‘Mr. Hardwick and Mr. Eldridge used to go with us to a great many places; they were old friends,’ said Kate, with her cheeks and forehead dyed crimson in a moment; ‘but why people should say such disagreeable things—’
‘People always say disagreeable things,’ said Lady Caryisfort; ‘it is the only occupation which is pursued anywhere. But as you did not hear about your cousin, I am glad to think you cannot have heard of me.’
‘Of you!’ Kate’s consternation was extreme.
‘They were so good as to say I was going to marry Antonio Buoncompagni,’ said Lady Caryisfort, calmly, smoothing away an invisible wrinkle from her glove. But she did not look up, and Kate’s renewed blush and start were lost upon her—or perhaps not quite lost. There was a silence for a minute after; for the tone, as well as the announcement, took Kate altogether by surprise.
‘And are you?’ she asked, in a low tone, after that pause.
‘I don’t think it,’ said Lady Caryisfort, slowly. ‘The worst is, that he took it into his head himself—why, heaven knows! for I am—let me see—three, four, five years, at least, older than he is. I think he felt that you had jilted him, Kate. No, it would be too much of a bore. He is very good-natured, to be sure, and too polite to interfere; but still, I don’t think—Besides, you know, it would be utterly ridiculous. How could I call Elena Strozzi aunt? In the meantime, my Kate—my little heiress—I think I had better stay here and marry you.’
‘But I don’t want to be married,’ cried Kate.
‘The very reason why you will be,’ said her new guardian, laughing. But the girl stole shyly away, and got a book, and prepared to read to Lady Caryisfort. She was fond of being read to, and Kate shrank with a repugnance shared by many girls from this sort of talk; and, indeed, I am not sure that she was pleased with the news. It helped to reproduce that impression in her mind which so many other incidents had led to. She had always remembered with a certain amount of gratitude poor Antonio’s last appearance at the railway, with the violets in his coat, and the tender, respectful farewell he waved to her. And all the time he had been thinking of Lady Caryisfort! What a strange world it was, in which everything went on in this bewildering, treacherous way! Was there nobody living who was quite true, quite real, meaning all he or she said? She began to think not, and her very brain reeled under the discovery. Her path was full of shadows, which threatened and circled round her. Oh! Ombra, shadow of shadows, where was she? and where had disappeared with her all that tender, bright life, in which Kate believed everybody, and dreamt of nothing but sincerity and truth? It seemed to have gone for ever, to return no more.
Allthat Summer Mr. Sugden wandered about the world like a soul in pain. He went everywhere, unable to settle in one place. Some obliging friend had died, and left him a little money, and this was how he disposed of it. His people at home disapproved much. They thought he ought to have been happy in the other curacy which they had found him quite close to his own parish, and should have invested his legacy, and perhaps looked out for some nice girl with money, and married as soon as a handy living fell vacant. This routine, however, did not commend itself to his mind. He tore himself away from mothers’-meetings, and clothing-clubs, and daily services; he went wandering, dissatisfied and unhappy, through the world. He had been crossed in love. It is a thing people do not own to readily, but still it is nothing to be ashamed of. And not only was it the restlessness of unhappiness that moved him; a lingering hope was yet in his mind that he might be of use to Ombra still. He went over the route which the party had taken only a year before; he went to the Swiss village where they had passed so long, and was easily able to glean some information about the English ladies, and the one who was fond of the Church. He went there after her, and knelt upon the white flags and wondered what she had been thinking of, and prayed for her with his face towards Madonna on the altar, with her gilt crown, and all her tall artificial lilies.
Poor honest, broken-hearted lover! If she had been happy he would have been half cured by this time; but she was not happy—or, at least, he thought so, and his heart burned over her with regretful love and anguish. Oh, if Providence had but given her to him, though unworthy, how he would have shielded and kept her from all evil! He wandered on to Florence, where he stayed for some time, with the same vain idol-worship. He remained until the Autumn flood of tourists began to arrive, and the English Church was opened. And it was here he acquired the information which changed all his plans. The same young clergyman who was a friend of BertieEldridge’s, and had known the party in Florence, returned again that Winter, and officiated once more in the Conventicle of the English visitors. And Mr. Sugden had known him, too, at school or college; the two young clergymen grew intimate, and, one day, all at once, without warning, the Curate had a secret confided to him, which thrilled him through and through from head to heel. His friend told him of all the importunities he had been subjected to, to induce him to celebrate a marriage, and how he had consented, and how his conscience had been uneasy ever since. ‘Was I wrong?’ he asked his friend. ‘The young lady’s mother was there and consenting, and the man—you know him—was of full age, and able to judge for himself; the only thing was the secrecy—do you think I was wrong?’
Mr. Sugden gave no answer. He scarcely heard the words that were addressed to him; a revolution had taken place in all his ideas. He had not spent more than half his legacy, and he had half the Winter before him, yet immediately he made up his mind to go home.
Two days after he started, and in a week was making his way down to Langton-Courtenay, for no very intelligible reason. What his plea would have been, had he been forced to give it, we cannot tell, but he did not explain himself even to himself; he had a vague feeling that something new had come into the story, and that Kate ought to be informed—an idea quite vague, but obstinate. He went down, as he had gone before, to Westerton, and there engaged a fly to take him to Langton. But, when he arrived, he was startled to find the house lighted up, and all the appearance of company. He did not know what to do. There was a dinner-party, he was told, and he felt that he and his news, such as they were, could not be obtruded into the midst of it. He was possessed by his mission as by incipient madness. It seemed to him like a divine message, which he was bound to deliver. He went back to the little inn in the village, and dressed himself in evening clothes—for he had brought his portmanteau on with him all the way, not having wits enough left to leave it behind. And when it was late, he walked up the long avenue to the Hall. He knew Kate well enough, he thought, to take so much liberty with her—and then his news! What was it that made his news seem so important to him? He could not tell.
Mr. Courtenay was at Langton, and so was Lady Caryisfort. The lady, who should have been mentioned first, had stayed with Kate for a fortnight on her first visit, and then, leaving her alone all the Summer, had gone off upon other visits, promising a return in Autumn. It was October now, and Mr. Courtenay too had at last found it convenient to pay his niece a visit. Hehad brought with him some people for the shooting, men, chiefly, of respectable age, with wives and daughters. The party was highly respectable, but not very amusing, and, indeed, Lady Caryisfort found it tedious; but such as it was, it was the first party of guests which had ever been gathered under Kate’s roof, and she was excited and anxious that everything should go off well. In six months more she would be her own mistress, and the undue delays which had taken place in her life were then to be all remedied.
‘You ought to have been introduced to the world at least two years ago,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘But never mind, my dear; it does not matter for you, and next season will make up for everything. You have the bloom of sixteen still, and you have Langton-Courtenay,’ the lady added, kissing her.
To Kate there was little pleasure in this speech; but she swallowed it, as she had learned to swallow a great many things.
‘I have Langton-Courtenay,’ she said to herself, with a smile of bitter indignation—‘that makes up for everything. That I have nobody who cares for me does not matter in comparison.’
