Thingswent on in this way for some weeks, while theShadowlay in Sandown Bay, or cruised about the sunny sea. There was so much to do during this period, that none of the young people, at least, had much time to think. They were constantly together, always engaged with some project of pleasure, chattering and planning new opportunities to chatter and enjoy themselves once more; and the drama that was going on among them was but partially perceived by themselves, the actors in it. Some little share of personal feeling had awakened in Kate during these gay weeks. She had become sensible, with a certain twinge of mortification, that three or four different times when she had talked to Bertie Hardwick, ‘my Bertie,’ his attention had wandered from her. It was a new sensation, and it would be vain to conceal that she did not like it. He had smiled vacantly at her, and given a vague, murmuring answer, with his eyes turned towards the spot where Ombra was; and he had left her at the first possible opportunity. This filled Kate with consternation and a certain horror. It was very strange. She stood aghast, and looked at him; and so little interest did he take in the matter that he never observed her wondering, bewildered looks. The pang of mortification was sharp, and Kate had to gulp it down, her pride preventing her from showing what she felt. But after awhile her natural buoyancy regained the mastery. Of course it was natural he should like Ombra best—Ombra was beautiful, Ombra was the queen of the moment—Kate’s own queen, though she had been momentarily unwilling to let her have everything. ‘It is natural,’ she said to herself, with philosophy—‘quite natural. What a fool I was to think anything else! Of course he must care more for Ombra than for me; but I shall not give him the chance again.’ This vengeful threat, however, floated out of her unvindictive mind. She forgot all about it, and did give him the chance; and once more he answered her vaguely, with his face turned towards her cousin. This was too much for Kate’s patience. ‘Mr. Bertie,’ she said, ‘go to Ombra if you please—no one wishes to detain you; but she takes no interest in you—to save yourself trouble, you may as well know that; she takes no interest in boys—or in you.’
Upon which Bertie started, and woke up from his abstraction, and made a hundred apologies. Kate turned round in the midst of them and left him; she was angry, and felt herself entitled to be so. To admire Ombra was all very well; but to neglect herself, to neglect civility, to make apologies! She went off affronted, determined never to believe in boys more. There was no jealousy of her cousin in her mind; Kate recognised, with perfect composure and good sense, that it was Ombra’s day. Her own was to come. She was not out of short frocks yet, though she was over sixteen, and to expect to have vassals as Ombra had would be ridiculous. She had no fault to find with that, but she had a right, she felt, to expect that her privilege as old friend and feudalsuzeraineshould be respected; whereas, even her good advice was all thrown back upon her, and she had so much good advice to offer!
Kate reflected very deeply that morning on the nature of the sentiment called love. She had means of judging, having looked on while Mr. Sugden made himself look very ridiculous; and now the Berties were repeating the process. Both of them? She asked herself the question as Mrs. Eldridge had done. It made them look foolish, and it made them selfish; careless of other people, and especially of herself. It was hard; it was an injury that her own old friend should be thus negligent, and thus apologise! Kate felt that if he had taken her into his confidence, if he had said, ‘I am in love with Ombra—I can’t think of anything else,’ she would have understood him, and all would have been well. But boys were such strange creatures, so wanting in perception; and she resolved that, if ever this sort of thing happened toher, she would make a difference. She would not permit this foolish absorption. She would say plainly, ‘If you neglect your other friends, if you make yourselves look foolish for me, I will have nothing to do with you. Behave as if you had some sense, and do me credit. Do you think I want fools to be in love with me?’ This was what Kate made up her mind she would say, when it came to be her turn.
This gay period, however, came to a strangely abrupt and mysterious end. The party had come home one evening, joyous as usual. They had gone round to Ryde in the morning to a regatta; the day had been perfect, the sea as calm as was compatible with the breeze they wanted, and all had gone well. Mrs. Eldridge herself had accompanied them, and on the whole, though certain tremors had crossed her at one critical moment, when the wind seemed to be rising, these tremors were happily quieted, and she had, ‘on the whole,’ as she cautiously stated, enjoyed the expedition. It was to be wound up, as most of these evenings had been, by a supper at the Rectory. Mrs. Anderson was in her own room, arranging her dress in order to join the sailors in this concluding feast. She had been watching a youngmoon rise into the twilight sky, and rejoicing in the beauty of the scene, for her children’s sake. Her heart was warm with the thought that Ombra was happy; that she was the queen of the party, deferred to, petted, admired, nay—or the mother’s instinct deceived her—worshipped by some. These thoughts diffused a soft glow of happiness over her mind. Ombra was happy, she was thought of as she ought to be, honoured as she deserved, loved; there was the brightest prospect opening up before her, and her mother, though she had spent the long day alone, felt a soft radiance of reflected light about her, which was to her what the moon was in the sky. It was a warm, soft, balmy Summer evening; the world seemed almost to hold its breath in the mere happiness of being, as if a movement, a sigh, would have broken the spell. Mrs. Anderson put up her hair (which was still pretty hair, and worth the trouble), and arranged her ribbons, and was about to draw round her the light shawl which Francesca had dropped on her shoulders, when all at once she saw Ombra coming through the garden alone. Ombra alone! with her head drooped, and a haze of something sad and mysterious about her, which perhaps the mother’s eyes, perhaps the mere alarm of fancy, discerned at once. Mrs. Anderson gave a little cry. She dropped the shawl from her, and flew downstairs. The child was ill, or something had happened. A hundred wild ideas ran through her head in half a second. Kate had been drowned—Ombra had escaped from a wreck—the Berties! She was almost surprised to see that her daughter was not drenched with sea-water, when she rushed to her, and took her in her arms.
‘What is the matter, Ombra? Something has happened. But you are safe, my darling child!’
‘Don’t,’ said Ombra, withdrawing herself almost pettishly from her mother’s arms. ‘Nothing has happened. I—only was—tired; and I came home.’
She sat down on one of the rustic seats under the verandah, and turned away her head. The moon shone upon her, on the pretty outline of her arm, on which she leant, and the averted head. She had not escaped from a shipwreck. Had she anything to say which she dared not tell? Was it about Kate?
‘Ombra, dear, what is it? I know there is something. Kate?’
‘Kate? Kate is well enough. What should Kate have to do with it?’ cried the girl, with impatient scorn; and then she suddenly turned and hid her face on her mother’s arm. ‘Oh! I am so unhappy!—my heart is like to break! I want to see no one—no one but you again!’
‘What is it, my darling? Tell me what it is.’ Mrs. Anderson knelt down beside her child. She drew her into her arms. She put her soft hand on Ombra’s cheek, drawing it close to her own, and concealing it by the fond artifice. ‘Tell me,’ she whispered.
But Ombra did not say anything. She lay still and sobbed softly, as it were under her breath. And there her mother knelt supporting her, her own eyes full of tears, and her heart of wonder. Ombra, who had been this morning the happiest of all the happy! Dark, impossible shadows crept through Mrs. Anderson’s mind. She grew sick with suspense.
