the drama actually before her eyes, how could she think of stories in the ‘Monthly Packet?’ Her eyes went from one to another as they sat with the whole breadth of the room between them; and this absorption made her look much more superior and lofty than she was in reality, or had any thought of being. Yes, she said to herself, it was best so—they could not possibly talk to each other as strangers. It was best that they should thus get out of sight of each other almost—avoid any intercourse. But how strange it was!
‘Don’t you think it is odd that Bertie, knowing the world as he does, should be so shy?’ said Edith. (‘Oh! he is so shy!’ cried Minnie.) ‘He made as many excuses as a frightened little girl. “They won’t want to seeme,” he said. “Miss Courtenay will know it is not rudeness on my part if I don’t call. Why should I go and bother them?” Wedraggedhim here!’
‘We dragged him by the hair of his head,’ said Minnie, who was the wit of the family.
And Kate did her best to laugh.
‘I did not think he had been so shy,’ she said. ‘He wanted, I suppose, to have you all to himself, and not to lose his time making visits. How long is he to stay?’
Edith and Minnie looked at each other. The question had already been discussed between their mother and themselves whether Bertie would be asked to dinner, or whether, indeed, they might not all be asked, with the addition of Edith’s betrothed, who was visiting also at the Rectory. They all thought it would be a right thing for Kate to do; and, of course, as Mrs. Anderson was there, it would be so easy, and in every way so nice. They looked at each other, accordingly, with a little consciousness.
‘He is to stay till Monday, I think,’ said Edith; ‘or perhaps we might coax him to give us another day, if——’ She was going to say if there was any reason, but that seemed a hint too plain.
‘That is not a very long visit,’ said Kate. And then, without a hint of a dinner-party, she plunged into the parish, that admirable ground of escape in all difficulties.
They had got into the very depths of charities, and coals, and saving-clubs, when Mrs. Hardwick rose.
‘We are such a large party, we must not inflict ourselves upon you too long,’ said Mrs. Hardwick. She, too, was a little disappointed that there was not a word about a dinner. She thought Mrs. Anderson should have known what her duty was in the circumstances, and should have given her niece a hint; ‘but I hope we shall all meet again before my son goes away.’
And then there was a second shaking of hands. When all was over, and the party were moving off, Kate turned to Bertie, who was last.
‘You have not taken leave of Ombra,’ she said, looking full at him.
He coloured to his hair; he made her a confused bow, and hurried into the room where Ombra was. Kate, with a sternness which was very strange to her, watched the two figures against the light. Ombra did not move. She spoke to him apparently without even looking up from her letter. A dozen words or so—no more. Then there came a sudden cry from the other door, by which the mother and daughters were going‘Oh! we have forgotten Miss Anderson!’ and the whole stream flowed back.
‘Indeed, it is Ombra’s fault; but she was writing for the post,’ exclaimed her mother, calling to her.
Ombra came forward to the doorway, very pale, even to her lips, but smiling, and shook hands three times, and repeated that it was her fault. And then the procession streamed away.
‘That girl looks very unhealthy,’ Mrs. Hardwick said, when they were walking down the avenue. ‘I shall try and find out from her mother if there is consumption in the family, and advise them to try the new remedy. Did you notice what a colour her lips were? She is very retiring, poor thing; and, I must say, never puts herself the least in the way.’
‘Do you think she is pretty, Bertie?’ said the sisters, together.
‘Pretty? Oh! I can’t tell. I am no judge,’ said Bertie. ‘Look here, mamma, I am going to see old Stokes, the keeper. He used to be a great friend of mine. If I don’t make up to you before you reach home, I’ll be back at least before it is dark.’
‘Before it is dark!’ said Mrs. Hardwick, in dismay. But Bertie was gone. ‘I suppose young men must have their way,’ she said, looking after him. ‘But you must not think, girls, that people are any the happier for having their way. On the contrary, you who have been educated to submit have a much better preparation for life. I hope dear Bertie will never meet with any serious disappointment,’ she added, with a sigh.
‘Oh! mamma, serious disappointment! when he has always succeeded in everything!’ cried the girls, in their duet.
‘For he could not bear it,’ said Mrs. Hardwick, shaking her head. ‘It would be doubly,doublyhard upon him; for he has never been trained to bear it—never, I may say, since he left the nursery, and got out of my hands.’