But yet she was excited about her first party, and hoped with all her heart it would go off well. There were several girls beside herself; but there were only two young men—one a wealthy and formal young diplomatist, the other a penniless cousin of Lady Caryisfort’s—‘too penniless and too foolish even to try for an heiress,’ she had assured Mr. Courtenay. The rest were old bachelors—Mr. Courtenay’s own contemporaries, or the respectable married men above described. A most safe party to surround an heiress, and not amusing, but still, as the first means of exercising her hospitality in her own house, exciting to Kate.
The dinner had gone off well enough. It was a good dinner, and even Uncle Courtenay had been tolerably satisfied. The only thing that had happened to discompose Kate was that she had seen Lady Caryisfort yawn twice. But that was a thing scarcely to be guarded against. When the ladies got back to the drawing-room she felt that the worst of her labours were over, and that she might rest; but her surprise was great when, half an hour later, she suddenly saw Mr. Sugden standing in a corner behind her. He had come there as if by magic—like a ghost starting up out of nothing. Kate rose to her feet suddenly with a little cry, and went to him. What a good thing that it was a dull, steady-going party, not curious, as livelier society is! She went up to him hurriedly, holding out her hand.
‘Mr. Sugden! When did you come? I never saw you. Have you dropped through from the skies?’
‘I ought to apologise,’ said the Curate, growing red.
‘Oh, never mind apologising! I know you have something to tell me!’ cried Kate.
‘But how can I tell you here? Yes, it is something—not bad news—oh, not bad news—don’t think so. I came off at once without thinking. A letter might have done as well; but I get confused, and don’t think till too late——’
‘I am so sorry for you!’ cried Kate impulsively, holding out her hand to him once more.
He took it, and then he dropped it, poor fellow! not knowing what else to do. Kate’s hand was nothing to him, nor any woman’s, except the one which was given into another man’s keeping. He was still dazed with his journey, and all that had happened. His theory was that, as he had found it out another way, he was clear of his promise to Mrs. Anderson; and then he had to set a mistake right. How could he tell what harm that mistake might do?
‘Your cousin—is married,’ he said.
‘Married!’ cried Kate. A slight shiver ran over her, a thrill that went through her frame, and then died out, and left her quite steady and calm. But, somehow, in that moment her colour, the bloom of sixteen, as Lady Caryisfort called it, died away from her cheek. She stood with her hands clasped, and her face raised, looking up to him. Of course it was only what she felt must happen some day; she said to herself that she had known it. There was nothing to be surprised about.
‘She was married last year, in Florence,’ the Curate resumed. And then the thrill came back again, and so strongly that Kate shook as if with cold. In a moment there rose up before her the group which she had met at the doorway on the Lung-Arno, the group which moved so quickly, and kept so close together, Ombra leaning on her husband’s arm. Yes, how blind she had been! That was the explanation—at a glance she saw it all. Oh! heaven and earth, how the universe reeled under her! He had looked at herself, spoken to her, touched her hand as only he had ever touched, and looked, and spoken—after that! The blood ebbed away from Kate’s heart; but though the world spun and swam so in the uncertainty of space, that she feared every moment to fall, or rather to be dashed down by its swaying, she kept standing, to all appearance immovable, before the tall Curate, with her hands clasped, and a smile upon her pale face.
‘Kate!’ said some one behind her—‘Kate!’
She turned round. It was Lady Caryisfort who had called her. And what was there more to be told? Now she knew all. Spigot was standing behind her, with a yellow envelope upon a silver tray. A telegram—the first one she had ever gotin her life! No civility could hesitate before such a letter as that. But for the news which she had just heard she would have been frightened; but that preparation had steeled her. She tore it open and read it eagerly. Then she raised a bewildered look to Lady Caryisfort and Mr. Sugden, who were both close by her.
‘I don’t understand it,’ she said. She held it up to him, because he was nearest. And then suddenly put up her hand to stop him, as he began to read aloud. ‘Hush! Hush! Mrs. Hardwick is here,’ she said.
‘What is the matter?’ said Lady Caryisfort, rising to shield this group, which began to attract the eyes of the party. ‘Kate, what is your telegram about?’
Kate held it out to her without a word. The message it contained was this: “Sir Herbert Eldridge died here last night.’”
‘Sir Herbert Eldridge?’ repeated Lady Caryisfort. ‘What is he to you, Kate? What does it mean? Child, are you ill? You are like a ghost!’
‘He is nothing in the world to me,’ said Kate, rousing herself. ‘If I am like a ghost it is because—oh! I am so cold!—because—it is so strange! I never saw Sir Herbert Eldridge in my life. Mr. Sugden, what do you think it means?’
She looked up and looked round for the Curate. He was gone. She gazed all round her in consternation.
‘Where is he?’ she cried.
‘The gentleman you were talking to went out a minute ago. Who is he? Kate, dear, don’t look so strange. Who was this man, and what did he come to tell you about?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the girl, faintly, her eyes still seeking for him round the room. ‘I don’t know where he came from, or where he has gone to. I think he must have been a ghost.’
‘What was he telling you—you must know that at least?’
Kate made no reply. She pushed a chair towards the fireplace, and warmed her trembling fingers. She crushed up the big yellow envelope in her hand, under her laced handkerchief.
’“Sir Robert Eldridge died last night.” What is that to me! What have I to do with it?’ she said.
Thereason of Kate’s strange paleness and agitation was afterwards explained to be the fact that she had suddenly heard, no one knew how, of the death of Mrs. Hardwick’s brother; while that lady was sitting by her, happy and undisturbed, and knowing nothing. This was the reason Lady Caryisfort gave to several of the ladies in the house, who remarked next morning on Miss Courtenay’s looks.
‘Poor Kate did not know what to do; and the feelings are strong at her age. I daresay Mrs. Hardwick, when she heard of it, took the news with perfect composure, said Lady Caryisfort; ‘but then at twenty it is difficult to realise that.’
‘Ah! now I understand,’ said one of the ladies. ‘It was told her, no doubt, by that tall young man, like a clergyman, who appeared in the drawing-room all of a sudden, after the gentlemen came downstairs, and disappeared again directly after.’
‘Yes, you are quite right,’ said Lady Caryisfort. She said so because she was aware that to have any appearance of mystery about Kate would be fatal to that brilliantdébutwhich she intended her to make; but in her own mind she was much disturbed about this tall young man like a clergyman. She had questioned Kate about him in vain.
‘He is an old friend, from where we lived in the Isle of Wight,’ the girl explained.
‘But old friends from the Isle of Wight don’t turn up everywhere like this. Did he come about Sir Herbert Eldridge?’
‘He knows nothing about Sir Herbert Eldridge. He came to tell me about—my cousin.’
‘Oh! your cousin!La demoiselle aux deux chevaliers,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘And did he bring you news of her?’
‘A little,’ said Kate, faintly, driven to her wit’s end; but she was not a weak-minded young woman, to be driven to despair; and here she drew up and resisted. ‘So little, that it is not worth repeating,’ she added, firmly. ‘I knew it almost allbefore, but he was not aware of that. He meant it very kindly.’
‘Did he come on purpose, dear?’
‘Yes, I suppose so, the good fellow,’ said Kate, gracefully.