‘I cannot tell you here,’ said Ombra, recovering a little. ‘Come in. Take me upstairs, mamma. Nobody has done it; it is my own fault.’
They went up to the little white room opening from her mother’s, where Ombra slept. The red shawl was still lying on the floor, where it had fallen from Mrs. Anderson’s shoulders. Her little box of trinkets was open, her gloves on the table, and the moonlight, with a soft inquisition, whitening the brown air of the twilight, stole in by the side of the glass in which the two figures were dimly reflected.
‘Do I look like a ghost?’ said Ombra, taking off her hat. She was very pale; she looked like one of those creatures, half demons, half spirits, which poets see about the streams and woods. Never had she been so shadowy, so like her name; but there was a mist of consternation, of alarm, of trouble, about her. She was scared as well as heartbroken, like one who had seen some vision, and had been robbed of all her happiness thereby. ‘Mamma,’ she said, leaning upon her mother, but looking in the glass all the time, ‘this is the end of everything. I will be as patient as I can, and not vex you more than I can help; but it is all over. I do not care to live any more, and it is my own fault.’
‘Ombra, have some pity on me! Tell me, for heaven’s sake, what you mean.’
Then Ombra withdrew from her support, and began to take off her little ornaments—the necklace she wore, according to the fashion of the time, the little black velvet bracelets, the brooch at her throat.
‘It has all happened since sunset,’ she said, as she nervously undid the clasps. ‘He was beside me on the deck—he has been beside me all day. Oh! can’t you tell without having it put into words?’
‘I cannot tell what could make you miserable,’ said her mother, with some impatience. ‘Ombra, if I could be angry with you——’
‘No, no,’ she said, deprecating; ‘Then you did not see it any more than I? So I am not so much, so very much to blame. Oh! mamma, he told me he—loved me—wanted me to—to—be married to him. Oh! when I think of all he said——’
‘But, dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, recovering in a moment, ‘there is nothing so very dreadful in this. I knew he wouldtell you so one day or other. I have seen it coming for a long time——’
‘And you never told me—you never so much as tried to help me to see! You would not take the trouble to save your child from—from—— Oh! I will never forgive you, mamma!’
‘Ombra!’ Mrs. Anderson was struck with such absolute consternation that she could not say another word.
‘I refused him,’ said the girl, suddenly, turning away with a quiver in her voice.
‘You refused him?’
‘What could I do else? I did not know what he was going to say. I never thought he cared. Can one see into another’s heart? I was so—taken by surprise. I was so—frightened—he should see. And then, oh! the look he gave me! Oh! mother! mother! it is all over! Everything has come to an end! I shall never be happy any more!’
‘What does it mean?’ cried the bewildered mother. ‘You—refused him; and yet you—— Ombra—this is beyond making a mystery of. Tell me in plain words what you mean.’
‘Then it is this, in plain words,’ said Ombra, rousing up, with a hot flush on her cheek. ‘I was determined he should not see I cared, and I never thoughthedid; and when he spoke to me, I refused. That is all, in plain words. I did not know what I was doing. Oh! mamma, you might be sorry for me, and not speak to me so! I did not believe him—I did not understand him; not till after——’
‘My dear child, this is mere folly,’ said her mother. ‘If it is only a misunderstanding—and you love each other——’
‘It is no misunderstanding. I made it very plain to him—oh! very plain! I said we were just to be the same as usual. That he was to come to see us—and all that! Mother—let me lie down. I am so faint. I think I shall die!’
‘But, Ombra, listen to me. I can’t let things remain like this. It is a misunderstanding—a mistake even. I will speak to him.’
‘Then you shall never see me more!’ cried Ombra, rising up, as it seemed, to twice her usual height. ‘Mother, you would not shame me! If you do I will go away. I will never speak to you again. I will kill myself rather! Promise you will not say one word.’
‘I will say nothing to—to shame you, as you call it.’
‘Promise you will not say one word.’
‘Ombra, I must act according to my sense of my duty. I will be very careful——’
‘If you do not want to drive me mad, you will promise. The day you speak to him of this, I will go away. You shall never, never see me more!’
And the promise had to be made.
Thepromise was made, and Ombra lay down in her little white bed, silent, no longer making a complaint. She turned her face to the wall, and begged her mother to leave her.
‘Don’t say any more. Please take no notice. Oh! mamma, if you love me, don’t say any more,’ she had said. ‘If I could have helped it, I would not have told you. It was because—when I found out——’
‘Oh! Ombra, surely it was best to tell me—surely you would not have kept this from your mother?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘If you speak of it again, I shall think it was not for the best. Oh! mother, go away. It makes me angry to be pitied. I can’t bear it. Let me alone. It is all over. I wish never to speak of it more!’
‘But, Ombra——’
‘No more! Oh! mamma, why will you take such a cruel advantage? I cannot bear any more!’
Mrs. Anderson left her child, with a sigh. She went downstairs, and stood in the verandah, leaning on the rustic pillar to which the honeysuckle hung. The daylight had altogether crept away, the moon was mistress of the sky; but she no longer thought of the sky, nor of the lovely, serene night, nor the moonlight. A sudden storm had come into her mind. What was she to do? She was a woman not apt to take any decided step for herself. Since her husband’s death, she had taken counsel with her daughter on everything that passed in their life. I do not mean to imply that she had been moved only by Ombra’s action, or was without individual energy of her own; but those who have thought, planned, and acted alwaysà deux, find it sadly difficult to put themselves in motion individually, without the mental support which is natural to them. And then Mrs. Anderson had been accustomed all her life to keep within the strict leading-strings of propriety. She had regulated her doings by those rules of decorum, those regulations as to what was ‘becoming,’ what ‘fitting her position,’ with which society simplifies butlimits the proceedings of her votaries. These rules forbade any interference in such a matter as this. They forbade to her any direct action at all in a complication so difficult. That she might work indirectly no doubt was quite possible, and would be perfectly legitimate—if she could; but how?
She stood leaning upon the mass of honeysuckle which breathed sweetness all about her, with the moonlight shining calm and sweet upon her face. The peacefullest place and moment; the most absolute repose and quietness about her—a scene from which conflict and pain seemed altogether shut out; and yet how much perplexity, how much vexation and distress were there. By-and-by, however, she woke up to the fact that she had no right to be where she was—that she ought at that moment to be at the Rectory, keeping up appearances, and explaining rather than adding to the mystery of her daughter’s disappearance. It was a ‘trying’ thing to do, but Mrs. Anderson all her life had maintained rigidly the principle of keeping up appearances, and had gone through many a trying moment in consequence. She sighed; but she went meekly upstairs, and got the shawl which still lay on the floor, and wrapped it round her, and went away alone, bidding old Francesca watch over Ombra. She went down the still rural road in the moonlight, still working at her tangled skein of thoughts. If he had but had the good sense to speak toherfirst, in the old-fashioned way—if he would but have the good sense to come and openly speak to her now, and give her a legitimate opening to interfere. She walked slowly, and she started at every sound, wondering if perhaps it might behimhanging about, on the chance of seeing some one. When at last she did see a figure approaching, her heart leaped to her mouth; but it was not the figure she looked for. It was Mr. Sugden, the tall curate, hanging about anxiously on the road.