At this time it was nearly three o’clock, a dull Winter afternoon, not severe, but dim and mournful. It was the greyness of frost, however, not of damp, which was in the air; and Kate, who was restless, announced her intention of taking a long walk. She was glad to escape from this heavy atmosphere of home; she said, somewhat bitterly, that it was best to leave them together to unbosom themselves, to tell each other all those secrets which were not to be confided to her; and to compare notes, no doubt, as to how he was looking, and how they were to find favourable opportunities of meeting again, Kate’s heart was sore—she was irritated by the mystery which, after all, was so plain to her. She saw the secret thing moving underneath the cover—the only difficulty she had was to decide what kind of secret it was. What was the relationship betweenBertie and Ombra? Were they only lovers?—were they something more?—and what had Bertie Eldridge to do with it? Kate, indignant, would not permit herself to think; but the questions came surging up in her mind against her will. She had a little basket in her hand. She was carrying some grapes and wine to old Stokes, the disabled keeper, who was dying, and whom everybody made much of. On her way to his cottage she had to pass that little nook where the brook was, and where she had first seen Bertie Hardwick. It was the first time she had seen it since her return, and she paused, half in anger and bitterness, half with a softening swell of recollection. How rich, and sweet, and warm, and delicious it had been that Summer evening, with the blossom still on the hawthorns, and the grass like velvet, and the soft little waterfall tinkling! How everything was changed!—the bushes all black with frost, the trees bare of their foliage, with here and there a ragged red leaf at the end of a bough, the brook tinkling with a sharp metallic sound. Everything else was frozen and still—all the insect life of Summer, all the movements and rustlings of grass and leaves and flowers. The flowers and the leaves were gone; the grass bound fast in an icy coat. ‘But not more different,’ Kate thought, ‘than were other matters—more important than the grass and flowers.’
She was roused from her momentary reverie by the sound of a footstep ringing clear and sharp along the frosty road; and before she could get out of the shelter of the little coppice which encircled that haunt of her childhood, Bertie Hardwick came suddenly up to her. The sight of her startled the young man—but in what way? A flush of delight rushed over his face—he brightened all over, as it seemed, eyes and mouth and every feature. He came forward to her with impetuous steps, and took her hand before she was aware.
‘I was thinking of you,’ he cried; ‘longing to meet you just here, not believing it possible—oh, Kate!—— Miss Courtenay, I beg your pardon. I—I forget what I was going to say.’
He did not give up her hand, though; he stood and gazed at her with such pleasure in his eyes as could not be misconstrued. And then the most curious phenomenon came into being—a thing most wonderful, not to be explained. All the anger and the suspicion and the bitterness, suddenly, in a moment, fled out of Kate’s heart—they fled like evil spirits exorcised and put to flight by something better than they. Kate was too honest to conceal what was in her mind. She did not draw away her hand; she looked at him full with her candid eyes.
‘Mr. Bertie, I am very glad to have met you here. I can’t help remembering; and I should be glad—very glad to meetyou anywhere; but——’
He dropped her hand; he put up both his own to his face, as if to cover its shame; and then, with a totally changed tone, and a voice from which all the gladness had gone, he said slowly:
‘I know; but I am not allowed to explain—I cannot explain. Oh! Kate, you know no harm of me, do you? You have never known or heard that I was without sense of honour? trust me, if you can! Nothing in it, not any one thing, is my fault.’
Kate started as if she had been struck, and everything that had wounded her came back in sevenfold strength. She could not keep even a tone of contempt out of her voice.
‘I have heard,’ she said, ‘that there was honour among thieves: doyouthrow the blame upon Ombra—all the blame? I suppose it is the way men do. Good-bye, Mr. Hardwick!’ And, before he could say a word, she was gone—flying past him, indignant, contemptuous, wounded to the core.
As she came back from the keeper’s cottage, when the afternoon was duller than ever, and the sky seemed to be dropping over the tree-tops, Kate thought she saw, in one of the roads which crossed the avenue, the flutter of a lady’s shawl. The girl was curious in her excitement, and she paused behind a tree to watch. After a short time the fluttering shawl drew nearer. It was Ombra, clinging close to Bertie Hardwick’s arm—turning to him a pale face full of care and anxiety. They were discussing their dark concerns—their secrets. Kate rushed home without once stopping or drawing breath.