‘My dear, he may be a very good fellow; but curates are like other men, and don’t do such things without hope of reward,’ said Lady Caryisfort, doubtfully. ‘So I would not encourage him to go on secret missions—unless I meant to reward him,’ she added.
‘He does not want any of my rewards,’ said Kate, with that half bitterness of still resentment which she occasionally showed at the suspicions which were so very ready to enter the minds of all about her. ‘I at least have no occasion to think as they do,’ she added to herself, with a feeling of sore humility. ‘Of all the people I have ever known, no one has given me this experience—they have all preferred her, without thinking of me.’
It was with this thought in her mind that she withdrew herself from Lady Caryisfort’s examination. She had nothing more to say, and she would not be made to say any more. But when she was in the sanctuary of her own room, she went over and over, with a heart which beat heavily within her breast, Mr. Sugden’s information. That Ombra should have married Bertie did not surprise her—thatshe had foreseen, she said to herself. But that they should have married so long ago, under her very eyes, as it were, gave her a strange thrill of pain through and through her. They had not told her even a thing so important as that. Her aunt and Ombra, her dearest friends, had lived with her afterwards, and kissed her night and morning, and at last had broken away from her, and given her up, and yet had never told her. The one seemed to Kate as wonderful as the other. Not in their constant companionship, not when that companionship came to a breach—neither at one time nor the other did they do her so much justice. And Bertie!—that was worst of all. Had his look of gladness to see her at the brook in the park, when they last met, been all simulation?—or had it been worse than simulation?—a horrible disrespect, a feeling that she did not deserve the same observance as men were forced to show to other girls! When she came to this question her brain swam so with wrath and a sense of wrong that she became unable to discriminate. Poor Kate!—and nothing of this did she dare to confide to a creature round her. She who had been so outspoken, so ready to disclose her thoughts—she had to lock them up in her own bosom, and never breathe a word.
Unconnected with this, but still somehow connected with it, was the extraordinary message she had received. On examiningit afterwards in her own room, she found it was sent to her by ‘Bertie.’ What did it mean? How did he dare to send such a message to her, and what had she to do with it? Had it been a mistake? Could it have been sent to her, instead of to the Rectory? But Kate ascertained that a similar telegram had been received by the Hardwicks the same night when they went home from her dinner-party. Minnie Hardwick stole up two days later to tell her about it. Minnie was very anxious to do her duty, and to feel sad, as a girl ought whose uncle has just died; but though the blinds were all down in the Rectory, and the village dress-maker and Mrs. Hardwick’s maid were labouring night and day at ‘the mourning,’ Minnie found it hard to be so heart-broken as she thought necessary.
‘It is so strange to think that one of one’s own relations has gone away to—to the Better Land,’ said Minnie, with a very solemn face. ‘I know I ought not to have come out, but I wanted so to see you; and when we are sorrowful, it is then our friends are dearest to us. Don’t you think so, dear Kate?’
‘Were you very fond of your uncle, Minnie?’
‘I—I never saw much of him. He has been thought to be going to die for ever so long,’ said Minnie. ‘He was very stout, and had not a very good temper. Oh! how wicked it is to remember that now! And he did not like girls; so that we never met. Mamma is very, very unhappy, of course.’
‘Yes, it is of course,’ Kate said to herself, with again that tinge of bitterness which was beginning to rise in her mind; ‘even when a man dies, it is of course that people are sorry. If I were to die they would try how sorrowful they could look, and say how sad it was, and care as little about me as they do now.’ This thought crossed her mind as she sat and talked to Minnie, who was turning her innocent little countenance as near as possible into the expression of a mute at a funeral, but who, no doubt, in reality, cared much more for her new mourning than for her old uncle—a man who had neither kindness to herself nor general goodness to commend him. It was she who told Kate of the telegram which had been found waiting at the Rectory when they went home, and how she had remembered that Kate had got one too, and how strange such a coincidence was (but Minnie knew nothing of the news contained in Kate’s), and how frightened she always was at telegrams.
‘They always bring bad news,’ said Minnie, squeezing one innocent little tear into the corner of her eye. Her father had gone off immediately, and Bertie was already with his cousin. ‘It is he who will be Sir Herbert now,’ Minnie said, with awe; ‘and oh! Kate, I am so much afraid he will not be very sorry! His father was not very kind to him. They used to quarrel sometimes—I ought not to say so, but I am sure you will never,never tell anyone. Uncle Herbert used to get into dreadful passions whenever Bertie was silly, and did anything wrong. Uncle Herbert used to storm so; and then it would bring on fits. Oh! Kate, shouldn’t we be thankful to Providence that we have such a dear, kind papa!’
Thus this incident, which she had no connection with, affected Kate’s life, and gave a certain colour to her thoughts. She lived, as it were, for several days within the shadow of the blinds, which were drawn down at the Rectory, and the new mourning that was being made, and her own private trouble, which was kept carefully hidden in her heart of hearts. This gave her such abundant food for thought, that the society of her guests was too much for her, and especially Lady Caryisfort’s lively observations. She had to attend to them, and to look as cheerful as she could in the evenings; but they all remarked what depression had stolen over her. ‘She does not look the same creature,’ the other ladies said to Lady Caryisfort; and that lively person, who had thought Kate’s amusing company her only indemnification for putting up with all this respectability, yawned half her time away, and felt furious with Mr. Courtenay for having deluded her into paying this visit at this particular time. It does not do, she reflected, to put off one’s engagements. Had she kept her tryst in Spring, and brought Kate out, and done all she had promised to do for her, probably she would have been married by this time, and the trouble of taking care of her thrown on other shoulders. Whereas, if she went and threw away her good looks, and settled into pale quietness and dulness, as she seemed about to do, there was no telling what a burden she might be on her friends. With these feelings in her mind, she told Mr. Courtenay that she thought that he had been very unwise in letting the Andersons slip through his fingers. ‘They were exactly what she wanted; people who were amenable to advice; who would do what you wished, and would take themselves off when you were done with them—they were the very people for Kate, with her variable temper. It was a weakness which I did not expect in you, Mr. Courtenay, who know the world.’
‘I never saw any signs of variable temper in Kate,’ said Mr. Courtenay, who felt it necessary to keep his temper when he was talking to Lady Caryisfort.
‘Look at me now!’ said that dissatisfied woman. And she added to herself that it was vain to tell her that Kate knew nothing about Sir Herbert Eldridge, or that the strange appearance for half an hour, in the drawing-room, of the young man who was like a clergyman had no connection with the change of demeanour which followed it. This was an absurd attempt to hoodwink her, a woman who had much experience in society and was not easily deceived. And, by way of showing her sense of the importance of the subject, she began to talk to Kateof Bertie Eldridge, who had always been her favourite of the two cousins.
‘Now his father is dead, he is worth your consideration,’ she said. ‘His father was an ill-tempered wretch, I have always heard; but the young man is very well, as young men go, and has a very nice estate. I have always thought nothing could be more suitable. For my own part, I always liked him best—why? I don’t know, except, perhaps, because most people preferred his cousin. I should think, by the way, that after knocking about the world with Bertie Eldridge, that young man will hardly be very much disposed to drop into the Rectory here, like his father before him, which, I suppose, is his natural fate.’