‘Is Miss Anderson ill?’ he said, while he held her hand in greeting.
‘The sun has given her a headache. She has bad headaches sometimes,’ she answered, cheerfully; ‘but it is nothing—she will be better to-morrow. She has been so much more out doors lately, since this yachting began.’
‘That will not go on any longer,’ said the Curate, with a mixture of regret and satisfaction. After a moment the satisfaction predominated, and he drew a long breath, thinking to himself of all that had been, of all that the yacht had made an end of. ‘Thank Providence!’ he added softly; and then louder, ‘our two friends are going, or gone. A letter was waiting them with bad news—or, at least, with news of some description, which called them off. I wonder you did not meet them going back to the pier. As the wind is favourable, they thought the best waywas to cross in the yacht. They did not stop even to eat anything. I am surprised you did not meet them.’
Mrs. Anderson’s heart gave a leap, and then seemed to stop beating. If she had met them, he would have spoken, and all might have been well. If she had but started five minutes earlier, if she had walked a little faster, if—— But now they were out of sight, out of reach, perhaps for ever. Her vexation and disappointment were so keen that tears came to her eyes in the darkness. Yes, in her heart she had felt sure that she could do something, that he would speak to her, that she might be able to speak to him; but now all was over, as Ombra said. She could not make any reply to her companion—she was past talking; and, besides, it did not seem to be necessary to make any effort to keep up appearances with the Curate. Men were all obtuse; and he was not specially clever, but rather the reverse. He never would notice, nor think that this departure was anything to her. She walked on by his side in silence, only saying, after awhile, ‘It is very sudden—they will be a great loss to all you young people; and I hope it was not illness, or any trouble in the family——’
But she did not hear what answer was made to her—she took no further notice of him—her head began to buzz, and there was a singing in her ears, because of the multiplicity of her thoughts. She recalled herself, with an effort, when the Rectory doors were pushed open by her companion, and she found herself in the midst of a large party, all seated round the great table, all full of the news of the evening, interspersed with inquiries about the absent.
‘Oh! have you heard what has happened? Oh! how is Ombra, Mrs. Anderson? Oh! we are all heart-broken! What shall we do without them?’ rose the chorus.
Mrs. Anderson smiled her smile of greeting, and put on a proper look of concern for the loss of the Berties, and was cheerful about her daughter. She behaved herself as a model woman in the circumstances would behave, and she believed, and with some justice, that she had quite succeeded. She succeeded with the greater part of the party, no doubt; but there were two who looked at her with doubtful eyes—the Curate, about whom she had taken no precautions; and Kate, who knew every line of her face.
‘I hope it is not illness nor trouble in the family,’ Mrs. Anderson repeated, allowing a look of gentle anxiety to come over her face.
‘No, I hope not,’ said Mrs. Eldridge; ‘though I am a little anxious, I allow. But no, really I don’t think it. They would never have concealed such a thing from us; though there was actually no time to explain. I had gone upstairs to take off my things, and all at once there was a cry, “The Berties are going!” “My dear boys, what is the matter?” I said; “is there anythingwrong at either of your homes? I beg of you to let me know the worst!” And then one of them called to me from the bottom of the stairs, that it was nothing—it was only that they must go to meet some one—one of their young men’s engagements, I suppose. He said they would come back; but I tell the children that is nonsense; while they were here they might be persuaded to stay, but once gone, they will never come back this season. Ah! I have only too much reason to know boys’ ways.’
‘But they looked dreadfully cast down, mamma—as if they had had bad news,’ said Lucy Eldridge, who, foreseeing the end of a great deal of unusual liberty, felt very much cast down herself.
‘Bertie Hardwick looked as if he had seen a ghost,’ said another.
‘No, it was Bertie Eldridge,’ cried a third.
Kate looked from her end of the table at her aunt’s face, and said nothing; and a deep red glow came upon Mr. Sugden’s cheeks. These two young people had each formed a theory in haste, from the very few facts they knew, and both were quite wrong; but that fact did not diminish the energy with which they cherished each their special notion. Mrs. Anderson, however, was imperturbable. She sat near Mrs. Eldridge, and talked to her with easy cheerfulness about the day’s expedition, and all that had been going on. She lamented the end of the gaiety, but remarked, with a smile, that perhaps the girls had had enough. ‘I saw this morning that Ombra was tired out. I wanted her not to go, but of course it was natural she should wish to go; and the consequence is, one of her racking headaches,’ she said.
With the gravest of faces, Kate listened. She had heard nothing of Ombra’s headache till that moment; still, of course, the conversation which Mrs. Anderson reported might have taken place in her absence; but—Kate was very much disturbed in her soul, and very anxious that the meal should come to an end.
The moon had almost disappeared when the company dispersed. Kate rushed to her aunt, and took her hand, and whispered in her ear; but a sudden perception of a tall figure on Mrs. Anderson’s other hand stopped her. ‘Whatdo you say, Kate?’ cried her aunt; but the question could not be repeated. Mr. Sugden marched by their side all the way—he could not have very well told why—in case he should be wanted, he said to himself; but he did not even attempt to explain to himself how he could be wanted. He felt stern, determined, ready to do anything or everything. Kate’s presence hampered him, ashis hampered her. He would have liked to say something more distinct than he could now permit himself to do.
‘I wish you would believe,’ he said, suddenly, bending over Mrs. Anderson in the darkness, ‘that I am always at your service, ready to do anything you want.’
‘You are very, very kind,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with the greatest wonderment. ‘Indeed, I am sure I should not have hesitated to ask you, had I been in any trouble,’ she added, gently.
But Mr. Sugden was too much in earnest to be embarrassed by the gentle denial she made of any necessity for his help.
‘At any time, in any circumstances,’ he said, hoarsely. ‘Mrs. Anderson, I do not say this is what I would choose—but if your daughter should have need of a—of one who would serve her—like a brother—I do not say it is what I would choose——’
‘My dear Mr. Sugden! you are so very good——’
‘No, not good,’ he said, anxiously—‘don’t say that—good to myself—if you will but believe me. I would forget everything else.’
‘You may be sure, should I feel myself in need, you will be the first I shall go to,’ said Mrs. Anderson, graciously. (‘What can he mean?—what fancy can he have taken into his head?’ she was saying, with much perplexity, all the time to herself.) ‘I cannot ask you to come in, Mr. Sugden—we must keep everything quiet for Ombra; but I hope we shall see you soon.’