Thisincident passed as all incidents do, and the blank of common life returned. How short those moments of action are in existence, and how long are the dull intervals—those intervals which count for nothing, and yet are life itself! Bertie Hardwick went away only after sundry unsuccessful efforts on the part of his family to unite the party from the Hall with that at the Rectory. Mrs. Hardwick would willingly, very willingly, have asked them to dinner, even after the disappointment of discovering that they did not mean to ask Bertie. She was stopped, however, by a very commonplace hindrance—where was she to find gentlemen enough on short notice to balance all those three ladies? Mr. Hardwick, Bertie, and Edith’s betrothed made the tale correct to begin with—but three more gentlemen in a country parish on two days’ notice! It was impossible. All that Mrs. Hardwick could do was to ask, deprecatingly, that the ladies would come to a family dinner, ‘veryquiet,’ she said; ‘you must not suppose I mean a party.’ Mrs. Anderson, with her best and most smiling looks, accepted readily. ‘But Ombra is not very well,’ she said; ‘I fear I must ask you to excuse her. And dear Kate has such a bad cold—she caught it walking across the park the other evening to old Stokes the keeper’s cottage.’
‘To old Stokes!’ cried Mrs. Hardwick. ‘Why, my Bertie was there too.’ And she added, looking grave, after that burst of radiance, ‘The old man was a great favourite with everybody. We all go to see him.’
‘So I hear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, smiling; and next day she put on her best gown, poor soul! and went patiently down to the Rectory to dinner, and made a great many apologies for her girls. She did not enjoy it much, and she had to explain that the first chill of England after Italy had been too much for Kate and Ombra. ‘We had lived in the Isle of Wight for some years before,’ she added, ‘so that this is almost their first experience of the severity of Winter. But a few days indoors I hope will make them all right.’
Edith Hardwick could not believe her eyes when, next day, the day before Bertie left, she saw Miss Anderson walking in the park. ‘Do you think it possible it was not true?’ she and her sister asked each other in consternation; but neither they, nor wiser persons than they, could have determined that question. Ombra was not well, nor was Kate. They were both disturbed in their youthful being almost beyond the limits of self-control. Mrs. Anderson had, in some respects, to bear both their burdens; but she said to herself, with a sigh, that her shoulders were used to it. She had borne the yoke in her youth, she had been trained to bear a great deal, and say very little about it. And so the emotion of the incident gradually died away, growing fainter and larger in the stillness, and the monotony came back as of old!
But, oh! how pleasant the monotony of old would have been, how delightful, had there been nothing but the daily walks, the daily talks, the afternoon drives, the cheerful discussions, and cheerful visits, which had made their simple life at Shanklin so sweet! All that was over, another cycle of existence had come in.
I think another fortnight had elapsed since Bertie’s visit, and everything had been very quiet—and the quiet had been very intolerable. Sometimes almost a semblance of confidential intercourse would be set up among them, and Ombra would lean upon Kate, and Kate’s heart melt towards Ombra. This took place generally in the evening, when they sat together in the firelight before the lamp was brought, and talked the kind of shadowy talk which belongs to that hour.
‘Look at my aunt upon the wall!’ Kate cried, one evening, in momentary amusement. ‘How gigantic she is, and how she nods and beckons at us!’ Mrs. Anderson was chilly, and had placed her chair in front of the fire.
‘She is no more a shadow than we all are,’ said Ombra. ‘When the light comes, that vast apparition will disappear, and she will be herself. Kate, don’t you see the parable? We are all stolen out of ourselves, made into ghosts, till the light comes.’
‘I don’t understand parables,’ said Kate.
‘I wish you did this one,’ said Ombra, with a sigh, ‘for it is true.’ And then there was silence for a time, a silence which Kate broke by saying,
‘There is the new moon. I must go and look at her.’
Not through the glass, dear—it is unlucky,’ said Mrs. Anderson; but Kate took no notice. She went into the inner room, and watched the new moon through the great window. A cold, belated, baby moon, looking as if it had lost its way somehow in that blue waste of sky. And the earth looked cold, chilled to the heart, as much as could be seen of it, the tree-topscowering together, the park frozen. She stood there in a reverie, and forgot about the time, and where she was. The bustle behind her of the lamp being brought in did not disturb Kate, and seeing her at the window, the servant who came with the lights discreetly forbore to disturb her, and left the curtains undrawn. But, from what followed, it was evident that nobody else observed Kate, and she was still deep in her musings, when she was startled, and brought to instant life, by a voice which seemed to ring through the room to her like a trumpet-note of defiance.
‘Mother, this cannot go on!’ Ombra cried out all at once. ‘If it lasts much longer I shall hate her. I shall want to kill her!’
‘Ombra!’
‘It is true, I shall want to kill her! Oh! not actually with my hands! One never knows what one could do till one is tempted. Still I think I would not touch her. But, God help us, mother, God help us! I hate her now!’
‘God help you, indeed, my unhappy child!’ cried her mother. ‘Oh! Ombra, do you know you are breaking my heart?’