At that moment there came over Kate’s mind a recollection of the time when she had gravely decided to oppose Mr. Hardwick in the parish, and not to give his son the living. The idea brought an uneasy blush to her cheek.
‘Mr. Bertie Hardwick is not going into the Church; he is reading for the bar,’ she said.
‘Well, I suppose the one will need as much work as the other,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘Reading for the bar!—that sounds profitable; but, Kate, if I were you, I would seriously consider the question about Bertie Eldridge. He is not bad-looking, and, unless that old tyrant has been wicked as well as disagreeable, he ought to be very well off. The title is not much, but still it is something; and it is a thoroughly good old family—as good as your own. I would not throw such a chance away.’
‘But I never had the chance, as you call it, Lady Caryisfort,’ said Kate, with indignation, ‘and I don’t want to have it; and I would not accept it, if it was offered to me. Bertie Eldridge is nothing to me. I don’t even care for him as an acquaintance, and never did.’
‘Well, my love, you know what a good authority has said—“that a little aversion is a very good thing to begin upon,”’ said Lady Caryisfort, laughing; but in her heart she did not believe these protestations. Why should Kate have got that telegram if Sir Herbert was nothing to her? Thus, over-wisdom led the woman of the world astray.
Before long, Kate had forgotten all about Sir Herbert Eldridge. It was not half so important to her as the other news which nobody knew of—indeed, it was simply of no interest at all in comparison. Where was Ombra now?—and how must Bertie have deceived his family, who trusted in him; as much as his—wife—was that the word?—his wife had deceived herself. Where were they living? or were they together, or what had become of these two women? Then Kate’s heart melted,and she cried within herself—What had become of them? An unacknowledged wife!—a woman who had to hide herself, and bear a name and assume a character which was not hers! In all the multitude of her thoughts, she at last stopped short upon the ground of deep pity for her cousin, who had so sinned against her. Where was she?—under what name?—in what appearance? The thought of her position, after all this long interval, with no attempt made to own her or set her right with the world, made Kate’s heart sick with compassion in the midst of her anger. And how was she to find Ombra out?—and when she had found her out, what was she to do?
Itis hard to be oppressed with private anxiety and care in the midst of a great house full of people, who expect to be amused, and to have all their different wants attended to, both as regards personal comfort and social gratification. Kate had entered upon the undertaking with great zeal and pleasure, but had been suddenly chilled in the midst of her labours by the strange accidents which disturbed her first dinner-party. She had been so excited and confused at the moment, that it had not occurred to her to remember that Mr. Sugden’s information was quite fragmentary, and that he did not tell her where to find her cousin, or give her any real aid in the matter. His appearance, and disappearance too, were equally sudden and mysterious. She ascertained from Spigot when he had come, and it was sufficiently easy to comprehend the noiseless way he had chosen to appear before her, and convey his news; but why had he disappeared when he saw the telegram? Why had he said so little? Why, oh! why had they all conspired to leave her thus, with painful scraps of information, but no real knowledge—alone among strangers, who took no interest in her perplexities, and, indeed, had never learned Ombra’s name? She could not confide in Mrs. Hardwick, for many reasons, and there was no one else whom she could possibly confide in.
She got so unhappy at last that the idea of consulting Lady Caryisfort entered her mind more and more strongly. Lady Caryisfort was a woman of the world. She would not be so shocked as good Mrs. Hardwick would be; and then she could have no prejudice in the matter, and no temptation to betray poor Ombra’s secret. Poor Ombra! Kate was not one of those people who can dismiss an offender out of their mind as soon as his sin is proved. All kinds of relentings, and movements of pity, and impulses to help, came whispering about her after the first shock. To be sure Ombra had her mother to protect and care for her, and how could Kate interfere, a young girl? What could she do in the matter? But yet she felt that if she were known to stand by her cousin, it would be moredifficult for the husband to keep her in obscurity. And there was in her mind a longing that Bertie should learn that she knew, and know what her opinion was, of the concealment and secresy. She did as women, people say, are not apt to do. She threw all the blame on him. Her cousin had concealed it from her—but nothing more than that. He had done something more—he had insulted herself in the midst of the concealment. If Kate had followed her own first impulse, she would have rushed forth to find Ombra, she would have brought her home, she would have done what her husband had failed to do—acknowledged, and put her in her right place. All these things Kate pondered and mused over, till sometimes the impulse to action was almost too much for her; and it was in these moments that she felt a longing and a necessity to consult some one, to relieve the pent-up anxieties in her own heart.
It happened one afternoon that she was alone with Lady Caryisfort, in that room which had been her sitting-room under Mrs. Anderson’s sway. That very fact always filled her with recollections. Now that the great drawing-room and all the house was open, this had become a refuge for people who had ‘headaches,’ or any of the ethereal ailments common in highly-refined circles. The ladies of the party were almost all out on this particular afternoon. Some had gone into Westerton on a shopping expedition; some had driven to see a ruined abbey, one of the sights of the neighbourhood; and some had gone to the covert-side, with luncheon for the sportsmen, and had not yet returned. Kate had excused herself under the pretext of a cold, to remedy which she was seated close by the fire, in a very low and comfortable easy-chair. Lady Caryisfort reclined upon a sofa opposite. She had made no pretence at all to get rid of the rest of the party. She was very pettish and discontented, reading a French novel, and wishing herself anywhere but there. There had been at least half an hour of profound silence. Kate was doing nothing but thinking; her head ached with it, and so did her heart. And when a girl of twenty, with a secret on her mind, is thus shut up with an elder woman whom she likes, with no one else within hearing, and after half an hour’s profound silence, that is the very moment in which a confidential disclosure is sure to come.
‘Lady Caryisfort,’ said Kate, faltering, ‘I wonder if I might tell you something which I have very much at heart?’
‘Certainly you may,’ said Lady Caryisfort, yawning, and closing her book. ‘To tell you the truth, Kate, I was just going to put a similar question.’
‘You have something on your mind too!’ cried Kate, clasping her hands.
‘Naturally—a great deal more than you can possibly have,’ said her friend, laughing. ‘But, come, Kate, you have thepas.Proceed—your secret has the right of priority; and then I will tell you mine—perhaps—if it is not too great a bore.’
‘Mine is not about myself,’ said Kate. ‘If it had been about myself, I should have told you long ago—it is about—Ombra.’
‘Oh! about Ombra!’ Lady Caryisfort shrugged her shoulders, and the languid interest which she had been preparing to show suddenly failed her. ‘You think a great deal more about Ombra than she deserves.’
‘You will not think so when you have heard her story,’ said Kate, with some timidity, for she was quickly discouraged on this point. While they were speaking, a carriage was heard to roll up the avenue. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, ‘I thought we were safe. I thought I was sure of you for an hour. And here are those tiresome people come back!’
‘An hour—all about Ombra!’ Lady Caryisfort ejaculated, half within herself; and then she added aloud, ‘Perhaps somebody has come to call. Heaven send us some one amusing! for I think you and I, Kate, must go and hang ourselves if this lasts.’
‘Oh! no; it must be the Wedderburns come back from Westerton,’ said Kate, disconsolate. There were sounds of an arrival, without doubt. ‘They will come straight up here,’ she said, in despair. ‘Since that day when we had afternoon tea here, we have never been safe.’