And she dismissed him, accepting graciously all his indistinct and eager offers of service. ‘He is very good; but I don’t know what he is thinking of,’ she said rather drearily as she turned to go in. Kate was still clinging to her, and Kate, though it was not necessary to keep up appearances with her, had better, Mrs. Anderson thought, be kept in the dark too, as much as was possible. ‘I am going to Ombra,’ she said. ‘Good night, my dear child. Go to bed.’
‘Auntie, stop a minute. Oh! auntie, take me into your confidence. I love her, and you too. I will never say a word, or let any one see that I know. Oh! Auntie—Ombra—has she gone with them?—has she—run—away?’
‘Ombra—run away!’ cried Mrs. Anderson, throwing her niece’s arm from her. ‘Child, how dare you? Do you mean to insult both her and me?’
Kate stood abashed, drawn back to a little distance, tears coming to her eyes.
‘I did not mean any harm,’ she said, humbly.
‘Not mean any harm! But you thought my child—my Ombra—had run away!’
‘Oh! forgive me,’ said Kate. ‘I know now how absurd it was; but—I thought—she might be—in love. People do it—at least in books. Don’t be angry with me, auntie. I thought so because of your face. Then what is the matter? Oh! do tell me; no one shall ever know from me.’
Mrs. Anderson was worn out. She suffered Kate’s supporting arm to steal round her. She leant her head upon the girl’s shoulder.
‘I can’t tell you, dear,’ she said, with a sob. ‘She has mistaken her feelings; she is—very unhappy. You must be very, very kind and good to her, and never let her see you know anything. Oh! Kate, my darling is very unhappy. She thinks she has broken her heart.’
‘Then I know!’ cried Kate, stamping her foot upon the gravel, and feeling as Mr. Sugden did. ‘Oh! I will go after them and bring them back! It is their fault.’
Mrs. Andersonawaited her daughter’s awakening next morning with an anxiety which was indescribable. She wondered even at the deep sleep into which Ombra fell after the agitation of the night—wondered, not because it was new or unexpected, but with that wonder which moves the elder mind at the sight of youth in all its vagaries, capable of such wild emotion at one moment, sinking into profound repose at another. But, after all, Ombra had been for some time awake, ere her watchful mother observed. When Mrs. Anderson looked at her, she was lying with her mouth closely shut and her eyes open, gazing fixedly at the light, pale as the morning itself, which was misty, and rainy, and wan, after the brightness of last night. Her look was so fixed and her lips so firmly shut, that her mother grew alarmed.
‘Ombra!’ she said softly—‘Ombra, my darling, my poor child!’
Ombra turned round sharply, fixing her eyes now on her mother’s face as she had fixed them on the light.
‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Why are you up so early? I am not ill, am I!’ and looked at her with a kind of menace, forbidding, as it were, any reference to what was past.
‘I hope not, dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘You have too much courage and good sense, my darling, to be ill.’
‘Do courage and good sense keep one from being ill?’ said Ombra, with something like a sneer; and then she said, ‘Please, mamma, go away. I want to get up.’
‘Not yet, dear. Keep still a little longer. You are not able to get up yet,’ said poor Mrs. Anderson, trembling for the news which would meet her when she came into the outer world again. What strange change was it that had come upon Ombra? She looked almost derisively, almost threateningly into her mother’s face.
‘One would think I had had a fever, or that some great misfortune had happened to me,’ she said; ‘but I am not aware of it. Leave me alone, please. I have a thousand things to do. I want to get up. Mother, for heaven’s sake, don’t look at meso! You will drive me wild! My nerves cannot stand it; nor—nor my temper,’ said Ombra, with a shrill in her voice which had never been heard there before. ‘Mamma, if you have any pity, go away.’
‘If my lady will permit, I will attend Mees Ombra,’ said old Francesca, coming in with a look of ominous significance. And poor Mrs. Anderson was worn out—she had been up half the night, and during the other half she did not sleep, though Ombra slept, who was the chief sufferer. Vanquished now by her daughter’s unfilial looks, she stole away, and cried by herself for a few moments in a corner, which did her good, and relieved her heart.
But Francesca advanced to the bedside with intentions far different from any her mistress had divined. She approached Ombra solemnly, holding out two fingers at her.
‘I make the horns,’ said Francesca; ‘I advance not to you again, Mademoiselle, without making the horns. Either you are an ice-maiden, as I said, and make enchantments, or you have the evil eye——’
‘Oh! be quiet, please, and leave me alone. I want to get up. I don’t want to be talked to. Mamma leaves me when I ask her, and why should not you?’
‘Because, Mademoiselle,’ said Francesca, with elaborate politeness, ‘my lady has fear of grieving her child; but for me I have not fear. Figure to yourself that I have made you like the child of my bosom for eighteen—nineteen year—and shall I stand by now, and see you drive love from you, drive life from you? You think so, perhaps? No, I am bolder than my dear padrona. I do not care sixpence if I break your heart. You are ice, you are stone, you are worse than all the winters and the frosts! Signorina Ghiaccia, you haf done it now!’
‘Francesca, go away! You have no right to speak to me so. What have I done?’
‘Done!’ cried Francesca, ‘done!—all the evil things you can do. You have driven all away from you who cared for you. Figure to yourself that a little ship went away from the golf last night, and the two young signorini in it. You will say to me that it is not you who have done it; but I believe you not. Who but you, Mees Ombra, Mees Ice and Snow? And so you will do with all till you are left alone, lone in the world—I know it. You turn to ze wall, you cry, you think you make me cry too, but no, Francesca will speak ze trutt to you, if none else. Last night, as soon as you come home, ze little ship go away—cacciato—what you call dreaven away—dreaven away, like by ze Tramontana, ze wind from ze ice-mountains! That is you. Already I haf said it. You are Ghiaccia—you will leave yourself lone, lone in ze world, wizout one zing to lof!’
Francesca’s English grew more and more broken as she rose into fervour. She stood now by Ombra’s bedside, with all the eloquence of indignation in her words, and looks, and gestures; her little uncovered head, with its knot of scanty hair twisted tightly up behind, nodding and quivering; her brown little hands gesticulating; her foot patting the floor; her black eyes flashing. Ombra had turned to the wall, as she said. She could discomfit her gentle mother, but she could not put down Francesca. And then this news which Francesca brought her went like a stone to the depths of her heart.
‘But I will tell you vat vill komm,’ she went on, with sparks of fire, as it seemed, flashing from her eyes—‘there vill komm a day when the ice will melt, like ze torrents in ze mountains. There will be a rush, and a flow, and a swirl, and then the avalanche! The ice will become water—it will run down, it will flood ze contree; but it will not do good to nobody, Mademoiselle. They will be gone the persons who would have loved. All will be over. Ze melting and ze flowing will be too late—it will be like the torrents in May, all will go with it, ze home, ze friends, ze comfort that you love, you English. All will go. Mademoiselle will be sorry then,’ said Francesca, regaining her composure, and making a vindictive courtesy. She smiled at the tremendous picture she was conscious of having drawn, with a certain complacency. She had beaten down with her fierce storm of words the white figure which lay turned away from her with hidden face. But Francesca’s heart did not melt. ‘Now I have told you ze trutt,’ she said, impressively. ‘Ze bath, and all things is ready, if Mademoiselle wishes to get up now.’