‘My own was broken first,’ cried Ombra; and there was a ferocious and wild force in what she said, which thrilled through and through the listener, now just beginning to feel that she should not be here, but unable to stir in her great horror and astonishment. ‘My own was broken first. What does it matter? I thought I could brave everything; but to have him sent here for her sake—because she would be the most fit match for him! to have her come again between him and me——’
‘She never came between him and you—poor Kate!—she never thought of him. Has it not been proved that it was only a fancy? Oh! Ombra, how ungrateful, how unkind you are to her!’
‘What must I be grateful for?’ cried Ombra. ‘She has always been in my way, always! She came between you and me. She took half away from me of what was all mine. Would you hesitate, and doubt, and trouble, as you do, if it were not for Kate? She has always been in my way! She has been my enemy, not my friend. If she did not really come between him and me, then I thought so, and I had all the anguish and sorrow as if it had been true. And now he is to be sent here to meet her—and I am to put up with it, he says, as it will give us means of meeting. But I will not put up with it!’ cried Ombra, her voice rising shrill with passion—‘I cannot; it is asking too much. I would rather not meet him than meet him to be watched by Kate’s eyes. He has no right to come here on such a pretence. I would rather kill her—I would rather never see him again!’
‘Oh! Ombra, how can you tell who may hear you?’ cried her mother, putting up her hand as if to stop her mouth.
‘I don’t care who hears me!’ said Ombra, pale and sullen.
And then there was a rustle and movement, and both started, looking up with one impulse. In the twilight right beyond the circle of the lamplight, white as death, with a piteous gaze that neither could ever forget, stood Kate. Mrs. Anderson sprang to her feet with a cry; Ombra said not a word—she sat back in her chair, and kept her startled eyes upon her cousin—great dilated eyes, awakened all in a minute to what she had done.
‘Kate, you have heard what she has said?’
‘Yes, I have heard it,’ she said, faintly. ‘I did not mean to; but I was there, and I thought you knew. I have heard everything. Oh! it does not matter. It hurts at present, but it will go off after a while.’
She tried to smile, and then she broke down and cried. Mrs. Anderson went to her and threw her arms around her; but Kate put her aunt gently away. She looked up through her tears, and shook her head with the best smile she could muster.
‘No, it is not worth while,’ she said,—‘not any more. I have been wrong all the time. I suppose God did not mean it so. I had no natural mother or sister, and you can’t get such things except by nature. Don’t let us say any more about it,’ she added, hastily brushing the tears from her eyes. ‘I am very sorry you have suffered so much on my account, Ombra. If I had only known—— And I never came between you and anyone—never dreamt of doing it—never will, never—you may be sure of that. I wanted my aunt to love me—that was natural—but no one else.’
‘Kate, I did not mean it,’ faltered Ombra, her white face suddenly burning with a blush of passionate shame. She had never realised the meanness of her jealousies and suspicions till this moment. Her mother’s remonstrances had never opened her eyes; but in a moment, in this anguish of being found out, she found out herself, and saw through her cousin’s eyes, as it were, how contemptible it all was.
‘I think you meant it. I don’t think you could have spoken so had you not meant it,’ said Kate, with composure. And then she sat down, and they all looked at each other, Mrs. Anderson standing before the two girls, wringing her hands. I think they realised what had happened better than she did. Her alarm and misery were great. This was a quarrel between her two children—a quarrel which it was very dreadful to contemplate. They had never quarrelled before; little misunderstandings might have arisen between them, but these it was always possible to smooth down; but this was a quarrel. The best thing to do, she felt, was that they should have it out. Thus foronce her perception failed her. She stood frightened between them, looking from one to another, not certain on which side the volcano would burst forth. But no volcano burst forth; things had gone too far for that.
As for Kate, she did not know what had come over her. She had become calm without knowing how. All her agitation passed away, and a dead stillness succeeded—a stillness which made her afraid. Two minutes ago her heart and body had been tingling with darts of pain. She had felt the blow everywhere—on her head, which ached and rung as if she had been struck—on her heart, which seemed all over dull pain—even in her limbs, which did not feel able to support her. But now all had altered; a mysterious numbness crept from her feet up to her heart and her head. She did not feel anything; she saw Ombra’s big, startled eyes straining at her, and Mrs. Anderson, standing by, wringing her hands; but neither the one nor the other brought any gleam of feeling to her mind.
‘It is a pity we came here,’ she said, slowly—‘a great pity, for people will discuss everything—I suppose they always do. And I don’t know, indeed, what is best; I am not prepared to propose anything; all seems dark to me. I cannot go on standing in Ombra’s way—that is all I know. I will not do it. And perhaps, if we were all to think it over to-night, and tell what we think to-morrow morning——’ she said, with a smile, which was very faint, and a strong indication to burst forth instead into tears.