It was a terrible reward for her hospitality; but certainly the visitors were coming up. The sound of the great hall-door rang through the house; and then Spigot’s voice, advancing, made it certain that there had been an arrival. The new-comers must be strangers, then, as Spigot was conducting them; and what stranger would take the liberty to come here?
Kate turned herself round in the chair. She was a little flushed with the fire, and she was in that state of mind when people think that anything may happen—nay, that it is contrary to the order of Nature when something does not happen, to change the aspect of the world. Lady Caryisfort turned away with a little shrug, which was half impatience, half admiration of the girl’s readiness to be moved by anything new. She opened her book again, and went nearer the window. The light was beginning to fade, for it was now late in October, and Winter might almost be said to have begun. The door opened slowly. The young mistress of the house stood like one spell-bound. Already her heart forecasted who her visitors were. And it was not Spigot’s hand which opened that door. There was a hesitation, a fumbling and doubtfulness—and then——
How dim the evening was! Who were the two people who were standing there looking at her? Kate’s heart gave a leap, and then seemed to stand still.
‘Come in,’ she said, doubtful, and faltering. And just then the fire gave a sudden blaze up, and threw a ruddy light upon the new-comers. Of course, she had known who it must be all along. But they did not advance; and she stood in an icy stupor, feeling as if she were not able to move.
‘Kate,’ said Ombra, from the door, ‘I have been like an evil spirit to you. I will not come in again, unless you will give me your hand and say I am to come.’
She put herself in motion then, languidly. How different a real moment of excitement always is from the visionary one which you go over and over in your own mind, and to which you get used in all its details! Somehow all at once she bethought herself of Geraldine lifted over the threshold by innocent Christabel. She went and held out her hand. Her heart was beating fast, but dull, as if at a long distance off. There stood the husband and wife—two against one. She quickened her steps, and resolved to spare herself as much as she could.
‘Ombra,’ she said, as well as her quick breath would let her, ‘come in. I know. I have heard about it. I am glad to receive you, and—and your husband.’
‘Thanks, Kate,’ said Ombra, with strange confusion. She had thought—I don’t know why—that she would be received with enthusiasm corresponding to her own feelings. She came into the room, leaning upon him, as was natural, with her hand within his arm. He had the grace to be modest—not to put himself forward—or so, at least, Kate thought. But how much worse this moment was than she had supposed it would be! She felt herself tremble and tingle from head to heel. She forgot Lady Caryisfort, who was standing up against the light of the window, roused and inquisitive; she turned her back upon the new-comers, even, and poked the fire violently, making the room full of light. The ruddy blaze shot up into the twilight; it sprang up, quivering and burning into the big mirror. Kate saw the whole scene reflected there—the two figures standing behind her, and Ombra’s black dress; black!—why was she in black, and she a bride? And, good heaven!——
She turned round breathless; she was pricked to the quick with anger and shame. ‘Ombra,’ she said, facing round upon her cousin, ‘I told you I knew everything. Why do you come here thus with anybody but your husband? This is Mr. Eldridge. Did anyone dare to suppose—— Why is it Mr. Eldridge, and nothim, who has brought you here?’
Ombra’s ice melted as when a flood comes in Spring. She rushed to the reluctant, angry girl, and kissed her, and clung to her, and wept over her. ‘Oh! Kate don’t turn from me!—Bertie Eldridge is my husband—no one else—and who else should bring me back?’
No one but Ombra ever knew that Kate would have fallenbut for the strenuous grasp that held her up—no one but Ombra guessed what the convulsion of the moment meant. Ombra felt her cousin’s arms clutch at her with the instinct of self-preservation—she felt Kate’s head drop quite passive on her shoulder, and, with a new-born sympathy, she concealed the crisis which she dimly guessed. She kept whispering into her cousin’s ear, holding her fast, kissing her, terrified at the extent of the emotion which had been so carefully and so long concealed.
‘Now let Kate shake hands at least with me,’ said Bertie, behind, ‘and forgive me, if she can. It was all my fault. Ombra yielded to me because I would not give her any peace, and we dared not make it known. Kate, she has been breaking her heart over it, thinking you could never forgive her. Won’t you forgive me too?’
Bertie Eldridge was a careless, light-hearted soul—one of the men who run all kind of risks of ruin, and whom other people suffer for, but who always come out safe at the end. At the sound of his ordinary easy, untragical voice, Kate roused herself in a moment. What had all this exaggerated feeling to do with him?
‘Yes,’ she said, holding out her hand, ‘Bertie, I will forgive you; but I would not have done so half an hour ago, if I had known. Oh! and here is Lady Caryisfort in the dark, while we are all making fools of ourselves. Ombra, keep here; don’t go away from me,’ she whispered. ‘I feel as if I could not stand.’
‘Kate, mamma is in your room: and one secret more,’ whispered Ombra. ‘Oh! Kate, it is not half told!—Lady Caryisfort will forgive us—I could not stay away a day—an hour longer than I could help.’
‘I will forgive you with all my heart, and I will take myself out of the way,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘I daresay you have a great deal to say to each other, and I congratulate you, at the same time, Lady Eldridge; one must take time for that.’
‘Lady Eldridge!’ cried Kate. Oh! how thankful she was to drop out of Ombra’s supporting arm into a seat, and to laugh, in order that she might not cry. ‘Then that was why I had the telegram, and that was why poor Mr. Sugden disappeared, that you might tell me yourself? Oh! Ombra, are you sure it is true, and not a dream? Are you back again, and all the shadows flown away, and things come right?’
‘Except the one shadow, which must never flee away,’ said Bertie, putting his arm round his wife’s waist. He was the fondest, the most demonstrative of husbands, though only a fortnight ago—— But it is needless to enlarge on what was past.
‘But, Kate, come to your room,’ said Ombra, ‘wheremamma is waiting; and one secret more——’
Mrs. Andersonwas waiting in Kate’s room, when Maryanne, sympathetic, weeping, and delighted, introduced her carefully. ‘Oh, mayn’t I carry it, ma’am?’ she cried, longing; and when that might not be, drew a chair to the fire—the most comfortable chair—and placed a footstool, and lingered by in adoring admiration. What was it that this foolish maiden wanted so much to go down upon her knees before and do fetish worship to? Mrs. Anderson sat and pondered over this one remaining secret, with a heart that was partly joyful and partly heavy. This woman was a compound of worldliness and of something better. In her worldly part she was happy and triumphant, but in her higher part she was more humbled, almost more sad, than when she went away in what she had felt to be shame from Langton-Courtenay. She felt for the shock that this discovery would give to Kate’s spotless maiden imagination, unaware of the possibility of such mysteries. She felt more for Kate than for her own child, who was happy and victorious. She sent Maryanne away to watch, and waited very nervously, with a tremble in her frame. How would Kate take it? How would she takethis, which lay upon Mrs. Anderson’s knee? She would not have the candles lighted. The dark, which half concealed and half revealed her, was kinder, and would keep her secret best. A film seemed to come over her eyes when she saw the two young women come into the room together. The first thing she was sure of was Kate’s arms, which crept round her, and Kate’s voice in her ear crying, ‘Oh! auntie, how could you leave me—oh! how could you leave me? I have wanted you so!’