‘What have you been saying to my child, Francesca?’ said Mrs. Anderson, who met her as she left the room, looking very grave, and with red eyes.
‘Nozing but ze trutt,’ said Francesca, with returning excitement; ‘vich nobody will say but me—for I lof her—I lof her! She is my bébé too. Madame will please go downstairs, and have her breakfast,’ she added calmly. ‘Mees Ombra is getting up—there is nothing more to say. She will come down in quarter of an hour, and all will be as usual. It will be better that Madame says nothing more.’
Mrs. Anderson was not unused to such interference on Francesca’s part; the only difference was that no such grave crisis had ever happened before. She was aware that, in milder cases, her own caressing and indulgent ways had been powerfully aided by the decided action of Francesca, and her determination to speak ‘ze trutt,’ as she called it, without being moved by Ombra’s indignation, or even by her tears. Her mistress, though too proud to appeal to her for aid, had been but too glad to accept it ere now. But this was such an emergency as hadnever happened before, and she stood doubtful, unable to make up her mind what she should do, at the door of Ombra’s room, until the sounds within made it apparent that Ombra had really got up, and that there was, for the moment, nothing further to be done. She went away half disconsolate, half relieved, to the bright little dining-room below, where the pretty breakfast-table was spread, with flowers on it, and sunshine straying in through the network of honeysuckles and roses. Kate was at her favourite occupation, arranging flowers in the hall, but singing under her breath, lest she should disturb her cousin.
‘How is Ombra?’ she whispered, as if the sound of a voice would be injurious to her.
‘She is better, dear; I think much better. But oh, Kate, for heaven’s sake, take no notice, not a word! Don’t look even as if you supposed—— ’
‘Of course not, auntie,’ said Kate, with momentary indignation that she should be supposed capable of such unwomanly want of comprehension. They were seated quite cheerfully at breakfast when Ombra appeared. She gave them a suspicious look to discover if they had been talking of her—if Kate knew anything; but Kate (she thanked heaven), knew better than to betray herself. She asked after her cousin’s headache, on the contrary, in the most easy and natural way; she talked (very little) of the events of the preceding day. She propounded a plan of her own for that afternoon, which was to drive along the coast to a point which Ombra had wished to make a sketch of. ‘It will be the very thing for to-day,’ said Kate. ‘The rain is over, and the sun is shining; but it is too misty for sea-views, and we must be content with the land.’
‘Is it true,’ said Ombra, looking her mother in the face, ‘that the yacht went away last night?’
‘Oh yes,’ cried Kate, taking the subject out of Mrs. Anderson’s hands, ‘quite true. They found letters at the railway calling them off—or, at least, so they said. Some of us thought it was your fault for going away, but my opinion is that they did it abruptly to keep up our interest. One cannot go on yachting for ever and ever; for my part, I was beginning to get tired. Whereas, if they come back again, after a month or so, it will all be as fresh as ever.’
‘Are they coming back?’
‘Yes,’ said, boldly, the undaunted Kate.
Mrs. Anderson spoke not a word; she sat and trembled, pitying her child to the bottom of her heart—longing to take her into her arms, to speak consolation to her, but not daring. The mother, who would have tried if she could to get the moon for Ombra, had to stand aside, and let Francesca ‘tell ze trutt,’and Kate give the consolation. Some women would have resented the interference, but she was heroic, and kept silence. The audacious little fib which Kate had told so gayly, had already done its work; the cloud of dull quiet which had been on Ombra’s face, brightened. All was perhaps not over yet.
Thus after this interruption of their tranquillity they fell back into the old dull routine. Mr. Sugden was once more master of the field. Ombra kept herself so entirely in subjection, that nobody out of the Cottage guessed what crisis she had passed through, except this one observer, whose eyes were quickened by jealousy and by love. The Curate was not deceived by her smiles, by her expressions of content with the restored quietness, by her eagerness to return to all their old occupations. He watched her with anxious eyes, noting all her little caprices, noting the paleness which would come over her, the wistful gaze over the sea, which sometimes abstracted her from her companions.
‘She is not happy as she used to be—she is only making-believe, like the angel she is, to keep us from being wretched,’ he said to Kate.
‘Mr. Sugden, you talk great nonsense; there is nothing the matter with my cousin,’ Kate would reply. On which Mr. Sugden sighed heavily and shook his head, and went off to find Mrs. Anderson, whom he gently beguiled into a corner.
‘You remember what I said,’ he would whisper to her earnestly—‘if you want my services inanyway. It is not what I would have wished; but think of me as her—brother; let me act for you, as her brother would, if there is any need for it. Remember, you promised that you would——’
‘What does the man want me to bid him do?’ Mrs. Anderson would ask in perplexity, talking the matter over with Kate—a relief which she sometimes permitted herself; for Ombra forbade all reference to the subject, and she could not shut up her anxieties entirely in her own heart. But Kate could throw no light on the subject. Kate herself was not at all clear what had happened. She could not make quite sure, from her aunt’s vague statement, whether it was Ombra that was in the wrong, or the Berties, or if it was both the Berties, or which it was. There were so many complications in the question, that it was very difficult to come to any conclusion about it. But she held fast by her conviction that they must come back to Shanklin—it was inevitable that they must come back.
Katewas so far a true prophet that the Berties did return, but not till Christmas, and then only for a few days. For the first time during the Autumn and early Winter, time hung heavy upon the hands of the little household. Their innocent routine of life, which had supported them so pleasantly hitherto, supplying a course of gentle duties and necessities, broke down now, no one could tell why. Routine is one of the pleasantest stays of monotonous life, so long as no agitating influence has come into it. It makes existence more supportable to millions of people who have ceased to be excited by the vicissitudes of life, or who have not yet left the pleasant creeks and bays of youth for the more agitated and stormy sea; but when that first interruption has come, without bringing either satisfaction or happiness with it, the bond of routine becomes terrible. All the succession of duties and pleasures which had seemed to her as the course of nature a few months before—as unchangeable as the succession of day and night, and as necessary—became now a burden to Ombra, under which her nerves, her temper, her very life gave way. She asked herself, and often asked the others, why they should do the same things every day?—what was the good of it? The studies which she shared with her cousin, the little charities they did—visits to this poor woman or the other, expeditions with the small round basket, which held a bit of chicken, or some jelly, or a pudding for a sick pensioner; the walks they took for exercise, their sketchings and practisings, and all the graceful details of their innocent life—what was the good of them? ‘The poor people don’t want our puddings and things. I daresay they throw them away when we are gone,’ said Ombra. ‘They don’t want to be interfered with—I should not, if I were in their place; and if we go on sketching till the end of time, we never shall make a tolerable picture—you could buy a better for five shillings; and the poorest pianist in a concert-room would play better than we could, though we spent half the day practising. What is the good of it? Oh! if you only knew how sick I am of it all!’