‘Oh! my darling!’ said Mrs. Anderson, bewildered by this extraordinary calm.
Kate made a little strange gesture. It was the same with which she had put her aunt away. ‘Don’t!’ she said, under her breath. She could bear what Ombra had said after the first astonishing outburst, but she could not bear that caressing—those sweet names which belong only to those who are loved. Don’t! A touch would have made her recoil—a kiss would have driven her wild and raving, she thought. This was the horror of it all—not that they had quarrelled, but that they had pretended to love her, and all the time had been hating her—or, at the best, had been keeping each other up to the mark by thought of the gratitude and kindness they owed her. Kindness and gratitude!—and yet they had pretended to love.
‘Perhaps it is better I should not say anything,’ said Ombra, with another flush, which this time was that of rising anger. ‘I ought not to have spoken as I did, but I make no apologies—it would be foolish to do so. You must form your own opinion, and nothing that I could say would change it. Of course it is no excuse to say that I would not have spoken as I did had I known you were there.’
‘I did not mean to listen,’ said Kate, colouring a little. ‘You might have seen me all the time; but it is best to say nothing at all now—none of us had better speak. We have to get through dinner, which is a pity. But after that, let us think it over quietly—quite quietly—and in the morning we shall see better. There is no reason,’ she said, very softly, ‘why, because you do not feel for me as I thought you did, we should quarrel; for really there is nothing to quarrel about. One’s love is not in one’s own gift, to be bestowed as one pleases. You have been very kind to me—very kind.’
‘Oh! Kate—oh! my dear child, do you think I don’t love you? Oh! Kate, do not break my heart!’
‘Don’t, aunt, please,’ she said, with a shiver. ‘I don’t feel quite well, and it hurts me. Don’t—any more—now!’
Thatwas the horrible sting of it—they had made believe to love her, and it had not been true. Now love, Kate reflected (as she went slowly to her room, feeling, somehow, as if every step was a mile), was not like anything else. To counterfeit any other emotion might be pardoned, but to counterfeit love was the last injury anyone could do you. Perhaps it was the wound to her pride which helped the wound to her affections, and made it so bitter. As she thought it all over, she reflected that she had, no doubt, accepted this love much too easily when she went first to her aunt’s charge. She had leapt into their arms, as it were. She had left them no room to understand what their real feelings were; she had taken it for granted that they loved her. She writhed under the humiliation which this recollection brought her. After all it was not, perhaps, they who were in the wrong, but she who had insisted on believing what they had never taken much pains to persuade her of. After all, when she came to think of it, Ombra had made no pretence whatever. The very first time they met, Ombra had repulsed her—she was honest, at least!
To be sure, Mrs. Anderson had been very caressing, but that was her nature. She said dear and darling to every child that came in her way—she petted everybody. Why, then, should Kate have accepted her petting as any sign of special love? It was herself that had been a vain fool, all along. She had taken it for granted: she had assumed it as necessary and certain that they loved her; and they, embarrassed by this faith, had been reluctant to hurt her feelings by undeceiving her; this was how it was. What stings, what tortures of pride and pain, did she give herself as she thought these things over! Gradually she pulled down all the pleasant house that had sheltered her these four—nearly five long years. She plucked it down with her hands. She laid her weary head on her little sofa beside the fire in her room, and watched the flickering shadows, and said to herself that here she was, back in the only home that belonged to her, alone as she had been when she left it. Four cold walls, with so much furniture, new unknown servants, who could notlove her—who did not even know her; a cold, cold miserable world outside, and no one in it to whom it would make the difference of a meal or a night’s rest, whether she lived or died. Oh, cold, terrible remorseless fate! back again in Langton-Courtenay, which, perhaps, she ought never to have left, exactly in the same position as when she left it. Kate could not find any solace in tears; they would not come. All her youth of heart, her easy emotions, her childish laughing and crying, were gone. The sunshine of happiness that had lighted up all the world with dazzling lights had been suddenly quenched. She saw everything as it was, natural and true. It was like the sudden enlightenment which came to the dreamer in fairy-land; shrivelled up all the beautiful faces, turning the gold into dross, and the sweetness into corruption.