‘Take it!’ cried Mrs. Anderson, with sudden energy; and when the white bundle had been removed from her knee, she clasped her second child in her arms. It is not often that a mother gets to love an adopted child in competition with her own; but during all this past year, Kate had appeared before her many a day, in the sweet docility and submission of her youth, when Ombra was fretful, and exacting, and dissatisfied.The poor mother had not acknowledged it to herself but she wanted those arms round her—she wanted her other child.
‘Oh!’ she said, but in a whisper, ‘my darling! I can never, never tell you how I have wanted you!’
‘Here it is!’ cried Ombra, gaily. ‘Mamma, let her look at him; you can kiss her after. Kate, here is my other secret. Light the candles, Maryanne—quick, that your mistress may see my boy.’
‘Yes, my lady,’ cried Maryanne, full of awe.
A little laugh of unbounded happiness and exultation came from Ombra’s lips. To come back thus triumphant, vindicated from all reproaches; to have the delight of showing her child; to be reconciled, and at last at liberty to love her cousin without any jealousy or painful sense of contrast; and, finally, to hear herself called my lady—all combined to fill up the measure of her content.
Up to this moment it had not occurred to Kate what the other secret was. Mrs. Anderson felt the girl’s arms tighten round her, felt the sudden leap of her heart. Who will not understand what that movement of shame meant? It silenced Kate’s very heart for the moment. This shock was greater than the first shock. She blushed crimson on her aunt’s shoulder, where happily no one saw her. Her thoughts wandered back over the past, and she felt as if there was something shameful in it. This was absurd, of course; but it was some moments before she could so far overcome herself as to raise her head in answer to her cousin’s repeated demands.
‘Look at him, Kate!—look at him! Mamma will keep—you can have her afterwards. Look at my boy!’
Ombra was disinterring the baby out of cloaks and veils and shawls, in which it was lost. Her cheeks were sparkling, her eyes glowing with happiness. In her heart there was no sense of shame.
But we need not linger over this scene. Kate was glad, very glad, to get free from her duties that evening—to escape from the dinner and the people, as well as from the baby, and get time to think of it all. What were her feelings when she sat down alone, after all this flood of new emotions, and realised what had happened? The shock was over. The tingling of wonder, of pleasure, of pain, and even of shame, which had confused her senses, was over. She could look at everything, and see it as it was. And as the past rose out of the mists elucidated by the present, of course it became apparent to her that she ought to have seen the true state of affairs all the time. She ought to have seen that there was no affinity between Bertie Hardwick and her cousin, no natural fitness, no likelihood, even, that they could choose each other. Of course she ought to haveseen that he had been made a victim of, as she herself had been made a victim of, though in a less degree. She ought to have known that Bertie, he whom she had once called her Bertie, in girlish, innocent freedom (though she blushed to recall it), could not have been disrespectful to herself, nor treacherous, nor anything but what he was. She owed him an apology, she said to herself, with cheeks which glowed with generous shame. She owed him an apology, and she would make it, whenever it should be in her power.
As for all the other wonderful events, they gradually stole off into the background, compared with this central fact that she owed an apology to Bertie. She fell asleep with this thought in her mind, and, waking in the morning, felt so happy that she asked herself instinctively what it was. And the answer was, ‘I must make an apology to Bertie!’ Ombra and her mysteries, and her new grandeur, and even her baby, faded off into nothing in comparison with this. Somehow that double secret seemed to be almost a hundred years old. The revelation of Bertie Hardwick’s blamelessness, and the wrong she had done him, was the only thing that was new.
Sir Herbert and Lady Eldridge stayed at Langton-Courtenay for about a week before they went home, and all the minor steps in the matter were explained by degrees. He had rushed down to Loch Arroch, where she had been all this time, to fetch his wife, as soon as his father’s death set him free. With so much depending on that event, Bertie Eldridge could scarcely, with a good grace, pretend to be sorry for his father; but the fact that Sir Herbert’s death had been a triumph, and not a sorrow to him, was chiefly known away from home, and when he went back he went in full pomp of mourning. The baby even wore a black ribbon round its unconscious waist, for the grandpapa who would have disinherited it had he known of its existence. Probably nobody made much comment upon ‘the Eldridges.’ They were accepted, all things having come right, without much censure, if with a great deal of surprise. It was bitter for Mrs. Hardwick to realise that ‘that insignificant Miss Anderson’ was the wife of the head of her house, the mistress of all the honours and riches of the Eldridges; but she had to swallow it, as bitter pills must always be swallowed.
‘Heaven be praised, my Bertie did not fall into her snares! Though I always said his taste was too good for such a piece of folly!’ she said, taking the best piece of comfort which remained to her.
Bertie Hardwick came down to spend Christmas with his family, and it was not an uncheerful one, though they were all in mourning. It was not he, but his cousin, who had sent the telegram to Kate, in the confusion of the moment, not rememberingthat to her it would convey no information. But when the little party who had been together in Florence met again now, they talked of every subject on earth but that. Instinctively they avoided the recollection of these confused months, which had brought so much suffering in their train. The true history came to Kate in confidential interviews with her aunt, and was revealed little by little. It was to shield Bertie Eldridge from the possibility of discovery that Bertie Hardwick had been forced to make one of their party continually, and to devote himself, in appearance, to Ombra as much as her real lover did. He had yielded to his cousin’s pleadings, having up to that time had no thought nor desire which the other Bertie had not shared. But this service which had been exacted from him had broken his bonds. He had separated from his cousin immediately on their return, and begun his independent life, though he had still continued to be, when it was not safe for them to meet, the mode of communication between Ombra and her husband.
All this Kate learned, partly from Mrs. Anderson, partly at a later period. She did not learn, however, what a dreary time had passed between the flight of the two ladies from Langton-Courtenay and their return. Her aunt did not tell her what wretched doubts had beset them, what sense of neglect, what terrors for the future. Bertie Eldridge had not been so anxious to shield his wife from the consequences of their imprudence as he ought to have been. But all is well that ends well. His father had died in the nick of time, and in Ombra’s society he was the best of young husbands—proud, and fond, and happy. There was no fault to be found in himnow.
When ‘the Eldridges’ went to their house, in great pomp and state, they left Mrs. Anderson with Kate; and to Kate, after they were gone, the whole seemed like a dream. She could scarcely believe that they had been there—that all the strange story was true. But she had perfectly recovered of her cold, and of her despondency, and was in such bloom, when she took leave of her departing guests, that all sorts of compliments were paid to her.
‘Your niece has blossomed into absolute beauty,’ said one of the old fogies to Mr. Courtenay. ‘You have shut her up a great deal too long. What a sensation she will make with her fortune, and with that face!’
Mr. Courtenay shrugged his shoulders, and made a grimace.
‘I don’t see what good that face can do her,’ he said, gruffly. He was suspicious, though he scarcely knew what he was suspicious of. There seemed to him something more than met the eye in this Eldridge business. Why the deuce had not that girl with the ridiculous name married young Hardwick, as sheought to have done? He was the first who had troubled Mr. Courtenay’s mind with previsions of annoyance respecting his niece. And, lo! the fellow was coming back again, within reach, and Kate was almost her own mistress, qualified to execute any folly that might come into her head.