‘But, dear, you could not sit idle all day—you could not read all day. You must do something,’ said poor Mrs. Anderson, not knowing how to meet this terrible criticism, ‘for your own sake.’
‘For my own sake!’ said Ombra. ‘Ah! that is just what makes it so dreadful, so disgusting! I am to go on with all this mass of nonsense for my own sake. Not that it is, or ever will be, of use to any one; not that there is any need to do it, or any good in doing it; but for my own sake! Oh! mamma, don’t you see what a satire it is? No man, nobody who criticises women, ever said worse than you have just said. We are so useless to the world, so little wanted by the world, that we are obliged to furbish up little silly, senseless occupations, simply to keep us from yawning ourselves to death—for our own sakes!’
‘Indeed, Ombra, I do not understand what you mean, or what you would have,’ Mrs. Anderson would answer, all but crying, the vexation of being unable to answer categorically, increasing her distress at her daughter’s contradictoriness; for, to be sure, when you anatomized all these simple habits of life, what Ombra said was true enough. The music and the drawing were done for occupation rather than for results. The visits to the poor did but little practical service, though the whole routine had made up a pleasant life, gently busy, and full of kindly interchanges.
Mrs. Anderson felt that she herself had not been a useless member of society, or one whose withdrawal would have made no difference to the world; but in what words was she to say so? She was partially affronted, vexed, and distressed. Even when she reflected on the subject, she did not know in what words to reply to her argumentative child. She could justify her own existence to herself—for was not she the head and centre of this house, upon whom five other persons depended for comfort and guidance. ‘Five persons,’ Mrs. Anderson said to herself. ‘Even Ombra—what would she do without me? And Kate would have no home, if I were not here to make one for her; and those maids who eat our bread!’ All this she repeated to herself, feeling that she was not, even now, without use in the world; but how could she have said it to her daughter? Probably Ombra would have answered that the whole household might be swept off the face of the earth without harm to any one—that there was no use in them;—a proposition which it was impossible either to refute or to accept.
Thus the household had changed its character, no one knew how. When Kate arranged the last winterly bouquets of chrysanthemums and Autumnal leaves in the flat dishes which she had once filled with primroses, her sentiments were almost as different as the season. She was nipped by a subtle cold morepenetrating than that which blew about the Cottage in the November winds, and tried to get entrance through the closed windows. She was made uncomfortable in all her habits, unsettled in her youthful opinions. Sometimes a refreshing little breeze of impatience crossed her mind, but generally she was depressed by the change, without well knowing why.
‘If we are all as useless as Ombra says, it would be better to be a cook or a housemaid; but then the cook and the housemaid are of use only to help us useless creatures, so they are no good either!’ This was the style of reasoning which Ombra’s vagaries brought into fashion. But these vagaries probably never would have occurred at all, had not something happened to Ombra which disturbed the whole edifice of her young life. Had she accepted the love which was offered to her, no doubt every circumstance around her would have worn a sweet perfection and appropriateness to her eyes; or had she been utterly fancy-free, and untouched by the new thing which had been so suddenly thrust upon her, the pleasant routine might have continued, and all things gone on as before. But the light of a new life had gleamed upon Ombra, and foolishly, hastily, she had put it away from her. She had put it away—but she could not forget that sudden and rapid gleam which had lighted up the whole landscape. When she looked out over that landscape now, the distances were blurred, the foreground had grown vague and dim with mists, the old sober light which dwelt there had gone for ever, following that sudden, evanescent, momentary gleam. What was the good? Once, for a moment, what seemed to be the better, the best, had shone upon her. It fled, and even the homelier good fled with it. Blankness, futility, an existence which meant nothing, and could come to nothing, was what remained to her now.
So Ombra thought; perhaps a girl of higher mind, or more generous heart, would not have done so—but it is hard to take a wide or generous view of life at nineteen, when one thinks one has thrown away all that makes existence most sweet. The loss; the terrible disappointment; the sense of folly and guilt—for was it not all her own fault?—made such a mixture of bitterness to Ombra as it is difficult to describe. If she had been simply ‘crossed in love,’ as people say, there would have been some solace possible; there would have been the visionary fidelity, the melancholy delight of resignation, or even self-sacrifice; but here there was nothing to comfort her—it was herself only who was to blame, and that in so ridiculous and childish a way. Therefore, every time she thought of it (and she thought of it for ever), the reflection made her heart sick with self-disgust, and cast her down into despair. The tide had come to her, as it comes always in the affairs of men, but shehad not caught it, and now was left ashore, a maiden wreck upon the beach, for ever and ever. So Ombra thought—and this thought in her was to all the household as though a cloud hung over it. Mrs. Anderson was miserable, and Kate depressed, she could not tell why.
‘We are getting as dull as the old women in the almshouses,’ the latter said, one day, with a sigh. And then, after a pause—‘a great deal duller, for they chatter about everything or nothing. They are cheery old souls; they look as if they had expected it all their lives, and liked it now they are there.’
‘And so they did, I suppose. Not expected it, but hoped for it, and were anxious about it, and used all the influence they could get to be elected. Of course they looked forward to it as the very best thing that could happen——’
‘To live in the almshouses?’ said Kate, with looks aghast. ‘Look forward to it! Oh, auntie, what a terrible idea!’
‘My dear,’ Mrs. Anderson said, somewhat subdued, ‘their expectations and ours are different.’
‘That means,’ said Ombra, ‘that most of us have not even almshouses to look forward to; nothing but futility, past and present—caring for nothing and desiring nothing.’
‘Ombra, I do not know what you will say next,’ cried the poor mother, baffled and vexed, and ready to burst into tears. Her child plagued her to the last verge of a mother’s patience, setting her on edge in a hundred ways. And Kate looked on with open eyes, and sometimes shared her aunt’s impatience; but chiefly, as she still admired and adored Ombra, allowed that young woman’s painful mania to oppress her, and was melancholy for company. I do not suppose, however, that Kate’s melancholy was of a painful nature, or did her much harm. And, besides her mother, the person who suffered most through Ombra was poor Mr. Sugden, who watched her till his eyes grew large and hollow in his honest countenance; till his very soul glowed with indignation against the Berties. The determination to find out which it was who had ruined her happiness, and to seek him out even at the end of the world, and exact a terrible punishment, grew stronger and stronger in him during those dreary days of Winter. ‘As if I were her brother; though, God knows, that is not what I would have wished,’ the Curate said to himself. This was his theory of the matter. He gave up with a sad heart the hope of being able to move her now to love himself. He would never vex her even, with his hopeless love, he decided; never weary her with bootless protestations; never injure the confidential position he had gained by asking more than could ever be given to him; but one day he would find out which was the culprit, and then Ombra should be avenged.