How far these feelings were exaggerated and overdone, the reader can judge. The spectator, indeed, always sees how much too far the bent bow rebounds when the string is cut, and how far the sufferer goes astray in disappointment and grief, as well as in the extravagances of hope. But, unfortunately, the one who has to go through it never gets the benefit of that tranquilising knowledge. And to Kate all that she saw now seemed too real—more real than anything she had known before—and her desertion complete. She lay on her sofa, and gazed into the fire, and felt her temples beating and her eyes blazing, but could not cry to relieve herself. When Maryanne came upstairs to light her mistress’s candles, and prepare her dress for dinner, she shrieked out to see the flushed face on the sofa-pillow.
‘I have a headache—that is all. Don’t make a fuss,’ cried poor Kate.
‘Miss Kate, you must be going to have a fever. Let me call Mrs. Anderson—let me send for the doctor,’ cried the girl, in dismay. But Kate exerted her authority, and silenced her. She sent her downstairs with messages that she had a headache, and could not come down again, but was going to bed, and would rather not be disturbed.’
Late in the evening, when Mrs. Anderson came to the door, Maryanne repeated the message. ‘I think, ma’am, Miss Kate’s asleep. She said she was not to be disturbed.’
But Maryanne did not know how to keep this visitor out. She dared not oppose her, as she stole in on noiseless foot, and went to the bedside. Kate was lying with all her pretty hair in a mass on the pillow, with her eyes closed, and the flush which had frightened Maryanne still on her face. Was she asleep? Mrs. Anderson would have thought so, but for seeing two big teardrops just stealing from her closed eyelashes. She stooped over and kissed her softly on the forehead. ‘God bless you, my dear child, my dear child!’ she whispered, almost wishingshe might not be heard; and then stole away to her own room, to the other child, much more tumultuous and exciting, who awaited her. Poor Mrs. Anderson! of all the three she was the one who had the most to bear.
Ombra was pacing up and down the large bed-room, so luxurious and wealthy, her breath coming quick with excitement, her whole frame full of pulses and tinglings of a hundred pains. She, too, had gone through a sharp pang of humiliation; but it had passed over. She was not lonely, like Kate. She had her mother to fall back upon in the meantime; and even failing her mother, she had some one else, another who would support her, upon whom she could lean, and who would give her moral sacking and sympathy. All this makes a wonderful difference in the way people receive a downfall. Ombra had been thunderstruck at first at her own recklessness, and the wounds she had given; but now a certain irritation possessed her, inflaming all the sore places in her mind, and they were not few. She was walking up and down, thinking what she would do, what she would say, how she would no longer be held in subjection, and forced to consider Kate’s ways and Kate’s feelings, Kate this and that. She was sorry she had said what she did—that she could avow without hesitation. She had not meant to hurt her cousin, and of course she had not meant really that she hated her, but only that she was irritated and unhappy, and not in a position to choose her words. Kate was rich, and could have whatever she pleased; but Ombra had nothing but the people who loved her, and she could not bear any interference with them. It was the parable of the ewe-lamb over again, she said to herself; and thus was exciting herself, and swelling her excitement to a higher and higher pitch, when her mother went in—her mother, for whom all this tempest was preparing and upon whom it was about to fall.
‘You have been to see her, mamma! You never think of your own dignity! You have been petting her, and apologising to her!’
‘She is asleep,’ said Mrs. Anderson, sitting down, and leaning her head on her hand. She did not feel able for any more contention. Kate, she felt sure, was not really asleep, but she accepted the semblance, that no more might be said.
Ombra laughed, and, though the laugh sounded mocking, there was a great deal of secret relief in it.
‘Oh! she is asleep! Did not I say she was no more than a child? She has got over it already. When she wakes up she will have forgotten all about it. How excellent those easy-going natures are! I knew it was only for the moment. I knew she had no feelings to speak of. For once, mama, you must acknowledge yourself in the wrong!’
And Ombra sat down too, with an immense weight lifted from her mind. She had not owned it even to herself, but the relief was so great that she felt now what her anxiety had been. ‘Little foolish thing,’ she said, ‘to be so heroical, and make such a noise—’ Ombra laughed almost hysterically—‘and then to go to bed and fall asleep, like a baby! She is little more than a baby—I always told you so, mamma.’
‘You have always been wrong, Ombra, in your estimation of Kate, and you are wrong now. Whether she was asleep or not, I can’t say; she looked like it. But this is a very serious matter all the same. It will not be so easily got over as you think.’
‘I don’t wish it to be got over!’ cried Ombra. ‘It is a kind of life I cannot endure, and it ought not to be asked of me—it is too much to ask of me. You saw the letter. He is to be sent here, with the object of paying his addresses to her, because she is an heiress, and it is thought he ought to marry money. To marry—her! Oh! mamma! he ought not to have said it to me. It was wicked and cruel to make such an explanation.’