There was, however, a lull in all proceedings till Christmas, when, as we have prematurely announced, but as was very natural, Bertie Hardwick came home. Mr. Courtenay, too, being suspicious, came again to Langton-Courtenay, feeling it necessary to be on the spot. It was a very quiet Christmas, and nothing occurred to alarm anyone until the evening of Twelfth Day, when there was a Christmas-tree in the school-room for the school-children. It had been all planned before Sir Herbert’s death; and Mrs. Hardwick decided that it was not right the children should suffer ‘for our affliction—with such an object in view I hope I can keep my feelings in check,’ she said. And indeed the affliction of the Rectory was kept very properly in check, and did not appear at all in the school-room. Kate enjoyed this humble festivity, with the most thorough relish. She was a child among the children. Her spirits were overflowing. To be sure, she was not even in mourning; and when all was over, she declared her intention of walking home up the avenue, which, all in its Winter leaflessness, was beautiful in the moonlight. It was a very clear, still Winter night—hard frost and moonlight, and air which was sharp and keen as ice, and a great deal more exhilarating than champagne to those whose lungs were sound, and their hearts light. Bertie walked with her, after she had been wrapped up by his sisters. Her heart beat fast, but she was glad of the opportunity. No appropriate moment had occurred before; she would make her apology now.
They had gone through the village side by side, talking of the school-children and their delight; but as they entered the avenue they grew more silent. ‘Now is my time!’ cried Kate to herself; and, though her heart leaped to her mouth, she began bravely.
‘Mr. Bertie, there is something I have wished to say to you ever since Ombra came back. I did you a great deal of injustice. I want to make an apology.’
‘An apology!—to me!’
‘Yes, to you. I don’t know that I ever did anybody so much wrong. I do not want to blame Bertie Eldridge. It is all right now, I suppose; but I thought once that you were her——’
Bertie Hardwick turned quickly round upon her, as if in resentment; his gesture felt like a moral blow. Wounded surprise and resentment—was it resentment? And somehow, though the white moonlight did not show it, Kate felt that she blushed.
‘Please don’t be angry. I am confessing that I was wrong; and I never felt that you could have done it,’ said Kate, in a low voice. ‘I believed it, and yet I did not believe it. That was the sting. To think you could have so little faith in me—could have deceived me, when we are such old friends!’
‘And was that all?’ he said. ‘Was it only the concealment you thought me incapable of?’
‘The concealment was the only thing wicked about it, I suppose,’ said Kate, ‘now that it has turned out all right.’
Bertie took no notice of the unconscious humour of this definition. He turned to her again with a certain vehemence, which seemed to have some anger in it.
‘Nay,’ he said, almost sharply, ‘there was more than that. You knew I did not love Ombra—you knew she was nothing to me.’
‘I did not—know—anything about it,’ faltered Kate.
‘How can you say so? Do you mean that you have ever doubted for a moment—that you have notknown—every day we have been together since that day at the brook-side? Bah! you want to make a fool of me. You tempt me to put things into words that ought not to be spoken.’
‘But, Mr. Bertie,’ said Kate, after a pause to make sure that he had stopped—and her voice was child-like in its simplicity—‘I like things to be put into words—I don’t like people to break off in the middle. You were saying since that day by the brook-side?’
He turned to her with a short, agitated laugh. ‘Perhaps you don’t remember about it,’ he said. ‘I do—everything that happened—every word that was said—every one of the tears. You don’t cry now as you used to do, or open your heart.’
‘I don’t cry when people can see me,’ said Kate. ‘I have cried enough, if you had been in the way to perceive it, this last year.’
‘My poor, sweet——’ Here he stopped; his voice had melted and changed. But all of a sudden he stopped short, with quite a different kind of alteration. ‘Should you be afraid to go the rest of the way alone?’ he said, abruptly. ‘I will stand here till I see you on the steps, and you can call to me if you are afraid.’
‘I am not in the least afraid,’ said Kate, proudly. ‘I was quite able to walk up the avenue by myself, if that was all.’ And then she laughed. ‘Mr. Bertie,’ she said, demurely, ‘it is you who are afraid, not I.’
‘I suppose you are right,’ he said. ‘Well, then, as you are strong, be merciful—don’t tempt me. If you like to know that there is some one to be dragged at your chariot wheels, it would be easy to give you that satisfaction. Perhaps, indeed, as we have begun upon this subject, it is better to have it out.’
‘Much better, I think,’ said Kate, with a glibness and ease which surprised herself. Was it because she was heartless? The fact was rather that she was happy, which is a demoralising circumstance in some cases.
‘Well,’ he said, with a hard breath, ‘since you prefer to have it in plain words, Miss Courtenay, you may as well know, once for all, that since that day at the brook-side I have thought of no one but you. I don’t suppose it is likely I shall ever think of anyone else all my life in that way. It can be no pleasure to me to speak, or to you to hear, of any such hopeless and insane notion. It is more your fault than mine, after all; for if you had not cried, I should not have leaped over the hedge, and trespassed, and——’
‘What would you do?’ said Kate, softly, ‘if you saw the same sight again now?’
‘Do?’ he said, with an unsteady laugh—‘make an utter fool of myself, I suppose—as, indeed, I have done all along. I am such a fool still, that I can’t bear to be cross-examined about my folly. Don’t say any more about it, please.’
‘But, if I were you, I would say a great deal more about it,’ said Kate, growing breathless with her resolution. ‘Look here, Bertie—don’t start like that—of course I have always called you Bertie within myself. I wonder how the Queen felt, when—— I am very, very much ashamed of myself; but you can’t see me, which is one good thing. Is it because I am rich you are afraid? For if that is all——’
‘What then?—what then, Kate?’
Half an hour after, Kate walked into the little drawing-room, where so many things had happened, where her aunt was sitting alone, waiting for her return. Her eyes were like two stars, and blazed in the light which dazzled them, and filled them with moisture. A red scarf, which had been wrapped round her throat, hung loosely over her shoulders. Her face was all aglow with the clear, keen night air. She came in quietly, and came up to Mrs. Anderson, and knelt down by her side in front of the fire. ‘Aunt,’ she said, ‘don’t be angry. I have been doing a very strange thing. I hope you will not think it wicked. I have proposed to Bertie Hardwick.’
‘Kate, my darling, are you mad?—are you out of your senses?’
‘No,’ said the girl, quietly, and with a sigh. ‘But I am a kind of a princess. What can I do? He gave me encouragement, auntie, or I would not have done it; and I think he has accepted me,’ she said, with a laugh; then, putting down her crimsoned face upon the lap of the woman who had been a mother to her, burst into a tempest of tears.