Gleams of excitement began to shoot across the tranquil cheeriness of the Winter, when it was known that the two were coming again; and then other changes occurred, which made a diversion which was anything but agreeable in the Cottage. Ombra said nothing to any one about her feelings, but she became irritable, impatient, and unreasonable, as only those whose nerves are kept in a state of painful agitation can be. The Berties stayed but a few days; they made one call at the Cottage, which was formal and constrained, and they were present one evening at the Rectory to meet the old yachting-party, which had been so merry and so friendly in the Summer. But it was merry no longer. The two young men seemed to have lost their gaiety; they had gone in for work, they said, both in a breath, with a forced laugh, by way of apology for themselves. They said little to any one, and next to nothing to Ombra, who sat in a corner all the evening, and furtively watched them, reddening and growing pale as they moved about from one to another. The day after they left she had almost a quarrel with her mother and cousin, to such a pitch had her irritability reached; and then, for the first time, she burst into wild tears, and repented and reproached herself, till Mrs. Anderson and Kate cried their eyes out, in pitiful and wondering sympathy. But poor Ombra never quite recovered herself after this outburst. She gave herself up, and no longer made a stand against thesourdirritation and misery that consumed her. It affected her health, after a time, and filled the house with anxiety, and depression, and pain. And thus the Winter went by, and Spring came, and Kate Courtenay, developing unawares, like her favourite primroses, blossomed into the flowery season, and completed her eighteenth year.
Kate’seighteenth birthday was in Easter-week; and on the day before that anniversary a letter arrived from her Uncle Courtenay, which filled the Cottage with agitation. During all this time she had written periodically and dutifully to her guardian, Mrs. Anderson being very exact upon that point, and had received occasional notes from him in return; but something had pricked him to think of his duties at this particular moment, though it was not an agreeable subject to contemplate. He had not seen her for three years, and it cannot be affirmed that the old man of the world would have been deeply moved had he never seen his ward again; but something had suggested to him the fact that Kate existed—that she was now eighteen, and that it was his business to look after her. Besides, it was the Easter recess, and a few days’ quiet and change of air were recommended by his doctor. For this no place could possibly be more suitable than Shanklin; so he sent a dry little letter to Kate, announcing an approaching visit, though without specifying any time.
The weather was fine, and the first croquet-party of the season was to be held at the Cottage in honour of Kate’s birthday, so that the announcement did not perhaps move her so much as it might have done. But Mrs. Anderson was considerably disturbed by the news. Mr. Courtenay was her natural opponent—the representative of the other side of the house—a man who unquestionably thought himself of higher condition, and better blood than herself; he was used to great houses and good living, and would probably scorn the Cottage and Francesca’s cooking, and Jane’s not very perfect waiting; and then his very name carried with it a suggestion of change. He had left them quiet all this time, but it was certain that their quiet could not last for ever, and the very first warning of a visit from him seemed to convey in it a thousand intimations of other and still less pleasant novelties to come. What if he were coming to intimate that Kate must leave the pleasant little house which had become her home?—what if he were coming to take her away? This was a catastrophe which her aunt shrank from contemplating,not only for Kate’s sake, but for other reasons, which were important enough. She had sufficient cause for anxiety in the clouded life and confused mind of her own child—but if such an alteration as this were to come in their peaceable existence!
Mrs. Anderson’s eyes ran over the whole range of possibilities, as over a landscape. How it would change the Cottage! Not only the want of Kate’s bright face, but the absence of so many comforts and luxuries which her wealth had secured! On the other side, it was possible that Ombra might be happier in her present circumstances without Kate’s companionship, which threw her own gloom and irritability into sharper relief. She had always been, not jealous—the mother would not permit herself to use such a word—butsensitive(this was her tender paraphrase of an ugly reality), in respect to Kate’s possible interference with the love due to herself. Would she be better alone?—better without the second child, who had taken such a place in the house? It was a miserable thought—miserable not only for the mother who had taken this second child into her heart, but shameful to think of for Ombra’s own sake. But still it might be true; and in that case, notwithstanding the pain of separation, notwithstanding the loss of comfort, it might be better that Kate should go. Thus in a moment, by the mere reading of Mr. Courtenay’s dry letter, which meant chiefly, ‘By-the-way, there is such a person as Kate—I suppose I ought to go and see her,’ Mrs. Anderson’s mind was driven into such sudden agitation and convulsion as happens to the sea when a whirlwind falls upon it, and lashes it into sudden fury. She was driven this way and that, tossed up to the giddy sky, and down to the salt depths; her very sight seemed to change, and the steady sunshine wavered and flickered before her on the wall.
‘Oh! what a nuisance!’ Kate had exclaimed on reading the letter; but as she threw it down on the table, after a second reading aloud, her eye caught her aunt’s troubled countenance. ‘Are you vexed, auntie? Don’t you like him to come? Then let me say so—I shall be so glad!’ she cried.
‘My dearest Kate, how could I be anything but glad to see your guardian?’ said Mrs. Anderson, recalling her powers; ‘not for his sake, perhaps, for I don’t know him, but to show him that, whatever the sentiments of your father’s family may have been, there has been no lack of proper feeling onourside. The only thing that troubles me is—— The best room is so small; and will Francesca’s cooking be good enough? These old bachelors are so particular. To be sure, we might have some things sent in from the hotel.’
‘If Uncle Courtenay comes, he must be content with whatwe have,’ said Kate, flushing high. ‘Particular indeed! If it is good enough for us, I should just think—— I suppose he knows you are not the Duchess of Shanklin, with a palace to put him in. And nobody wants him. He is coming for his own pleasure, not for ours.’
‘I would not say that,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with dignity. ‘Iwant him. I am glad that he should come, and see with his own eyes how you are being brought up.’
‘Beingbrought up! But I am eighteen. I have stopped growing. I am not a child any longer. Iambrought up,’ said Kate.
Mrs. Anderson shook her head; but she kissed the girl’s bright face, and looked after her, as she went out, with a certain pride. ‘He must see how Kate is improved—she looks a different creature,’ she said to Ombra, who sat by in her usual languor, without much interest in the matter.
‘Do you think he will see it, mamma? She was always blooming and bright,’ said neutral-tinted Ombra, with a sigh. And then she added, ‘Kate is right, she is grown up—she is a woman, and not a child any longer. I feel the difference every day.’
Mrs. Anderson looked anxiously at her child.
‘You are mistaken, dear,’ she said. ‘Kate is very young in her heart. She is childish even in some things. There is the greatest difference between her and you—what you were at her age.’
‘Yes, she is brighter, gayer, more attractive to everybody than ever I was,’ said Ombra. ‘As if I did not see that—as if I did not feel every hour——’
Mrs. Anderson placed herself behind Ombra’s chair, and drew her child’s head on to her bosom, and kissed her again and again. She was a woman addicted to caresses; but there was meaning in this excess of fondness. ‘My love! my own darling!’ she said; and then, very softly, after an interval, ‘My only one!’
‘Not your only one now,’ said Ombra, with tears rushing to her eyes, and a little indignant movement; ‘you have Kate——’
‘Ombra!’