‘I think so too,’ said Mrs. Anderson, under her breath.
‘And he does not seem to be horrified by the thought. He says we shall be able to meet—— Oh! mother, before this happens let us go away somewhere, and hide ourselves at the end of the earth!’
‘Ombra, my poor child, you must not hide yourself. There are your rights to be considered. It is not that I don’t see how hard it is; but you must not be the one to judge him harshly. We must make allowances. He was alone—he was not under good influence, when he wrote.’
‘Oh! mother, and am I to believe ofhimthat bad influences affect him so? This is making it worse—a thousand times worse! I thought I had foreseen everything that there could be to bear; but I never thought of this.’
‘Alas! poor child, how little did you foresee!’ said Mrs. Anderson, in a low voice—‘not half nor quarter part. Ombra, let us take Kate’s advice.La nuit porte conseil—let us decide nothing to-night.’
‘You can go and sleep, like her,’ said Ombra, somewhat bitterly. ‘I think she is more like you than I am. You will say your prayers, and compose yourself, and go to sleep.’
Mrs. Anderson smiled faintly. ‘Yes, I could have done that when I was as young as you,’ she said, and made no other answer. She was sick at heart, and weary of the discussion. She had gone over the same ground so often, and how often soever she might go over it, the effect was still the same. For what could anyone make of such a hopeless, dreary business?
After all, it was Ombra, with all her passion, who was asleep the first. Her sighs seemed to steal through the room likeghosts, and sometimes a deeper one than usual would cause her mother to steal through the open doorway to see if her child was ill. But after a time the sighs died away, and Mrs. Anderson lay in the darkness of the long Winter night, watching the expiring fire, which burned lower and lower, and listening to the wind outside, and asking herself what was to be the next chapter—where she was to go and what to do. She blamed herself bitterly for all that had happened, and went over it step by step and asked herself how it could have been helped. Of itself, had it been done in the light of day, and with consent of all parties, there had been no harm. She had her child’s happiness to consider chiefly, and not the prejudices of a family with whom she had no acquaintance. How easy it is to justify anything that is done and cannot be undone! and how easy and natural the steps seem by which it was brought about! while all the time something keeps pricking the casuist, whispering, ‘I told you so.’ Yes, she had not been without her warnings; she had known that she ought not to have given that consent which had been wrung from her, as it were, at the sword’s point. She had known that it was weak of her to let principle and honour go, lest Ombra’s cheek should be pale, and her face averted from her mother.
‘It was not Ombra’s fault,’ she said to herself. ‘It was natural that Ombra should do anything she did; but I who am older, who know the world, I should have known better—I should have had the courage to bear even her unhappiness, for her good. Oh, my poor child! and she does not know yet, bad as she thinks it, half of what she may have to bear.’
Thus the mother lay and accused herself, taking first one, and then the other, upon her shoulders, shedding salt tears under the veil of that darkness, wondering where she should next wander to, and what would become of them, and whether light could ever come out of this darkness. How her heart ached!—what fears and heaviness overwhelmed her! while Ombra slept and dreamed, and was happy in the midst of the wretchedness which she had brought upon herself!
Theywere all very subdued when they met next day. It was now, perhaps, more than at any former time that Kate’s position told. Instinctively, without a word of it to each other, Mrs. Anderson and her daughter felt that on her aspect everything depended. They would not have said it to each other, or even to themselves; but, nevertheless, there could not be any doubt on the subject. There were two of them, and they were perfectly free to go and come as they pleased; but the little one—the younger child—the second daughter, who had been quietly subject to them so long, was the mistress of the situation; she was the lady of the house, and they were but her guests. In a moment their positions were changed, and everything reversed. And Kate felt it too. They were both in the breakfast-room when she came in. She was very quiet and pale, unlike her usual self; but when she made her usual greetings, a momentary glow of red came over her face. It burned as she touched Ombra’s cheek with her own. After all that had passed, these habitual kisses were the most terrible thing to go through. It was so hard to break the bond of custom, and so hard to bestow what means love solely for custom’s sake. The two girls reddened as if they had been lovers as they thus approached each other, though for a very different cause; but no stranger, unless he had been very quick-sighted, would have seen the subtle, unexpressed change which each of them felt dropping into their very soul. Kate left the others as soon as breakfast was over, and was absent the whole morning. At lunch she was again visible, and once more they sat and talked, with walls of glass or ice between them. This time, however, Kate gave more distinct indication of her policy.