Thereis nothing perfect in this world. If Bertie Hardwick had been like his cousin, a great county potentate, on the same level as Miss Courtenay of Langton-Courtenay, they would both have been happier in their betrothal. Royal marriages are sometimes very happy, but it must be hard upon a Queen to be obliged to take the initiative in such a matter; and it was hard upon Kate, notwithstanding that she did it bravely, putting away all false pride. And though Bertie Hardwick went home floating, as it were, through the wintry air, in one sense, in a flood of delicious and unimaginable happiness; yet, in another sense, he walked very prosaically along a flinty, frost-bound road, and knocked his feet against stones and frozen cart-ruts, as he took the short way home to the Rectory. Cold as it was, he walked about the garden half the night, and smoked out many cigars, half thinking of Kate’s loveliness and sweetness, half of the poor figure he would cut—not even a briefless barrister, a poor Templar reading for the law—as the husband of the great heiress. Why had not she been Ombra, and Ombra the heiress? But, in that case, of course, they could not have married, or dreamt of marrying at all. He thought it over till his head ached, till his brain swam. Ought he to give up such a hope? ought he to wound her and destroy all his own hopes of happiness, and perhaps hers, because she was rich and he was poor?—or should he accept this happiness which was put into his hands, which he had never hoped for, never dared to do anything to gain?
His mother waking, and hearing steps, rushed to the window in the cold, and looking out saw the red glow of his cigar curving round and round, and out and in among the trees. What could be the matter with the boy? She opened the window, and put out her head, though it was so cold, and called to him that he would get his death; that he would be frost-bitten; that he was mad to expose himself so. ‘My dear boy, for heaven’s sake, go to bed!’ she cried; and her voice rung out into the deep night and stillness so that it was heard in the sexton’s cottage, where it was supposed to be a cry for help against robbers. Old Johndrew the bed-clothes over his old nose at the sound, and breathed a sigh for his Rector, who, he thought, was probably being smothered in his bed at that moment—but it was too cold to interfere.
Next morning, Bertie had a long conversation with his father, and the two together proceeded to the Hall, where they had a still longer interview with Mr. Courtenay. It was not a pleasant interview. Kate had already seen her uncle, as in duty bound seeing the part which she had taken upon herself in the transaction, and Mr. Courtenay had foamed at the mouth with disgust and rage.
‘Is it for this I have watched over you so carefully?’ he cried, half frantic.
‘Have you watched over me, so carefully?’ said Kate, looking at him with her bright eyes.
And what could he reply? She would be of age in six months, and then it would matter very little what objections, or difficulties he might choose to make. It was, with the full consciousness of this that all parties discussed the question. Had the heiress been eighteen, things would have borne a very different aspect; but as she was nearly twenty-one, with the shadow of her coming independence upon her, she had a right to her own opinion. Her guardian did all a man could do in the circumstances to make himself disagreeable, but that could not, of course, last.
And when it was all over, the news went somehow like an electric shock through the whole neighbourhood. The Rectory received it first, and lay for ten minutes or so as if stunned by the blow; and then gradually, no one could tell how, it spread itself abroad. It had been fully determined that Bertie should return to town two days after Twelfth Night; but now he did not return to town—what was the use? ‘If I must be Prince Consort,’ he said, with a sigh that was half real and half fictitious, ‘I had better make up my mind to it, and go in for my new duties.’ These duties, however, consisted, in the meantime, in hanging about Kate, and following her everywhere. They were heavy enough, for she teased him, as it was in her nature to do; but he did not feel them hard. They made a pilgrimage to the brook-side, where, as Kate said, ‘it was all settled’ six years ago. They talked over a thousand recollections, half of which would never have occurred to them but for this sweet leisure, and the new light under which the past glowed, and shone. They did a great many foolish things, as was to be expected; and they were as happy as most other young people in the same foolish circumstances. It was only when he was away from her that Bertie ever grew red at the thought of the contrast of fortune. He called himself Prince Consort in Kate’s company;but then the title did not hurt. It did—a little—when he was alone, and had time to think. But, after all, even when there is a sting like this in it, it is easy to content one’s self with happiness, and to find a score of excellent reasons why that, and nothing else, should be one’s lot.
Lady Caryisfort had gone away a week before. She came back, when she heard of it, in consternation, to remonstrate, if that was possible. But when she arrived at Langton-Courtenay, and saw how things were, Lady Caryisfort was much too sensible a woman to make herself disagreeable. She said, on the contrary, that she had divined how it would be from the beginning, and had been quite certain since the marriage of ‘the Eldridges’ had been made known to the world. I hope what she said was true; but it was not to say this that she had come all the way from Dorsetshire. She remained only two days, and took a very affectionate leave of Kate, and sent her a charming present when she married; but it was a long time before they met again. It was disappointing not to have an heiress to present to the world, to carry about in her train; but then it was her own fault. Had she not lingered in Italy till the last season was over, how different things might have been! She had no good answer to give to Mr. Courtenay when he taunted her with this. She knew very well herself why she lingered, and probably so did he; and it had come to nothing after all. However, we may say, for the satisfaction of the reader, that it did not end in nothing. Lady Caryisfort continued her independent, and, as people said, enjoyable life for some years more. Then it suddenly occurred to her all at once that to go every year from London to Paris, and from Paris to Italy, and from Italy back to London, with a quantity of dull visits between, was an unprofitable way of spending one’s life; so she went to Florence early one season, and married Antonio Buoncompagni after all. I hope she was very comfortable, and liked it; but, at all events, so far as this story is concerned, there was an end of her.
Mrs. Anderson stayed with her niece for a very long time; naturally her presence was necessary till Kate married—and then she returned to receive the pair when they came back after their honeymoon. But when the honeymoon was long over Mrs. Anderson still stayed, and was more firmly established at Langton-Courtenay than in her daughter’s great house, where old Lady Eldridge lived with the young people, and where sometimes there were shadows visible, even on the clear sky of prosperity and well-doing. Ombra was Ombra still, even when she was happy—a nature often sweet, and never intentionally unkind, but apt to become self-absorbed, and disposed to be cloudy. Her mother never uttered a word of complaint, and was very happy to pay her a visit now and then; but her homegradually became fixed with her adopted child. She and old Francesca faded and grew old together—that is to say, Mrs. Anderson grew older, while Francesca bloomed perennial, no more aged at seventy, to all appearance, than she had been at fifty. Never was such an invaluable old woman in a house. She was the joy of all the young generation for twenty years, and her stories grew more full of detail and more lavishly decorated with circumstances every day.
There is not much more to add. If we went further on in the history, should we not have new threads to take up, perhaps new complications to unravel, new incidents with every new hour? For life does not sit still and fold its hands in happiness any more than in sorrow—something must always be happening; and when Providence does not send events, we take care to make them. But Providence happily provided the events in the house of Kate and Bertie. He made an admirable Prince Consort. He went into Parliament, and took up politics warmly, and finally got up to a secondary seat in the Cabinet, which Kate was infinitely proud of. She made him rich and important—which, after all, as she said, were things which any cheese-monger’s daughter could have done, who had money enough. But he made her, what few people could have done, the wife of a Cabinet Minister. When the Right Honourable H. Hardwick came down to Westerton, the town took off its hat to him, and considered itself honoured as no Mr. Courtenay of Langton-Courtenay had ever honoured it. Thus things went well with those who aimed well, which does not always happen, though sometimes it is permitted us for the consolation of the race.
W. H. Smith & Son, Printers, London, W.C.