‘Mamma, I am a little tired—a little—out of temper—I don’t know—what it is; yes, it is temper—I do know——’
‘Ombra, you never had a bad temper. Oh! if you would put a little more confidence in me! Don’t you think I have seen how depressed you have been ever since—ever since——’
‘Since when?’ said Ombra, raising her head, her twilight-face lighting up with a flush and sparkle, half of indignation, half of terror. ‘Do you mean that I have been making a show of—what I felt—letting people see——’
You made no show, darling; but surely it would be strangeif I did not see deeper than others. Ombra, listen.’—She put her lips to her daughter’s cheek, and whispered, ‘Since we heard they were coming back. Oh! Ombra, you must try to overcome it, to be as you used to be. You repel him, dear, you thrust him away from you as if you hated him! And they are coming here to-day.’
Ombra’s shadowy cheek coloured deeper and deeper, her eyelashes drooped over it; she shrank from her mother’s eye.
‘Don’t say anything more,’ she said, with passionate deprecation. ‘Don’t! Talking can only make things worse. I am a fool! I am ashamed! I hate myself! It is temper—only temper, mamma!’
‘My own child—my only child!’ said the mother, caressing her; and then she whispered once more, ‘Ombra, would it be better for you if Kate were away?’
‘Better for me!’ The girl flushed up out of her languor and paleness like a sudden storm. ‘Oh! do you mean to insult me?’ she cried, with passionate indignation. ‘Do you think so badly of me? Have I fallen so low as that?’
‘My darling, forgive me! I meant that you thought she came between us—that you had need of allmysympathy,’ cried the mother, in abject humiliation. But it was some time before Ombra would listen. She was stung by a suggestion which revealed to her the real unacknowledged bitterness in her heart.
‘You must despise me,’ she said, ‘you, my own mother! You must think—oh! how badly of me! That I could be so mean, so miserable, such a poor creature! Oh! mother, how could you say such a dreadful thing to me?’
‘My darling!’ said the mother, holding her in her arms; and gradually Ombra grew calm, and accepted the apologies which were made with so heavy a heart. For Mrs. Anderson saw by her very vehemence, by the violence of the emotion produced by her words, that they were true. She had been right, but she could not speak again on the subject. Perhaps Ombra had never before quite identified and detected the evil feeling in her heart; but both mother and daughter knew it now. And yet nothing more was to be said. The child was bitterly ashamed for herself, the mother for her child. If she could secretly and silently dismiss the other from her house, Mrs. Anderson felt it had become her duty to do it; but never to say a word on the subject, never to whisper, never to make a suggestion of why it was done.
It may be supposed that after this conversation there was not very much pleasure to either of them in the croquet-party, when it assembled upon the sunny lawn. Such a day as it was!—all blossoms, and brightness, and verdure, and life! the very grass growing so that one could see it, the primroses openingunder your eyes, the buds shaking loose the silken foldings of a thousand leaves. The garden of the Cottage was bright with all the spring flowers that could be collected into it, and the cliff above was strewed all over with great patches of primroses, looking like planets new-dropped out of heaven. Under the shelter of that cliff, with the sunshine blazing full upon the Cottage garden, but lightly shaded as yet by the trees which had not got half their Summer garments, the atmosphere was soft and warm as June; and the girls had put on their light dresses, rivalling the flowers, and everything looked like a sudden outburst of Summer, of light, and brightness, and new existence. Though the mother and daughter had heavy hearts enough, the only cloud upon the brightness of the party was in their secret consciousness. It was not visible to the guests. Mrs. Anderson was sufficiently experienced in the world to keep her troubles to herself, and Ombra was understood to be ‘not quite well,’ which accounted for everything, and earned her a hundred pretty attentions and cares from the others who were joyously well, and in high spirits, feeling that Summer, and all their out-door pleasures, had come back.
Nothing could be prettier than the scene altogether. The Cottage stood open, all its doors and windows wide in the sunshine; and now and then a little group became visible from the pretty verandah, gathering about the piano in the drawing-room, or looking at something they had seen a hundred times before, with the always-ready interest of youth. Outside, upon a bench of state, with bright parasols displayed, sat two or three mothers together, who were neither old nor wrinkled, but such as (notwithstanding the presumption to the contrary) the mothers of girls of eighteen generally are, women still in the full bloom of life, and as pleasant to look upon, in their way, as their own daughters. Mrs. Anderson was there, as in duty bound, with a smile, and a pretty bonnet, smiling graciously upon her guests. Then there was the indispensable game going on on the lawn, and supplying a centre to the picture; and the girls and the boys who were not playing were wandering all about, climbing the cliff, peeping through the telescope at the sea, gathering primroses, putting themselves into pretty attitudes and groups, with an unconsciousness which made the combinations delightful. They all knew each other intimately, called each other by their Christian names, had grown up together, and were as familiar as brothers and sisters. Ombra sat in a corner, with some of the elder girls, ‘keeping quiet,’ as they said, on the score of being ‘not quite well;’ but Kate was in a hundred places at once, the very centre of the company, the soul of everything, enjoying herself, and her friends, and the sunshine, and her birthday, to the very height of human enjoyment. Shewas as proud of the little presents she had received that morning as if they had been of unutterable value, and eager to show them to everybody. She was at home—in Ombra’s temporary withdrawal from the eldest daughter’s duties, Kate, as the second daughter, took her place. It was the first time this had happened, and her long-suppressed social activity suddenly blossomed out again in full flower. With a frankness and submission which no one could have expected from her, she had accepted the second place; but now that the first had fallen to her, naturally Kate occupied that too, with a thrill of long-forgotten delight. Never in Ombra’s day of supremacy had there been such a merry party. Kate inspired and animated everybody. She went about from one group to another with feet that danced and eyes that laughed, an impersonation of pleasure and of youth.
‘What a change there is in Kate! Why, she is grown up—she is a child no longer!’ the Rector’s wife said, looking at her from under her parasol. It was the second time these words had been said that morning. Mrs. Anderson was startled by them, and she, too, looked up, and her first glance of proud satisfaction in the flower which she had mellowed into bloom was driven out of her eyes all at once by the sudden conviction which forced itself upon her. Yes, it was true—she was a child no longer. Ombra’s day was over, and Kate’s day had begun.
A tear forced itself into her eye with this poignant thought; she was carried away from herself, and the bright groups around her, by the alarmed consideration, what would come of it?—how would Ombra bear it?—when, suddenly looking up, she saw the neat, trim figure of an old man, following Jane, the housemaid, into the garden, with a look of mingled amazement and amusement. Instinctively she rose up, with a mixture of dignity and terror, to encounter the adversary. For of course it must be he! On that day of all days!—at that moment of all moments!—when the house was overflowing with guests, everything in disorder, Francesca’s hands fully occupied, high tea in course of preparation, and no possibility of a dinner—it was on that day, we repeat, of all others, with a malice sometimes shown by Providence, that Mr. Courtenay had come!