‘Would you like to have the carriage this afternoon?’ she said.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs. Anderson, doubtfully, trying to read her niece’s pleasure in her eyes. ‘If there is anywhere you want to go to, dear——’
‘Oh! if you don’t think of going out, I shall drive to Westerton,to get some books,’ said Kate. ‘I want some German books. It is a long time since I have done any German; but if you want the carriage, never mind—I can go some other day.’
‘I do not want it,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a chill of dismay; and she turned to Ombra, and made some anxious suggestion about walking somewhere. ‘It will be a nice opportunity while Kate is occupied,’ said the poor soul, scheming to keep things smooth; ‘you said you wanted to see that part of the park.’
‘Yes,’ said Ombra, depressed too, though she would have been too proud to confess it; and thus it was arranged.
Kate drove away alone, and had a hearty cry in the carriage, and was very unhappy; and the mother and daughter went and walked against time in the frost-bound park. It was a bright Winter afternoon, with a pleasant sharpness in the air, and a gorgeous sunset of red and gold. They stopped and pointed it out to each other, and dwelt on all the different gradations of colour, with an artificial delight. The change had come in a way which they had not expected, and they did not know how to face it. It was the only situation which Mrs. Anderson, in her long musings, had not foreseen, and she did not know how to meet it. There was nothing but dismay in her mind—dismay and wonder. All her sagacity was at fault.
This went on for some time. Kate was very kind to her guests; but more and more every day they came to feel themselves guests in the house. She was scarcely ever with them, except at meals; and they would sit together all the long morning, and sometimes all the long afternoon, silent, saying nothing to each other, and hear Kate’s voice far off, perhaps singing as she went through one of the long passages, perhaps talking to Maryanne, or to a dog whom she had brought in from the stable. They sat as if under a spell, for even Ombra was hushed. Her feelings had somehow changed. Instead of the horror with which she had regarded the probable arrival of her lover, she seemed now possessed with a feverish desire to receive him, to see him when he came, to watch him, perhaps to make sure that he was true to her.
‘How can I go away, and know that he is here, and endure it?’ she said to her mother. ‘I must stay!—I must stay! It is wretched; but it would be more wretched to go.’
This was her mood one day; and the next she would be impatient to leave Langton-Courtenay at once, and found the yoke which was upon her intolerable. These were terrible days, as smiling and smooth as of old to all beholders, but with complete change within. Kate was as brave as a lion in carrying out therôleshe had marked out for herself. Even when her heart failed her, she hid it, and went on stoutly in the almost impossible way.
‘I will not interfere with them—I will not ask anything; but otherwise there shall be no change,’ she said to herself, with something of the arrogance of youth, ready to give all, and to believe that it could be accepted without the return of anything. But sometimes it was very hard for her to keep it up; sometimes the peculiar aspect of the scene would fill her with sudden compunctions, sudden longings. Everything looked so like the old, happy days, and yet it was all so different! Sometimes a tone of her aunt’s voice, a movement or a look of Ombra, would bring some old tender recollection back to her mind, and she would feel driven to the last extremity to prevent herself from bursting into tears, or making a wild appeal to them to let things be as they were again. But she resisted all these impulses, saying to herself, with forlorn pride, that the old love had never existed, that it had been but a delirium of her own, and that consequently there was nothing to appeal to. She resumed her German, and worked at it with tremendous zeal in the library by herself. German is an admirable thing when one has been crossed in love, or mortified in friendship. How often has it been resorted to in such circumstances—and has always afforded a certain consolation! And Kate plunged into parish business, to the great delight and relief of Minnie Hardwick, and showed all her old love of the ‘human interest’ of the village, the poor folk’s stories and their difficulties. She tired herself out, and went back and put off her grey frock, and arrayed herself, and sat down at the table with Ombra, languid and heavy-eyed, and Mrs. Anderson, who greeted her with faint smiles. There was little conversation at the table; and it grew less and less as the days went on. These dinners were not amusing; and yet they had some interest too, for each watched the other, wondering what she would next do or say.
I cannot tell exactly how long this lasted. It seemed to all three an eternity. But one afternoon, when Kate came in from a long walk to the other side of the parish, she found a letter conspicuously placed on the hall-table, where she could not fail to see it. She trembled a little when she saw her aunt’s handwriting. And there were fresh carriage-wheels marking the way down the avenue; she had noticed this as she came up. She sat down on the settle in the hall, where Mrs. Anderson had placed herself on the day of their return, and read the following letter with surprise, and yet without surprise. It gave her a shock as of suddenness and strangeness; and yet she had known that it must happen all along.