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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..986cb2e --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #53583 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53583) diff --git a/old/53583-0.txt b/old/53583-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 557348f..0000000 --- a/old/53583-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,16897 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ombra, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Ombra - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: November 23, 2016 [EBook #53583] -[Last updated: December 13, 2016] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OMBRA *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - OMBRA - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT - - AUTHOR OF - ‘MADONNA MARY,’ ‘FOR LOVE AND LIFE,’ - ‘SQUIRE ARDEN,’ ‘MAY,’ ETC. - - _Simon._ ... ‘Your tale, my friend, - Is made from nothing, and of nothings spun-- - Foam on the ocean, hoar-frost on the grass, - The gossamer threads that sparkle in the sun - Patterned with morning dew--things that are born - And die, are come and gone, blossom and fade - Ere day mature has drawn one sober breath.’ - - _Philip._ ’Tis so; and so is life; and so is youth; - Foam, frost, and dew; what would you? Maidens call - That filmy gossamer the Virgin’s threads, - And virgins’ lives are woven of threads like those.’ - - _The Two Poor Maidens._ - - NEW EDITION - - LONDON CHAPMAN AND HALL (LIMITED) 193 PICCADILLY. 1880. - - POPULAR TWO SHILLING NOVELS. - - _BY MRS. OLIPHANT._ - - MAY - FOR LOVE AND LIFE - LAST OF THE MORTIMERS - SQUIRE ARDEN - OMBRA - MADONNA MARY - THE DAYS OF MY LIFE - HARRY MUIR - HEART AND CROSS - MAGDALEN HEPBURN - THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR - LILLIESLEAF - LUCY CROFTON. - - London: CHAPMAN & HALL (LIMITED), 193 Piccadilly. - - This book was written by the desire and at the suggestion of a dear - friend, to whom it would have been dedicated had Providence - permitted. But since then, all suddenly and unawares, he has been - called upon to take that journey which every man must take. Upon - the grave which has reunited him to his sweet wife, who went - before, I lay this poor little soon-fading handful of mortal - flowers. H. B. and E. B., faithful friends, wheresoever you may be - in His wide universe, God bless you, dear and gentle souls! - - - - -_OMBRA._ - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -Katherine Courtenay was an only child, and a great heiress; and both her -parents had died before she was able to form any clear idea of them. She -was brought up in total ignorance of the natural life of childhood--that -world hemmed in by the dear faces of father and mother, brother and -sister, which forms to most girls the introductory chapter into life. -She never knew it. She lived in Langton-Courtenay--with her nurse first, -and then with her governess, the centre of a throng of servants, in the -immense desolate house. Even in these relationships the lonely child did -not find the motherhood which lonely children so often find in the care -of some pitying, tender-hearted stranger. Her guardian, who was her -father’s uncle, an old man of the world, was one of those who distrust -old servants, and accept from their inferiors nothing more than can be -paid for. He had made up his mind from the beginning that little Kate -should not be eaten up by locusts, as he said--that she should have no -kind of retainers about her, flattering her vanity with unnecessary -affection and ostentatious zeal; but only honest servants (as honest, he -would add, as they ever are), who expected nothing but the day’s wages -for the day’s work. To procure this, he allowed no one to remain long -with his ward. Her nurse was changed half a dozen times during the -period in which she required such a guardian; and her governess had -shared the same fate. She had never been allowed to attach herself to -one more than another. When any signs of feeling made themselves -apparent, Mr. Courtenay sent forth his remorseless decree. ‘Kate shall -never be any woman’s slave, nor any old servant’s victim, if I can help -it,’ he said. He would have liked, had that been practicable, to turn -her into a public school, and let her ‘find her level,’ as boys do; but -as that was not practicable, he made sure, at least, that no sentimental -influences should impair his nursling’s independence and vigour. Thus -the alleviations which natural sympathy and pity might have given her, -were lost to Kate. Her attendants were afraid to love her; her -often-changed instructresses had to shut their hearts against the appeal -of compassion, as well as the appeal made by the girl’s natural -attractiveness. She had to be to them as princesses are but rarely to -their teachers and companions--a half-mistress, half-pupil. An act of -utter self-renunciation was required of them before ever they set foot -in Langton-Courtenay. Mr. Courtenay himself made the engagement, and -prescribed its terms. He paid very liberally; and he veiled his -insolence under the garb of perfect politeness. ‘I do not wish Miss -Courtenay to make any friends out of her own class,’ he would say. ‘I -shall do my utmost to make the temporary connection between my niece and -you advantageous to yourself, Miss ----. But I must exact, on the other -side, that there shall be no sentimental bonds formed, no everlasting -friendships, no false relationship. I have seen the harm of such things, -and suffered from it. Therefore, if these should be your ideas----’ - -‘You wanted a governess, I heard, and I applied for the situation--I -never thought of anything more,’ said quickly, with some offence, the -irritated applicant. - -‘Precisely,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘With this understanding everything may -be decided at once. I am happy to have met with a lady who understands -my meaning.’ And thus the bargain would be made. But, as it is natural -to suppose, the ladies who were willing to take service under these -terms, were by no means the highest of their class. Sometimes it would -happen that Mr. Courtenay received a sharp rebuff in these preliminary -negotiations. ‘I trust, of course, that I shall grow fond of my pupil, -and she of me,’ said one stouter-hearted woman, for example. And the old -Squire made her a sarcastic bow. - -‘Quite unnecessary--wholly unnecessary, I assure you,’ he said. - -‘Then there is nothing more to be said about it,’ was the reply; and -this applicant--whose testimonials were so high, and were from such -‘good people’ (meaning, of course, from a succession of duchesses, -countesses, and families of renown), that Mr. Courtenay would, he -confessed, have given ‘any money’ to secure her services--got up with -impatience, and made him a curtsey which would, could she have managed -it, have been as sarcastic as his bow, but which, as it turned out, was -only an agitated and awkward obeisance, tremulous with generous rage: -‘such an arrangement would be quite impossible to me.’ - -And so poor Kate missed a woman who might have been a kind of secondary -mother to the forlorn child, and acquired a mercenary dragon instead, -who loved nobody, and was incapable of attracting love. - -The consequences of this training were not, perhaps, exactly such as -might have been expected. Kate’s high spirits and energetic temper -retained a certain ascendancy over her circumstances; her faults were -serious and deep-rooted, but on the surface she had a _gaieté du -cœur_--an impulsive power of sympathy and capacity for interesting -herself in other people, which could not but be potent for good or evil -in her life. It developed, however, in the first place, into a love of -interference, and consequently of gossip, which would have alarmed -anyone really concerned for her character and happiness. She was kept -from loving or from being loved. She was arbitrarily fixed among -strangers, surrounded with faces which were never permitted to become -familiar, defrauded of all the interests of affection; and her lively -mind avenged itself by a determination to know everything and meddle -with everything within her reach. Kate at fifteen was not mournful, -despondent, or solitary, as might have been looked for; on the contrary, -she was the very type of activity, a little inquisitive despot, the -greatest gossip and busy-body within a dozen miles of Langton-Courtenay. -The tendrils of her nature, which ought to have clung firm and close -around some natural prop, trailed all abroad, and caught at everything. -Nothing was too paltry for her, and nothing too grand. She had the -audacity to interfere in the matter of the lighted candles on the altar, -when the new High-Church Rector of Langton first came into power; and -she interfered remorselessly to take away Widow Budd’s snuff, when it -was found out that the reason she assigned for wanting it--the state of -her eyes--was a shameful pretence. Kate did not shrink from either of -these bold practical assaults upon the liberty of her subjects. She -would no doubt have inquired into the Queen’s habits, and counselled, if -not required some change in them, had that illustrious lady paid a visit -to Langton-Courtenay. This was how Nature managed itself for her -especial training. She could no more be made unsympathetic, unenergetic, -or deprived of her warm interest in the world, than she could be made -sixty. But all these good qualities could be turned into evil, and this -was what her guardian managed to do. It did not occur to him to watch -over her personally during her childhood, and therefore he was -unconscious of the exact progress of affairs. - -Old Mr. Courtenay was totally unlike the child whom he had undertaken to -train. He did not care a straw for his fellow-creatures; they took their -way, and he took his, and there was an end of the matter. When any great -calamity occurred, he shrugged his shoulders, and comforted himself with -the reflection that it must be their own fault. When, on the contrary, -there was joy and rejoicing, he took his share of the feast, and -reflected, with a smile, that wise men enjoy the banquets which fools -make. To put yourself out of the way for anything that might happen, -seemed to him the strangest, the most incomprehensible folly. And when -he made up his mind to save the young heiress of his house from the -locusts, and to keep her free from all connections or associations which -might be a drag upon her in future times, he had been honestly -unconscious that he was doing wrong to Nature. Love!--what did she want -with love?--what was the good of it? Mr. Courtenay himself got on very -well without any such frivolous imaginary necessity, and so, of course, -would Kate. He was so confident in the wisdom, and even in the -naturalness of his system, that he did not even think it worth his while -to watch over its progress. Of course it would come all right. Why -should he trouble himself about the details?--to keep fast to this -principle gave him quite enough trouble. Circumstances, however, had -occurred which made it expedient for him to visit Langton-Courtenay when -Kate completed her fifteenth year. New people had appeared on the scene, -who threatened to be a greater trouble to him, and a greater danger for -Kate, than even the governesses; and his sense of duty was strong enough -to move him, in thus far, at least, to personal interference on his -ward’s behalf. - -At fifteen Kate Courtenay was the very impersonation of youthful beauty, -vigour, and impetuous life. She seemed to dance as she walked, to be -eloquent and rhetorical when she spoke, out of the mere exuberance of -her being. Her hair, which was full of colour, chestnut-brown, still -fell in negligent abundance about her shoulders; not in stiff curls, -after the old mode, nor _crêpé_, according to the new, but in one -undulating, careless flow. Though she was still dressed in the sackcloth -of the school-room, there was an air of authoritative independence about -her, more imposing a great deal than was that garb of complete -womanhood, the ‘long dress,’ to which she looked forward with awe and -hope. Her figure was full for her age, yet so light, so well-formed, so -free and rapid in movement, that it had all the graceful effect of the -most girlish slenderness. Her voice was slightly high-pitched--not soft -and low, as is the ideal woman’s--and she talked for three people, -pouring forth her experiences, her recollections, her questions and -remarks, in a flood. It was not quite ladylike, more than one unhappy -instructress of Kate’s youth had suggested; but there seemed no reason -in the world why she should pay any attention to such a suggestion. ‘If -it is natural for me to talk so, why should I try to talk otherwise? Why -should I care what people think? You may, Miss Blank, because they will -find fault with you, and take away your pupils, and that sort of thing; -but nobody can do anything to me.’ This was Kate’s vindication of her -voice, which rang through all Langton-Courtenay clear as a bell, and -sweet enough to hear, but imperative, decisive, high-pitched, and -unceasing. When her uncle saw her, his first sensation was one of -pleasure. She was waiting for him on the step before the front door, the -sunshine surrounding her with a golden halo, made out of the stray -golden luminous threads in her hair. - -‘How do you do, uncle?’ she called out to him as soon as he appeared. ‘I -am so glad you have made up your mind to come at last. It is always a -change to have you here, and there are so many things I want to talk of. -You have taken the fly from the station, I see, though the carriage went -for you half-an-hour ago. That is what I am always telling you, Giles, -you are continually half-an-hour too late. Uncle, mind how you get down. -That fly-horse is the most vicious thing! She’ll go off when you have -one foot to the ground, if you don’t mind. I told old Mrs. Sayer to sell -her, but these people never will do what they are told. I am glad to see -you, Uncle Courtenay. How do you do?’ - -‘A little bewildered with my journey, Kate--and to find you a young lady -receiving your guests, instead of a shy little girl running off when you -were spoken to.’ - -‘Was I ever shy?’ said Kate, with unfeigned wonder. ‘What a very odd -thing! I don’t remember it. I thought I had always been as I am now. -Tell Mrs. Sayers, Tom, that I have heard something I don’t like about -one of the people at Glenhouse, and that I am coming to speak to her -to-morrow. Uncle, will you have some tea, or wine, or anything, or shall -I take you to your room! Dinner is to be at seven. I am so glad you have -come to make a change. I _hate_ dinner at two. It suits Miss Blank’s -digestion, but I am sure I hate it, and now it shall be changed. Don’t -you think I am quite grown up, Uncle Courtenay? I am as tall as you.’ - -He was little, dried-up, shrivelled--a small old man; and she a young -Diana, with a bloom which had still all the freshness of childhood. -Uncle Courtenay felt irritated when she measured her elastic figure -beside the stooping form of his old age. - -‘Yes, yes, yes!’ he said, pettishly. ‘Grown up, indeed! I should think -you were. But stop this stream of talk, for heaven’s sake, and moderate -your voice, and take me in somewhere. I don’t want to have your height -discussed among your servants, nor anything else I may have to say.’ - -‘Oh! for that matter, I do not mind who hears me talk,’ said Kate. ‘Why -should I? Nobody, of course, ever interferes with me. Come into the -library, uncle. It is nice and cool this hot day. Did you see anyone in -the village as you came up? Did you notice if there was anyone at the -Rectory? They are curious people at the Rectory, and don’t take the -trouble to make themselves at all agreeable. Miss Blank thinks it very -strange, considering that I am the Lady of the Manor, and have a right -to their respect, and ought to be considered and obeyed. Don’t you -think, uncle----’ - -‘Obeyed!’ he said, with a laugh which was half amusement, and half -consternation. ‘A baby of fifteen is no more the Lady of the Manor than -Miss Blank is. You silly child, what do you mean?’ - -‘I am not a child,’ said Kate, haughtily. ‘I am quite aware of my -position. I may not be of age yet, but that does not make much -difference. However, if you are tired, uncle, as I think you are by your -face, I won’t bore you with that, though it is one of my grievances. -Should you like to be left alone till dinner? If you would let me advise -you, I should say lie down, and have some eau-de-Cologne on a -handkerchief, and perhaps a cup of tea. It is the best thing for worry -and headache.’ - -‘In heaven’s name, how do you know?’ - -‘Perfectly well,’ said Kate, calmly. ‘I have made people do it a hundred -times, and it has always succeeded. Perfect quiet, uncle, and a wet -handkerchief on your forehead, and a cup of my special tea. I will tell -Giles to bring you one, and a bottle of eau-de-Cologne; and if you don’t -move till the dressing bell rings, you will find yourself quite -refreshed and restored. Why, I have made people do it over and over -again, and I have never known it to fail.’ - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -Miss Courtenay, of Langton-Courtenay, had scarcely ever in her life been -promoted before to the glories of a late dinner. She had received no -visitors, and the house was still under school-room sway, as became her -age, consequently this was a great era to Kate. She placed herself at -the head of the table, with a pride and delight which neither her -cynical old uncle nor her passive governess had the least notion of. The -occurrence was trifling to them, but to her its importance was immense. -Miss Blank, who was troubled by fears of being in the way--fears which -her charge made no effort to enlighten--and whose digestion, besides, -was feeble, preferred to have the usual two o’clock dinner, and to leave -Kate alone to entertain her uncle. This dinner had been the subject of -Kate’s thoughts for some days. She had insisted on the production of all -the plate which the little household at Langton had been permitted to -retain; she had the table decked with a profusion of flowers. She had -not yet discretion enough to know that a small table would have been in -better taste than the large one, seated at opposite ends of which her -guardian and herself were as if miles apart. They could not see each -other for the flowers; they could scarcely hear each other for the -distance; but Kate was happy. There was a certain grown-up grandeur, -even in the discomfort. As for Mr. Courtenay, he was extremely -impatient. ‘What a fool the girl must be!’ he said to himself; and went -on to comment bitterly upon the popular fallacy which credits women with -intuitive good taste and social sense, at least. When he made a remark -upon the long distance that separated them, Kate cheerfully suggested -that he should come up beside her. She took away his breath by her -boldness; she deafened him with her talk. Behind that veil of flowers -which concealed her young, bright figure, she poured forth the monologue -of a rural gossip, never pausing to inquire if he knew or cared anything -about the objects of it. And of course Mr. Courtenay neither knew nor -cared. His own acquaintance with the house of his father had ended long -before she was born, before her father had succeeded to the property; -and he never had been interested in the common people who formed Kate’s -world. Then it was very apparent to Kate’s uncle that the man who waited -(and waited very badly) grinned without concealment at his young -mistress’s talk; and that Kate herself was not indifferent to the _fond_ -of appreciation thus secured to her. It would be impossible to put into -words the consternation which filled him as he ate an indifferent -dinner, and listened to all this. He had succeeded so far that no one -governess nor maid had secured dominion over the mind of the future -sovereign of Langton; but at what a cost had he secured it! ‘You seem to -interest yourself a great deal about all these people,’ he said at -length. - -‘Yes, Uncle Courtenay, of course I do. I have nobody else to take an -interest in,’ said Kate. ‘But the people at the Rectory are very -disagreeable. If the living should fall vacant in my time, it certainly -shall never go to one of them. The second son, Herbert, whom they call -Bertie, is going in for the Church, and I suppose they think he will -succeed his father; but I am sure he never shall, if that happens in my -time. There are two daughters, Edith and Minnie; and I don’t think Mrs. -Hardwick can be a good manager, for the girls are always so badly -dressed; and you know, Uncle Courtenay, it is a very good living. I have -felt tempted a dozen times to say, “Why don’t you clothe the girls -better?” If they had been farmers, or anything of that sort, I should at -once----’ - -‘And how do the farmers like your interference, Kate?’ - -‘My interference, Uncle Courtenay! Why, of course one must speak if one -sees things going wrong. But to return to the Hardwicks. I did write, -you know, about the candles on the altar----’ - -‘Why, Kate, I did not know how universal you were,’ said her uncle, -half-amused--‘theological, too?’ - -‘I don’t know about theology; but burning candles in daylight, when -there was not a bit of darkness--not a fog, even--what is the good of -it? I thought I had a right to let Mr. Hardwick know. It is my -parish and my tenantry, and I do not mean to give them up. Isn’t -the Queen the head of the Church?--then, of course, I am the head of -Langton-Courtenay, and it is flat rebellion on the Rector’s part. What -do you mean, Uncle Courtenay?--are you laughing at me?’ - -‘Why, Kate, your theories take away my breath,’ said Mr. Courtenay. -‘Don’t you think this is going a little too far? You cannot be head of -the Church in Langton-Courtenay without interfering with Her Majesty’s -prerogative. She is over all the country, you know. You don’t claim the -power of the sword, I hope, as well----’ - -‘What is the power of the sword, uncle? I should claim anything that I -thought belonged to me,’ cried Kate. - -‘But you would not hold a court, I hope, and erect a gallows in the -courtyard,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘I suppose our ancestor, Sir Bernard had -the right, but I would not advise you to claim it, my dear. Kate, now -that the man is gone, I must tell you that I think you have been very -impertinent to the Rector, and nothing but the fact that you are a baby, -and don’t know what you’re doing----’ - -‘A baby!--and impertinent!--uncle!--I!’ - -‘Yes, you--though you think yourself such a great personage, you must -learn to remember that you are a child, my dear. I will make a point of -calling on the Rector to-morrow, and I hope he will look over your -nonsense. But remember there must be no more of it, Kate.’ - -‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ she said, half weeping. ‘I will not be so -spoken to. Uncle, you are only my guardian, and it is I who am the -mistress here.’ - -‘You little fool!’ he said, under his breath; and then a sudden twinge -came over him--a doubt whether he had been as wise as he thought he had -been in the training of this girl. He was not the sort of man, so common -in the world, to whom cynicism in every other respect is compatible with -enthusiasm in respect to himself. He was a universal cynic. He -distrusted himself as well as other people, and consequently he did not -shut his eyes to the fact that a mistake had been made. While Kate dried -her eyes hastily, and tried her best to maintain her dignity, and -overcome those temptations towards the hysterical which prevented her -from making an immediate reply, her uncle was so candid as to stop -short, as it were, in his own course, and review a decision he had just -made. He had not known Kate when he made it; now that he saw her in all -her force and untamableness, with all those wonderful ideas of her -position, and determination to interfere with every one, he could not -but think that it might be wise to reconsider the question. What should -he do with this unmanageable girl?--good heavens! what could he do with -her? Whereas, here was a new influence offering itself, which perhaps -might do all that was wanted. Mr. Courtenay pondered while Kate -recovered some appearance of calm. She had never (she said to herself) -been so spoken to in her life. She did not understand it--she would not -submit to it! And when the hot mist of tears dried up from her eyes, -Kate looked from behind the flowers at Mr. Courtenay, with her heart -beating high for the conflict, and yet felt daunted--she could not tell -how--and did not know what to do. She would have liked to rush out of -the room, slamming the door behind her; but in that case she would have -lost at once her dignity and the strawberries, which are tempting at -fifteen. She would not let him see that he had beaten her; and yet--how -could she begin the struggle?--what could she say? She sat and -peeped at him from behind the vase of flowers which stood in the -centre of the table, and was silent for five whole minutes in her -bewilderment--perhaps longer than she ever had been silent before in her -life. Finally, it was Mr. Courtenay who broke the silence--a fact which -of itself gave him a vast advantage over her. - -‘Kate,’ he said, ‘I have listened to you for a long time. I want you now -to listen to me for a little. You have heard of your aunt Anderson? She -is your mother’s only sister. She has been--I suppose you know?--for a -long time abroad.’ - -‘I don’t know anything about her,’ said Kate, pouting. This was not -entirely true, for she had heard just so much of this unknown relation -as a few rare letters received from her could tell--letters which left -no particular impression on Kate’s mind, except the fact that her -correspondent signed herself ‘Your affectionate Aunt,’ and which had -ceased for years. Kate’s mother had not been born on the -Langton-Courtenay level. She had been the daughter of a solicitor, whose -introduction into the up-to-that-moment spotless pedigree of the -Courtenays lay very heavy on the heart of the family. Kate knew this -fact very well, and it galled her. She might have forgiven her mother, -but she felt a visionary grudge against her aunt, and why should she -care to know anything about her? This sense of inferiority on the part -of her relation kept her silent, as well as the warm and lively force of -temper which dissuaded her from showing any interest in a matter -suggested by her uncle. If she could but have kept up so philosophical a -way of thinking! But the fact was, that no sooner had she answered than -her usual curiosity and human interest in her fellow-creatures began to -tug at Kate’s heart. What was he going to tell her about her aunt -Anderson? Who was she? What was she? What manner of woman? Was she poor, -and so capable of being made Kate’s vassal; or well off, and likely to -meet her niece on equal terms? She had to shut up her lips very tight, -lest some of these many questions should burst from them. And if Uncle -Courtenay had but known his advantage, and kept silent a little, she -would have almost gone on her knees to him for further information. But -Mr. Courtenay did not understand his advantage, and went on talking. - -‘Her husband was British Consul somewhere or other in Italy. They have -been all over the Continent, in one place and another; but he died a -year ago, and now they have come home. She wishes to see you, Kate. I -have got a letter from her--with a great deal of nonsense in it--but -that by the way. There is a great deal of nonsense in all women’s -letters! She wants to come here, I suppose; but I don’t choose that she -should come here.’ - -‘Why, Uncle Courtenay?’ said Kate, forgetting her wrath in the -excitement of this novelty. - -‘It is unnecessary to enter into my reasons. When you are of age you can -have whom you please; but in the meantime I don’t intend that this house -should be a centre of meddling and gossip for the whole neighbourhood. -So the aunt shan’t come. But you can go and visit her for a few weeks, -if you choose, Kate.’ - -‘Why shouldn’t my aunt come if I wish it?’ cried Kate, furious. ‘Uncle -Courtenay, I tell you again you are only my guardian, and -Langton-Courtenay belongs to _me_!’ - -‘And I reply, my dear, that you are fifteen, and nothing belongs to -you,’ said the old man, with a smile. ‘It is hard to repress so much -noble independence, but still that is the truth.’ - -‘You are a tyrant--you are a monster, Uncle Courtenay! I won’t submit to -it! I will appeal to some one. I will take it into my own hands.’ - -‘The most sensible thing you can do, in the meantime, is to retire to -your own room, and try to bring yourself back to common sense,’ said Mr. -Courtenay, contemptuously. ‘Not another word, Kate. Where is your -governess, or your nurse, or whoever has charge of you? Little fool! do -you think, because you rule over a pack of obsequious servants, that you -can manage me.’ - -‘I will not be your slave! I will never, never be your slave!’ cried -Kate, springing to her feet, and raising her flushed face over the -flowers. Her eyes blazed, her little rosy hand was clenched so tight -that the soft knuckles were white. Her lips were apart, her breath -burned, her soul was on fire. Quite ready for a fight, ready to meet any -enemy that might come against her--breathing fire and flame! - -‘Pho! pho! child, don’t be a fool!’ said Mr. Courtenay; and he calmly -rang the bell, and ordered Giles to remove the wine to a small table -which stood in the window, where he removed himself presently, without -taking the least notice of her. - -Kate stood for a moment, like a young goddess of war, thunder-stricken -by the calm of her adversary; and then rushed out, flinging down her -napkin, and dragging a corner of the table-cloth, so as to upset the -great dish of ruby strawberries which she had not tasted. They fell on -the floor like a heavy shower, scattering over all the carpet; and Kate -closed the door after her with a _thud_ which ran through the whole -house. She paused a moment in the hall, irresolute. Poor untrained, -unfriended child, she had no one to go to, to seek comfort from. She -knew how Miss Blank would receive her passion; and she was too proud to -acknowledge to her maid, Maryanne, how she had been beaten. She caught -the broad-brimmed garden-hat which hung in the hall, and a shawl to wrap -herself in, and rushed out, a forlorn, solitary young creature, into the -noble park that was her own. There was not a child in the village but -had some one to fly to when it had received a blow; but Kate had no -one--she had to calm herself down, and bear her passion and its -consequences alone. She rushed across the park, forgetting even that her -uncle Courtenay could see her from the window, and unconscious of the -chuckle with which he perceived her discomfiture. ‘Little passionate -idiot!’ he said to himself, as he sipped his wine. But yet perhaps had -he known what was to come of it, Mr. Courtenay would not have been quite -so contented with himself. He had forgotten all about the feelings and -sufferings of her age, if indeed he had ever known them. He did not care -a jot for the mortification and painful rage with which he had filled -her. ‘Serve her right!’ he would have said. He was old himself, and far -beyond the reach of such tempests; and he had no pity for them. But all -the more he thought with a sense of comfort of this Mrs. Anderson, with -her plebeian name, and sentimental anxiety about ‘the only child of a -beloved sister.’ The beloved sister herself had not been very welcome in -Langton-Courtenay. The Consul’s widow should never be allowed to enter -here, that was very certain; but, still, use might be made of her to -train this ungovernable child. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -Kate Courtenay rushed across the park in a passion of mortification and -childish despair, and fled as fast as her swift feet could carry her to -a favourite spot--a little dell, through which the tiniest of brooks ran -trickling, so hidden under the trees and copse that even Summer never -quite dried it up. There was a little semi-artificial waterfall, just -where the brook descended into the depths of this little dell. In Spring -it was a wilderness of primroses and violets; and so long as wild -flowers would blow, they were always to be found in this sunny nook. The -only drawback was that a footpath ran within sight of it, and that the -village had an often-contested right of way skirting the bank. Kate had -issued arbitrary orders more than once that no one was to be suffered to -pass; but the law was too strong for Kate, as it had been for her -grandfathers before her; and, on the whole, perhaps the occasional -passenger had paid for his intrusion by the additional liveliness he had -given to the landscape. It was one of Kate’s ‘tricks,’ her governess -once went so far as to say, to take her evening walk here, in order to -detect the parties of lovers with whom this footway was a favourite -resort. All this, however, was absent from Kate’s mind now. She rushed -through the trees and bushes, and threw herself on the sunny grass by -the brookside; and at fifteen passion is not silent, as it endeavours to -be at a more advanced age. Kate did not weep only, but cried, and -sobbed, and made a noise, so that some one passing by in the footway on -the other side of the bushes was arrested by the sound, and drew near. - -It is hard to hear sounds of weeping in a warm Summer evening, when the -air is sweet with sounds of pleasure. There is something incongruous in -it, which wounds the listener. The passenger in this case was young and -tender-hearted, and he was so far like Kate herself, that when he heard -sounds of trouble, he felt that he had a right to interfere. He was a -clergyman’s son, and in the course of training to be a clergyman too. -His immediate destination was, as soon as he should be old enough to be -ordained, the curacy of Langton-Courtenay, of which his father was -Rector. Whether he should eventually succeed his father was of course in -the hands of Providence and Miss Courtenay; he had not taken his degree -yet, and was at least two years off the time when he could take orders; -but still the shadow of his profession was upon him, and, in right of -that, Herbert Hardwick felt that it was his business to interfere. - -What he saw, when he looked through the screen of trees, was the figure -of a girl in a light Summer dress, half seated, half lying on the grass. -Her head was bent down between her hands; and even had this not been the -case, it is probable Bertie, who had scarcely seen Miss Courtenay, would -not have recognised her. Of course, had he taken time to think, he must -have known at once that nobody except Kate, or some visitor at the Hall, -was likely to be there; but he never took time to think. It was not his -way. He stepped at once over the fence, walking through the brushwood, -and strode across the brook without pause or hesitation. - -‘What is the matter?’ he said, in his boyish promptitude. ‘Have you hurt -yourself?--have you lost your way?--what is wrong?’ - -For a moment she took no notice of him, except to turn her back more -completely on him. Herbert had sisters, and he was not so ceremonious to -young womankind generally as might otherwise have happened. He laid his -hand quite frankly on her shoulder, and knelt down beside her on the -grass. ‘No,’ he said, with a certain authority, ‘my poor child, whoever -you may be, I can’t leave you to cry your eyes out. What is the matter? -Look up and tell me. Have you lost yourself? If you will tell me where -you have come from, I will take you home. Or have you hurt yourself? -Now, pray don’t be cross, but answer, and let me know what I can do.’ - -Kate had almost got her weeping-fit over, and surprise had wakened a new -sentiment in her mind. Surprise and curiosity, and the liveliest desire -to know whose the voice was, and whose the hand laid so lightly, yet -with a certain authority, upon her shoulder. She made a dash with her -handkerchief across her face to clear away the tears, and then she -suddenly turned round and confronted her comforter. She looked up at him -with tears hanging on her eyelashes, and her face wet with them, yet -with all the soul of self-will which was natural to her looking out of -her eyes. - -‘Do you know,’ she said hastily, ‘that you are trespassing? This is -private property, and you have no right to be here.’ - -The answer which Bertie Hardwick made to this was, first, an astonished -stare, and then a burst of laughter. The sudden change from sympathy and -concern to amusement was so great that it produced an explosion of -merriment which he could not restrain. He was a handsome lad of -twenty--blue-eyed, with brown hair curling closely about his head, -strongly built, and full of life, though not gigantic in his -proportions. Even now, though he had heard of the imperious little Lady -of the Manor, it did not occur to him to connect her with this stranger. -He laughed with perfect heartiness and _abandon_; she looking on quite -gravely and steadily, the while, assisting at the outburst--a fact which -did not diminish the amusing character of the scene. - -‘I came to help you,’ he said. ‘I hope you will not give information. -Nobody will know I have trespassed unless you tell, and that would be -ungrateful; for I thought there was something the matter, and came to be -of use to you.’ - -‘There is nothing the matter,’ said Kate, very gravely, making a -photograph of him with the keen, inquisitive eyes, from which, by this -time, all tears were gone. - -‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said; and then, with another laugh--‘I -suppose you are trespassing too. Can I help you over the fence?--or is -there anything that I can do?’ - -‘I am not trespassing--I am at home--I am Miss Courtenay,’ said Kate, -with infinite dignity, rising from the grass. She stood thus looking at -him with the air of a queen defending her realm from invasion; she felt, -to tell the truth, something like Helen Macgregor, when she starts up -suddenly, and demands of the Sassenach how they dare to come into -Macgregor’s country. But the young man was not impressed; the muscles -about his mouth quivered with suppressed laughter and the strenuous -effort to keep it down. He made her a bow--the best he could under the -circumstances--and stood with the evening sunshine shining upon his -uncovered head and crisp curls, a very pleasant object to look upon, in -an attitude of respect which was half fun and half mockery, though Kate -did not find that out. - -‘Then I have been mistaken, and there is nothing for it but to -apologise, and take myself off,’ said Bertie. ‘I am very sorry, I am -sure. I thought something had gone wrong. To tell the truth I thought -you were--crying.’ - -‘I was crying,’ said Kate. She did not in the least want him to go. He -was company--he was novelty--he was something quite fresh, and already -had altogether driven away her passion and her tears. Her heart quite -leapt up at this agreeable diversion. ‘I was crying, and something had -gone very wrong,’ she said in a subdued tone, and with a gentle sigh. - -‘I am very sorry,’ said Bertie. ‘I don’t suppose it is anything in which -I could be of use--?’ - -She looked at him again. ‘I think I know who you are,’ she said. ‘You -must be the second son at the Rectory--the one whom they call Bertie. -At least I don’t know who else you could be.’ - -‘Yes, I am the one they call Bertie,’ he said, laughing. ‘Herbert -Hardwick, at your service. And I did not mean to trespass.’ - -The laugh rang pleasantly through all the echoes. It was infectious. -Kate felt that, but for her dignity, she would like to laugh too. And -yet it was a serious matter; and to aid and abet a trespasser, and at -the same time ‘encourage’ the Rectory people, was, she felt, a thing -which she ought not to do. But then it had been real concern for -herself, the Lady of the Manor, which had been at the bottom of it; and -that deserved to be considered on the other side. - -‘I suppose not,’ she said, seriously. ‘Indeed, I am very particular -about it. I don’t see why you should laugh. I should not think of going -to walk in your grounds without leave, and why should you in mine? But -since you are here, you must not go all that way back. If you like to -come with me, I will show you a nearer way. Don’t you think it is a very -fine park? Were you ever in one like it before?’ - -‘Yes,’ said Herbert, calmly, ‘a great many. Langton-Courtenay is very -nice, but it wants size. The glades are pretty, and the trees are -charming, but everything is on a small scale.’ - -‘On a small scale!’ Kate cried, half-choking with indignation. This -unparalleled presumption took away even her voice. - -‘Yes, decidedly small. How many acres are there in it? My uncle, Sir -Herbert Eldridge, has five hundred acres in his. I am called after him, -and I have been a great deal with him, you know. That is why I think -your park so small. But it is very pretty!’ said Herbert, -condescendingly, with a sense of the humour of the situation. As for -Kate, she was crushed. She looked up at him first in a blaze of disdain, -intending to do battle for her own, but the number of acres in Sir -Herbert Eldridge’s park made an end of Kate. - -‘I thought you were going to be a clergyman,’ she said. - -‘So I am, I suppose; but what then?’ - -‘Oh! I thought--I didn’t know,’ cried Kate. ‘I supposed perhaps you were -not very well off. But if you have such a rich uncle, with such a -beautiful park----’ - -‘I don’t know what that has to do with it,’ said Bertie, with a -mischievous light in his eyes. ‘We are not so very poor. We have dinners -three or four times a week, and bread and cheese on the other days. A -great many people are worse off than that.’ - -‘If you mean to laugh at me,’ said Kate, stopping short, with an angry -gesture, ‘I think you had better turn back again. I am not a person to -be made fun of.’ And then instantly the water rushed to her eyes, for -she was as susceptible as any child is to ridicule. The young man -checked himself on the verge of laughter, and apologised. - -‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘I did not mean to make myself -disagreeable. Besides, I don’t think you are quite well. I hope you will -let me walk with you as far as the Hall.’ - -‘Oh! no,’ said Kate. But the suppressed tears, which had come to her -eyes out of rage and indignation, suddenly grew blinding with self-pity, -and recollection of her hard fate. ‘Oh! you can’t think how unhappy I -am,’ she said, suddenly clasping her hands together--and a big tear came -with a rush down her innocent nose, and fell, throwing up a little -shower of salt spray from the concussion, upon her ungloved hand. This -startled her, and her sense of dignity once more awoke; but she -struggled with difficulty against her desire for sympathy. ‘I ought not -to talk to a stranger,’ she said; ‘but, oh! you can’t think how -disagreeable Uncle Courtenay can make himself, though he looks so nice. -And Miss Blank does not mind if I were dead and buried! Oh!’ This -exclamation was called forth by another great blot of dew from her eyes, -which once more dashed and broke upon her hand, as a wave does on a -rock. Kate looked at it with a silent concern which absorbed her. Her -own tears! What was there in the world more touching or more sad? - -‘I am so sorry,’ said Bertie Hardwick, moved by compassion. ‘Was that -what you were crying for? You should come to the Rectory, to my mother, -who always sets everybody right.’ - -‘Your mother would not care to see me,’ said Kate, looking at him -wistfully. ‘She does not like me--she thinks I am your enemy. People -should consider, Mr. Bertie--they should consider my position----’ - -‘Yes, you poor little thing,’ said Bertie, with the utmost sympathy; -‘that is quite true--you have neither father nor mother to keep you -right--people ought to make allowance for that.’ - -To describe Kate’s consternation at this speech would be impossible. She -a poor little thing!--she without any one to set her right! Was the boy -mad? She was so stunned for the moment that she could make no reply--so -many new emotions overwhelmed her. To make the discovery that Bertie -Hardwick was nice, that he had an uncle with a park larger than the park -at Langton-Courtenay; to learn that Langton-Courtenay was ‘small,’ and -that she herself was a poor little thing. ‘What next?’ Kate asked -herself. For all this had come to her knowledge in the course of half an -hour. If life was to bring a succession of such surprises, how strange, -how very strange it must be! - -‘And I do wish you knew my mother,’ he went on innocently, not having -the least idea that Kate’s silence arose from the fact that she was -dumb with indignation; ‘she has the gift of understanding everybody. -Isn’t it a pity that you should not know us, Miss Courtenay? My little -sister Minnie is about your age, I should think.’ - -‘It is not my fault I don’t know you,’ burst forth Kate; ‘it is because -you have not behaved properly to me--because your father would not pay -any attention. Is it right for a clergyman to set a bad example, and -teach people to rebel? He never even took any notice of my letter, -though I am the natural head of the parish----’ - -‘You poor child!’ cried Bertie; and then he laughed. - -Kate could not bear it--this was worse than her Uncle Courtenay. She -stood still for a moment, and looked at him with things unspeakable in -her eyes; and then she turned round, and rushed off across the green -sward to the Hall, leaving him bewildered and amazed in the middle of -the park, this time most evidently a trespasser, not even knowing his -way back. He called after her, but received no answer; he stood and -gazed round him in his consternation. Finally he laughed, though this -time it was at himself, thus left in the lurch. But Kate was not aware -of that fact. She heard the laugh, and it gave her wings; she fled to -her melancholy home, where there was nobody to comfort her, choking with -sobs and rage. Oh! how forlorn she was!--oh! how insulted, despised, -trodden upon by everybody, she who was the lawful lady of the land! He -would go and tell the Rectory girls, and together they would laugh at -her. Kate would have sent a thunderbolt on the Rectory, or fire from -Heaven, if she could. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -Kate rushed upstairs to her own room when she reached the Hall; she was -wild with mortification and the sense of downfall. It was the first time -she had come into collision with her fellow-creatures of a class equal -to her own. Servants and poor people in the village had been impertinent -to her ere now; but these were accidents, which Kate treated with the -contempt they deserved, and which she could punish by the withdrawal of -privileges and presents. She could scold, and did so soundly; and she -could punish. But she could neither scold nor punish in the present -case. Her Uncle Courtenay would only look at her in that exasperating -way, with that cool smile on his face, as if she were a kitten; and this -new being, with whom already she felt herself so well acquainted--Bertie -would laugh, and be kind, and sorry for her. ‘Poor child!--poor little -thing!’ These were the words he had dared to use. ‘Oh!’ Kate thought, I -would like to kill him! I would like to----’ And then she asked herself -what would he say at home? and writhed on the bed on which she had -thrown herself in inextinguishable shame. They would laugh at her; they -would make fun of her. ‘Oh! I would like to kill myself,’ cried Kate, in -her thoughts. She cried her eyes out in the silence of her room. There -was no Bertie to come there with sympathetic eyes to ask what she was -doing. Miss Blank did not care; neither did any one in the house--not -even her own maid, who was always about her, and to whom she would talk -for hours together. Kate buried her head in her pillow, and tried to -picture to herself the aspect of the Rectory. There would be the -mother--who, Bertie said, understood everybody--seated somewhere near -the table; and Edith and Minnie in the room--one of them, perhaps, doing -worsted-work, one at the piano, or copying music, or drawing, as young -ladies do in novels. Now and then, no doubt Mrs. Hardwick would give -them little orders; she would say, perhaps, ‘Play me one of the Lieder, -Minnie,’ or ‘that little air of Mozart’s.’ And she would say something -about her work to Edith. Involuntarily that picture rose before lonely -Kate. She seemed to see them seated there, with the windows open, and -sweet scents coming in from the garden. She heard the voices murmuring, -and a soft little strain, _andante pianissimo_, tinkling like the soft -flow of a stream through the pleasant place. Oh! how pleasant it must -be--even though she did not like the Rectory people, though Mr. Hardwick -had been so rebellious, though they did not believe in her (Kate’s) -natural headship of Church and Slate in Langton-Courtenay. - -She sobbed as she lay and dreamed, and developed her new imagination. -She had wondered, half angrily, half wistfully, about the Rectory people -before, but Bertie seemed to give a certain reality to them. He was the -brother of the girl whom Kate had so often inspected with keen eyes, but -did not know; and he said ‘Mamma’ to that unknown Mrs. Hardwick. -‘Mamma!’ What a curious word it was, when you came to think of it! Not -so serious, nor full of meaning as mother was, but soft and -caressing--as of some one who would always feel for you, always put her -arm round you, say ‘dear’ to you, ask what was the matter? Miss Blank -never asked what was the matter! She took it for granted that Kate was -cross, that it was ‘her own fault,’ or, as the very kindest hypothesis, -that she had a headache, which was not in Kate’s way. - -She lay sobbing, as I have said; but sobbing softly, as her emotion wore -itself out, without tears. Her eyes were red, and her temples throbbed a -little. She was worn out; she would not rouse herself and go downstairs -to tempt another conflict with her uncle, as, had it not been for this -last event, she would have felt disposed to do. And yet, poor child, she -wanted her tea. Dinner had not been a satisfactory meal, and Kate could -not help saying to herself that if Minnie and Edith had been suffering -as she was, their mamma would have come to them in the dark, and kissed -them, and bathed their hot foreheads, and brought them cups of tea. But -there was no one to bring a cup of tea, without being asked, to a girl -who had no mother. Kate had but to ring her bell, and she could have had -whatever she pleased; but what did that matter? No one came near her, as -it happened. The governess and her maid both supposed her to be with her -uncle, and it was only when Maryanne came in at nine o’clock to prepare -her young mistress’s hair-brushes and dressing-gown, that the young -mistress was found, to Maryanne’s consternation, stretched on her bed, -with a face as white as her dress, and eyes surrounded with red rings. -And in the dark, of all things in the world, in a place like -Langton-Courtenay, where it was well known the Blue Lady walked, and -turned folks to stone! At the first glance Maryanne felt certain that -the Blue Lady only could be responsible for the condition in which her -young mistress was found. - -‘Oh! miss,’ she cried, ‘and why didn’t you ring the bell?’ - -‘It did not matter,’ said Kate, reproachful and proud. - -‘Lying there all in the dark--and it don’t matter! ‘Oh! miss, I know as -you ain’t timorsome like me, but if you was once to see something----’ - -‘Hold your tongue!’ said Kate, peremptorily. ‘See something! The thing -is, in this house, that one never sees anything! One might die, and it -never would be known. You don’t care enough for one to come and look if -one is dead or alive.’ - -‘Oh! miss!’ - -‘Don’t say “Oh miss!” to me,’ cried Kate, indignantly, ‘or pretend---- -Go and fetch me some tea. That is the only thing you can do. You don’t -forget your own tea, or anything else you want; but when I am out of -sorts, or have a--headache----’ - -Kate had no headache, except such as her crying had made; but it was the -staple malady, the thing that did duty for everything in Miss Blank’s -vocabulary, and her pupil naturally followed her example, to this -extent, at least. - -‘Have you got a headache, miss? I’ll tell Miss Blank--I’ll go and fetch -the housekeeper.’ - -‘If you do, I will ask Uncle Courtenay to send you away to-morrow!’ -cried Kate. ‘Go and fetch me some tea.’ - -But the tea which she had to order for herself was very different, she -felt sure, from the tea that Edith Hardwick’s mother would have carried -upstairs to her unasked. It was tea made by Maryanne, who was not very -careful if the kettle was boiling, and who had filled a large teapot -full of water, in order to get this one cup. It was very hot and very -washy, and made Kate angry. She sent away Maryanne in a fit of -indignation, and did her own hair for the night, and made herself very -uncomfortable. How different it must be with Edith and Minnie! If Kate -had only known it, however, Edith and Minnie, had they conducted -themselves as she was doing, would have been metaphorically whipped and -put to bed. - -In the morning she came down with pale cheeks, but no one took any -notice. Uncle Courtenay was reading his paper, and had other things to -think of; and Miss Blank intended to ask what her pupil had been doing -with herself when they should be alone together in the school-room. They -ate their meal in a solemn silence, broken only now and then by a remark -from Miss Blank, which was scarcely less solemn. Uncle Courtenay took no -notice--he read his paper, which veiled him even from his companion’s -eyes. At last, Miss Blank, having finished her breakfast, made a sign to -Kate that it was time to rise; and then Kate took courage. - -‘Uncle Courtenay,’ she said very softly, ‘you said you were going to -call--at--the Rectory?’ - -Uncle Courtenay looked at her round the corner of his paper. ‘Well,’ he -said, ‘what of that? Of course I shall call at the Rectory--after what -you have told me, I have no choice.’ - -‘Then please--may I go with you?’ said Kate. She cast down her eyes -demurely as she spoke, and consequently did not see the inquiring glance -that he cast at her; but she saw, under her eyelashes, that he had laid -down his paper; and this evidence of commotion was a comfort to her -soul. - -‘Go with me!’ he said. ‘Not to give the Rector any further impertinence, -I hope?’ - -Kate’s eyes flashed, but she restrained herself. ‘I have never been -impertinent to any one, uncle. If I mistook what I had a right to, was -that my fault? I am willing to make it up, if they are; and I can go -alone if I mayn’t go with you.’ - -‘Oh! you can go with me if you choose,’ said Mr. Courtenay, -ungraciously; and then he took up his paper. But he was not so -ungracious as he appeared; he was rather glad, on the whole, to have -this opportunity of talking to her, and to see that (as he thought) his -reproof of the previous night had produced so immediate an effect. He -said to himself, cheerfully, ‘Come, the child is not so ungovernable -after all;’ and was pleased, involuntarily, by the success of his -operation. He was pleased, too, with her appearance when she was -dressed, and ready to accompany him. She was subdued in tone, and less -talkative a great deal than she had been the day before. He took it for -granted that it was his influence that had done this--‘Another proof,’ -he said to himself, ‘how expedient it is to show that you are master, -and will stand no nonsense.’ He had been so despairing about her the -night before, and saw such a vista of troubles before him in the six -years of guardianship that remained, that this docility made him at once -complacent and triumphant now. - -‘I don’t want to be hard upon you, Kate,’ he said; ‘but you must -recollect that at present, in the eye of the law, you are a child, and -have no right to interfere with anything--neither parish, nor estate, -nor even house.’ - -‘But it is all mine, Uncle Courtenay.’ - -‘That has nothing to do with it,’ said her guardian, promptly. ‘The deer -in the park have about as much right to meddle as you.’ - -‘Is our park small?’ said Kate. ‘Do you know Sir Herbert Eldridge, Uncle -Courtenay? Where does he live?--and has he a very fine place? I can’t -believe that there are five hundred acres in his park; and I don’t know -how many there are in ours. I don’t understand measuring one’s own -places. What does it matter an acre or two? I am sure there is no park -so nice as Langton-Courtenay under the sun.’ - -‘What is all this about parks? You take away my breath,’ said Mr. -Courtenay, in dismay. - -‘Oh! nothing,’ said Kate; ‘only that I heard a person say--when I was -out last night I met one of the Rectory people, Uncle Courtenay--it is -partly for that I want to go--his sister, he says, is the same age as -I----’ - -‘_His_ sister!--it was a he, then?’ said Mr. Courtenay, with that prompt -suspiciousness which is natural to the guardian of an heiress. - -‘It was Bertie, the second son--of course it was a he. A girl could not -have jumped over the fence--one might scramble, you know, but one -couldn’t jump it with one’s petticoats. He told me one or two -things--about his family.’ - -‘But why did he jump over the fence? And what do you know about him? Do -you talk to everybody that comes in your way--about his family?’ cried -Mr. Courtenay, with returning dismay. - -‘Of course I do, Uncle Courtenay,’ said Kate, looking full at him. ‘You -may say I have no right to interfere, but I have always known that -Langton was to be mine, and I have always taken an interest -in--everybody. Why, it was my duty. What else could I do?’ - -‘I should prefer that you did almost anything else,’ said Mr. Courtenay, -hastily; and then he stopped short, feeling that it was incautious to -betray his reasons, or suggest to the lively imagination of this -perverse young woman that there was danger in Bertie Hardwick and his -talk. ‘The danger’s self were lure alone,’ he said to himself, and -plunged, in his dismay, into another subject. ‘Do you remember what I -said to you last night about your Aunt Anderson?’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t -you like to go and see her, Kate? She has a daughter of your own age, an -only child. They have been abroad all their lives, and, I daresay, speak -a dozen languages--that sort of people generally do. I think it would be -a right thing to visit her----’ - -‘If it would be a right thing to visit her, Uncle Courtenay, it would be -still righter to ask her to come here.’ - -‘But that I forbid, my dear,’ said the old man. - -Then there was a pause. Kate was greatly tempted to lose her temper, -but, on the whole, experience taught her that losing one’s temper seldom -does much good, and she restrained herself. She tried a different mode -of attack. - -‘Uncle Courtenay,’ she said, pathetically, ‘is it because you don’t want -any one to love me that nobody is ever allowed to stay here?’ - -‘When you are older, Kate, you will see what I mean,’ said Mr. -Courtenay. ‘I don’t wish you to enter the world with any yoke on your -neck. I mean you to be free. You will thank me afterwards, when you see -how you have been saved from a tribe of locusts--from a household of -dependents----’ - -Kate stopped and gazed at him with a curious, semi-comprehension. She -put her head a little on one side, and looked up to him with her bright -eyes. ‘Dependents!’ she said--‘dependents, uncle! Miss Blank tells me I -have a great number of dependents, but I am sure they don’t care for -me.’ - -‘They never do,’ said Mr. Courtenay--this was, he thought, the one grand -experience which he had won from life. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Bertie Hardwick was on the lawn in front of the Rectory when the two -visitors approached. The Rectory was a pretty, old-fashioned house, -large and quaint, with old picturesque wings and gables, and a front -much covered with climbing plants. Kate had always been rather proud of -it, as one of the ornaments of her estate. She looked at it almost as -she looked at the pretty west gate of her park, where the lodge was so -commodious and so pleasant, coveted by all the poor people on the -estate. It was by Kate’s grace and favour that the west lodge was given -to one or another, and so would it be with the Rectory. She looked upon -the one in much the same light as the other. It would be hard to tell -what magnetic chord of sympathies had moved Bertie Hardwick to some -knowledge of what his young acquaintance was about to do; but it is -certain that he was there, pretending to play croquet with his sisters, -and keeping a very keen eye upon the bit of road which was visible -through the break in the high laurel hedge. He had been amused, and -indeed somewhat touched and interested, in spite of himself, on the -previous night; and somehow he had a feeling that she would come. When -he caught a glimpse of her, he threw down the croquet mallet, as if it -hurt him, and cried out--‘Edith, run and tell mamma she is coming. I -felt quite sure she would.’ - -‘Who is coming?’ cried the two girls. - -‘Oh, don’t chatter and ask questions--rush and tell mamma!’ cried -Bertie; and he himself, without thinking of it, went forward to open the -garden door. It was a trial of Kate’s steadiness to meet him thus, but -she did so with wide-open eyes and a certain serious courage. ‘You saw -me at a disadvantage, but I don’t mind,’ Kate’s serious eyes were -saying; and as she took the matter very gravely indeed, it was she who -had the best of it now. Bertie, in spite of himself, felt confused as he -met her look; he grew red, and was ashamed of his own foolish impulse to -go and open the door. - -‘This is Mr. Bertie Hardwick, uncle,’ said Kate, gravely; ‘and this, -Mr. Bertie, is my Uncle Courtenay--whom I told you of,’ she added, with -a little sigh. - -Her Uncle Courtenay--whom she was obliged to obey, and over whom neither -her impetuosity nor her melancholy had the least power. She shook her -head to herself, as it were, over her sad fate, and by this movement -placed once more in great danger the gravity of poor Bertie, who was -afraid to laugh or otherwise misconduct himself under the eyes of Mr. -Courtenay. He led the visitors into the drawing-room, through the open -windows; and it is impossible to tell what a relief it was to him when -he saw his mother coming to the rescue. And then they all sat down; Kate -as near Mrs. Hardwick as she could manage to establish herself. Kate did -not understand the shyness with which Minnie and Edith, half withdrawn -on the other side of their mother, looked at her. - -‘I am not a wild beast,’ she said to herself. ‘I wonder do they think I -will bite?’ - -‘Did you tell them about last night?’ she said, turning quickly to -Bertie; for Mrs. Hardwick, instead of talking to _her_, the Lady of the -Manor, as Kate felt she ought to have done, gave her attention to Mr. -Courtenay instead. - -‘I told them I had met you, Miss Courtenay,’ said Bertie. - -‘And did they laugh? Did you make fun of me? Why do they look at me so -strangely?’ cried Kate, growing red; ‘I am not a wild beast.’ - -‘You forget that you and my father have quarrelled,’ said Bertie; ‘and -the girls naturally take his side.’ - -‘Oh! is it that?’ cried Kate, clearing up a little. She gave a quick -glance at him, with a misgiving as to whether he was entirely serious. -But Bertie kept his countenance. ‘For that matter, I have come to say -that I did not mean anything wrong; perhaps I made a mistake. Uncle -Courtenay says that, till I am of age, I have no power; and if the -Rector pleases--oh! there is the Rector--I ought to speak for myself.’ - -She rose as Mr. Hardwick came up to her. Her sense of her own importance -gave a certain dignity to her young figure, which was springy and -stately, like that of a young Diana. She threw back the flood of -chestnut hair that streamed over her shoulders, and looked straight at -him with her bright, well-opened eyes. Altogether she looked a creature -of a different species from Edith and Minnie, who kept close together, -looking at her with wonder, and a mixture of admiration and repugnance. - -‘Isn’t it bold of her to speak to papa like that?’ Minnie whispered to -Edith. - -‘But she is going to ask his pardon,’ Edith whispered back to Minnie. -‘Oh! hush, and hear what she says.’ - -As for Bertie, he looked on with a strange feeling that it was he who -had introduced this new figure into the domestic circle, and with a -little anxiety of proprietorship hoped that she would make a good -impression. She was his novelty, his property--and she was, there could -be no doubt, a very great novelty indeed. - -‘Mr. Hardwick, please,’ said Kate, reddening, yet confronting him with -her head very erect, and her eyes very open, ‘I find that I made a -mistake. Uncle Courtenay tells me I had no right at my age to interfere. -I shall not be of age for six years, and don’t you think it would be -best to be friendly--till then? If you are willing, I should be glad. I -thought I had a right--but I understand now that it was all a mistake.’ - -Mr. Hardwick looked round upon the company, questioning and puzzled. He -was a tall man, spare, but of a large frame, with deep-set blue eyes -looking out of a somewhat brown face. His eyes looked like a bit of sky, -which had strayed somehow into that brown, ruddy framework. They were -the same colour as his son’s, Bertie’s; but Bertie’s youthful -countenance was still white and red, and the contrast was not so great. -The Rector’s face was very grave when in repose, and its expression had -almost daunted Kate; but gradually he caught the joke (which was -intended to be so profoundly serious) and lighted up. He had looked at -his wife first, with a man’s natural instinct, asking an explanation; -and perhaps the suppressed laughter in Mrs. Hardwick’s eyes was what -gave him the clue. He made the little Lady of the Manor a profound bow. -‘Let us understand each other, Miss Courtenay,’ he said, with mock -solemnity--‘are we to be friendly only till you come of age? Six years -is a long time. But if after that hostilities are to be resumed----’ - -‘When I am of age of course I must do my duty,’ said Kate. - -She was so serious, standing there in the midst of them, grave as twenty -judges, that nobody could venture to laugh. Uncle Courtenay, who was -getting impatient, and who had no feeling either of chivalry or -admiration for his troublesome ward, uttered a hasty exclamation; but -the Rector took her hand, and shook it, with a smile which at once -conciliated his two girls, who were looking on. - -‘That is just the feeling you ought to have,’ he said. ‘I see we shall -be capital friends--I mean for six years; and then whatever you see to -be your duty--Is it a bargain? I am delighted to accept these terms.’ - -‘And I am very glad,’ said Kate, sedately. She sat down again when he -released her hand--giving her head a little shake, as was customary with -her, and looked round with a certain majestic composure on the little -assembly. As for Bertie, though he could not conceal from himself the -fact that his father and mother were much amused, he still felt very -proud of his young lady. He went up to her, and stood behind her chair, -and made signs to his mother that she was to talk; which Mrs. Hardwick -did to such good purpose that Kate, who wanted little encouragement, and -to whom a friendly face was sweet, soon stood fully self-revealed to her -new acquaintances. They took her out upon the lawn, and instructed her -in croquet, and grew familiar with her; and, before half an hour had -passed, Minnie and Edith, one on each side, were hanging about her, half -in amazement, half in admiration. She was younger than both, for even -Minnie, the little one, was sixteen; but then neither of them was a -great lady--neither the head and mistress of her own house. - -‘Isn’t it dreadfully dreary for you to live in that great house all by -yourself?’ said Edith. They were so continually together, and so apt to -take up each other’s sentiments, one repeating and continuing what the -other had said, that they could scarcely get through a question except -jointly. So that Minnie now added her voice, running into her sister’s. -‘It must be so dull, unless your governess is very nice indeed.’ - -‘My governess--Miss Blank?’ said Kate. ‘I never thought whether she was -nice or not. I have had so many. One comes for a year, and then another, -and then another. I never could make out why they liked to change so -often. Uncle Courtenay thinks it is best.’ - -‘Oh! our governess stayed for years and years,’ said Edith; added -Minnie, ‘We were nearly as fond of her as of mamma.’ - -‘But then I suppose,’ said Kate, with a little sigh, ‘she was fond of -you?’ - -‘Why, of course,’ cried the two girls together. ‘How could she help it, -when she had known us all our lives?’ - -‘You think a great deal of yourselves,’ said Kate, with dreary scorn, -‘to think people must be fond of you! If you were like me you would know -better. I never fancy anything of the kind. If they do what I tell them, -that is all I ask. You are very different from me. You have father, and -mother, and brothers, and all sorts of things. But I have nobody, except -Uncle Courtenay--and I am sure I should be very glad to make you a -present of him.’ - -‘Have you not even an aunt?’ said Minnie, with big round eyes of wonder. -‘Nor a cousin?’ said Edith, equally surprised. - -‘No--that is, oh! yes, I have one of each--Uncle Courtenay was talking -of them as we came here--but I never saw them. I don’t know anything -about them,’ said Kate. - -‘What curious people, not to come to see you!’ ‘And what a pity you -don’t know them!’ said the sisters. - -‘And how curiously you talk,’ said uncompromising Kate; ‘both together. -Please, is there only one of you, or are there two of you? I suppose it -is talking in the same voice, and being dressed alike.’ - -‘We are considered alike,’ said Edith, the eldest, with an air of -suppressed offence. As for Minnie, she was too indignant to make any -reply. - -‘And so you are alike,’ said Kate; ‘and a little like your brother, too; -but he speaks for himself. I don’t object to people being alike; but I -should try very hard to make you talk like two people, not like one, and -not always to hang together and dress the same, if you were with me.’ - -Upon this there was a dead pause. The Rectory girls were good girls, but -not quite prepared to stand an assault like this. Minnie, who had a -quick temper, and who had been taught that it was indispensable to keep -it down, shut her lips tight, and resisted the temptation to be angry. -Edith, who was more placid, gazed at the young censor with wonder. What -a strange girl! - -‘Because,’ said Kate, endeavouring to be explanatory, ‘your voices have -just the same sound, and you are just the same height, and your blue -frocks are even made the same. Are there so many girls in the world,’ -she said suddenly, with a pensive appeal to human nature in general, -‘that people can afford to throw them away, and make two into one?’ - -Deep silence followed. Mrs. Hardwick had been called away, and Bertie -was talking to the gardener at the other end of the lawn. This was the -first unfortunate result of leaving the girls to themselves. They walked -on a little, the two sisters falling a step behind in their -discomfiture. ‘How dare she speak to us so?’ Minnie whispered through -her teeth. ‘Dare!--she is our guest!’ said Edith, who had a high sense -of decorum. A minute after, Kate perceived that something was amiss. She -turned round upon them, and gazed into their faces with serious -scrutiny. ‘Are you angry?’ she said--‘have I said anything wrong?’ - -‘Oh! not angry,’ said Edith. ‘I suppose, since you look surprised, you -don’t--mean--any harm.’ - -‘I?--mean harm?--- Oh! Mr. Bertie,’ cried Kate, ‘come here -quick--quick!--and explain to them. _You_ know me. What have I done to -make them angry? One may surely say what one thinks.’ - -‘I don’t know that it is good to say all one thinks,’ said Edith, who -taught in the Sunday-schools, and who was considered very thoughtful and -judicious--‘at least, when it is likely to hurt other people’s -feelings.’ - -‘Not when it is true?’ said the remorseless Kate. - -And then the whole group came to a pause, Bertie standing open-mouthed, -most anxious to preserve the peace, but not knowing how. It was the -judicious Edith who brought the crisis to a close by acting upon one of -the maxims with which she was familiar as a teacher of youth. - -‘Should you like to walk round the garden?’ she said, changing the -subject with an adroitness which was very satisfactory to herself, ‘or -come back into the drawing-room? There is not much to see in our little -place, after your beautiful gardens at Langton-Courtenay; but still, if -you would like to walk round--or perhaps you would prefer to go in and -join mamma?’ - -‘My uncle must be ready to go now,’ said Kate, with responsive -quickness, and she stalked in before them through the open window. As -good luck would have it, Mr. Courtenay was just rising to take his -leave. Kate followed him out, much subdued, in one sense, though all in -arms in another. The girls were not nearly so nice as she thought they -would be--reality was not equal to anticipation--and to think they -should have quarrelled with her the very first time for nothing! This -was the view of the matter which occurred to Kate. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -I cannot undertake to say how it was, but it is certain that Bertie -Hardwick met Kate next day, as she took her walk into the village, -accompanied by Miss Blank. At the sight of him, that lady’s countenance -clouded over; but Kate was glad, and the young man took no notice of -Miss Blank’s looks. As it happened, the conversation between the -governess and her pupil had flagged--it often flagged. The conversation -between Kate and Miss Blank consisted generally of a host of bewildering -questions on the one side, and as few answers as could be managed on the -other. Miss Blank no doubt had affairs of her own to think of; and then -Kate’s questions were of everything in heaven and earth, and might have -troubled even a wise counsellor. Mr. Courtenay was still at Langton, but -had sent out his niece for her usual walk--a thing by which she felt -humiliated--and she had met with a rebuff in the village in consequence -of some interference. She was in low spirits, and Miss Blank did not -mind. Accordingly, Bertie was a relief and comfort to her, more than can -be described. - -‘Why don’t your sisters like me?’ said Kate. ‘I wonder, Mr. Bertie, why -people don’t like me? If they would let me, I should like to be friends; -but you saw they would not.’ - -‘I don’t think--perhaps--that they quite understood----’ - -‘But it is so easy to understand,’ said Kate, with a little impatient -sigh. She shook her head, and tossed back her shining hair, which made -an aureole round her. ‘Don’t let us speak of it,’ she said; ‘but you -understood from the very first?’ - -Bertie was pleased, he could not have told why. The fact was, he, too, -had been extremely puzzled at first; but now, after three meetings, he -felt himself an old friend and privileged interpreter of the strange -girl whom his sisters were so indignant with, and who certainly was a -more important personage at Langton-Courtenay than any other -fifteen-year-old girl in England. Both Mr. Hardwick and Bertie had to -some extent made themselves Kate’s champions, moved thereto by that -strange predisposition to take the side of a feminine stranger (at -least, when she is young and pleasant) against the women of their own -house, which almost all men are moved by. Women take their father’s, -their husband’s, their brother’s side through thick and thin, with a -natural certainty that their own must be in the right; but men -invariably take it for granted that their own must be wrong. Thus, not -only Bertie, who might be moved by other arguments, but even Mr. -Hardwick, secretly believed that ‘the girls’ had taken offence -foolishly, and maintained the cause of Kate. - -‘They have seen nothing out of their own sphere,’ their brother said, -apologetically--‘they don’t know much--they are very much petted and -spoiled at home.’ - -‘Ah!’ said Kate, feeling as if a chilly _douche_ had suddenly been -administered in her face. She drew a long, half-sobbing breath, and then -she said, with a pathetic tone in her voice, ‘Oh! I wonder why people -don’t like me!’ - -‘You are wrong, Miss Courtenay--I am sure you are wrong,’ said Bertie, -warmly. ‘Not like you!--that must be their stupidity alone. And I can’t -believe, even, that any one is so stupid. You must be making a mistake.’ - -‘Oh! Mr. Bertie, how can you say so? Why, your sisters!’ cried Kate, -returning to the charge. - -‘But it is not that they--don’t like you,’ said Bertie. ‘How could you -think it? It is only a misunderstanding--a--a--want of knowing----’ - -‘You are trying to save my feelings,’ said Kate; ‘but never mind my -feelings. No, Mr. Bertie, it is quite true. I do not want to deceive -myself--people do not like me.’ These words she produced singly, as if -they had been so many stones thrown at the world. ‘Oh! please don’t say -anything--perhaps it is my fate; perhaps I am never to be any better. -But that is how it is--people don’t like me; I am sure I don’t know -why.’ - -‘Miss Courtenay----’ Bertie began, with great earnestness; but just -then the man-of-all-work from the Rectory, who was butler, and footman, -and valet, and everything combined, made his appearance at the corner, -beckoning to him; and as the servant was sent by his father, he had no -alternative but to go away. When he was out of sight, Kate, whose eyes -had followed him as far as he was visible, breathed forth a gentle sigh, -and was going on quietly upon her way, silent, until the mood should -seize her to chatter once more, when an event occurred that had never -been known till now to happen at Langton--the governess, who was -generally blank as her name, opened her mouth and spoke. - -‘Miss Courtenay,’ she said, for she was not even sufficiently interested -in her pupil to care to speak to her by her Christian name--‘Miss -Courtenay, if this sort of thing continues, I shall have to go away.’ - -Kate, who was not much less startled than Balaam was on a similar -occasion, stopped short, and turned round with a face of consternation -upon her companion. ‘If what continues?’ she said. - -‘This,’ said Miss Blank--‘this meeting of young men, and walking with -them. It is hard enough to have to manage _you_; but if this goes on, I -shall speak to Mr. Courtenay. I never was compromised before, and I -don’t mean to be so now.’ - -Kate was so utterly unconscious of the meaning of all this, that she -simply stared in dismay. ‘Compromised!’ she said, with big eyes of -astonishment; ‘I don’t know what you mean. What is it that must not go -on? Miss Blank, I hope you have not had a sunstroke, or something that -makes people talk without knowing what they say.’ - -‘I will not take any impertinence from you, Miss Courtenay,’ said Miss -Blank, going red with wrath. ‘Ask why people don’t like you, -indeed!--you should ask me, instead of asking a gentleman, fishing for -compliments! _I’ll_ tell you why people don’t like you. It is because -you are always interfering--thrusting yourself into things you have no -business with--taking things upon you that no child has a right to -meddle with. That is why people hate you----’ - -‘Hate me!’ cried Kate, who, for her part, had grown pale with horror. - -‘Yes; hate you--that is the word. Do you think any one would put up with -such a life who could help it? You are an heiress, and people are -obliged to mind you; but if you had been a poor girl, you would have -known the difference. Nobody would have put up with you then; you would -have been beaten, or starved, or done something to. It is only your -money that gives you the power to trample others under your feet.’ - -Kate was appalled by this address. It stupefied her, in the first place, -that Miss Blank should have taken the initiative, and launched forth -into speech, as it were, on her own account; and the assault took away -the girl’s breath. She felt as one might feel who had been suddenly -saluted with a shower of blows from an utterly unsuspected adversary. -She did not know whether to fight or flee. She walked along mechanically -by her assailant’s side, and gasped for breath. Her eyes grew large and -round with wonder. She listened in amaze, not able to believe her ears. - -‘But I won’t be kept quiet any longer,’ said Miss Blank--‘I will speak. -Why should I get myself into trouble for you? I will go to Mr. -Courtenay, when we get back, and I will tell him it is impossible to go -on like this. It was bad enough before. You were trouble enough from the -first day I ever set eyes on you; but I have always said to myself, when -_that_ commences, I will go away. My character is above everything, and -all the gold in England would not tempt me to stay.’ - -Kate listened to all this with a bewilderment that took from her the -power of speech. What did the woman mean?--was she ‘in a passion,’ as, -indeed, other governesses, to Kate’s knowledge, had been; or was she -mad? It must be a sunstroke, she decided at last. They had been walking -in the sun, and Miss Blank’s bonnet was too thin, being made of flimsy -tulle. Her brain must be affected. Kate resolved heroically that she -would not aggravate the sufferer by any response, but would send for the -housekeeper as soon as they got back, and place Miss Blank in her hands. -People in her sad condition must not be contradicted. She quickened her -steps, discussing with herself whether a dark room and ice to the -forehead would be enough, or whether it would be necessary to cut off -all her hair, or even shave her head. This pre-occupation about Miss -Blank’s welfare shielded the girl for some time against the fiery, -stinging arrows which were being thrown at her; but this immunity did -not last, for the way was long, and Miss Blank, having once broken out, -put no further restraint upon herself. It was clear now that her only -hope was in laying Kate prostrate, leaving no spirit nor power of -resistance in her. By degrees the sharp words began to get admittance at -the girl’s tingling ears. She was beaten down by the storm of -opposition. Was it possible?--could it be true? Did people _hate_ her? -Her imagination began to work as these burning missiles flew at her. -Miss Blank had been her companion for a year, and hated her! Uncle -Courtenay was her own uncle--her nearest relative--and he, too, hated -her! The girls at the Rectory, who looked so gentle, had turned against -her. Oh! why, why was it? By degrees a profound discouragement seized -upon the poor child. Miss Blank was eloquent; she had a flow of words -such as had never come to her before. She poured forth torrents of -bitterness as she walked, and Kate was beaten down by the storm. By the -time they reached home she had forgotten all about the sunstroke, and -shaving Miss Blank’s head, and thought of nothing but getting -free--getting into the silence--being alone. Maryanne put a letter into -her hand as she ran upstairs; but what did she care for a letter! -Everybody hated her--if it were not that she was an heiress everybody -would abandon her--and she had not one friend to go to, no one whom she -could ask to help her in all the dreary world. She was too far gone for -weeping. She sat down before her dressing-table and looked into the -glass with miserable, dilated eyes. ‘I am just like other people,’ Kate -said to herself; ‘there is no mark upon me. Cain was marked; but that -was because he was a murderer; and I never killed anybody, I never did -any harm to anybody, that I know of. I am only just a girl, like other -girls. Oh! I suppose I am dreadfully wicked! But then everybody is -wicked--the Bible says so; and how am I worse than all the rest? I don’t -hate any one,’ said Kate, aloud, and very slowly. Her poor little mouth -quivered, her eyes filled, and right upon the letter on her table there -fell one great blob of a tear. This roused her in the midst of her -distress. To Kate--as to every human being of her age--it seemed -possible that something new, something wonderful might be in any letter. -She took it up and tore it open. She was longing for comfort, longing -for kindness, as she had never done in her life. - -The letter which we are about to transcribe was not a very wise one, -perhaps not even altogether to be sworn by as true--but it opened an -entire new world to poor Kate. - -MY DEAREST UNKNOWN DARLING NIECE, - - ‘You can’t remember me, for I have never seen you since you were a - tiny, tiny baby in long clothes; and you have had nobody about you - to remind you that you had any relations on your mother’s side. You - have never answered my letters even, dear, though I don’t for a - moment blame you, or suppose it is your fault. But now that I am in - England, darling, we must not allow ourselves to be divided by - unfortunate feelings that may exist between different sides of the - family. I must see you, my dear only sister’s only darling child! I - have but one child, too, my Ombra, and she is as anxious as I am. I - have written to your guardian, asking if he will let you come and - see us. I do not wish to go to your grand house, which was always - thought too fine for us, but I must see you, my darling child; and - if Mr. Courtenay will not let you come to us, my Ombra and I will - come to Langton-Courtenay, to the village, where we shall no doubt - find lodgings somewhere--I don’t mind how humble they are, so long - as I can see you. My heart yearns to take you in my arms, to give - you a hundred kisses, my own niece, my dear motherless child. Send - me one little word by your own hand, and don’t reject the love that - is offered you, my dearest Kate. Ombra sends you her dear love, and - thinks of you, not as a cousin, but as a sister; and I, who have - the best right, long for nothing so much as to be a mother to you! - Come to us, my sweet child, if your uncle will let you; but, in the - meantime, write to me, that I may know you a little even before we - meet. With warmest love, my darling niece, your most affectionate - aunt and, if you will let her be so, mother, - -‘JANE ANDERSON.’ - - - -Now poor Kate had only two or three times in her whole life received a -letter before. Since, as she said, she had ‘grown up,’ she had not heard -from her aunt, who had written her, she recollected, one or two baby -epistles, printed in large letters, in her childhood. Her poor little -soul was still convulsed with the first great, open undisguised shock of -unkindness, when this other great event came upon her. It was also a -shock in its way. It made such a tempest in her being as conflicting -winds make out at sea. The one had driven her down to the depths, the -other dashed her up, up to a dizzy height. She felt dazed, insensible, -proud, triumphant, and happy, all at once. Here was somebody of her own, -somebody of her very own--something like the mother at the Rectory. -Something new, close, certain--her own! - -She dashed the tears from her eyes with a handkerchief, seized upon her -letter, her dear letter, and rushed downstairs to the library, where -Uncle Courtenay sat in state, the judge, and final tribunal for all -appeals. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Mr. Courtenay was in the library at Langton, tranquilly pursuing some -part of the business which had brought him thither, when Miss Blank and -her charge returned from their walk. His chief object, it is true, in -this visit to the house of his fathers, had been to look after his ward; -but there had been other business to do--leases to renew, timber to cut -down, cottages to build; a multiplicity of small matters, which required -his personal attention. These were straightforward, and did not trouble -him as the others did; and the fact was that he felt much relieved by -the absence of the young feminine problem, which it was so hard upon -him, at his age, and with his habits, to be burdened with. He had -dismissed her even out of his mind, and was getting through the less -difficult matters steadily, with a grateful sense that here at least he -had nothing in hand that was beyond his power. It was shady in the -Langton library, cool, and very quiet; whereas outside there was one -blaze of sunshine, and the day was hot. Mr. Courtenay was -comfortable--perhaps for the first time since his arrival. He was -satisfied with his present occupation, and for the moment had dismissed -his other cares. - -This was the pleasant position of affairs when Miss Blank rushed in upon -him, with indignation in her countenance. There was something more than -indignation--there was the flush of heat produced by her walk, and her -unusual outburst of temper, and the dust, and a little dishevelment -inseparable from wrath. She scarcely took time to knock at the door. She -was a person who had been recommended to him as imperturbable in temper -and languid in disposition--the last in the world to make any fuss; -consequently he stared upon her now with absolute consternation, and -even a little alarm. - -‘Compose yourself, Miss Blank--take time to speak. Has anything happened -to Kate?’ - -He was quite capable of hearing with composure anything that might have -happened to Kate--anything short of positive injury, indeed, which would -have freed him of her, would have been tidings of joy. - -‘I have come to say, sir,’ said Miss Blank, ‘that there are some things -a lady cannot be expected to put up with. I have always felt the time -must come when I could not put up with Miss Courtenay. I am not an -ill-tempered person, I hope----’ - -‘Quite the reverse, I have always heard,’ said Mr. Courtenay, politely, -but with a sigh. - -‘Thank you, sir. I believe I have always been considered to have a good -temper; but I have said to myself, since ever I came here, “Miss -Courtenay is bad enough _now_--she is trial enough to any lady’s -feelings now.” I am sorry to have to say it if it hurts your feelings, -Mr. Courtenay, but your niece s--she is--it is really almost impossible -for a lady who has a respect for herself, and does not wish to be -hurried into exhibitions of temper, to say what Miss Kate is.’ - -‘Pray compose yourself, Miss Blank. Take a seat. From my own -observation,’ said Mr. Courtenay, ‘I am aware my niece must be -troublesome at times.’ - -‘Troublesome!’ said Miss Blank--‘at times! That shows, sir, how little -you know. About her troublesomeness I can’t trust myself to speak; nor -is it necessary at the present moment. But I have always said to myself, -“When that time comes, I will go at once.” And it appears to me, Mr. -Courtenay, that though premature, that time has come.’ - -‘What time, for Heaven’s sake?’ said the perplexed guardian. - -‘Mr. Courtenay, you know what she is as well as I do. It is not for any -personal reason, though I am aware many people think her pretty; but it -is not that. She is an heiress, she will have a nice property, and a -great deal of money, therefore it is quite natural that it should be -premature.’ - -‘Miss Blank, you would do me an infinite favour if you would speak -plainly. What is it that is premature?’ - -Miss Blank had taken a seat, and she had loosed the strings of her -bonnet. Her ideas of decorum had indeed been so far overcome by her -excitement, that even under Mr. Courtenay’s eye she had begun to fan -herself with her handkerchief. She made a pause in this occupation, and -pressed her handkerchief to her face, as expressive of confusion; and -from the other side of this shield she answered, ‘Oh! that I should have -to speak to a gentleman of such things! If you demand a distinct answer, -I must tell you. It is _lovers_, Mr. Courtenay.’ - -‘Lovers!’ he said, involuntarily, with a laugh of relief. - -‘You may laugh, but it is no laughing matter,’ said Miss Blank. ‘Oh! if -you had known, as I do by experience, what it is to manage girls! Do you -know what a girl is, Mr. Courtenay?--the most aggravating, trying, -unmanageable, untamable----’ - -‘My dear Miss Blank,’ said, Mr. Courtenay, seriously, ‘I presume that -you were once one of these untamable creatures yourself.’ - -‘Ah!’ said the governess, with a long-drawn breath. It had not occurred -to her, and, curiously enough, now that it was suggested, the idea -seemed rather to flatter her than otherwise. She shook her head; but she -was softened. ‘Perhaps I should not have said all girls,’ she resumed. -‘I was very strictly brought up, and never allowed to take such folly -into my head. But to return to our subject, Mr. Courtenay. I must beg -your attention to this--it has been my principle through life, I have -never departed from it yet, and I cannot now--When lovers appear, I have -always made it known among my friends--I go.’ - -‘I have no doubt it is an admirable principle,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘But -in the present case let us come to particulars. Who are the lovers?’ - -‘One of the young gentlemen at the Rectory,’ answered Miss Blank, -promptly; and then for the first time she felt that she had produced an -effect. - -Mr. Courtenay made no reply--he put down his pen, which he had been -holding all this time in his hand; his face clouded over; he pushed his -paper away from him and puckered his lips and his forehead. This time, -without doubt, she had produced an effect. - -‘I must beg you accordingly, Mr. Courtenay, to accept my resignation,’ -said Miss Blank. ‘I have always kept up a good connection, and never -suffered myself to be compromised, and I don’t mean to begin now. This -day month, sir, if you please--if in the meantime you are suited with -another lady in my place----’ - -‘Miss Blank, don’t you think this is something like forsaking your post? -Is it not ungenerous to desert my niece when she has so much need of -your protection? Do you not feel----’ Mr. Courtenay had commenced -unawares. - -‘Sir,’ said Miss Blank, with dignity, ‘when I was engaged, it was -specially agreed that this was to be no matter of feelings. I have -specially watched over my feelings, that they might not get any way -involved. I am sure you must recollect the terms of my engagement as -well as I.’ - -Mr. Courtenay did recollect them, and felt he had made a false step; and -then the difficulties of his position rushed upon his bewildered sight. -He did not know girls as Miss Blank did, who had spent many a weary year -in wrestling with them; but he knew enough to understand that, if a girl -in her natural state was hard to manage, a girl with a lover must be -worse. And what was he to do if left alone, and unaided, to rule and -quiet such an appalling creature? He drew in his lips, and contracted -his forehead, until his face was about half its usual size. It gave him -a little relief when the idea suddenly struck him that Miss Blank’s -hypothesis might not be built on sufficient foundation. Women were -always thinking of lovers--or, at least, not knowing anything precisely -about women, so Mr. Courtenay had heard. - -‘Let us hope, at least,’ he said, ‘that your alarming suggestion has -been hastily made. Will you tell me what foundation you have for -connecting Kate’s name with--with anything of the kind? She is only -fifteen--she is not old enough.’ - -‘I thought I had said distinctly, Mr. Courtenay, that I considered it to -be premature?’ - -‘Yes, yes, certainly--you said so--but---- Perhaps, Miss Blank, you will -kindly favour me with the facts----’ - -At this point another hurried knock came to the door. And once more, -without waiting for an answer, Kate, all tears and trouble, her face -flushed like Miss Blank’s, her hair astray, and an open letter in her -hand, came rushing into the room. Two agitated female creatures in one -hour, rushing into the private sanctuary of the most particular of -bachelors! Mr. Courtenay commended her, though she was his nearest -relation, to all the infernal gods. - -‘What is the matter now?’ he cried, sharply. ‘Why do you burst in -uninvited when I am busy? Kate, you seem to be trying every way to -irritate and annoy me. What is it now?’ - -‘Uncle,’ cried Kate, breathlessly, ‘I have just got a letter, and I want -to ask you--never mind her!--may I go to my Aunt Anderson’s? She is -willing to have me, and it will save you heaps of trouble! Oh! please, -Uncle Courtenay, please never mind anything else! May I go?’ - -‘May you go--to your Aunt Anderson? Why, here is certainly a new -arrangement of the board!’ said Mr. Courtenay. He said the last words -mockingly, and he fixed his eyes on Kate as if she had been a natural -curiosity--which, indeed, in a great degree, she was to him. - -‘Yes--to my Aunt Anderson. You spoke of her yourself--you know you did. -You said she must not come here! and she does not want to come here. I -don’t think she would come if she was asked! but she says I am to go to -her. Uncle Courtenay, in a little while I shall be able to do what I -like, and go where I like----’ - -‘Not for six years, my dear,’ said Mr. Courtenay, with a smile. - -Kate stamped her foot in her passion. - -‘If I were to write to the Lord Chancellor, I am sure he would let me!’ -she cried. - -‘But you are not a ward in Chancery--you are my ward,’ said Mr. -Courtenay, blandly. - -‘Then I will run away!’ cried Kate, once more stamping her foot. ‘I will -not stay here. I hate Langton-Courtenay, and everybody that is unkind, -and the people who hate _me_. I tell you I hate them, Uncle Courtenay! I -will run away!’ - -‘I don’t doubt it, for one,’ said Miss Blank, quietly; ‘but with whom, -Miss Kate, I should like to know? I daresay your plans are all laid.’ - -Mr. Courtenay did not see the blank stare of surprise with which Kate, -all innocent of the meaning which was conveyed to his ear by these -words, surveyed her adversary. His own better-instructed mind was moved -by it to positive excitement. Even if Miss Blank had been premature in -her suggestion, still there could be little doubt that lovers were a -danger from which Kate could not be kept absolutely safe. And there were -sons at the Rectory, one of whom, a good-looking young fellow of twenty, -he had himself seen coming forward with a look of delighted recognition. -Danger! Why, it was almost more than danger; it seemed a certainty of -evil--if not now, why, then, next year, or the year after! Mr. -Courtenay, like most old men of the world, felt an instinctive distrust -of, and repugnance to, parsons. And a young parson was proverbially on -the outlook for heiresses, and almost considered it a duty to provide -for himself by marriage. All this ran through his disturbed mind as -these two troublesome feminine personages before him waited each for her -answer. ‘Confound women! They are more trouble than they are worth, a -hundred times over!’ the old bachelor said to himself. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -Mr. Courtenay was much too true to his instincts, however, to satisfy -these two applicants, or to commit himself by any decision on the spot. -He dismissed Miss Blank with the formal courtesy which he employed -towards his inferiors, begging her to wait until to-morrow, when he -should have reflected upon the problem she had laid before him. And he -sent away Kate with much less ceremony, bidding her hold her tongue, and -leave the room and leave things alone which she did not understand. He -would not listen to the angry response which rose to her lips; and Kate -had a melancholy night in consequence, aggravated by the miserable -sensation that she had been snubbed in presence of Miss Blank, who was -quite ready to take advantage of her discomfiture. When Kate’s guardian, -however, was left alone to think, it is probable that his own -reflections were not delightful. He was not a man apt to take himself to -task, nor give way to self-examination, but still it was sufficiently -apparent to him that his plan had not succeeded as he had hoped in -Kate’s case. What he had hoped for had been to produce a quiet, calm -girl, who would do what she was told, whose expectations and wishes -would be on a subdued scale, and who would be reasonable enough to feel -that his judgment was supreme in all matters. Almost all men at one time -or another of their lives entertain the idea of ‘moulding’ a model -woman. Mr. Courtenay’s ideal was not high--all he wanted was -submissiveness, manageableness, quiet manners, and a total absence of -the sentimental and emotional. The girl might have been permitted to be -clever, to be a good musician, or a good artist, or a great student, if -she chose, though such peculiarities always detract more or less from -the air of good society which ought to distinguish a lady; but still Mr. -Courtenay prided himself upon being tolerant, and he would not have -interfered in such a case. But that this ward of his, this -representative of his family, should choose to be an individual being -with a very strong will and marked characteristics of her own, -exasperated the old man of the world. ‘Most women have no character at -all,’ he repeated to himself, raising his eyebrows in wondering appeal -to Providence. Had the happy period when that aphorism was true, -departed along with all the other manifestations of the age of Gold?--or -was it still true, and was it the fault of Providence, to punish him for -his sins, that his share of womankind should be so perverse? This was a -question which it was difficult to make out; but he was rather inclined -to chafe at Providence, which really does interfere so unjustifiably -often, when things would go very well if they were left to themselves. -The longer he thought of it, the more disgusted did he become--at once -with Miss Blank and with her charge. What a cold-hearted wretch the -woman must be! How strange that she should not at least ‘take an -interest’ in the girl! To be sure he had made it a special point in her -engagement that she should not take an interest. He was right in doing -so, he felt sure; but, still, here was an unforeseen crisis, at which it -would have been very important to have lighted on some one who would not -be bound by a mere bargain. The girl was an unmanageable little fool, -determined to have her own way at all risks; and the law would not -permit him to shut her up, and keep her in the absolute subjection of a -prison. She must have every advantage, forsooth--freedom and society, -and Heaven knows what besides; education as much as if she were going to -earn her living as a governess; and even that crowning horror, Lovers, -when the time came. Yes, there was no law in the realm forbidding an -heiress to have lovers. Miss Blank might resign, not wishing to -compromise herself: but he, the unhappy guardian, could not resign. It -was not illegal for a young man to speak to Kate--any idle fellow, with -an introduction, might chatter to her, and drive her protectors frantic, -and yet could not be put into prison for it. And there could be little -doubt that, simply to spite her guardian, after she had worried him to -death in every other way, she would fall in love. She would do it, as -sure as fate; and even if she met with opposition she was a girl quite -capable of eloping with her lover, giving unbounded trouble, and -probably throwing some lasting stigma on herself and her name. It was -premature, as Miss Blank said; but Miss Blank was a person of -experience, learned in the ways of girls, and doubtless knew what she -was saying. She had declined to have anything further to do with Kate; -she had declared her own sway and ‘lovers’ to be quite incompatible. But -Mr. Courtenay could not give a month’s warning, and what was he to do? - -If there was but anybody to be found who would ‘take an interest’ in the -girl! This idea flashed unconsciously through his mind, and he did not -even realise that in wishing for this, in perceiving its necessity, he -was stultifying all the previous exertions of his guardianship. Theories -are all very well, but it is astonishing how ready men are to drop them -in an emergency. Mr. Courtenay was in a dreadful emergency at present, -and he prayed to his gods for some one to ‘take an interest’ in this -girl. Her Aunt Anderson! The suggestion was so very convenient, it was -so delightfully ready a way of escape out of his troubles, that he felt -it necessary to pull himself up, and look at it fully. It is not to be -supposed that it was a pleasant or grateful suggestion in itself. Had he -been in no trouble about Kate, he would have at once, and sternly, -declined all invitations (he would have said interference) on the part -of her mother’s family. The late Mr. Courtenay had made a very foolish -marriage, a marriage quite beneath his position; and the sister of the -late Mrs. Courtenay had been discouraged in all her many attempts to see -anything of the orphan Kate. Fortunately she had not been much in -England, and, until the present, these attempts had all been made when -Kate was a baby. Had the young lady of Langton-Courtenay been at all -manageable, they would have been equally discouraged now. But the very -name of Mrs. Anderson, at this crisis, breathed across Mr. Courtenay’s -tribulations like the sweet south across a bed of violets. It was such a -temptation to him as he did not know how to withstand. Her mother’s -family! They had no right, certainly, to any share of the good things, -which were entirely on the Courtenay side; but certainly they had a -right to their share of the trouble. This trouble he had borne for -fifteen years, and had not murmured. Of course, in the very nature of -things, it was their turn now. - -Mr. Courtenay reflected very deeply on this subject, looking at it in -all its details. Fortunately there were but few remnants of her mother’s -family. Mrs. Anderson was the widow of a Consul, who had spent almost -all his life abroad. She had a pension, a little property, and an only -daughter, a little older than Kate. There were but two of them. If they -turned out to be of that locust tribe which Mr. Courtenay so feared and -hated, they could at least be bought off cheaply, when they had served -their purpose. The daughter, no doubt, would marry, and the mother could -be bought off. Mr. Courtenay did not enter into any discussion with -himself as to the probabilities of carrying out this scheme of buying -off. At this moment he did not care to dwell upon any difficulties. In -the meantime, he had the one great difficulty, Kate herself, to get -settled somehow; and anything which might happen six years hence was so -much less pressing. By that time a great many things unforeseen might -have happened; and Mr. Courtenay did not choose to make so long an -excursion into the unknown. What was he to do with her now? Was he to be -compelled to stay in the country, to give up all his pleasures and -comforts, and the habits of his life, in order to guard and watch over -this girl?--or should she be given over, for the time, to the -guardianship of her mother’s family? This was the real question he had -to decide. - -And by degrees he came to think more and more cordially of Mrs. -Anderson--more cordially, and, at the same time, contemptuously. What a -fool she must be, to offer voluntarily to take all this trouble! No -doubt she expected to make her own advantage out of it; but Mr. -Courtenay, with a grim smile upon his countenance, felt that he himself -was quite capable of taking care of that. He might employ her, but he -would take care that her devotion should be disinterested. She would be -better than a governess at this crisis of Kate’s history! She would be a -natural duenna and inspectress of morals, as well as the superintendent -of education; and it should, of course, be fully impressed upon her that -it was for her interest to discourage lovers, and keep the external -world at arm’s length. The very place of her residence was favourable. -She had settled in the Isle of Wight, a long way from Langton-Courtenay, -and happily so far from town that it would not be possible to run up and -down and appeal to him at any moment. He thought of this all night, and -it was the first subject that returned to his thoughts in the morning. -Mrs. Anderson, or unlimited worry, trouble, and annoyance--banishment to -the country, severance from all delights. Then let it be Mrs. Anderson! -he said to himself, with a sigh. It was hard upon him to have such a -decision to make, and yet it was satisfactory to feel that he had -decided for the best. He went down to breakfast with a certain solemn -composure, as of a man who was doing right and making a sacrifice. It -would be the salvation of his personal comfort, and to secure that, at -all costs, was fundamentally and eternally right; but it was a sacrifice -at once of pride and of principle, and he felt that he had a right to -the honours of martyrdom on that score. - -After breakfast he called his ward into the library, with a polite -little speech of apology to Miss Blank. ‘If you will permit me the -pleasure of a few words with you at twelve o’clock, I think we may -settle that little matter,’ he said, with the greatest suavity; leaving -upon that lady’s mind the impression that Kate was to be bound hand and -foot, and delivered over into her hands--which, as Miss Blank had no -desire, could she avoid it, to leave the comfort of Langton-Courtenay, -was very satisfactory to her; and then he withdrew into the library with -the victim. - -‘Now, Kate,’ he said, sitting down, ‘I am going to speak to you very -seriously.’ - -‘You have been doing nothing but speak to me seriously ever since you -came,’ said Kate, pouting. ‘I wish you would not give yourself so much -trouble, Uncle Courtenay. All I want is just yes or no.’ - -‘But a great deal depends on the yes or the no. Look here, Kate, I am -willing to let you go--oh! pray don’t clap your hands too soon!--I am -willing to let you go, on conditions, and the conditions are rather -serious. You had better not decide until you hear----’ - -‘I am sure I shall not mind them,’ said impetuous Kate, before whose -eyes there instantly rose up a prospect of a new world, all full of -freshness, and novelty, and interest. Mind!--she would not have minded -fire and water to get at an existence which should be altogether new. - -‘Listen, however,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘My conditions are very grave. If -you go to Mrs. Anderson, Kate----’ - -‘Of course I shall go, if you will let me, Uncle Courtenay.’ - -‘If you go,’ said Mr. Courtenay, with a wave of his hand deprecating -interruption, ‘it must not be for a visit only--you must go to stay.’ - -‘To stay!’ - -Kate’s eyes, which grew round with the strain of wonder, interest, and -excitement, and which kindled, and brightened, and shone, reflecting -like a mirror the shades of feeling that passed through her mind, were a -sight to see. - -‘If you go,’ he continued, ‘and if Mrs. Anderson is content to receive -you, it must be for the remainder of your minority. I have had a great -deal of trouble with your education, and now it is just that your -mother’s family should take their share. Hear me out, Kate. Your aunt, -of course, should have an allowance for your maintenance, and you could -have as many masters and governesses, and all the rest, as were -necessary; but if you go out of my hands, you go not for six weeks, but -for six years, Kate.’ - -Kate had been going to speak half a dozen times, but now, having -controlled herself so long, she paused with a certain mixture of -feelings. Her delight was certainly toned down. To go and come--to be -now Queen of Langton, and now her aunt’s amused and petted guest, had -been her own dream of felicity. This was a different matter, there could -be no doubt. It would be the old story--if not the monotony of Langton, -which she knew, the monotony of Shanklin, which she did not know. -Various clouds passed over the firmament which had looked so smiling. -Perhaps it was possible her Aunt Anderson and Ombra might not turn out -desirable companions for six years--perhaps she might regret her native -place, her supremacy over the cottagers, whom she sometimes exasperated. -The cloud thickened, dropped lower. ‘Should I never be allowed to come -back?--not even to _see_ Langton, Uncle Courtenay?’ she asked in a -subdued voice. - -‘Langton, in that case, ought to be let or shut up.’ - -‘Let!--to other people!--to strangers, Uncle Courtenay!--our house!’ - -‘Well, you foolish child, are we such very superior clay that we cannot -let our house? Why, the best people in England do it. The Duke of -Brentford does it. You have not quite his pretensions, and he does not -mind.’ - -‘But I have quite his pretensions,’ cried Kate--‘more!--and so have you, -uncle. What is he more than a gentleman? and we are gentlemen, I hope. -Besides, a Duke has a vulgar sort of grandeur with his title--you know -he has--and can do what he pleases; but we must act as gentlefolks. Oh! -Uncle Courtenay, not that!’ - -‘Pshaw!’ was all that Mr. Courtenay replied. He was not open to -sentimental considerations, especially when money was concerned; but, -still, he had so much natural prejudice remaining in him for the race -and honour of Langton-Courtenay, that he thought no worse of his -troublesome ward for what she had said. He would of course pay no manner -of attention to it; but still, on the whole, he liked her so to speak. - -‘Let us waive the question,’ he resumed. ‘No, not to -Langton-Courtenay--I don’t choose you should return here, if you quit -it. But there might be change of air, once a year or so, to other -places.’ - -‘Oh! might we go and travel?--might we go,’ cried Kate, looking up to -him with shining eyes and eager looks, and lips apart, like an angelic -petitioner, ‘abroad?’ - -She said this last word with such a fulness and roundness of sound, as -it would be impossible, even in capitals, to convey through the medium -of print. - -‘Well,’ he said, with a smile, ‘probably that splendour and delight -might be permitted to be--if you could afford it off your allowance, -being always understood.’ - -‘Oh! of course we could afford it,’ said Kate. ‘Uncle, I consent at -once--I will write to my Aunt Anderson at once. I wish she was not -called Anderson--it sounds so common--like the groom in the village. -Uncle Courtenay, when can I start? To-morrow? Now, why should you shake -your head? I have very few things to pack; and to-morrow is just as good -as any other day.’ - -‘Quite as good, I have no doubt; and so is to-morrow week,’ said Mr. -Courtenay. ‘In the first place, you must take till to-morrow to decide.’ - -‘But when I have decided already!’ said Kate. - -‘To-morrow at this time bring me your final answer. There, now run -away--not another word.’ - -Kate went away, somewhat indignant; and for the next twenty-four hours -did nothing but plan tours to all the beautiful places she had ever -heard or read about. Her deliberations as to the scheme in general were -all swallowed up in this. ‘I will take them to Switzerland; I will take -them to Italy. We shall travel four or five months in every year; and -see everything and hear everything, and enjoy everything,’ she said to -herself, clapping her hands, as it were, under her breath. For she was -generous in her way; she was quite clear on the point that it was she -who must ‘take’ her aunt and cousin everywhere, and make everything -agreeable for them. Perhaps there was in this a sense of superiority -which satisfied that craving for power and influence which belonged to -her nature; but still, notwithstanding her defective education, it was -never in Kate’s mind to keep any enjoyment to herself. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -Before four-and-twenty hours had passed, a certain premonition of -approaching change had stolen into the air at Langton-Courtenay. Miss -Blank, too, had been received by Mr. Courtenay in a private audience, -where he treated her with the courtesy due from one crowned head to -another; but, nevertheless, gave her fully to understand that her reign -was over. This took her all the more by surprise, that she had expected -quite the reverse, from his words and looks in the morning; and it was -perhaps an exclamation which burst from her as she withdrew, amazed and -indignant, to her own room, which betrayed the possibilities of the -future to the household. Miss Blank was not prone to exclamations, nor -to betraying herself in any way; but to have your resignation blandly -accepted, when you expected to be implored, almost with tears, to retain -your post, is an experience likely to overcome the composure of any one. -The exclamation itself was of the plainest character--it was, ‘Oh! I -like his politeness--I like that!’ These words were heard by a passing -housemaid; and not only were the words heard, but the flushed cheek, the -indignant step, the air of injury were noted with all that keenness and -intelligence which the domestic mind reserves for the study of the -secrets of those above them. ‘She’s got the sack like the rest,’ was -Jane’s remark to herself; and she spread it through the house. The -intimation produced a mild interest, but no excitement. But when late in -the afternoon Maryanne came rushing downstairs, open-mouthed, to report -some unwary words which had dropped from her young mistress, the -feelings of the household acquired immediate intensity. It was a -suspecting place, and a poor sort of place, where there never were any -great doings; but still Langton-Courtenay was a comfortable place, and -when Maryanne, with that perverted keenness of apprehension already -noticed, which made her so much more clever in divining her mistress’s -schemes than doing her mistress’s work, had put Kate’s broken words -together, a universal alarm took possession of the house. The housemaid, -and the kitchenmaid, and the individual who served in the capacity of -man-of-all-work, shook in their shoes. Mrs. Cook, however, who was -housekeeper as well, shook out her ample skirts, and declared that she -did not mind. ‘A house can’t take care of itself,’ she said, with noble -confidence; ‘and they ain’t that clever to know now to get on without -me.’ The gardener, also, was easy in his mind, secure in the fact that -‘the “place,” must be kep’ up;’ but a thrill of tremulous expectation -ran through all those who were liable to be sent away. - -These fears were very speedily justified. In as short a time as the post -permitted, Mr. Courtenay received an effusive and enthusiastic answer -from Mrs. Anderson, to whom he had written very curtly, making his -proposal. This proposal was that she should receive Kate, not as a -visitor, but permanently, until she attained her majority, giving her -what educational advantages were within her reach, getting masters for -her, and everything that was needful; and, in short, taking entire -charge of her. ‘Circumstances prevent me from doing this myself,’ he -wrote; ‘and, of course, a lady is better fitted to take charge of a girl -at Kate’s troublesome age than I can be.’ And then he entered upon the -subject of money. Kate would have an allowance of five hundred pounds a -year. It was ridiculously large for a child like his niece, he thought -to himself; but parsimony was not Mr. Courtenay’s weakness. For this she -was to have everything a girl could require, with the exception of -society, which her guardian forbade. ‘It is not my wish that she should -be introduced to the world till she is of age, and I prefer to choose -the time and the way myself,’ he said. With these conditions and -instructions, Kate was to go, if her aunt wished it, to the Cottage. - -Mrs. Anderson’s letter, as we have said, was enthusiastic. She asked, -was she really to have her dearest sister’s only child under her care? -and appealed to heaven and earth to testify that her delight was -unspeakable. She said that her desire could only be the welfare, in -every point, of ‘our darling niece!’ That nobody could be more anxious -than she was to see her grow up the image of her sweet mother, ‘which, -in my mind, means an example of every virtue and every grace!’ She -declared that were she rich enough to give Kate all the advantages she -ought to have, she would prove to Mr. Courtenay her perfect -disinterestedness by refusing to accept any money with the dear child. -But, for Kate’s own sake, she must accept it; adding that the provision -seemed to be both ample and liberal. Mrs. Anderson went on to say that -masters of every kind came to a famous school in her neighbourhood, and -that Mr. Courtenay might be quite sure of darling Kate’s having every -advantage. As for society, there was none, and he need be under no -apprehension on that subject. She herself lived the quietest of lives, -though of course she understood that, when Mr. Courtenay said society, -he did not mean that she was to be interdicted from having a friend now -and then to tea. This was the utmost extent of her dissipations, and she -understood, as a matter of course, that he did not refer to anything of -that description. She would come herself to London, she said, to receive -from his hands ‘our darling niece,’ and he could perhaps then enter into -further details as to anything he specially wished in reference to a -subject on which their common interest was so great. Mr. Courtenay -coughed very much over this letter--it gave him an irritation in his -throat. ‘The woman is a humbug as well as a fool!’ he said to himself. -But yet the question was--humbug or no humbug--was she the best person -to free him of the charge of Kate? And, however he might resist, his -judgment told him that this was the case. - -The Rectory people came to return the visit of Mr. and Miss Courtenay -while the house was in this confusion and commotion. They made a most -decorous call at the proper hour, and in just the proper number--Mr. and -Mrs. Hardwick, and one daughter. Kate had fallen from the momentary -popularity which she had attained on her first appearance at the -Rectory. She was now ‘that interfering, disagreeable thing,’ to the two -girls. Nevertheless, as was right, in consideration of Miss Courtenay’s -age, Edith, the sensible one, accompanied her mother. - -‘I am the best one to go,’ said Edith to her mother. ‘For Minnie, I am -sure, would lose her temper, and it is much best not to throw her into -temptation.’ - -‘You must be quite sure you can resist the temptation yourself,’ said -Mrs. Hardwick, who had brought up her children very well indeed, and had -early taught them to identify and struggle against their specially -besetting sins. - -‘You know, mamma, though I am sure I am a great deal worse in other -things, this kind of temptation is not my danger,’ said Edith; and with -this satisfactory arrangement, the party took its way to the Hall. - -Kate, in the flutter of joyous excitement which attended the new change -in her fortunes, was quite a new creature--not the same who had called -at the Rectory, and surprised and offended them. She had forgotten all -about her own naughtiness. She seized upon Edith, and drew her into a -corner, eager for a listener. - -‘Oh! do you know I am going away?’ she said. ‘Have you ever been away -from home? Have you been abroad? Did you ever go to live among people -whom you never saw before? That is what I am going to do.’ - -‘Oh! I am so sorry for you!’ said Edith, glad, as she afterwards -explained to her mother, to be able to say something which should at -once be amiable and true. - -‘Sorry!’ said Kate--‘oh! don’t be sorry. I am very glad. I am going to -my aunt, who is fond of me, though I never saw her. Going to people who -are fond of you is different----’ - -‘Are you fond of her?’ said Edith. - -‘I never saw her,’ said Kate, opening her eyes. - -Here was an opportunity to be instructive such as seldom occurred, even -in the schools where Miss Edith’s gift was known. The young sage laid -her hand upon Kate’s, who was considerably surprised by the unlooked-for -affectionateness. ‘I am older than you,’ said Edith--‘I am quite grown -up. You will not mind my speaking to you? Oh! do you know, dear, what is -the best way to make people fond of you?’ - -‘No.’ - -‘To love them,’ said Edith, with fervour. Kate looked at her with calm, -reflective, fully-opened eyes. - -‘If you can,’ she said--‘but then how can you? Besides, it is their -business to begin; they are older; they ought to know more about it--to -be more in the way; Uncle Courtenay, for instance---- I am sure you are -very good--a great deal better than I am; but could you be fond of him?’ - -‘If he was my uncle--if it was my duty,’ said Edith. - -‘Oh! I don’t know about duty,’ said Kate, shaking back her abundant -locks. The idea did not all commend itself to her mind. ‘It is one’s -duty to learn lessons,’ she went on, ‘and keep one’s temper, and not to -talk too much, and that sort of thing; but to be fond of people---- -However, never mind; we can talk of that another time. We are going on -Monday, and I never was out of Langton-Courtenay for a single night in -all my life before.’ - -‘Poor child!--what a trial for you!’ said Edith. - -At this moment Mrs. Hardwick struck in--‘After the first is over, I am -sure you will like it very much,’ she said. ‘It will be such a change. -Of course it is always trying to leave home for the first time.’ - -‘Trying!’ cried Kate; and she rose up in the very restlessness of -delight, with her eyes shining, and her hair streaming behind her. But -what was the use of discussing it? Of course they could not understand. -It was easier to show them over the house and the grounds than to -explain her feelings to them. And both Mrs. Hardwick and Edith were -deeply impressed by the splendour of Langton-Courtenay. They gave little -glances at Kate of mingled surprise and admiration. After all, they -felt, the possessor of such a place--the owner of the lands which -stretched out as far as they could see--ought to be excused if she was a -little different from other girls. ‘What a temptation it must be!’ -Edith whispered to her mother; and it pleased Mrs. Hardwick to see how -tolerant of other people’s difficulties her child was. Kate grew quite -excited by their admiration. She rushed over all the house, leading them -into a hundred quaint corners. ‘I shall fill it from top to bottom when -I am of age,’ she said. ‘All those funny bedrooms have been so -dreadfully quiet and lonely since ever I was born; but it shall be gay -when my time comes.’ - -‘Oh! hush, my dear,’ said pious Mrs. Hardwick--‘don’t make so sure of -the future, when we don’t know what a day or an hour may bring forth.’ - -‘Well,’ said Kate, holding her position stoutly, ‘if anything happens, -of course there is an end of it; but if nothing happens--if I live, and -all that--oh! I just wish I was one-and-twenty, to show you what I -should do!’ - -‘Do you think it will make you happy to be so gay?’ said Edith, but with -a certain wistful inquiry in her eyes, which was not like her old -superiority. - -‘Oh! my dear children, hush!’ repeated her mother--‘don’t talk like -this. In the first place, gaiety is nothing--it is good neither for body -nor soul; and besides, I cannot let you chatter so about the future. You -will forgive me, my dear Miss Courtenay, for I am an old-fashioned -person; but when we think how little we know about the future;--and your -life will be an important one--a lesson and an example to so many. We -ought to try to make ourselves of use to our fellow-creatures--and you -must endeavour that the example should be a good one.’ - -‘Fancy me an example!’ said Kate, half to herself; and then she was -silent, with a philosophy beyond her years. She did not attempt to -argue; she had wit enough to see that it would be useless, and to pass -on to another subject. But as she ran along the corridor, and into all -the rooms, the thought of what she would make of them, when she came -back, went like wine through her thrilling veins. She was glad to go -away--far more glad than any one could imagine who had never lived the -grey, monotonous routine of such an existence, uncheered by companions, -unwarmed by love. But she would also be glad to come back--glad to enter -splendidly, a young queen among her court. Her head was almost turned by -this sublime idea. She would come back with new friends, new principles, -new laws; she would be Queen absolute, without partner or help; she -would be the lawgiver, redresser of wrongs. Her supremacy would be -beneficent as the reign of an ideal sovereign; but she _would_ be -supreme! - -When her visitors left, she stood on the threshold of her own house, -looking with shining eyes into that grand future. The shadows had all -faded from her mind. She had almost forgotten, in the excitement of her -new plans, all about Miss Blank’s sharp words, and the people who hated -her. It would have surprised her had any one called that old figment to -her recollection. Hate! there was nothing like it in that future. There -was power and beneficence, and mirth and brightness. There was -everything that was gay, everything that was beautiful; smiles, and -bright looks, and wit, and unbounded novelty; and herself the dispenser -of everything pleasant, herself always supreme! This was the dream of -the future which framed itself in Kate Courtenay’s thoughts. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -While all this agitation was going on over Kate’s fate on one side, it -is not to be supposed that there was no excitement on the other. Her two -relations, the mother and daughter to whom she was about to be confided, -were nearly as much disturbed as Kate herself by the prospect of -receiving her. It might, indeed, be said to have disturbed them more, -for it affected their entire life. They had lately returned to England, -and settled down, after a wandering life, in a house of their own. They -were not rich, but they had enough. They were not humble, but accustomed -to think very well of themselves; and the fact was that, though Mrs. -Anderson had, for many reasons, accepted Mr. Courtenay’s proposal with -enthusiasm, even she felt that the ideal seclusion she had been dreaming -of was at once broken up--even she--and still more Ombra, her daughter, -who was fanciful, and of a somewhat jealous and contradictory temper, -fond of her own way, and of full freedom to carry her fancies out. - -Mrs. Anderson, let us say at once, was neither a hypocrite nor a fool, -and never, during their whole intercourse, regarded her heiress-niece as -a means of drawing advantage to herself, or in a mercenary way. She was -a warm-hearted, kind, and just woman; but she had her faults. The chief -of these was a very excess of virtue. Her whole soul was set upon not -being good only, but appearing so. She could not bear the idea of being -deficient in any decorum, in any sentiment which society demanded. No -one could have grieved more sincerely than she did for her husband; but -a bitterer pang even than that caused her by natural sorrow would have -gone through her heart, had she been tempted to smile through her tears -a day sooner than public opinion warranted a widow to smile. In every -position--even that in which she felt most truly--a sense of what -society expected from her was always in her mind. This code of unwritten -law went deeper with her even than nature. She had truly longed and -yearned over Kate, in her kind heart, from the moment she had reached -England; and had she followed her natural instincts, would have rushed -at once to Langton-Courtenay, to see the child who was all that remained -of a sister whom she had loved. But the world, in that case, would have -said that she meant to establish herself at Langton-Courtenay, and that -her affection for her niece was feigned or mercenary. - -‘Let her alone, then,’ Ombra said. ‘Why should we trouble ourselves? If -her friends think we are not good enough for her, let her alone. Why -should she think herself better than we?’ - -‘My love, she is very young,’ said Mrs. Anderson; ‘and, besides, if I -took no notice at all of Catherine’s only child, what would people -suppose? It would be thought either that I had a guilty conscience in -respect to the Courtenays, or that I had been repulsed. Nobody would -believe that we had simply let her alone, as you say; and, besides, I am -longing to see Kate with all my heart. - -‘What does it matter what people say?’ said Ombra. ‘I do not see what -any one has to do with our private affairs.’ - -‘That is a great delusion,’ said Mrs. Anderson, shaking her head; ‘every -one has to do with every one else’s private affairs. If you do not wish -to lay yourself open to remark, you will always keep this in mind. And -our position is very trying, between your cousin’s wealth and our love -for her----’ - -‘I don’t think I have very much love for her, mamma.’ - -‘My dear child, don’t let any one but me hear you say so. She ought to -be like a sister to you,’ said Mrs. Anderson. - -And Ombra let the discussion drop, and permitted her mother, in this -respect, to have her own way. But she was not in any respect of her -mother’s way of thinking. Her temptation was to hate and despise the -opinion of society just in proportion to the reverence for it which she -had been bred in: a result usual enough with clear-sighted and impetuous -young persons, conscious of the defects of their parents. Ombra was a -pretty, gentle, soft-mannered girl in outward appearance; but a certain -almost fierce independence and determination to guide her own course as -she herself pleased, was in her heart. She would not be influenced, as -her mother had been, by other people’s ideas. She thought, with some -recent writers, that the doctrine of self-sacrifice, as taught specially -to women, was altogether false, vain, and miserable. She felt that she -herself ought to be first in her home and sphere; and she did not feel -disposed even to share with, much less to yield to, the rich cousin whom -she had never seen. She shrugged her shoulders over Mrs. Anderson’s -letter to Kate, but she did not interfere further, until Mr. Courtenay’s -astounding proposal arrived, fluttering the household as a hawk would -flutter the dovecots. At the first reading, it drove Ombra frantic. It -was impossible, out of the question, not to be thought of for a moment! -In this small house, with their two maids, in the quiet of Shanklin, -what were they to do with a self-important girl, a creature, no doubt, -bred from her cradle to a consciousness of her own greatness, and who -wanted all sorts of masters and advantages? Mrs. Anderson knew how to -manage her daughter, and for the moment she allowed her to have her way, -and pour forth her indignation. The letter came by the early post; and -it was only when they were seated at tea in the evening that she brought -forward the other side of the question. - -‘What you say is all very true, Ombra; but we have two spare -bedrooms--there would still be one left for a friend, even if we took in -poor dear little Kate.’ - -‘Poor Kate! Why is she poor? She could buy us over and over,’ said -Ombra, in her indignation. - -‘Buy what?’ said her clever mother--‘our love?’ - -‘Mamma, please don’t speak any nonsense about love!’ said Ombra, -hastily. ‘I can’t love people at a moment’s notice; because a girl whom -I never saw happens to be the child of my aunt, whom I never saw----’ - -‘Then suppose we leave you out,’ said her mother. ‘She is the child of -my sister, whom I knew well, and was very fond of--that alters the -question so far as I am concerned.’ - -‘Oh! of course, mamma,’ said Ombra, with darkened brows, ‘I do not -pretend to do more than give my opinion. It is for you to say how it is -to be.’ - -‘Do you think I can make a decision without you?’ said the mother, -pathetically. ‘You must try to look at it more reasonably, my dear. Next -to you, Kate is the creature most near to me in the world--next to me. -Now, listen, Ombra; she is your nearest relation. Think what it will be -to have a friend and a sister if anything should happen to me. The house -is small, but we cannot truly say that we have not room for a little -girl of fifteen in it. And then think of her loneliness--not a soul to -care for her, except that old Mr. Courtenay----’ - -‘Oh! that is nonsense; she must have some one to care for her, or else -she must be intensely disagreeable,’ said Ombra. ‘Mamma, remember what I -say--if we take her in, we shall repent it all our lives.’ - -‘Nothing of the sort, my dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, eagerly following up -this softened opposition. ‘Why she is only fifteen--a mere child!--we -can mould her as we will. And then, my dearest child, though heaven -knows it is not interest I am thinking of, still it will be a great -advantage; our income will be doubled. I must say Mr. Courtenay is very -liberal, if nothing else. We shall be able to do many things that we -could not do otherwise. Why, Ombra, you look as if you thought I meant -to rob your cousin----’ - -‘I would not use a penny of her allowance--it should be all spent upon -herself!’ cried the girl, flushing with indignant passion. ‘Our income -doubled! Mamma, what can you be thinking of? Do you suppose I could -endure to be a morsel the better for _that_ Kate?’ - -‘You are a little fool, and there is no talking to you,’ said Mrs. -Anderson, with natural impatience; and for half an hour they did not -speak to each other. This, however, could not last very long, for -providentially, as Mrs. Anderson said, one of the Rectory girls came in -at the time when it was usual for the ladies to take their morning walk, -and she would not for all the Isle of Wight have permitted Elsie to see -that her child and she were not on their usual terms. When Elsie had -left them, a slight relapse was threatened, but they were then walking -together along the cliff, with one of the loveliest of landscapes before -them--the sun setting, the ruddy glory lighting up Sandown Bay, and all -the earth and sea watching that last crisis and climax of the day. - -‘Oh! there is the true daffodil sky!’ Ombra exclaimed, in spite of -herself, and the breach was healed. It was she herself who resumed the -subject some time later, when they turned towards home. ‘I do not see,’ -she said abruptly, ‘what we could do about masters for _that_ girl, if -she were to come here. To have them down from town would be ruinous, and -to be constantly going up to town with her--to you, who so hate the -ferry--would be dreadful!’ - -‘My love, you forget Miss Story’s school, where they have all the best -masters,’ said Mrs. Anderson, mildly. - -‘You could not send her to school.’ - -‘But they would come to us, my dear. Of course they would be very glad -to come to us for a little more money, and I should gladly take the -opportunity for your music, Ombra. I thought of that. I wish everything -could be settled as easily. If you only saw the matter as I do----’ - -‘There is another thing,’ said Ombra, hastily, ‘which does not matter to -me, for I hate society; but if she is to be kept like a nun, and never -to see any one----’ - -Mrs. Anderson smiled serenely. ‘My love, who is there to see?--the -Rectory children and a few ladies--people whom we ask to tea. Of course, -I would not think of taking her to balls or even dinner-parties; but -then, I never go to dinner-parties--there is no one to ask us; and as -for balls, Ombra, you know what you said about that nice ball at Ryde.’ - -‘I hate them!’ said Ombra, vehemently. ‘I hope I shall never be forced -to go to another in all my life.’ - -‘Then that question is settled very easily,’ said Mrs. Anderson, without -allowing any signs of triumph to appear in her face. And next day she -wrote to Mr. Courtenay, as has been described. When she wrote about ‘our -darling niece,’ the tears were in her eyes. She meant it with all her -heart; but, at the same time, it was the right thing to say, and to be -anxious and eager to receive the orphan were the right sentiments to -entertain. ‘It is the most proper arrangement,’ she said afterwards to -the Rector’s wife, who was her nearest neighbour. ‘Of course her -mother’s sister is her most natural guardian. The property is far best -in Mr. Courtenay’s hands; but the child herself----’ - -‘Poor child!’ said Mrs. Eldridge, looking at her own children, who were -many, and thinking within herself that to trust them to any one, even an -aunt---- - -‘Yes, poor child!’ cried Mrs. Anderson, with the tears in her eyes; ‘and -my Catherine would have made such a mother! But we must do what we can -to make it up to her. She will have some one at least to love her here.’ - -‘I am sure you will be--good to her,’ said the Rector’s wife, looking -wistfully, in her pity, into the face of the woman who, to her simple -mind, did protest too much. Mrs. Eldridge felt, as many a -straightforward person does, that her neighbour’s extreme propriety, and -regard for what was befitting and ‘expected of her,’ was the mask of -insincerity. She did not understand the existence of true feeling -beneath all that careful exterior. But she was puzzled and touched for -the moment by the tears in her companion’s eyes. - -‘You can’t get up tears, you know, when you will,’ she said to her -husband, when they discussed poor Kate’s prospects of happiness in her -aunt’s house, that same night. - -‘I can’t,’ said the Rector, ‘nor you; but one has heard of crocodile -tears!’ - -‘Oh! Fred, no--not so bad as that!’ - -But still both these good people distrusted Mrs. Anderson, through her -very anxiety to do right, and show that she was doing it. They were -afraid of her excess of virtue. The exaggeration of the true seemed to -them false. And they even doubted the amount of Kate’s allowance, -because of the aunt’s frankness in telling them of it. They thought her -intention was to raise her own and her niece’s importance, and -calculated among themselves what the real sum was likely to be. Poor -Mrs. Anderson! everybody was unjust to her--even her daughter--on this -point. - -But it was with no sense of this general distrust, but, on the contrary, -with the most genial sense of having done everything that could be -required of her, that she left home on a sunny June morning, with her -heart beating quicker than usual in her breast, to bring home her -charge. Her heart was beating partly out of excitement to see Kate, and -partly out of anxiety about the crossing from Ryde, which she hated. The -sea looked calm, from Sandown, but Mrs. Anderson knew, by long -experience, that the treacherous sea has a way of looking calm until you -have trusted yourself to its tender mercies. This thought, along with -her eagerness to see her sister’s child, made her heart beat. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Mr. Courtenay had stipulated that Kate was to be met by her aunt, not at -his house, but at the railway, and to continue her journey at once. His -house, he said, was shut up; but his real reason was reluctance to -establish any precedent or pretext for other invasions. Kate started in -the very highest spirits, scarcely able to contain herself, running over -with talk and laughter, making a perpetual comment upon all that passed -before her. Even Miss Blank’s sinister congratulations, when she took -leave of the little travelling party, ‘I am sure I wish you joy, sir, -and I wish Mrs. Anderson joy!’ did not damp Kate’s spirits. ‘I shall -tell my aunt, Miss Blank, and I am sure she will be much obliged to -you,’ the girl said, as she took her seat in the carriage. And Maryanne, -who, red and excited, was seated by her, tittered in sympathy. - -When Mr. Courtenay hid himself behind a newspaper, it was on Maryanne -that Kate poured forth the tide of her excitement. ‘Isn’t it -delightful!’ she said, a hundred times over. ‘Oh! yes, miss; but father -and mother!’ Maryanne answered, with a sob. Kate contemplated her -gravely for twenty seconds. Here was a difference, a distinction, which -she did not understand. But before the minute was half over her thoughts -had gone abroad again in a confusion of expectancy and pleasure. She -leant half out of the window, casting eager glances upon the people who -were waiting the arrival of the train at the station. The first figure -upon which she set her eyes was that of a squat old woman in a red and -yellow shawl. ‘Oh! can that be my aunt?’ Kate said to herself, with -dismay. The next was a white-haired, substantial old lady, old enough to -be Mrs. Anderson’s mother. ‘This is she! She is nice! I shall be fond of -her!’ cried Kate to herself. When the white-haired lady found some one -else, Kate’s heart sank. Oh! where was the new guardian? - -‘Miss Kate! oh! please, Miss Kate!’ said Maryanne; and turning sharply -round, Kate found herself in somebody’s arms. She had not time to see -who it was; she felt only a warm darkness surround her, the pressure of -something which held her close, and a voice murmuring, ‘My darling -child! my Catherine’s child!’ murmuring and purring over her. Kate had -time to think, ‘Oh! how tall she is! Oh! how warm! Oh! how funny!’ -before she was let loose and kissed--which latter process allowed her to -see a tall woman, not in the least like the white-haired grandmother -whom she had fixed upon--a woman not old, with hair of Kate’s own -colour, smiles on her face, and tears in her eyes. - -‘Let me look at you, my sweet! I should have known you anywhere. You are -so like your darling mother!’ said the new aunt. And then she wept; and -then she said, ‘Is it you? Is it really you, my Kate?’ And all this took -place at the station, with Uncle Courtenay sneering hard by, and -strangers looking on. - -‘Yes, aunt, of course it is me,’ said Kate, who scorned grammar; ‘who -should it be? I came expressly to meet you; and Uncle Courtenay is -there, who will tell you it is all right.’ - -‘Dearest! as if I had any need of your Uncle Courtenay,’ said Mrs. -Anderson; and she kissed her over again, and cried once more, most -honest but inappropriate tears. - -‘Are you sorry?’ cried Kate, in surprise; ‘because I am glad, very glad -to see you. I could not cry for anything--I am as happy as I can be.’ - -‘You darling!’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘But you are right, it is too public -here. I must take you away to have some luncheon, too, my precious -child. There is no time to lose. Oh! Kate, Kate, to think I should have -you at last, after so many years!’ - -‘I hope you will be pleased with me now, aunt,’ said Kate, a little -alarm mingling with her surprise. Was she worth all this fuss? It was -fuss; but Kate had no constitutional objection to fuss, and it was -pleasant, on the whole. After all the snubbing she had gone through, it -was balm to her to be received so warmly; even though the cynicism which -she had been trained into was moved by a certain sense of the ludicrous, -too. - -‘Kate says well,’ said old Mr. Courtenay. ‘I hope you will be pleased -with her, now you have her. To some of us she has been a sufficiently -troublesome child; but I trust in your hands--your more skilful -hands----’ - -‘I am not afraid,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a very suave smile; ‘and -even if she were troublesome, I should be glad to have her. But we start -directly; and the child must have some luncheon. Will you join us, or -must we say good-bye? for we shall not be at home till after dinner, and -at present Kate must have something to eat?’ - -‘I have an engagement,’ said Mr. Courtenay, hastily. What! he lunch at a -railway station with a girl of fifteen and this unknown woman, who, by -the way, was rather handsome after her fashion! What a fool she must be -to think of such a thing! He bowed himself off very politely, with an -assurance that now his mind was easy about his ward. She must write to -him, he said and let him know in a few days how she liked Shanklin; but -in the meantime he was compelled to hurry away. - -When Kate felt herself thus stranded as it were upon an utterly lonely -and unknown shore, in the hands of a woman she had never seen before, -and the last familiar face withdrawn, there ran a little pain, a little -thrill, half of excitement, half of dismay, in her heart. She clutched -at Maryanne, who stood behind her; she examined once again, with keen -eyes, the new guide of her life. This was novelty indeed!--but novelty -so sharp and sudden that it took away her breath. Mrs. Anderson’s tone -had been very different to her uncle from what it was to herself. What -did this mean? Kate was bewildered, half frightened, stunned by the -change, and she could not make it out. - -‘My dear, I am sure your uncle has a great many engagements,’ said Mrs. -Anderson; ‘gentlemen who are in society have so many claims upon them, -especially at this time of the year; or perhaps he thought it kindest to -let us make friends by ourselves. Of course he must be very fond of you, -dear; and I must always be grateful for his good opinion: without that -he would not have trusted his treasure in my hands.’ - -‘Aunt Anderson,’ said Kate, hastily, ‘please don’t make a mistake. I am -sure I am no treasure at all to him, but only a trouble and a nuisance. -You must not think so well of me as that. He thought me a great trouble, -and he was very glad to get rid of me. I know this is true.’ - -Mrs. Anderson only smiled. She put her arm through the girl’s, and led -her away. ‘We will not discuss the question, my darling, for you must -have something to eat. When did you leave Langton? Our train starts at -two--we have not much time to lose. Are you hungry? Oh! Kate, how glad I -am to have you! How very glad I am! You have your mother’s very eyes.’ - -‘Then don’t cry, aunt, if you are glad.’ - -‘It is because I am glad, you silly child. Come in here, and give me one -good kiss. And now, dear, we will have a little cold chicken, and get -settled in the carriage before the crowd comes.’ - -And how different was the second part of this journey! Mrs. Anderson got -no newspaper--she sat opposite to Kate, and smiled at all she said. She -told her the names of the places they were passing; she was alive to -every light and shade that passed over her young, changeable face. Then -Kate fell silent all at once, and began to think, and cast many a -furtive look at her new-found relation; at last she said, in a low -voice, and with a certain anxiety-- - -‘Aunt, is it possible that I could remember mamma?’ - -‘Ah! no, Kate; she died just when you were born.’ - -‘Then did I ever see you before?’ - -‘Never since you were a little baby--never that you could know.’ - -‘It is very strange,’ the girl said half to herself; ‘but I surely know -some face like yours. Ah! could it be _that_?’ She stopped, and her face -flushed up to her hair. - -‘Could it be what, dear?’ - -Then Kate laughed out--the softest, most musical, tender little laugh -that ever came from her lips. ‘I know,’ she said--‘it is myself!’ - -Mrs. Anderson blushed, too, with sudden pleasure. It was a positive -happiness to her, penetrating beneath all her little proprieties and -pretensions. She took the girl’s hands, and bending forward, looked at -her in the face; and it was true--they were as like as if they had been -mother and daughter--though the elder had toned down, and lost that -glory of complexion, that brightness of intelligence; and the younger -was brighter, quicker, more intelligent than her predecessor had ever -been. This made at once the sweetest, most pleasant link between them; -it bound them together by Nature’s warm and visible bond. They were both -proud of this tie, which could be seen in their faces, which they could -not throw off nor cast away. - -But after the ferry was crossed--when they were drawing near Shanklin--a -silence fell upon both. Kate, with a quite new-born timidity, was shy of -inquiring about her cousin; and Mrs. Anderson was too doubtful of -Ombra’s mood to say more of her than she could help. She longed to be -able to say, ‘Ombra will be sure to meet us,’ but did not dare. And -Ombra did not meet them; she was not to be seen, even, as they walked up -to the house. It was a pretty cottage, embowered in luxuriant leafage, -just under the shelter of the cliff, and looking out over its own lawn, -and a thread of quiet road, and the slopes of the Undercliff, upon the -distant sea. There was, however, no one at the door, no one at any of -the windows, no trace that they were expected, and Mrs. Anderson’s heart -was wrung by the sight. Naturally she grew at once more prodigal of her -welcomes and caresses. ‘How glad I am to see you here, my darling Kate! -This is your home, dear child. As long as I live, whenever you may want -it, my humble house will be yours from this day--always remember that; -and welcome, my darling,--welcome home!’ - -Kate accepted the kisses, but her thoughts were far away. Where was the -other who should have given her a welcome too? All the girl’s eager soul -rushed upon this new track. Did Ombra object to her?--why was not she -here? Ombra’s mother, though she said nothing, had given many anxious -glances round her, which were not lost upon Kate’s keen perceptions? -Could Ombra object to the intruder? After all her aunt’s effusions, this -was a new idea to Kate. - -The door was thrown open by a little woman in a curious headdress, made -out of a coloured handkerchief, whose appearance filled Kate with -amazement, and whose burst of greeting she could not for the first -moment understand. Kate’s eyes went over her shoulder to a commonplace -English housemaid behind with a sense of relief. ‘Oh! how the young lady -is welcome!’ cried old Francesca. ‘How she is as the light to our -eyes!--and how like our padrona--how like! Come in--come in; your -chamber is ready, little angel. Oh! how bella, bella our lady must have -been at that age!’ - -‘Hush, Francesca; do not put nonsense into the child’s head,’ said Mrs. -Anderson, still looking anxiously round. - -‘I judge from what I see,’ said the old woman; and then she added, in -answer to a question from her mistress’s eyes, ‘Meess Ombra has the bad -head again. It was I that made her put herself to bed. I made the room -dark, and gave her the tea, as madam herself does it, otherwise she -would be here to kiss this new angel, and bid her the welcome. Come in, -come in, _carissima_; come up, I will show you the chamber. Ah! our -signorina has not been able to keep still when she heard you, though she -has the bad head, the very bad head.’ - -And then there appeared to Kate, coming downstairs, the slight figure of -a girl in a black dress--a girl whom, at the first moment, she thought -younger than herself. Ombra was not at all like her mother--she was like -her name, a shadowy creature, with no light about her--not even in the -doubtful face, pale and fair, which her cousin gazed upon so curiously. -She said nothing till she had come up to them, and did not quicken her -pace in the least, though they were all gazing at her. To fill up this -pause, Mrs. Anderson, who was a great deal more energetic and more -impressionable than her daughter, rushed to her across the little hall. - -‘My darling, are you ill? I know only that could have prevented you from -coming to meet your cousin. Here she is, Ombra mia; here we have her at -last--my sweet Kate! Now love each other, girls; be as your mothers -were; open your hearts to each other. Oh! my dear children, if you but -knew how I love you both!’ - -And Mrs. Anderson cried while the two stood holding each other’s hands, -looking at each other--on Kate’s side with violent curiosity; on Ombra’s -apparently with indifference. The mother had to do all the emotion that -was necessary, with an impulse which was partly love, and partly -vexation, and partly a hope to kindle in them the feelings that became -the occasion. - -‘How do you do? I am glad to see you. I hope you will like Shanklin,’ -said chilly Ombra. - -‘Thanks,’ said Kate; and they dropped each other’s hands; while poor -Mrs. Anderson wept unavailing tears, and old Francesca, in sympathy, -fluttered about the new ‘little angel,’ taking off her cloak, and -uttering aloud her admiration and delight. It was a strange beginning to -Kate’s new life. - -‘I wonder, I wonder----’ the new-comer said to herself when she was -safely housed for the night, and alone. Kate had seated herself at the -window, from whence a gleam of moon and sky was visible, half veiled in -clouds. She was in her dressing-gown, and with her hair all over her -shoulders, was a pretty figure to behold, had there been any one to see. -‘I wonder, I wonder!’ she said to herself. But she could not have put -into words what her wonderings were. There was only in them an -indefinite sense that something not quite apparent had run on beneath -the surface in this welcome of hers. She could not tell what it was--why -her aunt should have wept; why Ombra should have been so different. Was -it the ready tears of the one that chilled the other? Kate was not clear -enough on the subject to ask herself this question. She only wondered, -feeling there was something more than met the eye. But, on the whole, -the child was happy--she had been kissed and blessed when she came -upstairs; she seemed to be surrounded with an atmosphere of love and -care. There was nobody (except Ombra) indifferent--everybody cared; all -were interested. She wondered--but at fifteen one does not demand an -answer to all the indefinite wonderings which arise in one’s heart; and, -despite of Ombra, Kate’s heart was lighter than it had ever been (she -thought) in all her life. Everything was strange, new, unknown to her, -yet it was home. And this is a paradox which is always sweet. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -There was something that might almost have been called a quarrel -downstairs that night over the new arrival. Ombra was cross, and her -mother was displeased; but Mrs. Anderson had far too strong a sense of -propriety to suffer herself to scold. When she said ‘I am disappointed -in you, Ombra. I have seldom been more wounded than when I came to the -door, and did not find you,’ she had done all that occurred to her in -the way of reproof. - -‘But I had a headache, mamma.’ - -‘We must speak to the doctor about your headaches,’ said Mrs. Anderson; -and Ombra, with something like sullenness, went to bed. - -But she was not to escape so easily. Old Francesca had been Ombra’s -nurse. She was not so very old, but had aged, as peasant women of her -nation do. She was a Tuscan born, with the shrill and high-pitched voice -natural to her district, and she had followed the fortunes of the -Andersons all over the world, from the time of her nursling’s birth. She -was, in consequence, a most faithful servant and friend, knowing no -interests but those of her mistress, but at the same time a most -uncompromising monitor. Ombra knew what was in store for her, as soon as -she discovered Francesca, with her back turned, folding up the dress she -had worn in the morning. The chances are that Ombra would have fled, had -she been able to do so noiselessly, but she had already betrayed herself -by closing the door. - -‘Francesca,’ she said, affecting an ease which she did not feel, ‘are -you still here? Are you not in bed? You will tire yourself out. Never -mind those things. I will put them away myself.’ - -‘The things might be indifferent to me,’ said Francesca, turning round -upon her, ‘but you are not. My young lady, I have a great deal to say to -you.’ - -This conversation was chiefly in Italian, both the interlocutors -changing, as pleased them, from one language to another; but as it is -unnecessary to cumber the page with italics, or the reader’s mind with -two languages, I will take the liberty of putting it in English, though -in so doing I may wrong Francesca’s phrases. When her old nurse -addressed her thus, Ombra trembled--half in reality because she was a -chilly being, and half by way of rousing her companion’s sympathy. But -Francesca was ruthless. - -‘You have the cold, I perceive,’ she said, ‘and deserve to have it. -Seems to me that if you thought sometimes of putting a little warmth in -your heart, instead of covering upon your body, that would answer -better. What has the little cousin done, _Dio mio_, to make you as if -you had been for a night on the mountains? I look to see the big -ice-drop hanging from your fingers, and the snow-flakes in your hair! -You have the cold!--bah! you _are_ the cold!--it is in you!--it freezes! -I, whose blood is in your veins, I stretch out my hand to get warm, and -I chill, I freeze, I die!’ - -‘I am Ombra,’ said the girl, with a smile, ‘you know; how can I warm -you, Francesca? It is not my nature.’ - -‘Are you not, then, God’s making, because they have given you a foolish -name?’ cried Francesca. ‘The Ombra I love, she is the Ombra that is -cool, that is sweet, that brings life when one comes out of a blazing -sun. You say the sun does not blaze here; but what is _here_, after all? -A piece of the world which God made! When you were little, Santissima -Madonna! you were sweet as an olive orchard; but now you are sombre and -dark, like a pine-wood on the Apennines. I will call you ‘Ghiaccia,’[A] -not Ombra any more.’ - -‘It was not my fault. You are unjust. I had a headache. You said so -yourself.’ - -‘Ah, _disgraziata_! I said it to shield you. You have brought upon my -conscience a great big--what you call fib. I hope my good priest will -not say it was a lie!’ - -‘I did not ask you to do it,’ cried Ombra. ‘And then there was mamma, -crying over that girl as if there never had been anything like her -before!’ - -‘The dear lady! she did it as I did, to cover your coldness--your look -of ice. Can we bear that the world should see what a snow-maiden we have -between us? We did it for your sake, ungrateful one, that no one should -see----’ - -‘I wish you would let me alone,’ said Ombra; and though she was -seventeen--two years older than Kate--and had a high sense of her -dignity, she began to cry. ‘If you only would be true, I should not -mind; but you have so much effusion--you say more than you mean, both -mamma and you.’ - -‘Seems to me that it is better to be too kind than too cold,’ said -Francesca, indignantly. ‘And this poor little angel, the orphan, the -child of the Madonna--ah! you have not that thought in your icy -Protestant; but among us Christians every orphan is Madonna’s child. How -could I love the holiest mother, if I did not love her child? Bah! you -know better, but you will not allow it. Is it best, tell me, to wound -the _poverina_ with your too little, or to make her warm and glad with -our too mooch?--even if it were the too mooch,’ said Francesca, half -apologetically; ‘though there is nothing that is too mooch, if it is -permitted me to say it, for the motherless one--the orphan--the -Madonna’s child!’ - -Ombra made no reply; she shrugged her shoulders, and began to let down -her hair out of its bands--the worst of the storm was over. - -But Francesca had reserved herself for one parting blaze, ‘And know you, -my young lady, what will come to you, if thus you proceed in your life?’ -she said. ‘When one wanders too mooch on the snowy mountains, one falls -into an ice-pit, and one dies. It will so come to you. You will grow -colder and colder, colder and colder. When it is for your good to be -warm, you will be ice: you will not be able more to help yourself. You -will make love freeze up like the water in the torrent; you will lay it -in a tomb of snow, you will build the ice-monument over it, and then all -you can do will be vain--it will live no more. Signorina Ghiaccia, if -thus you go on, this is what will come to you.’ - -And with this parting address, Francesca darted forth, not disdaining, -like a mere mortal and English domestic, to shut the door with some -violence. Ombra had her cry out by herself, while Kate sat wondering in -the next room. The elder girl asked herself, was it true?--was she -really a snow-maiden, or was it some mysterious influence from her name -that threw this shade over her, and made her so contradictory and -burdensome even to herself? - -For Ombra was not aware that she had been christened by a much more -sober name. She stood as Jane Catherine in the books of the Leghorn -chaplain--a conjunction of respectable appellatives which could not have -any sinister influence. I doubt, however, whether she would have taken -any comfort from this fact; for it was pleasant to think of herself as -born under some wayward star--a shadowy creature, unlike common flesh -and blood, half Italian, half spirit. ‘How can I help it?’ she said to -herself. The people about her did not understand her--not even her -mother and Francesca. They put the commonplace flesh-and-blood girl on a -level with her--this Kate, with half-red hair, with shallow, bright -eyes, with all that red and white that people rave about in foolish -books. ‘Kate will be the heroine wherever we go,’ she said, with a -smile, which had more pain than pleasure in it. She was a little -jealous, a little cross, disturbed in her fanciful soul; and yet she was -not heartless and cold, as people thought. The accusation wounded her, -and haunted her as if with premonitions of reproaches to come. It was -not hard to bear from Francesca, who was her devoted slave; but it -occurred dimly to Ombra, as if in prophecy, that the time would come -when she should hear the same words from other voices. Not -Ombra-Ghiaccia! Was it possible? Could that fear ever come true? - -Mrs. Anderson, for her part, was less easy about this change in her -household than she would allow. When she was alone, the smiles went off -her countenance. Kate, though she had been so glad to see her, though -the likeness to herself had made so immediate a bond between them, was -evidently enough not the kind of girl who could be easily managed, or -who was likely to settle down quietly into domestic peace and order. She -had the makings of a great lady in her, an independent, high-spirited -princess, to whom it was not necessary to consider the rules which are -made for humbler maidens. Already she had told her aunt what she meant -to do at Langton when she went back; already she had inquired with -lively curiosity all about Shanklin. Mrs. Anderson thought of her two -critics at the Rectory, who, she knew by instinct, were ready to pick -holes in her, and be hard upon her ‘foreign ways,’ and trembled for her -niece’s probable vagaries. It was ‘a great responsibility,’ a ‘trying -position,’ for herself. Many a ‘trying position’ she had been in -already, the difficulties of which she had surmounted triumphantly. She -could only hope that ‘proper feeling,’ ‘proper respect’ for the usages -of society, would bring her once more safely through. When Francesca -darted in upon her, fresh from the lecture she had delivered, Mrs. -Anderson’s disturbed look at once betrayed her. - -‘My lady looks as she used to look when the big letters came, saying -Go,’ said Francesca; ‘but, courage, Signora mia, the big letters come no -more.’ - -‘No; nor he who received them, Francesca,’ said the mistress, sadly. -‘But it was not that I was thinking of--it was my new care, my new -responsibility.’ - -‘Bah!’ cried Francesca; ‘my lady will pardon me, I did not mean to be -rude. Ah! if my lady was but a Christian like us other Italians! Why -there never came an orphan into a kind house, but she brought a -blessing. The dear Madonna will never let trouble come to you from her -child; and, besides, the little angel is exactly like you. Just so must -my lady have looked at her age--beautiful as the day.’ - -‘Ah! Francesca, you are partial,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with, however, a -returning smile. ‘I never was so pretty as Kate.’ - -‘My lady will pardon me,’ said Francesca, with quiet gravity; ‘in my -eyes, _senza complimenti_, there is no one so beautiful as my lady even -now.’ - -This statement was much too serious and superior to compliment-making, -to be answered, especially as Francesca turned at once to the window, to -close the shutters, and make all safe for the night. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -Mrs. Anderson’s house was situated in one of those nests of warmth and -verdure which are characteristic of the Isle of Wight. There was a white -cliff behind, partially veiled with turf and bushes, the remains of an -ancient landslip. The green slope which formed its base, and which, in -Spring, was carpeted with wild-flowers, descended into the sheltered -sunny garden, which made a fringe of flowers and greenness round the -cottage. On that side there was no need of fence or boundary. A wild -little rustic flight of steps led upward to the winding mountain-path -which led to the brow of the cliff, and the cliff itself thus became the -property of the little house. Both cottage and garden were small, but -the one was a mass of flowers, and the airy brightness and lightness of -the other made up for its tiny size. The windows of the little -drawing-room opened into the rustic verandah, all garlanded with -climbing plants; and though the view was not very great, nothing but -flowers and verdure, a bit of quiet road, a glimpse of blue sea, yet -from the cliff there was a noble prospect--all Sandown Bay, with its -white promontory, and the wide stretch of water, sometimes blue as -sapphire, though grey enough when the wind brought it in, in huge -rollers upon the strand. The sight, and sound, and scent of the sea were -all alike new to Kate. The murmur in her ears day and night, now soft, -like the hu-ush of a mother to a child, now thundering like artillery, -now gay as laughter, delighted the young soul which was athirst for -novelty. Here was something which was always new. There was no limit to -her enjoyment of the sea. She liked it when wild and when calm, and -whatever might be its vagaries, and in all her trials of temper, which -occurred now and then, fled to it for soothing. The whole place, indeed, -seemed to be made especially for Kate. It suited her to climb steep -places, to run down slopes, to be always going up or down, with -continual movement of her blood and stir of her spirits. She declared -aloud that this was what she had wanted all her life--not flat parks and -flowers, but the rising waves to pursue her when she ventured too close -to them, the falling tide to open up sweet pools and mysteries, and -penetrate her with the wholesome breath of the salt, delightful beach. - -‘I don’t know how I have lived all this time away from it. I must have -been born for the seaside!’ she cried, as she walked on the sands with -her two companions. - -Ombra, for her part, shrugged her shoulders, and drew her shawl closer. -She had already decided that Kate was one of the race of extravagant -talkers, who say more than they feel. - -‘The sea is very nice,’ said Mrs. Anderson, who in this respect was not -so enthusiastic as Kate. - -‘Very nice! Oh! aunt, it is simply delightful! Whenever I am -troublesome--as I know I shall be--just send me out here. I may talk all -the nonsense I like--it will never tire the sea.’ - -‘Do you talk a great deal of nonsense, Kate?’ - -‘I am afraid I do,’ said the girl, with penitence. ‘Not that I mean it; -but what is one to do? Miss Blank, my last governess, never talked at -all, when she could help it, and silence is terrible--anything is better -than that; and she said I chattered, and was always interfering. What -could I do? One must be occupied about something!’ - -‘But are you fond of interfering, dear?’ - -‘Auntie!’ said Kate, throwing back her hair, ‘if I tell you the very -worst of myself, you will not give me up, or send me away? Thanks! It is -enough for me to be sure of that. Well, perhaps I am, a little--I mean I -like to be doing something, or talking about something. I like to have -something even to think about. You can’t think of Mangnall’s Questions, -now, can you?--or Mrs. Markham? The village people used to be a great -deal more interesting. I used to like to hear all that was going on, and -give them my advice. Well, I suppose it was not very good advice. But I -was not a nobody there to be laughed at, you know, auntie--I was the -chief person in the place!’ - -Here Ombra laughed, and it hurt Kate’s feelings. - -‘When I am old enough, I shall be able to do as I please in -Langton-Courtenay,’ she said. - -‘Certainly, my love,’ said Mrs. Anderson, interposing; ‘and I hope, in -the meantime, dear, you will think a great deal of your -responsibilities, and all that is necessary to make you fill such a -trying position as you ought.’ - -‘Trying!’ said Kate, with some surprise; ‘do you think it will be -trying? I shall like it better than anything. Poor old people, I must -try to make it up to them, for perhaps I rather bothered them sometimes, -to tell the truth. I am not like you and Ombra, so gentle and nice. And, -then, I had never seen people behave as I suppose they ought.’ - -‘I am glad you think we behave as we ought, Kate.’ - -‘Oh! auntie; but then there is something about Ombra that makes me -ashamed of myself. She is never noisy, nor dreadful, like me. She -touches things so softly, and speaks so gently. Isn’t she lovely, -aunt?’ - -‘She is lovely to me,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a glow of pleasure. ‘And -I am so glad you like your cousin, Kate.’ - -‘Like her! I never saw any one half so beautiful. She looks such a lady. -She is so dainty, and so soft, and so nice. Could I ever grow like that? -Ah! auntie, you shake your head--I don’t mean so pretty, only a little -more like her, a little less like a----’ - -‘My dear child!’ said the gratified mother, giving Kate a hug, though it -was out of doors. And at that moment, Ombra, who had been in advance, -turned round, and saw the hasty embrace, and shrugged her pretty -shoulders, as her habit was. - -‘Mamma, I wish very much you would keep these bursts of affection till -you get home,’ said Ombra. ‘The Eldridges are coming down the cliff.’ - -‘Oh! who are the Eldridges? I know some people called Eldridge,’ said -Kate--‘at least, I don’t know them, but I have heard----’ - -‘Hush! they will hear, too, if you don’t mind,’ said Ombra. And Kate was -silent. She was changing rapidly, even in these few days. Ombra, who -snubbed her, who was not gracious to her, who gave her no caresses, had, -without knowing it, attained unbounded empire over her cousin. Kate had -fallen in love with her, as girls so often do with one older than -themselves. The difference in this case was scarcely enough to justify -the sudden passion; but Ombra looked older than she was, and was so very -different a being from Kate, that her gravity took the effect of years. -Already this entirely unconscious influence had done more for Kate than -all the educational processes she had gone through. It woke the woman, -the gentlewoman, in the child, who had done, in her brief day, so many -troublesome things. Ombra suddenly had taken the ideal place in her -mind--she had been elevated, all unwitting of the honour, to the shrine -in Kate’s heart. Everything in her seemed perfection to the girl--even -her name, her little semi-reproofs, her gentle coldness. ‘If I could but -be like Ombra, not blurting things out, not saying more than I mean, not -carried away by everything that interests me,’ she said, -self-reproachfully, with rising compunction and shame for all her past -crimes. She had never seen the enormity of them as she did now. She set -up Ombra, and worshipped her in every particular, with the enthusiasm of -a fanatic. She tried to curb her once bounding steps into some -resemblance to the other’s languid pace; and drove herself and Maryanne -frantic by vain endeavours to smoothe her rich crisp chestnut hair into -the similitude of Ombra’s shadowy, dusky locks. This sudden worship was -independent of all reason. Mrs. Anderson herself was utterly taken by -surprise by it, and Ombra had not as yet a suspicion of the fact; but it -had already begun to work upon Kate. - -It was not in her, however, to make the acquaintance of this group of -new people without a little stir in her pulses--all the more as Mrs. -Eldridge came up to herself with special cordiality. - -‘I am sure this is Miss Courtenay,’ she said. ‘I have heard of you from -my nephew and nieces at Langton-Courtenay. They told me you were coming -to the Island. I hope you will like it, and think it as pretty as I do. -You are most welcome, I am sure, to Shanklin.’ - -‘Are you their aunt at Langton-Courtenay?’ said Kate, with eyes which -grew round with excitement and pleasure. ‘Oh! how very odd! I did not -think anybody knew me here.’ - -‘I am aunt to the boys and girls,’ said Mrs. Eldridge. ‘Mrs. Hardwick is -my husband’s sister. We must be like old friends, for the Hardwicks’ -sake.’ - -‘But the Hardwicks are not old friends to me,’ said Kate, with a child’s -unnecessary conscientiousness of explanation. ‘Bertie I know, but I have -only seen the others twice.’ - -‘Oh! that does not matter,’ said the Rector’s wife; ‘you must come and -see me all the same.’ And then she turned to Mrs. Anderson, and began to -talk of the parish. Kate stood by and listened with wondering eyes as -they discussed the poor folk, and their ways and their doings. They did -not interfere in her way; but perhaps their way was not much better, on -the whole, than Kate’s. She had been very interfering, there was no -doubt; but then she had interfered with everybody, rich and poor alike, -and made no invidious distinction. She stood and listened wondering, -while the Rector added his contribution about the mothers’ meetings, and -the undue expectations entertained by the old women at the almshouses. -‘We must guard against any foolish partiality, or making pets of them,’ -Mr. Eldridge said; and his wife added that Mr. Aston, in the next -parish, had quite _spoiled_ his poor people. ‘He is a bachelor; he has -nobody to keep him straight, and he believes all their stories. They -know they have only to send to the Vicarage to get whatever they -require. When one of them comes into our parish, we don’t know what to -do with her,’ she said, shaking her head. Kate was too much occupied in -listening to all this to perceive that Ombra shrugged her shoulders. Her -interest in the new people kept her silent, as they reascended the -cliff, and strolled towards the cottage; and it was not till the Rector -and his wife had turned homewards, once more cordially shaking hands -with her, and renewing their invitation, that she found her voice. - -‘Oh! auntie, how very strange--how funny!’ she said. ‘To think I should -meet the Eldridges here!’ - -‘Why not the Eldridges?--have you any objection to them?’ said Mrs. -Anderson. - -‘Oh, no!--I suppose not.’ (Kate put aside with an effort that audacity -of Sir Herbert Eldridge, and false assumption about the size of his -park.) ‘But it is so curious to meet directly, as soon as I arrive, -people whom I have heard of----’ - -‘Indeed, my dear Kate, it is not at all wonderful,’ said her aunt, -didactically. ‘The world is not nearly such a big place as you suppose. -If you should ever travel as much as we have done (which heaven -forbid!), you would find that you were always meeting people you knew, -in the most unlikely places. Once, at Smyrna, when Mr. Anderson was -there, a gentleman came on business, quite by chance, who was the son of -one of my most intimate friends in my youth. Another time I met a -companion of my childhood, whom I had lost sight of since we were at -school, going up Vesuvius. Our chaplain at Cadiz turned out to be a -distant connection of my husband’s, though we knew nothing of him -before. Such things are always happening. The world looks very big, and -you feel as if you must lose yourself in it; but, on the contrary, -wherever one goes, one falls upon people one knows.’ - -‘But yet it is so strange about the Hardwicks,’ said Kate, persisting; -‘they are the only people I ever went to see--whom I was allowed to -know.’ - -‘How very pleasant!’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘Now I shall be quite easy in -my mind. Your uncle must have approved of them, in that case, so I may -allow you to associate with the Eldridges freely. How very nice, my -love, that it should be so!’ - -Kate made no reply to this speech. She was not, to tell the truth, quite -clear that her uncle approved. He had not cared to hear about Bertie -Hardwick; he had frowned at the mention of him. ‘And Bertie is the -nicest--he is the only one I care for,’ said Kate to herself; but she -said nothing audibly on the subject. To her, notwithstanding her aunt’s -philosophy, it seemed very strange indeed that Bertie Hardwick’s -relatives should be the first to meet her in this new world. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -Kate settled down into her new life with an ease and facility which -nobody had expected. She wrote to her uncle that she was perfectly -happy; that she never could be sufficiently thankful to him for freeing -her from the yoke of Miss Blank, and placing her among people who were -fond of her. ‘Little fool!’ Mr. Courtenay muttered to himself. ‘They -have flattered her, I suppose.’ This was the easiest and most natural -explanation to one who knew, or thought he knew, human nature so well. - -But Kate was not flattered, except by her aunt’s caressing ways and -habitual fondness. Nobody in the Cottage recognised her importance as -the heiress of Langton-Courtenay. Here she was no longer first, but -second--nay third, taking her place after her cousin, as nature -ordained. ‘Ombra and Kate,’ was the new form of her existence--first -Ombra, then the new-comer, the youngest of all. She was spoiled as a -younger child is spoiled, not in any other way. Mrs. Anderson’s theory -in education was indulgence. She did not believe in repression. She was -always caressing, always yielding. For one thing, it was less -troublesome than a continual struggle; but that was not her motive. She -took high ground. ‘What we have got to do is to ripen their young -minds,’ she said to the Rector’s wife, who objected to her as ‘much too -good,’ a reproach which Mrs. Anderson liked; ‘and it is sunshine that -ripens, not an east wind!’ This was almost the only imaginative speech -she had ever made in her life, and consequently she liked to repeat it. -‘Depend upon it, it is sunshine that ripens them, and not east wind!’ - -‘The sunshine ripens the wheat and the tares alike, as we are told in -Scripture,’ said Mrs. Eldridge, with professional seriousness. - -‘That shows that Providence is of my way of thinking,’ said her -antagonist. ‘Why should one cross one’s children, and worry them? They -will have enough of that in their lives! Besides, I have practical proof -on my side. Look, at Ombra! There is a child that never was crossed -since she was born; and if I had scolded till I made myself ill, do you -think I could have improved upon _that_?’ - -Mrs. Eldridge stood still for a moment, not believing her ears. She had -daughters of her own, and to have Ombra set up as a model of excellence! -But she recovered herself speedily, and gave vent to her feelings in a -more courteous way. - -‘Ah! it is easy to see you never had any boys,’ she said, with that -sense of superiority which the mother of both sections of humanity feels -over her who has produced but one. ‘Ombra, indeed!’ Mrs. Eldridge said, -within herself. And, indeed, it was a want of ‘proper feeling,’ on Mrs. -Anderson’s part, to set up so manifestly her own daughter above other -people’s. She felt it, and immediately did what she could to atone. - -‘Boys, of course, are different,’ she said; ‘but I am sure you will -agree with me that a poor child who has never had any one to love her, -who has been brought up among servants, a girl who is motherless----’ - -‘Oh! poor child! I can only say you are too good--too good! With such a -troublesome disposition, too. I never could be half as good!’ cried the -Rector’s wife. - -Thus Mrs. Anderson triumphed in the argument. And as it happened that -ripening under the sunshine was just what Kate wanted, the system -answered in the most perfect way, especially as a gently chilling -breeze, a kind of moral east wind, extremely subdued, but sufficiently -keen, came from Ombra, checking Kate’s irregularities, without seeming -to do so, and keeping her high spirit down. Ombra’s influence over her -cousin increased as time went on. She was Kate’s model of all that was -beautiful and sweet. The girl subdued herself with all her might, and -clipped and snipped at her own character, to bring it to the same mould -as that of her cousin. And as such worship cannot go long unnoted, Ombra -gradually grew aware of it, and softened under its influence. The -Cottage grew very harmonious and pleasant within doors. When Kate went -to bed, the mother and daughter would still linger and have little -conversations about her, conversations in which the one still defended -and the other attacked--or made a semblance of attacking--the new-comer; -but the acrid tone had gone out of Ombra’s remarks. - -‘I don’t want to say a word against Kate,’ she would say, keeping up her -old _rôle_. ‘I think there is a great deal of good about her; but you -know we have no longer our house to ourselves.’ - -‘Could we enjoy our house to ourselves, Ombra, knowing that poor child -to have no home?’ said Mrs. Anderson, with feeling. - -‘Well, mamma, the poor child has a great many advantages over us,’ said -Ombra, hesitating. ‘I should like to have had her on a visit; but to be -always between you and me----’ - -‘No one can be between you and me, my child.’ - -‘That is true, perhaps. But then our little house, our quiet life all to -ourselves.’ - -‘That was a dream, my dear--that was a mere dream of your own. People in -our position cannot have a life all to ourselves. We have our duties to -society; and I have my duty to you, Ombra. Do you think I could be so -selfish as to keep you altogether to myself, and never let you see the -world, or have your chance of choosing some one who will take care of -you better than I can?’ - -‘Please don’t,’ said Ombra. ‘I am quite content with you; and there is -not much at Shanklin that can be called society or the world.’ - -‘The world is everywhere,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with dignity. ‘I am not -one of those who confine the term to a certain class. Your papa was but -a Consul, but I have seen many an ambassador who was very inferior to -him. Shanklin is a very nice place, Ombra; and the society, what there -is, is very nice also. I like my neighbours very much--they are not -lords and ladies, but they are well-bred, and some of them are -well-born.’ - -‘I don’t suppose we are among that number,’ said Ombra, with a momentary -laugh. This was one of her pet perversities, said out of sheer -opposition; for though she thrust the fact forward, she did not like it -herself. - -‘I think you are mistaken,’ said her mother, with a flush upon her face. -‘Your papa had very good connections in Scotland; and my father’s -family, though it was not equal to the Courtenays, which my sister -married into, was one of the most respectable in the county. You are not -like Kate--you have not the pedigree which belongs to a house which has -landed property; but you need not look down upon your forefathers for -all that.’ - -‘I do not look down upon them. I only wish not to stand up upon them, -mamma, for they are not strong enough to bear me, I fear,’ Ombra said, -with a little forced laugh. - -‘I don’t like joking on such subjects,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘But to -return to Kate. She admires you very, very much, my darling--I don’t -wonder at that----’ - -‘Silly child!’ said Ombra, in a much softened tone. - -‘It shows her sense, I think; but it throws all the greater a -responsibility on you. Oh! my dear love, could you and I, who are so -happy together, dare to shut our hearts against that poor desolate -child?’ - -Once more Ombra slightly, very slightly shrugged her shoulders; but she -answered-- - -‘I am sure I have no wish to shut my heart against her, mamma.’ - -‘For my part,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘I feel I cannot pet her too much, or -be too indulgent to her, to make up to her for fifteen years spent among -strangers, with nobody to love.’ - -‘How odd that she should have found nobody to love!’ said Ombra, turning -away. She herself was, as she believed, ‘not demonstrative,’ not -‘effusive.’ She was one of the many persons who think that people who do -not express any feeling at all, must necessarily have more real feeling -than those who disclose it--a curious idea, quite frequent in the world; -and she rather prided herself upon her own reserve. Yet, reserved as she -was, she, Ombra, had always found people to love her, and why not Kate? -This was the thought that passed through her mind as she gave up the -subject; but still she had grown reconciled to her cousin, had begun to -like her, and to be gratified by her eager, girlish homage. Kate’s -admiration spoke in every look and word, in her abject submission to -Ombra’s opinion, her concurrence in all that Ombra said, her imitation -of everything she did. Ombra was a good musician, and Kate, who had no -great faculty that way, got up and practised every morning, waking the -early echoes, and getting anything but blessings from her idol, whose -bed was exactly above the piano on the next floor. Ombra was a great -linguist, by dint of her many travels, and Kate sent unlimited orders -for dictionaries and grammars to her uncle, and began to learn verbs -with enthusiasm. She had all the masters who came from London to Miss -Story’s quiet establishment, men whose hours were golden, and whom -nobody but an heiress could have entertained in such profusion; and she -applied herself with the greatest diligence to such branches of study as -were favoured by Ombra, putting her own private tastes aside for them -with an enthusiasm only possible to first love. Perhaps Kate’s -enthusiasm was all the greater because of the slow and rather grudging -approbation which her efforts to please elicited. Mrs. Anderson was -always pleased, always ready to commend and admire; but Ombra was very -difficult. She made little allowance for any weakness, and demanded -absolute perfection, as mentors at the age of seventeen generally do; -and Kate hung on her very breath. Thus she took instinctively the best -way to please the only one in the house who had set up any resistance to -her. Over the rest Kate had an easy victory. It was Ombra who, all -unawares, and not by any virtue of hers, exercised the best control and -influence possible over the head-strong, self-opinioned girl. She was -head-strong enough herself, and very imperfect, but that did not affect -her all-potent visionary sway. - -And nothing could be more regular, nothing more quiet and monotonous, -than the routine of life in the Cottage. The coming of the masters was -the event in it; and that was a mild kind of event, causing little -enthusiasm. They breakfasted, worked, walked, and dined, and then rose -next morning to do the same thing over again. Notwithstanding Mrs. -Anderson’s talk about her duty to society, there were very few claims -made upon her. She was not much called upon to fulfil these duties. -Sometimes the ladies went out to the Rectory to tea; sometimes, indeed, -Mrs. Anderson and Ombra dined there; but on these occasions Kate was -left at home, as too young for such an intoxicating pleasure. ‘And, -besides, my darling, I promised your uncle,’ Mrs. Anderson would say. -But Kate was always of the party when it was tea. There were other -neighbours who gave similar entertainments; and before a year had -passed, Kate had tasted the bread and butter of all the houses in the -parish which Mrs. Anderson thought worthy of her friendship. But only to -tea; ‘I made that condition with Mr. Courtenay, and I must hold by it, -though my heart is broken to leave you behind. If you knew how trying it -was, my dearest child!’ she would say with melancholy tones, as she -stepped out, with a shawl over her evening toilet; but these were very -rare occurrences indeed. And Kate went to the teas, and was happy. - -How happy she was! When she was tired of the drawing-room (as happened -sometimes), she would rush away to an odd little room under the leads, -which was Francesca’s work-room and oratory, where the other maids were -never permitted to enter, but which had been made free to Mees Katta. -Francesca was not like English servants, holding jealously by one -special _metier_. She was cook, and she was housekeeper, but, at the -same time, she was Mrs. Anderson’s private milliner, making her dresses; -and the personal attendant of both mother and daughter. Even Jane, the -housemaid, scorned her for this versatility; but Francesca took no -notice of the scorn. She was not born to confine herself within such -narrow limits as an English kitchen afforded her; and she took -compensation for her unusual labours. She lectured Ombra, as we have -seen; she interfered in a great many things which were not her business; -she gave her advice freely to her mistress; she was one of the -household, not less interested than the mistress herself. And when Kate -arrived, Francesca added another branch of occupation to the others; or, -rather, she revived an art which she had once exercised with great -applause, but which had fallen into disuse since Ombra ceased to be a -child. She became the minstrel, the improvisatore, the ancient -chronicler, the muse of the new-comer. When Kate felt the afternoon -growing languid she snatched up a piece of work, and flew up the stairs -to Francesca’s retreat. ‘Tell me something,’ she would say; and, -sitting at the old woman’s feet, would forget her work, and her dulness, -and everything in heaven and earth, in the entrancement of a tale. These -were not fairy-tales, but bits of those stories, more strange than -fairy-tales, which still haunt the old houses of Italy. Francesca’s -tales were without end. She would begin upon a family pedigree, and work -her way up or down through a few generations, without missing a stitch -in her work, or dropping a thread in her story. She filled Kate’s head -with counts and barons, and gloomy castles and great palaces. It was an -amusement which combined the delight of gossip and the delight of -novel-reading in one. - -And thus Kate’s life ran on, as noiseless, as simple as the growth of a -lily or a rose, with nothing but sunshine all about, warming her, -ripening her, as her new guardian said, bringing slowly on, day by day, -the moment of blossoming, the time of the perfect flower. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -It was summer when Kate arrived at the Cottage, and it was not till the -Easter after that any disturbing influences came into the quiet scene. -Easter was so late that year that it was almost summer again. The rich -slopes of the landslip were covered with starry primroses, and those -violets which have their own blue-eyed beauty only to surround them, and -want the sweetness of their rarer sisters. The landslip is a kind of -fairyland at that enchanted moment. Everything is coming--the hawthorn, -the wild roses, all the flowers of early summer, are, as it were, on -tiptoe, waiting for the hour of their call; and the primroses have come, -and are crowding everywhere, turning the darkest corners into gardens of -delight. Then there is the sea, now matchless blue, now veiled with -mists, framing in every headland and jutting cliff, without any margin -of beach to break its full tone of colour; and above, the new-budded -trees, the verdure that grows and opens every day, the specks of white -houses everywhere, dotted all over the heights. Spring, which makes -everything and every one gay, which brings even to the sorrowful a touch -of that reaction of nature that makes pain sorer for the moment, yet -marks the new springing of life--fancy what it was to the -sixteen-year-old girl, now first emancipated, among people who loved -her, never judged her harshly, nor fretted her life with uncalled-for -opposition! - -Kate felt as if the primroses were a crowd of playmates, suddenly come -to her out of the bountiful heart of nature. She gathered baskets full -every day, and yet they never decreased. She passed her mornings in -delicious idleness making them into enormous bouquets, which gave the -Cottage something of the same aspect as the slopes outside. She had a -taste for this frivolous but delightful occupation. I am free to confess -that to spend hours putting primroses and violets together, in the -biggest flat dishes which the Cottage could produce, was an extremely -frivolous occupation; most likely she would have been a great deal -better employed in improving her mind, in learning verbs, or practising -exercises, or doing something useful. But youth has a great deal of -leisure, and this bright fresh girl, in the bright little hall of the -Cottage, arranging her flowers in the spring sunshine, made a very -pretty picture. She put the primroses in, with their natural leaves -about them, with sweet bunches of blue violets to heighten the effect, -touching them as if she loved them; and, as she did it, she sang as the -birds do, running on with unconscious music, and sweetness, and -gladness. It was Spring with her as with them. Nothing was as yet -required of her but to bloom and grow, and make earth fairer. And she -did this unawares and was as happy over her vast, simple bouquet, and -took as much sweet thought how to arrange it, as if that had been the -great aim of life. She was one with her flowers, and both together they -belonged to Spring--the Spring of the year, the Spring of life, the -sweet time which comes but once, and never lasts too long. - -She was thus employed one morning when steps came through the garden, -steps which she did not much heed. For one thing, she but half heard -them, being occupied with her ‘work,’ as she called it, and her song, -and having no fear that anything unwelcome would appear at that sunny, -open door. No one could come who did not know everybody in the little -house, who was not friendly, and smiling, and kind, whose hand would not -be held out in pleasant familiarity. Here were no trespassers, no -strangers. Therefore Kate heard the steps as though she heard them not, -and did not even pause to ask herself who was coming. She was roused, -but then only with the mildest expectation, when a shadow fell across -her bit of sunshine. She looked up with her song still on her lip, and -her hands full of flowers. She stopped singing. ‘Oh! Bertie!’ she cried, -half to herself, and made an eager step forward. But then suddenly she -paused--she dropped her flowers. Curiosity, wonder, amazement came over -her face. She went on slowly to the door, gazing, and questioning with -her eyes. - -‘Are there two of you?’ she said gravely. ‘I heard that Bertie Hardwick -was coming. Oh! which is you? Stop--don’t tell me. I am not going to be -mystified. I can find it out for myself.’ - -There were two young men standing in the hall, who laughed and blushed -as they stood submitting to her inspection; but Kate was perfectly -serious. She stood and looked at them with an unmoved and somewhat -anxious countenance. A certain symbolical gravity and earnestness was in -her face; but there was indeed occasion to hesitate. The two who stood -before her seemed at the first glance identical. They had the same eyes, -the same curling brown hair, the same features, the same figure. -Gradually, however, the uncertainty cleared away from Kate’s face. - -‘It must be you,’ she said, still very seriously. ‘You are not quite so -tall, and I think I remember your eyes. You must be Bertie, I am sure.’ - -‘We are both Bertie,’ said the young man, laughing. - -‘Ah! but you must be _my_ Bertie; I am certain of it,’ said Kate. Not a -gleam of maiden consciousness was in her; she said it with all -simplicity and seriousness. She did not understand the colour that came -to one Bertie’s face or the smile that flashed over the other; and she -held out her hand to the one whom she had selected. ‘I am so glad to see -you. Come in, and tell me all about Langton. Dear old Langton! Though -you were so disagreeable about the size of the park----’ - -‘I will never be disagreeable again.’ - -‘Oh, nonsense!’ cried Kate, interrupting him. ‘As if one could stop -being anything that is natural! My aunt is somewhere about, and Ombra is -in the drawing-room. Come in. Perhaps, though, you had better tell me -who this--other gentleman---- Why, Mr. Bertie, I am not quite sure, -after all, which is the other and which is you!’ - -‘This is my cousin, Bertie Eldridge,’ said her old friend. ‘You will -soon know the difference. You remember what an exemplary character I am, -and he is quite the reverse. I am always getting into trouble on his -account.’ - -‘Miss Courtenay will soon know better than to believe you,’ said the -other; at which Kate started and clapped her hands. - -‘Oh! I know now that is not your voice. Ombra, please, here are two -gentlemen----’ - -This is how the two cousins were introduced into the Cottage. They had -been there before separately; but neither Mrs. Anderson nor her daughter -knew how slight was the acquaintance which entitled Kate to qualify one -of the new-comers as ‘my Bertie.’ They were both young, not much over -twenty, and their likeness was wonderful; it was, however, a likeness -which diminished as they talked, for their expression was as different -as their voices. Kate had no hesitation in appropriating the one she -knew. - -‘Tell me about Langton,’ she said--‘all about it. I have heard nothing -for nearly a year. Oh! don’t laugh. I know the house stands just where -it used to stand, and no one dares to cut down the trees. But itself---- -Don’t you know what Langton means to me?’ - -‘Home?’ said Bertie Hardwick, but with a little doubt in his tone. - -‘Home!’ repeated Kate; and then she, too, paused perplexed. ‘Not exactly -home, for there is no one there I care for--much. Oh! but can’t you -understand? It is not home; I am much happier here; but, in a kind of a -way, it is me!’ - -Bertie Hardwick was puzzled, and he was dazzled too. His first meeting -with her had made no small impression upon him; and now Kate was almost -a full-grown woman, and the brightness about her dazzled his eyes. - -‘It cannot be you now,’ he said. ‘It is--let.’ - -Kate gave a fierce little cry, and clenched her hands. - -‘Oh! Uncle Courtenay, I wish I could just kill you!’ she said, half to -herself. - -‘It is let, for four or five years, to the only kind of people who can -afford to have great houses now--to Mr. Donkin, who has a large--shop in -town.’ - -Kate moaned again, but then recovered herself. - -‘I don’t see that it matters much about the shop. I think if I were -obliged to work, I should not mind keeping a shop. It would be such fun! -But, oh! if Uncle Courtenay were only here!’ - -‘It is better not. There might be bloodshed, and you would regret it -after,’ said Bertie, gravely. - -‘Don’t laugh at me; I mean it. And, if you won’t tell me anything about -Langton, tell me about yourself. Who is _he_? What does he mean by being -so like you? He is different when he talks; but at the first glance---- -Why do you allow any one to be so like you, Mr. Bertie? If he is not -nice, as you said----’ - -‘I did not mean you to believe me,’ said Bertie. ‘He is the best fellow -going. I wish I were half as good, or half as clever. He is my cousin, -and just like my brother. Why, I am proud of being like him. We are -taken for each other every day.’ - -‘_I_ should not like it,’ said Kate. ‘Ombra and I are not like each -other, though we are cousins too. Do you know Ombra? I think there never -was any one like her; but, on the whole, I think it is best to be two -people, not one. Are you still at Oxford?--and is he at Oxford? Mr. -Bertie, if I were you, I don’t think I should be a clergyman.’ - -‘Why?’ said Bertie, who, unfortunately for himself, was much of her -mind. - -‘You might not get a living, you know,’ said Kate. - -This she said conscientiously, to prepare him for the fact that he was -not to have Langton-Courtenay; but his laugh disconcerted her, and -immediately brought before her eyes the other idea that his -objectionable uncle, who had a park larger than Langton, might have a -living too. She coloured high, having begun to find out, by means of her -education in the Cottage, when she had committed herself. - -‘Or,’ she went on, with all the calmness she could command, ‘when you -had a living you might not like it. The Rector here---- Oh! of course he -must be your uncle too. He is very good, I am sure, and very nice,’ said -Kate, floundering, and feeling that she was getting deeper and deeper -into the mire; ‘but it is so strange to hear him talk. The old women in -the almshouses, and the poor people, and all that, and mothers’ -meetings---- Of course, it must be very right and very good; but, Mr. -Bertie, nothing but mothers’ meetings, and old women in almshouses, for -all your life----’ - -‘I suppose he has something more than that,’ said Bertie, half -affronted, half amused. - -‘I suppose so--or, at least, I hope so,’ said Kate. ‘Do you know what a -mothers’ meeting is? But to go to Oxford, you know, for that----! If I -were you, I would be something else. There must be a great many other -things that you could be. Soldiers are not much good in time of peace, -and lawyers have to tell so many lies--or, at least, so people say in -books. I will tell you what I should advise, Mr. Bertie. Doctors are of -real use in the world--I would be a doctor, if I were you.’ - -‘But I should not at all like to be a doctor,’ said Bertie. ‘Of all -trades in the world, that is the last I should choose. Talk of mothers’ -meetings! a doctor is at every fool’s command, to run here and there; -and besides---- I think, Miss Courtenay, you have made a mistake.’ - -‘I am only saying what I would do if it was me,’ said Kate, softly -folding her hands. ‘I would rather be a doctor than any of the other -things. And you ought to decide, Mr. Bertie; you will not be a boy much -longer. You have got something here,’ and she put up her hand to her own -soft chin, and stroked it gently, ‘which you did not have the last time -I saw you. You are almost--a man.’ - -This for Bertie to hear, who was one-and-twenty, and an Oxford man--who -had felt himself full grown, both in frame and intellect, for these two -years past! He was wroth--his cheek burned, and his eye flashed. But, -fortunately, Mrs. Anderson interposed, and drew her chair towards them, -putting an end to the _tête-à-tête_. Mrs. Anderson was somewhat -disturbed, for her part. Here were two young men--two birds of -prey--intruding upon the stillness which surrounded the nest in which -she had hidden an heiress. What was she to do? Was it safe to permit -them to come, fluttering, perhaps, the nestling? or did stern duty -demand of her to close her doors, and shut out every chance of evil? As -soon as she perceived that the conversation between Kate and her Bertie -was special and private, she trembled and interposed. She asked the -young man all about his family, his sisters, his studies--anything she -could think of--and so kept her heiress, as she imagined, safe, and the -wild beast at bay. - -‘You are sure your uncle approved of the Hardwicks as friends for you, -Kate?’ she said that evening, when the visit had been talked over in -full family conclave. Mrs. Anderson might make what pretence she pleased -that they were only ordinary visitors, but the two Berties had made a -commotion much greater than the Rector and his wife did, or even the -schoolboy and schoolgirl Eldridges, noisy and tumultuous as their visits -often were. - -‘He made me go to the Rectory with him,’ said Kate, very demurely. ‘It -was not my doing at all; he wanted me to go.’ - -And, after that, what could there be to say? - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -The two Berties came again next day--they came with their cousins, and -they came without them. They joined the party from the Cottage in their -walks, with an intuitive knowledge where they were going, which was -quite extraordinary. They got up croquet-parties and picnics; they were -always in attendance upon the two girls. Mrs. Anderson had many a -thought on the subject, and wondered much what her duty was in such a -very trying emergency; but there were two things that consoled her--the -first that it was Ombra who was the chief object of the two young men’s -admiration; and the second that they could not possibly stay long. Ombra -was their first object. She assured herself of this with a warm and -pleasant glow at her heart, though she was not a match-making mother, -nor at all desirous of ‘marrying off,’ and ‘getting rid of’ her only -child. Besides, the young men were too young for anything serious--not -very long out of their teens; lads still under strict parental -observation and guidance; they were too young to make matrimonial -proposals to any one, or to carry such proposals out. But, nevertheless, -it was pleasant to Mrs. Anderson to feel that Ombra was their first -object, and that her ‘bairn’ was ‘respected like the lave.’ ‘Thank -Heaven, Kate’s money has nothing to do with it,’ she said to herself; -and where was the use of sending away two handsome young men, whom the -girls liked, and who were a change to them? Besides, they were going -away so soon--in a fortnight--no harm could possibly come. - -So Mrs. Anderson tolerated them, invited them, gave them luncheon -sometimes, and often tea, till they became as familiar about the house -as the young Eldridges were, or any other near neighbours. And the girls -did not have their heads at all turned by the new cavaliers, who were so -assiduous in their attentions. Ombra gently ridiculed them both, hitting -them with dainty little arrows of scorn, smiling at their boyish ways, -their impetuosity and self-opinion. Kate, on the contrary, took them up -very gravely, with a motherly, not to say grandmotherly interest in -their future, giving to him whom she called her old friend the very best -of good advice. Mrs. Anderson herself was much amused by this new -development of her charge’s powers. She said to herself, a dozen times -in a day, how ridiculous it was to suppose that boys and girls could not -be in each other’s company without falling in love. Why, here were two -pairs continually in each other’s company, and without the faintest -shadow of any such folly to disturb them! Perhaps a sense that it was to -her own perfect good management that this was owing, increased her -satisfaction. She ‘kept her eye on them,’ never officiously, never -demonstratively, but in the most vigilant way; and a certain gentle -complacency mingled with her content. Had she left them to roam about as -they pleased without her, then indeed trouble might have been looked -for; but Mrs. Anderson was heroic, and put aside her own ease, and was -their companion everywhere. At the same time (but this was done with the -utmost caution) she took a little pains to find out all about Sir -Herbert Eldridge, the father of one of the Berties--his county, and the -amount of his property, and all the information that was possible. She -breathed not a word of this to any one--not even to Ombra; but she put -Bertie Eldridge on her daughter’s side of the table at tea; and perhaps -showed him a little preference, for her own part, a preference, however, -so slight, so undiscernible to the vulgar eye, that neither of the young -men found it out. She was very good to them, quite irrespective of their -family, or the difference in their prospects; and she missed them much -when they went away. For go away they did, at the end of their -fortnight, leaving the girls rather dull, and somewhat satirical. It was -the first invasion of the kind that had been made into their life. The -boys at the Rectory were still nothing but boys; and men did not abound -in the neighbourhood. Even Ombra was slightly misanthropical when the -Berties went away. - -‘What it is to be a boy!’ she said; ‘they go where they like, these two, -and arrange their lives as they please. What a fuss everybody makes -about them; and yet they are commonplace enough. If they were girls like -us, how little any one would care----’ - -‘My dear, Mr. Eldridge will be a great landed proprietor, and have a -great deal in his power,’ said Mrs. Anderson. - -‘Because he happens to have been born Sir Herbert’s son; no thanks to -_him_,’ said Ombra, with disdain. ‘And most likely, when he is a great -landed proprietor he will do nothing worth noticing. The other is more -interesting to me; he at least has his own way to make.’ - -‘I wonder what poor Bertie will do?’ said Kate, with her grandmother -air. ‘I should not like to see him a clergyman. What Ombra says is very -true, auntie. When one is a great Squire, you know, one can’t help one’s -self; one’s life is all settled before one is born. But when one can -choose what to be!---- For my part,’ said Kate, with great gravity, ‘I am -anxious about Bertie, too. I gave him all the advice I could--but I am -not sure that he is the sort of boy to take advice.’ - -‘He is older than you are, my love, and perhaps he may think he knows -better,’ said Mrs. Anderson with a smile. - -‘But that would be a mistake,’ said Kate. ‘Boys have so many things to -do, they have no time to think. And then they don’t consider things as -we do; and besides----’ But here Kate paused, doubting the wisdom of -further explanations. What she had meant to say was that, having no -thinking to do for herself, her own position being settled and -established beyond the reach of fate, she had the more time to give to -the concerns of her neighbours. But it occurred to her that Ombra had -scorned Bertie Eldridge’s position, and might scorn hers also, and she -held her peace. - -‘Besides, there is always a fuss made about them, as if they were better -than other people. Don’t let us talk of them any more; I am sick of the -subject,’ said Ombra, withdrawing into a book. The others made no -objection; they acquiesced with a calmness which perhaps scarcely -satisfied Ombra. Mrs. Anderson declared openly that she missed the -visitors much; and Kate avowed, without hesitation, that the boys were -fun, and she was sorry that they were gone. But the chances are that it -was Ombra who missed them most, though she professed to be rather glad -than otherwise. ‘They were a nuisance, interrupting one whatever one was -doing. Boys at that age always are a nuisance,’ she said, with an air of -severity, and she returned to all her occupations with an immense deal -of seriousness. - -But this disturbance of their quiet affected her in reality much more -than it affected her companions--the very earnestnest of her resumed -duties testified to this. She was on the edge of personal life, -wondering and already longing to taste its excitements and troubles; and -everything that disturbed the peaceful routine felt like that life which -was surely coming, and stirred her pulses. It was like the first -creeping up of the tide about the boat which is destined to live upon -the waves; not enough yet to float the little vessel off from the stays -which hold it, but enough to rock and stir it with prophetic sensation -of the fuller flood to come. - -Ombra was ‘viewy,’ to use a word which has become well-nigh obsolete. -She was full of opinions and speculations, which she called thought; a -little temper, a good deal of unconscious egotism, and a reflective -disposition, united to make her what is called, a ‘thoughtful girl.’ She -mused upon herself, and upon the few varieties of human life she knew, -and upon the world, and all its accidents and misunderstandings, as she -had seen them, and upon the subjects which she read about. But partly -her youth, and partly her character, made her thoughts like the -observations of a traveller newly entered into a strange country, and -feeling himself capable, as superficial travellers often are, to lay -bare its character, and fathom all its problems at a glance. Other -people were, to this young philosopher, as foreigners are to the -inexperienced traveller. She was very curious about them, and marked -their external peculiarities with sufficient quickness; but she had not -imagination enough to feel for them or with them, or to see their life -from their own point of view. Her own standing-point was the only one in -the world to her. She could judge others only by herself. - -Curiously enough, however, with this want of sympathetic imagination -there was combined a good deal of fancy. Ombra had written little -stories from her earliest youth. She had a literary turn. At this period -of her life, when she was nearly eighteen, and the world was full of -wonders and delightful mysteries to her, she wrote a great deal, -sometimes in verse, sometimes in prose, and now and then asked herself -whether it was not genius which inspired her. Some of her poems, as she -called them, had been printed in little religious magazines and -newspapers--for Ombra’s muse was as yet highly religious. She had every -reason to believe herself one of the stars that shine unseen--a creature -superior to the ordinary run of humanity. She read more than any one she -knew, and thought, or believed that she thought, deeply on a great many -subjects. And one of these subjects naturally was that of the position -of women. She was girl enough, and had enough of nature in her, to enjoy -the momentary brightness of the firmament which the two Berties had -brought. She liked the movement and commotion as much as the others -did--the walks, the little parties, the expeditions, and even the games; -and she felt the absence of these little excitements when they came to -an end. And thereupon she set herself to reflect upon them. She carried -her little portfolio up to a rustic seat which had been made on the -cliff, sheltered by some ledges of rock, and covered with flowers and -bushes, and set herself to think. And here her thoughts took that turn -which is so natural, yet so hackneyed and conventional. No one would, in -reality, have been less disposed than Ombra to give up a woman’s--a -lady’s privileges. To go forth into the world unattended, without the -shield and guard of honour, which her semi-foreign education made doubly -necessary to her, would have seemed to the girl the utmost misery of -desolation. She would have resented the need as a wrong done her by -fate. But nevertheless she sat up in her rocky bower, and looked over -the blue sea, and the white headlands, and said to herself, bitterly, -what a different lot had fallen to these two Berties from that which was -her own. They could go where they liked, society imposed no restraints -upon them; when they were tired of one place, they could pass on to -another. Heaven and earth was moved for their education, to make -everything known to them, to rifle all the old treasure-houses, to -communicate to them every discovery which human wisdom had ever made. -And for what slight creatures were all these pains taken; boys upon whom -she looked down in the fuller development of her womanhood, feeling them -ever so much younger than she was, less serious in their ideas, less -able to do anything worth living for! It seemed to Ombra, at that -moment, that there was in herself a power such as none of ‘these boys’ -had a conception of--genius, the divinest thing in humanity! But that -which would have been fostered and cultivated in them, would be -quenched, or at least hampered and kept down in her. ‘For I am only a -woman!’ said Ombra, with a swelling heart. - -All this was perfectly natural; and, at the same time, it was quite -conventional. It was a little overflow of that depression after a feast, -that reaction of excitement, which makes every human creature blaspheme -in one way or other. The sound of Kate’s voice, singing as she came up -the little path to the cliff, made her cousin angry, in this state of -her mind and nerves. Here was a girl no better than the boys, a creature -without thought, who neither desired a high destiny, nor could -understand what it meant. - -‘How careless you are, Kate!’ she cried, in the impulse of the moment. -‘Always singing, or some nonsense--and you know you can’t sing! If I -were as young as you are, I would not lose my time as you do! Do you -never think?’ - -‘Yes,’ said Kate, with a meekness she never showed but to Ombra, ‘a -great deal sometimes. But I can’t on such a morning. There seems nothing -in all the world but sunshine and primroses, and the air is so sweet! -Come up to the top of the cliff, and try how far you can see. I think I -can make out that big ship that kept firing so the other day. Ombra, if -you don’t mind, I shall be first at the top!’ - -‘As if I cared who was first at the top! Oh! Kate, Kate, you are as -frivolous as--as--the silly creatures in novels--or as these boys -themselves!’ - -‘The boys were very good boys!’ said Kate. ‘If they are silly, they -can’t help it. Of course they were not as clever as you--no one is; and -Bertie, you know--little Bertie, my Bertie--ought to think more of what -he is going to do. But they were very nice, as boys go. We can’t expect -them to be like _us_. Ombra, do come and try a run for the top.’ - -‘What a foolish child you are!’ said Ombra, suffering her portfolio to -be taken out of her hands; and then her youth vindicated itself, and she -started off like a young fawn up the little path. Kate could have won -the race had she tried, but was too loyal to outstrip her princess. And -thus the cobwebs were blown away from the young thinker’s brain. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -It will be seen, however, that, though Kate’s interpretation of the -imperfections of ‘the boys’ was more genial than that of Ombra, yet that -still there was a certain condescension in her remarks, and sense that -she herself was older, graver, and of much more serious stuff altogether -than the late visitors. Her instinct for interference, which had been in -abeyance since she came to the Cottage, sprung up into full force the -moment these inferior creatures came within her reach. She felt that it -was her natural mission, the work for which she was qualified, to set -and keep them right. This she had been quite unable to feel herself -entitled to do in the Cottage. Mrs. Anderson’s indulgence and -tenderness, and Ombra’s superiority, had silenced even her lively -spirit. She could not tender her advice to them, much as she might have -desired to do so. But Bertie Hardwick was a bit of Langton, one of her -own people, a natural-born subject, for whose advantage all her powers -were called forth. She thought a great deal about his future, and did -not hesitate to say so. She spoke of it to Mr. Eldridge, electrifying -the excellent Rector. - -‘What a trouble boys must be!’ she said, when she ran in with some -message from her aunt, and found the whole party gathered at luncheon. -There were ten Eldridges, so that the party was a large one; and as the -holidays were not yet over, Tom and Herbert, the two eldest, had not -returned to school. - -‘They _are_ a trouble, in the holidays,’ said Mrs. Eldridge, with a -sigh; and then she looked at Lucy, her eldest girl, who was in disgrace, -and added seriously, ‘but not more than girls. One expects girls to know -better. To see a great creature of fifteen, nearly in long dresses, -romping like a Tom-boy, is enough to break one’s heart.’ - -‘But I was thinking of the future,’ said Kate, and she too gave a little -sigh, as meaning that the question was a very serious one indeed. - -The Rector smiled, but Mrs. Eldridge did not join him. Somehow Kate’s -position, which the Rector’s wife was fond of talking of, gave her a -certain solemnity, which made up for her want of age and experience in -that excellent woman’s eyes. - -‘As for us,’ Kate continued very gravely, ‘either we marry or we don’t, -and that settles the question; but boys that have to work---- Oh! when I -think what a trouble they are, it makes me quite sad.’ - -‘Poor Kate!’ said the laughing Rector; ‘but you have not any boys of -your own yet, which must simplify the matter.’ - -‘No,’ said Kate gravely, ‘not quite of my own; but if you consider the -interest I take in Langton, and all that I have to do with it, you will -see that it does not make much difference. There is Bertie Hardwick, for -instance, Mr. Eldridge----’ - -The Rector interrupted her with a hearty outburst of laughter. - -‘Is Bertie Hardwick one of the boys whom you regard as almost your own?’ -he said. - -‘Well,’ Kate answered stoutly, ‘of course I take a great interest in -him. I am anxious about what he is to be. I don’t think he ought to go -into the Church; I have thought a great deal about it, and I don’t think -that would be the best thing for him. Mr. Eldridge, why do you laugh?’ - -‘Be quiet, dear,’ said his wife, knitting her brows at him -significantly. Mrs. Eldridge had not a lively sense of humour; and she -had pricked up her ears at Bertie Hardwick’s name. Already many a time -had she regretted bitterly that her own Herbert (she would not have him -called Bertie, like the rest) was not old enough to aspire to the -heiress. And, as that could not be mended, the mention of Bertie -Hardwick’s name stirred her into a state of excitement. She was not a -mercenary woman, neither had it ever occurred to her to set up as a -match-maker; ‘but,’ as she said, ‘when a thing stares you in the -face----’ And then it would be so much for Kate’s good. - -‘You ought not to laugh,’ said Kate, with gentle and mild reproof, ‘for -I mean what I say. He could not live the kind of life that you live, Mr. -Eldridge. I suppose you did not like it yourself when you were young?’ - -‘My dear child, you go too far--you go too fast,’ cried the Rector, -alarmed. ‘Who said I did not like it when I was young? Miss Kate, though -I laugh, you must not forget that I think my work the most important -work in the world.’ - -‘Oh! yes, to be sure,’ said Kate; ‘of course one knows--but then when -you were young---- And Bertie is quite young--he is not much more than a -boy; I cannot see how he is to bear it--the almshouses, and the old -women, and the mothers’ meetings.’ - -‘You must not talk, my child, of things you don’t understand,’ said the -Rector, quite recovered from his laughter. He had ten pairs of eyes -turned upon him, ten minds, to which it had never occurred to inquire -whether there was anything more important in the world than mothers’ -meetings. Perhaps had he allowed himself to utter freely his own -opinions, he might have agreed with Kate that these details of his -profession occupied too prominent a place in it. But he was not at -liberty then to enter upon any such question. He had to preserve his own -importance, and that of his office, in presence of his family. The -wrinkles of laughter all faded from the corners of his mouth. He put up -his hand gravely, as if to put her aside from this sacred ark which she -was touching with profane hands. - -‘Kate talks nonsense sometimes, as most young persons do,’ said Mrs. -Eldridge, interfering. ‘But at present it is you who don’t understand -what she is saying--or, at least, what she means is something quite -different. She means that Bertie Hardwick would not like such a -laborious life as yours; and, indeed, what she says is quite true; and -if you had known all at once what you were coming to, all the toil and -fatigues---- Ah! I don’t like to think of it. Yes, Kate, a clergyman’s -life is a very trying life, especially when a man is so conscientious as -my husband. There are four mothers’ meetings in different parts of the -parish; and there is the penny club, and the Christmas clothing, and the -schools, not to speak of two services every Sunday, and two on -Wednesdays and Fridays; and a Curate, who really does not do half so -much as he ought. I do not want to say anything against Mr. Sugden, but -he does pay very little attention to the almshouses; and as for the -infant-school----’ - -‘My dear, the children are present,’ said the Rector. - -‘I am very well aware of that, Fred; but they have ears and eyes as well -as the rest of us. After all, the infant-school and the Sunday-schools -are not very much to be left to one; and there are only ten old people -in the almshouses. And, I must say, my dear, considering that Mr. Sugden -is able to walk a hundred miles a day, I do believe, when he has an -object----’ - -‘Hush! hush!’ said the Rector, ‘we must not enter into personal -discussions. He is fresh from University life, and has not quite settled -down as yet to his work. University life is very different, as I have -often told you. It takes a man some time to get accustomed to change his -habits and ways of thinking. Sugden is rather lazy, I must say--he does -not mean it, but he is a little careless. Did I tell you that he had -forgotten to put down Farmer Thompson’s name in the Easter list? It was -a trifle, you know--it really was not of any consequence; but, still, he -forgot all about it. It is the negligent spirit, not the thing itself, -that troubles me.’ - -‘A trifle!’ said Mrs. Eldridge, indignantly; and they entered so deeply -into the history of this offence, that Kate, whose attention had been -wandering, had to state her errand, and finish her luncheon without -further reference to Bertie. But her curiosity was roused; and when, -some time after, she met Mr. Sugden, the Curate, it was not in her to -refrain from further inquiries. This time she was walking with her aunt -and cousin, and could not have everything her own way; but the curate -was only too well pleased to join the little party. He was a young man, -tall and strong, looking, as Mrs. Rector said, as if he could walk a -hundred miles a day; and his manner was not that of one who would be -guilty of indolence. He was glad to join the party from the Cottage, -because he was one of those who had been partially enslaved by -Ombra--partially, for he was prudent, and knew that falling in love was -not a pastime to be indulged in by a curate; but yet sufficiently to be -roused by the sight of her into sudden anxiety, to look and show himself -at his best. - -‘Ask him to tea, auntie, please,’ said Kate, whispering, as the Curate -divided the party, securing himself a place by the side of Ombra. Mrs. -Anderson looked at the girl with amazement. - -‘I have no objection,’ she said, wondering. ‘But why?’ - -‘Oh! never mind why--to please me,’ said the girl. Mrs. Anderson was not -in the habit of putting herself into opposition; and besides, the little -languor and vacancy caused by the departure of the Berties had not yet -quite passed away. She gave the invitation with a smile and a whispered -injunction. ‘But you must promise not to become one of the young ladies -who worship curates, Kate.’ - -‘Me!’ said Kate, with indignation, and without grammar; and she gazed at -the big figure before her with a certain friendly contempt. Mr. Sugden -lived a dull life, and he was glad to meet with the pretty Ombra, to -walk by her side, and talk to her, or hear her talk, and even to be -invited to tea. His fall from the life of Oxford to the life of this -little rural parish had been sudden, and it had been almost more than -the poor young fellow’s head could bear. One day surrounded by young -life and energy, and all the merriment and commotion of a large -community, where there was much intellectual stir, to which his mind, -fortunately for himself, responded but faintly, and a great deal of -external activity, into which he had entered with all his heart; and the -next day to be dropped into the grey, immovable atmosphere of rural -existence--the almshouses, the infant-schools, and Farmer Thompson! The -young man had not recovered it. Life had grown strange to him, as it -seems after a sudden and bewildering fall. And it never occurred to -anybody what a great change it was, except the Rector, who thought it -rather sinful that he could not make up his mind to it at once. -Therefore, though he had a chop indifferently cooked waiting for him at -home, he abandoned it gladly for Mrs. Anderson’s bread and butter. Ombra -was very pretty, and it was a variety in the monotonous tenor of his -life. - -When they had returned to the Cottage, and had seated themselves to the -simple and lady-like meal, which did not much content his vigorous young -appetite, Mr. Sugden began to be drawn out without quite understanding -the process. The scene and circumstances were quite new to him. There -was a feminine perfume about the place which subdued and fascinated him. -Everything was pleasant to look at--even the mother, who was still a -handsome woman; and a certain charm stole over the Curate, though the -bread and butter was scarcely a satisfactory meal. - -‘I hope you like Shanklin?’ Mrs. Anderson said, as she poured him out -his tea. - -‘Of course Mr. Sugden must say he does, whether or not,’ said Ombra. -‘Fancy having the courage to say that one does not like Shanklin before -the people who are devoted to it! But speak frankly, please, for I am -not devoted to it. I think it is dull; it is too pretty, like a scene at -the opera. Whenever you turn a corner, you come upon a picture you have -seen at some exhibition. I should like to hang it up on the wall, but -not to live in it. Now, Mr. Sugden, you can speak your mind.’ - -‘I never was at an exhibition,’ said Kate, ‘nor at the opera. I never -saw such a lovely place, and you know you don’t mean it, Ombra--you, who -are never tired of sketching or writing poetry about it.’ - -‘Does Miss Anderson write poetry?’ said the Curate, somewhat startled. -He was frightened, like most men, by such a discovery. It froze the -words on his lips. - -‘No, no--she only amuses herself,’ said the mother, who knew what the -effect of such an announcement was likely to be; upon which the poor -Curate drew breath. - -‘Shanklin is a very pretty place,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I am not so used to -pretty places as I ought to be. I come from the Fens myself. It is hilly -here, and there is a great deal of sea; but I don’t think,’ he added, -with a little outburst, and a painful consciousness that he had not been -eloquent--‘I don’t think there is very much to do.’ - -‘Except the infant-schools and the almshouses,’ said Kate. - -‘Good Lord!’ said the poor young man, driven to his wits’ end; and then -he grew very red, and coughed violently, to cover, if possible, the -ejaculation into which he had been betrayed. Then he did his best to -correct himself, and put on a professional tone. ‘There is always the -work of the parish for me,’ he said, trying to look assured and -comfortable; ‘but I was rather thinking of you ladies; unless you are -fond of yachting--but I suppose everybody is who lives in the Isle of -Wight?’ - -‘Not me,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘I do not like it, and I would not trust -my girls, even if they had a chance, which they have not. Oh! no; we -content ourselves with a very quiet life. They have their studies, and -we do what we can in the parish. I assure you a school-feast is quite a -great event.’ - -Mr. Sugden shuddered; he could not help it; he had not been brought up -to it; he had been trained to a lively life, full of variety, and -amusement, and exercise. He tried to say faintly that he was sure a -quiet life was the best, but the words nearly choked him. It was now -henceforward his _rôle_ to say that sort of thing; and how was he to do -it, poor young muscular, untamed man! He gasped and drank a cup of hot -tea, which he did not want, and which made him very uncomfortable. Tea -and bread and butter, and a school-feast by way of excitement! This was -what a man was brought to, when he took upon himself the office of a -priest. - -‘Mr. Sugden, please tell me,’ said Kate, ‘for I want to know--is it a -very great change after Oxford to come to such a place as this?’ - -‘O Lord!’ cried the poor Curate again. A groan burst from him in spite -of himself. It was as if she had asked him if the change was great from -the top of an Alpine peak to the bottom of a crevasse. ‘I hope you’ll -excuse me,’ he said, with a burning blush, turning to Mrs. Anderson, and -wiping the moisture from his forehead. ‘It was such an awfully rapid -change for me; I have not had time to get used to it. I come out with -words I ought not to use, and feel inclined to do ever so many things I -oughtn’t to do--I know I oughtn’t; but then use, you know, is second -nature, and I have not had time to get out of it. If you knew how -awfully sorry I was----’ - -‘There is nothing to be awfully sorry about,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a -smile. But she changed the conversation, and she was rather severe upon -her guest when he went away. ‘It is clear that such a young man has no -business in the Church,’ she said, with a sharpness quite unusual to -her. ‘How can he ever be a good clergyman, when his heart is so little -in it? I do not approve of that sort of thing at all.’ - -‘But, auntie, perhaps he did not want to go into the Church,’ said Kate; -and she felt more and more certain that it was not the thing for Bertie -Hardwick, and that he never would take such a step, except in defiance -of her valuable advice. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -Circumstances after this threw Mr. Sugden a great deal in their way. He -lived in a superior sort of cottage in the village, a cottage which had -once been the village doctor’s, and had been given up by him only when -he built that house on the Undercliff, which still shone so white and -new among its half-grown trees. It must be understood that it was the -Shanklin of the past of which we speak--not the little semi-urban place -with lines of new villas, which now bears that name. The mistress of the -house was the dressmaker of the district as well, and much became known -about her lodger by her means. She was a person who had seen better -days, and who had taken up dressmaking at first only for her own -amusement, she informed her customers, and consequently she had very -high manners, and a great deal of gentility, and frightened her humble -neighbours. Her house had two stories, and was very respectable. It -could not help having a great tree of jessamine all over one side, and a -honeysuckle clinging about the porch, for such decorations are -inevitable in the Isle of Wight; but still there were no more flowers -than were absolutely necessary, and that of itself was a distinction. -The upper floor was Mr. Sugden’s. He had two windows in his -sitting-room, and one in his bedroom, which commanded the street and all -that was going on there; and it was the opinion of the Rector’s wife -that no man could desire more cheerful rooms. He saw everybody who went -or came from the Rectory. He could moralise as much as he pleased upon -the sad numbers who frequented the ‘Red Lion.’ He could see the -wheelwright’s shop, and the smithy, and I don’t know how many more -besides. From the same window he could even catch a glimpse of the rare -tourists or passing travellers who came to see the Chine. And what more -would the young man have? - -Miss Richardson, the dressmaker, had many little jobs to do for Kate. -Sometimes she took it into her head to have a dress made of more rapidly -than Maryanne’s leisurely fingers could do it; sometimes she saw a -fashion-book in Miss Richardson’s window to which she took a sudden -fancy; so that there was a great deal of intercourse kept up between the -dressmaker’s house and the Cottage. This did not mean that Kate was much -addicted to dress, or extravagant in that point; but she was fanciful -and fond of changes--and Maryanne, having very little to do, became -capable of doing less and less every day. Old Francesca made all Mrs. -Anderson’s gowns and most of Ombra’s, besides her other work; but -Maryanne, a free-born Briton, was not to be bound to any such slavery. -And thus it happened that Miss Richardson went often to the Cottage. She -wore what was then called a cottage-bonnet, surrounding, with a border -of clean quilted net, her prim but pleasant face, and a black merino -dress with white collar and cuffs; she looked, in short, very much as a -novice Sister would look now; but England was very Protestant at that -moment, and there were no Sisters in Miss Richardson’s day. - -‘My young gentleman is getting a little better used to things, thank -you, ma’am,’ said Miss Richardson. ‘Since he has been a little more -taken out of an evening, you and other ladies inviting him to tea, you -can’t think what a load is lifted off my mind. The way he used to walk -about at first, crushing over my head till I thought the house would -come down! They all feel it a bit, ma’am, do my gentlemen. The last one -was a sensible man, and fond of reading, but they ain’t all fond of -reading--more’s the pity! I’ve been out in the world myself, and I know -how cold it strikes coming right into the country like this.’ - -‘But he has his parish work,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a little -severity. - -‘That is what Mrs. Eldridge says; but, bless you, what’s his parish work -to a young gentleman like that, fresh from college? He don’t know what -to say to the folks--he don’t know what to do with them. Bless your -heart,’ said Miss Richardson, warming into excitement, ‘what should he -know about a poor woman’s troubles with her family--or a man’s, either, -for that part? He just puts his hand in his pocket; that’s all he does. -“I’m sure I’m very sorry for you, and here’s half-a-crown,” he says. -It’s natural. I’d have done it myself when I was as young, before I knew -the world, if I’d had the halfcrown; and he won’t have it long, if he -goes on like this.’ - -‘It is very kind of him, and very nice of him,’ said Kate. - -‘Yes, Miss, it’s kind in meaning, but it don’t do any good. It’s just a -way of getting rid of them, the same as sending them off altogether. -There ain’t one gentleman in a thousand that understands poor folks. -Give them a bit of money, and get quit of them; that’s what young men -think; but poor folks want something different. I’ve nothing to say -against Greek and Latin; they’re all very fine, I don’t doubt, but they -don’t tell you how to manage a parish. You can’t, you know, unless -you’ve seen life a bit, and understand folk’s ways, and how things -strike them. Turn round, if you please, Miss, till I fit it under the -arm. It’s just like as if Miss Ombra there should think she could make a -dress, because she can draw a pretty figure. You think you could, -Miss?--then just you try, that’s all I have got to say. The gentlemen -think like you. They read their books, and they think they understand -folk’s hearts, but they don’t, any more than you know how to gore a -skirt. Miss Kate, if you don’t keep still, I can’t get on. The scissors -will snip you, and it would be a thousand pities to snip such a nice -white neck. Now turn round, please, and show the ladies. There’s -something that fits, I’m proud to think. I’ve practised my trade in town -and all about; I haven’t taken it out of books. Though you can draw -beautiful, Miss Ombra, you couldn’t make a fit like that.’ - -Miss Richardson resumed, with pins in her mouth, when she had turned -Kate round and round, ‘There’s nobody I pity in all the world, ma’am, as -I pity those young gentlemen. They’re very nice, as a rule; they speak -civil, and don’t give more trouble than they can help. Toss their boots -about the room, and smoke their cigars, and make a mess--that’s to be -looked for; but civil and nice-spoken, and don’t give trouble when they -think of it. But, bless your heart, if I had plenty to live on, and no -work to do but to look out of my window and take walks, and smoke my -cigar, I’d kill myself, that’s what I’d do! Well, there’s the schools -and things; but he can’t be poking among the babies more than half an -hour or so now and then; and I ask you, ladies, as folks with some -sense, what _is_ that young gentleman to do in a mothers’ meeting? No, -ma’am, ask him to tea if you’d be his friend, and give him a little -interest in his life. They didn’t ought to send young gentlemen like -that into small country parishes. And if he falls in love with one of -your young ladies, ma’am, none the worse.’ - -‘But suppose my young ladies would have nothing to say to him?’ said -Mrs. Anderson, smiling upon her child, for whom, surely, she might -expect a higher fate. As for Kate, the heiress, the prize, such a thing -was not to be thought of. But Kate was only a child; she did not occur -to the mother, who even in her heiress-ship saw nothing which could -counterbalance the superior attractions of Ombra. - -Miss Richardson took the pins out of her mouth, and turned Kate round -again, and nodded half a dozen times in succession her knowing head. - -‘Never mind, ma’am,’ she said, ‘never mind--none the worse, say I. Them -young gentlemen ought to learn that they can’t have the first they -fancy. Does ’em good. Men are all a deal too confident -now-a-days--though I’ve seen the time! But just you ask him to tea, -ma’am, if you’d stand his friend, and leave it to the young ladies to -rouse him up. Better folks than him has had their hearts broken, and -done ’em good!’ - -It was not with these bloodthirsty intentions that Mrs. Anderson adopted -the dressmaker’s advice; but, notwithstanding, it came about that Mr. -Sugden was asked a great many times to tea. He began to grow familiar -about the house, as the Berties had been; to have his corner, where he -always sat; to escort them in their walks. And it cannot be denied that -this mild addition to the interests of life roused him much more than -the almshouses and the infant schools. He wrote home, to his paternal -house in the Fens, that he was beginning, now he knew it better, as his -mother had prophesied, to take a great deal more interest in the parish; -that there were some nice people in it, and that it was a privilege, -after all, to live in such a lovely spot! This was the greatest relief -to the mind of his mother, who was afraid, at the first, that the boy -was not happy. ‘Thank heaven, he has found out now that a life devoted -to the service of his Maker is a happy life!’ that pious woman said, in -the fulness of her heart; not knowing, alas! that it was devotion to -Ombra which had brightened his heavy existence. - -He fell in love gradually, before the eyes of the older people, who -looked on with more amusement than any graver feeling; and, with a -natural malice, everybody urged it on--from Kate, who gave up her seat -by her cousin’s to the Curate, up to Mr. Eldridge himself, who would -praise Ombra’s beauty, and applaud her cleverness with a twinkle in his -eye, till the gratified young man felt ready to go through fire and -water for his chief. The only spectators who were serious in the -contemplation of this little tragi-comedy were Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. -Eldridge, of whom one was alarmed, and the other disapproving. Mrs. -Anderson uttered little words of warning from time to time, and did all -she could to keep the two apart; but then her anxiety was all for her -daughter, who perhaps was the sole person in the parish unaware of the -fact of Mr. Sugden’s devotion to her. When she had made quite sure of -this, I am afraid she was not very solicitous about the Curate’s -possible heartbreak. He was a natural victim; it was scarcely likely -that he could escape that heartbreak sooner or later, and in the -meantime he was happy. - -‘What can I do?’ she said to the Rector’s wife. ‘I cannot forbid him my -house; and we have never given him any encouragement--in that way. What -can I do?’ - -‘If Ombra does not care for him, I think she is behaving very badly,’ -said Mrs. Eldridge. ‘I should speak to her, if I were in your place. I -never would allow my Lucy to treat any man so. Of course, if she means -to accept him, it is a different matter; but I should certainly speak to -Ombra, if I were in your place.’ - -‘The child has not an idea of anything of the kind,’ said Mrs. Anderson, -faltering. ‘Why should I disturb her unconsciousness?’ - -‘Oh!’ said Mrs. Eldridge, ironically, ‘I am sure I beg your pardon. I -don’t, for my part, understand the unconsciousness of a girl of -nineteen!’ - -‘Not quite nineteen,’ said Ombra’s mother, with a certain humility. - -‘A girl old enough to be married,’ said the other, vehemently. ‘I was -married myself at eighteen and a half. I don’t understand it, and I -don’t approve of it. If she doesn’t know, she ought to know; and unless -she means to accept him, I shall always say she has treated him very -badly. I would speak to her, if it were I, before another day had -passed.’ - -Mrs. Anderson was an impressionable woman, and though she resented her -neighbour’s interference, she acted upon her advice. She took Ombra into -her arms that evening, when they were alone, in the favourite hour of -talk which they enjoyed after Kate had gone to bed. - -‘My darling!’ she said, ‘I want to speak to you. Mr. Sugden has taken to -coming very often--we are never free of him. Perhaps it would be better -not to let him come quite so much.’ - -‘I don’t see how we can help it,’ said Ombra, calmly; ‘he is dull, he -likes it; and I am sure he is very inoffensive. I do not mind him at -all, for my part.’ - -‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, faltering; ‘but then, perhaps, he may -mind you.’ - -‘In that case he would stop away,’ said Ombra, with perfect unconcern. - -‘You don’t understand me, dear. Perhaps he thinks of you too much; -perhaps he is coming too often, for his own good.’ - -‘Thinks of me--too much!’ said Ombra, with wide-opened eyes; and then a -passing blush came over her face, and she laughed. ‘He is very careful -not to show any signs of it, then,’ she said. ‘Mamma, this is not your -idea. Mrs. Eldridge has put it into your head.’ - -‘Well, my darling, but if it were true----’ - -‘Why, then, send him away,’ said Ombra, laughing. ‘But how very silly! -Should not I have found it out if he cared for me? If he is in love with -any one, it is with you.’ - -And after this what could the mother do? - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -Ombra was a young woman, as we have said, full of fancy, but without any -sympathetic imagination. She had made a picture to herself--as was -inevitable--of what the lover would be like when he first approached -her. It was a fancy sketch entirely, not even founded upon observation -of others. She had said to herself that love would speak in his eyes, as -clearly as any tongue could reveal it; she had pictured to herself the -kind of chivalrous devotion which belongs to the age of romance--or, at -least, which is taken for granted as having belonged to it. And as she -was a girl who did not talk very much, or enter into any exposition of -her feelings, she had cherished the ideal very deeply in her mind, and -thought over it a great deal. She could not understand any type of love -but this one; and consequently poor Mr. Sugden, who did not possess -expressive eyes, and could not have talked with them to save his life, -was very far from coming up to her ideal. When her mother made this -suggestion, Ombra thought over it seriously, and thought over him who -was the subject of it, and laughed within herself at the want of -perception which associated Mr. Sugden and love together. ‘Poor dear -mamma,’ she said in her heart, ‘it is so long since she had anything to -do with it, she has forgotten what it looks like.’ And all that day she -kept laughing to herself over this strange mistake; for Ombra had this -other peculiarity of self-contained people, that she did not care much -for the opinion of others. What she made out for herself, she believed -in, but not much else. Mr. Sugden was very good, she thought--kind to -everybody, and kind to herself, always willing to be of service; but to -speak of him and love in the same breath! He was at the Cottage that -same evening, and she watched him with a little amused curiosity. Kate -gave up the seat next to her to the Curate, and Ombra smiled secretly, -saying to herself that Kate and her mother were in a conspiracy against -her. And the Curate looked at her with dull, light blue eyes, which were -dazzled and abashed, not made expressive and eloquent by feeling. He -approached awkwardly, with a kind of terror. He directed his -conversation chiefly to Mrs. Anderson; and did not address herself -directly for a whole half hour at least. The thing seemed simply comical -to Ombra. ‘Come here, Mr. Sugden,’ she said, when she changed her seat -after tea, calling him after her, ‘and tell me all about yesterday, and -what you saw and what you did.’ She did this with a little bravado, to -show the spectators she did not care; but caught a meaning glance from -Mrs. Eldridge, and blushed, in spite of herself. So, then, Mrs. Eldridge -thought so too! How foolish people are! ‘Here is a seat for you, Mr. -Sugden,’ said Ombra, in defiance. And the Curate, in a state of perfect -bliss, went after her, to tell her of an expedition which she cared -nothing in the world about. Heaven knows what more besides the poor -young fellow might have told her, for he was deceived by her manner, as -the others were, and believed in his soul that, if never before, she had -given him actual ‘encouragement’ to-night. But the Rector’s wife came to -the rescue, for she was a virtuous woman, who could not see harm done -before her very eyes without an attempt to interfere. - -‘I hope you see what you are doing,’ she whispered severely in Ombra’s -ear before she sat down, and fixed her eyes upon her with all the -solemnity of a judge. - -‘Oh! surely, dear Mrs. Eldridge--I want to hear about this expedition to -the fleet,’ said Ombra. ‘Pray, Mr. Sugden, begin.’ - -Poor fellow! the Curate was not eloquent, and to feel his Rectoress -beside him, noting all his words, took away from him what little faculty -he had. He began his stumbling, uncomfortable story, while Ombra sat -sweetly in her corner, and smiled and knitted. He could look at her when -she was not looking at him; and she, in defiance of all absurd theories, -was kind to him, and listened, and encouraged him to go on. - -‘Yes. I daresay nothing particular occurred,’ Mrs. Eldridge said at -last, with some impatience. ‘You went over the _Royal Sovereign_, as -everybody does. I don’t wonder you are at a loss for words to describe -it. It is a fine sight, but dreadfully hackneyed. I wonder very much, -Ombra, you never were there.’ - -‘But for that reason Mr. Sugden’s account is very interesting to me,’ -said Ombra, giving him a still more encouraging look. - -‘Dreadful little flirt!’ Mrs. Eldridge said to herself, and with -virtuous resolution, went on--‘The boys, I suppose, will go too, on -their way here. They are coming in Bertie’s new yacht this time. I am -sure I wish yachts had never been invented. I suppose these two will -keep me miserable about the children from the moment they reach Sandown -pier.’ - -‘Which two?’ said Ombra. It was odd that she should have asked the -question, for her attention had at once forsaken the Curate, and she -knew exactly who was meant. - -‘Oh! the Berties, of course. Did not you know they were coming?’ said -Mrs. Eldridge. ‘I like the boys very well--but their yacht! Adieu to -peace for me from the hour it arrives! I know I shall be put down by -everybody, and my anxieties laughed at; and you girls will have your -heads turned, and think of nothing else.’ - -‘The Berties!--are they coming?’ cried Kate, making a spring towards -them. ‘I am so glad! When are they coming?--and what was that about a -yacht? A yacht!--the very thing one wanted--the thing I have been -sighing, dying for! Oh! you dear Mrs. Eldridge, tell me when they are -coming. And do you think they will take us out every day?’ - -‘There!’ said the Rector’s wife, with the composure of despair. ‘I told -you how it would be. Kate has lost her head already, and Ombra has no -longer any interest in your expedition, Mr. Sugden. Are you fond of -yachting too? Well, thank Providence you are strong, and must be a good -swimmer, and won’t let the children be drowned, if anything happens. -That is the only comfort I have had since I heard of it. They are coming -to-morrow--we had a letter this morning--both together, as usual, and -wasting their time in the same way. I disapprove of it very much, for my -part. A thing which may do very well for Bertie Eldridge, with the -family property, and title, and everything coming to him, is very -unsuitable for Bertie Hardwick, who has nothing. But nobody will see it -in that light but me.’ - -‘I must talk to him about it,’ said Kate, thoughtfully. Ombra did not -say anything, but as the Rector’s wife remarked, she had no longer any -interest in the Curate’s narrative. She was not uncivil, she listened to -what he said afterwards, but it fell flat upon her, and she asked him if -he knew the Berties, and if he did not think yachting would be extremely -pleasant? It may be forgiven to him if we record that Mr. Sugden went -home that night with a hatred of the Berties, which was anything but -Christian-like. He (almost) wished the yacht might founder before it -reached Sandown Bay; he wished they might be driven out to sea, and get -sick of it, and abandon all thoughts of the Isle of Wight. Of course -they were fresh-water sailors, who had never known what a gale was, he -said contemptuously in his heart. - -But nothing happened to the yacht. It arrived, and everything came true -which Mrs. Eldridge had predicted. The young people in the village and -neighbourhood lost their heads. There was nothing but voyages talked -about, and expeditions here and there. They circumnavigated the island, -they visited the Needles, they went to Spithead to see the fleet, they -did everything which it was alarming and distressing for a mother to see -her children do. And sometimes, which was the greatest wonder of all, -she was wheedled into going with them herself. Sometimes it was Mrs. -Anderson who was the _chaperon_ of the merry party. The Berties -themselves were unchanged. They were as much alike as ever, as -inseparable, as friendly and pleasant. They even recommended themselves -to the Curate, though he was very reluctant to be made a friend of -against his will. As soon as they arrived, the wings of life seemed to -be freer, the wheels rolled easier, everything went faster. The very sun -seemed to shine more brightly. The whole talk of the little community at -Shanklin was about the yacht and its masters. They met perpetually to -discuss this subject. The croquet, the long walks, all the inland -amusements, were intermitted. ‘Where shall we go to-morrow?’ they asked -each other, and discussed the winds and the tides like ancient mariners. -In the presence of this excitement, the gossip about Mr. Sugden died a -natural death. The Curate was not less devoted to Ombra. He haunted her, -if not night and day, at least by sea and land, which had become the -most appropriate phraseology. He kept by her in every company; but as -the Berties occupied all the front of the picture, there was no room in -any one’s mind for the Curate. Even Mrs. Anderson forgot about him--she -had something more important on her mind. - -For that was Ombra’s day of triumph and universal victory. Sometimes -such a moment comes even to girls who are not much distinguished either -for their beauty or qualities of any kind--girls who sink into the -second class immediately after, and carry with them a sore and puzzled -consciousness of undeserved downfall. Ombra was at this height of -youthful eminence now. The girls round her were all younger than she, -not quite beyond the nursery, or, at least, the schoolroom. With Kate -and Lucy Eldridge by her, she looked like a half-opened rose, in the -perfection of bloom, beside two unclosed buds--or such, at least, was -her aspect to the young men, who calmly considered the younger girls as -sisters and playmates, but looked up to Ombra as the ideal maiden, the -heroine of youthful fancy. Perhaps, had they been older, this fact might -have been different; but at the age of the Berties sixteen was naught. -As they were never apart, it was difficult to distinguish the sentiments -of these young men, the one from the other. But the only conclusion to -be drawn by the spectators was that both of them were at Ombra’s feet. -They consulted her obsequiously about all their movements. They caught -at every hint of her wishes with the eagerness of vassals longing to -please their mistress. They vied with each other in arranging cloaks and -cushions for her. - -Their yacht was called the _Shadow_; no one knew why, except, indeed, -its owners themselves, and Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. Eldridge, who made a -shrewd guess. But this was a very different matter from the Curate’s -untold love. The Rector’s wife, ready as she was to interfere, could say -nothing about this. She would not, for the world, put such an idea into -the girl’s head, she said. It was, no doubt, but a passing fancy, and -could come to nothing; for Bertie Hardwick had nothing to marry on, and -Bertie Eldridge would never be permitted to unite himself to Ombra -Anderson, a girl without a penny, whose father had been nothing more -than a Consul. - -‘The best thing we can wish for her is that they may soon go away; and -I, for one, will never ask them again,’ said Mrs. Eldridge, with deep -concern in her voice. The Rector thought less of it, as was natural to a -man. He laughed at the whole business. - -‘If you can’t tell which is the lover, the love can’t be very -dangerous,’ he said. Thus totally ignoring, as his wife felt, the worst -difficulty of all. - -‘It might be both,’ she said solemnly; ‘and if it is only one, the other -is aiding and abetting. It is true I can’t tell which it is; but if I -were Maria, or if I were Annie----’ - -‘Thank Heaven you are neither,’ said the Rector; ‘and with ten children -of our own, and your nervousness in respect to them, I think you have -plenty on your shoulders, without taking up either Annie’s or Maria’s -share.’ - -‘I am a mother, and I can’t help feeling for other mothers,’ said Mrs. -Eldridge, who gave herself a great deal of trouble unnecessarily in this -way. But she did not feel for Ombra’s mother in these perplexing -circumstances. She was angry with Ombra. It was the girl’s fault, she -felt, that she was thus dangerous to other women’s boys. Why should she, -a creature of no account, turn the heads of the young men? ‘She is not -very pretty, even--not half so pretty as her cousin will be, who is -worth thinking of,’ she said, in her vexation. Any young man would have -been fully justified in falling in love with Kate. But Ombra, who was -nobody! It was too bad, she felt; it was a spite of fate! - -As for Mrs. Anderson, she, warned by the failure of her former -suggestions, said nothing to her child of the possibilities that seemed -to be dawning upon her; but she thought the more. She watched the -Berties with eyes which, being more deeply interested, were keener and -clearer than anybody else’s eyes; and she drew her own conclusions with -a heart that beat high, and sometimes would flutter, like a girl’s, in -her breast. - -Ombra accepted very graciously all the homage paid to her. She felt the -better and the happier for it, whatever her opinion as to its origin -might be. She began to talk more, being confident of the applause of the -audience. In a hundred little subtle ways she was influenced by it, -brightened, and stimulated. Did she know why? Would she choose as she -ought? Was it some superficial satisfaction with the admiration she was -receiving that moved her, or some dawning of deeper feeling? Mrs. -Anderson watched her child with the deepest anxiety, but she could not -answer these questions. The merest stranger knew as much as she did what -Ombra would do or say. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -Things went on in this way for some weeks, while the _Shadow_ lay 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 feudal _suzeraine_ should 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 to _her_, 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 young moon 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 would tell 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 thought _he_ did; 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -The promise 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 always _à 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 but limits 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 to _her_ -first, 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 be _him_ hanging 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 way -was 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 anything wrong 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. -‘_What_ do 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, as his 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.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -Mrs. Anderson awaited 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 me so! 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 had never -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 in _any_ way. 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -Kate was 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 more penetrating 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 she had -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 the -_sourd_ irritation 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. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -Kate’s eighteenth 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--but _sensitive_ (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 on _our_ side. 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 what we 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. ‘_I_ want him. -I am glad that he should come, and see with his own eyes how you are -being brought up.’ - -‘_Being_ brought up! But I am eighteen. I have stopped growing. I am not -a child any longer. I _am_ brought 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 strange if 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 all _my_ sympathy,’ 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 opening under 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. She was 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! - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -With a malice sometimes shown by Providence, we have said; and we feel -sure that we are but expressing what many a troubled housewife has felt, -and blamed herself for feeling. Is it not on such days--days which -seemed to be selected for their utter inconvenience and general -wretchedness--that troublesome and ‘particular’ visitors always do come? -When a party is going on, and all the place is in gay disorder, as now -it was, is it not then that the sour and cynical guest--the person who -ought to be received with grave looks and sober aspect--suddenly falls -upon us, as from the unkind skies? The epicure comes when we are sitting -down to cold mutton--when the tablecloth is not so fresh as it might be. -Everything of this accidental kind, or almost everything, follows the -same rule, and therefore it is with a certain sense of malicious -intention in the untoward fate which pursues us that so many of us -regard such a hazard as this which had befallen Mrs. Anderson. She rose -with a feeling of impatient indignation which almost choked her. Yes, it -was ‘just like’ what must happen. Of course it was he, because it was -just the moment when he was not wanted--when he was unwelcome--of course -it must be he! But Mrs. Anderson was equal to the occasion, -notwithstanding the horrible consciousness that there was no room ready -for him, no dinner cooked or cookable, no opportunity, even, of -murmuring a word of apology. She smoothed her brows bravely, and put on -her most cheerful smile. - -‘I am very glad to see you--I am delighted that you have made up your -mind to come to see us at last,’ she said, with dauntless courage. - -Mr. Courtenay made her his best bow, and looked round upon the scene -with raised eyebrows, and a look of criticism which went through and -through her. ‘I did not expect anything so brilliant,’ he said, rubbing -his thin hands. ‘I was not aware you were so gay in Shanklin.’ - -Gay! If he could only have seen into her heart! - -For at that very moment the two Berties had joined the party, and were -standing by Ombra in her corner; and the mother’s eye was drawn aside to -watch them, even though this other guest stood before her. The two stood -about in an embarrassed way, evidently not knowing what to do or say. -They paid their respects to Ombra with a curious humility and -deprecating eagerness; they looked at her as if to say, ‘Don’t be angry -with us--we did not mean to do anything to offend you;’ whereas Ombra, -on her side, sat drawn back in her seat, with an air of consciousness -and apparent displeasure, which Mrs. Anderson thought everybody must -notice. Gay!--this was what she had to make her so; her daughter cold, -estranged, pale with passion and disappointment, and an inexpressible -incipient jealousy, betraying herself and her sentiments; and the young -men so disturbed, so bewildered, not knowing what she meant. They -lingered for a few minutes, waiting, it seemed, to see if perhaps a -kinder reception might be given them, and then withdrew from Ombra with -almost an expression of relief, to find more genial welcome elsewhere; -while she sank back languid and silent, in a dull misery, which was lit -up by jealous gleams of actual pain, watching them from under her -eyelids, noting, as by instinct, everyone they spoke to or looked at. -Poor Mrs. Anderson! she turned from this sight, and kept down the ache -in her heart, and smiled and said, - -‘Gay!--oh! no; but the children like a little simple amusement, and this -is Kate’s birthday.’ If he had but known what kind of gaiety it was that -filled her!--but had he known, Mr. Courtenay fortunately would not have -understood. He had outgrown all such foolish imaginations. It never -would have occurred to him to torment himself as to a girl’s looks; but -there seemed to him much more serious matters concerned, as he looked -round the pretty lawn. He had distinguished Kate now, and Kate had just -met the two Berties, and was talking to them with a little flush of -eagerness. Kate, like the others, did not know which Bertie it was who -had thrust himself so perversely into her cousin’s life; but it had -seemed to her, in her self-communings on the subject, that the thing to -do was to be ‘very civil’ to the Berties, to make the Cottage very -pleasant to them, to win them back, so that Ombra might be unhappy no -more. Half for this elaborate reason, and half because she was in high -spirits and ready to make herself agreeable to everybody, she stood -talking gaily to the two young men, with three pair of eyes upon her. -When had they come?--how nice it was of them to have arrived in time for -her party!--how kind of Bertie Hardwick to bring her those flowers from -Langton!--and was it not a lovely day, and delightful to be out in the -air, and begin Summer again! - -All this Kate went through with smiles and pleasant looks, while they -looked at her. Three pairs of eyes, all with desperate meaning in them. -To Ombra it seemed that the most natural thing in the world was taking -place. The love which she had rejected, which she had thrown away, was -being transferred before her very face to her bright young cousin, who -was wiser than she, and would not throw it away. It was the most -natural thing in the world, but, oh, heaven, how bitter!--so bitter that -to see it was death! Mrs. Anderson watched Kate with a sick -consciousness of what was passing through her daughter’s mind, a sense -of the injustice of it and the bitterness of it, yet a poignant sympathy -with poor Ombra’s self-inflicted suffering. - -Mr. Courtenay’s ideas were very different, but he was not less impressed -by the group before his eyes. And the other people about looked too, -feeling that sudden quickening of interest in Kate which her guardian’s -visit naturally awakened. They all knew by instinct that this was her -guardian who had appeared upon the scene, and that something was going -to happen. Thus, all at once, the gay party turned into a drama, the -secondary personages arranging themselves intuitively in the position of -the chorus, looking on and recording the progress of the tale. - -‘I suppose Kate’s guardian must have come to fetch her away. What a loss -she will be to the Andersons!’ whispered a neighbouring matron, full of -interest, in Mrs. Eldridge’s ear. - -‘One never can tell,’ said that thoughtful woman. ‘Kate is quite grown -up now, and with two girls, you never know when one may come in the -other’s way.’ - -This was so oracular a sentence, that it was difficult to pick up the -conversation after it; but after a while, the other went on-- - -‘Let us take a little walk, and see what the girls are about. I -understand Kate is a great heiress--she is eighteen now, is she not? -Perhaps she is of age at eighteen.’ - -‘Oh, I don’t think so!’ said Mrs. Eldridge. ‘The Courtenays don’t do -that sort of thing; they are staunch old Tories, and keep up all the old -traditions. But still Mr. Courtenay might think it best; and perhaps, -from every point of view, it might be best. She has been very happy -here; but still these kind of arrangements seldom last.’ - -‘Ah, yes!’ said the other, ‘there is no such dreadful responsibility as -bringing up other people’s children. Sooner or later it is sure to bring -dispeace.’ - -‘And a girl is never so well anywhere,’ added Mrs. Eldridge, ‘as in her -father’s house.’ - -Thus far the elder chorus. The young ones said to each other, with a -flutter of confused excitement and sympathy, ‘Oh, what an old ogre -Kate’s guardian looks!’ ‘Has he come to carry her off, I wonder?’ ‘Will -he eat her up if he does?’ ‘Is she fond of him?’ Will she go to live -with him when she leaves the Cottage?’ ‘How she stands talking and -laughing to the two Berties, without ever knowing he is here!’ - -Mrs. Anderson interrupted all this by a word. ‘Lucy,’ she said, to the -eldest of the Rector’s girls, ‘call Kate to me, dear. Her uncle is here, -and wants her; say she must come at once.’ - -‘Oh, it is her uncle!’ Lucy whispered to the group that surrounded her. - -‘It is her uncle,’ the chorus went on. ‘Well, but he is an old ogre all -the same!’ ‘Oh, look at Kate’s face!’ ‘How surprised she is!’ ‘She is -glad!’ ‘Oh, no, she doesn’t like it!’ ‘She prefers talking nonsense to -the Berties!’ ‘Don’t talk so--Kate never flirts!’ ‘Oh, doesn’t she -flirt?’ ‘But you may be sure the old uncle will not stand that!’ - -Mr. Courtenay followed the movements of the young messenger with his -eyes. He had received Mrs. Anderson’s explanations smilingly, and begged -her not to think of him. - -‘Pray, don’t suppose I have come to quarter myself upon you,’ he said. -‘I have rooms at the hotel. Don’t let me distract your attention from -your guests. I should like only to have two minutes’ talk with Kate.’ -And he stood, urbane and cynical, and looked round him, wondering -whether Kate’s money was paying for the entertainment, and setting down -every young man he saw as a fortune-hunter. They had all clustered -together like ravens, to feed upon her, he thought. ‘This will never -do--this will never do,’ he said to himself. How he had supposed his -niece to be living, it would be difficult to say; most likely he had -never attempted to form any imagination at all on the subject; but to -see her thus surrounded by other young people, the centre of admiration -and observation, startled him exceedingly. - -It was not, however, till Lucy went up to her that he quite identified -Kate. There she stood, smiling, glowing, a radiant, tall, well-developed -figure, with the two young men standing by. It required but little -exercise of fancy to believe that both of them were under Kate’s sway. -Ombra thought so, looking on darkly from her corner; and it was not -surprising that Mr. Courtenay should think so too. He stood petrified, -while she turned round, with a flush of genial light on her face. She -was glad to see him, though he had not much deserved it. She would have -been glad to see any one who had come to her with the charm of novelty. -With a little exclamation of pleasant wonder, she turned round, and made -a bound towards him--her step, her figure, her whole aspect light as a -bird on the wing. She left the young men without a word of explanation, -in her old eager, impetuous way, and rushed upon him. Before he had -roused himself up from his watch of her, she was by his side, putting -out both her hands, holding up her peach-cheek to be kissed. Kate!--was -it Kate? She was not only tall, fair, and woman grown--that was -inevitable--but some other change had come over her, which Mr. Courtenay -could not understand. She was a full-grown human creature, meeting him, -as it were, on the same level; but there was another change less natural -and more confusing, which Mr. Courtenay could make nothing of. An air -of celestial childhood, such as had never been seen in Kate Courtenay, -of Langton, breathed about her now. She was younger as well as older; -she was what he never could have made her, what no hireling could ever -have made her. She was a young creature, with natural relationships, -filling a natural place in the earth, obeying, submitting, influencing, -giving and receiving, loving and being loved. Mr. Courtenay, poor -limited old man, did not know what it meant; but he saw the change, and -he was startled. Was it--could it be Kate? - -‘I am so glad to see you, Uncle Courtenay. So you have really, truly -come? I am very glad to see you. It feels so natural--it is like being -back again at Langton. Have you spoken to auntie? How surprised she must -have been! We only got your letter this morning; and I never supposed -you would come so soon. If we had known, we would not have had all those -people, and I should have gone to meet you. But never mind, uncle, it -can’t be helped. To-morrow we shall have you all to ourselves.’ - -‘I am delighted to find you are so glad to see me,’ said Mr. Courtenay. -‘I scarcely thought you would remember me. But as for the enjoyment of -my society, that you can have at once, Kate, notwithstanding your party. -Take me round the garden, or somewhere. The others, you know, are -nothing to me; but I want to have some talk with you, Kate.’ - -‘I don’t know what my aunt will think,’ said Kate, somewhat discomfited. -‘Ombra is not very well to-day, and I have to take her place among the -people.’ - -‘But you must come with me in the meantime. I want to talk to you.’ - -She lifted upon him for a moment a countenance which reminded him of the -unmanageable child of Langton-Courtenay. But after this she turned -round, consulted her aunt by a glance, and was back by his side -instantly, with all her new youthfulness and grace. - -‘Come along, then,’ she said, gaily. ‘There is not much to show you, -uncle--everything is so small; but such as it is, you shall have all the -benefit. Come along, you shall see everything--kitchen-garden and all.’ - -And in another minute she had taken his arm, and was walking by his side -along the garden path, elastic and buoyant, slim and tall--as tall as he -was, which was not saying much, for the great Courtenays were not lofty -of stature; and Kate’s mother’s family had that advantage. The blooming -face she turned to him was on a level with his own; he could no longer -look down upon it. She was woman grown, a creature no longer capable of -being ordered about at any one’s pleasure. Could this be the little -wilful busybody, the crazy little princess, full of her own grandeur, -the meddling little gossip, Kate? - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - -Does this sort of thing happen often?’ said Mr. Courtenay, leading Kate -away round the further side of the garden, much to the annoyance of the -croquet players. The little kitchen-garden lay on the other side of the -house, out of sight even of the pretty lawn. He was determined to have -her entirely to himself. - -‘What sort of thing, Uncle Courtenay?’ - -Mr. Courtenay indicated with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder the -company they had just left. - -‘Oh! the croquet,’ said Kate, cheerfully. ‘No, not often here--more -usually it is at the Rectory, or one of the other neighbours. Our lawn -is so small; but sometimes, you know, we must take our turn.’ - -‘Oh! you must take your turn, must you?’ he said. ‘Are all these people -your Rectors, or neighbours, I should like to know?’ - -‘There are more Eldridges than anything else,’ said Kate. ‘There are so -many of them--and then all their cousins.’ - -‘Ah! I thought there must be cousins,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘Do you know -you have grown quite a young woman, Kate?’ - -‘Yes, Uncle Courtenay, I know; and I hope I give you satisfaction,’ she -said, laughing, and making him a little curtsey. - -How changed she was! Her eyes, which were always so bright; had warmed -and deepened. She was beautiful in her first bloom, with the blush of -eighteen coming and going on her cheeks, and the fresh innocence of her -look not yet harmed by any knowledge of the world. She was eighteen, and -yet she was younger as well as older than she had been at fifteen, -fresher as well as more developed. The old man of the world was puzzled, -and did not make it out. - -‘You are altered,’ he said, somewhat coldly; and then, ‘I understood -from your aunt that you lived very quietly, saw nobody----’ - -‘Nobody but our friends,’ explained Kate. - -‘Friends! I suppose you think everybody that looks pleasant is your -friend. Good lack! good lack!’ said the Mentor. ‘Why, this is -society--this is dissipation. A season in town would be nothing to it.’ - -Kate laughed. She thought it a very good joke; and not the faintest -idea crossed her mind that her uncle might mean what he said. - -‘Why, there are four, five, six grown-up young men,’ he said, standing -still and counting them as they came in sight of the lawn. ‘What is that -but dissipation? And what are they all doing idle about here? Six young -men! And who is that girl who is so unhappy, Kate?’ - -‘The girl who is unhappy, uncle?’ Kate changed colour; the instinct of -concealment came to her at once, though the stranger could have no way -of knowing that there was anything to conceal. ‘Oh! I see,’ she added. -‘You mean my cousin Ombra. She is not quite well; that is why she looks -so pale.’ - -‘I am not easily deceived,’ he said. ‘Look here, Kate, I am a keen -observer. She is unhappy, and you are in her way.’ - -‘I, uncle!’ - -‘You need not be indignant. You, and no other. I saw her before you left -your agreeable companions yonder. I think, Kate, you had better do your -packing and come away with me.’ - -‘With you, uncle?’ - -‘These are not very pleasant answers. Precisely--with me. Am I so much -less agreeable than that pompous aunt?’ - -‘Uncle Courtenay, you seem to forget who I am, and all about it!’ cried -Kate, reddening, her eyes brightening. ‘My aunt! Why, she is like my -mother. I would not leave her for all the world. I will not hear a word -that is not respectful to her. Why, I belong to her! You must forget---- -I am sure I beg your pardon, Uncle Courtenay,’ she added, after a pause, -subduing herself. ‘Of course you don’t mean it; and now that I see you -are joking about my aunt, of course you were only making fun of me about -Ombra too.’ - -‘I am a likely person to make fun,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘I know nothing -about your Ombras; but I am right, nevertheless, though the fact is of -no importance. I have one thing to say, however, which is of importance, -and that is, I can’t have this sort of thing. You understand me, Kate? -You are a young woman of property, and will have to move in a very -different sphere. I can’t allow you to begin your career with the -Shanklin tea-parties. We must put a stop to that.’ - -‘I assure you, Uncle Courtenay,’ cried Kate, very gravely, and with -indignant state, ‘that the people here are as good as either you or I. -The Eldridges are of very good family. By-the-bye, I forgot to mention, -they are cousins of our old friends at the Langton Rectory--the -Hardwicks. Don’t you remember, uncle? And Bertie and the rest--you -remember Bertie?--visit here.’ - -‘Oh! they visit here, do they?’ said Mr. Courtenay, with meaning looks. - -Something kept Kate from adding, ‘He is here now.’ She meant to have -done so, but could not, somehow. Not that she cared for Bertie, she -declared loftily to herself; but it was odious to talk to any one who -was always taking things into his head! So she merely nodded, and made -no other reply. - -‘I suppose you are impatient to be back to your Eldridges, and people of -good family?’ he said. ‘The best thing for you would be to consider all -this merely a shadow, like your friend with the odd name. But I am very -much surprised at Mrs. Anderson. She ought to have known better. What! -must I not say as much as that?’ - -‘Not to me, if you please, uncle,’ cried Kate, with all the heat of a -youthful champion. - -He smiled somewhat grimly. Had the girl taken it into her foolish head -to have loved him, Mr. Courtenay would have been much embarrassed by the -unnecessary sentiment. But yet this foolish enthusiasm for a person on -the other side of the house--for one of the mother’s people, who was -herself an interloper, and had really nothing to do with the Courtenay -stock, struck him as a robbery from himself. He felt angry, though he -was aware it was absurd. - -‘I shall take an opportunity, however, of making my opinion very clear,’ -he said, deliberately, with a pleasurable sense that at least he could -make this ungrateful, unappreciative child unhappy. The latter half of -this talk was held at the corner of the lawn, where the two stood -together, much observed and noted by all the party. The young people all -gazed at Kate’s guardian with a mixture of wonder and awe. What could he -be going to do to her? They felt his disapproval affect them somehow -like a cold shade; and Mrs. Anderson felt it also, and was disturbed -more than she would show, and once more felt vexed and disgusted indeed -with Providence, which had so managed matters as to send him on such a -day. - -‘He looks as if he were displeased,’ she said to Ombra, when her -daughter came near her, and she could indulge herself in a moment’s -confidence. - -‘What does it matter how he looks?’ said Ombra, who herself looked -miserable enough. - -‘My darling, it is for poor Kate’s sake.’ - -‘Oh! Kate!--always Kate! I am tired of Kate!’ said Ombra, sinking down -listlessly upon a seat. She had the look of being tired of all the rest -of the world. Her mother whispered to her, in a tone of alarm, to bestir -herself, to try to exert herself, and entertain their guests. - -‘People are asking me what is the matter with you already,’ said poor -Mrs. Anderson, distracted with these conflicting cares. - -‘Tell them it is temper that is the matter,’ said poor Ombra. And then -she rose, and made a poor attempt once more to be gay. - -This, however, was not long necessary, for Kate came back, flushed, and -in wild spirits, announcing that her uncle had gone, and took the whole -burden of the entertainment on her own shoulders. Even this, though it -was a relief to her, Ombra felt as an injury. She resented Kate’s -assumption of the first place; she resented the wistful looks which her -cousin directed to herself, and all her caressing words and ways. - -‘Dear Ombra, go and rest, and I will look after these tiresome people,’ -Kate said, putting her arm round her. - -‘I don’t want to rest--pray take no notice of me--let me alone!’ cried -Ombra. It was temper--certainly it was temper--nothing more. - -‘But don’t think you have got rid of him, auntie, dear,’ whispered Kate, -in Mrs. Anderson’s ear. ‘He says he is coming back to-night, when all -these people are gone--or if not to-night, at least to-morrow -morning--to have some serious talk. Let us keep everybody as late as -possible, and balk him for to-night.’ - -‘Why should I wish to balk him, my dear?’ said Mrs. Anderson, with all -her natural dignity. ‘He and I can have but one meeting-ground, one -common interest, and that is your welfare, Kate.’ - -‘Well, auntie, I want to balk him,’ cried the girl, ‘and I shall do all -I can to keep him off. After tea we shall have some music,’ she added, -with a laugh, ‘for the Berties, auntie, who are so fond of music. The -Berties must stay as long as possible, and then everything will come -right.’ - -Poor Mrs. Anderson! she shook her head with a kind of mild despair. The -Berties were as painful a subject to her as Mr. Courtenay. She was -driven to her wits’ end. To her the disapproving look of the latter was -a serious business; and if she could have done it, instead of tempting -them to stay all night, she would fain have sent off the two Berties to -the end of the world. All this she had to bear upon her weighted -shoulders, and all the time to smile, and chat, and make herself -agreeable. Thus the pretty Elysium of the Cottage--its banks of early -flowers, its flush of Spring vegetation and blossom, and the gay group -on the lawn--was like a rose with canker in it--plenty of canker--and -seated deep in the very heart of the bloom. - -But Kate managed to carry out her intention, as she generally did. She -delayed the high tea which was to wind up the rites of the afternoon. -When it was no longer possible to put it off, she lengthened it out to -the utmost of her capabilities. She introduced music afterwards, as she -had threatened--in short, she did everything an ingenious young woman -could do to extend the festivities. When she felt quite sure that Mr. -Courtenay must have given up all thought of repeating his visit to the -Cottage, she relaxed in her exertions, and let the guests go--not -reflecting, poor child, in her innocence, that the lighted windows, the -music, the gay chatter of conversation which Mr. Courtenay heard when he -turned baffled from the Cottage door at nine o’clock, had confirmed all -his doubts, and quickened all his fears. - -‘Now, auntie, dear, we are safe--at least, for to-night,’ she said; ‘for -I fear Uncle Courtenay means to make himself disagreeable. I could see -it in his face--and I am sure you are not able for any more worry -to-night.’ - -‘I have no reason to be afraid of your Uncle Courtenay, my dear.’ - -‘Oh! no--of course not; but you are tired. And where is Ombra?--Ombra, -where are you? What has become of her?’ cried Kate. - -‘She is more tired than I am--perhaps she has gone to bed. Kate, my -darling, don’t make her talk to-night.’ - -Kate did not hear the end of this speech; she had rushed away, calling -Ombra through the house. There was no answer, but she saw a shadow in -the verandah, and hurried there to see who it was. There, under the -green climbing tendrils of the clematis, a dim figure was standing, -clinging to the rustic pillar, looking out into the darkness. Kate stole -behind her, and put her arm round her cousin’s waist. To her amazement, -she was thrust away, but not so quickly as to be unaware that Ombra was -crying. Kate’s consternation was almost beyond the power of speech. - -‘Oh! Ombra, what is wrong?--are you ill?--have I done anything? Oh! I -cannot bear to see you cry!’ - -‘I am not crying,’ was the answer, in a voice made steady by pride. - -‘Don’t be angry with me, please. Oh! Ombra, I am so sorry! Tell me what -it is!’ cried wistful Kate. - -‘It is temper,’ cried Ombra, after a pause, with a sudden outburst of -sobs. ‘There, that is all; now leave me to myself, after you have made -me confess. It is temper, temper, temper--nothing! I thought I had not -any, but I have the temper of a fiend, and I am trying to struggle -against it. Oh! for heaven’s sake, let me alone!’ - -Kate took away her arm, and withdrew herself humbly, with a grieved and -wondering pain in her heart. Ombra with the temper of a fiend! Ombra -repulsing her, turning away from her, rejecting her sympathy! She crept -to her little white bedroom, all silent, and frightened in her surprise, -not knowing what to think. Was it a mere caprice--a cloud that would be -over to-morrow?--was it only the result of illness and weariness? or had -some sudden curtain been drawn aside, opening to her a new mystery, an -unsuspected darkness in this sweet life? - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - -Long after Kate’s little bedchamber had fallen into darkness, the light -still twinkled in the windows of the Cottage drawing-room. The lamp was -still alight at midnight, and Ombra and her mother sat together, with -the marks of tears on their cheeks, still talking, discussing, going -over their difficulties. - -‘I could bear him to go away,’ Ombra had said, in her passion; ‘I could -bear never to see him again. Sometimes I think I should be glad. Oh! I -am ashamed--ashamed to the bottom of my heart to care for one who -perhaps cares no longer for me! if he would only go away; or if I could -run away, and never more see him again! It is not that, mamma--it is not -that. It is my own fault that I am unhappy. After what he said to me, to -see him with--her! Yes, though I should die with shame, I will tell you -the truth. He comes and looks at me as if I were a naughty child, and -then he goes and smiles and talks to _her_--after all he said. Oh! it is -temper, mamma, vile temper and jealousy, and I don’t know what! I hate -her then, and him; and I detest myself. I could kill myself, so much am -I ashamed!’ - -‘Ombra! Ombra! my darling, don’t speak so!--it is so unlike you!’ - -‘Yes,’ she said, with a certain scorn, ‘it is so unlike me that I was -appalled at myself when I found it out. But what do you know about me, -mother? How can you tell I might not be capable of anything that is bad, -if I were only tempted, as well as this?’ - -‘My darling! my darling!’ said the mother, in her consternation, not -knowing what to say. - -‘Yes,’ the girl went on, ‘your darling, whom you have brought up out of -the reach of evil, who was always so gentle, and so quiet, and so good. -I know--I remember how I have heard people speak of me. I was called -Ombra because I was such a shadowy, still creature, too gentle to make a -noise. Oh! how often I have heard that I was good; until I was tempted. -If I were tempted to murder anybody, perhaps I should be capable of it. -I feel half like it sometimes now.’ - -Mrs. Anderson laid her hand peremptorily on her daughter’s arm. - -‘This is monstrous!’ she said. ‘Ombra, you have talked yourself into a -state of excitement. I will not be sorry for you any longer. It is mere -madness, and it must be brought to a close.’ - -‘It is not madness!’ she cried--‘I wish it were. I sometimes hope it -will come to be. It is temper!--temper! and I hate it! And I cannot -struggle against it. Every time he goes near her--every time she speaks -to him! Oh! it must be some devil, do you think--like the devils in the -Bible--that has got possession of me?’ - -‘Ombra, you are ill--you must go to bed,’ said her mother. ‘Why do you -shake your head? You will wear yourself into a fever; and what is to -become of me? Think a little of me. I have troubles, too, though they -are not like yours. Try to turn your mind, dear, from what vexes you, -and sympathise with me. Think what an unpleasant surprise to me to see -that disagreeable old man; and that he should have come to-day, of all -days; and the interview I shall have to undergo to-morrow----’ - -‘Mamma,’ said Ombra, with reproof in her tone, ‘how strange it is that -you should think of such trifles. What is he to you? A man whom you care -nothing for--whom we have nothing to do with.’ - -‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with eyes steadily fixed upon her -daughter, ‘I have told you before it is for Kate’s sake.’ - -‘Oh! Kate!’ Ombra made a gesture of impatience. In her present mood, she -could not bear her cousin’s name. But her mother had been thinking over -many things during this long afternoon, which had been so gay, and -dragged so heavily. She had considered the whole situation, and had made -up her mind, so far as it was practicable, to a certain course of -action. Neither for love’s sake, nor for many other considerations, -could she spare Kate. Even Ombra’s feelings _must_ yield, though she had -been so indiscreet even as to contemplate the idea of sacrificing Kate -for Ombra’s feelings. But now she had thought better of it, and had made -up her mind to take it for granted that Ombra too could only feel as a -sister to Kate. - -‘Ombra, you are warped and unhappy just now; you don’t do justice either -to your cousin or yourself. But even at this moment, surely you cannot -have thrown aside everything; you cannot be devoid of all natural -feeling for Kate.’ - -‘I have no natural feeling,’ she said, hoarsely. ‘Have not I told you -so? I would not allow myself to say it till you put it into my head. -But, mamma, it is true. I want her out of my way. Oh! you need not look -so horrified; you thought so yourself this morning. From the first, I -felt she was in my way. She deranged all our plans--she came between -you and me. Let her go! she is richer than we are, and better off. Why -should she stay here, interfering with our life? Let her go! I want her -out of my way!’ - -‘Ombra!’ said Mrs. Anderson, rising majestically from her chair. She was -so near breaking down altogether, and forgetting every other -consideration for her child’s pleasure, that it was necessary to her to -be very majestic. ‘Ombra, I should have thought that proper feeling -alone---- Yes, _proper_ feeling! a sense of what was fit and becoming in -our position, and in hers. You turn away--you will not listen. Well, -then, it is for me to act. It goes to my heart to feel myself alone like -this, having to oppose my own child. But, since it must be so, since you -compel me to act by myself, I tell you plainly, Ombra, I will not give -up Kate. She is alone in the world; she is my only sister’s only child; -she is----’ - -Ombra put her hands to her ears in petulance and anger. - -‘I know,’ she cried; ‘spare me the rest. I know all her description, and -what she is to me.’ - -‘She is five hundred a year,’ said Mrs. Anderson, secretly in her heart, -with a heavy sigh, for she was ashamed to acknowledge to herself that -this fact would come into the foreground. ‘I will not give the poor -child up,’ she said, with a voice that faltered. Bitter to her in every -way was this controversy, almost the first in which she had ever -resisted Ombra. Though she looked majestic in conscious virtue, what a -pained and faltering heart it was which she concealed under that -resolute aspect! She put away the books and work-basket from the table, -and lighted the candles, and screwed down the lamp with indescribable -inward tremors. If she considered Ombra alone in the matter, and Ombra -was habitually, invariably her first object, she would be compelled to -abandon Kate, whom she loved--and loved truly!--and five hundred a year -would be taken out of their housekeeping at once. - -Poor Mrs. Anderson! she was not mercenary, she was fond of her niece, -but she knew how much comfort, how much modest importance, how much ease -of mind, was in five hundred a year. When she settled in the Cottage at -first, she had made up her mind and arranged all her plans on the basis -of her own small income, and had anxiously determined to ‘make it do,’ -knowing that the task would be difficult enough. But Kate’s advent had -changed all that. She had brought relief from many petty cares, as well -as many comforts and elegancies with her. They could have done without -them before she came, but now what a difference this withdrawal would -make! Ombra herself would feel it. ‘Ombra would miss her cousin a great -deal more than she supposes,’ Mrs. Anderson said to herself, as she went -upstairs; ‘and, as for me, how I should miss her!’ She went into Kate’s -room that night with a sense in her heart that she had something to make -up to Kate. She had wronged her in thinking of the five hundred a year; -but, for all that, she loved her. She stole into the small white chamber -very softly, and kissed the sleeping face with most motherly fondness. -Was it her fault that two sets of feelings--two different -motives--influenced her? The shadow of Kate’s future wealth, of the -splendour and power to come, stood by the side of the little white bed -in which lay a single individual of that species of God’s creation which -appeals most forcibly to all tender sympathies--an innocent, -unsuspecting girl; and the shadow of worldly disinterestedness came into -the room with the kind-hearted woman, who would have been good to any -motherless child, and loved this one with all her heart. And it is so -difficult to discriminate the shadow from the reality; the false from -the true. - -Mr. Courtenay came to the Cottage next morning, and had a solemn and -long interview with Mrs. Anderson. Kate watched about the door, and -hovered in the passages, hoping to be called in. She would have given a -great deal to be able to listen at the keyhole, but reluctantly yielded -to honour, which forbade such an indulgence. When she saw her uncle go -away without asking for her, her heart sank; and still more did her -heart sink when she perceived the solemn aspect with which her aunt came -into the drawing-room. Mrs. Anderson was very solemn and stately, as -majestic as she had been the night before, but there was relief and -comfort in her eyes. She looked at the two girls as she came in with a -smile of tenderness which looked almost like pleasure. Ombra was writing -at the little table in the window--some of her poetry, no doubt. Kate, -in a most restless state, had been dancing about from her needlework to -her music, and from that to three or four books, which lay open, one -here and one there, as she had thrown them down. When her aunt came in -she stopped suddenly in the middle of the room, with a yellow magazine -in her hand, almost too breathless to ask a question; while Mrs. -Anderson seated herself at the table, as if in a pulpit, brimful of -something to say. - -‘What is it, auntie?’ cried Kate. - -‘My dear children, both of you,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘I have something -very important to say to you. You may have supposed, Kate, that I did -not appreciate your excellent uncle; but now that I know his real -goodness of heart, and the admirable feeling he has shown--Ombra, do -give up your writing for a moment. Kate, your uncle is anxious to give -us all a holiday--he wishes me to take you abroad.’ - -‘Abroad!’ cried both the girls together, one in a shrill tone, as of -bewilderment and desperation, one joyous as delight could make it. Mrs. -Anderson expanded gradually, and nodded her head. - -‘For many reasons,’ she said, significantly, ‘your uncle and I, on -talking it over, decided that the very best thing for you both would be -to make a little tour. He tells me you have long wished for it, Kate. -And to Ombra, too, the novelty will be of use----’ - -‘Novelty!’ said Ombra, in a tone of scorn. ‘Where does he mean us to go, -then? To Japan, or Timbuctoo, I suppose.’ - -‘Not quite so far,’ said her mother, trying to smile. ‘We have been to a -great many places, it is true, but not all the places in the world; and -to go back to Italy, for instance, will be novelty, even though we have -been there before. We shall go with every comfort, taking the -pleasantest way. Ombra, my love!’ - -‘Oh! you must settle it as you please,’ cried Ombra, rising hastily. She -put her papers quickly together; then, with her impetuous movements, -swept half of them to the ground, and rushed to the door, not pausing to -pick them up. But there she paused, and turned round, her face pale with -passion. ‘You know you don’t mean to consult me,’ she said, hurriedly. -‘What is the use of making a pretence? You must settle it as you -please.’ - -‘What is the matter?’ said Kate, after she had disappeared, growing pale -with sympathy. ‘Oh! auntie dear, what is the matter? She was never like -this before.’ - -‘She is ill, poor child,’ said the mother, who was distracted, but dared -not show it. And then she indulged herself in a few tears, giving an -excuse for them which betrayed nothing. ‘Oh! Kate, what will become of -me if there is anything serious the matter? She is ill, and I don’t know -what to do!’ - -‘Send for the doctor, aunt,’ suggested Kate. - -‘The doctor can do nothing, dear. It is a--a complaint her father had. -She would not say anything to the doctor. She has been vexed and -bothered----’ - -‘Then this is the very thing for her,’ said Kate. ‘This will cure her. -They say change is good for every one. We have been so long shut up in -this poky little place.’ - -On other occasions Kate had sworn that the island and the cottage were -the spots in all the world most dear to her heart. This was the first -effect of novelty upon her. She felt, in a moment, that her aspirations -were wide as the globe, and that she had been cooped up all her life. - -‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Anderson, fervently, ‘I have felt it. We have not been -living, we have been vegetating. With change she will be better. But it -is illness that makes her irritable. You must promise me to be very -gentle and forbearing with her, Kate.’ - -‘I gentle and forbearing to Ombra!’ cried Kate, half laughing, half -crying--‘I! When I think what a cub of a girl I must have been, and how -good--how good you both were! Surely everybody in the world should fail -you sooner than I!’ - -‘My dear child,’ said Mrs. Anderson, kissing her with true affection; -and once more there was a reason and feasible excuse for the tears of -pain and trouble that would come to her eyes. - -The plan was perfect--everything that could be desired; but if Ombra set -her face against it, it must come to nothing. It was with this thought -in her mind that she went upstairs to her troublesome and suffering -child. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -Ombra, however, did not set her face against it. What difficulty the -mother might have had with her, no one knew, and she appeared no more -that day, having ‘a bad headache,’ that convenient cause for all -spiritual woes. But next morning, when she came down, though her face -was pale, there was no other trace in her manner of the struggle her -submission had cost her, and the whole business was settled, and even -the plan of the journey had begun to be made. Already, in this day of -Ombra’s retirement, the news had spread far and wide. Kate had put on -her hat directly, and had flown across to the Rectory to tell this -wonderful piece of news. It was scarcely less interesting there than in -the Cottage, though the effect was different. The Eldridges raised a -universal wail. - -‘Oh, what shall we do without you?’ cried the girls and the boys--a -reflection which almost brought the tears to Kate’s own eyes, yet -pleased her notwithstanding. - -‘You will not mind so much when you get used to it. We shall miss you as -much as you miss us--oh, I wish you were all coming with us!’ she cried; -but Mrs. Eldridge poured cold water on the whole by suggesting that -probably Mrs. Anderson would let the Cottage for the Summer, and that -some one who was nice might take it and fill up the vacant place till -they came back; which was an idea not taken in good part by Kate. - -On her way home she met Mr. Sugden and told him; she told him in haste, -in the lightness of her heart and the excitement of the moment; and -then, petrified by the effect she had produced, stood still and stared -at him in alarm and dismay. - -‘Oh, Mr. Sugden! I am sure I did not mean--I did not think----’ - -‘Going away?’ he said, in a strange, dull, feelingless way. ‘Ah! for six -months--I beg your pardon--I am a little confused. I have just heard -some--some bad news. Did you say going away?’ - -‘I am so sorry,’ said Kate, faltering, ‘so very sorry. I hope it is not -anything I have said----’ - -‘You have said?’ he answered, with a dull smile, ‘oh, no! I have had bad -news, and I am a little upset. You are going away? It is sudden, is it -not?--or perhaps you thought it best not to speak. Shanklin will look -odd without you,’ he went on, looking at her. He looked at her with a -vague defiance, as if daring her to find him out. He tried to smile; his -eyes were very lacklustre and dull, as if all the vision had suddenly -been taken out of them; and his very attitude, as he stood, was feeble, -as if a sudden touch might have made him fall. - -‘Yes,’ said Kate, humbly, ‘I am sorry to leave Shanklin and all my -friends; but my uncle wishes it for me, and as Ombra is so poorly, we -thought it might do her good.’ - -‘Ah!’ he said, drawing a long breath; and then he added hurriedly, ‘Does -she like it? Does _she_ think it will do her good?’ - -‘I don’t think she likes it at all,’ said Kate, ‘she is so fond of home; -but we all think it is the best thing. Good-bye, Mr. Sugden. I hope you -will come and see us. I must go home now, for I have so much to do.’ - -‘Yes, thanks. I will come and see you,’ said the Curate. And then he -walked on mechanically--straight on, not knowing where he was going. He -was stunned by the blow. Though he knew very well that Ombra was not for -him, though he had seen her taken, as it were, out of his very hands, -there was a passive strength in his nature which made him capable of -bearing this. So long as no active step was taken, he could bear it. It -had gone to his heart with a penetrating anguish by times to see her -given up to the attentions of another, receiving, as he thought, the -love of another, and smiling upon it. But all the while she had smiled -also upon himself; she had treated him with a friendly sweetness which -kept him subject; she had filled his once unoccupied and languid soul -with a host of poignant emotions. Love, pain, misery, consolation--life -itself, seemed to have come to him from Ombra. Before he knew her, he -had thought pleasantly of cricket and field-sports, conscientiously of -his duties, piteously of the mothers’ meetings, which were so sadly out -of his way, and yet were supposed to be duty too. - -But Ombra had opened to him another life--an individual world, which was -his, and no other man’s. She had made him very unhappy and very glad; -she had awakened him to himself. There was that in him which would have -held him to her with a pathetic devotion all his life. It was in him to -have served the first woman that woke his heart with an ideal constancy, -the kind of devotion--forgive the expression, oh, intellectual -reader!--which makes a dull man sublime, and which dull men most often -exhibit. He was not clever, our poor Curate, but he was true as steel, -and had a helpless, obstinate way of clinging to his loves and -friendships. Never, whatever happened, though she had married, and even -though he had married, and the world had rolled on, and all the events -of life had sundered them, could Ombra have been to him like any other -woman; and now she was the undisputed queen and mistress of his life. -She was never to be his; but still she was his lady and his queen. He -was ready to have saved her even by the sacrifice of all idea of -personal happiness on his own part. His heart was glowing at the present -moment with indignant sorrow over her, with fury towards one of the -Berties--he did not know which--who had brought a mysterious shadow over -her life; and yet he was capable of making an heroic effort to bring -back that Bertie, and to place him by Ombra’s side, though every step he -took in doing so would be over his own heart. - -All this was in him; but it was not in him to brave this altogether -unthought-of catastrophe. To have her go away; to find himself left with -all life gone out of him; to have the heart torn, as it were, out of his -breast; and to feel the great bleeding, aching void which nothing could -fill up. He had foreseen all the other pain, and was prepared for it; -but for this he was not prepared. He walked straight on, in a dull -misery, without the power to think. Going away!--for six months! Which -meant simply for ever and ever. Where he would have stopped I cannot -tell, for he was young and athletic, and capable of traversing the -entire island, if he had not walked straight into the sea over the first -headland which came in his way--a conclusion which would not have been -disagreeable to him in the present state of his feelings, though he -could scarcely have drowned had he tried. But fortunately he met the -Berties ere he had gone very far. They were coming from Sandown Pier. - -‘Have you got the yacht here?’ he asked, mechanically; and then, before -they could understand, broke into the subject of which his heart and -brain were both full. ‘Have you heard that the ladies of the Cottage are -going away?’ - -This sudden introduction of the subject which occupied him so much was -indeed involuntary. He could not have helped talking about it; but at -the same time it was done with a purpose--that he might, if possible, -make sure _which it was_. - -‘The ladies at the Cottage!’ They both made this exclamation in -undeniable surprise. And he could not help, even in his misery, feeling -a little thrill of satisfaction that he knew better than they. - -‘Yes,’ he said, made bolder by this feeling of superiority, ‘they are -going to leave Shanklin for six months.’ - -The two Berties exchanged looks. He caught their mutual consultation -with his keen and jealous eyes. What was it they said to each other? He -was not clever enough to discover; but Bertie Hardwick drew a long -breath, and said, ‘It is sudden, surely,’ with an appearance of dismay -which Mr. Sugden, in his own suffering, was savagely glad to see. - -‘Very sudden,’ he said. ‘I only heard it this morning. It will make a -dreadful blank to us.’ - -And then the three stood gazing at each other for nearly a minute, -saying nothing; evidently the two cousins did not mean to commit -themselves. Bertie Eldridge switched his boot with his cane. ‘Indeed!’ -had been all he said; but he looked down, and did not meet the Curate’s -eye. - -‘Have you got the yacht here!’ Mr. Sugden repeated, hoping that if he -seemed to relax his attention something might be gained. - -‘Yes, she is lying at the pier, ready for a long cruise,’ said Bertie -Hardwick. ‘We are more ambitious than last year. We are going to----’ - -‘Norway, I think,’ said Eldridge, suddenly. ‘There is no sport to be had -now but in out-of-the-way places. We are bound for Scandinavia, Sugden. -Can you help us? I know you have been there.’ - -‘Scandinavia!’ the other Bertie echoed, with a half whistle, half -exclamation; and an incipient smile came creeping about the corners of -the brand-new moustache of which he was so proud. - -‘I am rather out of sorts to-day,’ said the Curate. ‘I have had -disagreeable news from home; but another time I shall be very glad. -Scandinavia! Is the “Shadow” big enough and steady enough for the -northern seas?’ - -And then, as he pronounced the name, it suddenly occurred to him why the -yacht was called the ‘Shadow.’ The thought brought with it a poignant -sense of contrast, which went through and through him like an arrow. -They could call their yacht after her, paying her just such a subtle, -inferred compliment as girls love. And they could go away now, lucky -fellows, to new places, to savage seas, where they might fight against -the elements, and delude their sick hearts (if they possessed such -things) by a struggle with nature. Poor Curate!--he had to stay and -superintend the mothers’ meetings--which also was a struggle with -nature, though after a different kind. - -‘Oh! she will do very well,’ said Bertie Eldridge, hastily. ‘Look sharp, -Bertie, here is the dogcart. We are going to Ryde for a hundred things -she wants. I shall send her round there to-morrow. Will you come!’ - -‘I can’t,’ said the Curate, almost rudely. And then even his unoffending -hand seized upon a dart that lay in his way. ‘How does all this yachting -suit your studies?’ he said. - -Bertie Hardwick laughed. ‘It does not suit them at all,’ he said, -jumping into the dogcart. ‘Good-bye, old fellow. I think you should -change your mind, and come with us to-morrow!’ - -‘I won’t,’ said the Curate, under his breath. But they did not hear -him; they dashed off in very good spirits, apparently nowise affected by -his news. As for Mr. Sugden, he ground his teeth in secret. That which -he would have given his life, almost his soul for, had been thrown away -upon one of these two--and to them it was as nothing. It did not cloud -their looks for more than a minute, if indeed it affected them at all; -whereas to him it was everything. They were the butterflies of life; -they had it in their power to pay pretty compliments, to confer little -pleasures, but they were not true to death, as he was. And yet Ombra -would never find that out; she would never know that his love--which she -did not even take the trouble to be conscious of--was for life and -death, and that the other’s was an affair of a moment. They had driven -off laughing; they had not even pretended to be sorry for the loss which -the place was about to suffer. It was no loss to them. What did they -care? They were heartless, miserable, without sense or feeling; yet one -of them was Ombra’s choice. - -This incident, however, made Mr. Sugden take his way back to the -village. He had walked a great deal further than he had any idea of, and -had forgotten all about the poor women who were waiting with their -subscriptions for the penny club. And it chafed him, poor fellow, to -have to go into the little dull room, and to take the pennies. ‘Good -heavens! is this all I am good for?’ he said to himself. ‘Is there no -small boy or old woman who could manage it better than I? Was this why -the good folks at home spent so much money on me, and so much patience?’ -Poor young Curate, he was tired and out of heart, and he was six feet -high and strong as a young lion; yet there seemed nothing in heaven or -earth for him to do but to keep the accounts of the penny club and visit -the almshouses. He had done that very placidly for a long time, having -the Cottage always to fall back upon, and being a kindly, simple soul at -bottom--but now! Were there no forests left to cut down? no East-end -lanes within his reach to give him something to fight with and help him -to recover his life? - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - - -The Berties drove away laughing, but when they had got quite out of the -Curate’s sight, Bertie Eldridge turned to his cousin with indignation. - -‘How could you be such an ass?’ he said. ‘You were just going to let out -that the yacht was bound for the Mediterranean, and then, of course, -their plans would have been instantly changed.’ - -‘You need not snap me up so sharply,’ said the other; ‘I never said a -word about the Mediterranean, and if I had he would have taken no -notice. What was it to him, one way or another? I see no good in an -unnecessary fib.’ - -‘What was it to him? How blind you are! Why it is as much to him as it -is---- Did you never find _that_ out?’ - -‘You don’t mean to say,’ said the other Bertie, with confusion. ‘But, by -Jove, I might have known, and that’s how he found out! He is not such a -slow beggar as he looks. Did you hear that about my studies? I dare say -he said it with a bad motive, but he has reason, heaven knows! My poor -studies!’ - -‘Nonsense! You can’t apply adjectives, my dear fellow, to what does not -exist.’ - -‘That is all very well for you,’ said Bertie Hardwick. ‘You have no -occasion to trouble yourself. You can’t come to much harm. But I am -losing my time and forming habits I ought not to form, and disappointing -my parents, and all that. You know it, Bertie, and I know it, and even -such a dull, good-humoured slug as Sugden sees it. I ought not to go -with you on this trip--that is as plain as daylight.’ - -‘Stuff!’ said the other Bertie. - -‘It is not stuff. He was quite right. I ought not to go, and I won’t!’ - -‘Look here,’ said the other; ‘if you don’t, you’ll be breaking faith -with me. You know we have always gone halves in everything all our -lives. We are not just like any two other fellows; we are not even like -brothers. Sometimes I think we have but one soul between us. You are -pledged to me, and I to you, for whatever may happen. If it is harm, we -will share it; and if it is good, why there is no telling what -advantages to you may be involved as well. You cannot forsake me, -Bertie; it would be a treachery not only to me, but to the very nature -of things.’ - -Bertie Hardwick shook his head; a shade of perplexity crossed his face. - -‘I never was your equal in argument, and never will be,’ he said, ‘and, -besides, you have certain stock principles which floor a fellow. But it -is no use struggling; I suppose it is my fate. And a very jolly fate, to -tell the truth; though what the people at home will say, and all my -godfathers and godmothers, who vowed I was to be honest and industrious, -and work for my living----’ - -‘I don’t much believe in that noble occupation,’ said the other; ‘but -meantime let us think over what we want at Ryde, which is a great deal -more important. Going abroad! I wonder if the old fellow was thinking of -you and me when he signed that sentence. It is the best thing, the very -best, that could have happened. Everything will be new, and yet there -will be the pleasure of bringing back old associations and establishing -intercourse afresh. How lucky it is! Cheer up, Bertie. I feel my heart -as light as a bird.’ - -‘Mine is like a bird that is fluttering just before its fall,’ said -Bertie, with gravity which was half mock and half real, shaking his -head. - -‘You envy me my good spirits,’ said his companion, ‘and I suppose there -is not very much ground for them. Thank heaven I don’t offend often in -that way. It is more your line than mine. But I do feel happier about -the chief thing of all than I have done since Easter. Courage, old boy; -we’ll win the battle yet.’ - -Bertie Hardwick shook his head again. - -‘I don’t think I shall ever win any battle,’ he said, dolorously; ‘but, -in the meantime, here’s the list for fitting out the “Shadow.” I suppose -you think more of that now than of anything else.’ - -The other Bertie laughed long and low at his cousin’s mournful tone; but -they were soon absorbed in the lists, as they bowled along towards Ryde, -with a good horse, and a soft breeze blowing in their faces. All the -seriousness dispersed from Bertie Hardwick’s face as they went on--or -rather a far more solemn seriousness came over it as he discussed the -necessity of this and that, and all the requirements of the voyage. Very -soon he forgot all about the momentary curb that had stopped his -imagination in full course. ‘My studies!’ he said, when the business of -the day was over, with a joyous burst of laughter more unhesitating even -than his cousin’s. He had surmounted that little shock, and his -amusement was great at the idea of being reproached with neglect of -anything so entirely nominal. He had taken his degree, just saving it, -with no honour, nor much blame either; and now for a whole year he had -been afloat in the world, running hither and thither, as if that world -were but one enormous field of amusement. He ought not to have done so. -When he decided to give up the Church, he ought, as everybody said, to -have turned his mind to some other profession; and great and many were -the lamentations over his thoughtlessness in the Rectory of -Langton-Courtenay. But somehow the two Berties had always been as one in -the minds of all their kith and kin; and even the Hardwicks regarded -with a vague indulgence the pleasant idleness which was thus shared. Sir -Herbert Eldridge was rich, and had influence and patronage, and the -other Bertie was his only son. It would be no trouble to him to provide -‘somehow’ for his nephew when the right moment came. And thus, though -the father and mother shook their heads, and Mrs. Hardwick would -sometimes sigh over the waste of Bertie’s abilities and his time, yet -they had made no very earnest remonstrances up to this moment; and all -had gone on merrily, and all had seemed well. - -That evening, however, as it happened, he received an energetic letter -on the subject from his father--a letter pointing out to him the folly -of thus wasting his best years. Mr. Hardwick reminded his son that he -was three-and-twenty, that he had his way to make in the world, and that -it was his duty to make up his mind how he was going to do it. - -‘I don’t insist upon the Church,’ he said, ‘if your mind is not inclined -that way--for that is a thing I would never force; but I cannot see you -sink into a state of dependence. Your cousin is very kind; but you -ought, and you must know it, to be already in the way of supporting -yourself.’ - -Bertie wrote an answer to this letter at once that evening, without -waiting to take counsel of the night; perhaps he felt that it was safe -to do it at once, while the idea of work still looked and felt like a -good joke. This was his reply:-- - -‘MY DEAR FATHER, - - ‘I am very sorry to see that you feel so strongly about my - idleness. I know I am an idle wretch, and always was; but it can’t - last, of course; and after this bout I will do my best to mend. The - fact is that for this cruise I am pledged to Bertie. I should be - behaving very shabbily to him, after all his kindness, if I threw - him over at the last moment. And, besides, we don’t go without an - object, neither he nor I, of which you will hear anon. I cannot say - more now. Give my love to Mamma and the girls; and don’t be vexed - if I find there is no time to run home before we start. I shall - write from the first port we touch at. Home without fail before - Christmas. Good-bye. - -‘Yours affectionately, H. H.’ - - - -Bertie was much pleased with this effusion; and even when he read it -over in the morning, though it did not appear to strike so perfectly the -golden line between seriousness and levity as it had appeared to do at -night, it was still a satisfactory production. And it pleased him, in -the vanity of his youth, to have made the obscure yet important -suggestion that his voyage was ‘not without an object.’ What would they -all think if they ever found out what that object was? He laughed at the -thought, though with a tinge of heightened colour. The people at home -would suppose that some great idea had come to the two--that they were -going on an antiquarian or a scientific expedition; for Bertie Eldridge -was a young man full of notions, and had made attempts in both these -branches of learning. Bertie laughed at this very comical idea; but -though he was thus satisfied with his own cleverness in baffling his -natural guardians, there was a single drop of shame, a germ of -bitterness, somewhere at the bottom of his heart. He could fence gaily -with his father, and forget the good advice which came to him from those -who had a right to give it; but that chance dart thrown by the Curate -had penetrated a weak point in his armour. Mr. Sugden’s suggestion, who -was a young man on his own level, a fellow whom he had laughed at, and -had no lofty opinion of, clung to him like an obstinate bit of -thistledown. It was of no consequence, said with an intention to -wound--a mere spiteful expression of envy; but it clung to him, and -pricked him vaguely, and made him uncomfortable, in spite of himself. - -For Bertie was only thoughtless, not selfish. He was running all the -risks involved by positive evil in his levity; but he did not mean it. -Had he known what real trouble was beginning to rise in the minds of his -‘people’ in respect to him, and how even his uncle Sir Herbert growled -at the foolish sacrifice he was making, Bertie had manhood enough to -have pulled himself up, and abandoned those delights of youth. And -indeed a certain uneasiness had begun to appear faintly in his own -mind--a sense that his life was not exactly what it might be, which, of -itself, might have roused him to better things. But temptation was -strong, and life was pleasant; and at twenty-three there still seems so -much of it to come, and such plenty of time to make amends for all one’s -early follies. Then there were a hundred specious excuses for him, which -even harder judges than he acknowledged. From their cradles, his cousin -Bertie and himself had been as one--they had been born on the same day; -they had taken every step of their lives together; they resembled each -other as twin brothers sometimes do; and something still more subtle, -still more fascinating, than the bond between twin-brothers existed -between them. This had been the admiration of their respective families -when they were children; and it was with some pride that Lady Eldridge -and Mrs. Hardwick had told their friends of the curious sympathy between -the boys; how when one was ill, the other was depressed and wretched, -though his cousin was at a distance from him, and he had no knowledge, -except by instinct, of the malady. - -‘We know directly when anything is wrong with the other Bertie,’ the -respective mothers would say, with that pride which mothers feel in any -peculiarity of their children. - -This strange tie was strengthened by their education; they went to -school together on the same day; they kept side by side all through, and -though one Bertie might be at the head of the form and another at the -bottom, still in the same form they managed to keep, all tutors, -masters, and aids to learning promoting, so far as in them lay, the -twinship, which everybody found ‘interesting.’ And they went to the same -college, and day for day, and side by side, took every successive step. -Bertie Eldridge was the cleverest; it was he who was always at the top; -and then he was--a fact which he much plumed himself upon--the eldest by -six hours, and accordingly had a right to be the guide and teacher. Thus -the very threads of their lives were twisted so close together that it -was a difficult thing to pull them asunder; and though all the older -people had come by this time to regret the natural weakness which had -prompted them to allow this bond to knit itself closer with every year -of life, none of them had yet hit upon a plan for breaking it. The -reader will easily perceive what a fatal connection this was for the -poorer of the two--he who had to make his own way, and had no hereditary -wealth to fall back upon. For Bertie Eldridge it was natural and -suitable, and as innocent and pleasant as a life without an object can -be; but for Bertie Hardwick it was destruction. However, it was -difficult, very difficult, for him to realise this. He laughed at his -father’s remonstrances, even while he assented to them, and allowed that -they were perfectly true; yes, everything that was said was quite -true--and yet the life itself was so natural, so inevitable. How could -he tear himself from it--‘break faith with Bertie?’ He resolved -indefinitely that some time or other it would have to be done, and then -plunged, with a light heart, into the victualling and the preparation of -the ‘Shadow.’ But, nevertheless, that arrow of Mr. Sugden’s stuck -between the joints of his armour. He felt it prick him when he moved; he -could not quite forget it, do what he would. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - - -The next day the whole population of the place surged in and out of the -Cottage, full of regrets and wonders. ‘Are you really going?’ the ladies -said, ‘so soon? I suppose it was quite a sudden idea? And how delightful -for you!--but you can’t expect us to be pleased. On the contrary, we are -all inconsolable. I don’t know what we shall do without you. How long do -you intend to stay away?’ - -‘Nothing is settled,’ said Mrs. Anderson, blandly. ‘We are leaving -ourselves quite free. I think it is much better not to be hampered by -any fixed time for return.’ - -‘Oh, much better!’ said the chorus. ‘It is such a bore generally; just -when one is beginning to know people, and to enjoy oneself, one has to -pack up and go away; but there are few people, of course, who are so -free as you are, dear Mrs. Anderson--you have no duty to call you back. -And then you know the Continent so well, and how to travel, and all -about it. How I envy you! But it will be such a loss for us. I don’t -know what we shall do all the Summer through without you and dear Ombra -and Kate. All our pic-nics, and our water-parties, and our croquet, and -everything--I don’t know what we shall do----’ - -‘I suppose you will let the Cottage for the summer?’ said Mrs. Eldridge, -who was of a practical mind; ‘and I hope nice people may come. That will -be always some consolation for the rest of us; and we cannot grudge our -friends their holiday, can we?’ she added, with fine professional -feeling, reading a mild lesson to her parishioners, to which everybody -replied, with a flutter of protestation, ‘Oh, of course not, of course -not!’ - -Mr. Courtenay assisted at the little ceremonial. He sat all the -afternoon in an easy-chair by the window, noting everything with a -smile. The tea-table was in the opposite corner, and from four till six -there was little cessation in the talk, and in the distribution of cups -of tea. He sat and looked on, making various sardonic remarks to -himself. Partly by chance, and partly by intention, he had drawn his -chair close to that of Ombra, who interested him. He was anxious to -understand this member of the household, who gave Kate no caresses, who -did nothing to conciliate or please her, but rather spoke sharply to her -when she spoke at all. He set this down frankly and openly as jealousy, -and determined to be at the bottom of it. Ombra was not a ‘locust.’ She -was much more like a secret enemy. He made up his mind that there was -some mischief between them, and that Ombra hated the girl whom everybody -else, from interested motives, pretended to love; therefore, he tried to -talk to her, first, because her gloom amused him, and second, that he -might have a chance of finding something out. - -‘I have been under a strange delusion,’ he said. ‘I thought there was -but a very small population in the Isle of Wight.’ - -‘Indeed, I don’t know what the number is,’ said Ombra. - -‘I should say it must be legion. The room has been three times filled, -and still the cry is, they come! And yet I understand you live very -quietly, and this is an out-of-the-way place. Places which are in the -way must have much more of it. It seems to be that Mayfair is less gay.’ - -‘I don’t know Mayfair.’ - -‘Then you have lived always in the country,’ said Mr. Courtenay, -blandly. This roused Ombra. She could have borne a graver imputation -better, but to be considered a mere rustic, a girl who knew nothing!---- - -‘On the contrary, I have lived very little in the country,’ she said, -with a tone of irritation. ‘But then the towns I have lived in have -belonged to a different kind of society than that which, I suppose, you -meet with in Mayfair. I have lived in Madrid, Lisbon, Genoa, and -Florence----’ - -‘Ah! in your father’s time,’ said Mr. Courtenay, gently. And the sound -of his voice seemed to say to Ombra, ‘In the Consul’s time! Yes, to be -sure. Just the sort of places he would be sure to live in.’ Which -exasperated her more than she dared show. - -‘Yes, that was our happy time!’ she cried, hotly. ‘The time when we were -free of all interference. My father was honoured and loved by -everybody.’ - -‘Oh! I don’t doubt it, I don’t doubt it,’ said Mr. Courtenay, hurriedly, -for she looked very much as if she might be going to cry. ‘Spain is very -interesting, and so is Italy. It will be pleasant for you to go back.’ - -‘I don’t think it will,’ she said, bluntly. ‘Things will be so -different.’ And then, after a pause, she added, with nervous haste, -‘Kate may like it, perhaps, but not I.’ - -Mr. Courtenay thought it best to pause. He had no wish to be made a -confidant, or to have Ombra’s grievances against Kate poured into his -ears. He leaned back in his chair, and watched with grim amusement while -the visitors went and came. Mr. Sugden had come in while he had been -talking, and was now to be seen standing like a tall shadow by the -other side of the window, looking down upon Ombra; and a nervous -expectation had become visible in her, which caught Mr. Courtenay’s eye. -She did not look up when the door opened, but, on the contrary, kept her -eyes fixed on the work she held in her hand with a rigidity which -betrayed her more than curiosity would have done. She would not look up, -but she listened with a hot, hectic flush on the upper part of her -cheeks, just under her drooped eyelids, holding her breath, and sitting -motionless in the suspense which devoured her. The needle shook in her -hand, and all the efforts she made to keep it steady did but reveal the -more the excitement of all her nerves. Mr. Courtenay watched her with -growing curiosity; he was not sympathetic; but it was something new to -him and entertaining, and he watched as if he had been at a theatre. He -did not mean to be cruel; it was to him like a child’s fit of pouting. -It was something about love, no doubt, he said to himself. Poor little -fool! Somebody had interfered with her love--her last plaything; perhaps -Kate, who looked very capable of doing mischief in such matters; and how -unhappy she was making herself about nothing at all! - -At last the anxiety came to a sudden stop; the hand gave one jerk more -violent than before; the eyes shot out a sudden gleam, and then Ombra -was suddenly, significantly still. Mr. Courtenay looked up, and saw that -two young men had come into the room, so much like each other that he -was startled, and did not know what to make of it. As he looked up, with -an incipient smile on his face, he caught the eye of the tall Curate on -the other side of the window, who was looking at him threateningly. -‘Good heavens! what have I done?’ said Mr. Courtenay to himself, much -amazed. ‘_I_ have not fallen in love with the irresistible Ombra!’ He -was still more entertained when he discovered that the look which he had -thus intercepted was on its way to the new comers, whom Ombra did not -look at, but whose coming had affected her so strangely. Here was an -entire drama in the smallest possible space. An agitated maiden on the -eve of parting with her lover; a second jealous lover looking on. ‘Thank -heaven it is not Kate!’ Mr. Courtenay said from the bottom of his heart. -The sight of this little scene made him feel more and more the danger -from which he had escaped. He had escaped it, but only by a -hair’s-breadth; and, thank the kind fates, was looking on with amusement -at a story which did not concern him; not with dismay and consternation -at a private embarrassment and difficulty of his own. This sense of a -hairbreadth escape gave the little spectacle zest. He looked on with -genuine amusement, like a true critic, delighted with the show of human -emotion which was taking place before his eyes. - -‘Who are these two young fellows?’ he asked Ombra, determined to have -the whole advantage of the situation, and draw her out to the utmost of -his power. - -‘What two?’ she said, looking up suddenly, with a dull red flush on her -cheek and a choked voice. ‘Oh! they are Mr. Hardwick and Mr. Eldridge; -two--gentlemen--mamma knows.’ - -They were both talking to Kate, standing one on either side of her in -the middle of the room. Ombra gave them a long intent look, with the -colour deepening in her face, and the breath coming quick from her lips. -She took in the group in every detail, as if it had been drawn in lines -of fire. How unconscious Kate looked standing there, talking easily, in -all the freedom of her unawakened youth. ‘Heaven be praised!’ thought -Mr. Courtenay once more, pious for the first time in his life. - -‘What! not brothers? What a strange likeness, then!’ he said, -tranquilly. ‘I suppose one of them is young Hardwick, from -Langton-Courtenay, whom Kate knew at home. He is a parson, like his -father, I suppose?’ - -‘No,’ said Ombra, dropping her eyes once more upon her work. - -‘Not a parson? That is odd, for the elder son, I know, has gone to the -Bar. I suppose he has relations here? Kate and he have met before?’ - -‘Yes.’ - -It was all that Ombra could say; but in her heart she added, ‘Always -Kate--Kate knew him--Kate has met him! Is there nobody, then, but Kate -in the world to be considered. _They_ think so too.’ - -The old man, for the first time, had a little pity. He asked no more -questions, seeing that she was past all power of answering them; and -half in sympathy, half in curiosity, drew his chair back a little, and -left the new-comers room to approach. When they did so, after some -minutes, Ombra’s feverish colour suddenly forsook her cheeks, and she -grew very pale. Bertie Eldridge was the first to speak. He came up with -a little air of deprecation and humility, which Mr. Courtenay, not -knowing the _fin mot_ of the enigma, did not understand. - -‘I am so sorry to hear you are going away,’ he said. ‘Is it not very -sudden, Miss Anderson? You did not speak of it on Wednesday, I think.’ - -‘Did I see you on Wednesday?’ said Ombra. ‘Oh! I beg your pardon, I know -you were here; but I did not think we had any talk.’ - -‘A little, I believe,’ said the young man, colouring. His -self-possession seemed to fail him, which was amazing to Mr. Courtenay, -for the young men of the period do not often fail in self-possession. He -got confused, spoke low, and faltered something about knowing he had no -right to be told. - -‘No,’ she replied, with nervous colour and a flash of sudden pride; -‘out of our own little cottage I do not know anyone who has a right to -be consulted--or cares either,’ she added, in an undertone. - -‘Miss Anderson, you cannot think _that_!’ - -‘Ah, but I do!’ Then there was a little pause; and after some moments, -Ombra resumed: ‘Kate’s movements are important to many people. She will -be a great lady, and entitled to have her comings and goings recorded in -the newspapers; but we have no such claim upon the public interest. It -does not matter to any one, so far as I know, whether we go or stay.’ - -A silence again. Ombra bent once more over her work, and her needle flew -through it, working as if for a wager. The other Bertie, who was behind, -had been moving about, in mere idleness, the books on Ombra’s -writing-table. At him she suddenly looked up with a smile-- - -‘Please, Mr. Hardwick! all my poor papers and books which I have just -been putting in order--don’t scatter them all over the table again.’ - -‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, looking up. He had borne the air of the -stage-confidant, till that moment, in Mr. Courtenay’s eyes, which were -those of a connoisseur in such matters. But now his belief on this -subject was shaken. When he glanced up and saw the look which was -exchanged by the two, and the gloom with which Mr. Sugden was regarding -both, a mist seemed to roll away from the scene. How different the -girl’s aspect was now!--soft with a dewy brightness in her eyes, and a -voice that trembled with some concealed agitation; and there was a glow -upon Bertie’s face, which made him handsomer. ‘My cousins are breaking -their hearts over your going,’ he said. - -‘Oh, no fear of their hearts!’ said Ombra, lightly; ‘they will mend. If -the Cottage is let, the new tenants will probably be gayer people than -we are, and do more to amuse their neighbours. And if we come back----’ - -‘If?’ said the young man. - -‘Nothing is certain, I suppose, in this world--or, at least, so people -say.’ - -‘It is very true,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘It is seldom a young lady is so -philosophical--but, as you say, if you come back in a year, the chances -are you will find your place filled up, and your friends changed.’ - -Ombra turned upon him with sparks of fire suddenly flashing from her -eyes. Philosopher, indeed!--say termagant, rather. - -‘It is vile and wretched and horrible to say so!’ she cried; ‘but I -suppose it is true.’ - -And all this time the tall Curate never took his eyes off the group, but -stood still and listened and watched. Mr. Courtenay began to feel very -uncomfortable. The scene was deadly real, and not as amusing as he had -hoped. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - - -In the little bustle of preparation which ensued, there was, of course, -a good deal of dressmaking to do, and Miss Richardson, the dressmaker -from the village, who was Mr. Sugden’s landlady, was almost a resident -at the Cottage for the following week. She set out every morning in her -close black bonnet and black shawl, with her little parcel of -properties--including the last fashion book, done up in a very tight -roll. She helped Maryanne, and she helped Francesca, who was more -difficult to deal with; and she was helped in her turn by the young -ladies themselves, who did not disdain the task. It was very pleasant to -Miss Richardson, who was a person of refined tastes, to find herself in -such refined society. She was never tired remarking what a pleasure it -was to talk to ladies who could understand you, and who were not proud, -and took an interest in their fellow creatures; and it was during this -busy week that Kate acquired that absolute knowledge of Miss -Richardson’s private history with which she enlightened her friends at a -later period. She sat and sewed and talked in the little parlour which -served for Kate’s studies, and for many other miscellaneous purposes; -and it was there, in the midst of all the litter of dressmaking, that -Mrs. Anderson and the girls took their afternoon tea, and that even Mrs. -Eldridge and some other intimate friends were occasionally introduced. -Mrs. Eldridge knew Miss Richardson intimately, as was natural, and liked -to hear from her all that was going on in the village; but the -dressmaker’s private affairs were not of much interest to the Rector’s -wife--it required a lively and universal human interest like Kate’s to -enter into such details. - -It was only on the last evening of her labours, however, that Miss -Richardson made so bold as to volunteer a little private communication -to Mrs. Anderson. The girls had gone out into the garden, after a busy -day. All was quiet in the soft April evening; even Mr. Sugden had not -come that night. They were all alone, feeling a little excited by the -coming departure, a little wearied with their many occupations, a little -sad at the thought of leaving the familiar place. At least, such were -Mrs. Anderson’s feelings, as she stood in the verandah looking out. It -was a little more than twilight, and less than night. Ombra was standing -in a corner of the low garden wall, looking out upon the sea. Kate was -not visible--a certain wistfulness, sadness, farewell feeling, seemed -about in the very air. What may have happened before we come back? Mrs. -Anderson sighed softly, with this thought in her mind. But she was not -unhappy. There was enough excitement in the new step about to be taken -to keep all darker shades of feeling in suspense. ‘If I might make so -bold, ma’am,’ said Miss Richardson, suddenly, by her side. - -Mrs. Anderson started, but composed herself immediately. ‘Surely,’ she -said, with her habitual deference to other people’s wishes. The -dressmaker coughed, cleared her throat, and made two or three -inarticulate beginnings. At length she burst forth-- - -‘The comfort of speaking to a real lady is, as she don’t mistake your -meaning, nor bring it up against you after. I’m not one as interferes in -a general way. I do think, Mrs. Anderson, ma’am, as I’m well enough -known in Shanklin to take upon me to say that. But my heart does bleed -for my poor young gentleman; and I must say, even if you should be -angry, whatever he is to do, when you and the young ladies go away, is -more than I can tell. When I saw his face this morning, though he’s a -clergyman, and as good as gold, the thing as came into my head--and I -give you my word for it, ma’am--was as he’d do himself some harm.’ - -‘You mean Mr. Sugden? I do not understand this at all,’ said Mrs. -Anderson, who had found time to collect herself. ‘Why should he do -himself any harm? You mean he will work too much, and make himself ill?’ - -‘No, ma’am,’ said Miss Richardson, with dignity. ‘I don’t apologise for -saying it, for you’ve eyes, ma’am, and can see as well as me what’s been -a-going on. He’s been here, ma’am, spending the evenings, take one week -with another, five nights out of the seven--and now you and the young -ladies is going away. And Miss Ombra--but I don’t speak to one as can’t -take notice, and see how things is going as well as me.’ - -‘Miss Richardson, I think we all ought to be very careful how we talk of -a young man, and a clergyman. I have been very glad to see him here. I -have always thought it was good for a young man to have a family circle -open to him. But if any gossip has got up about the young ladies, it is -perfectly without foundation. I should not have expected from you----’ - -‘Oh! Mrs. Anderson, ma’am!’ cried the dressmaker, carried away by her -feelings. ‘Talk to me of gossip, when I was speaking as a friend! an -’umble friend, I don’t say different, but still one that takes a deep -interest. Foundation or no foundation, ma’am, that poor young gentleman -is a-breaking of his heart. I see it before I heard the news. I said to -myself, “Miss Ombra’s been and refused him;” and then I heard you and -the young ladies were going away. Whether he’s spoken, and been refused, -or whether he haven’t had the courage to speak, it ain’t for me to -guess; but oh! Mrs. Anderson, ma’am, speak a word of comfort to the poor -young gentleman! My heart is in it. I can’t stop, even if I make you -angry. I’m not one to gossip, and, when I’m trusted, wild horses won’t -drag a word out of me; but I make bold to speak to you--though you’re a -lady, and I work for my bread--as one woman to another, ma’am. If you -hadn’t been a real lady, I wouldn’t have dared to a-done it. Oh, if -you’d but give him a word of good advice! such as we can’t have -everything we want; and there’s a deal of good left, even though Miss -Ombra won’t have him; and he oughtn’t to be ungrateful to God, and that. -He’d take it from you. Oh! ma’am, if you’d give him a word of good -advice!’ - -Miss Richardson wept while she spoke; and at length her emotion affected -her companion. - -‘You are a good soul,’ said Mrs. Anderson, holding out her hand; ‘you -are a kind creature. I will always think better of you for this. But you -must not say a word about Miss Ombra. He has never spoken to me; and -till a man speaks, you know, a lady has no right to take such a thing -for granted. But I will not forget what you have said; and I will speak -to him, if I can find an opportunity--if he will give me the least -excuse for doing it. He will miss us, I am sure.’ - -‘Oh! miss you, ma’am!’ cried Miss Richardson; ‘all the parish will miss -you, and me among the first, as you’ve always been so good to; but as -for my poor young gentleman, what I’m afraid of is as he’ll do himself -some harm.’ - -‘Hush! my daughter is coming!’ said Mrs. Anderson; and she added, in a -louder tone, ‘I will see that you have everything you want to-morrow; -and you must try to give us two days more. I think two days will be -enough, Ombra, with everybody helping a little. Good night. To-morrow, -when you come, you must make us all work.’ - -‘Thank you very kindly, ma’am,’ said the dressmaker, with a curtsey; -‘and good night.’ - -‘What was she talking to you about, mamma?’ said Ombra’s languid voice, -in the soft evening gloom; not that she cared to know--the words came -mechanically to her lips. - -‘About the trimming of your travelling dress, my dear,’ said her mother, -calmly, with that virtuous composure which accompanies so many gentle -fibs. (‘And so she was, though not just now,’ Mrs. Anderson added to -herself, in self-exculpation.) - -And then Kate joined them, and they went indoors and lit the lamp. Mr. -Sugden had been taking a long walk, that night. Some one was sick at the -other end of the parish, to whom the Rector had sent him; and he was -glad. The invalid was six miles off, and he had walked there and back. -But every piece of work, alas! comes to an end, and so did this; and he -found himself in front of the Cottage, he could not tell how, just after -this soft domestic light began to shine under the verandah, as under an -eyelid. He stood and looked at it, poor fellow! with a sick and sore -heart. A few nights more, and that lamp would be lit no longer; and the -light of his life would be gone out. He stood and looked at it in a -rapture of love and pain. There was no one to see him; but if there had -been a hundred, he would not have known nor cared, so lost was he in -this absorbing passion and anguish. He had not the heart to go in, -though the times were so few that he would see her again. He went away, -with his head bent on his breast, saying to himself that if she had been -happy he could have borne it; but she was not happy; and he ground his -teeth, and cursed the Berties, those two butterflies, those two fools, -in his heart! - -There was one, however, who saw him, and that was Francesca, who was -cutting some salad in the corner of the kitchen-garden, in the faint -light which preceded the rising of the moon. The old woman looked over -the wall, and saw him, and was sorry. ‘The villains!’ she said to -herself. But though she was sorry, she laughed softly as she went in, as -people will, while the world lasts, laugh at such miseries. Francesca -was sorry for the young man--so sorry, even, that she forgot that he was -a priest, and, therefore, a terrible sinner in thinking such thoughts; -but she was not displeased with Ombra this time. This was natural. ‘What -is the good of being young and beautiful if one has not a few victims?’ -she said to herself. ‘Time passes fast enough and then it is all over, -and the man has it his own way. If _nostra_ Ombra did no more harm than -that!’ And, on the whole, Francesca went in with the salad for her -ladies’ supper rather exhilarated than otherwise by the sight of the -hopeless lover. It was the woman’s revenge upon man for a great deal -that he makes her suffer; and in the abstract women are seldom sorry for -such natural victims. - -Next evening, however, Mr. Sugden took heart, and went to the Cottage, -and there spent a few hours of very sweet wretchedness, Ombra being -unusually good to him--and to the Curate she always was good. After the -simple supper had been eaten, and Francesca’s salad, Mrs. Anderson -contrived that both the girls should be called away to try on their -travelling-dresses, at which Miss Richardson and Maryanne were working -with passion. The window was open; the night was warm, and the moon had -risen over the sea. Mrs. Anderson stepped out upon the verandah with the -Curate, and they exchanged a few sentences on the beauty of the night, -such as were consistent with the occasion; then she broke off the -unreal, and took up the true. ‘Mr. Sugden,’ she said, ‘I wanted to speak -to you. It seems vain to take such a thing for granted, but I am afraid -you will miss us when we go away.’ - -‘_Miss_ you!’ he cried; and then tears came into the poor fellow’s eyes, -and into his voice, and he took her hand with despairing gratitude. -‘Thanks for giving me a chance to speak,’ he said--‘it is like yourself. -Miss you!--I feel as if life would cease altogether after Monday--it -won’t, I suppose, and most things will go on as usual; but I cannot -think it--everything will be over for me.’ - -‘You must not think so,’ she said; ‘it will be hard upon you at first, -but you will find things will arrange themselves better than you -expect--other habits will come in instead of this. No, indeed I am not -unkind, but I know life better than you do. But for that, you know, we -could not go on living, with all the changes that happen to us. We -should be killed at the first blow.’ - -‘And so I shall be killed,’ he said, turning from her with heavier gloom -than before, and angry with the consolation. ‘Oh! not bodily, I suppose. -One can go on and do one’s work all the same; and one good thing is, it -will be of importance to nobody but myself.’ - -‘Don’t say so,’ said kind Mrs. Anderson, with tears in her eyes. ‘Oh! my -dear boy--if you will let me call you so--think what your visionary loss -is in comparison with so many losses that people have to bear every -day.’ - -‘It is no visionary loss to me,’ he said, bitterly. ‘But if she were -happy, I should not mind. I could bear it, if all were well with her. I -hope I am not such a wretch as to think of myself in comparison. Don’t -think I am too stupid to see how kind you are to me; but there is one -thing--only one that could give me real comfort. Promise that, if the -circumstances are ever such as to call for a brother’s interference, you -will send for me. It is not what I would have wished, God knows!--not -what I would have wished--but I will be a brother to her, if she needs a -brother. Promise. There are some things which a man can do best, and if -she is wronged, if her brother could set things right----’ - -‘Dear Mr. Sugden, I don’t understand you,’ said Mrs. Anderson, -faltering. - -‘But you will, if such a time should come? You will remember that you -have promised. I will say good night now. I can’t go in again after this -and see her without making a fool of myself, and it is best she should -keep some confidence in me. Good night.’ - -Had she fulfilled Miss Richardson’s commission?--or had she pledged -herself to appeal to him instead, in some incomprehensible contingency? -Mrs. Anderson looked after him bewildered, and did not know. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - - -Sunday was their last evening at Shanklin, and they were all rather -melancholy--even Kate, who had been to church three times, and to the -Sunday school, and over the almshouses, and had filled up the -interstices between these occupations by a succession of tearful rambles -round the Rectory garden with Lucy Eldridge, whose tears flowed at the -smallest provocation. ‘I will remember everything you have told me,’ -Lucy protested. ‘I will go to the old women every week, and take them -their tea and sugar--for oh! Kate, you know papa does _not_ approve of -money--and I will see that the little Joliffes are kept at school--and I -will go every week to see after your flowers; but oh! what shall I do -without you? I shan’t care about my studies, or anything; and those -duets which we used to play together, and our German, which we always -meant to take up--I shall not have any heart for them now. Oh! Kate, I -wish you were not going! But that is selfish. Of course I want _you_ to -have the pleasure; only----’ - -‘I wish _you_ were going,’ said Kate--‘I wish everybody was coming; but, -as that is impossible, we must just make the best of it; and if anybody -should take the Cottage, and you should go and make as great friends -with them as you ever did with me----’ - -‘How can you think so?’ said Lucy, with fresh tears. - -‘Well,’ said Kate, ‘if I were very good, I suppose I ought to hope you -would make friends with them; but I am not so frightened of being -selfish as you are. One must be a little selfish--but for that, people -would have no character at all.’ - -‘Oh! Kate, if mamma were to hear you----’ - -‘I should not mind. Mrs. Eldridge knows as well as I do. Giving in to -other people is all very well; but if you have not the heart or the -courage to keep something of your very own, which you won’t give away, -what is the good of you? I don’t approve of sacrificing like that.’ - -‘I am sure you would sacrifice yourself, though you speak so,’ said -Lucy. ‘Oh! Kate, you would sacrifice anything--even a--person--you -loved--if some one else loved him.’ - -‘I should do nothing of the sort,’ said Kate, stoutly. ‘In the first -place, you mean a man, I suppose, and it is only women who are called -persons. I should do nothing of the sort. What right should I have to -sacrifice him if he were fond of me, and hand him over to some one else? -That is not self-sacrifice--it is the height of impertinence; and if he -were not fond of me, of course there would be nothing in my power. Oh, -no; I am not that sort of person. I will never give up any one’s love or -any one’s friendship to give it to another. Now, Lucy, remember that. -And if you are as great friends with the new people as you are with -me----’ - -‘What odd ideas you have!’ said Lucy. ‘I suppose it is because you are -so independent and a great lady; and it seems natural that everybody -should yield to you.’ - -Upon which Kate flushed crimson. - -‘How mean you must think me! To stand up for my own way because I shall -be rich. But never mind, Lucy. I don’t suppose you can understand, and I -am fond of you all the same. I am fond of you _now_; but if you go and -forget me, and go off after other people, you don’t know how different I -can be. I shall hate you--I shall----’ - -‘Oh! Kate, don’t be so dreadful!’ cried Lucy. ‘What would mamma say?’ - -‘Then don’t provoke me,’ said Kate. And then they fell back upon more -peaceful details, and the hundred commissions which Lucy undertook so -eagerly. I am not sure that Kate was quite certain of the sincerity of -her self-sacrificing friend. She made a great many wise reflections on -the subject when she had left her, and settled it with a philosophy -unusual to her years. - -‘She does not mean to be insincere,’ Kate mused to herself. ‘She does -not understand. If there is nothing deeper in it, how can she help it? -When the new people come, she will be quite sure she will not care for -them; and then they will call, and she will change her mind. I suppose I -will change my mind too. How queer people are! But, at all events, I -don’t pretend to be better than I am.’ And with a little premonitory -smart, feeling that her friend was already, in imagination, unfaithful, -Kate walked home, looking tenderly at everything. - -‘Oh! how lovely the sea is!’ she said to herself--‘how blue, and grey, -and green, and all sorts of colours! I hope it will not be rough when we -cross to-morrow. I wonder if the voyage from Southampton will be -disagreeable, and how Ombra will stand it. Is Ombra really ill now, or -is it only her mind? Of course she cannot turn round to my aunt and say -it is her mind, or that the Berties had anything to do with it. I wonder -what really happened _that_ night; and I wonder which it is. She cannot -be in love with them both at once, and they cannot be both in love with -her, or they would not be such friends. I wonder---- but, there, I am -doing nothing but wondering, and there are so many things that are -queer. How beautiful that white headland is with a little light about -it, as if the day had forgotten to carry all that belonged to it away! -And perhaps I may never see it any more. Perhaps I may never come back -to the Cottage, or the cliffs, or the sea. What a long time I have been -here--and what a horrid disagreeable girl I was! I think I must be a -little better now. I am not so impertinent, at all events, though I do -like to meddle. I suppose I shall always like to meddle. Oh! I wonder -how I shall feel when I go back again to Langton-Courtenay? I am -eighteen _past_, and in three years I shall be able to do whatever I -like. Lucy said a great lady--a great lady! I think, on the whole, I -like the idea. It is so different from most other people. I shall not -require to marry unless I please, or to do anything that is -disagreeable. And if I don’t set the parish to rights! The poor folks -shall be all as happy as the day is long,’ cried Kate to herself, with -energy. ‘They shall have each a nice garden, and a bit of potato-ground, -and grass for a cow. And what if I were to buy a quantity of those nice -little Brittany cows when we are abroad? Auntie thinks they are the -best. How comfortable everybody will be with a cow and a garden! But, oh -dear! what a long time it will be first! and I don’t know if I shall -ever see this dear Cottage, and the bay, and the headland, and all the -cliffs and the landslips, and the ups and the downs again.’ - -‘Mees Katta, you vill catzh ze cold,’ said Francesca, coming briskly up -to her. ‘It is not so beautiful this road, that you should take the long -looks, and have the air so dull. Sorry, no, she is not sorry--my young -lady is not sorry to go to see Italy, and ze mountains, and ze world---- -’ - -‘Not quite that, Francesca,’ said Kate; ‘but I have been so happy at the -Cottage, and I was thinking what if I should never see it again!’ - -‘That is what you call non-sense,’ said Francesca. ‘Why should not -Mademoiselle, who is verra young, comm back and zee all she lofs? If it -was an old, like me--but I think nothink, nothink of ze kind, for I -always comms back, like what you call ze bad penny. This is pretty, but -were you once to see Italy, Mees Katta, you never would think no more of -this--never no more!’ - -‘Indeed, I should!’ cried Kate, indignantly; ‘and if this was the -ugliest place in England, and your Italy as beautiful as heaven, I -should still like this best.’ - -Francesca laughed, and shook her little brown head. - -‘Wait till my young lady see,’ she said--‘wait till she see. The air is -never damp like this, but sweet as heaven, as Mees Katta says; and the -sea blue, all blue; you never see nozing like it. It makes you well, -you English, only to see Italy. What does Mademoiselle say?’ - -‘Oh! do you think the change of air will cure Ombra?’ cried Kate. - -‘No,’ said Francesca, turning round upon her, ‘not the change of air, -but the change of mind, will cure Mees Ombra. What she wants is the -change of mind.’ - -‘I do not understand you,’ said Kate. ‘I suppose you mean the change of -scene, the novelty, the----’ - -‘I mean the change of ze mind,’ said Francesca; ‘when she will -understand herself, and the ozer people’s; when she knows to do right, -and puts away her face of stone, then she will be well--quite well. It -is not sickness; it is her mind that makes ill, Mees Katta. When she -will put ze ice away and be true, then she shall be well.’ - -‘Oh, Francesca, you talk like an old witch, and I am frightened for -you!’ cried Kate. ‘I don’t believe in illness of the mind; you will see -Ombra will get better as soon as we begin to move about.’ - -‘As soon as she change her mind she will be better,’ said the oracular -Francesca. ‘There is nobody that tells her the truth but me. She is my -child, and I lof her, and I tell her the trutt.’ - -‘I think I see my aunt in the garden,’ said Kate, hurrying on; for -though she was very curious, she was honourable, and did not wish to -discover her cousin’s secrets through Francesca’s revelations. - -‘If your aunt kill me, I care not,’ said Francesca, ‘but my lady is the -most good, the most sense---- She knows Mees Ombra, and she lets me -talk. She is cured when she will change the mind.’ - -‘I don’t want to hear any more, please,’ said honourable Kate. But -Francesca went on nodding her head, and repeating her sentiment: ‘When -she change the mind, she will be well,’ till it got to honest Kate’s -ears, and mixed with her dreams. The mother and daughter were in the -garden, talking not too cheerfully. A certain sadness was in the air. -The lamp burned dimly in the drawing-room, throwing a faint, desolate -light over the emptiness. ‘This is what it will look like to-morrow,’ -said Kate; and she cried. And the others were very much disposed to -follow her example. It was the last night--words which are always -melancholy; and presently poor Mr. Sugden stole up in the darkness, and -joined them, with a countenance of such despair that poor Kate, excited, -and tired, and dismal as she herself felt, had hard ado to keep from -laughing. The new-comer added no cheer to the little party. He was -dismal as Don Quixote, and, poor fellow, as simple-minded and as true. - -And next morning they went away. Mr. Courtenay himself, who had lingered -in the neighbourhood, paying a visit to some friends, either from excess -of kindness, or determination to see the last of them, met them at -Southampton, and put them into the boat for Havre, the nearest French -port. Kate had her Maryanne, who, confounded by the idea of foreign -travel, was already helpless; and the two other ladies were attended by -old Francesca, as brisk and busy as a little brown bee, who was of use -to everybody, and knew all about luggage and steamboats. Mr. Sugden, who -had begged that privilege from Mrs. Anderson, went with them so far, and -pointed out the ships of the fleet as they passed, and took them about -the town, indicating all its principal wonders to them, as if he were -reading his own or their death-warrants. - -‘If it goes on much longer, I shall laugh,’ whispered Kate, in her -aunt’s ear. - -‘It would be very cruel of you,’ said that kind woman. But even her -composure was tried. And in the evening they sailed, with all the -suppressed excitement natural to the circumstances. - -‘You have the very best time of the year for your start,’ said Mr. -Courtenay, as he shook hands with them. - -‘And, thanks to you, every comfort in travelling,’ said Mrs. Anderson. - -Thus they parted, with mutual compliments. Mr. Sugden wrung her hand, -and whispered hoarsely, ‘Remember--like her brother!’ He stalked like a -ghost on shore. His face was the last they saw when the steamboat moved, -as he stood in the grey of the evening, grey as the evening, looking -after them as long as they were visible. The sight of him made the -little party very silent. They made no explanation to each other; but -Kate had no longer any inclination to laugh. ‘Like a brother!--like her -brother!’ These words, the Curate, left to himself, said over and over -in his heart as he walked back and forward on the pier for hours, -watching the way they had gone. The same soft evening breeze which -helped them on, blew about him, but refreshed him not. The object of his -life was gone. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - - -The little party travelled, as it is in the nature of the British -tourist to travel, when he is fairly started, developing suddenly a -perfect passion for sight-seeing, and for long and wearisome journeys. -Mrs. Anderson, though she was old enough and experienced enough to have -known better, took the plunge with the truest national enthusiasm. Even -when they paused in Paris, which she knew as well as or better than -anything in her own country, she still felt herself a tourist, and went -conscientiously over again and saw the sights--for Kate, she said, but -also for herself. They rushed across France with the speed of an express -train, and made a dash at Switzerland, though it was so early in the -year. They had it almost all to themselves, the routes being scarcely -open, and the great rush of travellers not yet begun; and who, that does -not know it, can fancy how beautiful it is among the mountains in May! -Kate was carried entirely out of herself by what she saw. The Spring -green brightening and enhancing those rugged heights, and dazzling peaks -of snow; the sky of an ethereal blue, all dewy and radiant, and -surprised into early splendour, like the blue eyes of a child; the paths -sweet with flowers, the streams full with the melting snow, the sense of -awakening and resurrection all over the land. Kate had not dreamed of -anything so splendid and so beautiful. The weather was much finer than -is usual so early in the year, and of course the travellers took it not -for an exceptional season, as they ought, but gave the fact that they -were abroad credit for every shining day. Abroad! Kate had felt for -years (she said all her life) that in that word ‘abroad’ every delight -was included; and now she believed herself. The novelty and movement by -themselves would have done a great deal; and the wonderful beauty of -this virgin country, which looked as if no crowd of tourists had ever -profaned it, as if it had kept its stillness, its stateliness and -grandeur, and dazzling light and majestic glooms, all for their -enjoyment, elevated her into a paradise of inward delight. Even Maryanne -was moved, though chiefly by her mistress’s many and oft-repeated -efforts to rouse her. When Kate had exhausted everybody else, she rushed -upon her handmaid. - -‘Oh! Maryanne, look! Did you ever see--did you ever dream of anything so -beautiful?’ - -‘No, miss,’ said Maryanne. - -‘Look at that stream rushing down the ravine. It is the melted snow. And -look at all those peaks above. Pure snow, as dazzling as--as----’ - -‘They looks for all the world like the sugar on a bride-cake, miss,’ -said Maryanne. - -At which Kate laughed, but went on-- - -‘Those cottages are called châlets, up there among the clouds. Look how -green the grass is--like velvet. Oh! Maryanne, shouldn’t you like to -live there--to milk the cows in the evening, and have the mountains all -round you--nothing but snow-peaks, wherever you turned your eyes?’ - -Maryanne gave a shudder. - -‘Why, miss,’ she said, ‘you’d catch your death of cold!’ - -‘Wait till Mees Katta see my _bella Firenze_,’ said old Francesca. -‘There is the snow quite near enough--quite near enough. You zee him on -the tops of ze hills.’ - -‘I never, never shall be able to live in a town. I hate towns,’ said -Kate. - -‘Ah!’ cried the old woman, ‘my young lady will not always think so. This -is pleasant now; but there is no balls, no parties, no croquée on ze -mountains! Mees Katta shakes her head; but then the Winter will come, -and, oh! how beautiful is Firenze, with all the palaces, and ze people, -and processions that pass, and all that is gay! There will be the -Opera,’ said Francesca, counting on her fingers, ‘and the Cascine, and -the Carnival, and the Veglioni, and the grand Corso with the flowers. -Ah! I have seen many young English Mees, I know.’ - -‘I never could have supposed Francesca would be so stupid,’ cried Kate, -returning to the party on the quarter-deck--for this conversation took -place in a steamer on the Lake of Lucerne. ‘She does not care for the -mountains as much as Maryanne does, even. Maryanne thinks the snow is -like sugar on a bride-cake,’ she went on, with a laugh; ‘but Francesca -does nothing but rave about Florence, and balls, and operas. As if I -cared for such things--and as if we were going there!’ - -‘But Francesca is quite right, dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with -hesitation. ‘When the Summer is over, we shall want to settle down -again, and see our fellow-creatures; and really, as Francesca has -suggested it, we might do a great deal worse. Florence is a very nice -place.’ - -‘In Winter, auntie? Are not we going home?’ - -‘My dear, I know your uncle would wish you to see as much as possible -before returning home,’ said Mrs. Anderson, faltering, and with -considerable confusion. ‘I confess I had begun to think that--a few -months in Italy--as we are here----’ - -Kate was taken by surprise. She did not quite know whether she was -delighted or disappointed by the idea; but before she could reply, she -met the eye of her cousin, whose whole face had kindled into passion. -Ombra sprang to her feet, and drew Kate aside with a nervous haste that -startled her. She grasped her arm tight, and whispered in her ear, ‘We -are to be kept till you are of age--I see it all now--we are prisoners -till you are of age. Oh! Kate, will you bear it? You can resist, but I -can’t--they will listen to you.’ - -It is impossible to describe the shock which was given to Kate’s loyalty -by this speech. It was the first actual suggestion of rebellion which -had been made to her, and it jarred her every nerve. She had not been a -submissive child, but she had never plotted--never done anything in -secret. She said aloud, in painful wonder-- - -‘Why should we be prisoners?--and what has my coming of age to do with -it?’ turning round, and looking bewildered into her cousin’s face. - -Ombra made no reply; she went back to her seat, and retired into herself -for the rest of the day. Things had gone smoothly since the journey -began up to this moment. She had almost ceased to brood, and had begun -to take some natural interest in what was going on about her. But now -all at once the gloom returned. She sat with her eyes fixed on the shore -of the lake, and with the old flush of feverish red, half wretchedness, -half anger, under her eyes. Kate, who had grown happy in the brightening -of the domestic atmosphere, was affected by this change in spite of -herself. She exchanged mournful looks with her aunt. The beautiful lake -and the sunny peaks were immediately clouded over; she was doubly -checked in the midst of her frank enjoyment. - -‘You are wrong, Ombra,’ said Mrs. Anderson, after a long pause. ‘I don’t -know what you have said to Kate, but I am sure you have taken up a false -idea. There is no compulsion. We are to go only when we please, and to -stay only as long as we like.’ - -‘But we are not to return home this year?’ - -‘I did not say so; but I think, perhaps, on the whole, that to go a -little further, and see a little more, would be best both for you and -Kate.’ - -‘Exactly,’ said Ombra, with bitterness, nodding her head in a derisive -assent. - -Kate looked on with wistful and startled eyes. It was almost the first -time that the idea of real dissension between these two had crossed her -mind; and still more this infinitely startling doubt whether all that -was said to her was true. At least there had been concealment; and was -it really, truly the good of Ombra and Kate, or some private arrangement -with Uncle Courtenay, that was in her aunt’s mind. This suggestion came -suddenly into her very heart, wounding her as with an arrow; and from -that day, though sometimes lessening and sometimes deepening, the cloud -upon Ombra’s face came back. But as she grew less amiable, she grew more -powerful. Henceforward the party became guided by her wayward fancies. -She took a sudden liking for one of the quietest secluded places--a -village on the little blue lake of Zug--and there they settled for some -time, without rhyme or reason. Green slopes, with grey stone-peaks -above, and glimpses of snow beyond, shut in this lake-valley. I agree -with Ombra that it is very sweet in its stillness, the lake so blue, the -air so clear, and the noble nut-bearing trees so umbrageous, shadowing -the pleasant châlets. In the centre was a little white-washed village -church among its graves, its altar all decked with stately May lilies, -the flowers of the Annunciation. The church had no beauty of -architecture, no fine pictures--not even great antiquity to recommend -it; but Ombra was fond of the sunshiny, still place. She would go there -when she was tired, and sit down on one of the rush-bottomed chairs, and -sometimes was to be seen kneeling furtively on the white altar steps. - -Kate, who roamed up and down everywhere, and had soon all the facility -of a young mountaineer, would stop at the open church-door as she came -down from the hills, alpenstock in hand, sunburnt and agile as a young -Diana. - -‘You are not going to turn a Roman Catholic, Ombra?’ she said. ‘I think -it would make my aunt very unhappy.’ - -‘I am not going to turn anything,’ said Ombra. ‘I shall never be -different from what I am--never any better. One tries and tries, and it -is no good.’ - -‘Then stop trying, and come up on the hills and shake it off,’ said -Kate. - -‘Perhaps I might if I were like you; but I am not like you.’ - -‘Or let us go on, and see people and do things again--do all sorts of -things. I like this little lake,’ said Kate. ‘One has a home-feeling. I -almost think I should begin to poke about the cottages, and find fault -with the people, if we were to stay long. But that is not your -temptation, Ombra. Why do you like to stay?’ - -‘I stay because it is so still--because nobody comes here, nothing can -happen here; it must always be the same for ever and for ever and ever!’ -cried Ombra. ‘The hills and the deep water, and the lilies in the -church--which are artificial, you know, and cannot fade.’ - -Kate did not understand this little bitter jibe at the end of her -cousin’s speech; but was overwhelmed with surprise when Ombra next -morning suggested that they should resume their journey. They were -losing their time where they were, she said; and as, if they were to go -to Italy for the Winter, it would be necessary to return by Switzerland -next year, she proposed to strike off from the mountains at this spot, -to go to Germany, to the strange old historical cities that were within -reach. ‘Kate should see Nuremberg,’ she said; and Kate, to her -amazement, found the whole matter settled, and the packing commenced -that day. Ombra managed the whole journey, and was a practical person, -handy and rational, until they came to that old-world place, where she -became _reveuse_ and melancholy once more. - -‘Do you like this better than Switzerland?’ Kate asked, as they looked -down from their windows along the three-hundred-years-old street, where -it was so strange to see people walking about in ordinary dresses and -not in trunkhose and velvet mantles. - -‘I don’t care for any place. I have seen so many, and one is so much -like another,’ said Ombra. ‘But look, Kate, there is one advantage. -Anything might happen here; any one might be coming along those streets -and you would never feel surprised. If I were to see my father walking -quietly this way, I should not think it at all strange.’ - -‘But, Ombra--he is dead!’ said Kate, shrinking a little, with natural -uneasiness. - -‘Yes, he is dead, but that does not matter. Look down that hazy street -with all the gables. Any one might be coming--people whom we have -forgotten--even,’ she said, pressing Kate’s arm, ‘people who have -forgotten us.’ - -‘Oh! Ombra, how strangely you speak! People that care for you don’t -forget you,’ cried Kate. - -‘That does not mend the matter,’ said Ombra, and withdrew hurriedly from -the window. - -Poor Kate tried very hard to make something out of it, but could not; -and therefore she shrugged her shoulders and gave her head a little -shake, and went to her German, which she was working at fitfully, to -make the best of her opportunities. The German, though she thought -sometimes it would break her heart, was not so hard as Ombra; and even -the study of languages had to her something amusing in it. - -One of the young waiters in the hotel kept a dictionary in the staircase -window, and studied it as he flew up and down stairs for a new word to -experiment with upon the young ladies; and another had, by means of the -same dictionary, set up a flirtation with Maryanne; so fun was still -possible, notwithstanding all; and whether it was by the mountain paths, -or in those hazy strange old streets, Kate walked with her head, as it -were, in the clouds, in a soft rapture of delight and pleasantness, -taking in all that was sweet and lovely and good, and letting the rest -drop off from her like a shower of rain. She even ceased to think of -Ombra’s odd ways--not out of want of consideration, but with the -facility which youth has for taking everything for granted, and -consenting to whatever is. It was a great pity, but it could not be -helped, and one must make the best of it all the same. - -And thus the Summer passed on, full of wonders and delights. Mrs. -Anderson and her daughter, and even Francesca, were invaluable to the -ignorant girl. They knew how everything had to be done; they were -acquainted alike with picture-galleries and railway-tickets, and knew -even what to say about every work of art--an accomplishment deeply -amazing to Kate, who did not know what to say about anything, and who -had several times committed herself by praising vehemently some daub -which was beyond the reach of praise. When she made such a mistake as -this, her mortification and shame were great; but unfortunately her -pride made her hold by her opinion. They saw so many pictures, so many -churches, so much that was picturesque and beautiful, that her brain was -in a maze, and her intellect had become speechless. - -They took their way across the mountains in Autumn, getting entangled in -the vast common tide of travellers to Italy; and, after all, Francesca’s -words came true, and it was a relief to Kate to get back into the -stream--it relieved the strain upon her mind. Instead of thinking of -more and lovelier pictures still, she was pleased to rest and see -nothing; and even--a confession which she was ashamed to make to -herself--Kate was as much delighted with the prospect of mundane -pleasures as she had been with the scenery. Society had acquired a new -charm. She had never been at anything more than ‘a little dance,’ or a -country concert, and balls and operas held out their arms to her. One of -the few diplomatic friends whom Mrs. Anderson had made in her consular -career was at Florence; and even Mr. Courtenay could not object to his -niece’s receiving the hospitalities of the Embassy. She was to ‘come -out’ at the Ambassador’s ball--not in her full-blown glory, as an -heiress and a great lady, but as Mrs. Anderson’s niece, a pretty, young, -undistinguished English girl. Kate knew nothing about this, nor cared. -She threw herself into the new joys as she had done into the old. A new -chapter, however it might begin, was always a pleasant thing in her -fresh and genial life. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - - -Florence altogether was full of pleasant novelty to the young traveller. -To find herself living up two pair of stairs, with windows overlooking -the Arno, and at a little distance the quaint buildings of the Ponte -Vecchio, was as great a change as the first change had been from -Langton-Courtenay to the little Cottage at Shanklin. Mrs. Anderson’s -apartment on the second floor of the Casa Graziana was not large. There -was a drawing-room which looked to the front, and received all the -sunshine which Florentine skies could give; and half a mile off, at the -other end of the house, there was a grim and spare dining-room, -furnished with the indispensable tables and chairs, and with a curious -little fireplace in the corner, raised upon a slab of stone, as on a -pedestal. It would be difficult to tell how cold it was here as the -Winter advanced; but in the _salone_ it was genial as Summer whenever -the sun shone. The family went, as it were, from Nice to Inverness when -they went from the front to the back, for their meals. Perhaps it might -have been inappropriate for Miss Courtenay of Langton-Courtenay to live -up two pair of stairs; but it was not at all unsuitable for Mrs. -Anderson; and, indeed, when Lady Barker, who was Mrs. Anderson’s friend, -came to call, she was much surprised by the superior character of the -establishment. Lady Barker had been a Consul’s daughter, and had risen -immensely in life by marrying the foolish young _attaché_, whom she now -kept in the way he ought to go. She was not the Ambassadress, but the -Ambassadress’s friend, and a member of the Legation; and, though she was -now in a manner a great lady herself, she remembered quite well what -were the means of the Andersons, and knew that even the _terzo piano_ of -a house on the Lung-Arno was more than they could have ventured on in -the ancient days. - -‘What a pretty apartment,’ she said; ‘and how nicely situated! I am -afraid you will find it rather dear. Florence is so changed since your -time. Do you remember how cheap everything used to be in the old days? -Well, if you will believe me, you pay just fifteen times as much for -every article now.’ - -‘So I perceive,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘We give a thousand francs for -these rooms, which ought not to be more than a hundred scudi--and -without even the old attraction of a pleasant accessible Court.’ - -Lady Barker opened her eyes--at once, at the fact of Mrs. Anderson -paying a thousand francs a month for her rooms, and at her familiar -mention of the pleasant Court. - -‘Oh, there are some very pleasant people here now!’ she said; ‘if your -young ladies are fond of dancing, I think I can help them to some -amusement. Lady Granton will send you cards for her ball. Is Ombra -delicate?--do you still call her Ombra? How odd it is that you and I, -under such different circumstances, should meet here!’ - -‘Yes--very odd,’ said Mrs. Anderson; ‘and yet I don’t know. People who -have been once in Italy always come back. There is a charm about -it--a----’ - -‘Ah, we didn’t think so once!’ said Lady Barker, with a laugh. She could -remember the time when the Andersons, like so many other people -compelled to live abroad, looked upon everything that was not English -with absolute enmity. ‘You used to think Italy did not agree with your -daughter,’ she said; ‘have you brought her for her health now?’ - -‘Oh no! Ombra is quite well; she is always pale,’ said Mrs. Anderson. -‘We have come rather on account of my niece--not for her health, but -because she had never seen anything out of her own country. We think it -right that she should make good use of her time before she comes of -age.’ - -‘Oh! will she come of age?’ said Lady Barker, with a glance of laughing -curiosity. She decided that the pretty girl at the window, who had two -or three times broken into the conversation, was a great deal too pretty -to be largely endowed by fortune; and smiled at her old friend’s -grandiloquence, which she remembered so well. She made a very good story -of it at the little cosy dinner-party at the Embassy that evening, and -prepared the good people for some amusement. ‘A pretty English country -girl, with some property, no doubt,’ she said. ‘A cottage _ornée_, most -likely, and some fields about it; but her aunt talks as if she were -heiress to a Grand Duke. She has come abroad to improve her mind before -she comes of age.’ - -‘And when she goes back there will be a grand assemblage of the -tenantry, no doubt, and triumphal arches, and all the rest of it,’ said -another of the fine people. - -‘So Mrs. Vice-Consul allows one to suppose,’ said Lady Barker. ‘But she -is so pretty--prettier than anything I have seen for ages; and Ombra, -too, is pretty, the late Vice-Consul’s heiress. They will _far -furore_--two such new faces, and both so English; so fresh; so -_gauche_!’ - -This was Lady Barker’s way of backing her friends; but the friends did -not know of it, and it procured them their invitation all the same, and -Lady Granton’s card to put on the top of the few other cards which -callers had left. And Mrs. Anderson came to be, without knowing it, the -favourite joke of the ambassadorial circle. Mrs. Vice-Consul had more -wonderful sayings fastened upon her than she ever dreamt of, and became -the type and symbol of the heavy British matron to that lively party. -Her friend made her out to be a bland and dignified mixture of Mrs. -Malaprop and Mrs. Nickleby. Meanwhile, she had a great many things to -do, which occupied her, and drove even her anxieties out of her mind. -There was the settling down--the hiring of servants and additional -furniture, and all the trifles necessary to make their rooms -‘comfortable;’ and then the dresses of the girls to be put in order, and -especially the dress in which Kate was to make her first appearance. - -Mrs. Anderson had accepted Mr. Courtenay’s conditions; she had -acquiesced in the propriety of keeping silent as to Kate’s pretensions, -and guarding her from all approach of fortune-hunters. There was even -something in this which was not disagreeable to her maternal feelings; -for to have Kate made first, and Ombra second, would not have been -pleasant. But still, at the same time, she could not restrain a natural -inclination to enhance the importance of her party by a hint--an -inference. That little intimation about Kate’s coming of age, she had -meant to tell, as indeed it did, more than she intended; and now her -mind was greatly exercised about her niece’s ball-dress. ‘White -tarlatane is, of course, very nice for a young girl,’ she said, -doubtfully, ‘it is all my Ombra has ever had; but, for Kate, with her -pretensions----’ - -This was said rather as one talks to one’s self, thinking aloud, than as -actually asking advice. - -‘But I thought Kate in Florence was to be simply your niece,’ said -Ombra, who was in the room. ‘To make her very fine would be bad taste; -besides,’ she added, with a little sigh, ‘Kate would look well in white -calico. Nature has decked her so. I suppose I never, at my best, was -anything like that.’ - -Ombra had improved very much since their arrival in Florence. Her -fretfulness had much abated, and there was no envy in this sigh. - -‘At your best, Ombra! My foolish darling, do you think your best is -over?’ said the mother, with a smile. - -‘I mean the bloom,’ said Ombra. ‘I never had any bloom--and Kate’s is -wonderful. I think she gives a pearly, rosy tint to the very air. I was -always a little shadow, you know!’ - -‘You will not do yourself justice,’ cried Mrs. Anderson. ‘Oh! Ombra, if -you only knew how it grieves me! You draw back, and you droop into that -dreamy, melancholy way; there is always a mist about you. My darling, -this is a new place, you will meet new people, everything is fresh and -strange. Could you not make a new beginning, dear, and shake it off!’ - -‘I try,’ said Ombra, in a low tone. - -‘I don’t want to be hard upon you, my own child; but, then, dear, you -must blame yourself, not any one else. It was not his fault.’ - -‘Please don’t speak of it,’ cried the girl. ‘If you could know how -humbled I feel to think that it is _that_ which has upset my whole life! -Ill-temper, jealousy, envy, meanness--pleasant things to have in one’s -heart! I fight with them, but I can’t overcome them. If I could only -“not care!” How happy people are who can take things easily, and who -don’t care!’ - -‘Very few people do,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘Those who have command of -themselves don’t show their feelings, but most people _feel_ more or -less. The change, however, will do you good. And you must occupy -yourself, my love. How nicely you used to draw, Ombra! and you have -given up drawing. As for poetry, my dear, it is very pretty--it is very, -very pretty--but I fear it is not much good.’ - -‘It does not sell, you mean, like novels.’ - -‘I don’t know much about novels; but it keeps you always dwelling upon -your feelings. And then, if they were ever published, people would talk. -They would say, “Where has Ombra learned all this? Has she been as -unhappy as she says? Has she been disappointed?” My darling, I think it -does a girl a great deal of harm. If you would begin your drawing again! -Drawing does not tell any tales.’ - -‘There is no tale to tell,’ cried Ombra. Her shadowy face flushed with a -colour which, for the moment, was as bright as Kate’s, and she got up -hurriedly, and began to arrange some books at a side-table, an -occupation which carried her out of her mother’s way; and then Kate came -in, carrying a basket of fruit, which she and Francesca had bought in -the market. There were scarcely any flowers to be had, she complained, -but the grapes, with their picturesque stems, and great green leaves, -stained with russet, were almost as ornamental. A white alabaster tazza, -which they had bought at Pisa, heaped with them, was almost more -effective, more characteristic than flowers. - -‘I have been trying to talk to the market-women,’ she said, ‘down in -that dark, narrow passage, by the Strozzi Palace. Francesca knows all -about it. How pleasant it is going with Francesca--to hear her chatter, -and to see her brown little face light up! She tells me such stories of -all the people as we go.’ - -‘How fond you are of stories, Kate!’ - -‘Is it wrong? Look, auntie, how lovely this vine-branch looks! England -is better for some things, though. There will still be some clematis -over our porch--not in flower, perhaps, but in that downy, fluffy stage, -after the flower. Francesca promises me everything soon. Spring will -begin in December, she says, so far as the flowers go, and then we can -make the _salone_ gay. Do you know there are quantities of English -people at the hotel at the corner? I almost thought I heard some one say -my name as I went by. I looked up, but I could not see anybody I knew.’ - -‘I hope there is nobody we know,’ cried Ombra, under her breath. - -‘My dear children,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with solemnity, ‘you must -recognise this principle in Italy, that there are English people -everywhere; and wherever there are English people, there is sure to be -some one whom you know, or who knows you. I have seen it happen a -hundred times; so never mind looking up at the windows, Kate--you may be -sure we shall find out quite soon enough.’ - -‘Well, I like people,’ said Kate, carelessly, as she went out of the -room. ‘It will not be any annoyance to me.’ - -‘_She_ does not care,’ said Ombra--‘it is not in her nature. She will -always be happy, because she will never mind. One is the same as another -to her. I wish I had that happy disposition. How strange it is that -people should be so different! What would kill me would scarcely move -her--would not cost her a tear.’ - -‘Ombra, I am not so sure----’ - -‘Oh! but I am sure, mamma. She does not understand how things can matter -so much to me. She wonders--I can see her look at me when she thinks I -don’t notice. She seems to say, “What can Ombra mean by it?--how silly -she is to care!”’ - -‘But you have not taken Kate into your confidence?’ said Mrs. Anderson, -in alarm. - -‘I have not taken any one into my confidence--I have no confidence to -give,’ said Ombra, with the ready irritation which had come to be so -common with her. The mother bore it, as mothers have to do, turning away -with a suppressed sigh. What a difference the last year had made on -Ombra!--oh! what a thing love was to make such a difference in a girl! -This is what Mrs. Anderson said to herself with distress and pain; she -could scarcely recognise her own child in this changed manifestation, -and she could not approve, or even sympathise with her, in the degree, -at least, which Ombra craved. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - - -The fact was that Ombra, as she said, had not given her confidence to -any one; she had betrayed herself to her mother in her first excitement, -when she had lost command of herself; but that was all. A real and full -confidence she had never given. Ombra’s love of sympathy was great, but -it was not accompanied, as it generally is, by that open heart which -finds comfort in disclosing its troubles. Her heart was not open. She -neither revealed herself nor divined others; she was not selfish, nor -harsh in temper and disposition; but all that she was certain of was her -own feelings. She did not know how to find out what other people were -feeling or thinking, consequently she had a very imperfect idea of those -about her, and seldom found out for herself what was going on in their -minds. This limited her powers of sympathy in a wonderful way, and it -was this which was at the root of all her trouble. She had been wooed, -but only when it came to a conclusion had she really known what that -wooing meant. In her ignorance she had refused the man whom she was -already beginning to love, and then had gone on to think about him, -after he had revealed himself--to understand all he had been meaning--to -love him, with the consciousness that she had rejected him, and with the -fear that his affections were being transferred to her cousin. This was -what gave the sting to it all, and made poor Ombra complain so -mournfully of her temper. She did not divine what her love meant till it -was too late; and then she resented the fact that it was too -late--resented the reserve which she had herself imposed upon him, the -friendly demeanour she had enjoined. She had begged him, when she -rejected him, as the greatest of favours, to keep up his intercourse -with the family, and be as though this episode had never been. And when -the poor fellow obeyed her she was angry with him. I do not know whether -the minds of men are ever similarly affected, but this is a weakness not -uncommon with women. And then she took his subdued tone, his wistful -looks, his seldom approaches to herself, as so many instances that he -had got over what she called his folly. Why should he continue to -nourish his folly when she had so promptly announced her indifference? -And then it was that it became apparent to her that he had transferred -his affections to Kate. As it happened, by the fatality which sometimes -attends such matters, the unfortunate young man never addressed Kate, -never looked at her, but Ombra found him out. When Kate was occupied by -others, her cousin took no notice; but when that one step approached, -that one voice addressed her, Ombra’s eyes and ears were like the lynx. -Kate was unconscious of the observation, by means of being absolutely -innocent; and the hero himself was unconscious for much the same reason, -and because he felt sure that his hopeless devotion to his first love -must be so plain to her as to make any other theory on the subject out -of the question. But Ombra, who was unable to tell what eyes meant, or -to judge from the general scope of action, set up her theory, and made -herself miserable. She had been wretched when watching ‘them;’ she was -wretched to go away and be able to watch them no longer. She had left -home with a sense of relief, and yet the news that they were not to -return home for the winter smote her like a catastrophe. Even the fact -that he had loved her once seemed a wrong to her, for then she did not -know it; and since then had he not done her the cruel injury of ceasing -to love her? - -Poor Ombra! this was how she tormented herself; and up to this moment -any effort she had made to free herself, to snap her chains, and be once -more rational and calm, seemed but to have dug the iron deeper into her -soul. Nothing cuts like an imaginary wrong. The sufferer would pardon a -real injury a hundred times while nursing and brooding over the supposed -one. She hated herself, she was ashamed, disgusted, revolted by the new -exhibitions of unsuspected wickedness, as she called it, in her nature. -She tried and tried, but got no better. But in the meantime all outward -possibilities of keeping the flame alight being withdrawn, her heart had -melted towards Kate. It was evident that in Kate’s lighter and more -sunshiny mind there was no room for such cares as bowed down her own; -and with a yearning for love which she herself scarcely understood, she -took her young cousin, who was entirely guiltless, into her heart. - -Kate and she were sitting together, the morning of the ball to which the -younger girl looked forward so joyfully. Ombra was not unmoved by its -approach, for she was just one year over twenty, an age at which balls -are still great events, and not unapt to influence life. Her heart was a -little touched by Kate’s anxious desire that her dress and ornaments -should be as fresh and pretty and valuable as her own. It was good of -her; to be sure, there was no reason why one should wish to outshine the -other; but still Kate had been brought up a great lady, and Ombra was -but the Consul’s daughter. Therefore her heart was touched, and she -spoke. - -‘It does not matter what dress I have, Kate; I shall look like a shadow -all the same beside you. You are sunshine--that was what you were born -to be, and I was born in the shade.’ - -‘Don’t make so much of yourself, Ombra mia,’ said Kate. ‘Sunshine is all -very well in England, but not here. Am I to be given over to the -Englishmen and the dogs, who walk in the sun?’ - -A cloud crossed Ombra’s face at this untoward suggestion. - -‘The Englishmen as much as you please,’ she said; and then, recovering -herself with an effort, ‘I wonder if I shall be jealous of you, Kate? I -am a little afraid of myself. You so bright, so fresh, so ready to make -friends, and I so dull and heavy as I am, besides all the other -advantages on your side. I never was in society with you before.’ - -‘Jealous of me!’ Kate thought it was an admirable joke. She laughed till -the tears stood in her bright eyes. ‘But then there must be love before -there is jealousy--or, so they say in books. Suppose some prince -appears, and we both fall in love with him? But I promise you, it is I -who shall be jealous. I will hate you! I will pursue you to the ends of -the world! I will wear a dagger in my girdle, and when I have done -everything else that is cruel, I will plunge it into your treacherous -heart! Oh! Ombra, what fun!’ cried the heroine, drying her dancing eyes. - -‘That is foolish--that is not what I mean,’ said serious Ombra. ‘I am -very much in earnest. I am fond of you, Kate----’ - -This was said with a little effort; but Kate, unconscious of the effort, -only conscious of the love, threw her caressing arm round her cousin’s -waist, and kissed her. - -‘Yes,’ she said, softly; ‘how strange it is, Ombra! I, who had nobody -that cared for me,’ and held her close and fast in the tender gratitude -that filled her heart. - -‘Yes, I am fond of you,’ Ombra continued; ‘but if I were to see you -preferred to me--always first, and I only second, more thought of, more -noticed, better loved! I feel--frightened, Kate. It makes one’s heart so -sore. One says to oneself, “It is no matter what I do or say. It is of -no use trying to be amiable, trying to be kind--she is sure to be always -the first. People love her the moment they see her; and at me they never -look.” You don’t know what it is to feel like that.’ - -‘No,’ said Kate, much subdued; and then she paused. ‘But, Ombra, I am -always so pleased--I have felt it fifty times; and I have always been so -proud. Auntie and I go into a corner, and say to each other, “What nice -people these are--they understand our Ombra--they admire her as she -should be admired!” We give each other little nudges, and nod at each -other, and are so happy. You would be the same, of course, if--though it -don’t seem likely----’ And here Kate broke off abruptly, and blushed -and laughed. - -‘You are the youngest,’ said Ombra--‘that makes it more natural in your -case. And mamma, of course, is--mamma--she does not count. I wonder--I -wonder how I shall take it--in my way or in yours?’ - -‘Are you so sure it will happen?’ said Kate, laughing. Kate herself did -not dislike the notion very much. She had not been brought up with that -idea of self-sacrifice which is inculcated from their cradles on so many -young women. She felt that it would be pleasant to be admired and made -much of; and even to throw others into the shade. She did not make any -resolutions of self-renunciation. The visionary jealousy which moved -Ombra, which arose partly from want of confidence in herself, and partly -from ignorance of others, could never have arisen in her cousin. Kate -did not think of comparing herself with any one, or dwelling upon the -superior attractions of another. If people did not care for her, why, -they did not care for her, and there was an end of it; so much the worse -for them. To be sure she never yet had been subjected to the temptation -which had made Ombra so unhappy. The possibility of anything of the kind -had never entered her thoughts. She was eighteen and a half, and had -lived for years on terms of sisterly amity with all the Eldridges, -Hardwicks, and the ‘neighbours’ generally; but as yet she had never had -a lover, so far as she was aware. ‘The boys,’ as she called them, were -all as yet the same to Kate--she liked some more than others, as she -liked some girls more than others; but to be unhappy or even annoyed -because one or another devoted himself to Ombra more than to her, such -an idea had never crossed the girl’s mind. She was fancy free; but it -did not occur to her to make any pious resolution on the subject, or to -decide beforehand that she would obliterate herself in a corner, in -order to give the first place and all the triumph to Ombra. There are -young saints capable of doing this; but Kate Courtenay was not one of -them. Her eyes shone; her rose-lips parted with just the lightest breath -of excitement. She wanted her share of the triumphs too. - -Ombra shook her head, but made no reply. ‘Oh,’ she said, to herself, -‘what a hard fate to be always the shadow!’ She exerted all the -imagination she possessed, and threw herself forward, as it were, into -the evening which was coming. Kate was in all the splendour of her first -bloom--that radiance of youth and freshness which is often the least -elevated kind of beauty, yet almost always the most irresistible. The -liquid brightness of her eyes, the wild-rose bloom of her complexion, -the exquisite softness, downiness, deliciousness of cheek and throat and -forehead, might be all as evanescent as the dew upon the sunny grass, or -the down on a peach. It was youth--youth supreme and perfect in its most -delicate fulness, the _beauté de diable_, as our neighbours call it. -Ombra, being still so young herself, did not characterise it so; nor, -indeed, was she aware of this glory of freshness which, at the present -moment, was Kate’s crowning charm. But she wondered at her cousin’s -beauty, and she did not realise her own, which was so different. ‘Shall -I be jealous--shall I hate her?’ she asked herself. At home she had -hated her for a moment now and then. Would it be the same again?--was -her own mind so mean, her character so low, as that? Thinking well of -one’s self, or thinking ill of one’s self, requires only a beginning; -and Ombra’s experience had not increased her respect for her own nature. -Thus she prepared for the Ambassadress’s ball. - -It was a strange manner of preparation, the reader will think. Our -sympathy has been trained to accompany those who go into battle without -a misgiving--who, whatever jesting alarm they may express, are never -really afraid of running away; but, after all, the man who marches -forward with a terrible dread in his mind that when the moment comes he -will fail, ought to be as interesting, and certainly makes a much -greater claim upon our compassion, than he who is tolerably sure of his -nerves and courage. The battle of the ball was to Ombra as great an -event as Alma or Inkermann. She had never undergone quite the same kind -of peril before, and she was afraid as to how she should acquit herself. -She represented to herself all the meanness, misery, contemptibleness, -of what she supposed to be her besetting sin--that did not require much -trouble. She summed it all up, feeling humiliated to the very heart by -the sense that under other circumstances she had yielded to that -temptation before, and she asked herself--shall I fail again? She was -afraid of herself. She had strung her nerves, and set her soul firmly -for this struggle, but she was not sure of success. At the last moment, -when the danger was close to her, she felt as if she must fail. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - - -Kate thought she had never imagined anything so stately, so beautiful, -so gay, so like a place for princes and princesses to meet, as the suite -of rooms in the Palazzo occupied by the English Embassy, where the ball -was held. The vista which stretched before her, one room within another, -the lines of light infinitely reflected by the great mirrors--the lofty -splendid rooms, rich in gold and velvet; the jewels of the ladies, the -glow of uniforms and decorations; the beautiful dresses--all moved her -to interest and delight. Delight was the first feeling; and then there -came the strangest sensation of insignificance, which was not pleasant -to Kate. For three years she had lived in little cottage rooms, in -limited space, with very simple surroundings. But the first glance at -this new scene brought suddenly before the girl’s eyes her native -dwelling-place, her own home, which, of course, was but an English -country-house, yet was more akin to the size and splendour of the -Palazzo than to the apartments on the Lung-Arno, or the little Cottage -on the Undercliff. Kate found herself, in spite of herself, making -calculations how the rooms at Langton-Courtenay would look in -comparison; and from that she went on to consider whether any one here -knew of Langton-Courtenay, or was aware that she herself was anything -but Mrs. Anderson’s niece. She was ashamed of herself for the thought, -and yet it went quick as lightning through her excited mind. - -Lady Granton smiled graciously upon them, and even shook hands with the -lady whom she knew as Mrs. Vice-Consul, with more cordiality than usual, -with a gratitude which would have given Mrs. Anderson little -satisfaction had she known it, to the woman who had already amused her -so much; but then the group passed on like the other groups, a mother -and two unusually pretty daughters, as people thought, but strangers, -nobodies, looking a little _gauche_, and out of place, in the fine -rooms, where they were known to no one. Ombra knew what the feeling was -of old, and was not affronted by it; but Kate had never been deprived of -a certain shadow of distinction among her peers. The people at Shanklin -had, to their own consciousness, treated her just as they would have -done any niece of Mrs. Anderson’s; but, unconsciously to themselves, the -fact that she was Miss Courtenay, of Langton-Courtenay, had produced a -certain effect upon them. No doubt Kate’s active and lively character -had a great deal to do with it, but the fact of her heiress-ship, her -future elevation, had much to do with it also. A certain pre-eminence -had been tacitly allowed to her; a certain freedom of opinion, and even -of movement, had been permitted, and felt to be natural. She was the -natural leader in half the pastimes going, referred to and consulted by -her companions. This had been her lot for these three years past. She -never had a chance of learning that lesson of personal insignificance -which is supposed to be so salutary. All at once, in a moment, she -learned it now. Nobody looked up to her, nobody considered her, nobody -knew or cared who she was. For the first half-hour Kate was astonished, -in spite of all her philosophy, and then she tried to persuade herself -that she was amused. But the greatest effort could not persuade her that -she liked it. It made her tingle all over with the most curious mixture -of pain, and irritation, and nervous excitement. The dancing was going -on merrily, and there was a hum of talking and soft laughter all around; -people passing and repassing, greeting each other, shaking hands, -introducing to each other their common friends. But the three ladies who -knew nobody stood by themselves, and felt anything but happy. - -‘If this is what you call a ball, I should much rather have been at -home,’ said Kate, with indignation. - -‘It is not cheerful, is it?’ said Ombra. ‘But we must put up with it -till we see somebody we know. I wish only we could find a seat for -mamma.’ - -‘Oh! never mind me, my dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘I can stand very -well, and it is amusing to watch the people. Lady Barker will come to us -as soon as she sees us.’ - -‘Lady Barker! As if any one cared for her!’ said Kate; but even Kate, -though she could have cried for mortification, kept looking out very -sharply for Lady Barker. She was not a great lady, nor of any -importance, so far as she herself was concerned, but she held the keys -of the dance, of pleasure, and amusement, and success, for that night, -at least, for both Ombra and Kate. The two stood and looked on while the -pairs of dancers streamed past them, with the strangest feelings--or at -least Kate’s feelings were very strange. Ombra had been prepared for it, -and took it more calmly. She pointed out the pretty faces, the pretty -dresses to her cousin, by way of amusing her. - -‘What do you think of this toilette?’ she said. ‘Look, Kate, what a -splendid dark girl, and how well that maize becomes her! I think she is -a Roman princess. Look at her diamonds. Don’t you like to see diamonds, -Kate?’ - -‘Yes,’ said Kate, with a laugh at herself, ‘they are very pretty; but I -thought we came to dance, not to look at the people. Let us have a -dance, you and I together, Ombra--why shouldn’t we? If men won’t ask us, -we can’t help that--but I must dance.’ - -‘Oh! hush, my darling,’ said Mrs. Anderson, alarmed. ‘You must not -really think of anything so extraordinary. Two girls together! It was -all very well at Shanklin. Try to amuse yourself for a little, looking -at the people. There are some of the great Italian nobility here. You -can recognise them by their jewels. That is one, for instance, that lady -in velvet----’ - -‘It is very interesting, no doubt,’ cried Kate, ‘and if they were in a -picture, or on a stage, I should like to look at them; but it is very -queer to come to a ball only to see the people. Why, we might be their -maids, standing in a corner to see the ladies pass. Is it right for the -lady of the house to ask us, and then leave us like this? Do you call -that hospitality? If this was Langton-Courtenay,’ said Kate, bringing -her own dignity forward unconsciously, for the first time for years, -‘and it was I who was giving this ball, I should be ashamed of myself. -Am I speaking loud? I am sure I did not mean it; but I should be -ashamed----’ - -‘Oh! hush, dear, hush!’ cried Mrs. Anderson. ‘Lady Barker will be coming -presently.’ - -‘But it was Lady Granton who invited us, auntie. It is her business to -see----’ - -‘Hush, my dearest child! How could she, with all these people to attend -to? When you are mistress of Langton-Courtenay, and give balls yourself, -you will find out how difficult it is----’ - -‘Langton-Courtenay?’ said some one near. The three ladies -instantaneously roused up out of their languor at the sound. Whose voice -was it? It came through the throng, as if some one half buried in the -crowd had caught up the name, and flung it on to some one else. Mrs. -Anderson looked in one direction, Kate, all glowing and smiling, in -another, while the dull red flush of old, the sign of surprised -excitement and passion, came back suddenly to Ombra’s face. Though they -had not been aware of it, the little group had already been the object -of considerable observation; for the girls were exceptionally pretty, in -their different styles, and they were quite new, unknown, and piquant in -their obvious strangeness. Even Kate’s indignation had been noted by a -quick-witted English lady, with an eyeglass, who was surrounded by a -little court. This lady was slightly beyond the age for dancing, or, if -not really so, had been wise enough to meet her fate half-way, and to -retire gracefully from youth, before youth abandoned her. She had taken -up her place, resisting all solicitations. - -‘Don’t ask me--my dancing-days are over. Ask that pretty girl yonder, -who is longing to begin,’ she had said, with a smile, to one of her -attendants half an hour before. - -‘_Je ne demande pas mieux_, if indeed you are determined,’ said he. ‘But -who is she? I don’t know them.’ - -‘Nobody seems to know them,’ said Lady Caryisfort; and so the -observation began. - -Lady Caryisfort was very popular. She was a widow, well off, childless, -good-looking, and determined, people said, never to marry again. She was -the most independent of women, openly declaring, on all hands, that she -wanted no assistance to get through life, but was quite able to take -care of herself. And the consequence was that everybody about was most -anxious to assist in taking care of her. All sorts of people took all -sorts of trouble to help her in doing what she never hesitated to say -she could do quite well without them. She was something of a -philosopher, and a good deal of a cynic, as such people often are. - -‘You would not be so good to me if I had any need of you,’ she said, -habitually; and this was understood to be ‘Lady Caryisfort’s way.’ - -‘Nobody knows them,’ she added, looking at the party through her -eyeglass. ‘Poor souls, I daresay they thought it was very fine and -delightful to come to Lady Granton’s ball. And if they had scores of -friends already, scores more would turn up on all sides. But because -they know nobody, nobody will take the trouble to know them. The younger -one is perfectly radiant. That is what I call the perfection of bloom. -Look at her--she is a real rosebud! Now, what _fainéants_ you all are!’ - -‘Why are we _fainéants_?’ said one of the court. - -‘Well,’ said Lady Caryisfort, who professed to be a man-hater, within -certain limits, ‘I am aware that the nicest girl in the world, if she -were not pretty, might stand there all the night, and nobody but a woman -would ever think of trying to get any amusement for her. But there is -what you are capable of admiring--there is beauty, absolute beauty; none -of your washy imitations, but real, undeniable loveliness. And there you -stand and gape, and among a hundred of you she does not find one -partner. Oh! what it is to be a man! Why, my pet retriever, who is fond -of pretty people, would have found her out by this, and made friends -with her, and here are half a dozen of you fluttering about me!’ - -There was a general laugh, as at a very good joke; and some one ventured -to suggest that the flutterers round Lady Caryisfort could give a very -good reason---- - -‘Yes,’ said that lady, fanning herself tranquilly, ‘because I don’t want -you. In society that is the best of reasons; and that pretty creature -there does want you, therefore she is left to herself. She is getting -indignant. Why, she grows prettier and prettier. I wonder those glances -don’t set fire to something! Delicious! She wants her sister to dance -with her. What a charming girl! And the sister is pretty, too, but knows -better. And mamma--oh! how horrified mamma is! This is best of all!’ - -Thus Lady Caryisfort smiled and applauded, and her attendants laughed -and listened. But, curiously enough, though she was so interested in -Kate, and so indignant at the neglect to which she was subjected, it did -not occur to her to take the young stranger under her protection, as she -might so easily have done. It was her way to look on--to interfere was -quite a different matter. - -‘Now this is getting quite dramatic,’ she cried; ‘they have seen some -one they know--where is he?--or even where is she?--for any one they -know would be a godsend to them. How do you do, Mr. Eldridge? How late -you are! But please don’t stand between me and my young lady. I am -excited about her; they have not found him yet--and how eager she looks! -Mr. Eldridge--why, good heavens! where has he gone?’ - -‘Who was it that said Langton-Courtenay?’ cried Kate; ‘it must be some -one who knows the name, and I am sure I know the voice. Did you hear it, -auntie? Langton-Courtenay!--I wonder who it could be?’ - -A whole minute elapsed before anything more followed. Mrs. Anderson -looked one way, and Kate another. Ombra did not move. If the lively -observer, who had taken so much interest in the strangers, could have -seen the downcast face which Kate’s bright countenance threw into the -shade, her drama would instantly have increased in interest. Ombra stood -without moving a hair’s-breadth--without raising her eyes--without so -much as breathing, one would have said. Under her eyes that line of hot -colour had flushed in a moment, giving to her face the look of something -suppressed and concealed. The others wondered who it was, but Ombra knew -by instinct who had come to disturb their quiet once more. She -recognised the voice, though neither of her companions did; and if there -had not been any evidence so clear as that voice--had it been a mere -shadow, an echo--she would have known. It was she who distinguished in -the ever-moving, ever-rustling throng, the one particular movement which -indicated that some one was making his way towards them. She knew -he--they--were there, without raising her eyes, before Kate’s cry of -joyful surprise informed her. - -‘Oh, the Berties!--I beg your pardon--Mr. Hardwick and Mr. Eldridge. Oh, -fancy!--that you should be here!’ - -Ombra neither fell nor fainted, nor did she even speak. The room swam -round and round, and then came back to its place; and she looked up, and -smiled, and put out her hand. - -The two pretty strangers stood in the corner no longer; they stood up in -the next dance, Kate in such a glow of delight and radiance that the -whole ball-room thrilled with admiration. There had been a little -hesitation as to which of the two should be her partner--a pause during -which the two young men consulted each other by a look; but she had -herself so clearly indicated which Bertie she preferred, that the matter -was speedily decided. ‘I wanted to have you,’ she said frankly to Bertie -Hardwick, as he led her off, ‘because I want to hear all about home. -Tell me about home. I have not thought of Langton for two years at -least, and my mind is full of it to-night--I am sure I don’t know why. I -keep thinking, if I ever give a ball at Langton, how much better I will -manage it. Fancy!’ cried Kale, flushing with indignation, ‘we have been -here an hour, and no one has asked us to dance, neither Ombra nor me.’ - -‘That must have been because nobody knew you,’ said Bertie Hardwick. - -‘And whose fault was that? Fancy asking two girls to a dance, and then -never taking the trouble to look whether they had partners or not! If I -ever give a ball, I shall behave differently, you may be sure.’ - -‘I hope you will give a great many balls, and that I shall be there to -see.’ - -‘Of course,’ said Kate, calmly; ‘but if you ever see me neglecting my -duty like Lady Granton, don’t forget to remind me of to-night.’ - -Lady Granton’s sister was standing next to her, and, of course, heard -what she said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - - -‘It was you who knew them, Mr. Eldridge,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘Tell me -about them--you can’t think how interested I am. She thinks Lady Granton -neglected her duty, and she means to behave very differently when she is -in the same position. She is delicious! Tell me who she is.’ - -‘My cousin knows better than I do,’ said Bertie Eldridge, drawing back a -step. ‘She is an old friend and neighbour of his.’ - -‘If your cousin were my son, I should be frightened of so very dangerous -a neighbour,’ said Lady Caryisfort. It was one of her ways to -distinguish as her possible sons men a few years younger than herself. - -‘Even to think her dangerous would be a presumption in me,’ said Bertie -Hardwick. ‘She is the great lady at home. Perhaps, though you laugh, you -may some day see whether she can keep the resolution to behave -differently. She is Miss Courtenay, of Langton-Courtenay, Lady -Caryisfort. You must know her well enough by name.’ - -‘What!--the Vice-Consul’s niece! I must go and tell Lady Granton,’ said -an _attaché_, who was among Lady Caryisfort’s attendants. - -She followed him with her eyes as he went away, with an amused look. - -‘Now my little friend will have plenty of partners,’ she said. ‘Oh! you -men, who have not even courage enough to ask a pretty girl to dance -until you have a certificate of her position. But I don’t mean you two. -You had the certificate, I suppose, a long time ago?’ - -‘Yes. She has grown very pretty,’ said Bertie Eldridge, in a patronising -tone. - -‘How kind of you to think so!--how good of you to make her dance! as the -French say. Mr. Hardwick, I suppose she is your father’s squire? Are you -as condescending as your cousin? Give me your arm, please, and introduce -me to the party. I am sure they must be fun. I have heard of Mrs. -Vice-Consul----’ - -‘I don’t think they are particularly funny,’ said Bertie Hardwick, with -a tone which the lady’s ear was far too quick to lose. - -‘Ah!’ she said to herself, ‘a victim!’ and was on the alert at once. - -‘It is the younger one who is Miss Courtenay, I suppose?’ she said. ‘The -other is--her cousin. I see now. And I assure you, Mr. Hardwick, though -she is not (I suppose?) an heiress, she is very pretty too.’ - -Bertie assented with a peculiar smile. It was a great distinction to -Bertie Hardwick to be seen with Lady Caryisfort on his arm, and a very -great compliment to Mrs. Anderson that so great a personage should leave -her seat in order to make her acquaintance. Yet there were drawbacks to -this advantage; for Lady Caryisfort had a way of making her own theories -on most things that fell under her observation; and she did so at once -in respect to the group so suddenly brought under her observation. She -paid Mrs. Anderson a great many compliments upon her two girls. - -‘I hear from Mr. Hardwick that I ought to know your niece “at home,” as -the schoolboys say,’ she said. ‘Caryisfort is not more than a dozen -miles from Langton-Courtenay. I certainly did not expect to meet my -young neighbour here.’ - -‘Her uncle wishes her to travel; she is herself fond of moving about,’ -murmured Mrs. Anderson. - -‘Oh! to be sure--it is quite natural,’ said Lady Caryisfort; ‘but I -should have thought Lady Granton would have known who her guest -was--and--and all of us. There are so many English people always here, -and it is so hard to tell who is who----’ - -‘If you will pardon me,’ said Mrs. Anderson, who was not without a sense -of her own dignity, ‘it is just because of the difficulty in telling who -is who that I have brought Kate here. Her guardian does not wish her to -be introduced in England till she is of age; and as I am anxious not to -attract any special attention, such as her position might warrant----’ - -‘Is her guardian romantic?’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘Does he want her to -be loved for herself alone, and that sort of thing? For otherwise, do -you know, I should think it was dangerous. A pretty girl is never quite -safe----’ - -‘Of course,’ said Mrs. Anderson, gravely, ‘there are some risks, which -one is obliged to run--with every girl.’ - -And she glanced at Bertie Hardwick, who was standing by; and either -Bertie blushed, being an ingenuous young man, or Lady Caryisfort fancied -he did; for she was very busy making her little version of this story, -and every circumstance, as far as she had gone, fitted in. - -‘But an heiress is so much more dangerous than any other girl. Suppose -she should fancy some one beneath--some one not quite sufficiently--some -one, in short, whom her guardians would not approve of? Do you know, I -think it is a dreadful responsibility for you.’ - -Mrs. Anderson smiled; but she gave her adviser a sudden look of fright -and partial irritation. - -‘I must take my chance with others,’ she said. ‘We can only hope nothing -will happen.’ - -‘Nothing happen! When it is girls and boys that are in question -something always happens!’ cried Lady Caryisfort, elevating her -eyebrows. ‘But here come your two girls, looking very happy. Will you -introduce them to me, please? I hope you will not be affronted with me -for an inquisitive old woman,’ she went on, with her most gracious -smile; ‘but I have been watching you for ever so long.’ - -She was watching them now, closely, scientifically, under her drooped -eyelids. Bertie had brightened so at their approach, there could be no -mistaking that symptom. And the pale girl, the dark girl, the quiet one, -who, now that she had time to examine her, proved almost more -interesting than the beauty--had changed, too, lighting up like a sky at -sunset. The red line had gone from under Ombra’s eyes; there was a -rose-tint on her cheek which came and went; her eyes were dewy, like the -first stars that come out at evening. A pretty, pensive creature, but -bright for the moment, as was the other one--the one who was all made of -colour and light. - -‘This is my niece, Lady Caryisfort,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with an effort; -and she added, in a lower tone, ‘This is Ombra, my own child.’ - -‘Do you call her Ombra? What a pretty name! and how appropriate! Then of -course the other one is sunshine,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘I hope I shall -see something of them while I stay here; and, young ladies, I hope, as I -said, that you do not consider me a very impertinent old woman because I -have been watching you.’ - -Kate laughed out the clearest, youthful laugh. - -‘Are you an old woman?’ she said. ‘I should not have guessed it.’ - -Lady Caryisfort turned towards Kate with growing favour. How subtle is -the effect of wealth and greatness (she thought). Kate spoke out -frankly, in the confidence of her own natural elevation, which placed -her on a level with all these princesses and great ladies; while Ombra, -though she was older and more experienced, hung shyly back, and said -nothing at all. Lady Caryisfort, with her quick eyes, perceived, or -thought she perceived, this difference in a moment, and, -half-unconsciously, inclined towards the one who was of her own caste. - -‘Old enough to be your grandmother,’ she said; ‘and I am your neighbour, -besides, at home, so I hope we shall be great friends. I suppose you -have heard of the Caryisforts? No! Why, you must be a little changeling -not to know the people in your own county. You know Bertie Hardwick, -though?’ - -‘Oh! yes--I have known him all my life,’ said Kate, calmly, looking up -at her. - -How different the two girls were! The bright one (Lady Caryisfort -remarked to herself) as calm as a Summer day; the shadowy one all -changing and fluttering, with various emotions. It was easy to see what -that meant. - -This conversation, however, had to be broken up abruptly, for already -the stream of partners which Lady Caryisfort had prophesied was pouring -upon the girls. Lady Barker, indeed, had come to the rescue as soon as -the appearance of the two Berties emancipated the cousins. When they did -not absolutely require her help, she proffered it, according to Lady -Caryisfort’s rule; and even Lady Granton herself showed signs of -interest. An heiress is not an everyday occurrence even in the highest -circles; and this was not a common heiress, a mere representative of -money, but the last of an old family, the possessor of fair and solid -English acres, old, noble houses, a name any man might be proud of -uniting to his own; and a beauty besides. This was filling the cup too -high, most people felt--there was no justice in it. Fancy, rich, -well-born, and beautiful too! She had no right to have so much. - -‘I cannot think why you did not tell me,’ said Lady Barker, coming to -Mrs. Anderson’s side. She felt she had made rather a mistake with her -Mrs. Vice-Consul; and the recollection of her jokes about Kate’s -possible inheritance made her redden when she thought of them. She had -put herself in the wrong so clearly that even her stupid _attaché_ had -found it out. - -‘I had no desire to tell anybody--I am sorry it is known now,’ said Mrs. -Anderson. - -Long before this a comfortable place had been found for Kate’s aunt. Her -heiress had raised her out of all that necessity of watching and -struggling for a point of vantage which nobodies are compelled to submit -to when they venture among the great. But it is doubtful whether Mrs. -Anderson was quite happy in her sudden elevation. Her feelings were of a -very mixed and uncertain character. So far as Lady Barker was concerned, -she could not but feel a certain pride--she liked to show the old -friend, who was patronising and kind, that she needed no exercise of -condescension on her part; and she was pleased, as that man no doubt was -pleased, who, having taken the lower room at the feast, was bidden, -‘Friend, go up higher.’ That sensation cannot be otherwise than -pleasant--the little commotion, the flutter of apologies and regrets -with which she was discovered ‘to have been standing all this time;’ -the slight discomfiture of the people round, who had taken no notice, -on perceiving after all that she was somebody, and not nobody, as they -thought. All this had been pleasant. But it was not so pleasant to feel -in so marked and distinct a manner that it was all on Kate’s account. -Kate was very well; her aunt was fond of her, and good to her, and would -have been so independent of her heiress-ship. But to find that her own -value, such as it was--and most of us put a certain value on -ourselves--and the beauty and sweetness of her child, who, to her eyes, -was much more lovely than Kate, should all go for nothing, and that an -elevation which was half contemptuous, should be accorded to them solely -on Kate’s account, was humiliating to the good woman. She took advantage -of it, and was even pleased with the practical effect; but it wounded -her pride, notwithstanding, in the tenderest point. Kate, whom she had -scolded and petted into decorum, whom she had made with her own hands, -so to speak, into the semblance she now bore, whose faults and -deficiencies she was so sensible of! Poor Mrs. Anderson, the position of -dignity ‘among all the best people’ was pleasant to her; but the thought -that she had gained it only as Kate’s aunt put prickles in the velvet. -And Ombra, her child, her first of things, was nothing but Kate’s -cousin. ‘But that will soon be set to rights,’ the mother said to -herself, with a smile; and then she added aloud-- - -‘I am very sorry it is known now. We never intended it. A girl in Kate’s -position has enough to go through at home, without being exposed to--to -fortune-hunters and annoyances here. Had I known these boys were in -Florence, I should not have come. I am very much annoyed. Nothing could -be further from her guardian’s wishes--or my own.’ - -‘Oh, well, you can’t help it!’ said Lady Barker. ‘It was not your fault. -But you can’t hide an heiress. You might as well try to put brown -holland covers on a lighthouse. By-the-bye, young Eldridge is very well -connected, and very nice--don’t you think?’ - -‘He is Sir Herbert Eldridge’s son,’ said Mrs. Anderson, stiffly. - -‘Yes. Not at all bad looking, and all that. Nobody could consider him, -you know, in the light of a fortune-hunter. But if you take my advice -you will keep all those young Italians at arm’s length. Some of them are -very captivating in their way; and then it sounds romantic, and girls -are pleased. There is that young Buoncompagni, that Miss Courtenay is -dancing with now. He is one of the handsomest young fellows in Florence, -and he has not a sou. Of course he is looking out for some one with -money. Positively you must take great care. Ah! I see it is Mr. Eldridge -your daughter is dancing with. You are old friends, I suppose?’ - -‘Very old friends,’ said Mrs. Anderson; and she was not sorry when her -questioner was called away. Perhaps, for the moment, she was not much -impressed by Kate’s danger in respect to the young Count Buoncompagni. -Her eyes were fixed upon Ombra, as was natural. In the abstract, a seat -even upon velvet cushions (with prickles in them), against an emblazoned -wall, for hours together, with no one whom you know to speak to, and -only such crumbs of entertainment as are thrown to you when some one -says, ‘A pretty scene, is it not? What a pretty dress! Don’t you think -Lady Caryisfort is charming? And dear Lady Granton, how well she is -looking!’ Even with such brilliant interludes of conversation as the -above, the long vigil of a chaperon is not exhilarating. But when Mrs. -Anderson’s eye followed Ombra she was happy; she was content to sit -against the wall, and gaze, and would not allow to herself that she was -sleepy. ‘Poor dear Kate, too!’ she said to herself, with a compunction, -‘_she_ is as happy as possible.’ Thus nature gave a compensation to -Ombra for being only Miss Courtenay’s cousin--a compensation which, for -the moment, in the warmth of personal happiness, she did not need. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - - -‘Why should you get up this morning, Signora _mia_?’ said old Francesca. -‘The young ladies are fast asleep still. And it was a grand success, _a -che lo dite_. Did not I say so from the beginning? To be sure it was a -grand success. The Signorine are divine. If I were a young principe, or -a marchesino, I know what I should do. Mees Katta is charming, my -dearest lady; but, _nostra_ Ombra--ah! _nostra_ Ombra----’ - -‘Francesca, we must not be prejudiced,’ said Mrs. Anderson, who was -taking her coffee in bed--a most unusual indulgence--while Francesca -stood ready for a gossip at the bedside. The old woman was fond of -petting her mistress when she had an opportunity, and of persuading her -into little personal indulgences, as old servants so often are. The -extra trouble of bringing up the little tray, with the fragrant coffee, -the little white roll from the English baker, which the Signora was so -prejudiced as to prefer, and one white camelia out of last night’s -bouquet, in a little Venetian glass, to serve the purpose of decoration, -was the same kind of pleasure to her as it is to a mother to serve a -sick child who is not ill enough to alarm her. Francesca liked it. She -liked the thanks, and the protest against so innocent an indulgence with -which it was always accompanied. - -‘I must not be so lazy again. I am quite ashamed of myself. But I was -fatigued last night.’ - -‘_Si! si!_’ cried Francesca. ‘To be sure the Signora was tired. What! -sit up till four o’clock, she who goes to bed at eleven; and my lady is -not twenty now, as she once was! Ah! I remember the day when, after a -ball, Madame was fatigued in a very different way.’ - -‘Those days are long past, Francesca,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a smile, -shaking her head. She did not dislike being reminded of them. She had -known in her time what it was to be admired and sought after; and after -sitting for six hours against the wall, it was a little consolation to -reflect that she too had had her day. - -‘As Madame pleases, so be it,’ said Francesca; ‘though my lady could -still shine with the best if she so willed it; but for my own part I -think she is right. When one has a child, and such a child as our -Ombra----’ - -‘My dear Francesca, we must not be prejudiced,’ said Mrs. Anderson. -‘Ombra is very sweet to you and me; and I think she is very lovely; but -Kate is more beautiful than she is--Kate has such a bloom. I myself -admire her very much--not of course so much as--my own child.’ - -‘If the Signora had said it, I should not have believed her,’ said -Francesca. ‘I should be sorry to show any want of education to Madame, -but I should not have believed her. Mademoiselle Katta is good child--I -love her--I am what you call fond; but she is not like our Ombra. It is -not necessary that I should draw the distinction. The Signora knows it -is quite a different thing.’ - -‘Yes, yes, Francesca, I know--I know only too well; and I hope I am not -unjust,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘I hope I am not unkind--I cannot help it -being different. Nothing would make me neglect my duty, I trust; and I -have no reason to be anything but fond of Kate--I love her very much; -but still, as you say----’ - -‘The Signora knows that I understand,’ said Francesca. ‘Two gentlemen -have called already this morning--already, though it is so early. They -are the same young Signorini who came to the Cottage in IsleofWite.’ -(This Francesca pronounced as one word.) ‘Now, if the Signora would tell -me, it would make me happy. There is two, and I ask myself--which?’ - -Mrs. Anderson shook her head. - -‘And so do I sometimes,’ she said; ‘and I thought I knew; but last -night---- My dear Francesca, when I am sure I will tell you. But, -indeed, perhaps it is neither of them,’ she added, with a sigh. - -Francesca shook her head. - -‘Madame would say that perhaps it is bose.’ - -I have not thought it necessary always to put down Francesca’s broken -English, nor the mixture of languages in which she spoke. It might be -gratifying to the writer to be able to show a certain acquaintance with -those tongues; but it is always doubtful whether the reader will share -that gratification. But when she addressed her mistress, Francesca spoke -Italian, and consequently used much better language than when she was -compelled to toil through all the confusing sibilants and _ths_ of the -English tongue. - -‘I do not know--I cannot tell,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘Take the tray, _mia -buona amica_. You shall know when I know. And now I think I must get up. -One can’t stay in bed, you know, all day.’ - -When her mistress thus changed the subject, Francesca saw that it was no -longer convenient to continue it. She was not satisfied that Mrs. -Anderson did not know, but she understood that she was in the meantime -to make her own observations. Keener eyes were never applied to such a -purpose, but at the present moment Francesca was too much puzzled to -come to any speedy decision on the subject; and notwithstanding her love -for Ombra, who was supreme in her eyes, Francesca was moved to a feeling -for Kate which had not occurred to the other ladies. ‘Santissima -Madonna! it is hard--very hard for the little one,’ she said to herself, -as she mused over the matter. ‘Who is to defend her from Fate? She will -see them every day--she is young--they are young--what can anyone -expect? Ah! Madonna _mia_, send some good young marchesino, some piccolo -principe, to make the Signorina a great lady, and save her from breaking -her little heart. It would be good for _la patria_, too,’ Francesca -resumed, piously thinking of Kate’s wealth. - -She was a servant of the old Italian type, to whom it was natural to -identify herself with her family. She did not even ‘toil for duty, not -for meed,’ but planned and deliberated over all their affairs with the -much more spontaneous and undoubting sentiment that their affairs were -her own, and that they mutually belonged to each other. She said ‘our -Ombra’ with as perfect good faith as if her young mistress had been her -own child--and so indeed she was. The bond between them was too real to -be discussed or even described--and consequently it was with the natural -interest of one pondering her own business that Francesca turned it all -over in her mind, and considered how she could best serve Kate, and keep -her unharmed by Ombra’s uncertainty. - -When Count Antonio Buoncompagni came with his card and his inquiries, -the whole landscape lighted up around her. Francesca was a Florentine of -the Florentines. She knew all about the Buoncompagni; her aunt’s -husband’s sister had been _cameriera_ to the old Duchessa, Antonio’s -grandmother; so that in a manner, she said to herself, she belonged to -the family. The Contessina, his mother, had made her first communion -along with Francesca’s younger sister, Angiola. This made a certain -spiritual bond between them. The consequence of all these important -facts, taken together, was that Francesca felt herself the natural -champion of Count Buoncompagni, who seemed thus to have stepped in at -the most suitable moment, and as if in answer to her appeal to the -Madonna, to lighten her anxieties, and free her child Ombra from the -responsibility of harming another. The Count Antonio was young and very -good-looking. He addressed Francesca in those frank and friendly tones -which she had so missed in England; he called her amica mia, though he -had never seen her before. ‘Ah! Santissima Madonna, _quella -differenza_!’ she said to herself, as he went down the long stair, and -the young Englishmen, who had known her for years, and were very -friendly to the old woman, came up, and got themselves admitted without -one unnecessary word. They had no caressing friendly phrase for her as -they went and came. Francesca was true as steel to her mistress and all -her house; she would have gone through fire and water for them; but it -never occurred to her that to take the part of confidante and abettor to -the young Count, should he mean to present himself as a suitor to Kate, -would be treacherous to them or their trust. Of all things that could -happen to the Signorina, the best possible thing--the good fortune most -to be desired--would be that she should get a noble young husband, who -would be very fond of her, and to whose house she would bring joy and -prosperity. The Buoncompagni, unfortunately, though noble as the king -himself, were poor; and Francesca knew very well what a difference it -would make in the faded grand palazzo if Kate went there with her -wealth. Even so much wealth as she had brought to her aunt would, -Francesca thought, make a great difference; and what, then, would not -the whole fabulous amount of Kate’s fortunes do? ‘It will be good for -_la patria_, too,’ she repeated to herself; and this not guiltily, like -a conscious conspirator, but with the truest sense of duty. - -She carried in Count Antonio’s card to the _salone_ where the ladies -were sitting with their visitors. Ombra was seated at one of the -windows, looking out; beside her stood Bertie Hardwick, not saying much; -while his cousin, scarcely less silent, listened to Kate’s chatter. -Kate’s gay voice was in full career; she was going over all last night’s -proceedings, giving them a dramatic account of her feelings. She was -describing her own anger, mortification, and dismay; then her relief, -when she caught sight of the two young men. ‘Not because it was you,’ -she said gaily, ‘but because you were men--or boys--things we could -dance with; and because you knew us, and could not help asking us.’ - -‘That is not a pleasant way of stating it,’ said Bertie Eldridge. ‘If -you had known our delight and amaze and happiness in finding you, and -how transported we were----’ - -‘I suppose you must say that,’ said Kate; ‘please don’t take the -trouble. I know you could not help making me a pretty speech; but what -_I_ say is quite true. We were glad, not because it was you, but because -we felt in a moment, here are some men we know, they cannot leave us -standing here all night; we must be able to get a dance at last.’ - -‘I have brought the Signora a card,’ said Francesca, interrupting the -talk. ‘Ah, such a beautiful young Signor! What a consolation to me to -be in my own country; to be called _amica mia_ once again. You are very -good, you English Signori, and very kind in your way, but you never -speak as if you loved us, though we may serve you for years. When one -comes like this handsome young Count Antonio, how different! “_Cara -mia_,” he says, “put me at the feet of their Excellencies. I hope the -beautiful young ladies are not too much fatigued!” Ah, my English -gentlemen, you do not talk like that! You say, “Are they quite -well--Madame Anderson and the young ladies?” And if it is old Francesca, -or a new domestic, whom you never saw before, not one word of -difference! You are cold; you are insensible; you are not like our -Italian. Signorina Katta, do you know the name on the card?’ - -‘It’s Count Antonio Buoncompagni!’ said Kate, with a bright blush and -smile. ‘Why, that was my partner last night! How nice of him to come and -call--and what a pretty name! And he dances like an angel, Francesca--I -never saw any one dance so well!’ - -‘That is a matter of course, Signorina. He is young; he is a -Buoncompagni; his ancestors have all been noble and had education for a -thousand years--what should hinder him to dance? If the Signorina will -come to me when these gentlemen leave you, I will tell her hundreds of -beautiful stories about the Buoncompagni. We are, as it were, -connected--the sister-law of my aunt Filomena was once maid to the old -Duchessa--besides other ties,’ Francesca added, raising her head with a -certain careless grandeur. ‘Nobody knows better than I do the history of -the Buoncompagni; and the Signorina is very fond of stories, as Madame -knows.’ - -‘My good Francesca, so long as you don’t turn her head with your -stories,’ said Mrs. Anderson, good-humouredly. And she added, when the -old woman had left the room, ‘Often and often I have been glad to hear -Francesca’s stories myself. All these Italian families have such curious -histories. She will go on from one to another, as if she never would -have done. She knows everybody, and whom they all married, and all about -them. And there is some truth, you know, in what she says--we are very -kind, but we don’t talk to our servants nor show any affection for them. -I am very fond of Francesca, and very grateful to her for her faithful -service, but even I don’t do it. Kate has a frank way with everybody. -But our English reserve is dreadful!’ - -‘We don’t say everything that comes uppermost,’ said one of the young -men. ‘We do not wear our hearts on our sleeves,’ said the other. - -‘No,’ said Ombra; ‘perhaps, on the contrary, you keep them so covered -up that one never can tell whether you have any hearts at all.’ - -Ombra’s voice had something in it different from the sound of the -others; it had a meaning. Her words were not lightly spoken, but fully -intended. This consciousness startled all the little party. Mrs. -Anderson flung herself, as it were, into the breach, and began to talk -fast on all manner of subjects; and Ombra, probably repenting the -seriousness of her speech, exerted herself to dissipate the effect of -it. But Kate kept the Count’s card in her hand, pondering over it. A -young Italian noble; the sort of figure which appears in books and in -pictures; the kind of person who acts as hero in tale and song. He had -come to lay himself at the feet of the beautiful young ladies. Well! -perhaps the two Berties meant just as much by the clumsy shy visit which -they were paying at that moment--but they never laid themselves at -anybody’s feet. They were well-dressed Philistines, never allowing any -expression of friendship or affectionateness to escape them. Had they no -hearts at all, as Ombra insinuated, or would they not be much pleasanter -persons if they wore their said hearts on their sleeves, and permitted -them to be pecked at? Antonio Buoncompagni! Kate stole out after a -while, on pretence of seeking her work, and flew to the other end of the -long, straggling suite of rooms to where Francesca sat. ‘Tell me all -about them,’ she said, breathlessly. And Francesca clapped her hands -mentally, and felt that her work had begun. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - - -‘It is very interesting,’ said Kate; ‘but it is about this Count’s -grandfather you are talking, Francesca. Could not we come a little lower -down?’ - -‘Signorina mia, when one is a Buoncompagni, one’s grandfather is very -close and near,’ said Francesca. ‘There are some families in which a -grandfather is a distant ancestor, or perhaps the beginning of the race. -But with the Buoncompagni you do not adopt that way of reckoning. Count -Antonio’s mother is living--she is a thing of to-day, like the rest of -us. Then I ask, Signorina Katta, whom can one speak of? That is the way -in old families. Doubtless in the Signorina’s own house----’ - -‘Oh, my grandpapa is a thousand years off!’ said Kate. ‘I don’t believe -in him--he must have been so dreadfully old. Even papa was old. He -married when he was about fifty, I suppose, and I never saw him. My poor -little mother was different, but I never saw her either. Don’t speak of -my family, please. I suppose they were very nice, but I don’t know much -about them.’ - -‘Mademoiselle would not like to be without them,’ said Francesca, -nodding her little grey head. ‘Mademoiselle would feel very strange if -all at once it were said to her, “You never had a grandpapa. You are a -child of the people, my young lady. You came from no one knows where.” -Ah, you prefer the old ones to that! Signorina Katta. If you were to go -into the Buoncompagni Palazzo, and see all the beautiful pictures of the -old Cavalieri in their armour, and the ladies with pearls and rubies -upon their beautiful robes! The Contino would be rich if he could make -up his mind to sell those magnificent pictures; but the Signorina will -perceive in a moment that to sell one’s ancestors--that is a thing one -could never do.’ - -‘No, I should not like to sell them,’ said Kate, thoughtfully. ‘But do -you mean that? Are the Buoncompagni poor?’ - -‘Signorina mia,’ said Francesca, with dignity, ‘when were they rich--our -grand nobili Italiani! Not since the days when Firenze was a queen in -the world, and did what she would. That was ended a long, long time ago. -And what, then, was it the duty of the great Signori to do? They had to -keep their old palaces, and all the beautiful things the house had got -when it was rich, for the good of _la patria_, when she should wake up -again. They had to keep all the old names, and the recollections. -Signorina Katta, a common race could not have done this. We poor ones in -the streets, we have done what we could; we have kept up our courage and -our gaiety of heart for our country. The Buoncompagni, and such like, -kept up the race. They would rather live in a corner of the old Palazzo -than part with it to a stranger. They would not sell the pictures, and -the _belle cose_, except now and then one small piece, to keep the -family alive. And now, look you, Signorina mia, _la patria_ has woke up -at last, and _ecco_! Her old names, and her old palaces, and the _belle -cose_ are here waiting for her. Ah! we have had a great deal to suffer, -but we are not extinguished. Certainly they are poor, but what then? -They exist; and every true Italian will bless them for that.’ - -This old woman, with her ruddy-brown, dried-up little face, and her -scanty hair, tied into a little knot at the top of it--curious little -figure, whom Kate had found it hard work to keep from laughing at when -she arrived first at Shanklin--was a politician, a visionary, a -patriot-enthusiast. Kate now, at eighteen, looked at Francesca with -respect, which was just modified by an inclination, far down at the -bottom of her heart, to laugh. But for this she took herself very -sharply to task. Kate had not quite got over the natural English -inclination to be contemptuous of all ‘foreigners’ who took a different -view of their duty from that natural to the British mind. If the -Buoncompagni had tried to make money, and improve their position; if -they had emigrated, and fought their way in the world; if they had done -some active work, instead of vegetating and preserving their old -palaces, she asked herself? Which was no doubt an odd idea to have got -into the Tory brain of the young representative of an old family, bound -to hate revolutionaries; but Kate was a revolutionary by nature, and her -natural Toryism was largely tinctured by the natural Radicalism of her -age, and that propensity to contradict, and form theories of her own, -which were part of her character. It was part of her character still, -though it had been smoothed down, and brought under subjection, by her -aunt’s continual indulgence. She was not so much impressed as she felt -she ought to have been by Francesca’s speech. - -‘I am glad they exist,’ she said. ‘Of course we must all really have had -the same number of grandfathers and grandmothers, but still an old -family is pleasant. The only thing is, Francesca--don’t be -angry--suppose they had done something, while the _patria_, you know, -has been asleep; suppose they had tried to get on, to recover -their money, to do something more than exist! It is only a -suggestion--probably I am quite wrong, but---- - -‘The Signorina perhaps will condescend to inform me,’ said Francesca, -with lofty satire, ‘what, in her opinion, it would have been best for -our nobles to do?’ - -‘Oh! I am sure I don’t know. I only meant--I don’t know anything about -it!’ cried Kate. - -‘If the Signorina will permit me to say so, that is very visible,’ said -Francesca; and then, for full five minutes, she plied her needle, and -was silent. This, perhaps, was rather a hard punishment for Kate, who -had left the visitors in the drawing-room to seek a more lively -amusement in Francesca’s company, and who, after the excitement of the -ball, was anxious for some other excitement. She revenged herself by -pulling the old woman’s work about, and asking what was this, and this. -Francesca was making a dress for her mistress, and Mrs. Anderson, though -she did not despise the fashion, was sufficiently sensible to take her -own way, and keep certain peculiarities of her own. - -‘Why do you make it like this?’ said Kate. ‘Auntie is not a hundred. She -might as well have her dress made like other people. She is very -nice-looking, I think, for her age. Don’t you think so? She must have -been pretty once, Francesca. Why, you ought to know--you knew her when -she was young. Don’t you think she has been----?’ - -‘Signorina, be so good as to let my work alone,’ said Francesca. ‘What! -do you think there is nothing but youth that is to be admired? I did not -expect to find so little education in one of my Signorinas. Know, -Mademoiselle Katta, that there are many persons who think Madame -handsomer than either of the young ladies. There is an air of -distinction and of intelligence. You, for instance, you have the _beauté -de diable_--one admires you because you are so young; but how do you -know that it will last? Your features are not remarkable, Signorina -Katta. When those roses are gone, probably you will be but an -ordinary-looking woman; but my Signora Anderson, she has features, she -has the grand air, she has distinction----’ - -‘Oh! you spiteful old woman!’ cried Kate, half vexed, half laughing. ‘I -never said I thought I was pretty. I know I am just like a doll, all red -and white; but you need not tell me so, all the same.’ - -‘Mademoiselle is not like a doll,’ said Francesca. ‘Sometimes, when she -has a better inspiration, Mademoiselle has something more than red and -white. I did not affirm that it would not last. I said how do you know? -But my Signora has lasted. She is noble!--she is distinguished! And as -for what she has been----’ - -‘That is exactly what I said,’ said Kate. - -‘We do not last in Italy,’ said Francesca, pursuing the subject with the -gravity of an abstract philosopher. ‘It is, perhaps, our beautiful -climate. Your England, which has so much of mist and of rain, keeps the -grass green, and it preserves beauty. The Contessa Buoncompagni has lost -all her beauty. She was of the Strozzi family, and made her first -communion on the same day as my little Angiolina, who is now blessed in -heaven. Allow me to say it to you, Signorina mia, they were beautiful as -two angels in their white veils. But the Contessina has grown old. She -has lost her hair, which does not happen to the English Signore, -and--other things. I am more old than she, and when I see it I grieve. -She does not go out, except, of course, which goes without saying, to -the Duomo. She is a good woman--a very good woman. If she cannot afford -to give the best price for her salad, is it her fault? She is a great -lady, as great as anybody in all Firenze--Countess Buoncompagni, born -Strozzi. What would you have more? But, dear lady, it is no shame to her -that she is not rich. Santissima Madonna, why should one hesitate to say -it? It is not her fault.’ - -‘Of course it cannot be her fault; nobody would choose to be poor if -they could help it,’ said Kate. - -‘I cannot say, Signorina Katta--I have not any information on the -subject. To be rich is not all. It might so happen--though I have no -special information--that one would choose to be poor. I am poor myself, -but I would not change places with many who are rich. I should esteem -more,’ said Francesca, raising her head, ‘a young galantuomo who was -noble and poor, and had never done anything against the _patria_, nor -humbled himself before the Tedeschi, a hundred and a thousand times more -than those who hold places and honours. But then I am a silly old woman, -most likely the Signorina will say.’ - -‘Is Count Buoncompagni like that?’ asked Kate; but she did not look for -an answer. - -And just then the bell rang from the drawing-room, and Francesca put -down her work and bustled away to open the door for the young Englishmen -whose company Kate had abandoned. The girl took up Francesca’s work, and -made half a dozen stitches; and then went to her own room, where -Maryanne was also at work. Kate gave a little sketch of the dresses at -the ball to the handmaiden, who listened with breathless interest. - -‘I don’t think anyone could have looked nicer than you and Miss Ombra in -your fresh tarlatane, Miss,’ said Maryanne. - -‘Nobody took the least notice of us,’ said Kate. ‘We are not worth -noticing among so many handsome, well-dressed people. We were but a -couple of girls out of the nursery in our white. I think I will choose a -colour that will make some show if I ever go to a ball again.’ - -‘Oh! Miss Kate, you will go to a hundred balls!’ cried Maryanne, with -fervour. - -Kate shrugged her shoulders with sham disdain; but she felt, with a -certain gentle complacency, that it was true. A girl who has once been -to a ball must go on. She cannot be shut up again in any nursery and -school-room; she is emancipated for ever and ever; the glorious world is -thrown open to her. The tarlatane which marked her bread-and-butter days -would no doubt yield to more splendid garments; but she could not go -back--she had made her entry into life. - -Lady Caryisfort called next day--an event which filled Mrs. Anderson -with satisfaction. No doubt Kate was the chief object of her visit; and -as it was the first time that Kate’s aunt and cousin had practically -felt the great advantage which her position gave her over them, there -was, without doubt, some difficulty in the situation. But, fortunately, -Ombra’s attention was otherwise occupied; and Mrs. Anderson, though she -was a high-spirited woman, and did not relish the idea of deriving -consequence entirely from the little girl whom she had brought up, had -yet that philosophy which more or less is the accompaniment of -experience, and knew that it was much better to accept the inevitable -graciously, than to fight against it. And if anything could have -neutralised the wound to her pride, it would have been the ‘pretty -manners’ of Lady Caryisfort, and the interest which she displayed in -Ombra. Indeed, Ombra secured more of her attention than Kate did--a -consoling circumstance. Lady Caryisfort showed every inclination to -‘take them up.’ It was a thing she was fond of doing; and she was so -amiable and entertaining, and so rich, and opened up such perfectly good -society to her _protégées_, that few people at the moment of being taken -up realised the fact that they must inevitably be let down again -by-and-by--a process not so pleasant. - -At this moment nothing could be more delightful than their new friend. -She called for them when she went out driving, and took them to Fiesole, -to La Pioggia, to the Cascine--wherever fashion went. She lent them her -carriage when she was indolent, as often happened, and did not care to -go out. She asked them to her little parties when she had ‘the best -people’--a compliment which Mrs. Anderson felt deeply, and which was -very different from the invitation to the big ball at the Embassy, to -which everybody was invited. In short, Lady Caryisfort launched the -little party into the best society of English at Florence, such as it -is. And the pretty English heiress became as well known as if she had -gone through a season at home previous to this Italian season. Poor -Uncle Courtenay! Had he seen Antonio Buoncompagni, who danced like an -angel, leading his ward through the mazes of a cotillon, what would that -excellent guardian’s feelings have been? - - - - -CHAPTER XL. - - -We have said that Ombra’s attention was otherwise occupied. Had it not -been so, it is probable that she would have resented and struggled -against the new and unusual and humiliating consciousness of being but -an appendage to her cousin; but fortunately all such ideas had been -driven out of her head. A new life, a new world, seemed to have begun -for Ombra. All the circumstances of their present existence appeared to -lend themselves to the creation of this novel sphere. Old things seemed -to have passed away, and all had become new. From the moment of the -first call, made in doubt and tribulation, by the two Berties, they had -resumed again, in the most natural manner, the habits of their former -acquaintance, but with an entirely new aspect. Here there was at once -the common bond which unites strangers in a new place--a place full of -beauty and wonder, which both must see, and which it is so natural they -should see together. The two young men fell into the habit of constant -attendance upon the ladies, with a naturalness which defeated all -precautions; and an intercourse began to spring up, which combined that -charming flavour of old friendship, and almost brotherhood, with any -other sentiment that might arise by the way. This conjunction, too, made -the party so independent and so complete. With such an escort the ladies -could go anywhere; and they went everywhere accordingly--to -picture-galleries, to all the sights of the place, and even now and then -upon country excursions, in the bright, cold Winter days. ‘The boys,’ as -Kate called them, came and went all day long, bringing news of -everything that was to be seen or heard, always with a new plan or -suggestion for the morrow. - -The little feminine party brightened up, as women do brighten always -under the fresh and exhilarating influence of that breath from outside -which only ‘the boys’ can bring. Soon Mrs. Anderson, and even Ombra -herself, adopted that affectionate phrase--to throw another delightful, -half-delusive veil over all possibilities that might be in the future. -It gave a certain ‘family feeling,’ a mutual right to serve and be -served; and at times Mrs. Anderson felt as if she could persuade herself -that ‘the boys,’ who were so full of that kindly and tender gallantry -which young men can pay to a woman old enough to be their mother, were -in reality her own as much as the girls were--if not sons, nephews at -the least. She said this to herself, by way, I fear, of excusing -herself, and placing little pleasant shields of pretence between her and -the reality. To be sure, she was the soul of propriety, and never left -the young people alone together; but, as she said, ‘at whatever cost to -herself,’ bore them company in all their rambles. But yet sometimes a -recollection of Mr. Courtenay would cross her mind in an uncomfortable -way. And sometimes a still more painful chill would seize her when she -thought of Kate, who was thus thrown constantly into the society of the -Berties. Kate treated them with the easiest friendliness, and they were -sincerely (as Mrs. Anderson believed) brotherly to her. But, still, they -were all young; and who could tell what fancies the girl might take into -her head? These two thoughts kept her uncomfortable. But yet the life -was happy and bright; and Ombra was happy. Her cloud of temper had -passed away; her rebellions and philosophies had alike vanished into the -air. She was brighter than ever she had been in her life--more loving -and more sympathetic. Life ran on like a Summer day, though the -Tramontana sometimes blew, and the dining-room was cold as San Lorenzo; -but all was warm, harmonious, joyous within. - -Kate, for one, never troubled her head to ask why. She accepted the -delightful change with unquestioning pleasure. It was perfectly simple -to her that her cousin should get well--that the cloud should disperse. -In her thoughtlessness she did not even attribute this to any special -cause, contenting herself with the happy fact that so it was. - -‘How delightful it is that Ombra should have got so well!’ she said, -with genuine pleasure, to her aunt. - -‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, looking at her wistfully. ‘It is the -Italian air--it works like a charm.’ - -‘I don’t think it is the air,’ said Kate--‘privately, auntie, I think -the Italian air is dreadfully chilly--at least, when one is out of the -sun. It is the fun, and the stir, and the occupation. Fun is an -excellent thing, and having something to do---- Now, don’t say no, -please, for I am quite sure of it. I feel so much happier, too.’ - -‘What makes you happier, my darling?’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a very -anxious look. - -‘Oh! I don’t know--everything,’ said Kate; and she gave her aunt a kiss, -and went off singing, balancing a basket on her head with the pretty -action of the girls whom she saw every day carrying water from the -fountain. - -Mrs. Anderson was alone, and this pretty picture dwelt in her mind, and -gave her a great deal of thought. Was it only fun and occupation, as -the girl said?--or was there something else unknown to Kate dawning in -her heart, and making her life bright, all unconsciously to herself? -‘They are both as brothers to her,’ Mrs. Anderson said to herself, with -pain and fear; and then she repeated to herself how good they were, what -true gentlemen, how incapable of any pretence which could deceive even -so innocent a girl as Kate. The truth was, Mrs. Anderson’s uneasiness -increased every day. She was doing by Kate as she would that another -should not do by Ombra. She was doubly kind and tender, lavishing -affection and caresses upon her, but she was not considering Kate’s -interest, or carrying out Mr. Courtenay’s conditions. And what could she -do? The happiness of her own child was involved; she was bound hand and -foot by her love for Ombra. ‘Then,’ she would say to herself, ‘Kate is -getting no harm. She is eighteen past--quite old enough to be -“out”--indeed, it would be wrong of me to deny her what pleasure I can, -and it is not as if I took her wherever we were asked. I am sure, so far -as I am concerned, I should have liked much better to go to the -Morrises--nice, pleasant people, not too grand to make friends of--but I -refused, for Kate’s sake. She shall go nowhere but in the _very best -society_. Her uncle himself could not do better for her than Lady -Granton or Lady Caryisfort--most likely not half so well; and he will be -hard to please indeed if he is discontented with that,’ Mrs. Anderson -said to herself. But notwithstanding all these specious pleadings at -that secret bar, where she was at once judge and advocate and culprit, -she did not succeed in obtaining a favourable verdict; all she could do -was to put the thought away from her by times, and persuade herself that -no harm could ensue. - -‘Look at Ombra now,’ Kate said, on the same afternoon to Francesca, -whose Florentine lore she held in great estimation. Her conversation -with her aunt had brought the subject to her mind, and a little -curiosity about it had awakened within her when she thought it over. -‘See what change of air has done, as I told you it would--and change of -scene.’ - -‘Mees Katta,’ said Francesca, ‘change of air is very good--I say nothing -against that--but, as I have remarked on other occasions, one must not -form one’s opinion on ze surface. Mademoiselle Ombra has _changed ze -mind_.’ - -‘Oh! yes, I know you said she must do that, and you never go back from -what you once said; but, Francesca, I don’t understand you in the least. -How has she changed her mind?’ - -‘If Mademoiselle would know, it is best to ask Mees Ombra her-self,’ -said Francesca, ‘not one poor servant, as has no way to know.’ - -‘Oh!’ cried Kate, flushing scarlet, ‘when, you are so humble there is -an end of everything--I know that much by this time. There! I will ask -Ombra herself; I will not have you make me out to be underhand. Ombra, -come here one moment, please. I am so glad you are better; it makes me -happy to see you look like your old self; but tell me one thing--my aunt -says it is the change of air, and I say it is change of scene and plenty -to do. Now, tell me which it is--I want to know.’ - -Ombra had been passing the open door; she came and stood in the doorway, -with one hand upon the lintel. A pretty, flitting, evanescent colour had -come upon her pale cheek, and there was now always a dewy look of -feeling in her eyes, which made them beautiful. She stood and smiled, in -the soft superiority of her elder age, upon the girl who questioned her. -Her colour deepened a little, her eyes looked as if there was dew in -them, ready to fall. ‘I am better,’ she said, in a voice which seemed to -Kate to be full of combined and harmonious notes--‘I am better without -knowing why--I suppose because God is so good.’ - -And then she went away softly, crooning the song which she had been -humming to herself, in the lightness of her heart, as her cousin called -her. Kate was struck with violent shame and self-disgust. ‘Oh, how -wicked I am!’ she said, rushing to her own room and shutting herself in. -And there she had a short but refreshing cry, though she was by no means -given to tears. She had been brought up piously, to be sure--going to -church, attending to her ‘religious duties,’ as a well-brought-up young -woman ought to do. But it had not occurred to her to give any such -visionary reason for anything that had happened to her. Kate preferred -secondary causes, to tell the truth. But there was something more than -met the ear in what Ombra said. How was it that God had been so good? -Kate was very reverential of this new and unanswerable cause for her -cousin’s restoration. But how was it?--there was still something, which -she did not fathom, beyond. - -Such pleasant days these were! When ‘the boys’ came to pay their -greetings in the morning, ‘Where shall we go to-day?’ was the usual -question. They went to the pictures two or three days in the week, -seeing every scrap of painting that was to be found anywhere--from the -great galleries, where all was light and order, to the little -out-of-the-way churches, which hid, in the darkness of their heart of -hearts, some one precious morsel of an altar-piece, carefully veiled -from the common public. And, in the intervals, they would wander through -the streets, learning the very houses by heart; gazing into the shop -windows, at the mosaics, on the Lung-Arno; at the turquoises and pearls, -which then made the Ponte Vecchio a soft blaze of colour, blue and -white; at the curiosity shops, and those hung about with copies in -which Titian was done into weakness, and Raphael to imbecility. Every -bit of Florence was paced over by these English feet, one pair of which -were often very tired, but never shrunk from the duty before them. Most -frequently ‘the boys’ returned to luncheon, which even Mrs. Anderson, -who knew better, was prejudiced enough to create into a steady-going -English meal. In the afternoon, if they drove with Lady Caryisfort to -the Cascine, the Berties came to the carriage-windows to tell them all -that was going on; to bring them bouquets; to point out every new face. -When they went to the theatre or opera in the evening, again the same -indefatigable escort accompanied and made everything smooth for them. -When they had invitations, the Berties, too, were invariably of the -party. When they stayed at home the young men, even when not invited, -would always manage to present themselves during the evening, uniting in -pleasant little choruses of praise to Mrs. Anderson for staying at home. -‘After all, this is the best,’ the young hypocrites would say; and one -of them would read while the ladies worked; or there would be ‘a little -music,’ in which Ombra was the chief performer. Thus, from the beginning -of the day to the end, they were scarcely separated, except for -intervals, which gave freshness ever renewed to their meeting. It was -like ‘a family party;’ so Mrs. Anderson said to herself a dozen times in -a day. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI. - - -‘Come and tell me all about yourself, Kate,’ said Lady Caryisfort, from -her sofa. She had a cold, and was half an invalid. She had kept Kate -with her while the others went out, after paying their call. Lady -Caryisfort had enveloped her choice of Kate in the prettiest excuses: ‘I -wish one of you girls would give up the sunshine, and stay and keep me -company,’ she had said. ‘Let me see--no, I will not choose Ombra, for -Ombra has need of all the air that is to be had; but Kate is strong--an -afternoon’s seclusion will not make any difference to her. Spare me -Kate, please, Mrs. Anderson. I want some one to talk to--I want -something pleasant to look at. Let her stay and dine with me, and in the -evening I will send her home.’ - -So it had been settled; and Kate was in the great, somewhat dim -drawing-room, which was Lady Caryisfort’s abode. The house was one of -the great palazzi in one of the less-known streets of Florence. It was -on the sunny side, but long ago the sun had retreated behind the high -houses opposite. The great lofty palace itself was like a mountain side, -and half way down this mountain side came the tall windows, draped with -dark velvet and white muslin, which looked out into the deep ravine, -called a street, below. The room was very large and lofty, and had -openings on two sides, enveloped in heavy velvet curtains, into two -rooms beyond. The two other side walls were covered with large frescoes, -almost invisible in this premature twilight; for it was not late, and -the top rooms in the palace, which were inhabited by Cesare, the -mosaic-worker, still retained the sunshine. All the decorations were of -a grandiose character; the velvet hangings were dark, though warm in -colour; a cheerful wood fire threw gleams of variable reflection here -and there into the tall mirrors; and Lady Caryisfort, wrapped in a huge -soft white shawl, which looked like lace, but was Shetland wool, lay on -a sofa under one of the frescoes. As the light varied, there would -appear now a head, now an uplifted arm, out of the historical -composition above. The old world was all about in the old walls, in the -waning light, in the grand proportions of the place; but the dainty lady -in her shawl, the dainty table with its pretty tea-service, which stood -within reach of her hand, and Kate, whose bloom not even the twilight -could obliterate, belonged not to the old, but the new. There was a low, -round chair, a kind of luxurious shell, covered with the warm, dark -velvet, on the other side of the little table. - -‘Come and sit down beside me here,’ said Lady Caryisfort, ‘and tell me -all about yourself.’ - -‘There is not very much to tell,’ said Kate, ‘if you mean facts; but if -it is _me_ you want to know about, then there is a little more. Which -would you like best?’ - -‘I thought you were a fact.’ - -‘I suppose I am,’ said Kate, with a laugh. ‘I never thought of that. But -then, of course, between the facts that have happened to me and this -fact, Kate Courtenay, there is a good deal of difference. Which would -you like best? Me? But, then, where must I begin?’ - -‘As early as you can remember,’ said the inquisitor; ‘and, recollect, I -should most likely have sought you out, and known all about you long -before this, if you had stayed at Langton--so you may be perfectly frank -with me.’ - -To tell the truth, all the little scene had been got up on purpose for -this confidential talk; the apparently chance choice of Kate as a -companion, and even Lady Caryisfort’s cold, were means to an end. Kate -was of her own county, she was of her own class, she was thrown into a -position which Lady Caryisfort thought was not the one she ought to have -filled, and with all the fervour of a lively fancy and benevolent -meaning she had thrown herself into this little ambush. The last words -were just as near a mistake as it was possible for words to be, for Kate -had no notion of being anything but frank; and the little assurance that -she might be so safely almost put her on her guard. - -‘You would not have been allowed to seek me out,’ said Kate. ‘Uncle -Courtenay had made up his mind I was to know nobody--I am sure I don’t -know why. He used to send me a new governess every year. It was the -greatest chance that I was allowed to keep even Maryanne. He thought -servants ought to be changed; and I am afraid,’ said Kate, with -humility, ‘that I was not at all _nice_ when I was at home.’ - -‘My poor child! I don’t believe you were ever anything but nice.’ - -‘No,’ said Kate, taking hold of the caressing hand which was laid on her -arm; ‘you can’t think how disagreeable I was till I was fifteen; then my -dear aunt--my good aunt, whom you don’t like so much as you might----’ - -‘How do you know that, you little witch?’ - -‘Oh, I know very well! She came home to England, after being years away, -and she wrote to my uncle, asking if she might see me, and he was -horribly worried with me at the time,’ said Kate. ‘I had worried him so -that he could not eat his dinner even in peace--and Uncle Courtenay -likes his dinner--so he wrote and said she might have me altogether if -she pleased; and though he gave the very worst account of me, and said -all the harm he could, auntie started off directly and took me home.’ - -‘That was kind of her, Kate.’ - -‘Kind of her! Oh, it was a great deal more than kind! Fancy how I felt -when she cried and kissed me! I am not sure that anybody had ever kissed -me before, and I was such a stupid--such a thing without a soul--that I -was quite astonished when she cried. I actually asked her why? Whenever -I think of it I feel my cheeks grow crimson.’ And here Kate, with a -pretty gesture, laid one of Lady Caryisfort’s soft rose-tipped fingers -upon her burning cheek. - -‘You poor dear child! Well, I understand why Mrs. Anderson cried, and it -was nice of her; but _après_,’ said Kate’s confessor. - -‘_Après?_ I was at home; I was as happy as the day was long. I got to be -like other girls; they never paid any attention to me, and they petted -me from morning to night.’ - -‘But how could that be?’ said Lady Caryisfort, whose understanding was -not quite equal to the strain thus put upon it. - -‘I forgot all about myself after that,’ said Kate. ‘I was just like -other girls. Ombra thought me rather a bore at first; but, fortunately, -I never found that out till she had got over it. She had always been -auntie’s only child, and I think she was a trifle--jealous; I have an -idea,’ said Kate----‘But how wicked I am to go and talk of Ombra’s -faults to you!’ - -‘Never mind; I shall never repeat anything you tell me,’ said the -confidante. - -‘Well, I think, if she has a weakness, it is that perhaps she likes to -be first. I don’t mean in any vulgar way,’ said Kate, suddenly flushing -red as she saw a smile on her companion’s face, ‘but with people she -loves. She would not like (naturally) to see her mother love anyone else -as much as her! or even she would not like to see me----’ - -‘And how about other people?’ cried Lady Caryisfort, amused. - -‘About other people I do not know what to say; I don’t think she has -ever been tried,’ said Kate, with a grave and puzzled look. ‘She has -always been first, without any question--or, at least, so I think; but -that is puzzling--that is more difficult. I would rather not go into -that question, for, by-the-bye, this is all about Ombra--it is not about -me.’ - -‘That is true,’ said Lady Caryisfort; ‘we must change the subject, for I -don’t want you to tell me your cousin’s secrets, Kate.’ - -‘Secrets! She has not any,’ said Kate, with a laugh. - -‘Are you quite sure of that?’ - -‘Sure of Ombra! Of course I must be. If I were not quite sure of Ombra, -whom could I believe in? There are no secrets,’ said Kate, with a little -pride, ‘among us.’ - -‘Poor child!’ thought Lady Caryisfort to herself; but she said nothing, -though, after a while, she asked gently, ‘Were you glad to come abroad? -I suppose it was your guardian’s wish?’ - -Once more Kate laughed. - -‘That is the funniest thing of all,’ she said. ‘He came to pay us a -visit; and fancy he, who never could bear me to have a single companion, -arrived precisely on my birthday, when we were much gayer than usual, -and had a croquet party! It was as good as a play to see his face. But -he made my aunt promise to take us abroad. I suppose he thought we could -make no friends abroad.’ - -‘But in that he has evidently been mistaken, Kate.’ - -‘I don’t know. Except yourself, Lady Caryisfort, what friends have we -made? You have been very kind, and as nice as it is possible to be----’ - -‘Thanks, dear. The benefit has been mine,’ said Lady Caryisfort, in an -undertone. - -‘But we don’t call Lady Granton a friend,’ continued Kate, ‘nor the -people who have left cards and sent us invitations since they met us -there. And until we came to Florence we had not met you.’ - -‘But then there are these two young men--Mr. Eldridge and Mr. Hardwick.’ - -‘Oh! the Berties,’ said Kate; and she laughed. ‘_They_ don’t count, -surely; they are old friends. We did not require to come to Italy to -make acquaintance with them.’ - -‘Perhaps you came to Italy to avoid them?’ said Lady Caryisfort, drawing -her bow at a venture. - -Kate looked her suddenly in the face with a start; but the afternoon had -gradually grown darker, and neither could make out what was in the -other’s face. - -‘Why should we come to Italy to avoid them?’ said Kate, gravely. - -Her new seriousness quite changed the tone of her voice. She was -thinking of Ombra and all the mysterious things that had happened that -Summer day after the yachting. It was more than a year ago, and she had -almost forgotten; but somehow, Kate could not tell how, the Berties had -been woven in with the family existence ever since. - -Lady Caryisfort gave her gravity a totally different meaning, ‘So that -is how it is,’ she said to herself. - -‘If I were you, Kate,’ she said aloud, ‘I would write and tell my -guardian all about it, and who the people are whom you are acquainted -with here. I think he has a right to know. Would he be quite pleased -that the Berties, as you call them, should be with you so much? Pardon -me if I say more than I ought.’ - -‘The Berties!’ said Kate, now fairly puzzled. ‘What has Uncle Courtenay -to do with the Berties? He is not Ombra’s guardian, but only mine: and -_they_ have nothing to do with me.’ - -‘Oh! perhaps I am mistaken,’ said Lady Caryisfort; and she changed the -subject dexterously, leading Kate altogether away from this too decided -suggestion. They talked afterwards of everything in earth and heaven; -but at the end of that little dinner, which they ate _tête-à-tête_, Kate -returned to the subject which in the meantime had been occupying a great -part of her thoughts. - -‘I have been thinking of what you said about Uncle Courtenay,’ she said, -quite abruptly, after a pause. ‘I do write to him about once every -month, and I always tell him whom we are seeing. I don’t believe he ever -reads my letters. He is always paying visits through the Winter when -Parliament is up, and I always direct to him at home. I don’t suppose he -ever reads them. But that, of course, is not my fault, and whenever we -meet anyone new I tell him. We don’t conceal anything; my aunt never -permits that.’ - -‘And I am sure it is your own feeling too,’ cried Lady Caryisfort. ‘It -is always best.’ - -And she dismissed the subject, not feeling herself possessed of -sufficient information to enter into it more fully. She was a little -shaken in her own theory on the subject of the Berties, one of whom at -least she felt convinced must have designs on Kate’s fortune. That was -‘only natural;’ but at least Kate was not aware of it. And Lady -Caryisfort was half annoyed and half pleased when one of her friends -asked admittance in the evening, bringing with her the young Count -Buoncompagni, whom Kate had met at the Embassy. It was a Countess -Strozzi, an aunt of his, and an intimate of Lady Caryisfort’s, who was -his introducer. There was nothing to be said against the admission of a -good young man who had come to escort his aunt in her visit to her -invalid friend, but it was odd that they should have chosen that -particular night, and no other. Kate was in her morning dress, as she -had gone to make a morning call, and was a little troubled to be so -discovered; but girls look well in anything, as Lady Caryisfort said to -herself, with a sigh. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII. - - -It was about this time, about two months after their arrival in -Florence, and when the bright and pleasant ‘family life’ we have been -describing had gone on for about six weeks in unbroken harmony, that -there began to breathe about Kate, like a vague, fitful wind, such as -sometimes rises in Autumn or Spring, one can’t tell how or from whence, -a curious sense of isolation, of being somehow left out and put aside in -the family party. For some time the sensation was quite indefinite. She -felt chilled by it; she could not tell how. Then she would find herself -sitting alone in a corner, while the others were grouped together, -without being able to explain to herself how it happened. It had -happened several times, indeed, before she thought of attempting to -explain so strange an occurrence; and then she said to herself that of -course it was mere chance, or that she herself must have been sulky, and -nobody else was aware. - -A day or two, however, after her visit to Lady Caryisfort, there came a -little incident which could not be quite chance. In the evening Mrs. -Anderson sat down by her, and began to talk about indifferent subjects, -with a little air of constraint upon her, the air of one who has -something not quite pleasant to say. Kate’s faculties had been quickened -by the change which she had already perceived, and she saw that -something was coming, and was chafed by this preface, as only a very -frank and open nature can be. She longed to say, ‘Tell me what it is, -and be done with it.’ But she had no excuse for such an outcry. Mrs. -Anderson only introduced her real subject after at least an hour’s talk. - -‘By-the-bye,’ she said--and Kate knew in a moment that now it was -coming--‘we have an invitation for to-morrow, dear, which I wish to -accept, for Ombra and myself, but I don’t feel warranted in taking -you--and, at the same time, I don’t like the idea of leaving you.’ - -‘Oh! pray don’t think of me, aunt,’ said Kate, quickly. A flush of -evanescent anger at this mode of making it known suddenly came over -her. But, in reality, she was half stunned, and could not believe her -ears. It made her vague sense of desertion into something tangible at -once. It realised all her vague feelings of being one too many. But, at -the same time, it stupefied her. She could not understand it. She did -not look up, but listened with eyes cast down, and a pain which she did -not understand in her heart. - -‘But I must think of you, my darling,’ said Mrs. Anderson, in a voice -which, at this moment, rung false and insincere in the girl’s ears, and -seemed to do her a positive harm. ‘How is it possible that I should not -think of you? It is an old friend of mine, a merchant from Leghorn, who -has bought a place in the country about ten miles from Florence. He is a -man who has risen from nothing, and so has his wife, but they are kind -people all the same, and used to be good to me when I was poor. Lady -Barker is going--for she, too, you know, is of my old set at Leghorn, -and, though she has risen in the world, she does not throw off people -who are rich. But I don’t think your uncle would like it, if I took -_you_ there. You know how very careful I have been never to introduce -you to anybody he could find fault with. I have declined a great many -pleasant invitations here, for that very reason.’ - -‘Oh! please, aunt, don’t think of doing so any more,’ cried Kate, stung -to the heart. ‘Don’t deprive yourself of anything that is pleasant, for -me. I am very well. I am quite happy. I don’t require anything more than -I have here. Go, and take Ombra, and never mind me.’ - -And the poor child had great difficulty in refraining from tears. -Indeed, but for the fact that it would have looked like crying for a -lost pleasure, which Kate, who was stung by a very different feeling, -despised, she would not have been able to restrain herself. As it was, -her voice trembled, and her cheeks burned. - -‘Kate, I don’t think you are quite just to me,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘You -know very well that neither in love, nor in anything else, have I made a -difference between Ombra and you. But in this one thing I must throw -myself upon your generosity, dear. When I say your generosity, Kate, I -mean that you should put the best interpretation on what I say, not the -worst.’ - -‘I did not mean to put any interpretation,’ said Kate, drawn two ways, -and ashamed now of her anger. ‘Why should you explain to me, auntie, or -make a business of it? Say you are going somewhere to-morrow, and you -think it best I should not go. That is enough. Why should you say a word -more?’ - -‘Because I wanted to treat you like a woman, not like a child, and to -tell you the reason,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘But we will say no more -about it, as those boys are coming. I do hope, however, that you -understand me, Kate.’ - -Kate could make no answer, as ‘the boys’ appeared at this moment; but -she said to herself sadly, ‘No, I don’t understand--I can’t tell what it -means,’ with a confused pain which was very hard to bear. It was the -first time she had been shaken in her perfect faith in the two people -who had brought her to life, as she said. She did not rush into the -middle of the talk, as had once been her practice, but sat, chilled, in -her corner, wondering what had come over her. For it was not only that -the others were changed--a change had come upon herself also. She was -chilled; she could not tell how. Instead of taking the initiative, as -she used to do, in the gay and frank freshness which everybody had -believed to be the very essence of her character, she sat still, and -waited to be called, to be appealed to. Even when she became herself -conscious of this, and tried to shake it off, she could not succeed. She -was bound as in chains; she could not get free. - -And when the next morning came, and Kate, with a dull amaze which she -could not overcome, saw the party go off with the usual escort, the only -difference being that Lady Barker occupied her own usual place, her -feelings were not to be described. She watched them from the balcony -while they got into the carriage, and arranged themselves gaily. She -looked down upon them and laughed too, and bade them enjoy themselves. -She met the wistful look in Mrs. Anderson’s eyes with a smile, and, -recovering her courage for the moment, made it understood that she meant -to pass an extremely pleasant day by herself. But when they drove away, -Kate went in, and covered her eyes with her hands. It was not the -pleasure, whatever that might be; but why was she left behind? What had -she done that they wanted her no longer?--that they found her in the -way? It was the first slight she had ever had to bear, and it went to -her very heart. - -It was a lovely bright morning in December. Lovely mornings in December -are rare in England; but even in England there comes now and then a -winter day which is a delight and luxury, when the sky is blue, crisper, -profounder than summer, when the sun is resplendent, pouring over -everything the most lavish and overwhelming light; when the atmosphere -is still as old age is when it is beautiful--stilled, chastened, -subdued, with no possibility of uneasy winds or movement of life; but -all quietness, and now and then one last leaf fluttering down from the -uppermost boughs. Such a morning in Florence is divine. The great old -houses stand up, expanding, as it were, erecting their old heads -gratefully into the sun and blueness of the sphere; the old towers rise, -poising themselves, light as birds, yet strong as giants, in that -magical atmosphere. The sun-lovers throng to the bright side of the way, -and bask and laugh and grow warm and glad. And in the distance the -circling hills stand round about the plain, and smile from all their -heights in fellow-feeling with the warm and comforted world below. One -little girl, left alone in a sunny room on the Lung-Arno in such a -morning, with nothing but her half-abandoned tasks to amuse her, nobody -to speak to, nothing to think of but a vague wrong done to herself, -which she does not understand, is not in a cheerful position, though -everything about her is so cheerful; and Kate’s heart sank down--down to -her very slippers. - -‘I don’t understand why you shouldn’t come,’ said some one, bursting in -suddenly. ‘Oh! I beg your pardon; I did not mean to be so abrupt.’ - -For Kate had been crying. She dashed away her tears with an indignant -hand, and looked at Bertie with defiance. Then the natural reaction came -to her assistance. He looked so scared and embarrassed standing there, -with his hat in his hand, breathless with haste, and full of -compunction. She laughed in spite of herself. - -‘I am not so ashamed as if it had been anyone else,’ she said. ‘_You_ -have seen me cry before. Oh! it is not for the expedition; it is only -because I thought they did not want me, that was all.’ - -‘_I_ wanted you,’ said Bertie, still breathless, and under his breath. - -Kate looked up wondering, and suddenly met his eye, and they both -blushed crimson. Why? She laughed to shake it off, feeling, somehow, a -pleasanter feeling about her heart. - -‘It was very kind of you,’ she said; ‘but, you know, you don’t count; -you are only one of the boys. You have come back for something?’ - -‘Yes, Lady Barker’s bag, with her fan and her gloves, and her -eau-de-Cologne.’ - -‘Oh! Lady Barker’s. There it is, I suppose. I hate Lady Barker!’ cried -Kate. - -‘And so do I; and to see her in your place----’ - -‘Never mind about that. Go away, please, or you will be late; and I hope -you will have a pleasant day all the same.’ - -‘Not without you,’ said Bertie; and he took her hand, and for one moment -seemed doubtful what to do with it. What was he going to do with it? The -thought flashed through Kate’s mind with a certain amusement; but he -thought better of the matter, and did nothing. He dropped her hand, -blushing violently again, and then turned and fled, leaving her consoled -and amused, and in a totally changed condition. What did he mean to do -with the hand he had taken? Kate held it up and looked at it carefully, -and laughed till the tears came to her eyes. He had meant to kiss it, -she felt sure, and Kate had never yet had her hand kissed by mortal man; -but he had thought better of it. It was ‘like Bertie.’ She was so much -amused that her vexation went altogether out of her mind. - -And in the afternoon Lady Caryisfort called and took her out. When she -heard the narrative of Kate’s loneliness, Lady Caryisfort nodded her -head approvingly, and said it was very nice of Mrs. Anderson, and quite -what ought to have been. Upon which Kate became ashamed of herself, and -was convinced that she was the most ungrateful and guilty of girls. - -‘A distinction must be made,’ said Lady Caryisfort, ‘especially as it is -now known who you are. For Miss Anderson it is quite different, and her -mother, of course, must not neglect her interests.’ - -‘How funny that anyone’s interests should be affected by an invitation!’ -said Kate, with one of those unintentional revelations of her sense of -her own greatness which were so amusing to her friends. And Count -Buoncompagni came to her side of the carriage when they got to the -Cascine. It was entirely under Lady Caryisfort’s wing that their -acquaintance had been formed, and nobody, accordingly, could have a word -to say against it. Though she could not quite get Bertie (as she said) -out of her head after the incident of the morning, the young Italian was -still a very pleasant companion. He talked well, and told her about the -people as none of the English could do. ‘There is Roscopanni, who was -the first out in ’48, he said. ‘He was nearly killed at Novara. But -perhaps you do not care to hear about our patriots?’ - -‘Oh! but I do,’ cried Kate, glowing into enthusiasm; and Count Antonio -was nothing loth to be her instructor. He confessed that he himself had -been ‘out,’ as Fergus MacIvor, had he survived it, might have confessed, -to the ’45. Kate had her little prejudices, like all English girls--her -feeling of the inferiority of ‘foreigners,’ and their insincerity and -theatrical emotionalness. But Count Antonio took her imagination by -storm. He was handsome; he had the sonorous masculine voice which suits -Italian best, and does most justice to its melodious splendour; yet he -did not speak much Italian, but only a little now and then, to give her -courage to speak it. Even French, however, which was their general -medium of communication, was an exercise to Kate, who had little -practice in any language but her own. Then he told her about his own -family, and that they were poor, with a frankness which went to Kate’s -heart; and she told him, as best she could, about Francesca, and how she -had heard the history of the Buoncompagni--‘before ever I saw you,’ Kate -said, stretching the fact a little. - -Thus the young man was emboldened to propose to Lady Caryisfort a visit -to his old palace and its faded glories. There were some pictures he -thought that _ces dames_ would like to look at. ‘Still some pictures, -though not much else,’ he said, ending off with a bit of English, and a -shrug of his shoulders, and a laugh at his own poverty; and an -appointment was made before the carriage drove off. - -‘The Italians are not ashamed of being poor,’ said Kate, with animation, -as they went home. - -‘If they were, they might as well give in at once, for they are all -poor,’ said Lady Caryisfort, with British contempt. But Kate, who was -rich, thought all the more of the noble young Florentine, with his old -palace and his pictures. And then he had been ‘out.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII. - - -Kate took it upon herself to make unusual preparations for the supper on -that particular evening. She decorated the table with her own hands, and -coaxed Francesca to the purchase of various dainties beyond the -ordinary. - -‘They will be tired; they will want something when they come back,’ she -said. - -‘Mademoiselle is very good; it is angelic to be so kind after what has -passed--after the affair of the morning,’ said Francesca. ‘If I had been -in Mademoiselle’s place, I do not think I should have been able to show -so much education. For my part, it has yet to be explained to me how my -lady could go to amuse herself and leave Mees Katta alone here.’ - -‘Francesca, don’t talk nonsense,’ said Kate. ‘I quite approve what my -aunt did. She is always right, whatever anyone may think.’ - -‘It is very likely, Mees Katta,’ said Francesca; ‘but I shall know ze -why, or I will not be happy. It is not like my lady. She is no besser -than a slave with her Ombra. But I shall know ze why; I shall know ze -reason why!’ - -‘Then don’t tell me, please, for I don’t wish to be cross again,’ said -Kate, continuing her preparations. ‘Only I do hope they won’t bring Lady -Barker with them,’ she added to herself. Lady Barker was the scapegoat -upon whom Kate spent her wrath. She forgave the other, but her she had -made up her mind not to forgive. It was night when the party came home. -Kate rushed to the balcony to see them arrive, and looked on; without, -however, making her presence known. There was but lamplight this time, -but enough to show how Ombra sprang out of the carriage, and how -thoroughly the air of a successful expedition hung about the party. -‘Well!’ said Kate to herself, ‘and I have had a pleasant day too.’ She -ran to the door to welcome them, but, perhaps, made her appearance -inopportunely. Ombra was coming upstairs hand in hand with some one--it -was not like her usual gravity--and when the pair saw the door open they -separated, and came up the remaining steps each alone. This was odd, and -startled Kate. Then, when she asked, ‘Have you had a pleasant day?’ some -one answered, ‘The most delightful day that ever was!’ with an -enthusiasm that wounded her feelings--she could not tell why. Was it -indeed Bertie Hardwick who said that? he who had spoken so differently -in the morning? Kate stood aghast, and asked no more questions. She -would have let the two pass her, but Ombra put an arm round her waist -and drew her in. - -‘Oh Kate, listen, I am so happy!’ said Ombra, whispering in her ear. -‘Don’t be vexed about anything, dear; you shall know it all afterwards. -I am so happy!’ - -This was said in the little dark ante-room, where there were no lights, -and Kate could only give her cousin a hasty kiss before she danced away. -Bertie, for his part, in the dark, too, said nothing at all. He did not -explain the phrase--‘The most delightful day that ever was!’ ‘Well!’ -said poor Kate to herself, gulping down a little discomfort--‘well! I -have had a pleasant day too.’ - -And then what a gay supper it was!--gayer than usual; gayer than she had -ever known it! She did not feel as if she were quite in the secret of -their merriment. They had been together all day, while she had been -alone; they had all the jokes of the morning to carry on, and a hundred -allusions which fell flat upon Kate. She had been put on her generosity, -it was true, and would not, for the world, have shown how much below the -general tone of hilarity she was; but she was not in the secret, and -very soon she felt ready to flag. When she put in her experiences of the -day, a momentary polite attention was given, but everybody’s mind was -elsewhere. Mrs. Anderson had a half-frightened, half-puzzled look, and -now and then turned affecting glances upon Kate; but Ombra was radiant. -Never had she looked so beautiful; her eyes shone like two stars; her -faint rose-colour went and came; her face was lit with soft smiles and -happiness. All sorts of fancies crossed Kate’s mind. She looked at the -young men, who were both in joyous spirits--but either her -discrimination failed her, or her eyes were dim, or her understanding -clouded. Altogether Kate was in a maze, and did not know what to do or -think; they stayed till it was very late, and both Ombra and her mother -went to close and lock the door after them when they went away, leaving -Kate once more alone. She sat still at a corner of the table, and -listened to the voices and laughter still at the door. Bertie Hardwick’s -voice, she thought, was the one she heard most. They were all so happy, -and she only listening to it, not knowing what it meant! Then, when the -door was finally locked, Mrs. Anderson came back to her alone. ‘Ombra -has gone to bed,’ she said. ‘She is tired, though she has enjoyed it so -very much. And, my dear child, you must go to bed too. It is too late -for you to be up.’ - -‘But you have had a very pleasant day.’ - -‘They have--oh yes!’ said Mrs Anderson. ‘The young ones have been very -happy; but it has not been a pleasant day to me. I have so many -anxieties; and then to think of you by yourself at home.’ - -‘I was not by myself,’ said Kate. Lady Caryisfort called and took me -out.’ - -‘Ah! Lady Caryisfort is very kind,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a tone, -however, in which there was neither delight nor gratitude; and then she -put her arm round her niece, and leaned upon her. ‘Ah!’ she said again, -‘I can see how it will be! They will wean you away from me. You who have -never given me a moment’s uneasiness, who have been such a good child to -me! I suppose it must be so--and I ought not to complain.’ - -‘But, auntie,’ said Kate, bewildered, ‘nobody tries to take me from -you--nobody wants me, that I know of--even you----’ - -‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘even I. I know. And I shall have to put up -with that too. Oh! Kate, I know more than one of us will live to regret -this day;--but nobody so much as I.’ - -‘I don’t understand you. Auntie, you are over-tired. You ought to be -asleep.’ - -‘You will understand me some time,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘and then you -will recollect what I said. But don’t ask me any questions, dear. -Good-night.’ - -Good night! She had been just as happy as any of the party, Kate -reflected, half an hour before, and her voice had been audible from the -door, full of pleasantness and the melody of content. Was the change a -fiction, got up for her own benefit, or was there something mysterious -lying under it all? Kate could not tell, but it may be supposed how -heart-sick and weary she was when such an idea as that her dearest -friend had put on a semblance to deceive her, could have entered her -mind. She was very, very much ashamed of it, when she woke in the middle -of the night, and it all came back to her. But what was she to think? It -was the first mystery Kate had encountered, and she did not know how to -deal with it. It made her very uneasy and unhappy, and shook her faith -in everything. She lay awake for half an hour pondering it; and that was -as much to Kate as a week of sleepless nights would have been to many, -for up to this time she had no need to wake o’ nights, nor anything to -weigh upon her thoughts when she woke. - -Next morning, however, dissipated these mists, as morning does so often. -Ombra was very gay and bright, and much more affectionate and caressing -than usual. Kate and she, indeed, seemed to have changed places--the -shadow had turned into sunshine. It was Ombra who led the talk, who -rippled over into laughter, who petted her cousin and her mother, and -was the soul of everything. All Kate’s doubts and difficulties fled -before the unaccustomed tenderness of Ombra’s looks and words. She had -no defence against this unexpected means of subjugation, and for some -time she even forgot that no explanation at all was given to her of the -events of the previous day. It had been ‘a pleasant day,’ ‘a delightful -day,’ the walk had been perfect, ‘and everything else,’ Ombra had said -at breakfast, ‘except that you were not with us, Kate.’ - -‘And that we could not help,’ said Mrs. Anderson, into whose face a -shade of anxiety had crept. But she was not as she had been in that -mysterious moment on the previous night. There was no distress about -her. She had nearly as much happiness in her eyes as that which ran over -and overflowed in Ombra’s. Had Kate dreamed that last five minutes, and -its perplexing appearances? But Mrs. Anderson made no explanations any -more than Ombra. They chatted about the day’s entertainment, their -hosts, and many things which Kate could only half understand, but they -did not say, ‘We are so happy because of this or that.’ Through all this -affectionateness and tenderness this one blank remained, and Kate could -not forget it. They told her nothing. She was left isolated, separated, -outside of some magic circle in which they stood. - -The young men joined them very early, earlier even than usual; and then -this sense of separation became stronger and stronger in Kate’s mind. -Would they never have done talking of yesterday? The only thing that -refreshed her spirit a little was when she announced the engagement Lady -Caryisfort had made--‘for us all,’ Kate said, feeling a little -conscious, and pleasantly so, that she herself was, in this case, -certainly to be the principal figure--to visit the Buoncompagni palace. -Bertie Hardwick roused up immediately at the mention of this. - -‘Palace indeed!’ he said. ‘It is a miserable old house, all mildewed and -moth-eaten! What should we do there?’ - -‘I am going, at least,’ said Kate, ‘with Lady Caryisfort. Count -Buoncompagni said there were some nice pictures; and I like old houses, -though you may not be of my opinion. Auntie, you will come?’ - -‘Miss Courtenay’s taste is peculiar,’ said Bertie. ‘One knows what an -old palace, belonging to an impoverished family, means in Italy. It -means mouldy hangings, horrible old frescoes, furniture (and very little -of that) crumbling to pieces, and nothing in good condition but the coat -of arms. Buoncompagni is quite a type of the class--a young, idle, -do-nothing fellow, as noble as you like, and as poor as Job; good for -leading a cotillion, and for nothing else in this world; and living in -his mouldy old palace, like a snail in its shell.’ - -‘I don’t think you need to be so severe,’ said Kate, with flashing eyes. -‘If he is poor, it is not his fault; and he is not ashamed of it, as -some people are. And, indeed, I don’t think you young men work so very -hard yourselves as to give you a right to speak.’ - -This was a blow most innocently given, but it went a great deal deeper -than Kate had supposed. Bertie’s countenance became crimson; he was -speechless; he could make no reply; and, like every man whose conscience -is guilty, he felt sure that she meant it, and had given him this blow -on purpose. It was a strange quarter to be assailed from; but yet, what -else could it mean? He sat silent, and bit his nails, and remembered Mr. -Sugden, and asked himself how it was that such strange critics had been -moved against him. We have said that this episode was refreshing to -Kate; but not so were the somewhat anxious arrangements which followed -on Mrs. Anderson’s part, ‘for carrying out Kate’s plan, which would be -delightful.’ - -‘I always like going over an old palace,’ she said, with a certain -eagerness; ‘and if you gentlemen have not done it already, I am sure it -will be worth your while.’ - -But there was very little response from anyone; and in a few minutes -more the interruption seemed to be forgotten, and they had all resumed -their discussion of the everlasting history of the previous day. Once -more Kate felt her isolation, and after awhile she escaped silently from -the room. She did not trust herself to go to her own chamber, but -retired to the chilly dining-room, and sat down alone over her Italian, -feeling rather desolate. She tried to inspire herself with the idea of -putting the Italian into practice, and by the recollection of Count -Antonio’s pretty compliments to her on the little speeches she ventured -to make in answer to his questions. ‘I must try not to make any mistakes -this time,’ she said to herself; but after five minutes she stopped and -began thinking. With a conscious effort she tried to direct her mind to -the encounter of yesterday--to Lady Caryisfort and Count Buoncompagni; -but somehow other figures would always intrude; and a dozen times at -least she roused up sharply, as from a dream, and found herself asking -again, and yet again, what had happened yesterday? Was it something -important enough to justify concealment? Was it possible, whatever it -was, that it could be concealed from _her_? What was it? Alas! poor -Count Antonio was but the ghost whom she tried to think of; while these -were the real objects that interested her. And all the time the party -remained in the drawing-room, not once going out. She could hear their -voices now and then when a door was opened. They stayed indoors all the -morning--a thing which had never happened before. They stayed to -luncheon. In the afternoon they all went out walking together; but even -that was not as of old. A change had come over everything--the world -itself seemed different; and what was worst of all was that this change -was pleasant to all the rest and melancholy only to Kate. She said to -herself, wistfully, ‘No doubt I would be pleased as well as the rest if -only I knew.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV. - - -For the next few days everything was merry as marriage-bells; and though -Kate felt even the fondness and double consideration with which she was -treated when she was alone with her aunt and cousin to belong somehow to -the mystery, she had no excuse even to herself for finding fault with -it. They were very good to her. Ombra, at least, had never been so kind, -so tender, so anxious to please her. Why should she be anxious to please -her? She had never done so before; it had never been necessary; it was a -reversal of everything that was natural; and, like all the rest, it -meant something underneath, something which had to be made up for by -these superficial caresses. Kate did not go so far as this in her -articulate thoughts; but it was what she meant in the confused and -painful musings which now so often possessed her. But she could not -remonstrate, or say, ‘Why are you so unnecessarily, unusually tender? -What wrong have you done me that has to be made up for in this way?’ She -could not say this, however much she might feel it. She had to hide her -wonder and dissatisfaction in her own heart. - -At last the day came for the visit to the Buoncompagni palace. They were -to walk to Lady Caryisfort’s, to join her, and all had been arranged on -the previous night. The ladies were waiting, cloaked and bonneted, when -Bertie Eldridge made his appearance alone. - -‘I hope I have not kept you waiting,’ he said; ‘that ridiculous cousin -of mine won’t come. I don’t know what has come over him; he has taken -some absurd dislike to poor Buoncompagni, who is the best fellow in the -world. I hope you will accept my company alone.’ - -Ombra had been the first to advance to meet him, and he stood still -holding her hand while he made his explanation. She dropped it, however, -with an air of disappointment and annoyance. - -‘Bertie will not come--when he knows that I--that we are waiting for -him! What a strange thing to do! Bertie, who is always so good; how very -annoying--when he knew we depended on him!’ - -‘I told him so,’ said the other,--‘I told him what you would say; but -nothing had any effect. I don’t know what has come to Bertie of late. He -is not as he used to be; he has begun to talk of work, and all sorts of -nonsense. But to-day he will not come, and there is nothing more to be -said. It is humbling to me to see how I suffer without him; but I hope -you will try to put up with me by myself for one day.’ - -‘Oh! I cannot think what Bertie means by it. It is too provoking!’ said -Ombra, with a clouded countenance; and when they got into the street -their usual order of march was reversed, and Ombra fell behind with -Kate, whose mind was full of a very strange jumble of feeling, such as -she could not explain to herself. On ordinary occasions one or other of -the Berties was always in attendance on Ombra. To-day she indicated, in -the most decided manner, that she did not want the one who remained. He -had to walk with Mrs. Anderson, while the two girls followed together. -‘I never knew anything so provoking,’ Ombra continued, taking Kate’s -arm. ‘It is as if he had done it on purpose--to-day, too, of all days in -the world!’ - -‘What is particular about to-day?’ said Kate, who, to tell the truth, -was at this moment less in sympathy with Ombra than she had ever been -before. - -‘Oh! to-day--why, there is---- well,’ said Ombra, pausing suddenly, ‘of -course there is nothing particular about to-day. But he must have known -how it would put us out--how it would spoil everything. A little party -like ours is quite changed when one is left out. You ought to see that -as well as I do. It spoils everybody’s pleasure. It changes the feeling -altogether.’ - -‘I don’t think it does so always,’ said Kate. But she was generous even -at this moment, when a very great call was made on her generosity. ‘I -never heard you call Mr. Hardwick Bertie before,’ she added, not quite -generous enough to pass this over without remark. - -‘To himself, you mean,’ said Ombra with a slight blush. ‘We have always -called them the Berties among ourselves. But I think it is very -ridiculous for people who see so much of each other to go on saying Mr. -and Miss.’ - -‘Do they call you Ombra, then?’ said Kate, lifting her eyebrows. Poor -child! she had been much, if secretly, exasperated, and it was not in -flesh and blood to avoid giving a mild momentary prick in return. - -‘I did not say so,’ said Ombra. ‘Kate, you, too, are contradictory and -uncomfortable to-day; when you see how much I am put out----’ - -‘But I don’t see why you should be so much put out,’ said Kate, in an -undertone, as they reached Lady Caryisfort’s door. - -What did it mean? This little incident plunged her into a sea of -thoughts. Up to this moment she had supposed Bertie Eldridge to be her -cousin’s favourite, and had acquiesced in that arrangement. Somehow she -did not like this so well. Kate had ceased for a long time to call -Bertie Hardwick ‘my Bertie,’ as she had once done so frankly; but still -she could not quite divest herself of the idea that he was more her own -property than anyone else’s--her oldest friend, whom she had known -before any of them. And he had been so kind the other morning, when the -others had deserted her. It gave her a strange, dull, uncomfortable -sensation to find him thus appropriated by her cousin. ‘I ought not to -mind--it can be nothing to me,’ she said to herself; but, nevertheless, -she did not like it. She was glad when they came to Lady Caryisfort’s -door, and her _tête-à-tête_ with Ombra was over; and it was even -agreeable to her wounded _amour-propre_ when Count Antonio came to her -side, beaming with smiles and self-congratulations at having something -to show her. He kept by Lady Caryisfort as they went on to the palazzo, -which was close by, with the strictest Italian propriety; but when they -had entered his own house the young Count did not hesitate to show that -his chief motive was Kate. He shrugged his shoulders as he led them in -through the great doorway into the court, which was full of myrtles and -greenness. There was a fountain in the centre, which trickled shrilly in -the air just touched with frost, and oleanders planted in great vases -along a terrace with a low balustrade of marble. The tall house towered -above, with all its multitudinous windows twinkling in the sun. There -was a handsome _loggia_, or balcony, over the terrace on the first -floor. It was there that the sunshine dwelt the longest, and there it -was still warm, notwithstanding the frost. This balcony had been -partially roofed in with glass, and there were some chairs placed in it -and a small white covered table. - -‘This is the best of my old house,’ said Count Antonio, leading them in, -hat in hand, with the sun shining on his black hair. ‘Such as it is, it -is at the service of _ces dames_; but its poor master must beg them to -be very indulgent--to make great allowances for age and poverty.’ And -then he turned and caught Kate’s eye, and bowed to the ground, and said, -‘_Sia padrona!_’ with the pretty extravagance of Italian politeness, -with a smile for the others, but with a look for herself which made her -heart flutter. ‘_Sia padrona_--consider yourself the mistress of -everything,’--words which meant nothing at all, and yet might mean so -much! And Kate, poor child, was wounded, and felt herself neglected. She -was left out by others--banished from the love and confidence that were -her due--her very rights invaded. It soothed her to feel that the young -Italian, in himself as romantic a figure as heart could desire, who had -been ‘out’ for his country, whose pedigree ran back to Noah, and perhaps -a good deal further, was laying his half-ruined old house and his noble -history at her feet. And the signs of poverty, which were not to be -concealed, and which Count Antonio made no attempt to conceal, went to -Kate’s heart, and conciliated her. She began to look at him, smiling -over the wreck of greatness with respect as well as interest; and when -he pointed to a great empty space in one of the noble rooms, Kate’s -heart melted altogether. - -‘There was our Raphael--the picture he painted for us. That went off in -’48, when my father fitted out the few men who were cut to pieces with -him at Novara. I remember crying my eyes out, half for our Madonna, half -because I was too small to go with him. Nevare mind’ (he said this in -English--it was one of his little accomplishments of which he was -proud). ‘The country is all the better; but no other picture shall ever -hang in that place--that we have sworn, my mother and I.’ - -Kate stood and gazed up at the vacant place with an enthusiasm which -perhaps the picture itself would scarcely have called from her. Her eyes -grew big and luminous, ‘each about to have a tear.’ Something came into -her throat which prevented her from speaking; she heard a little flutter -of comments, but she could not betray the emotion she felt by trying to -add to them. ‘Oh!’ she said to herself with that consciousness of her -wealth which was at times a pleasure to her--‘oh! if I could find that -Madonna, and buy it and send it back!’ And then other thoughts -involuntarily rushed after that one--fancies, gleams of imagination, -enough to cover her face with blushes. Antonio turned back when the -party went on, and found her still looking up at the vacant place. - -‘It is a sad blank, is it not?’ he said. - -‘It is the most beautiful thing in all the house,’ said Kate; and one of -the tears fell as she looked at him, a big blob of dew upon her glove. -She looked at it in consternation, blushing crimson, ashamed of herself. - -Antonio did what any young Italian would have done under the -circumstances. Undismayed by the presence of an audience, he put one -knee to the ground, and touched the spot upon Kate’s little gloved thumb -with his lips; while she stood in agonies of shame, not knowing what to -do. - -‘The Signorina’s tear was for Italy,’ he said, as he rose; ‘and there is -not an Italian living who would not thank her for it on his knees.’ - -He was perfectly serious, without the least sense that there could be -anything ridiculous or embarrassing in the situation; but it may be -imagined what was the effect upon the English party, all with a natural -horror of a scene. - -Lady Caryisfort, I am sorry to say, showed herself the most ill-bred -upon this occasion--she pressed her handkerchief to her lips, but could -not altogether restrain the very slightest of giggles. Ombra opened her -eyes, and looked at her mother; while poor Kate, trembling, horrified, -and overwhelmed with shame, shrank behind Mrs. Anderson. - -‘It was not my fault,’ she gasped. - -‘Don’t think anything of it, my love,’ whispered Mrs. Anderson, in -consolation. ‘They mean nothing by it--it is the commonest thing in the -world.’ A piece of consolation which was not, however, quite so -consolatory as it was intended to be. - -But she kept her niece by herself after this incident as long as it was -practicable; and so it came about that the party divided into three. -Lady Caryisfort and Antonio went first, Mrs. Anderson and Kate next, and -Ombra and Bertie Eldridge last of all. As Kate moved gradually on, she -heard that a very close and low-toned conversation was going on behind -her; and Ombra did not now seem so much annoyed by Bertie Hardwick’s -absence as she had been a little while ago. Was she--an awful revelation -seemed to burst upon Kate--was Ombra a coquette? She dismissed the -thought from her mind as fast as possible; but after feeling so -uncomfortable about her cousin’s sudden interest in Bertie, she could -not help feeling now a certain pity for him, as if he too, like herself, -were slighted now. Not so would Kate herself have treated anyone. It was -not in her, she said to herself, to take up and cast down, to play with -any sentiment, whether friendship or anything else; and in her heart she -condemned Ombra, though secretly she was not sorry. She was a -coquette--that was the explanation. She liked to have both the young men -at her feet, without apparently caring much for either. This was a sad -accusation to bring against Ombra, but somehow Kate felt more kindly -disposed towards her after she had struck this idea out. - -When they reached the _loggia_, the table was found to be covered with -an elegant little breakfast, which reminded Kate of the pretty meals to -be seen in a theatre, which form part of so many pretty comedies. It was -warm in the sunshine, and there was a _scaldina_, placed Italian -fashion, under the table, for the benefit of the chilly; and an old man, -in a faded livery, served the repast, which he had not cooked, solely -because it had been ordered from an hotel, to poor old Girolamo’s -tribulation. But his master had told him the reason why, and the old -servant had allowed that the expenditure might be a wise one. Kate -found, to her surprise, that she was the special object of the old man’s -attention. He ran off with a whole string of ‘Che! che’s,’ when he had -identified her, which he did by consultation of his master’s eye. ‘Bella -Signorina, this is from the old Buoncompagni vineyards,’ he said, as he -served to her some old wine; and, with another confidential movement, -touched her arm when he handed her the fruit, ‘From the gardens, -Signorina mia,’ he whispered; and the honey ‘from Count Antonio’s own -bees up on the mountains;’ and, ‘Cara Signorina mia, this the Contessa’s -own hands prepared for those beautiful lips,’ he said, with the -preserves. He hung about her; he had eyes for no one else. - -‘What is the old man saying to you, Kate?’ said her aunt. - -‘Nothing,’ answered Kate, half amused and half distressed; and she met -Count Antonio’s eye, and they both blushed, to the admiration of the -beholders. - -This was how the visit terminated. Old Girolamo followed them -obsequiously down the great staircase, bowing, with his hand upon his -breast, and his eyes upon the young English lady, who was as rich as the -Queen of Sheba, and as beautiful as the Holy Mother herself. And Kate’s -heart beat with all the little magic flutter of possibilities that -seemed to gather round her. If her heart had been really touched, she -would not have divined what it all meant so readily; but it was only her -imagination that was touched, and she saw all that was meant. It was the -first time that she had seen a man pose himself before her in the -attitude of love, and (though no doubt it is wrong to admit it) the -thing pleased her. She was not anxious, as she ought to have been, to -preserve Antonio’s peace of mind. She was flattered, amused, somewhat -touched. That was what he meant. And for herself, she was not unwilling -to breathe this delicate incense, and be, as other women, wooed and -worshipped. Her ideas went no further. Up to this moment it was somewhat -consolatory, and gave her something pleasant to think of. Poor old -Girolamo! Poor old palace! She liked their master all the better for -their sake. - - - - -CHAPTER XLV. - - -In the few weeks that followed it happened that Kate was thrown very -much into the society of Lady Caryisfort. It would have been difficult -to tell why; and not one of the party could have explained how it was -that Ombra and her mother were always engaged, or tired, or had -headaches, when Lady Caryisfort called on her way to the Cascine. But so -it happened; and gradually Kate passed into the hands of her new friend. -Often she remained with her after the drive, and went with her to the -theatre, or spent the evening with her at home. And though Mrs. Anderson -sometimes made a melancholy little speech on the subject, and half -upbraided Kate for this transference of her society, she never made any -real effort to withstand it, but really encouraged--as her niece felt -somewhat bitterly--a friendship which removed Kate out of the way, as -she had resolved not to take her into her confidence. Kate was but half -happy in this strange severance, but it was better to be away, better to -be smiled upon and caressed by Lady Caryisfort, than to feel herself one -too many, to be left out of the innermost circle at home. - -And the more she went to the Via Maggio the more she saw of Count -Buoncompagni. Had it been in any other house than her own that Kate had -encountered this young, agreeable, attractive, honest fortune-hunter, -Lady Caryisfort would have been excited and indignant. But he was an -_habitué_ of her own house, an old friend of her own, as well as the -relation of her dearest and most intimate Italian friend; and she was -too indolent to disturb her own mind and habits by the effort of sending -him away. - -‘Besides, why should I? Kate cannot have some one to go before her to -sweep all the young men out of her path,’ she said, with some amusement -at her own idea. ‘She must take her chance, like everybody else; and he -must take his chance. ‘By way of setting her conscience at rest, -however, she warned them both. She said to Count Antonio seriously, - -‘Now, don’t flirt with my young lady. You know I dislike it. And I am -responsible for her safety when she is with me; and you must not put any -nonsense into her head.’ - -‘Milady’s commands are my law,’ said Antonio, meaning to take his own -way. And Lady Caryisfort said lightly to Kate, - -‘Don’t you forget, dear, that all Italians are fortune-hunters. Never -believe a word these young men say. They don’t even pretend to think it -disgraceful, as we do. And, unfortunately, it is known that you are an -heiress.’ - -All this did not make Kate happier. It undermined gradually her -confidence in the world, which had seemed all so smiling and so kind. -She had thought herself loved, where now she found herself thrust aside. -She had thought herself an important member of a party which it was -evident could go on without her; and the girl was humbled and downcast. -And now to be warned not to believe what was said to her, to consider -all those pleasant faces as smiling, not upon herself, but upon her -fortune. It would be difficult to describe in words how depressed she -was. And Antonio Buoncompagni, though she had been thus warned against -him, had an honest face. He looked like the hero in an opera, and sang -like the same; but there was an honest simplicity about his face, which -made it very hard to doubt him. He was a child still in his innocent -ways, though he was a man of the world, and doubtless knew a great deal -of both good and evil which was unknown to Kate. But she saw the -simplicity, and she was pleased, in spite of herself, with the constant -devotion he showed to her. How could she but like it? She was wounded by -other people’s neglect, and he was so kind, so amiable, so good to her. -She was pleased to see him by her side, glad to feel that he preferred -to come; not like those who had known her all her life, and yet did not -care. - -So everything went on merrily, and already old Countess Buoncompagni had -heard of it at the villa, and meditated a visit to Florence, to see the -English girl who was going to build up the old house once more. And -even, which was most wonderful of all, a sense that she might have to do -it--that it was her fate, not to be struggled against--an idea half -pleasant, half terrible, sometimes stole across the mind even of Kate -herself. - -Lady Caryisfort received more or less every evening, but most on the -Thursdays; and one of these evenings the subject was brought before her -too distinctly to be avoided. That great, warm-coloured, dark -drawing-room, with the frescoes, looked better when it was full of -people than when its mistress was alone in it. There were quantities of -wax lights everywhere, enough to neutralise the ruby gloom of the velvet -curtains, and light up the brown depths of the old frescoes, with the -faces looking out of them. All the mirrors, as well as the room itself, -were full of people in pretty dresses, seated in groups or standing -about, and there were flowers and lights everywhere. Lady Caryisfort -herself inhabited her favourite sofa near the fire, underneath that -great fresco; she had a little group round her as she always had; but -something rather unusual had occurred. Among all the young men who -worshipped and served this pretty woman, who treated them as boys and -professed not to want them--and the gay young women who were her -companions--there had penetrated one British matron, with that devotion -to her duties, that absolute virtuousness and inclination to point out -their duty to others, which sometimes distinguishes that excellent -member of society. She had been putting Lady Caryisfort through a -catechism of all her doings and intentions, and then, as ill-luck would -have it, her eye lighted upon pretty Kate, with the young man who was -the very Count of romance--the _primo tenore_, the _jeune premier_, whom -anyone could identify at a glance. - -‘Ah! I suppose I shall soon have to congratulate you on _that_,’ she -said, nodding her head with airy grace in the direction where Kate was, -‘for you are a relation of Miss Courtenay’s, are you not? I hope the -match will be as satisfactory for the lady as for the gentleman--as it -must be indeed, when it is of your making, dear Lady Caryisfort. What a -handsome couple they will make!’ - -‘Of my making!’ said Lady Caryisfort. And the crisis was so terrible -that there was a pause all round her--a pause such as might occur in -Olympus before Jove threw one of his thunderbolts. All who knew her, -knew what a horrible accusation this was. ‘A match--of my making!’ she -repeated. ‘Don’t you know that I discourage marriages among my friends? -I--to make a match!--who hate them, and the very name of them!’ - -‘Oh, dear Lady Caryisfort, you are so amusing! To hear you say that, -with such a serious look! What an actress you would have made!’ - -‘Actress,’ said Lady Caryisfort, ‘and match-maker! You do not compliment -me; but I am not acting just now. I never made a match in my life--I -hate to see matches made! I discourage them; I throw cold water upon -them. Matches!--if there is a thing in the world I hate----’ - -‘But I mean a _nice_ match, of course; a thing most desirable; a -marriage such as those, you know,’ cried the British matron, with -enthusiasm, ‘which are made in heaven.’ - -‘I don’t believe in anything of the kind,’ said the mistress of the -house, who liked to shock her audience now and then. - -‘Oh, _dear_ Lady Caryisfort!’ - -‘I do not believe in anything of the kind. Marriages are the greatest -nuisance possible; they have to be, I suppose, but I hate them; they -break up society; they disturb family peace; they spoil friendship; -they make four people wretched for every two whom they pretend to make -happy!’ - -‘Lady Caryisfort--Lady Caryisfort! with all these young people about!’ - -‘I don’t think what I say will harm the young people; and, besides, -everybody knows my feelings on this subject. I a match-maker! Why, it is -my horror! I begin to vituperate in spite of myself. I--throw away my -friends in such a foolish way! The moment you marry you are lost--I mean -to me. Do you hear, young people? Such of you as were married before I -knew you I can put up with. I have accepted you in the lump, as it were. -But, good heavens! fancy me depriving myself of that child who comes and -puts her pretty arms round my neck and tells me all her secrets! If she -were married to-morrow she would be prim and dignified, and probably -would tell me that her John did not quite approve of me. No, no; I will -have none of that.’ - -‘Lady Caryisfort is always sublime on this subject,’ said one of her -court.’ - -‘Am I sublime? I say what I feel,’ said Lady Caryisfort, languidly -leaning back upon her cushions. ‘When I give my benediction to a -marriage, I say, at the same time, _bon jour_. I don’t want to be -surrounded by my equals. I like inferiors--beings who look up to me; so -please let nobody call me a match-maker. It is the only opprobrious -epithet which I will not put up with. Call me anything else--I can bear -it--but not that.’ - -‘Ah! dear Lady Caryisfort, are not you doing wrong to a woman’s best -instincts?’ said her inquisitor, shaking her head with a sigh. - -Lady Caryisfort shrugged her shoulders. - -‘Will some one please to give me my shawl?’ she said; and half-a-dozen -pair of hands immediately snatched at it. ‘Thanks; don’t marry--I like -you best as you are,’ she said, with a careless little nod at her -subjects before she turned round to plunge into a conversation with -Countess Strozzi, who did not understand English. The British matron was -deeply scandalised; she poured out her indignant feelings to two or -three people in the room before she withdrew, and next day she wrote a -letter to a friend in England, asking if it was known that the great -heiress, Miss Courtenay, was on the eve of being married to an Italian -nobleman--‘or, at least, he calls himself Count Somebody; though of -course, one never believes what these foreigners tell one,’ she wrote. -‘If you should happen to meet Mr. Courtenay, you might just mention -this, in case he should not know how far things had gone.’ - -Thus, all unawares, the cloud arose in the sky, and the storm prepared -itself. Christmas had passed, and Count Antonio felt that it was almost -time to speak. He was very grateful to Providence and the saints for the -success which had attended him. Perhaps, after all, his mother’s prayers -in the little church at the villa, and those perpetual _novenas_ with -which she had somewhat vexed his young soul when she was with him in -Florence, had been instrumental in bringing about this result. The -Madonna, who, good to everyone, is always specially good to an only son, -had no doubt led into his very arms this wealth, which would save the -house. So Antonio thought quite devoutly, without an idea in his -good-natured soul that there was anything ignoble in his pursuit or in -his gratitude. Without money he dared not have dreamed of marrying, and -Kate was not one whom he could have ventured to fall in love with apart -from the necessity of marriage. But he admired her immensely, and was -grateful to her for all the advantages she was going to bring him. He -even felt himself in love with her, when she looked up at him with her -English radiance of bloom, singling him out in the midst of so many who -would have been proud of her favour. There was not a thought in the -young Italian’s heart which was not good, and tender, and pleasant -towards his heiress. He would have been most kind and affectionate to -her had she married him, and would have loved her honestly had she -chosen to love him; but he was not impassioned--and at the present -moment it was to Antonio a most satisfactory, delightful, successful -enterprise, which could bring nothing but good, rather than a love-suit, -in which his heart and happiness were engaged. - -However, things were settling steadily this way when Christmas came. -Already Count Antonio had made up his mind to begin operations by -speaking to Lady Caryisfort on the subject, and Kate had felt vaguely -that she would have to choose between the position of a great lady in -England on her own land and that of a great lady in beautiful Florence. -The last was not without its attractions, and Antonio was so kind, while -other people were so indifferent. Poor Kate was not as happy as she -looked. More and more it became apparent to her that something was going -on at home which was carefully concealed from her. They even made new -friends, whom she did not know--one of whom, in particular, a young -clergyman, a friend of the Berties, stared at her now and then from a -corner of the drawing-room in the Lung-Arno, with a curiosity which she -fully shared. ‘Oh! he is a friend of Mr. Hardwick’s; he is here only for -a week or two; he is going on to Rome for the Carnival,’ Mrs. Anderson -said, without apparently perceiving what an evidence Kate’s ignorance -was of the way in which their lives had fallen apart. And the Berties -now were continually in the house. They seemed to have no other -engagements, except when, now and then, they went to the opera with the -ladies. Sometimes Kate thought one or the other of them showed signs of -uneasiness, but Ombra was bright as the day, and Mrs. Anderson made no -explanation. And how could she, the youngest of the household, the one -who was not wanted--how could she interfere or say anything? The wound -worked deeper and deeper, and a certain weariness and distrust crept -over Kate. Oh, for some change!--even Antonio’s proposal, which was -coming. For as it was only her imagination and her vanity, not her -heart, which were interested, Kate saw with perfect clear-sightedness -that the proposal was on its way. - -But before it arrived--before any change had come to the state of -affairs in the Lung-Arno--one evening, when Kate was at home, and, as -usual, abstracted over a book in a corner; when the Berties were in full -possession, one bending over Ombra at the piano, one talking earnestly -to her mother, Francesca suddenly threw the door open, with a vehemence -quite unusual to her, and without a word of warning--without even the -announcement of his name to put them on their guard--Mr. Courtenay -walked into the room. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI. - - -The scene which Mr. Courtenay saw when he walked in suddenly to Mrs. -Anderson’s drawing-room, was one so different in every way from what he -had expected, that he was for the first moment as much taken aback as -any of the company. Francesca, who remembered him well, and whose mind -was moved by immediate anxiety at the sight of him, had not been able to -restrain a start and exclamation, and had ushered him in suspiciously, -with so evident a feeling of alarm and confusion that the suspicious old -man of the world felt doubly convinced that there was something to -conceal. But she had neither time nor opportunity to warn the party; and -yet this was how Mr. Courtenay found them. The drawing-room, which -looked out on the Lung-Arno, was not small, but it was rather low--not -much more than an _entresol_. There was a bright wood fire on the -hearth, and near it, with a couple of candles on a small table by her -side, sat Kate, distinctly isolated from the rest, and working -diligently, scarcely raising her eyes from her needlework. The centre -table was drawn a little aside, for Ombra had found it too warm in front -of the fire; and about this the other four were grouped--Mrs. Anderson, -working, too, was talking to one of the young men; the other was holding -silk, which Ombra was winding; a thorough English domestic party--such a -family group as should have gladdened virtuous eyes to see. Mr. -Courtenay looked at it with indescribable surprise. There was nothing -visible here which in the least resembled a foreign Count; and Kate was, -wonderful to tell, left out--clearly left out. She was sitting apart at -her little table near the fire, looking just a little weary and -forlorn--a very little--not enough to catch Mrs. Anderson’s eye, who had -got used to this aspect of Kate. But it struck Mr. Courtenay, who was -not used to it, and who had suspected something very different. He was -so completely amazed, that he could not think it real. That little old -woman must have given some signal; they must have been warned of his -coming; otherwise it was altogether impossible to account for this -extraordinary scene. They all jumped to their feet at his appearance. -There was first a glance of confusion and embarrassment exchanged, as he -saw; and then everyone rose in their wonder. - -‘Mr. Courtenay! What a great, what a very unexpected----,’ said Mrs. -Anderson. She had meant to say pleasure; but even she was so much -startled and confounded that she could not carry her intention out. - -‘Is it Uncle Courtenay?’ said Kate, rising, too. She was not alarmed--on -the contrary, she looked half glad, as if the sight of him was rather a -relief than otherwise. ‘Is it you, Uncle Courtenay? Have you come to see -us? I am very glad. But I wonder you did not write.’ - -‘Thanks for your welcome, Kate. Thanks, Mrs. Anderson. Don’t let me -disturb you. I made up my mind quite suddenly. I had not thought of it a -week ago. Ah! some more acquaintances whom I did not expect to see.’ - -Mr. Courtenay was very gracious--he shook hands all round. The Berties -shrank, no one could have quite told how--they looked at each other, -exchanging a glance full of dismay and mutual consultation. Mr. -Courtenay’s faculties were all on the alert; but he had been thinking -only of his niece, and the young men puzzled him. They were not near -Kate, they were not ‘paying her attention;’ but, then, what were they -doing here? He was not so imaginative nor so quick in his perceptions as -to be able to shift from the difficulty he had mastered to this new one. -What he had expected was a foreign adventurer making love to his niece; -and instead of that here were two young Englishmen, not even looking at -his niece. He was posed; but ever suspicious. For the moment they had -baffled him; but he would find it out, whatever they meant, whatever -they might be concealing from him; and with that view he accepted the -great arm-chair blandly, and sat down to make his observations with the -most smiling and ingratiating face. - -‘We are taking care of Kate--she is a kind of invalid, as you will see,’ -said Mrs. Anderson. ‘It is not bad, I am glad to say, but she has a -cold, and I have kept her indoors, and even condemned her to the -fireside corner, which she thinks very hard.’ - -‘It looks very comfortable,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘So you have a cold, -Kate? I hear you have been enjoying yourself very much, making troops of -friends. But pray don’t let me disturb anyone. Don’t let me break up the -party----’ - -‘It is time for us to keep our engagement,’ said Bertie Hardwick, who -had taken out his watch. ‘It is a bore to have to go, just as there is a -chance of hearing news of home; but I hope we shall see Mr. Courtenay -again. We must go now. It is actually nine o’clock.’ - -‘Yes. I did not think it was nearly so late,’ said his cousin, echoing -him. And they hurried away, leaving Mr. Courtenay more puzzled than -ever. He had put them to flight, it was evident--but why? For personally -he had no dread of them, nor objection to them, and they had not been -taking any notice of Kate. - -‘I have disturbed your evening, I fear,’ he said to Mrs. Anderson. She -was annoyed and uncomfortable, though he could not tell the reason why. - -‘Oh! no, not the least. These boys have been in Florence for some little -time, and they often come in to enliven us a little in the evenings. But -they have a great many engagements. They can never stay very long,’ she -said, faltering and stammering, as if she did not quite know what she -was saying. But for this Kate would have broken out into aroused -remonstrance. Can never stay very long! Why, they stayed generally till -midnight, or near it. These words were on Kate’s lips, but she held them -back, partly for her aunt’s sake, partly--she could not tell why. Ombra, -overcast in a moment from all her brightness, sat behind, drawing her -chair back, and began to arrange and put away the silk she had been -winding. It shone in the lamplight, vivid and warm in its rich colour. -What a curious little picture this made altogether! Kate, startled and -curious, in her seat by the fire; Mrs. Anderson, watchful, not knowing -what was going to happen, keeping all her wits about her, occupied the -central place; and Ombra sat half hidden behind Mr. Courtenay’s chair, a -shadowy figure, with the lamplight just catching her white hands, and -the long crimson thread of the silk. In a moment everything had changed. -It might have been Shanklin again, from the aspect of the party. A -little chill seemed to seize them all, though the room was so light and -warm. Why was it? Was it a mere reminiscence of his former visit which -had brought such change to their lives? He was uncomfortable, and even -embarrassed, himself, though he could not have told why. - -‘So Kate has a cold!’ he repeated. ‘From what I heard, I supposed you -were living a very gay life, with troops of friends. I did not expect to -find such a charming domestic party. But you are quite at home here, I -suppose, and know the customs of the place--all about it? How sorry I am -that your young friends should have gone away because of me!’ - -‘Oh! pray don’t think of it. It was not because of you. They had an -engagement,’ said Mrs. Anderson. Yes, I have lived in Florence before; -but that was in very different days, when we were not left such domestic -quiet in the evenings,’ she added, elevating her head a little, yet -sighing. She did not choose Mr. Courtenay, at least, to think that it -was only her position as Kate’s chaperon which gave her importance here. -And it was quite true that the Consul’s house had been a lively one in -its day. Two young wandering Englishmen would not have represented -society _then_; but perhaps all the _habitués_ of the house were not -exactly on a level with the Berties. ‘I have kept quiet, not without -some trouble,’ she continued, ‘as you wished it so much for Kate.’ - -‘That was very kind of you,’ he said; ‘but see, now, what odd reports -get about. I heard that Kate had plunged into all sorts of gaiety--and -was surrounded by Italians--and I don’t know what besides.’ - -‘And you came to take care of her?’ said Ombra, quietly, at his elbow. - -Mr. Courtenay started. He did not expect an assault on that side also. - -‘I came to see you all, my dear young lady,’ he said; ‘and I -congratulate you on your changed looks, Miss Ombra. Italy has made you -look twice as strong and bright as you were in Shanklin. I don’t know if -it has done as much for Kate.’ - -‘Kate has a cold,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘but otherwise she is in very -good looks. As for Ombra, this might almost be called her native air.’ - -This civil fencing went on for about half an hour. There was attack and -defence, but both stealthy, vague, and general; for the assailant did -not quite know what he had to find fault with, and the defenders were -unaware what would be the point of assault. Kate, who felt herself the -subject of contention, and who did not feel brave enough or happy enough -to take up her _rôle_ as she had done at Shanklin, kept in her corner, -and said very little. She coughed more than was at all necessary, to -keep up her part of invalid; but she did not throw her shield over her -aunt as she had once done. With a certain mischievous satisfaction she -left them to fight it out: they did not deserve Mr. Courtenay’s wrath, -but yet they deserved something. For that one night Kate, who was -somewhat sick and sore, felt in no mood to interfere. She could not even -keep back one little arrow of her own, when her uncle had withdrawn, -promising an early visit on the morrow. - -‘As you think I am such an invalid, auntie,’ she said, with playfulness, -which was somewhat forced, when the door closed upon that untoward -visitor, ‘I think I had better go to bed.’ - -‘Perhaps it will be best,’ said Mrs. Anderson, offended. And Kate rose, -feeling angry and wicked, and ready to wound, she could not tell why. - -‘It is intolerable that that old man should come here with his -suspicious looks--as if we meant to take advantage of him or harm -_her_,’ cried Ombra, in indignation. - -‘If it is me whom you call _her_, Ombra--’ - -‘Oh! don’t be ridiculous!’ cried Ombra, impatiently. ‘I am sure poor -mamma has not deserved to be treated like a governess or a servant, and -watched and suspected, on account of you.’ - -By this time, however, Mrs. Anderson had recovered herself. - -‘Hush,’ she said, ‘Ombra; hush, Kate--don’t say things you will be sorry -for. Mr. Courtenay has nothing to be suspicious about, that I know of, -and it is only manner, I dare say. It is a pity that he should have that -manner; but it is worse for him than it is for me.’ - -Now Kate did not love her Uncle Courtenay, but for once in her life she -was moved to defend him. And she did love her aunt; but she was wounded -and sore, and felt herself neglected, and yet had no legitimate ground -for complaint. It was a relief to her to have this feasible reason for -saying something disagreeable. The colour heightened in her face. - -‘My Uncle Courtenay has always been good to me,’ she said, ‘and if -anxiety about me has brought him here, I ought to be grateful to him at -least. He does not mean to be rude to anyone, I am sure; and if I am the -first person he thinks of, you need not grudge it, Ombra. There is -certainly no one else in the world so foolish as to do that.’ - -The tears were in Kate’s eyes; she went away hastily, that they might -not fall. She had never known until this moment, because she had never -permitted herself to think, how hurt and sore she was. She hurried to -her own room, and closed her door, and cried till her head ached. And -then the dreadful thought came--how ungrateful she had been!--how -wicked, how selfish! which was worse than all. - -The two ladies were so taken by surprise that they stood looking after -her with a certain consternation. Ombra was the first to recover -herself, and she was very angry, very vehement, against her cousin. - -‘Because she is rich, she thinks she should always be our tyrant!’ she -cried. - -‘Oh! hush, Ombra, hush!--you don’t think what you are saying,’ said her -mother. - -‘You see now, at least, what a mistake it would have been to take her -into our confidence, mamma. It would have been fatal. I am so thankful I -stood out. If she had us in her power now what should we have done?’ -Ombra added, more calmly, after the first irritation was over. - -But Mrs. Anderson shook her head. - -‘It is never wise to deceive anyone; harm always comes of it,’ she said, -sadly. - -‘To deceive! Is it deceiving to keep one’s own secrets?’ - -‘Harm always comes of it,’ answered Mrs. Anderson, emphatically. - -And after all was still in the house, and everybody asleep, she stole -through the dark passage in her dressing-room, and opened Kate’s door -softly, and went in and kissed the girl in her bed. Kate was not asleep, -and the tears were wet on her cheeks. She caught the dark figure in her -arms. - -‘Oh! forgive me. I am so ashamed of myself!’ she cried. - -Mrs. Anderson kissed her again, and stole away without a word. ‘Forgive -her! It is she who must forgive me. Poor child! poor child!’ she said, -in her heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII. - - -Next morning, when Mr. Courtenay took his way from the hotel to the -Lung-Arno, his eye was caught by the appearance of a young man who was -walking exactly in front of him with a great bouquet of violets in his -hand. He was young, handsome, and well-dressed, and the continual -salutes he received as he moved along testified that he was well known -in Florence. The old man’s eye (knowing nothing about him) dwelt on him -with a certain pleasure. That he was a genial, friendly young soul there -could be no doubt; so pleasant were his salutations to great and small, -made with hat and hand and voice, as continually as a prince’s -salutations to his subjects. Probably he was a young prince, or duke, or -marchesino; at all events, a noble of the old blue blood, which, in -Italy, is at once so uncontaminated and so popular. - -Mr. Courtenay had no premonition of any special interest in the -stranger, and consequently he looked with pleasure on this impersonation -of youth and good looks and good manners. Yes, no doubt he was a -nobleman of the faithful Italian blood, one of those families which had -kept in the good graces of the country, by what these benighted nations -considered patriotism. A fine young fellow--perhaps with something like -a career before him, now that Italy was holding up her head again among -the nations--altogether an excellent specimen of a patrician; one of -those well-born and well-conditioned beings whom every man with good -blood in his own veins feels more or less proud of. Such were the -thoughts of the old English man of the world, as he took his way in the -Winter sunshine to keep his appointment with his niece. - -It was a bright cold morning--a white rim of snow on the Apennines gave -a brilliant edge to the landscape, and on the smaller heights on the -other side of Arno there was green enough to keep Winter in subjection. -The sunshine was as warm as Summer; very different from the dreary dirty -weather which Mr. Courtenay had left in Bond Street and Piccadilly, -though Piccadilly sometimes is as bright as the Lung-Arno. Though he was -as old as Methuselah in Kate’s eyes, this ogre of a guardian was not so -old in his own. And he had once been young, and when young had been in -Florence; and he had a flower in his button-hole and no overcoat, which -made him happy. And though he was perplexed, he could not but feel that -the worst that he been threatened with had not come true, and that -perhaps the story was false altogether, and he was to escape without -trouble. All this made Mr. Courtenay walk very lightly along the sunny -pavement, pleased with himself, and disposed to be pleased with other -people; and the same amiable feelings directed his eyes towards the -young Italian, and gave him a friendly feeling to the stranger. A fine -young fellow; straight and swift he marched along, and would have -distanced the old man, but for those continual greetings, which retarded -him. Mr. Courtenay was just a little surprised when he saw the youth -whom he had been admiring enter the doorway to which he was himself -bound; and his surprise may be imagined when, as he climbed the stairs -towards the second floor where his niece lived, he overheard a lively -conversation at Mrs. Anderson’s very door. - -‘_Amica mia_, I hope your beautiful young lady is better,’ said the -young man. ‘Contrive to tell her, my Francesca, how miserable I have -been these evil nights, while she has been shut up by this hard-hearted -lady-aunt. You will say, _cara mia_, that it is the Lady Caryisfort who -sends the flowers, and that I am desolated--desolated!--and all that -comes into your good heart to say. For you understand--I am sure you -understand.’ - -‘Oh, yes, I understand, Signor Cont’ Antonio,’ said Francesca. ‘Trust to -me, I know what to say. She is not very happy herself, the dear little -Signorina. It is dreary for her seeing the other young lady with her -lovers; but, perhaps, my beautiful young gentleman, it is not bad for -you. When one sees another loved, one wishes to be loved one’s self; but -it is hard for Mees Katta. She will be glad to have the Signor Conte’s -flowers and his message.’ - -‘But take care, Francesca _mia_, you must say they are from my Lady -Caryisfort,’ said Count Antonio, ‘and lay me at the feet of my little -lady. I hunger--I thirst--I die to see her again! Will she not see my -Lady Caryisfort to-day? Is she too ill to go out to-night? The new -_prima donna_ has come, and has made a _furore_. Tell her so, _cara -mia_. Francesca make her to come out, that I may see her. You will stand -my friend--you were always my friend.’ - -‘The Signor Conte forgets what I have told him; that I am as a -connection of the family. I will do my very best for him. Hist! hush! -_oh, miserecordia! Ecco il vecchio!_’ cried Francesca, under her -breath. - -Mr. Courtenay had heard it all, but as his Italian was imperfect he had -not altogether made it out, and he missed this warning about _il -vecchio_ altogether. The young man turned and faced him as he reached -the landing. He was a handsome young fellow, with dark eyes, which were -eloquent enough to get to any girl’s heart. Mr. Courtenay felt towards -him as an old lady in the best society might feel, did she see her son -in the fatal clutches of a penniless beauty. The fact that Kate was an -heiress made, as it were, a man of her, and transferred all the female -epithets of ‘wilful’ and ‘designing’ to the other side. Antonio, with -the politeness of his country, took off his hat and stood aside to let -the older man pass. ‘Thinks he can come over me too, with his confounded -politeness,’ Mr. Courtenay said to himself--indeed, he used a stronger -word than confounded, which it would be unladylike to repeat. He made no -response to the young Italian’s politeness, but pushed on, hat on head, -after the vigorous manner of the Britons. ‘Who are these for?’ he asked, -gruffly, indicating with his stick the bunch of violets which made the -air sweet. - -‘For ze young ladies, zare,’ said Francesca, demurely, as she ushered -him out of the dark passage into the bright drawing-room. - -Mr. Courtenay went in with suppressed fury. Kate was alone in the room -waiting for him, and what with the agitation of the night, and the -little flutter caused by his arrival, she was pale, and seemed to -receive him with some nervousness. He noticed, too, that Francesca -carried away the bouquet, though he felt convinced it was not intended -for Ombra. She was in the pay of that young adventurer!--that Italian -rogue and schemer!--that fortune-hunting young blackguard! These were -the intemperate epithets which Mr. Courtenay applied to his handsome -young Italian, as soon as he had found him out! - -‘Well, Kate,’ he said, sitting down beside her, ‘I am sorry you are not -well. It must be dull for you to be kept indoors, after you have had so -much going about, and have been enjoying yourself so much.’ - -‘Did you not wish me to enjoy myself?’ said Kate, whom her aunt’s kiss -the night before had once more enlisted vehemently on the other side. - -‘Oh! surely,’ said her guardian. ‘What do persons like myself exist for, -but to help young people to enjoy themselves. It is the only object of -our lives!’ - -‘You mean to be satirical, I see,’ said Kate, with a sigh, ‘but I don’t -understand it. I wish you would speak plainly out. You taunted me last -night with having made many friends, and having enjoyed myself--was it -wrong? If you will tell me how few friends you wish me to have, or -exactly how little enjoyment you think proper for me, I will endeavour -to carry out your wishes--as long as I am obliged.’ - -This was said in an undertone, with a grind and setting of Kate’s white -teeth which, though very slight, spoke volumes. She had quite taken up -again the colours which she had almost let fall last night. Mr. -Courtenay was prepared for remonstrance, but not for such a vigorous -onslaught. - -‘You are civil, my dear, he said, ‘and sweet and submissive, and, -indeed, everything I could have expected from your character and early -habits; but I thought Mrs. Anderson had brought you under. I thought you -knew better by this time than to attempt to bully me.’ - -‘I don’t want to bully you,’ cried Kate, with burning cheeks; ‘but why -do you come like this, with your suspicious looks, as if you came -prepared to catch us in something?--whereas, all the world may know all -about us--whom we know, and what we do.’ - -‘This nonsense is your aunt’s, I suppose, and I don’t blame you for it,’ -said Mr. Courtenay. ‘Let us change the subject. You are responsible to -me, as it happens, but I am not responsible to you. Don’t make yourself -disagreeable, Kate. Tragedy is not your line, though it is your -cousin’s. By the way, that girl is looking a great deal better than she -did; she is a different creature. She has grown quite handsome. Is it -because Florence is her native air, as her mother said?’ - -‘I don’t know,’ said Kate. Though she had taken up her aunt’s colours -again vehemently, she did not feel so warmly towards Ombra. A certain -irritation had been going on in her mind for some time. It had burst -forth on the previous night, and Ombra had offered no kiss, said no word -of reconciliation. So she was not disposed to enter upon any admiring -discussion of her cousin. She would have resented anything that had been -said unkindly, but it was no longer in her mind to plunge into applause -of Ombra. A change had thus come over them both. - -Mr. Courtenay looked at her very keenly--he saw there was something -wrong, but he could not tell what it was--Some girlish quarrel, no -doubt, he said to himself. Girls were always quarrelling--about their -lovers, or about their dresses, or something. Therefore he went over -this ground lightly, and returned to his original attack. - -‘You like Florence?’ he said. ‘Tell me what you have been doing, and -whom you have met. There must be a great many English here, I suppose?’ - -However, he had roused Kate’s suspicions, and she was not inclined to -answer. - -‘We have been doing what everybody else does,’ she said--‘going to see -the pictures and all the sights; and we have met Lady Caryisfort. That -is about all, I think. She has rather taken a fancy to me, because she -belongs to our own country. She takes me to drive sometimes; and I have -seen a great deal of her--especially of late.’ - -‘Why especially of late?’ - -‘Oh! I don’t know--that is, my aunt and Ombra found some old friends who -were not fine enough, they said, to please you, so they left me behind; -and I did not like it, I suppose being silly; so I have gone to Lady -Caryisfort’s more than usual since.’ - -‘Oh-h!’ said Mr. Courtenay, feeling that enlightenment was near. ‘It was -very honourable of your aunt, I am sure. And this Lady Caryisfort?--is -she a match-maker, Kate?’ - -‘A match-maker! I don’t understand what you mean, uncle.’ - -‘You have met a certain young Italian, a Count Buoncompagni, whom I have -heard of, there?’ - -Kate reddened, in spite of herself--being on the eve of getting into -trouble about him, she began to feel a melting of her heart to Antonio. - -‘Do you know anything about Count Buoncompagni?’ she asked, with -elaborate calm. This, then, was what her uncle meant--this was what he -had come from England about. Was it really so important as that? - -‘I have heard of him,’ said Mr. Courtenay, drily. ‘Indeed, five minutes -ago, I followed him up the stairs, without knowing who he was, and heard -him giving a string of messages and a bunch of flowers to that wretched -old woman.’ - -‘Was it me he was asking for?’ said Kate, quite touched. ‘How nice and -how kind he is! He has asked for me every day since I have had this -cold. The Italians are so nice, Uncle Courtenay. They are so -sympathetic, and take such an interest in you.’ - -‘I have not the least doubt of it,’ he said, grimly. ‘And how long has -this young Buoncompagni taken an interest in you? It may be very nice, -as you say, but I doubt if I, as your guardian, can take so much -pleasure in it as you do. I want to hear all about it, and where and how -often you have met.’ - -Kate wavered a moment--whether to be angry and refuse to tell, or to -keep her temper and disarm her opponent. She chose the latter -alternative, chiefly because she was beginning to be amused, and felt -that some ‘fun’ might be got out of the matter. And it was so long now -(about two weeks and a half) since she had had any ‘fun.’ She did so -want a little amusement. Whereupon she answered very demurely, and with -much conscious skill, - -‘I met him first at the Embassy--at Lady Granton’s ball. - -‘At Lady Granton’s ball?’ - -‘Yes. There were none but the very best people there--the _crême de la -crême_, as auntie says. Lady Granton’s sister introduced him to me. He -is a very good dancer--just the sort of man that is nice to waltz with; -and very pleasant to talk to, uncle.’ - -‘Oh! he is very pleasant to talk to, is he?’ said Uncle Courtenay, still -more grimly. - -‘Very much so indeed. He talks excellent French, and beautiful Italian. -It does one all the good in the world talking to such a man. It is -better than a dozen lessons. And then he is so kind, and never laughs at -one’s mistakes. And he has such a lovely old palace, and is so well -known in Florence. He may not be very rich, perhaps----’ - -‘Rich!--a beggarly adventurer!--a confounded fortune-hunter!--an Italian -rogue and reprobate! How this precious aunt of yours could have shut her -eyes to such a piece of folly; or your Lady Caryisfort, forsooth----’ - -‘Why forsooth, uncle? Do you mean that she is not Lady Caryisfort, or -that she is unworthy of the name? She is very clever and very agreeable. -But I was going to say that though Count Buoncompagni is not rich, he -gave us the most beautiful little luncheon the day we went to see his -pictures. Lady Caryisfort said it was perfection. And talking of -that--if he brought some flowers, as you say, I should like to have -them. May I go and speak to Francesca about them?--or perhaps you would -rather ring the bell?’ - - - - -CHAPTER XLVIII. - - -It was thus that Kate evaded the further discussion of the question. She -went off gaily bounding along the long passage. ‘Francesca, Francesca, -where are my flowers?’ she cried. Her heart had grown light all at once. -A little mischief, and a little opposition, and the freshness, yet -naturalness, of having Uncle Courtenay to fight with, exhilarated her -spirits. Yes, it felt natural. To be out of humour with her aunt was a -totally different matter. That was all pain, with no compensating -excitement; but the other was ‘fun.’ It filled her with wholesome energy -and contradictoriness. ‘If Uncle Courtenay supposes I am going to give -up poor Antonio for him----’--she said in her heart, and danced along -the passage, singing snatches of tunes, and calling to Francesca. ‘Where -are my flowers?--I know there are some flowers for me. Some one cares to -know whether I am dead or alive,’ she said. - -Francesca came out of the dining-room, holding up her hands to implore -silence. Oh! my dear young lady,’ said Francesca, ‘you must not be -imprudent. When we receive flowers from a beautiful young gentleman, we -take them to our chamber, or we put them in our bosoms--we don’t dance -and sing over them--or, at least, young ladies who have education, who -know what the world expects of them, must not so behave. In my room, -Mees Katta, you will find your flowers. They are sent from the English -milady--Milady Caryisfort,’ Francesca added, demurely folding her arms -upon her breast. - -‘Oh! are they from Lady Caryisfort?’ said Kate, with a little -disappointment. After all, it was not so romantic as she thought. - -‘My young lady understands that it must be so,’ said Francesca, ‘for -young ladies must not be compromised; but the hand that carried them was -that of the young Contino, and as handsome a young fellow as any in -Florence. I am very glad I am old--I might be his grandmother; for -otherwise, look you, Mademoiselle, his voice is so mellow, and he looks -so with his eyes, and says Francesca _mia, cara amica_, and such like, -that I should be foolish, even an old woman like me. They have a way -with them, these Buoncompagni. His father, I recollect, who was very -like Count Antonio, very nearly succeeded in turning the head of my -Angelina, my little sister that died. No harm came of it, Mees Katta, or -I would not have told. We took her away to the convent at Rocca, where -we had a cousin, a very pious woman, well known throughout the country, -Sister Agnese, of the Reparazione; and there she got quite serious, and -as good as a little saint before she died.’ - -‘Was it his fault that she died?’ cried Kate, always ready for a story. -‘I should have thought, Francesca, that you would have hated him for -ever and ever.’ - -‘I had the honour of saying to the Signorina that no harm was done,’ -said Francesca, with gravity. ‘Why should I hate the good Count for -being handsome and civil? It is a way they have, these Buoncompagni. -But, for my part, I think more of Count Antonio than I ever did of his -father. Milady Caryisfort would speak for him, Mees Katta. She is a lady -that knows the Italians, and understands how to speak. She has always -supported the Contino’s suit, has not she? and she will speak for him. -He is desolated, desolated--he has just told me--to be so many days -without seeing Mademoiselle; and, indeed, he looked very sad. We other -Italians don’t hide our feelings as you do in your country. He looked -sad to break one’s heart; and, Mees Katta, figure to yourself my -feelings when I saw the Signora’s uncle come puff-puff, with his -difficulty of breathing, up the stair. - -‘What did it matter?’ said Kate, putting the best face upon it. ‘Of -course I will not conceal anything from my uncle--though there is -nothing to conceal.’ - -‘Milady Caryisfort will speak. If I might be allowed to repeat it to the -Signorina, she is the best person to speak. She knows him well through -his aunt, who is dei Strozzi, and a very great lady. You will take the -Signor Uncle there, Mees Katta, if you think well of my advice.’ - -‘I do not want any advice--there is nothing to be advised about,’ cried -Kate, colouring deeply, and suddenly recognising the character which -Francesca had taken upon herself. She rushed into Francesca’s room, and -brought out the violets, all wet and fragrant. They were such a secret -as could not be hid. They perfumed all the passages as she hurried to -her own little room, and separated a little knot of the dark blue -blossoms to put in her bodice. How sweet they were! How ‘nice’ of -Antonio to bring them! How strange that he should say they were from -Lady Caryisfort! Why should he say they were from Lady Caryisfort? And -was he really sad because he did not see her? How good, how kind he was! -Other people were not sad. Other people did not care, she supposed, if -they never saw her again. And here Kate gave a little sigh, and blushed -a great indignant blush, and put her face down into the abundant -fragrant bouquet. It was so sweet, and love was sweet, and the thought -that one was cared for, and thought of, and missed! This thought was -very grateful and pleasant, as sweet as the flowers, and it went to -Kate’s heart. She could have done a great deal at that moment for the -sake of the tender-hearted young Italian, who comforted her wounded -feelings, and helped to restore the balance of her being by the -attentions which were so doubly consoling in the midst--she said to -herself--of coldness and neglect. - -Lady Caryisfort called soon afterwards, and was delighted to make Mr. -Courtenay’s acquaintance; and, as Kate was better, she took them both to -the Cascine. That was the first morning--Kate remembered afterwards, -with many wondering thoughts--that the Berties had not called before -luncheon, and Ombra did not appear until that meal, and was less -agreeable than she had been since they left Shanklin. But these thoughts -soon fled from her mind, and so did a curious, momentary feeling, that -her aunt and cousin looked relieved when she went away with Lady -Caryisfort. They did not go. Mrs. Anderson, too, had a cold, she said, -and would not go out that day, and Ombra was busy. - -‘Ombra is very often busy now,’ said Lady Caryisfort, as they drove off. -‘What is it, Kate? She and Mrs. Anderson used to find time for a drive -now and then at first.’ - -‘I don’t know what it is,’ Kate said, with some pain; and then a little -ebullition of her higher spirits prompted her to add an explanation, -which was partly malicious, and partly kind, to save her cousin from -remark. ‘She writes poetry,’ said Kate, demurely. ‘Perhaps it is that.’ - -‘Oh! good heavens, if I had known she was literary!’ cried Lady -Caryisfort, with gentle horror. But here were the Cascine, and the -flower-girls, and the notabilities who had to be pointed out to the -new-comer; and the Count, who had appeared quite naturally by Kate’s -side of the carriage. Mr. Courtenay said little, but he kept his eyes -open, and noted everything. He looked at the lady opposite to him, and -listened to her dauntless talk, and heard all the compliments addressed -to her, and the smiling contempt with which she received them. This sort -of woman could not be aiding and abetting in a vulgar matrimonial -scheme, he said to himself. And he was puzzled what to make of the -business, and how to put a stop to it. For the Italian kept his place at -Kate’s side, without any attempt at concealment, and was not a person -who could be sneered down by the lordly British stare, or treated quite -as a nobody. Mr. Courtenay knew the world, and he knew that an -Englishman who should be rude to Count Buoncompagni on his own soil, on -the Cascine at Florence, must belong to a different class of men from -the class which, being at the top of the social ladder, is more -cosmopolitan than any other, except the working people, who are at its -lower level. An indignant British uncle from Bloomsbury or Highgate -might have done this, but not one whose blood was as blue as that of the -Buoncompagni. It was impossible. And yet it was hard upon him to see all -this going on under his very eyes. Lady Caryisfort had insisted that he -and Kate should dine with her, and it was with the farewell of a very -temporary parting glance that Count Antonio went away. This was -terrible, but it must be fully observed before being put a stop to. He -tried to persuade himself that to be patient was his only wisdom. - -‘But will not your aunt be vexed, be affronted, feel herself neglected, -if we go to dine with Lady Caryisfort? Ladies, I know, are rather prompt -to take offence in such matters,’ he said. - -‘Oh! my aunt!--she will not be offended. I don’t think she will be -offended,’ said Kate, in the puzzled tone which he had already noticed. -And the two young men of last night were again in the drawing-room when -he went upstairs. Was there some other scheme, some independent -intrigue, in this? But he shrugged his shoulders and said, what did it -matter? It was nothing to him. Miss Ombra had her mother to manage her -affairs. Whatever their plans might be they were not his business, so -long as they had the good sense not to interfere with Kate. - -The dinner at Lady Caryisfort’s was small, but pleasant. The only -Italian present was a Countess Strozzi, a well-bred woman, who had been -Ambassadress from Tuscany once at St. James’s, and whom Mr. Courtenay -had met before--but no objectionable Counts. He really enjoyed himself -at that admirable table. After all, he thought, there is no Sybarite -like your rich, accomplished, independent woman--no one who combines the -beautiful and dainty with the excellent in such a high degree; so long -as she understands cookery; for the choice of guests and the external -arrangements are sure to be complete. And Lady Caryisfort did understand -cookery. It was the pleasantest possible conclusion to his hurried -journey and his perplexity. It was London, and Paris, and Florence all -in one; the comfort, the exquisite fare, the society, all helped each -other into perfection; and there was a certain flavour of distance and -novelty in the old Italian palace which enhanced everything--the flavour -of the past. This was not a thing to be had every day, like a Paris -dinner. But in the evening Mr. Courtenay was less satisfied. When the -great _salon_, with its warm velvet hangings and its dim frescoes, -began to fill, Buoncompagni turned up from some corner or other, and -appeared as if by magic at Kate’s side. The guardian did the only thing -which could be done in the circumstances. He approached the sofa under -the picture, which was the favourite throne of the lady of the house, -and waited patiently till there was a gap in the circle surrounding her, -and he could find an entrance. She made room for him at last, with the -most charming grace. - -‘Mr. Courtenay, you are not like the rest of my friends. I have not -heard all your good things, nor all your news, as I have theirs. You are -a real comfort to talk to, and I did not have the good of you at dinner. -Sit by me, please, and tell me something new. Nobody does,’ she added, -with a little flutter of her fan,--‘nobody ever seems to think that -fresh fare is needful sometimes. Let us talk of Kate.’ - -‘If I am bound to confine myself to that subject,’ said the old man of -society, ‘I reserve the question whether it is kind to remind me thus -broadly that I am a Methuselah.’ - -‘Oh! I am a Methusela myself, without the h,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘The -young people interest me in a gentle, grandmotherly way. I like to see -them enjoy themselves, and all that.’ - -‘Precisely,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘I quite understand and perceive the -appropriateness of the situation. You are interested in _that_, for -example?’ he said, suddenly changing his tone, and indicating a group at -the other side of the room. Kate, with some flowers in her hand, which -had dropped from the bouquet still in her bosom, with her head drooping -over them, and a vivid blush on her cheek--while Count Antonio, bending -over her, seemed asking for the flowers, with a hand half extended, and -stooping so low that his handsome head was close to hers. This attitude -was so prettily suggestive of something asked and granted, that a -bewildered blush flushed up upon Lady Caryisfort’s delicate face at the -sight. She turned to her old companion with a startled look, in which -there was something almost like pain. - -‘Well?’ she said, with mingled excitement, surprise, and defiance, which -he did not understand. - -‘I don’t think it is well,’ he said. ‘Will you tell me--and pardon an -old disagreeable guardian for asking--how far this has gone?’ - -‘You see as well as I do,’ she said, with a little laugh; and then, -changing her tone--‘But, however far it is gone, I have nothing to do -with it. It seems extremely careless on my part; but I give you my word, -Mr. Courtenay, I never really noticed it till to-night.’ - -This was true enough, notwithstanding that she had perceived the dangers -of the situation, and warned both parties against it at the outset. For -up to this moment she had not seen the least trace of emotion on the -part of Kate. - -‘Nothing could make me doubt a lady’s word,’ said the old man; ‘but one -knows that in such matters the code of honour is held lightly.’ - -‘I am not holding it lightly,’ she said, with sudden fire; and then, -pausing with an effort--‘It is true I had not noticed it before. Kate is -so frank and so young; such ideas never seem to occur to one in -connection with her. But, Mr. Courtenay, Count Buoncompagni is no -adventurer. He may be poor, but he is--honourable--good----’ - -‘The woman is agitated,’ Mr. Courtenay said to himself. ‘What fools -these women are! My stars!’ But he added, with grim politeness, ‘It is -utterly out of the question, Lady Caryisfort. You are the girl’s -countrywoman--even her countywoman. You are not one to incur the fatal -reputation of match-making. Help me to break off this folly completely, -and I will be grateful to you for ever. It must be done, whether you -will help me or not.’ - -As he spoke, somehow or other she recovered her calm. - -‘Are you so hard-hearted,’ she said,--‘so implacable a model of -guardians? And I, innocent soul, who had supposed you romantic and -Arcadian, wishing Kate to be loved for herself alone, and all the -sentimental et ceteras. So it must be put a stop to, must it? Well, if -there is nothing to be said for poor Antonio, I suppose, as it is my -fault, I must help.’ - -‘There can be no doubt of it,’ said Mr. Courtenay. - -Lady Caryisfort kept her eyes upon the two, and her lively brain began -to work. The question interested her, there could be no doubt. She was -shocked at herself, she said, that she had allowed things to go so far -without finding it out. And then the two people of the world laid their -heads together, and schemed the destruction of Kate’s fanciful little -dream, and of poor Antonio’s hopes. Mr. Courtenay had no compunction; -and though Lady Caryisfort smiled and made little appeals to him not to -look so implacable, there was a certain gleam of excitement quite -unusual to her about her demeanour also. - -They had settled their plan before Kate had decided that, on the whole, -it was best to thrust the dropped violets back into her belt, and not to -give them to Antonio. It was nice to receive the flowers from him; but -to give one back, to accept the look with which it was asked, to commit -herself in his favour--that was a totally different question. Kate -shrank into herself at the suit which was thus pressed a hair’s-breadth -further than she was prepared for. It was just the balance of a straw -whether she should have yielded or taken fright. And, happily for her, -with those two pair of eyes upon her, it was the fright that won the -day, and not the impulse to yield. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIX. - - -Kate had a good deal to think of when she went home that evening, and -shut herself up in the room which was full of the sweetness of Antonio’s -violets. Francesca, with an Italian’s natural terror of flower-scents, -had carried them away; but Kate had paused on her way to her room to -rescue the banished flowers. - -‘They are enough to kill Mademoiselle in her bed, and leave us all -miserable,’ said Francesca. - -‘I am not a bit afraid of violets,’ said Kate. - -On the contrary, she wanted them to help her. For she did not go into -the drawing-room, though it was still early. The two young men, she -heard, were there; and Kate felt a little sick at heart, and did not -care to go where she was not wanted--‘Where her absence,’ as she said to -herself, ‘was never remarked.’ Oh! how different it was from what it had -been! Only a few weeks ago she had been unable to form an idea of -herself detached from her aunt and cousin, who went everywhere with her, -and shared everything. Even Lady Caryisfort had shown no favouritism -towards Kate at first. She had been quite as kind to Ombra, quite as -friendly to Mrs. Anderson. It was their own doing altogether. They had -snatched, as it were, at Lady Caryisfort, as one who would disembarrass -them of the inconvenient cousin--‘the third, who was always _de trop_,’ -poor Kate said to herself, with a sob in her throat, and a dull pang in -her heart. They still went through all the formulas of affection, but -they got rid of her, they did not want her. When she had closed the door -of her room even upon Maryanne, and sat down over the fire in her -dressing-gown, she reflected upon her position, as she had never -reflected on it before. She was nobody’s child. People were kind to her, -but she was not necessary to anyone’s happiness; she belonged to no home -of her own, where her presence was essential. Her aunt loved her in a -way, but, so long as she had Ombra, could do without Kate. And her uncle -did not love her at all, only interfered with her life, and turned it -into new channels, as suited him. She was of no importance to anyone, -except in relation to Langton-Courtenay, and her money, and estates. - -This is a painful and dangerous discovery to be made by a girl of -nineteen, with a great vase full of violets at her elbow, the offering -of such a fortune-hunter as Antonio Buoncompagni, one who was mercenary -only because it was his duty to his family, and in reality meant no -harm. He was a young man who was quite capable of having fallen in love -with her, had she not been so rich and so desirable a match; and as it -was he liked her, and was ready to swear that he loved her, so as to -deceive not only her, but himself. But perhaps, after all, it was he, -and not she, who was most easily deceived. Kate, though she did not know -it, had an instinctive inkling of the real state of the case, which was -the only thing which saved her from falling at once and altogether into -Antonio’s net. Had she been sure that he loved her, nothing could have -saved her; for love in the midst of neglect, love which comes -spontaneous when _other people_ are indifferent, is the sweetest and -most consolatory of all things. Sometimes she had almost persuaded -herself that this was the case, and had been ready to rush into -Antonio’s arms; but then there would come that cold shudder of -hesitation which precedes a final plunge--that doubt--that consciousness -that the Buoncompagni were poor, and wanted English money to build them -up again. As for the poverty itself, she cared nothing; but she felt -that, had her lover been even moderately well off, it would have saved -her from that shrinking chill and suspicion. And then she turned, and -rent herself, so to speak, remembering the sublime emptiness of that -space on the wall where the Madonna dei Buoncompagni used to be. - -‘If I can ever find it out anywhere, whatever it may cost, I will buy -it, and send it back to him,’ Kate said, with a flush on her cheek. And -next moment she cried with real distress, feeling for his -disappointment, and asking herself why should not she do it?--why not? -To make a man happy, and raise up an old house, is worth a woman’s -while, surely, even though she might not be very much in love. Was it -quite certain that people were always very much in love when they -married? A great many things, more important, were involved in any -alliance made by a little princess in her own right; and such was Kate’s -character to her own consciousness, and in the eyes of other people. The -violets breathed all round her, and the soft silence and loneliness of -the night enveloped her; and then she heard the stir in the -drawing-room, the movement of the visitors going away, and whispering -voices which passed her door, and Ombra’s laugh, soft and sweet, like -the very sound of happiness---- - -Ombra was happy; and what cared anyone for Kate? She was the one alone -in this little loving household--and that it should be so little made -the desolation all the greater. She was one of three, and yet the others -did not care what she was thinking, how she was feeling. Kate crept to -bed silently, and put out her light, that her aunt might not come to -pity her, after she had said good night to her own happy child, whom -everybody thought of. ‘And yet I might have as good,’ Kate said to -herself. ‘I am not alone any more than Ombra. I have my violets too--my -beau chevalier--if I like.’ Ah! the beau chevalier! Some one had sung -that wistful song at Lady Caryisfort’s that night. It came back upon -Kate’s mind now in the dark, mingled with the whispering of the voices, -and the little breath of chilly night air that came when the door -opened. - - ‘Ne voyez vous pas que la nuit est profonde, - Et que le monde - N’est que souci.’ - -Strange, at nineteen, in all the sweetness of her youth, the heiress of -Langton had come to understand how that might be! - -Lady Caryisfort took more urgent measures on her side than Mr. Courtenay -had thought it wise to do. She detained her friend, the Countess -Strozzi, and her friend’s nephew, when all the other guests were gone. -This flattered Antonio, who thought it possible some proposition might -be about to be made to him, and made the Countess uncomfortable, who -knew the English better than he. Lady Caryisfort made a very bold -assault upon the two. She took high ground, and assured them that, -without her consent and countenance, to mature a scheme of this kind -under her wing, as it were, was a wrong thing to do. She was so very -virtuous, in short, that Countess Strozzi woke up to a sudden and lively -hope that Lady Caryisfort had more reasons than those which concerned -Kate for disliking the match; but this she kept to herself; and the -party sat late and long into the night discussing the matter. Antonio -was reluctant, very reluctant, to give up the little English maiden, -whom he declared he loved. - -‘Would you love her if she were penniless--if she had no lands and -castles, but was as her cousin?’ said Lady Caryisfort; and the young man -paused. He said at last that, though probably he would love her still -better in these circumstances, he should not dare to ask her to marry -him. But was that possible? And then it was truly that Lady Caryisfort -distinguished herself. She told him all that was possible to a ferocious -English guardian--how, though he could not take the money away, he could -bind it up so that it would advantage no one; how he could make the poor -husband no better than a pensioner of the rich wife, or even settle it -so that even the rich wife should become poor, and have nothing in her -power except the income, which, of course, could not be taken from her. -‘Even that she will not have till she is of age, two long years hence,’ -Lady Caryisfort explained; and then gave such a lucid sketch of -trustees and settlements that the young Italian’s soul shrank into his -boots. His face grew longer and longer as he listened. - -‘But I am committed--my honour is involved,’ he said. - -‘_Ah! pazzo, allora hai parlato?_’ cried his kinswoman. - -‘No, I have not spoken, not in so many words; but I have been -understood,’ said Antonio, with that imbecile smile and blush of vanity -which women know so well. - -‘I think you may make yourself easy in that respect,’ said Lady -Caryisfort. ‘Kate is not in love with you,’ a speech which almost undid -what she had been labouring to do; for Antonio’s pride was up, and could -scarcely be pacified. He had committed himself; he had given Kate to -understand that he was her lover, and how was he now to withdraw? ‘If he -proposes, she is a romantic child--no more than a child--and she is -capable of accepting him,’ Lady Caryisfort said to his aunt in their -last moment of consultation. - -‘Leave him to me, _cara mia_,’ said the Countess--‘leave him to me.’ And -that noble lady went away with her head full of new combinations. ‘The -girl will not be of age for two years, and in that time anything may -happen. It would be hard for you to wait two years, Antonio _mio_; let -us think a little. I know another, young still, very handsome, and with -everything in her own power----’ - -Antonio was indignant, and resented the suggestion; but Countess Strozzi -was not impatient. She knew very well that to such arguments, in the -long run, all Antonios yield. - -Mr. Courtenay entered the drawing room in the Lung-Arno next day at -noon, and found all the ladies there. Again the Berties were absent, but -there was no cloud that morning upon Ombra’s face. Kate had made her -appearance, looking pale and ill, and the hearts of her companions had -been touched. They were compunctious and ashamed, and eager to make up -for the neglect of which she had never complained. Even Ombra had kissed -her a second time after the formal morning salutation, and had said -‘Forgive me!’ as she did so. - -‘For what?’ said Kate, with the intention of being proud and -unconscious. But when she had looked up, and met her aunt’s anxious -look, and Ombra’s eyes with tears in them, her own overflowed. ‘Oh! I am -so ill-tempered,’ she said, ‘and ungrateful. Don’t speak to me.’ - -‘You are just as I was a little while ago,’ said Ombra. ‘But, Kate, with -you it is all delusion, and soon, very soon, you will know better. Don’t -be as I was.’ - -As Ombra was! Kate dried her eyes, yet she did not know whether to be -gratified or to be angry. Why should she be as Ombra had been? But yet -even these few words brought about a better understanding. And the -three were seated together, in the old way, when Mr. Courtenay entered. -He had the air of a man full of business. In his hand he carried a -packet of letters, some of which he had not yet opened. - -‘I have just had letters from Langton,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if you -take any interest in Langton--or these ladies, who have never even seen -it----’ - -‘Of course I do, uncle,’ cried Kate. ‘Take interest in my own house, my -dear old home!’ - -‘It does not follow that young ladies who are fond of Italy should care -about a dull old place in the heart of England,’ said this wily old man. -‘Grieve tells me it is going to rack and ruin, which is not pleasant -news. He says it is wicked and shameful to leave it so long without -inhabitants; that the village is discontented, and dirty, and wretched, -with no one to look after it. In short, ladies, if I look miserable, you -must forgive me, for I have not got over Grieve’s letter.’ - -‘Who is Grieve, uncle?’ - -‘The new estate-agent, Kate. Didn’t you know? Ah! you must begin to take -an interest in the estate. My time is drawing to a close, and I shall be -glad, very glad, to be rid of it. If I could go down and live there, I -might do something; but as that is impossible, I suppose things must -continue going to the bad till you come of age.’ - -Kate sat upright in her chair; her cheeks began to glow, and her eyes to -shine. - -‘Why should things go to the bad?’ she said. ‘I would rather they did -not, for my part.’ - -‘How can they do otherwise,’ said Mr. Courtenay, ‘while the house is -shut up, and there is no one to see to anything? Grieve is a good -fellow, but I can’t give him Langton to live in, or make him into a -Courtenay.’ - -‘I should hope not,’ said Kate, setting her small white teeth. By this -time her whole countenance began to gleam with excitement and -resolution, and that charm to which she always responded with such -delight and readiness, the charm of novelty. Then she made a pause, and -drew in her breath. ‘Uncle,’ she said, ‘I am not a child any longer. Why -shouldn’t I go home, and open the house, and live as I ought? I want -something to do. I want duty, such as other people have. It is my -business to look after Langton. Let me go home.’ - -‘You foolish child!’ he said; which was a proof, though Kate did not see -it, that everything was working as he wished. ‘You foolish child! How -could you, at nineteen, go and live in that house alone?’ - -She looked up. Her crimson cheek grew white, her eyes went in one -wistful, imploring look from her aunt to Ombra, from Ombra back again -to Mrs. Anderson. Her lips parted in her eagerness, her eyes shone out -like lights. She was as if about to speak--but stopped short, and -referred to them, as it were, for the answer. Mr. Courtenay looked at -them too, not without a little anxiety; but the interest in his face was -of a very different kind from that shown by Kate. - -‘If you mean,’ said Mrs. Anderson, faltering, and, for her part, -consulting Ombra with her eyes, ‘that you would like me to go with -you--Kate, my darling, thank you for wishing it--oh! thank you, I have -not deserved---- But most likely your uncle would not like it, Kate.’ - -‘On the contrary,’ said Mr. Courtenay, with his best bow, ‘if you would -entertain the idea--if it suits with your other plans to go to Langton -till Kate comes of age, it would be everything that I could desire.’ - -The three looked at each other for a full moment in uncertainty and -wonder. And then Kate suddenly jumped up, overturned the little table by -her side, on which stood the remains of her violets, and danced round -the room with wild delight. - -‘Oh! let us go at once!--let us leave this horrid old picture-gallery! -Let us go home, home!’ she cried, in an outburst of joy. The vase was -broken, and the dead violets strewed over the carpet. Francesca came in -and swept them away, and no one took any notice. That was over. And now -for home--for home! - - - - -CHAPTER L. - - -The success of this move had gone far beyond Mr. Courtenay’s highest -hopes. He was unprepared for the suddenness of its acceptance. He went -off and told Lady Caryisfort, with a surprise and satisfaction that was -almost rueful. ‘Since that woman came into my niece’s affairs,’ he said, -‘I have had to sacrifice something for every step I have gained; and I -find that I have made the sacrifice exactly when it suited her--to buy a -concession she was dying to make. I never meant her to set foot in -Langton, and now she is going there as mistress; and just, I am certain, -at the time it suits her to go. This is what happens to a simple-minded -man when he ventures to enter the lists with women. I have a great mind -to put everything in her hands and retire from the field.’ - -‘I don’t think she is so clever as you give her credit for,’ said Lady -Caryisfort, who was somewhat languid after the night’s exertions. ‘I -suspect it was you who found out the moment that suited you rather than -she.’ - -But she gave him, in her turn, an account of what she had done, and they -formed an alliance offensive and defensive--a public treaty of -friendship for the world’s inspection, and a secret alliance known only -to themselves, by the conditions of which Lady Caryisfort bound herself -to repair to London and take Kate under her charge when it should be -thought necessary and expedient by the allied powers. She pledged -herself to present the heiress and watch over her and guard her from all -match-makers, that the humble chaperon might be dismissed, and allowed -to go in peace. When he had concluded this bargain Mr. Courtenay went -away with a lighter heart, to make preparations for his niece’s return. -He had been most successful in his pretence to get her away from -Florence; and now this second arrangement to get rid of the relations -who would be no longer necessary, seemed to him a miracle of diplomacy. -He chuckled to himself over it, and rubbed his hands. - -‘Kate must not be treated as a child any longer--she is grown up, she -has a judgment of her own,’ he said, with a delicious sense of humour; -and then he listened very gravely to all her enthusiastic descriptions -of what she was to do when she got to Langton. Kate, however, after the -first glow of her resolution, did not feel the matter so easy as it -appeared. She had no thought of the violets, which Francesca swept up, -at the moment; but afterwards the recollection of them came back to her. -She had allowed them to be swept away without a thought. What a cold -heart--what an ungrateful nature--she must have! And poor Antonio! In -the light of Langton, Antonio looked to her all at once impossible--as -impossible as it would be to transplant his old palace to English soil. -No way could the two ideas be harmonised. She puckered her brows over it -till she made her head ache. Count Buoncompagni and Langton-Courtenay! -They would not come together--could not--it was impossible! Indeed the -one idea chased the other from her mind. And how was she to intimate -this strange and cruel fact to him? How was she to show that all his -graceful attentions must be brought to an end?--that she was going home, -and all must be over! And the worst was that it could not be done -gradually; but one way or another must be managed at once. - -The next day Lady Caryisfort came, as usual, on her way to the Cascine; -but, to Kate’s surprise and relief, and, it must be owned, also to her -disappointment, Antonio was not there. She declined the next invitation -to Lady Caryisfort’s, inventing a headache for the occasion, and growing -more and more perplexed the longer she thought over that difficult -matter. It was while she was musing thus that Bertie Hardwick one day -managed to get beside her for a moment, while Ombra was talking to his -cousin. Bertie Eldridge had raised a discussion about some literary -matter, and the two had gone to consult a book in the little ante-room, -which served as a kind of library; the other Bertie was left alone with -Kate, a thing which had not happened before for weeks. He went up to her -the moment they were gone, and stood hesitating and embarrassed before -her. - -‘Miss Courtenay,’ he said, and waited till she looked up. - -Something moved in Kate’s heart at the sound of his voice--some chord of -early recollection--remembrances which seemed to her to stretch so far -back--before the world began. - -‘Well, Mr. Hardwick?’ she said, looking up with a smile. Why there -should be something pathetic in that smile, and a little tightness -across her eyelids, as if she could have cried, Kate could not have -told, and neither can I. - -‘Are you pleased to go home?--is it with your own will? or did your -uncle’s coming distress you?’ he said, in a voice which was--yes, very -kind, almost more than friendly; brotherly, Kate said to herself. - -‘Distress me?’ she said. - -‘Yes; I have thought you looked a little troubled sometimes. I can’t -help noticing. Don’t think me impertinent, but I can’t bear to see -trouble in your face.’ - -Kate made no reply, but she looked up at him--looked him straight in the -eyes. Once more she did not know why she did it, and she did not think -of half the meanings which he saw written in her face. He faltered; he -turned away; he grew red and grew pale; and then came back to her with -an answering look which did not falter; but for the re-entrance of the -others he must have said something. But they came back, and he did not -speak. If he had spoken, what would he have said? - -This gave a new direction to Kate’s thoughts, but still it was with a -heavy heart that she entered Lady Caryisfort’s drawing-room, not more -than a week after that evening when Antonio had asked for the violets, -and she had hesitated whether she would give them. She had hesitated! It -was this thought which made her so much ashamed. She had been lonely, -and she had been willing to accept his heart as a plaything; and how -could she say to him now, ‘I am no longer lonely. I am going home; and I -could not take you, a stranger, back, to be master of Langton?’ She -could not say this, and what was she to say? Antonio Buoncompagni was -not much more comfortable; he had been thoroughly schooled, and he had -begun to accept his part. He even saw, and that clearly, that a pretty, -independent bird in the hand, able to pipe as he wished, was better than -a fluttering, uncertain fledgling in the bush; but he had a lively sense -of honour, and he had committed himself. The young lady, he thought, -ought at least to have the privilege of refusing him. ‘Go, then, and be -refused--_pazzo_!’ said his aunt. ‘Most people avoid a refusal, but thou -wishest it. It is a pity that thou shouldst not be satisfied.’ But, -having obtained this permission, the young Count was not, perhaps, so -ready to avail himself of it. He did not care to be rejected any more -than other men, but he was anxious to reconcile his conscience to his -desertion; and he had a tender sense that he himself--Antonio--was not -one to be easily forgotten. He watched Kate from the moment of her -entry, and persuaded himself that she was pale. ‘_Poverina!_’ he said, -beneath his moustache. Alas! the sacrifice must be made; but then it -might be done in a gentle way. - -The evening, however, was half over before he had found his way to her -side--a circumstance which filled Kate with wonder, and kept her in a -curious suspense; for she could not talk freely to anyone else while he -was within sight, to whom she had so much (she thought) to say. He came, -and Kate was confused and troubled. Somehow she felt he was changed. Was -he less handsome, less tall, less graceful? What had happened to him? -Surely there was something. He was no longer the young hero who had -dropped on his knee, and kissed her hand for Italy. She was confused, -and could not tell how it was. - -‘You are going to leave Florence?’ he said. ‘It is sudden--it is too sad -to think of. Miss Courtenay, I hope it is not you who wish to leave our -beautiful Italy--you, who have understood her so well?’ - -‘No, it is not I,’ said Kate. ‘I should not have gone of my own free -will; but yet I am very willing--I am ready to go--it is home,’ she -added, hastily, and with meaning. ‘It is the place I love best in the -world.’ - -‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I had thought--I had hoped you loved Italy too.’ - -‘Oh! so I do, Count Buoncompagni--and I thought I did still more,’ cried -the girl, eager to make her hidden and shy, yet brave apology. ‘I -thought I could have lived and died here, where people were so good to -me. But, you know, whenever I heard the name of home, it made my blood -all dance in my veins. I felt I had been making a mistake, and that -there was nothing in the world I loved like Langton-Courtenay. I made a -great mistake, but I did not mean it. I hope nobody will think it is -unkind of me, or that I am fond of change.’ - -Count Antonio stood and listened to this speech with a grim smile on his -face, and a look in his eyes which was new to Kate. He, too, was making -a disagreeable discovery, and he did not like it. He made her a bow, but -he did not make any answer. He stood by her side a few moments, and then -he asked her suddenly, ‘May I get you some tea?--can I bring you -anything?’ with a forced quietness; and when Kate said ‘No,’ he went -away, and devoted himself for all the rest of the evening to Lady -Caryisfort. There was pique in his manner, but there was something more, -which she could not make out; and she sat rather alone for the rest of -the evening. She was left to feel her mistake, to wonder, to be somewhat -offended and affronted; and went back to the Lung-Arno impatient to -hurry over all the packing, and get home at once. But she never found -out that in thus taking the weight of the breaking off on her own -shoulders, she had saved Count Antonio a great deal of trouble. - -When Lady Caryisfort found out what had passed, her amusement was very -great. ‘She will go now and think all her life that she has done him an -injury, and broken his heart, and all kinds of nonsense,’ she said to -herself. ‘Poor Antonio! what a horrible thing money is! But he has -escaped very cheaply, thanks to Kate, and she will make a melancholy -hero of him, poor dear child, for the rest of her life.’ - -In this, however, Lady Caryisfort, not knowing all the circumstances, -was wrong; for Kate felt vaguely that there was something more than the -honourable despair of a young Paladin in her Count’s acceptance of her -explanation. He accepted it too readily, with too little attempt to -resist or remonstrate. She was more angry than pitiful, ignorant as she -was. A man who takes a woman so entirely at her first word almost -insults her, even though the separation is her own doing. Kate felt this -vaguely, and a hot blush rose to her cheek for two or three days after, -at the very mention of Antonio’s name. - -The person, however, who felt this breaking off most was old Francesca, -who had gone to an extra mass for weeks back, to promote the suit she -had so much at heart. She cried herself sick when she saw it was all -over, and said to herself, she knew something evil would happen as soon -as _il vecchio_ came. _Il vecchio’s_ appearance was always the signal -for mischief. He had come, and now once more the party was on the wing, -and she herself was to be torn from her native place, the Florence she -adored, for this old man’s caprice. Francesca thought with a little -fierce satisfaction that, when his soul went to purgatory, there would -be nobody to pray him out, and that his penance would be long enough. -The idea gave her a great deal of satisfaction. She would not help him -out, she was certain--not so much as by a single prayer. - -But all the time she got on with her packing, and the ladies began to -frequent the shops to buy little souvenirs of Florence. It was a busy -time, and there was a great deal of movement, and so much occupation -that the members of the little party lost sight of each other, as it -were, and pursued their different preparations in their own way. ‘She is -packing,’ or, ‘she is shopping,’ was said, first of one, and then of -another; and no further questions were asked. And thus the days crept -on, and the time approached when they were to set out once more on the -journey home. - - - - -CHAPTER LI. - - -Yes, packing, without doubt, takes up a great deal of time, and that -must have been the reason why Mrs. Anderson and Ombra were so much -occupied. They had so many things to do. Francesca, of course, was -occupied with the household; she did the greater part of the cooking, -and superintended everything, and consequently had not time for the -manifold arrangements--the selection of things they did not immediately -want, which were to be sent off direct from Leghorn, and of those which -they would require to carry with them. And in this work the ladies -toiled sometimes for days together. - -Kate had no occasion to make a slave of herself. She had Maryanne to -attend to all her immediate requirements, and, in her own person, had -nothing better to do than to sit alone, and read, or gaze out of the -window upon the passengers below, and the brown Arno running his course -in the sunshine, and the high roofs blazing into the mellow light on the -other side, while the houses below were in deepest shadow. Kate was too -young, and had too many requirements, and hungers of the heart, to enjoy -this scene for itself so much, perhaps, as she ought to have done. Had -there been somebody by to whom she could have pointed out, or who would -have pointed out to her, the beautiful gleams of colour and sunshine, I -have no doubt her appreciation of it all would have been much greater. -As it was, she felt very solitary; and often after, when life was -running low with her, her imagination would bring up that picture of the -brown river, and the housetops shining in the sun, and all the people -streaming across the Ponte della Trinità, to the other side of the -Arno--stranger people, whom she did not know, who were always coming and -going, coming and going. Morning made no difference to them, nor night, -nor the cold days, nor the rain. They were always crossing that bridge. -Oh! what a curious, tedious thing life was, Kate thought--always the -same thing over again, year after year, day after day. It was so still -that she almost heard her own breathing within the warm, low room, where -the sunshine entered so freely, but where nothing else entered all the -morning, except herself. - -To be sure, this was only for a few days; but, after all, what a strange -end it was to the life in Florence, which had begun so differently! In -the afternoon, to be sure, it was not lonely. Her uncle would come, and -Lady Caryisfort, and the Berties, but not so often as usual. They never -came when Mr. Courtenay was expected; but Kate felt, by instinct, that -when she and her uncle were at Lady Caryisfort’s, the two young men -reappeared, and the evenings were spent very pleasantly. What had she -done to be thus shut out? It was a question she could not answer. Now -and then the young clergyman would appear, who was the friend of Bertie -Eldridge, a timid young man, with light hair and troubled eyes. And -sometimes she caught Bertie Hardwick looking at herself with a -melancholy, anxious gaze, which she still less understood. Why should he -so regard her? she was making no complaint, no show of her own -depression; and why should her aunt look at her so wistfully, and beg -her pardon in every tone or gesture? Kate could not tell; but the last -week was hard upon her, and still more hard was a strange accident which -occurred at the end. - -This happened two or three days before they left Florence. She was -roused early, she did not know how, by a sound which she could not -identify. Whether it was distant thunder, which seemed unlikely, or the -shutting of a door close at hand, she could not tell. It was still dark -of the winter morning, and Kate, rousing up, heard some early street -cries outside, only to be heard in that morning darkness before the -dawn, and felt something in the air, she could not tell what, which -excited her. She got up, and cautiously peered into the ante-room out of -which her own room opened. To her wonder she saw a bright fire burning. -Was it late, she thought? and hastened to dress, thinking she had -overslept herself. But when she had finished her morning toilette, and -came forth to warm her cold fingers at that fire, there was still no -appearance of anyone stirring. What did it mean? The shutters were still -closed, and everything was dark, except this brisk fire, which must have -been made up quite recently. Kate had taken down a book, and was about -to make herself comfortable by the fireside, when the sound of some one -coming startled her. It was Francesca, who looked in, with her warm -shawl on. - -‘I thought I heard some one,’ said Francesca. ‘Mees Katta, you haf give -me a bad fright. Why do you get up so early, without warning anyone? I -hear the sound, and I say to myself my lady is ill--and behold it is -only Mees Katta. It does not show education, waking poor peoples in ze -cold out of their good warm bet.’ - -‘But, Francesca, I heard noises too; and what can be the matter?’ said -Kate, becoming a little alarmed. - -‘Ah! but there is nosing the matter. Madame sleep--she would not answer -even when I knocked. And since you have made me get up so early, it -shall be for ze good of my soul, Mees Katta. I am going to mass.’ - -‘Oh! let me go too,’ said Kate. ‘I have never been at church so early. -Don’t say a word, Francesca, because I _know_ my aunt will not mind. I -will get my hat in a minute. See, I am ready.’ - -‘The Signorina will always have her way,’ said Francesca; and Kate found -herself, before she knew, in the street. - -It was still dark, but day was breaking; and it was by no means the -particularly early hour that Kate supposed. There were no fine people -certainly about the streets, but the poorer population was all awake and -afoot. It was very cold--the beginning of January--the very heart of -winter. The lamps were being extinguished along the streets; but the -cold glimmer of the day neither warmed nor cleared the air to speak of; -and through that pale dimness the great houses rose like ghosts. Kate -glanced round her with a shiver, taking in a strange wild vision, all in -tints of grey and black, of the houses along the side of the Arno, the -arched line of the bridge, the great dim mass of the other part of the -town beyond, faint in the darkness, and veiled, indistinct figures still -coming and going. And then she followed Francesca, with scarcely a word, -to the little out-of-the-way church, with nothing in it to make a show, -which Francesca loved, partly because it was humble. For poor people -have a liking for those homely, mean little places, where no grandeur of -ornament nor pomp of service can ever be. This is a fact, explain it as -they can, who think the attractions of ritualistic art and splendid -ceremonial are the chief charms of the worship of Rome. - -Francesca found out this squalid little church by instinct, as a poor -woman of her class in England would find a Bethesda chapel. But at this -moment the little church looked cheery, with its lighted altar blazing -into the chilly darkness. Kate followed into one of the corners, and -kneeled down reverently by her companion. Her head was confused by the -strangeness of the scene. She listened, and tried to join in what was -going on, with that obstinate English prejudice which makes common -prayer a necessity in a church. But it was not common prayer that was to -be found here. The priest was making his sacrifice at the altar; the -solitary kneeling worshippers were having their private intercourse with -God, as it were, under the shadow of the greater rite. While Francesca -crossed herself and muttered her prayer under her breath, Kate, scarcely -capable of that, covered her eyes with her hand, and pondered and -wondered. Poor little church, visited by no admiring stranger; poor -unknown people, snatching a moment from their work, market-people, -sellers of chestnuts from the streets, servants, the lowliest of the -low; but morning after morning their feeble candles twinkled into the -dark, and they knelt upon the damp stones in the unseen corners. How -strange it was! Not like English ideas--not like the virtuous ladies who -patronised the daily service at Shanklin. Kate’s heart felt a great -yearning towards those badly-dressed poor folks, some of whom smelled of -garlic. She cried a little silently, the tears dropping one by one, like -the last of a summer shower, from behind the shelter of her hand. And -when Francesca had ended her prayers, and Kate, startled from her -thinking, took her hand from her eyes, the little grey church was all -full of the splendour of the morning, the candles put to flight, the -priest’s muttering over. - -‘If my young lady will come this way,’ whispered Francesca, ‘she will be -able to kiss the shrine of the famous Madonna--she who stopped the -cholera in the village, where my blessed aunt Agnese, of the -Reparazione, was so much beloved.’ - -‘I would rather kiss you, Francesca,’ cried Kate, in a little transport, -audible, so that some praying people raised their heads to look at her, -‘for you are a good woman.’ - -She spoke in English; and the people at their prayers looked down again, -and took no more notice. It was nothing wonderful for an English visitor -to talk loud in a church. - -It was bright daylight when they came out, and everything was gay. The -sun already shone dazzling on all the towers and heights, for it was no -longer early; it was half-past eight o’clock, and already the forenoon -had begun in that early Italian world. As they returned to the Lung-Arno -the river was sparkling in the light, and the passengers moving quickly, -half because of the cold, and half because the sun was so warm and -exhilarating. - -‘My aunt and Ombra will only be getting up,’ said Kate, with a little -laugh of superiority; when suddenly she felt herself clutched by -Francesca, and, looking round, suddenly stopped short also in the -uttermost amaze. In front of her, walking along the bright street, were -the two whom she had just named--her aunt and Ombra--and not alone. The -two young men were walking with them--one with each lady. Ombra was -clinging to the arm of the one by her side; and they all kept close -together, with a half-guilty, half clandestine air. The sight of them -filled Kate with so much consternation, as well as wonder, that these -particulars recurred to her afterwards, as do the details of an accident -to those who have been too painfully excited to observe them at the -moment of their occurrence. - -Francesca clutched her close and held her back as the group went on. -They passed, almost brushing by the two spectators, yet in their haste -perceiving nothing. But Kate had no inclination to rush forward and join -herself to the party, as the old woman feared. After a moment’s interval -the two resumed their walk, slowly, in speechless wonder. What did it -mean? Perhaps Francesca guessed more truly than Kate did; but even she -was not in the secret. Before, however, they reached the door, Kate had -recovered herself. She quickened her steps, though Francesca held her -back. - -‘They must know that we have seen them,’ she said over and over to -herself, with a parched throat. - -And when the door was reached, the two parties met. It was Ombra who -made the discovery first. She had turned round upon her companion to say -some word of parting; her face was pale, but full of emotion; she was -like one of the attendant saints at a martyrdom, so pale was she, and -with a strange look of trance and rapture. But when her eye caught Kate -behind, Ombra was strangely moved. She gave a little cry, and without -another word ran into the house and up the stairs. Mrs. Anderson turned -suddenly round when Ombra disappeared. She stood before the door of the -house, and faced the new comers. - -‘What, Kate!’ she said, half frightened, half relieved, ‘is it you? What -has brought you out so early--and with Francesca, too?’ - -‘You too are out early, aunt.’ - -‘That is true; but it is not an answer,’ said Mrs. Anderson with a flush -that rose over all her face. - -And the two young men stood irresolute, as if they did not know whether -to go or stay. Bertie Eldridge, it seemed to Kate, wore his usual -indifferent look. He was always _blasé_ and languid, and did not give -himself much trouble about anything; but Bertie Hardwick was much -agitated. He turned white, and he turned red, and he gave Kate looks -which she could not understand. It seemed to her as if he were always -trying to apologise and explain with his eyes; and what right had Bertie -Hardwick to think that she wanted anything explained or cared what he -did? She was angry, she did not quite know why--angry and wounded--hurt -as if some one had struck her, and she did not care to stop and ask or -answer questions. She followed Mrs. Anderson upstairs, listening -doubtfully to Francesca’s voluble explanation--how Mademoiselle had been -disturbed by some sounds in the house, ‘possibly my lady herself, though -I was far from thinking so when I left,’ said Francesca, pointedly; and -how Mees Katta had insisted upon going to mass with her? - -Mrs. Anderson shook her head, but turned round to Kate at the door with -a softened look, which had something in it akin to Bertie’s. She kissed -Kate, though the girl half averted her face. - -‘I do not blame you, my dear, but your uncle might not like it. You must -not go again,’ she said, thus gently placing the inferior matter in the -first place. - -And they went in, to find the fire in the ante-room burning all alone, -as when Kate had left, and the calm little house looking in its best -order, as if nothing had ever happened there. - - - - -CHAPTER LII. - - -That was a curious day--a day full of strange excitement and suppressed -feeling--suppressed on all sides, yet betraying itself in some -unexplainable way. Mrs. Anderson made no explanation whatever of her -early expedition--at least to Kate; she did not even refer to it. She -gave her a little lecture at breakfast, while they sat alone -together--for Ombra did not appear--about the inexpediency of going with -Francesca to church. ‘I know that you did not mean anything, my -darling,’ she said, tenderly; ‘but it is very touching to see the poor -people at their prayers, and I have known a girl to be led away so, and -to desert her own church. Such an idea must never be entertained for -you; you are not a private individual, Kate--you are a woman with a -great stake in the country, an example to many----’ - -‘Oh, I am so tired of hearing that I have a stake in the country!’ cried -Kate, who at that moment, to tell the truth, was sick of everything, and -loathed her life heartily, and everything she heard and saw. - -‘But that is wrong,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘You must not be tired of such -an honour and privilege. You must be aware, Kate, that an ordinary girl -of your years would not be considered and studied as you have been. Had -you been only my dear sister’s child, and not the mistress of -Langton-Courtenay, even I should have treated you differently; though, -for your own good,’ Mrs. Anderson added, ‘I have tried as much as -possible to forget your position, and look upon you as my younger -child.’ - -Kate’s heart was full--full of a yearning for the old undoubting love, -and yet a sense that it had been withdrawn from her by no fault of hers, -which made it impossible for her to make overtures of tenderness, or -even to accept them. She said, ‘I like that best;’ but she said it low, -with her eyes fixed upon her plate, and her voice choking. And perhaps -her aunt did not hear. Mrs. Anderson had deliberately mounted upon her -high horse. She had invoked, as it were, the assistance of her chief -weakness, and was making use of it freely. She said a good deal more -about Kate’s position--about the necessity of being faithful to one’s -church, not only as a religious, but a public duty; and thus kept up the -discussion till breakfast was fairly over. Then, as usual, Kate was left -alone. Francesca had a private interview after in her mistress’s room, -but what was said to her was never known to anyone. She left it looking -as if tears still lay very near her eyes, but not a word did she repeat -of any explanation given to her--and, indeed, avoided Kate, so that the -girl was left utterly alone in the very heart of that small, and once so -tender, household. - -And thus life went on strangely, in a mist of suppressed excitement, for -some days. How her aunt and cousin spent that time Kate could not tell. -She saw little of them, and scarcely cared to note what visits they -received, or what happened. In the seclusion of her own room she heard -footsteps coming and going, and unusual sounds, but took no notice; and -from that strange morning encounter, saw no more of the Berties until -they made their appearance suddenly one day in the forenoon, when Mr. -Courtenay was there; when they announced their immediate departure, and -took their leave at one and the same moment. The parting was a strange -one; they all shook hands stiffly with each other, as if they had been -mere acquaintances. They said not a word of meeting again; and the young -men were both agitated, looking pale and strange. When they left at -last, Mr. Courtenay, in his airy way, remarked that he did not think -Florence had agreed with them. ‘They look as if they were both going to -have the fever,’ he said; ‘though, by-the-bye, it is in Rome people have -the fever, not in Florence.’ - -‘I suppose they are sorry to leave,’ said Mrs. Anderson, steadily; and -then the subject dropped. - -It seemed to Kate as if the world went round and round, and then -suddenly settled back into its place. And by this time all was -over--everything had stopped short. There was no more shopping, nor even -packing. Francesca was equal to everything that remained to be done; and -the moment of their own departure drew very near. - -Ombra drew down her veil as they were carried away out of sight of -Florence on the gentle bit of railway which then existed, going to the -north. And Mrs. Anderson looked back upon the town with her hands -clasped tight together in her lap, and tears in her eyes. Kate noted -both details, but even in her own mind drew no deductions from them. She -herself was confused in her head as well as in her heart, bewildered, -uncertain, walking like some one in a dream. The last person she saw in -the railway-station was Antonio Buoncompagni, with a bunch of violets in -his coat. He walked as far as he could go when the slow little train got -itself into motion, and took off his hat, with a little gesture which -went to Kate’s heart. Poor Antonio!--had she perhaps been unkind to him -after all? There was something sad, and yet not painful--something -almost comforting in the thought. - -And so they were really on their way again, and Florence was over like -yesterday when it is past, and like a tale that is told! How strange to -think so! A place never perhaps to be entered again--never, certainly, -with the same feelings as now. Ombra’s veil was down, and it was thick, -and concealed her, and tears stood in Mrs. Anderson’s eyes. They had -their own thoughts, too, though Kate had no clue to them. No clue! -Probably these thoughts dwelt upon things absolutely unknown to -her--probably they too were saying to themselves, ‘How strange to leave -Florence in the past--to be done with it!’ But had they left it in the -past? - -As for Mr. Courtenay, he read his paper, which he had just received from -England. There was a debate in it about some object which interested -him, and the _Times_ was full of abuse of some of his friends. The old -man chuckled a little over this, as he sat on the comfortable side, with -his back towards the engine, and his rug tucked over his knees. He did -not so much as give Florence a glance as they glided away. What was -Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba? Nothing had happened to him there. -Nothing happened to him anywhere--though his ward gave him a good deal -of trouble. As for this journey of his, it was a bore, but still it had -been successful, which was something, and he made himself extremely -comfortable, and read over, as they rolled leisurely along, every word -of the _Times_. - -And thus they travelled home. - - - - -CHAPTER LIII. - - -It is a curious sensation to return, after a long interval, to the home -of one’s youth, especially if one has had very great ideas of that home, -and thought it magnificent. Even a short absence changes most curiously -this first conception of grandeur. When Kate ran into Langton-Courtenay -on her return, rushing through the row of new servants, who bowed and -curtseyed in the hall, her sense of mortification and disappointment was -intense. Everything had shrunken somehow; the rooms were smaller, the -ceilings lower, the whole place diminished. Were these the rooms which -she had compared in her mind with the suite in which the English -ambassadress gave her ball? Kate stood aghast, blushing up to the roots -of her hair, and felt so mortified that she did not remember to do the -honours to her aunt and cousin. When she recollected, she went back to -where they had placed themselves in the great old hall, round the great -fireplace. There was a comfortable old-fashioned settle by it, and on -this Mrs. Anderson had seated herself, to warm her frozen fingers, and -give Kate time to recover herself. - -‘I have not the least doubt we shall find everything very comfortable,’ -she said to the new housekeeper, who stood before her, curtseying in her -rustling silk gown, and wondering already whether she was to have three -mistresses, or which was to be the ‘lady of the house.’ Mrs. Spigot felt -instinctively that the place was not likely to suit her, when Kate ran -against the new housemaid, and made the new butler (Mr. Spigot) fall -back out of her way. This was not a dignified beginning for a young lady -coming home; and if the aunt was to be mistress, it was evident that the -situation would not be what the housekeeper thought. - -‘My niece is a little excited by coming home,’ said Mrs. Anderson. -‘To-morrow Miss Courtenay will be rested, and able to notice you all.’ -And she nodded to the servants, and waved her hand, dismissing them. If -a feeling passed through Mrs. Anderson’s mind, as she did so, that this -was truly the position that she ought to have filled, and that Kate, a -chit of nineteen, was not half so well endowed for it by nature as she -herself would have been, who can blame her? She gave a sigh at this -thought, and then smiled graciously as the servants went away, and felt -that to have such a house, and so many servants under her control, even -provisionally, would be pleasant. The housemaids thought her a very -affable lady; but the upper servants were not so enthusiastic. Mrs. -Anderson had mounted upon her very highest horse. She had put away all -the vagaries of Italian life, and settled down into the very blandest of -British matrons. She talked again about proper feeling, and a regard for -the opinions of society. She had resumed all the caressing and -instructive ways which, at the very beginning of their intercourse, she -had adopted with Kate. And all these sentiments and habits came back so -readily that there were moments in which she asked herself, ‘Had she -ever been in Italy at all?’ But yes, alas, yes! Never, if she lived a -thousand years, could she forget the three months just past. - -Kate came back with some confusion to the hall, to find Ombra kneeling -on the great white sheepskin mat before the fire; while Mrs. Anderson -sat benignly on the settle, throwing off her shawls, and loosing her -bonnet. Ombra’s veil was thrown quite back; the ruddy glow threw a pink -reflection on her face, and her eyes seemed to have thawed in the -cheery, warm radiance. They were bright, and there seemed to be a little -moisture in them. She held out her hand to her cousin, and drew her down -beside her. - -‘This is the warmest place,’ said Ombra; ‘and your hands are like ice, -Kate. But how warm it feels to be at home in England! and I like your -house--it looks as if it had never been anything but a home.’ - -‘It is delightful!--it is much larger and handsomer than I supposed,’ -said Mrs. Anderson, from the settle. ‘With such a place to come home to, -dear, I think you may be pardoned a little sensation of pride.’ - -‘Oh! do you think so?’ said Kate, gratified. ‘I am so very glad you like -it. It seems to me so insignificant, after all we have seen. I used to -think it was the biggest, the finest, the most delightful house in the -world; but if you only knew how the roofs have come down, and the rooms -have shrunk!--I feel as if I could both laugh and cry.’ - -‘That is quite natural--quite natural. Kate, I have sent the servants -away. I thought you would be better able to see them to-morrow,’ said -Mrs. Anderson. ‘But when you have warmed yourself, I think we may ask -for Mrs. Spigot again, and go over the rooms, and see which we are to -live in. It will not be necessary to open the whole house for us three, -especially in Winter. Besides our bed-rooms and the dining-room, I think -a snug little room that we can make ourselves comfortable in--that will -be warm, and not too large----’ - -It pleased Mrs. Anderson to sit there in the warmth and stillness, and -make all these suggestions. The big house gave her a sensible pleasure. -It was delicious to think that a small room might be chosen for comfort, -while there were miles of larger ones all at her orders. She smiled and -beamed upon the two girls on the hearth. And indeed it was a pretty -picture--Kate began to glow and brighten, with her hat off, and her -bright hair shining in the firelight. Her travelling-dress was trimmed -round the throat with white fur, like a bird’s plumage, which caught a -pink tinge too from the firelight, and seemed to caress her, nestling -against her pretty cheek. The journey, and the arrival, and all the -excitement had driven away, for the moment at least, all mists and -clouds, and there was a pretty conflict in her face--half pleasure to be -at home, half whimsical discontent with home. Ombra with her veil quite -back, and her face cleared also of some other mystical veil, had her -hand on Kate’s shoulder, and was looking at her kindly, almost tenderly; -and one of Ombra’s cheeks was getting more than pink--it was crimson in -the genial glow; she held up her hand to shield it, which looked -transparent against the firelight. Mrs. Anderson looked very -complacently, very fondly at both. Now that everything was over, she -said to herself, and they had got _home_, surely at least a little -interval of calm might come. She shut her eyes and her ears, and refused -to look forward, refused to think of the seeds sown, and the results -that must come from them. She had been carried away to permit and even -sanction many things that her conscience disapproved; but perhaps the -Fates would exact no vengeance this time--perhaps all would go well. She -looked at Ombra, and it seemed to her that her child, after so many -agitations, looked happy--yes, really happy--not with feverish joy or -excitement, but with a genial quiet that belonged to home. Oh! if it -might be so?--and why might it not be so?--at least for a time. - -Mr. Courtenay had stayed in town, and the three ladies were alone in the -house. They settled down in a few days into ease and comfort which, -after their travelling, was very sweet. Things were different altogether -from what they had been in the Shanklin cottage; and though Mrs. -Anderson was in the place of Kate’s guardian, yet Kate was no longer a -child, to be managed for and ruled in an arbitrary way. It was now that -the elder lady showed her wisdom. It was a sensible pleasure to her to -govern the great house; here at last she seemed to have scope for her -powers; but yet, though she ruled, she did so from the background; with -heroic self-denial she kept Kate in the position she was so soon to -occupy by right, trained her for it, guided her first steps, and taught -her what to do. - -‘When you are of age, this is how you must manage,’ she would say. - -‘But when I am of age, why should not you manage for me?’ Kate replied; -and her aunt made no answer. - -They had come together again, and the old love had asserted itself once -more. The mysteries unexplained had been buried by common consent. Kate -lulled her own curiosity to rest, and when various questions came to the -very tip of her tongue, she bit and stilled that unruly member, and made -a not unsuccessful effort to restrain herself. But it was a hard -discipline, and strained her strength. Sometimes, when she saw the -continual letters which her aunt and cousin were always receiving, -curiosity would give her a renewed pinch. But generally she kept herself -down, and pretended not to see the correspondence, which was so much -larger than it ever used to be. She was so virtuous even as not to look -at the addresses of the letters. What good would it do her to know who -wrote them? Of course some must be from the Berties, one, or both--what -did it matter? The Berties were nothing to Kate; and, whatever the -connection might be, Kate had evidently nothing to do with it, for it -had never been told her. With this reasoning she kept herself down, -though she was always sore and disposed to be cross about the hour of -breakfast. Mrs. Anderson, for her part, would never see the crossness. -She petted Kate, and smoothed her down, and read out, with anxious -conciliation, scraps from Lady Barker’s letters, and others of a -similarly indifferent character; while, in the meantime, the other -letters, ones which were not indifferent nor apt for quotation, were -read by Ombra. The moment was always a disagreeable one for Kate--but -she bore it, and made no sign. - -But to live side by side with a secret has a very curious effect upon -the mind; it sharpens some faculties and deadens others in the strangest -way. Kate had now a great many things to think of, and much to do; -people came to call, hearing she had come home; and she made more -acquaintances in a fortnight than she had done before in a year. And -yet, notwithstanding this, I think it was only a fortnight that the -reign of peace and domestic happiness lasted. During that time, she made -the most strenuous effort a girl could make to put out of her mind the -recollection that there was something in the lives of her companions -that had been concealed from her. Sometimes, indeed, when she sat by her -cousin’s side, there would suddenly rise up before her a glimpse of that -group at the doorway on the Lung-Arno, and the scared look with which -Ombra had rushed away; or some one of the many evening scenes when she -was left out, and the other four, clustered about the table, would glide -across her eyes like a ghost. Why was she left out? What difference -would it have made to them, if they had made her one of themselves--was -she likely to have betrayed their secret? And then Bertie Hardwick’s -troubled face would come before her, and his looks, half-apologetic, -half-explanatory; looks, which, now she thought of them, seemed to have -been so very frequent. Why was he always looking at her, as if he wanted -to explain; as if he were disturbed and ill at ease; as if he felt her -to be wronged? Though, of course, she was not in the least wronged, Kate -said to herself, proudly; for what was it to her if all the Berties in -the world had been at Ombra’s feet?--Kate did not want them! Of that, at -least, she was perfectly sure. - -Mrs. Anderson’s room was a large one; opening into that of Ombra on the -one side, and into an ante-room, which they could sit in, or dress in, -or read and write in, for it was furnished for all uses. It was a _petit -appartement_, charmingly shut in and cosy, one of the best set of rooms -in the house, which Kate had specially chosen for her aunt. Here the -mother and daughter met one night after a very tranquil day, over the -fire in the central room. It was a bright fire, and the cosy chairs that -stood before it were luxurious, and the warm firelight flickered through -the large room, upon the ruddy damask of the curtains, and the long -mirror, and all the pretty furnishings. Ombra came in from her own room -in her dressing-gown, with her dusky hair over her shoulders. Dusky were -her looks altogether, like evening in a Winter’s twilight. Her -dressing-gown was of a faint grey-blue--not a pretty colour in itself, -but it suited Ombra; and her long hair fell over it almost to her waist. -She came in noiselessly to her mother’s room, and it was her voice which -first betrayed her presence there. Mrs. Anderson had been sitting -thinking, with a very serious face; she started at her child’s voice. - -‘I have been trying my very best to bear it--I think I have done my very -best; I have smiled, and kept my temper, and tried to look as if I were -not ready to die of misery. Oh! mamma, mamma, can this go on for ever? -What am I to do?’ - -‘Oh! Ombra, for God’s sake have patience!’ cried her mother--‘nothing -new has happened to-day?’ - -‘Nothing new!--is it nothing new to have those girls here from the -Rectory, jabbering about their brother? and to know that he is -coming--next week, they say? We shall be obliged to meet--and how are we -to meet? when I think how I took leave of him last! My life is odious to -me!’ cried the girl, sinking down in a chair, and covering her face with -her hands. ‘I don’t know how to hold up my head and look those people in -the face; and it is worse when no one comes. To live for a whole long, -endless day without seeing a strange face, with Kate’s eyes going -through and through me----’ - -‘Don’t make things worse than they are,’ said her mother, ‘Oh! Ombra, -have a little patience! Kate suspects nothing.’ - -‘Suspects!’ cried Ombra--‘she _knows_ there is something--not what it -is, but that there is something. Do you think I don’t see her looks in -the morning, when the letters come? Poor Kate! she will not look at -them; she is full of honour--but to say she does not suspect!’ - -‘I don’t know what to say to satisfy you, Ombra,’ said her mother. ‘Did -not I beg you on my knees to take her into your confidence? It would -have made everything so much easier, and her so much happier.’ - -‘Oh! mamma, my life is hard enough of itself--don’t make it harder and -harder!’ cried Ombra; and then she laid down her head upon her mother’s -shoulder, and wept. Poor Mrs. Anderson bore it all heroically; she -kissed and soothed her child, and persuaded her that it could not last -long--that Bertie would bring good news--that everything would be -explained and atoned for in the end. ‘There can be no permanent harm, -dear--no permanent harm,’ she repeated, ‘and everybody will be sorry and -forgive.’ And so, by degrees, Ombra was pacified, and put to bed, and -forgot her troubles. - -This was the kind of scene which took place night after night in the -tranquil house, where all the three ladies seemed so quietly happy. Kate -heard no echo of it through the thick walls and curtains, yet not -without troubles of her own was the heiress. The intimation of Bertie’s -coming disturbed her too. She thought she had got quite composed about -the whole matter, willing to wait until the secret should be disclosed, -and the connection between him and her cousin, whatever it was, made -known. But to have him here again, with his wistful looks, and the whole -mystery to be resumed, as if there had been no interruption of it--this -was more than Kate felt she could bear. - - - - -CHAPTER LIV. - - -The news which had made so much commotion in the Hall came from the -Rectory in a very simple way. Edith and Minnie had come up to call. -Their mother rather wished them to do so frequently. She urged upon them -that it might demand a little sacrifice of personal feeling, yet that -personal feeling was always a thing that ought to be sacrificed--it was -a good moral exercise, irrespective of everything else; and Miss -Courtenay was older, and, no doubt, more sensible than when she went -away--not likely to shock them as she did then--and that it would be -good for her to see a good deal of them, and pleasant for people to know -that they went a good deal to the Hall. All this mass of reasoning was -scarcely required, yet Edith and Minnie, on the whole, were glad to know -that it was their duty to visit Kate. They both felt deeply that a thing -which you do as a duty takes a higher rank than a thing you do as a -pleasure; and their visits might have taken that profane character had -not all this been impressed upon them in time. - -‘Oh! Miss Courtenay, we have such news,’ said Edith; and Minnie added, -in a parenthesis (‘We are so happy!’) ‘Dear Bertie is coming home for a -few days. He wrote that he was so busy, he could not possibly come; but -papa insisted’ (‘I am so glad papa insisted,’ from Minnie, who was the -accompaniment), ‘and so he is coming--just for two days. He is going to -bring us the things he bought for us at Florence.’ (‘Oh! I do so want to -see them!’) ‘You saw a great deal of him at Florence, did you not?’ - -‘Yes, we saw him--a great many times,’ said Kate, noticing, under her -eyelids, how Ombra suddenly caught her breath. - -‘He used to mention you in his letters at first--only at first. I -suppose you made too many friends to see much of each other.’ (‘Bertie -is such a fellow for society.’) ‘He is reading up now for the bar. -Perhaps you don’t know that he has given up the church?’ - -‘I think I heard him say so,’ answered Kate. - -And then there was a little pause. The Hardwick girls thought their -great news was received very coldly, and were indignant at the want of -interest shown in ‘our Bertie!’ After awhile Edith explained, with some -dignity: - -‘Of course my brother is very important to us’ (‘He is just the very -nicest boy that ever was!’ from Minnie), ‘though we can’t expect others -to take the same interest----’ - -Kate had looked up by instinct, and she caught Ombra’s eyes, which were -opened in a curious little stare, with an elevation of the eyebrows -which spoke volumes. Not the same interest! Kate’s heart grew a little -sick--she could not tell why--and she turned away, making some -conventional answer, she did not know what. A pause again, and then Mrs. -Anderson asked, without looking up from her work: - -‘Is Mr. Hardwick coming to the Rectory alone?’ - -‘Oh, yes! At least we think so,’ said the two girls in one. - -‘I ask because he and his cousin were so inseparable,’ said Mrs. -Anderson, smiling. ‘We used to say that when one was visible the other -could not be far off.’ - -‘Oh! you mean Bertie Eldridge,’ said Edith. ‘No, I am sure he is not -coming. Papa does not like our Bertie to be so much with him as he has -been. We do not think Bertie Eldridge a nice companion for him,’ said -the serious young woman, who rather looked down upon the boys, and -echoed her parents’ sentiments, without any sense of inappropriateness. -‘No, we don’t at all like them to be so much together,’ said Minnie. -Again Kate turned round instinctively. This time Ombra was smiling, -almost laughing, with quite a gay light in her eyes. - -‘Of course that is a subject beyond me,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘They -seemed much attached to each other.’ And then the matter dropped, and -the girls entered upon parish news, which left them full scope for -prattle. Edith was engaged to be married to a neighbouring clergyman, -and, accordingly, she was more than ever clerical and parochial in all -her ways of thinking; while Minnie looked forward with a flutter, half -of fear and half of excitement, to becoming the eldest Miss Hardwick, -and having to manage the Sunday School and decorate the church by -herself. - -‘What shall I do when Edith is married?’ was the burden of all the talk -she ventured upon alone. ‘Mamma is so much occupied, she can’t give very -much assistance,’ she said. ‘Oh! dear Miss Courtenay, if you would come -and help me sometimes when Edith goes away!’ - -‘I will do anything I can,’ said Kate, shortly. And the two girls -withdrew at last, somewhat chilled by the want of sympathy. Had they but -known what excitement, what commotion, their simple news carried into -that still volcano of a house! - -He was to come in a week. Kate schooled herself to be very strong, and -think nothing of it, but her heart grew sick when she thought of the -Florence scenes all over again--perhaps worse, for at Florence at least -there were two. And to Ombra the day passed with feverish haste, and all -her pretences at tranquillity and good humour began to fail in the -rising tide of excitement. - -‘I shall be better again when he has gone away,’ she said to her mother. -‘But, oh! how can I--how can I take it quietly? Could you, if you were -in my position? Think of all the misery and uncertainty. And he must be -coming for a purpose. He would not come unless he had something to say.’ - -‘Oh! Ombra, if there was anything, why should it not be said in a -letter?’ cried her mother. ‘You have letters often enough. I wish you -would just put them in your pocket, and not read them at the breakfast -table. You keep me in terror lest Kate should see the handwriting or -something. After all our precautions----’ - -‘Can you really suppose that Kate is so ignorant?’ said Ombra. ‘Do you -think she does not know well enough whom my letters are from?’ - -‘Then, for God’s sake, if you think so, let me tell her, and be done -with this horrible secret,’ cried her mother. ‘It kills me to keep up -this concealment; and if you think she knows, why, why should it go on?’ - -‘You are so impetuous, mamma!’ said Ombra, with a smile. ‘There is a -great difference between her guessing and direct information procured -from ourselves. And how can we tell what she might do? She would -interfere; it is her nature. You could not trust anything so serious to -such a child.’ - -‘Kate is not a child now,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘And oh! Ombra, if you -will consider how ungrateful, how untrue, how unkind it is----’ - -‘Stop, mamma!’ cried Ombra, with a flush of angry colour. ‘That is -enough--that is a great deal too much--ungrateful! Are we expected to be -grateful to Kate? You will tell me next to look up to her, to reverence -her----’ - -‘Ombra, you have always been hard upon Kate.’ - -‘It is not my fault,’ cried Ombra, suddenly giving way to a little burst -of weeping. ‘If you consider how different her position is---- All this -wretched complication--everything that has happened lately--would have -been unnecessary if I had had the same prospects as Kate. Everything -would have gone on easily then. There would have been no need for -concealment--no occasion for deceit.’ - -‘That is not Kate’s fault,’ said Mrs. Anderson, who was at her wit’s -end. - -‘Oh! mother, mother, don’t worry me out of my senses. Did I say it was -Kate’s fault? It is no one’s fault. But all we poor miserables must -suffer as if it were. And there is no help for it; and it is so hard, so -hard to bear!’ - -‘Ombra, I told you to count the cost,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘I told you -it would be no easy business. You thought you had strength of mind for -the struggle then.’ - -‘And it turns out that I have no strength of mind,’ cried Ombra, almost -wildly. And then she started up and went to her own room again, where -her mother could hear her sighing and moaning till she fell asleep. - -These night scenes took away from Mrs. Anderson’s enjoyment of the great -mansion and the many servants, and that luxurious room which Kate’s -affection had selected for her aunt. She sat over the fire when she was -left alone, and would wonder and ask herself what would come of it, what -could ever come of it, and whether it was possible that she should ever -be happy again. She looked back with a longing which she could not -subdue upon the humble days at Shanklin, when they were all so happy. -The little tiny cottage, the small rooms, all rose up before her. The -drawing-room itself was not half so large as Mrs. Anderson’s bed-room at -Langton-Courtenay. But what happy days these had been! She was not an -old woman, though she was Ombra’s mother. It was not as if life was -nearly over for her, as if she could look forward to a speedy end of all -her troubles. And she knew better than Ombra that somehow or other the -world always exacts punishment, whether immediately or at an after -period, from those who transgress its regulations. She said to herself -mournfully that things do not come right in life as they do in -story-books. Her daughter had taken a weak and foolish step, and she too -had shared in the folly by consenting to it. She had done so, she could -not explain to herself why, in a moment of excitement. And though Ombra -was capable of hoping that some wonderful chain of accidents might occur -to solve every difficulty, Mrs. Anderson was not young enough, or -inexperienced enough, to think anything of the kind possible. Accidents -happen, she was aware, when you do not want them, not when you do. When -a catastrophe is foreseen and calculated upon, it never happens. In such -a case, the most rotten vessel that ever sunk in a storm will weather a -cyclone. Fate would not interfere to help; and when Mrs. Anderson -considered how slowly and steadily the ordinary course of nature works, -and how little it is likely to suit itself to any pressure of human -necessity, her heart grew sick within her. She had a higher opinion of -her niece than Ombra had, and she knew that Kate would have been a tower -of strength and protection to them, besides all the embarrassment that -would have been avoided, and all the pain and shame of deceit. But what -could she do? The young people were stronger than she, and had -overridden all her remonstrances; and now all that could be done was to -carry on as steadily as possible--to conceal the secret--to hope that -something might happen, unlikely though she knew that was. - -Thus was this gentle household distracted and torn asunder; for there is -no such painful thing in the world to carry about with one as a -secret;--it will thrust itself to the surface, notwithstanding the most -elaborate attempts to heap trifles and the common routine of life over -it. It is like a living thing, and moves, or breathes, or cries out at -the wrong moment, disclosing itself under the most elaborate covers; and -finally, howsoever people may deceive themselves, it is never really -hidden. While we are throwing the embroidered veil over it, and -flattering ourselves that it is buried in concealment dark as night, our -friends all the time are watching it throb under the veil, and wondering -with a smile or a sigh, according to their dispositions, how we can be -so foolish as to believe that it is hidden from them. The best we can do -for our secret is to confuse the reality of it, most often making it -look a great deal worse than it is. And this was what Ombra and her -mother were doing, while poor Kate looked on wistful, seeing all their -transparent manœuvres; and a choking, painful sense of concealment -was in the air--a feeling that any moment some volcano might burst -forth. - - - - -CHAPTER LV. - - -It was a week later before Bertie came. He was brought to call by his -mother and sisters in great delight and pomp; and then there ensued the -strangest scene, of which only half the company had the least -comprehension. The room which Kate had chosen as their sitting-room was -an oblong room, with another smaller one opening from it. This small -room was almost opposite the fireplace in the larger one, and made a -draught which some people--indeed, most people--objected to; but as the -broad open doorway was amply curtained, and a great deal of sun came in -along with the imaginary draught, the brightness of the place won the -day against all objections. The little room was thus preserved from the -air of secrecy and retirement common to such rooms. No one could retire -to flirt there; no one could listen unseen to conversations not intended -for them. The piano was placed in it, and the writing-table, under the -broad recessed window, which filled the whole end of it. It was light as -a lantern, swept by the daylight from side to side, and the two fires -kept it as warm as it was bright. When Mrs. Hardwick sailed in, bearing -under her convoy her two blooming girls close behind her, and the tall -brother towering over their heads, a more proud or happy woman could not -be. - -‘I have brought my Bertie to see you,’ she said, all the seriousness of -that ‘sense of duty’ which weighed upon her ordinary demeanour melting -for the moment in her motherly delight and pride. ‘He was so modest, we -could scarcely persuade him to come. He thought you might think he was -presuming on your acquaintance abroad, and taking as much liberty as if -he had been an intimate----’ - -‘I think Mr. Hardwick might very well take as much liberty as that,’ -cried Kate, moved, in spite of herself, to resentment with this -obstinate make-believe. Her aunt looked up at her with such pain in her -eyes as is sometimes seen in the eyes of animals, who can make us no -other protest. - -‘We are very glad to see Mr. Bertie again,’ said Mrs. Anderson, holding -out her hand to him with a smile. ‘He is a Shanklin acquaintance, too. -We are old friends.’ - -And he shook hands with all of them solemnly, his face turning all -manner of colours, and his eyes fixed on the ground. Ombra was the last -to approach, and as she gave him her hand, she did not say a word; -neither did she lift her eyes to look at him. They stood by each other -for a second, hand in hand, with eyes cast down, and a flush of misery -upon both their faces. Was it merely misery? It could not but be -painful, meeting thus, they who had parted so differently; but Kate, who -could not remove her eyes from them, wondered, out of the midst of the -sombre cloud which seemed to have come in with Bertie, and to have -wrapped her round--wondered what other feeling might be in their minds. -Was it not a happiness to stand together even now, and here?--to be in -the same room?--to touch each other’s hands? Even amid all this pain of -suppression and concealment was not there something more in it? She felt -as if fascinated, unable to withdraw her eyes from them; but they -remained together only for a moment; and Bertie’s sisters, who did not -think Miss Anderson of much importance, did not even notice the meeting. -Bertie himself withdrew to Mrs. Anderson’s side, and began to talk to -her and to his mother. The girls, disappointed (for naturally they would -have preferred that he should make himself agreeable to the heiress), -sat down by Kate. Ombra dropped noiselessly on a chair close to the -doorway between the two rooms; and after a few minutes she said to her -cousin, ‘Will you pardon me if I finish my letter for the post?’ and -went into the inner room, and sat down at the writing-table. - -‘She writes a great deal, doesn’t she?’ said Edith Hardwick. ‘Is she -literary, Miss Courtenay? I asked Bertie, but he could not tell me. I -thought she would not mind doing something perhaps for the “Parish -Magazine.”’ - -‘Edith does most of it herself,’ said Minnie. (‘Oh! Minnie, for shame!’) -‘And do you know, Miss Courtenay, she had something in the last “Monthly -Packet.”’ (‘Please don’t, Minnie, please! What do you suppose Miss -Courtenay cares?’) ‘I shall bring it up to show you next time I come.’ - -‘Indeed, you shall do nothing of the kind!’ said Edith, blushing. And -Kate made a pretty little civil speech, which would have been quite real -and genuine, had not her mind been so occupied with other things; but -with the drama actually before her eyes, how could she think of stories -in the ‘Monthly Packet?’ Her eyes went from one to another as they sat -with the whole breadth of the room between them; and this absorption -made her look much more superior and lofty than she was in reality, or -had any thought of being. Yes, she said to herself, it was best so--they -could not possibly talk to each other as strangers. It was best that -they should thus get out of sight of each other almost--avoid any -intercourse. But how strange it was! - -‘Don’t you think it is odd that Bertie, knowing the world as he does, -should be so shy?’ said Edith. (‘Oh! he is so shy!’ cried Minnie.) ‘He -made as many excuses as a frightened little girl. “They won’t want to -see _me_,” he said. “Miss Courtenay will know it is not rudeness on my -part if I don’t call. Why should I go and bother them?” We _dragged_ him -here!’ - -‘We dragged him by the hair of his head,’ said Minnie, who was the wit -of the family. - -And Kate did her best to laugh. - -‘I did not think he had been so shy,’ she said. ‘He wanted, I suppose, -to have you all to himself, and not to lose his time making visits. How -long is he to stay?’ - -Edith and Minnie looked at each other. The question had already been -discussed between their mother and themselves whether Bertie would be -asked to dinner, or whether, indeed, they might not all be asked, with -the addition of Edith’s betrothed, who was visiting also at the Rectory. -They all thought it would be a right thing for Kate to do; and, of -course, as Mrs. Anderson was there, it would be so easy, and in every -way so nice. They looked at each other, accordingly, with a little -consciousness. - -‘He is to stay till Monday, I think,’ said Edith; ‘or perhaps we might -coax him to give us another day, if----’ She was going to say if there -was any reason, but that seemed a hint too plain. - -‘That is not a very long visit,’ said Kate. And then, without a hint of -a dinner-party, she plunged into the parish, that admirable ground of -escape in all difficulties. - -They had got into the very depths of charities, and coals, and -saving-clubs, when Mrs. Hardwick rose. - -‘We are such a large party, we must not inflict ourselves upon you too -long,’ said Mrs. Hardwick. She, too, was a little disappointed that -there was not a word about a dinner. She thought Mrs. Anderson should -have known what her duty was in the circumstances, and should have given -her niece a hint; ‘but I hope we shall all meet again before my son goes -away.’ - -And then there was a second shaking of hands. When all was over, and the -party were moving off, Kate turned to Bertie, who was last. - -‘You have not taken leave of Ombra,’ she said, looking full at him. - -He coloured to his hair; he made her a confused bow, and hurried into -the room where Ombra was. Kate, with a sternness which was very strange -to her, watched the two figures against the light. Ombra did not move. -She spoke to him apparently without even looking up from her letter. A -dozen words or so--no more. Then there came a sudden cry from the other -door, by which the mother and daughters were going ‘Oh! we have -forgotten Miss Anderson!’ and the whole stream flowed back. - -‘Indeed, it is Ombra’s fault; but she was writing for the post,’ -exclaimed her mother, calling to her. - -Ombra came forward to the doorway, very pale, even to her lips, but -smiling, and shook hands three times, and repeated that it was her -fault. And then the procession streamed away. - -‘That girl looks very unhealthy,’ Mrs. Hardwick said, when they were -walking down the avenue. ‘I shall try and find out from her mother if -there is consumption in the family, and advise them to try the new -remedy. Did you notice what a colour her lips were? She is very -retiring, poor thing; and, I must say, never puts herself the least in -the way.’ - -‘Do you think she is pretty, Bertie?’ said the sisters, together. - -‘Pretty? Oh! I can’t tell. I am no judge,’ said Bertie. ‘Look here, -mamma, I am going to see old Stokes, the keeper. He used to be a great -friend of mine. If I don’t make up to you before you reach home, I’ll be -back at least before it is dark.’ - -‘Before it is dark!’ said Mrs. Hardwick, in dismay. But Bertie was gone. -‘I suppose young men must have their way,’ she said, looking after him. -‘But you must not think, girls, that people are any the happier for -having their way. On the contrary, you who have been educated to submit -have a much better preparation for life. I hope dear Bertie will never -meet with any serious disappointment,’ she added, with a sigh. - -‘Oh! mamma, serious disappointment! when he has always succeeded in -everything!’ cried the girls, in their duet. - -‘For he could not bear it,’ said Mrs. Hardwick, shaking her head. ‘It -would be doubly, _doubly_ hard upon him; for he has never been trained -to bear it--never, I may say, since he left the nursery, and got out of -my hands.’ - -At this time it was nearly three o’clock, a dull Winter afternoon, not -severe, but dim and mournful. It was the greyness of frost, however, not -of damp, which was in the air; and Kate, who was restless, announced her -intention of taking a long walk. She was glad to escape from this heavy -atmosphere of home; she said, somewhat bitterly, that it was best to -leave them together to unbosom themselves, to tell each other all those -secrets which were not to be confided to her; and to compare notes, no -doubt, as to how he was looking, and how they were to find favourable -opportunities of meeting again, Kate’s heart was sore--she was irritated -by the mystery which, after all, was so plain to her. She saw the secret -thing moving underneath the cover--the only difficulty she had was to -decide what kind of secret it was. What was the relationship between -Bertie and Ombra? Were they only lovers?--were they something more?--and -what had Bertie Eldridge to do with it? Kate, indignant, would not -permit herself to think; but the questions came surging up in her mind -against her will. She had a little basket in her hand. She was carrying -some grapes and wine to old Stokes, the disabled keeper, who was dying, -and whom everybody made much of. On her way to his cottage she had to -pass that little nook where the brook was, and where she had first seen -Bertie Hardwick. It was the first time she had seen it since her return, -and she paused, half in anger and bitterness, half with a softening -swell of recollection. How rich, and sweet, and warm, and delicious it -had been that Summer evening, with the blossom still on the hawthorns, -and the grass like velvet, and the soft little waterfall tinkling! How -everything was changed!--the bushes all black with frost, the trees bare -of their foliage, with here and there a ragged red leaf at the end of a -bough, the brook tinkling with a sharp metallic sound. Everything else -was frozen and still--all the insect life of Summer, all the movements -and rustlings of grass and leaves and flowers. The flowers and the -leaves were gone; the grass bound fast in an icy coat. ‘But not more -different,’ Kate thought, ‘than were other matters--more important than -the grass and flowers.’ - -She was roused from her momentary reverie by the sound of a footstep -ringing clear and sharp along the frosty road; and before she could get -out of the shelter of the little coppice which encircled that haunt of -her childhood, Bertie Hardwick came suddenly up to her. The sight of her -startled the young man--but in what way? A flush of delight rushed over -his face--he brightened all over, as it seemed, eyes and mouth and every -feature. He came forward to her with impetuous steps, and took her hand -before she was aware. - -‘I was thinking of you,’ he cried; ‘longing to meet you just here, not -believing it possible--oh, Kate!---- Miss Courtenay, I beg your pardon. -I--I forget what I was going to say.’ - -He did not give up her hand, though; he stood and gazed at her with such -pleasure in his eyes as could not be misconstrued. And then the most -curious phenomenon came into being--a thing most wonderful, not to be -explained. All the anger and the suspicion and the bitterness, suddenly, -in a moment, fled out of Kate’s heart--they fled like evil spirits -exorcised and put to flight by something better than they. Kate was too -honest to conceal what was in her mind. She did not draw away her hand; -she looked at him full with her candid eyes. - -‘Mr. Bertie, I am very glad to have met you here. I can’t help -remembering; and I should be glad--very glad to meet you anywhere; -but----’ - -He dropped her hand; he put up both his own to his face, as if to cover -its shame; and then, with a totally changed tone, and a voice from which -all the gladness had gone, he said slowly: - -‘I know; but I am not allowed to explain--I cannot explain. Oh! Kate, -you know no harm of me, do you? You have never known or heard that I was -without sense of honour? trust me, if you can! Nothing in it, not any -one thing, is my fault.’ - -Kate started as if she had been struck, and everything that had wounded -her came back in sevenfold strength. She could not keep even a tone of -contempt out of her voice. - -‘I have heard,’ she said, ‘that there was honour among thieves: do _you_ -throw the blame upon Ombra--all the blame? I suppose it is the way men -do. Good-bye, Mr. Hardwick!’ And, before he could say a word, she was -gone--flying past him, indignant, contemptuous, wounded to the core. - -As she came back from the keeper’s cottage, when the afternoon was -duller than ever, and the sky seemed to be dropping over the tree-tops, -Kate thought she saw, in one of the roads which crossed the avenue, the -flutter of a lady’s shawl. The girl was curious in her excitement, and -she paused behind a tree to watch. After a short time the fluttering -shawl drew nearer. It was Ombra, clinging close to Bertie Hardwick’s -arm--turning to him a pale face full of care and anxiety. They were -discussing their dark concerns--their secrets. Kate rushed home without -once stopping or drawing breath. - - - - -CHAPTER LVI. - - -This incident passed as all incidents do, and the blank of common life -returned. How short those moments of action are in existence, and how -long are the dull intervals--those intervals which count for nothing, -and yet are life itself! Bertie Hardwick went away only after sundry -unsuccessful efforts on the part of his family to unite the party from -the Hall with that at the Rectory. Mrs. Hardwick would willingly, very -willingly, have asked them to dinner, even after the disappointment of -discovering that they did not mean to ask Bertie. She was stopped, -however, by a very commonplace hindrance--where was she to find -gentlemen enough on short notice to balance all those three ladies? Mr. -Hardwick, Bertie, and Edith’s betrothed made the tale correct to begin -with--but three more gentlemen in a country parish on two days’ notice! -It was impossible. All that Mrs. Hardwick could do was to ask, -deprecatingly, that the ladies would come to a family dinner, ‘_very_ -quiet,’ she said; ‘you must not suppose I mean a party.’ Mrs. Anderson, -with her best and most smiling looks, accepted readily. ‘But Ombra is -not very well,’ she said; ‘I fear I must ask you to excuse her. And dear -Kate has such a bad cold--she caught it walking across the park the -other evening to old Stokes the keeper’s cottage.’ - -‘To old Stokes!’ cried Mrs. Hardwick. ‘Why, my Bertie was there too.’ -And she added, looking grave, after that burst of radiance, ‘The old man -was a great favourite with everybody. We all go to see him.’ - -‘So I hear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, smiling; and next day she put on her -best gown, poor soul! and went patiently down to the Rectory to dinner, -and made a great many apologies for her girls. She did not enjoy it -much, and she had to explain that the first chill of England after Italy -had been too much for Kate and Ombra. ‘We had lived in the Isle of Wight -for some years before,’ she added, ‘so that this is almost their first -experience of the severity of Winter. But a few days indoors I hope will -make them all right.’ - -Edith Hardwick could not believe her eyes when, next day, the day before -Bertie left, she saw Miss Anderson walking in the park. ‘Do you think it -possible it was not true?’ she and her sister asked each other in -consternation; but neither they, nor wiser persons than they, could have -determined that question. Ombra was not well, nor was Kate. They were -both disturbed in their youthful being almost beyond the limits of -self-control. Mrs. Anderson had, in some respects, to bear both their -burdens; but she said to herself, with a sigh, that her shoulders were -used to it. She had borne the yoke in her youth, she had been trained to -bear a great deal, and say very little about it. And so the emotion of -the incident gradually died away, growing fainter and larger in the -stillness, and the monotony came back as of old! - -But, oh! how pleasant the monotony of old would have been, how -delightful, had there been nothing but the daily walks, the daily talks, -the afternoon drives, the cheerful discussions, and cheerful visits, -which had made their simple life at Shanklin so sweet! All that was -over, another cycle of existence had come in. - -I think another fortnight had elapsed since Bertie’s visit, and -everything had been very quiet--and the quiet had been very intolerable. -Sometimes almost a semblance of confidential intercourse would be set up -among them, and Ombra would lean upon Kate, and Kate’s heart melt -towards Ombra. This took place generally in the evening, when they sat -together in the firelight before the lamp was brought, and talked the -kind of shadowy talk which belongs to that hour. - -‘Look at my aunt upon the wall!’ Kate cried, one evening, in momentary -amusement. ‘How gigantic she is, and how she nods and beckons at us!’ -Mrs. Anderson was chilly, and had placed her chair in front of the fire. - -‘She is no more a shadow than we all are,’ said Ombra. ‘When the light -comes, that vast apparition will disappear, and she will be herself. -Kate, don’t you see the parable? We are all stolen out of ourselves, -made into ghosts, till the light comes.’ - -‘I don’t understand parables,’ said Kate. - -‘I wish you did this one,’ said Ombra, with a sigh, ‘for it is true.’ -And then there was silence for a time, a silence which Kate broke by -saying, - -‘There is the new moon. I must go and look at her.’ - -Not through the glass, dear--it is unlucky,’ said Mrs. Anderson; but -Kate took no notice. She went into the inner room, and watched the new -moon through the great window. A cold, belated, baby moon, looking as if -it had lost its way somehow in that blue waste of sky. And the earth -looked cold, chilled to the heart, as much as could be seen of it, the -tree-tops cowering together, the park frozen. She stood there in a -reverie, and forgot about the time, and where she was. The bustle behind -her of the lamp being brought in did not disturb Kate, and seeing her at -the window, the servant who came with the lights discreetly forbore to -disturb her, and left the curtains undrawn. But, from what followed, it -was evident that nobody else observed Kate, and she was still deep in -her musings, when she was startled, and brought to instant life, by a -voice which seemed to ring through the room to her like a trumpet-note -of defiance. - -‘Mother, this cannot go on!’ Ombra cried out all at once. ‘If it lasts -much longer I shall hate her. I shall want to kill her!’ - -‘Ombra!’ - -‘It is true, I shall want to kill her! Oh! not actually with my hands! -One never knows what one could do till one is tempted. Still I think I -would not touch her. But, God help us, mother, God help us! I hate her -now!’ - -‘God help you, indeed, my unhappy child!’ cried her mother. ‘Oh! Ombra, -do you know you are breaking my heart?’ - -‘My own was broken first,’ cried Ombra; and there was a ferocious and -wild force in what she said, which thrilled through and through the -listener, now just beginning to feel that she should not be here, but -unable to stir in her great horror and astonishment. ‘My own was broken -first. What does it matter? I thought I could brave everything; but to -have him sent here for her sake--because she would be the most fit match -for him! to have her come again between him and me----’ - -‘She never came between him and you--poor Kate!--she never thought of -him. Has it not been proved that it was only a fancy? Oh! Ombra, how -ungrateful, how unkind you are to her!’ - -‘What must I be grateful for?’ cried Ombra. ‘She has always been in my -way, always! She came between you and me. She took half away from me of -what was all mine. Would you hesitate, and doubt, and trouble, as you -do, if it were not for Kate? She has always been in my way! She has been -my enemy, not my friend. If she did not really come between him and me, -then I thought so, and I had all the anguish and sorrow as if it had -been true. And now he is to be sent here to meet her--and I am to put up -with it, he says, as it will give us means of meeting. But I will not -put up with it!’ cried Ombra, her voice rising shrill with passion--‘I -cannot; it is asking too much. I would rather not meet him than meet him -to be watched by Kate’s eyes. He has no right to come here on such a -pretence. I would rather kill her--I would rather never see him again!’ - -‘Oh! Ombra, how can you tell who may hear you?’ cried her mother, -putting up her hand as if to stop her mouth. - -‘I don’t care who hears me!’ said Ombra, pale and sullen. - -And then there was a rustle and movement, and both started, looking up -with one impulse. In the twilight right beyond the circle of the -lamplight, white as death, with a piteous gaze that neither could ever -forget, stood Kate. Mrs. Anderson sprang to her feet with a cry; Ombra -said not a word--she sat back in her chair, and kept her startled eyes -upon her cousin--great dilated eyes, awakened all in a minute to what -she had done. - -‘Kate, you have heard what she has said?’ - -‘Yes, I have heard it,’ she said, faintly. ‘I did not mean to; but I was -there, and I thought you knew. I have heard everything. Oh! it does not -matter. It hurts at present, but it will go off after a while.’ - -She tried to smile, and then she broke down and cried. Mrs. Anderson -went to her and threw her arms around her; but Kate put her aunt gently -away. She looked up through her tears, and shook her head with the best -smile she could muster. - -‘No, it is not worth while,’ she said,--‘not any more. I have been wrong -all the time. I suppose God did not mean it so. I had no natural mother -or sister, and you can’t get such things except by nature. Don’t let us -say any more about it,’ she added, hastily brushing the tears from her -eyes. ‘I am very sorry you have suffered so much on my account, Ombra. -If I had only known---- And I never came between you and anyone--never -dreamt of doing it--never will, never--you may be sure of that. I wanted -my aunt to love me--that was natural--but no one else.’ - -‘Kate, I did not mean it,’ faltered Ombra, her white face suddenly -burning with a blush of passionate shame. She had never realised the -meanness of her jealousies and suspicions till this moment. Her mother’s -remonstrances had never opened her eyes; but in a moment, in this -anguish of being found out, she found out herself, and saw through her -cousin’s eyes, as it were, how contemptible it all was. - -‘I think you meant it. I don’t think you could have spoken so had you -not meant it,’ said Kate, with composure. And then she sat down, and -they all looked at each other, Mrs. Anderson standing before the two -girls, wringing her hands. I think they realised what had happened -better than she did. Her alarm and misery were great. This was a quarrel -between her two children--a quarrel which it was very dreadful to -contemplate. They had never quarrelled before; little misunderstandings -might have arisen between them, but these it was always possible to -smooth down; but this was a quarrel. The best thing to do, she felt, was -that they should have it out. Thus for once her perception failed her. -She stood frightened between them, looking from one to another, not -certain on which side the volcano would burst forth. But no volcano -burst forth; things had gone too far for that. - -As for Kate, she did not know what had come over her. She had become -calm without knowing how. All her agitation passed away, and a dead -stillness succeeded--a stillness which made her afraid. Two minutes ago -her heart and body had been tingling with darts of pain. She had felt -the blow everywhere--on her head, which ached and rung as if she had -been struck--on her heart, which seemed all over dull pain--even in her -limbs, which did not feel able to support her. But now all had altered; -a mysterious numbness crept from her feet up to her heart and her head. -She did not feel anything; she saw Ombra’s big, startled eyes straining -at her, and Mrs. Anderson, standing by, wringing her hands; but neither -the one nor the other brought any gleam of feeling to her mind. - -‘It is a pity we came here,’ she said, slowly--‘a great pity, for people -will discuss everything--I suppose they always do. And I don’t know, -indeed, what is best; I am not prepared to propose anything; all seems -dark to me. I cannot go on standing in Ombra’s way--that is all I know. -I will not do it. And perhaps, if we were all to think it over to-night, -and tell what we think to-morrow morning----’ she said, with a smile, -which was very faint, and a strong indication to burst forth instead -into tears. - -‘Oh! my darling!’ said Mrs. Anderson, bewildered by this extraordinary -calm. - -Kate made a little strange gesture. It was the same with which she had -put her aunt away. ‘Don’t!’ she said, under her breath. She could bear -what Ombra had said after the first astonishing outburst, but she could -not bear that caressing--those sweet names which belong only to those -who are loved. Don’t! A touch would have made her recoil--a kiss would -have driven her wild and raving, she thought. This was the horror of it -all--not that they had quarrelled, but that they had pretended to love -her, and all the time had been hating her--or, at the best, had been -keeping each other up to the mark by thought of the gratitude and -kindness they owed her. Kindness and gratitude!--and yet they had -pretended to love. - -‘Perhaps it is better I should not say anything,’ said Ombra, with -another flush, which this time was that of rising anger. ‘I ought not to -have spoken as I did, but I make no apologies--it would be foolish to do -so. You must form your own opinion, and nothing that I could say would -change it. Of course it is no excuse to say that I would not have spoken -as I did had I known you were there.’ - -‘I did not mean to listen,’ said Kate, colouring a little. ‘You might -have seen me all the time; but it is best to say nothing at all -now--none of us had better speak. We have to get through dinner, which -is a pity. But after that, let us think it over quietly--quite -quietly--and in the morning we shall see better. There is no reason,’ -she said, very softly, ‘why, because you do not feel for me as I thought -you did, we should quarrel; for really there is nothing to quarrel -about. One’s love is not in one’s own gift, to be bestowed as one -pleases. You have been very kind to me--very kind.’ - -‘Oh! Kate--oh! my dear child, do you think I don’t love you? Oh! Kate, -do not break my heart!’ - -‘Don’t, aunt, please,’ she said, with a shiver. ‘I don’t feel quite -well, and it hurts me. Don’t--any more--now!’ - - - - -CHAPTER LVII. - - -That was the horrible sting of it--they had made believe to love her, -and it had not been true. Now love, Kate reflected (as she went slowly -to her room, feeling, somehow, as if every step was a mile), was not -like anything else. To counterfeit any other emotion might be pardoned, -but to counterfeit love was the last injury anyone could do you. Perhaps -it was the wound to her pride which helped the wound to her affections, -and made it so bitter. As she thought it all over, she reflected that -she had, no doubt, accepted this love much too easily when she went -first to her aunt’s charge. She had leapt into their arms, as it were. -She had left them no room to understand what their real feelings were; -she had taken it for granted that they loved her. She writhed under the -humiliation which this recollection brought her. After all it was not, -perhaps, they who were in the wrong, but she who had insisted on -believing what they had never taken much pains to persuade her of. After -all, when she came to think of it, Ombra had made no pretence whatever. -The very first time they met, Ombra had repulsed her--she was honest, at -least! - -To be sure, Mrs. Anderson had been very caressing, but that was her -nature. She said dear and darling to every child that came in her -way--she petted everybody. Why, then, should Kate have accepted her -petting as any sign of special love? It was herself that had been a vain -fool, all along. She had taken it for granted: she had assumed it as -necessary and certain that they loved her; and they, embarrassed by this -faith, had been reluctant to hurt her feelings by undeceiving her; this -was how it was. What stings, what tortures of pride and pain, did she -give herself as she thought these things over! Gradually she pulled down -all the pleasant house that had sheltered her these four--nearly five -long years. She plucked it down with her hands. She laid her weary head -on her little sofa beside the fire in her room, and watched the -flickering shadows, and said to herself that here she was, back in the -only home that belonged to her, alone as she had been when she left it. -Four cold walls, with so much furniture, new unknown servants, who could -not love her--who did not even know her; a cold, cold miserable world -outside, and no one in it to whom it would make the difference of a meal -or a night’s rest, whether she lived or died. Oh, cold, terrible -remorseless fate! back again in Langton-Courtenay, which, perhaps, she -ought never to have left, exactly in the same position as when she left -it. Kate could not find any solace in tears; they would not come. All -her youth of heart, her easy emotions, her childish laughing and crying, -were gone. The sunshine of happiness that had lighted up all the world -with dazzling lights had been suddenly quenched. She saw everything as -it was, natural and true. It was like the sudden enlightenment which -came to the dreamer in fairy-land; shrivelled up all the beautiful -faces, turning the gold into dross, and the sweetness into corruption. - -How far these feelings were exaggerated and overdone, the reader can -judge. The spectator, indeed, always sees how much too far the bent bow -rebounds when the string is cut, and how far the sufferer goes astray in -disappointment and grief, as well as in the extravagances of hope. But, -unfortunately, the one who has to go through it never gets the benefit -of that tranquilising knowledge. And to Kate all that she saw now seemed -too real--more real than anything she had known before--and her -desertion complete. She lay on her sofa, and gazed into the fire, and -felt her temples beating and her eyes blazing, but could not cry to -relieve herself. When Maryanne came upstairs to light her mistress’s -candles, and prepare her dress for dinner, she shrieked out to see the -flushed face on the sofa-pillow. - -‘I have a headache--that is all. Don’t make a fuss,’ cried poor Kate. - -‘Miss Kate, you must be going to have a fever. Let me call Mrs. -Anderson--let me send for the doctor,’ cried the girl, in dismay. But -Kate exerted her authority, and silenced her. She sent her downstairs -with messages that she had a headache, and could not come down again, -but was going to bed, and would rather not be disturbed.’ - -Late in the evening, when Mrs. Anderson came to the door, Maryanne -repeated the message. ‘I think, ma’am, Miss Kate’s asleep. She said she -was not to be disturbed.’ - -But Maryanne did not know how to keep this visitor out. She dared not -oppose her, as she stole in on noiseless foot, and went to the bedside. -Kate was lying with all her pretty hair in a mass on the pillow, with -her eyes closed, and the flush which had frightened Maryanne still on -her face. Was she asleep? Mrs. Anderson would have thought so, but for -seeing two big teardrops just stealing from her closed eyelashes. She -stooped over and kissed her softly on the forehead. ‘God bless you, my -dear child, my dear child!’ she whispered, almost wishing she might not -be heard; and then stole away to her own room, to the other child, much -more tumultuous and exciting, who awaited her. Poor Mrs. Anderson! of -all the three she was the one who had the most to bear. - -Ombra was pacing up and down the large bed-room, so luxurious and -wealthy, her breath coming quick with excitement, her whole frame full -of pulses and tinglings of a hundred pains. She, too, had gone through a -sharp pang of humiliation; but it had passed over. She was not lonely, -like Kate. She had her mother to fall back upon in the meantime; and -even failing her mother, she had some one else, another who would -support her, upon whom she could lean, and who would give her moral -sacking and sympathy. All this makes a wonderful difference in the way -people receive a downfall. Ombra had been thunderstruck at first at her -own recklessness, and the wounds she had given; but now a certain -irritation possessed her, inflaming all the sore places in her mind, and -they were not few. She was walking up and down, thinking what she would -do, what she would say, how she would no longer be held in subjection, -and forced to consider Kate’s ways and Kate’s feelings, Kate this and -that. She was sorry she had said what she did--that she could avow -without hesitation. She had not meant to hurt her cousin, and of course -she had not meant really that she hated her, but only that she was -irritated and unhappy, and not in a position to choose her words. Kate -was rich, and could have whatever she pleased; but Ombra had nothing but -the people who loved her, and she could not bear any interference with -them. It was the parable of the ewe-lamb over again, she said to -herself; and thus was exciting herself, and swelling her excitement to a -higher and higher pitch, when her mother went in--her mother, for whom -all this tempest was preparing and upon whom it was about to fall. - -‘You have been to see her, mamma! You never think of your own dignity! -You have been petting her, and apologising to her!’ - -‘She is asleep,’ said Mrs. Anderson, sitting down, and leaning her head -on her hand. She did not feel able for any more contention. Kate, she -felt sure, was not really asleep, but she accepted the semblance, that -no more might be said. - -Ombra laughed, and, though the laugh sounded mocking, there was a great -deal of secret relief in it. - -‘Oh! she is asleep! Did not I say she was no more than a child? She has -got over it already. When she wakes up she will have forgotten all about -it. How excellent those easy-going natures are! I knew it was only for -the moment. I knew she had no feelings to speak of. For once, mama, you -must acknowledge yourself in the wrong!’ - -And Ombra sat down too, with an immense weight lifted from her mind. She -had not owned it even to herself, but the relief was so great that she -felt now what her anxiety had been. ‘Little foolish thing,’ she said, -‘to be so heroical, and make such a noise--’ Ombra laughed almost -hysterically--‘and then to go to bed and fall asleep, like a baby! She -is little more than a baby--I always told you so, mamma.’ - -‘You have always been wrong, Ombra, in your estimation of Kate, and you -are wrong now. Whether she was asleep or not, I can’t say; she looked -like it. But this is a very serious matter all the same. It will not be -so easily got over as you think.’ - -‘I don’t wish it to be got over!’ cried Ombra. ‘It is a kind of life I -cannot endure, and it ought not to be asked of me--it is too much to ask -of me. You saw the letter. He is to be sent here, with the object of -paying his addresses to her, because she is an heiress, and it is -thought he ought to marry money. To marry--her! Oh! mamma! he ought not -to have said it to me. It was wicked and cruel to make such an -explanation.’ - -‘I think so too,’ said Mrs. Anderson, under her breath. - -‘And he does not seem to be horrified by the thought. He says we shall -be able to meet---- Oh! mother, before this happens let us go away -somewhere, and hide ourselves at the end of the earth!’ - -‘Ombra, my poor child, you must not hide yourself. There are your rights -to be considered. It is not that I don’t see how hard it is; but you -must not be the one to judge him harshly. We must make allowances. He -was alone--he was not under good influence, when he wrote.’ - -‘Oh! mother, and am I to believe of _him_ that bad influences affect him -so? This is making it worse--a thousand times worse! I thought I had -foreseen everything that there could be to bear; but I never thought of -this.’ - -‘Alas! poor child, how little did you foresee!’ said Mrs. Anderson, in a -low voice--‘not half nor quarter part. Ombra, let us take Kate’s advice. -_La nuit porte conseil_--let us decide nothing to-night.’ - -‘You can go and sleep, like her,’ said Ombra, somewhat bitterly. ‘I -think she is more like you than I am. You will say your prayers, and -compose yourself, and go to sleep.’ - -Mrs. Anderson smiled faintly. ‘Yes, I could have done that when I was as -young as you,’ she said, and made no other answer. She was sick at -heart, and weary of the discussion. She had gone over the same ground so -often, and how often soever she might go over it, the effect was still -the same. For what could anyone make of such a hopeless, dreary -business? - -After all, it was Ombra, with all her passion, who was asleep the first. -Her sighs seemed to steal through the room like ghosts, and sometimes a -deeper one than usual would cause her mother to steal through the open -doorway to see if her child was ill. But after a time the sighs died -away, and Mrs. Anderson lay in the darkness of the long Winter night, -watching the expiring fire, which burned lower and lower, and listening -to the wind outside, and asking herself what was to be the next -chapter--where she was to go and what to do. She blamed herself bitterly -for all that had happened, and went over it step by step and asked -herself how it could have been helped. Of itself, had it been done in -the light of day, and with consent of all parties, there had been no -harm. She had her child’s happiness to consider chiefly, and not the -prejudices of a family with whom she had no acquaintance. How easy it is -to justify anything that is done and cannot be undone! and how easy and -natural the steps seem by which it was brought about! while all the time -something keeps pricking the casuist, whispering, ‘I told you so.’ Yes, -she had not been without her warnings; she had known that she ought not -to have given that consent which had been wrung from her, as it were, at -the sword’s point. She had known that it was weak of her to let -principle and honour go, lest Ombra’s cheek should be pale, and her face -averted from her mother. - -‘It was not Ombra’s fault,’ she said to herself. ‘It was natural that -Ombra should do anything she did; but I who am older, who know the -world, I should have known better--I should have had the courage to bear -even her unhappiness, for her good. Oh, my poor child! and she does not -know yet, bad as she thinks it, half of what she may have to bear.’ - -Thus the mother lay and accused herself, taking first one, and then the -other, upon her shoulders, shedding salt tears under the veil of that -darkness, wondering where she should next wander to, and what would -become of them, and whether light could ever come out of this darkness. -How her heart ached!--what fears and heaviness overwhelmed her! while -Ombra slept and dreamed, and was happy in the midst of the wretchedness -which she had brought upon herself! - - - - -CHAPTER LVIII. - - -They were all very subdued when they met next day. It was now, perhaps, -more than at any former time that Kate’s position told. Instinctively, -without a word of it to each other, Mrs. Anderson and her daughter felt -that on her aspect everything depended. They would not have said it to -each other, or even to themselves; but, nevertheless, there could not be -any doubt on the subject. There were two of them, and they were -perfectly free to go and come as they pleased; but the little one--the -younger child--the second daughter, who had been quietly subject to them -so long, was the mistress of the situation; she was the lady of the -house, and they were but her guests. In a moment their positions were -changed, and everything reversed. And Kate felt it too. They were both -in the breakfast-room when she came in. She was very quiet and pale, -unlike her usual self; but when she made her usual greetings, a -momentary glow of red came over her face. It burned as she touched -Ombra’s cheek with her own. After all that had passed, these habitual -kisses were the most terrible thing to go through. It was so hard to -break the bond of custom, and so hard to bestow what means love solely -for custom’s sake. The two girls reddened as if they had been lovers as -they thus approached each other, though for a very different cause; but -no stranger, unless he had been very quick-sighted, would have seen the -subtle, unexpressed change which each of them felt dropping into their -very soul. Kate left the others as soon as breakfast was over, and was -absent the whole morning. At lunch she was again visible, and once more -they sat and talked, with walls of glass or ice between them. This time, -however, Kate gave more distinct indication of her policy. - -‘Would you like to have the carriage this afternoon?’ she said. - -‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs. Anderson, doubtfully, trying to read her -niece’s pleasure in her eyes. ‘If there is anywhere you want to go to, -dear----’ - -‘Oh! if you don’t think of going out, I shall drive to Westerton, to -get some books,’ said Kate. ‘I want some German books. It is a long time -since I have done any German; but if you want the carriage, never -mind--I can go some other day.’ - -‘I do not want it,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a chill of dismay; and she -turned to Ombra, and made some anxious suggestion about walking -somewhere. ‘It will be a nice opportunity while Kate is occupied,’ said -the poor soul, scheming to keep things smooth; ‘you said you wanted to -see that part of the park.’ - -‘Yes,’ said Ombra, depressed too, though she would have been too proud -to confess it; and thus it was arranged. - -Kate drove away alone, and had a hearty cry in the carriage, and was -very unhappy; and the mother and daughter went and walked against time -in the frost-bound park. It was a bright Winter afternoon, with a -pleasant sharpness in the air, and a gorgeous sunset of red and gold. -They stopped and pointed it out to each other, and dwelt on all the -different gradations of colour, with an artificial delight. The change -had come in a way which they had not expected, and they did not know how -to face it. It was the only situation which Mrs. Anderson, in her long -musings, had not foreseen, and she did not know how to meet it. There -was nothing but dismay in her mind--dismay and wonder. All her sagacity -was at fault. - -This went on for some time. Kate was very kind to her guests; but more -and more every day they came to feel themselves guests in the house. She -was scarcely ever with them, except at meals; and they would sit -together all the long morning, and sometimes all the long afternoon, -silent, saying nothing to each other, and hear Kate’s voice far off, -perhaps singing as she went through one of the long passages, perhaps -talking to Maryanne, or to a dog whom she had brought in from the -stable. They sat as if under a spell, for even Ombra was hushed. Her -feelings had somehow changed. Instead of the horror with which she had -regarded the probable arrival of her lover, she seemed now possessed -with a feverish desire to receive him, to see him when he came, to watch -him, perhaps to make sure that he was true to her. - -‘How can I go away, and know that he is here, and endure it?’ she said -to her mother. ‘I must stay!--I must stay! It is wretched; but it would -be more wretched to go.’ - -This was her mood one day; and the next she would be impatient to leave -Langton-Courtenay at once, and found the yoke which was upon her -intolerable. These were terrible days, as smiling and smooth as of old -to all beholders, but with complete change within. Kate was as brave as -a lion in carrying out the _rôle_ she had marked out for herself. Even -when her heart failed her, she hid it, and went on stoutly in the almost -impossible way. - -‘I will not interfere with them--I will not ask anything; but otherwise -there shall be no change,’ she said to herself, with something of the -arrogance of youth, ready to give all, and to believe that it could be -accepted without the return of anything. But sometimes it was very hard -for her to keep it up; sometimes the peculiar aspect of the scene would -fill her with sudden compunctions, sudden longings. Everything looked so -like the old, happy days, and yet it was all so different! Sometimes a -tone of her aunt’s voice, a movement or a look of Ombra, would bring -some old tender recollection back to her mind, and she would feel driven -to the last extremity to prevent herself from bursting into tears, or -making a wild appeal to them to let things be as they were again. But -she resisted all these impulses, saying to herself, with forlorn pride, -that the old love had never existed, that it had been but a delirium of -her own, and that consequently there was nothing to appeal to. She -resumed her German, and worked at it with tremendous zeal in the library -by herself. German is an admirable thing when one has been crossed in -love, or mortified in friendship. How often has it been resorted to in -such circumstances--and has always afforded a certain consolation! And -Kate plunged into parish business, to the great delight and relief of -Minnie Hardwick, and showed all her old love of the ‘human interest’ of -the village, the poor folk’s stories and their difficulties. She tired -herself out, and went back and put off her grey frock, and arrayed -herself, and sat down at the table with Ombra, languid and heavy-eyed, -and Mrs. Anderson, who greeted her with faint smiles. There was little -conversation at the table; and it grew less and less as the days went -on. These dinners were not amusing; and yet they had some interest too, -for each watched the other, wondering what she would next do or say. - -I cannot tell exactly how long this lasted. It seemed to all three an -eternity. But one afternoon, when Kate came in from a long walk to the -other side of the parish, she found a letter conspicuously placed on the -hall-table, where she could not fail to see it. She trembled a little -when she saw her aunt’s handwriting. And there were fresh -carriage-wheels marking the way down the avenue; she had noticed this as -she came up. She sat down on the settle in the hall, where Mrs. Anderson -had placed herself on the day of their return, and read the following -letter with surprise, and yet without surprise. It gave her a shock as -of suddenness and strangeness; and yet she had known that it must happen -all along. - -‘MY DEAREST KATE, - - ‘If you can think, when you read this, that I do not mean what I - say, you will be very, very wrong. All these years I have loved - you as if you were my own child. I could not have done - otherwise--it is not in nature. But this is not what I want to say. - We are going away. It is not with my will, and yet it is not - against my will; for even to leave you alone in the house is better - than forcing you to live this unnatural life. Good-bye, my dear, - dear child! I cannot tell you--more’s the pity!--the circumstances - that have made my poor Ombra bitter with everything, including her - best friends; but she is very, very sorry, always, after she has - said those dreadful words which she does not mean, but which seem - to give a little relief to her suffering and bitterness. This is - all I can tell you now. Some time or other you will know - everything; and then, though you may blame us, you will pity us - too. I want to tell you that it never was my wish to keep the - secret from you--nor even Ombra’s. At least, she would have - yielded, but the other party to the secret would not. Dearest - child, forgive me! I go away from you, however, with a very sore - heart, and I don’t know where we shall go, or what we shall do. - Ever your most affectionate - -‘A. ANDERSON. - - ‘P.S.--I have written to your uncle, that unavoidable - circumstances, over which I have no control, compelled my leaving. - I should prefer that you did not say anything to him about what - these circumstances were.’ - -Kate sat still for some time after she had read her letter. She had -expected it--it was inevitable; but, oh! with what loneliness the house -began to fill behind her! She sat and gazed into the fire, dumb, bearing -the blow as she best could. She had expected it, and yet she never -believed it possible. She had felt sure that something would turn up to -reconcile them--that one day or another, sooner or later, they would all -fall upon each other’s necks, and be at one again. She was seized -suddenly by that fatal doubt of herself which always comes too late. Had -she done right, after all? People must be very confident of doing right -who have such important matters in hand. Had she sufficient reason? Was -it not mean and paltry of her, in her own house, to have resented a few -unconsidered words so bitterly? In her own house! And then she had been -the means of turning these two, whom she loved, whether they loved her -or not, out upon the world. Kate sat without stirring while the early -darkness fell. It crept about her imperceptibly, dimness, and silence, -and solitude. The whole great house was a vast desert of silence--not a -sound, not a voice, nothing audible but the fall of the ashes on the -hearth. The servants’ rooms were far away, shut off by double doors, -that no noises might disturb their mistress. Oh! what would not Kate -have given for the cheerful sound of the kitchen, that used to be too -audible at Shanklin, which her aunt always complained of. Her aunt! who -had been like her mother! And where was she now? She began to gasp and -sob hysterically, but could not cry. And there was nobody to take any -notice. She heard her own voice, but nobody else heard it. They were -gone! Servants, new servants, filled the house, noiseless creatures, -decorous and well-bred, shut in with double doors, that nobody might -hear any sound of them. And she alone!--a girl not twenty!--alone in a -house which could put up fifty people!--in a house where there was no -sound, no light, no warmth, no fire, no love! - -She sat there till it was dark, and never moved. Why should she move? -There was no fireside to go to, no one whose presence made home. She was -as well on the settle in the hall as anywhere else. The darkness closed -over her. What did she care? She sat stupefied, with the letter in her -hand. - -And there she was found when Mr. Spigot, the butler, came to light the -lamp. He gave a jump when he saw something in the corner of the settle. -And that something started too, and drew itself together, and said, ‘Is -it so late? I did not know!’ and put her hands across her dazzled eyes. - -‘I beg you a thousand pardons, miss,’ said Spigot, confused, for he had -been whistling under his breath. ‘I didn’t know as no one wasn’t there.’ - -‘Never mind,’ said Kate. ‘Give me a candle, please. I suppose I must -have dropped asleep.’ - -Had she dropped asleep really ‘for sorrow?’--had she fainted and come to -again, nobody being the wiser? Kate could not tell--but there had been a -moment of unconsciousness one way or the other; and when she crept -upstairs with her candle, a solitary twinkle like a glow-worm in the big -staircase, she felt chilled to the bone, aching and miserable. She crept -upstairs into the warmth of her room, and, looking in the glass, saw -that her face was as the face of a ghost. Her hair had dropped down on -one side, and the dampness of the evening had taken all the curl out of -it. It fell straight and limp upon her colourless cheek. She went and -kneeled down before the fire and warmed herself, which seemed the first -necessity of all. ‘How cold one gets when one is unhappy!’ she said, -half aloud; and the murmur of her own voice sounded strange in her ear. -Was it the only voice that she was now to hear? - -When Maryanne came with the candles, it was a comfort to Kate. She -started up from the fire. She had to keep up appearances--to look as if -nothing had happened. Maryanne, for her part, was running over with the -news. - -‘Have you heard, miss, as Mrs. Anderson and Miss Ombra is gone?’ she -asked, as soon as decency would permit. The whole house had been moved -by this extraordinary departure, and the entire servants’ hall hung upon -Maryanne for news. - -‘Yes,’ said Kate, calmly. ‘I thought I should be back in time, but I was -too late. I hope my aunt had everything comfortable. Maryanne, as I am -all alone, you can bring me up some tea here--I can’t take the trouble -to dine--alone.’ - -‘Very well, miss,’ said Maryanne; ‘it will be a deal comfortabler. If -Mrs. Spigot had known as the ladies was going, she would have changed -the dinner--but it was so sudden-like.’ - -‘Yes, it was very sudden,’ said Kate. And thus Maryanne carried no news -downstairs. - - - - -CHAPTER LIX. - - -Kate’s life seemed to stop at this point. For a few days she did not -know what she did. She would have liked to give in, and be ill, but -dared not, lest her aunt (who did not love her) should be compromised. -Therefore she kept up, and walked and went to the parish and chattered -with Minnie Hardwick, and even tried her German, though this latter -attempt was not very successful. - -‘My aunt was called away suddenly on business,’ she explained to Mrs. -Hardwick. - -‘What! and left you alone--quite alone in that great house?’ cried Mrs. -Hardwick. ‘It is not possible! How lonely for you! But I suppose she -will only be gone for a few days?’ - -‘I scarcely know. It is business that has taken her away, and nobody can -answer for business,’ said Kate, with an attempt at a laugh. ‘But the -servants are very good, and I shall do very well. I am not afraid of -being alone.’ - -‘Not afraid, I daresay, but dreadfully solitary. It ought not to be,’ -said Mrs. Hardwick, in a tone of reproof. And the thought passed through -her mind that she had never quite approved of Mrs. Anderson, who seemed -to know much more of Bertie than was at all desirable, and, no doubt, -had attempted to secure him for that pale girl of hers. ‘Though what any -gentleman could see in her, or how anyone could so much as look at her -while Kate Courtenay was by, I don’t understand,’ she said, after -discussing the question in private. - -‘Oh, mamma! I think she is so sweet and pretty,’ said Edith. ‘But I am -sure Bertie does not like her. Bertie avoided her--he was scarcely -civil. I am sure if there is anyone that Bertie admires it is Kate.’ - -Mrs. Hardwick shook her head. - -‘Bertie knows very well,’ she said, ‘that Miss Courtenay is out of his -reach--delightful as she is, and everything we could desire--except that -she is rather too rich; but that is no reason why he should go and throw -himself away on some girl without a penny. I don’t put any faith in his -avoiding Miss Anderson. When a young man _avoids_ a young woman it is -much the same as when he seeks her society. But, Minnie, run away and -look after your club books; you are too young yet to hear such matters -discussed.’ - -‘Edith is only a year older than I am,’ said Minnie, within herself, -‘but then she is almost a married lady.’ And with this she comforted her -heart, which was not without its private flutters too. - -And Kate kept on her way, very bravely holding up her little flag of -resolution. She sat in the room which they had all occupied together, -and had coals heaped upon the two fires, and could not get warm. The -silence of the place made her sick and faint. She got up and walked -about, in the hope of hearing at least her own step, and could not on -the soft carpet. When she coughed, it seemed to ring all through the -house. She got frightened when she caught a glimpse of herself in the -great mirror, and thought it was a ghost. She sent to Westerton for all -the novels that were to be had, and these were a help to her; but still, -to sit in a quiet room, with yourself now and then seen passing through -the glass like a thief, and nothing audible but the ashes falling from -the grate, is a terrible experience for a girl. She heard herself -breathing; she heard her cough echo down all the long galleries. She had -her stable dog washed and brushed, and made fit for good society, in the -hope that he would take to the drawing-room, and live with her, and give -her some one to speak to. But, after all, he preferred the stables, -being only a mongrel, without birth or breeding. This rather overcame -Kate’s bravery; but only once did she thoroughly break down. It was the -day after her aunt left, and, with a sudden recollection of -companionship and solace still remaining, she had said to Maryanne, ‘Go -and call old Francesca.’ ‘Francesca, miss!--oh! bless you, she’s gone -with her lady,’ said Maryanne; and Kate, who had not expected this, -broke down all at once, and had a fit of crying. - -‘Never mind--it is nothing. I thought they meant to leave Francesca,’ -she said, incoherently. Thus it became evident to her that they were -gone, and gone for ever. And Kate went back to her melancholy solitude, -and took up her novel; but when she had read the first page, she -stopped, and began to think. She had done no wrong to anyone. If there -was wrong, it had been done to her. She had tried even to resist all -feelings of resentment, and to look as if she had forgotten the wrong -done her. Yet it was she who was being punished, as if she were the -criminal. Nobody anywhere, whatever harm they might have done, had been -punished so sorely. Solitary confinement!--was not that the worst of -all--the thing that drives people mad? - -Then Mr. Courtenay wrote in a state of great fret and annoyance. What -did Mrs. Anderson mean by leaving him in the lurch just then, she and -her daughter? She had not even given him an address, that he might write -to her and remonstrate (he had intended to supersede her in Spring, to -be sure, but he did not think it necessary to mention that); and here he -was in town, shut up with a threatening of bronchitis, and it was as -much as his life was worth to travel now. Couldn’t she get some one to -stay with her, or get along somehow until Lady Caryisfort came home? - -Kate wrote him a brave little letter, saying that of course she could -get on--that he need not be at all troubled about her--that she was -quite happy, and should prefer being left as she was. When she had -written it, she lay down on the rug before the fire, and had a cry, and -then came to herself, and sent to ask if Minnie Hardwick might spend the -evening with her. Minnie’s report brought her mother up next morning, -who found that Kate had a bad cold, and sent for the doctor, and kept -her in bed; and all the fuss of this little illness--though Kate -believed she hated fuss--did her good. Her own room was pleasanter than -the drawing-room. It was natural to be alone there; and as she lay on -the sofa, and was read to by Minnie, there seemed at times a possibility -that life might mend. And next day and the next, though she recovered, -this companionship went on. Minnie was not very wise, but she chattered -about everything in heaven and earth. She talked of her brother--a -subject in which Kate could not help taking an interest, which was half -anger, half something else. She asked a hundred questions about -Florence-- - -‘Did you really see a great deal of Bertie? How funny that he should not -have told us! Men are so odd!’ cried Minnie. ‘If it had been I, I should -have raved about you for ever and ever!’ - -‘Because you are silly and--warm-hearted,’ said Kate, with a sigh. ‘Yes, -I think we saw them pretty often.’ - -‘Why do you say _them_?’ - -‘Why?--because the two were always together! We never expected to see -one without the other.’ - -‘Like your cousin and you,’ said innocent Minnie. And then she laughed. - -‘Why do you laugh?’ said Kate. - -‘Oh! nothing--an idea that came into my head. I have heard of two -sisters marrying two brothers, but never of two pair of cousins--it -would be funny.’ - -‘But altogether out of the question, as it happens,’ said Kate, growing -stately all at once. - -‘Oh! don’t be angry. I did not mean anything. Was Bertie very attentive -to Miss Anderson in Florence? We wonder sometimes. For I am sure he -avoided her here; and mamma says she puts no faith in a gentleman -avoiding a lady. It is as bad as--what do _you_ think?--unless you would -rather not say,’ added Minnie, shyly; ‘or if you think I oughtn’t to -ask----’ - -‘I don’t know anything about Mr. Bertie Hardwick’s feelings,’ said Kate. -And then she added, with a little sadness which she could not quite -conceal, ‘Nor about anybody, Minnie. Don’t ask me, please. I am not -clever enough to find things out; and nobody ever confides in me.’ - -‘I am sure I should confide in you first of all!’ cried Minnie, with -enthusiasm. ‘Oh! when I recollect how much we used to be frightened for -you, and what a funny girl we thought you; and then to think I should -know you so well now, and have got so--fond of you--may I say so?’ said -the little girl, who was proud of her post. - -Kate made no answer for a full minute, and then she said, - -‘Minnie, you are younger than I am, a great deal younger----’ - -‘I am eighteen,’ said Minnie, mortified. - -‘But I am nineteen and a half, and very, very old for my age. At your -age one does not know which is the real thing and which is the -shadow--there are so many shadows in this world; and sometimes you take -them for truth, and when you find it out it is hard.’ - -Minnie followed this dark saying with a puzzled little face. - -‘Yes,’ she said, perplexed, ‘like Narcissus, you mean, and the dog that -dropped the bone. No, I don’t mean that--that is too--too--common-place. -Oh! did you ever see Bertie Eldridge’s yacht? I think I heard he had it -at the Isle of Wight. It was called the _Shadow_. Oh! I would give -anything to have a sail in a yacht!’ - -Ah! that was called the _Shadow_ too. Kate felt for a moment as if she -had found something out; but it was a delusion, an idea which she could -not identify--a Will-o’-the-Wisp, which looked like something, and was -nothing. ‘I have a shadow too,’ she murmured, half to herself. But -before Minnie’s wondering eyes and tongue could ask what it meant, -Spigot came solemnly to the door. He had to peer into the darkness to -see his young mistress on the sofa. - -‘If you please, Miss Courtenay,’ he said, ‘there is a gentleman -downstairs wishes to see you; and he won’t take no answer as I can -offer. He says if you hear his name----’ - -‘What is his name?’ cried Kate. She did not know what she expected, but -it made her heart beat. She sat up, on her sofa, throwing off her wraps, -notwithstanding Minnie’s remonstrances. Who could it be?--or rather, -what? - -‘The Reverend Mr. Sugden, Miss,’ said Mr. Spigot. - -‘Mr. Sugden!’ She said the name two or three times over before she could -remember. Then she rose, and directed Spigot to light the candles. She -did not know how it was, but new vigour somehow seemed to come into her -veins. - -‘Minnie,’ she said, ‘this is a gentleman who knows my aunt. He has come, -I suppose, about her business. I want you to stay just now; but if I put -up my hand so, will you run upstairs and wait for me in my room? Take -the book. You will be a true little friend if you will do this.’ - -‘Leave you alone!--with a gentleman!’ said Minnie. ‘But then of course -he must be an old gentleman, as he has come about business,’ she said to -herself; and added hastily, ‘Of course I will. And if you don’t put up -your hand--so--must I stay?’ - -‘I am sure to put it up,’ said Kate. - -The room by this time was light and bright, and Spigot’s solemn step was -heard once more approaching. Kate placed herself in a large chair. She -looked as imposing and dignified as she could, poor child!--the solitary -mistress of her own house. But how strange it was to see the tall figure -come in--the watchful, wistful face she remembered so well! He held out -his large hand, in which her little one was drowned, just as he used to -do. He glanced round him in the same way, as if Ombra might be somewhere -about in the corners. His Shadow too! Kate could not doubt that. But -when she gave Minnie her instructions, she had taken it for granted -that there would have been certain preliminaries to the -conversation--inquiries about herself, or information about what she was -doing. But Mr. Sugden was full of excitement and anxiety. He took her -small hand into his big one, which swallowed it up, as we have said, and -he held it, as some men hold a button. - -‘I hear they have left you,’ he said. ‘Tell me, is it true?’ - -‘Yes,’ said Kate, too much startled to give her signal, ‘they have left -me.’ - -‘And you don’t know where they have gone?’ - -She remembered now, and Minnie disappeared, curious beyond all -description. Then Kate withdrew her hand from that mighty grasp. - -‘I don’t know where they have gone. Have you heard anything of them, Mr. -Sugden? Have you brought me, perhaps, a message?’ - -He shook his head. - -‘I heard it all vaguely, only vaguely; but you know how I used to feel, -Miss Kate. I feel the same still. Though it is not what I should have -wished--I am ready to be a brother to her. Will you tell me all that has -passed since you went away?’ - -‘All that has passed?’ - -‘If you will, Miss Kate--as you would be kind to one who does not care -very much what happens to him! You are kind, I know--and you love her!’ - -The tears came to Kate’s eyes. She grew warm and red all over, throwing -off, as it were, in a moment, the palsy of cold and misery that had come -over her. - -‘Yes,’ she said suddenly, ‘I love her,’ and cried. Mr. Sugden looked on, -not knowing why. - -Kate felt herself changed as in a moment; she felt--nay, she was herself -again. What did it matter whether they loved her?--she loved them. That -was, after all, what she had most to do with. She dried her tears, and -she told her story, straight off, like a tale she had been taught, -missing nothing. And he drank it all in to the end, not missing a word. -When she had finished he sat silent, with a sombre countenance, and not -a syllable was spoken between them for ten minutes at least. Then he -said aloud, as if not talking, but thinking, - -‘The question is which?’ Then he raised his eyes and looked at her. -‘Which?’ he repeated. - -Kate grew pale again, and felt a choking in her throat. She bowed her -head, as if she were accepting her fate. - -‘Mr. Bertie Hardwick!’ she said. - - - - -CHAPTER LX. - - -This strange little incident, which at the moment it was occurring -seemed to be perfectly natural, but as soon as that moment was over -became inexplicable, dropped into Kate’s life as a stone drops into -water. It made a curious commotion and a bustle for the moment, and -stirred faintly for a little while afterwards, and then disappeared, and -was thought of no more. - -Mr. Sugden would not stay, he would not even eat in the house. He had -come down from town to the station six miles off, the nearest station -for Langton-Courtenay, and there he meant to return again as soon as he -had his information. Kate had been much troubled as to how she, in her -unprotected condition, was to ask him to stay; but when she found out he -would not stay, an uncomfortable sensation as of want of hospitality -came over her. But when he was actually gone, and Minnie Hardwick called -back, somehow the entire incident appeared like a dream, and it seemed -impossible that anything important had happened. Minnie was not curious; -business was to her a sacred word, which covered all difficulties. The -Curate was not old, as she had supposed; but otherwise being a friend of -Mrs. Anderson’s, and involved in her affairs, his sudden visit seemed -perfectly natural. Just so men would come down from town, and be shut up -with her father for an hour or two, and then disappear; and Kate as a -great lady, as an heiress and independent person, no doubt must have the -same kind of visitors. - -Kate, however, thought a great deal of it that night--could not sleep, -indeed, for thinking of it; but less the next morning, and still less -the day after, till at length the tranquillity settled back into its old -stillness. Mr. Sugden had done her good, so far that he had roused her -to consciousness of a hearty sentiment in herself, independent of -anything from without--the natural affection which was her own -independent possession, and not a reflection of other people’s love. -What though they did not love her even? she loved them; and as soon as -she became conscious of this, she was saved from the mental harm that -might have happened to her. It gave Kate pain when day after day passed -on, and no word came from those who had departed from her so suddenly. -But then she was young, and had been brought up in the persuasion that -everything was likely to turn out right at the end, and that permanent -unhappiness was a very rare thing. She was not alarmed about the safety -of those who had deserted her; they were two, nay, three people -together; they were used to taking care of themselves; so far as she -knew, they had money enough and all that was required. And then her own -life was so strange; it occupied her almost like a fairy-life. She -thought she had never heard of any one so forlorn and solitary. The -singularity of her position did her good. She was half proud, half -amused by it; she smiled when her visitors would remark upon her -singular loneliness--‘Yes, it seems strange to you, I suppose,’ she -said; but I don’t mind it.’ It was a small compensation, but still it -was a kind of compensation, indemnifying her for some at least of her -trouble. The Andersons had disappeared into the great darkness of the -world; but some day they would turn up again and come back to her and -make explanations. And although she had been impressed by Mr. Sugden’s -visit, she was not actually anxious about the future of her aunt and -cousin; some time or other things naturally would put themselves right. - -This, however, did not prevent the feeling of her loneliness from being -terrible to her--insupportable; but it removed all complications from -her feelings, and made them simple. And thus she lived on for months -together, as if in a dream, always assuring Mr. Courtenay that she did -very well, that she wanted nothing, getting a little society in the -Rectory with the Hardwicks, and with some of her county neighbours who -had called upon her. Minnie got used to the carriage, and to making -expeditions into Westerton, the nearest town, and liked it. And -strangely and stilly as ever Châtelaine lived in an old castle, in such -a strange maiden seclusion lived Kate. - -Where had the others gone? She ascertained before long that they were -not at Shanklin--the Cottage was still let to ‘very nice people,’ about -whom Lucy Eldridge wrote very enthusiastic letters to her -cousin--letters which Kate would sometimes draw her innocent moral from, -not without a little faint pain, which surprised her in the midst of all -graver troubles. She pointed out to Minnie how Lucy Eldridge had -rejected the very idea of being friendly with the new comers, much less -admitting them to a share in the place Kate held in her heart. ‘Whereas -now you see I am forgotten altogether,’ Kate said, with a conscious -melancholy that was not disagreeable to her. Minnie protested that with -her such a thing could never happen--it was impossible; and Kate smiled -sadly, and shook her head in her superior knowledge. She took Minnie -into her intimacy with a sense of condescension. But the friendship did -her good. And Mrs. Hardwick was very kind to her. They were all anxious -to ‘be of use’ to the heiress, to help her through her melancholy hours. - -When Bertie came down for his next flying visit, she manœuvred so -that she succeeded in avoiding him, though he showed no desire this time -to avoid her. But, Kate said to herself, this was something that she -could not bear. She could not see him as if he were an indifferent -stranger, when she knew well that he could reveal to her everything she -wanted to know, and set the tangle right at last. He knew where they -were without doubt--he knew everything. She could not meet him calmly, -and shake hands with him, and pretend she did not remember the past. She -was offended with him, both for their sake and her own--for Ombra’s -sake, because of the secret; and for her own, because of certain little -words and looks which were an insult to her from Ombra’s lover. No, she -could not see him. She had a bad headache when he came with his mother -to call; she was not able to go out when she was asked to the Rectory. -She saw him only at church, and did nothing but bow when he hurried to -speak to her in the churchyard. No, that she would not put up with. -There was even a certain contempt mingled with her soreness. Mrs. -Anderson had put all the blame upon him--the ‘other party to the -secret;’ while he, poor creature, would not even take the responsibility -upon his own shoulders bravely, but blamed Ombra. Well! well! Kate -resolved that she would keep her solitude unbroken, that she would allow -no intrusion upon her of all the old agitations that once had made her -unhappy. She would not consent to allow herself to be made unhappy any -longer, or even to think of those who had given her so much pain. - -Unfortunately, however, after she had made this good resolution, she -thought of nothing else, and puzzled herself over the whole business, -and especially Bertie’s share in it, night and day. He would suddenly -start up into her mind when she was thinking of something else, with a -glow over his face, and anxious gleam in his eyes, as she had seen him -at the church door. Perhaps, then, though so late, he had meant to -explain. Perhaps he intended to lay before her what excuses there might -be--to tell her how one thing followed another, how they had been led -into clandestine ways. - -Kate would make out an entire narrative to herself and then would stop -short suddenly, and ask herself what she meant by it? It was not for her -to explain for them, but for them to explain to her. But she did not -want to think badly of them. Even when her wounds had been deepest, she -did not wish to think unkindly; and it would have given her a kind of -forlorn pleasure to be able to find out their excuses beforehand. This -occupied her many an hour when she sat alone in the stillness, to which -she gradually became accustomed. After awhile her own reflection in the -glass no longer struck her as looking like a ghost or a thief; she grew -used to it. And then the way in which she threw herself into the parish -did one good to see. Minnie Hardwick felt that Kate’s activity and -Kate’s beneficence took away her breath. She filled the cottages with -what Mrs. Hardwick felt to be luxuries, and disapproved of. She rushed -into Westerton continually, to buy things for the old women. One had an -easy-chair, another a carpet, another curtains to keep out the wind from -the draughty cottage room. - -‘My dear, you will spoil the people; these luxuries are quite out of -their reach. We ought not to demoralize them,’ said the clergywoman, -thinking of the awful consequences, and of the expectations and -discontents that would follow. - -‘If old Widow Morgan belonged to me--if she was my grandmother, for -instance,’ said revolutionary Kate, ‘would there be anything in the -world too good for her? We should hunt the draughts out of every corner, -and pad everything with velvet. And I suppose an old woman of eighty in -a cottage feels it just as much.’ - -Mrs. Hardwick was silenced, but not convinced; she was, indeed, shocked -beyond measure at the idea of Widow Morgan requiring as many comforts as -Kate’s grandmother. ‘The girl has no discrimination whatever; she does -not see the difference; it is of no use trying to explain to her,’ she -said, with a troubled countenance. But, except these little encounters, -there was no real disagreement between them. Bertie Hardwick’s family, -indeed, took an anxious interest in Kate. They were not worldly-minded -people, but they could not forget that their son had been thrown a great -deal into the society of a great heiress, both in the Isle of Wight and -in Italy. The knowledge that he was in Kate’s vicinity had indeed made -them much more tolerant, though nobody said so, of his wanderings. They -had not the heart, they said, to separate him from his cousin, to whom -he was so much attached; but behind this there was perhaps lurking -another reason. Not that they would ever have forced their son’s -affections, or advised, under any circumstances, a mercenary marriage; -but only, all other things being so suitable--Mrs. Hardwick, who liked -to manage everybody, and did it very well, on the whole, took Kate into -her hands with a glow of satisfaction. She would have liked to form her -and mould her, and make her all that a woman in her important position -ought to be; and, of course, no one could tell what might happen in the -future. It was well to be prepared for all. - -Mr. Courtenay, for his part, though not quite so happy about his niece, -and troubled by disagreeable pricks of conscience in respect to her, -made all right by promises. He would come in a week or two--as soon as -his cold was better--when he had got rid of the threatening of the gout, -which rather frightened his doctor. Finally, he promised without doubt -that he would come in the Easter recess, and make everything -comfortable. But in the Easter recess it became absolutely necessary for -him, for important private affairs, to go down to the Duke of -Dorchester’s marine palace, where there were some people going whom it -was absolutely essential that he should meet. And thus it came to pass -that Kate spent her twentieth birthday all alone at Langton-Courtenay. -Nobody knew or remembered that it was her birthday. There was not so -much as an old servant about the place to think of it. Maryanne, to be -sure, might have remembered, but did not until next morning, when she -broke forth with, ‘La, Miss Kate!’ into good wishes and regrets, which -Kate, with a flushed face and sore heart, put a stop to at once. No, no -one knew. It is a hard thing, even when one is old, to feel that such -domestic anniversaries have fallen into oblivion, and no one cares any -longer for the milestones of our life; but when one is young--! - -Kate went about all day long with this secret bursting in her heart. She -would not tell it for pride, though, if she had, all the Hardwick -family, at least, would have been ready enough with kisses and -congratulations. She carried it about with her like a pain that she was -hiding. ‘It is my birthday,’ she said to herself, when she paused before -the big glass, and looked at her own solitary figure, and tried to make -a little forlorn fun of herself; ‘good morning, Kate, I will give you a -present. It will be the only one you will get to-day,’ she said, -laughing, and nodding at her representative in the glass, whose eyes -were rather red; ‘but I will not wish you many returns, for I am sure -you don’t want them. Oh! you poor, poor girl!’ she cried, after a -moment--‘I am so sorry for you! I don’t think there is anyone so -solitary in all the world.’ And then Kate and her image both sat down -upon the floor and cried. - -But in the afternoon she went to Westerton, with Minnie Hardwick all -unconscious beside her in the carriage, and bought herself the present -she had promised. It was a tiny little cross, with the date upon it, -which Minnie marvelled at much, wondering if it was to herself that this -memento was to be presented. Kate had a strong inclination to place the -words ‘_Infelicissimo giorno_’ over the date, but stopped, feeling that -it might look romantic; but it was the unhappiest day to her--the worst, -she thought, she had ever yet had to bear. - -When she came home, however, a letter was put into her hands. It was -from Mrs. Anderson at last. - - - - -CHAPTER LXI. - - -Kate’s existence, however, was too monotonous to be dwelt upon for ever, -and though all that can be afforded to the reader is a glimpse of other -scenes, yet there are one or two such glimpses which may help him to -understand how other people were affected by this complication of -affairs. Bertie Hardwick went up to London after that second brief visit -at the Rectory, when Miss Courtenay had so successfully eluded seeing -him, with anything but comfortable feelings. He had never quite known -how she looked upon himself, but now it became apparent to him that -whatever might be the amount of knowledge which she had acquired, it had -been anything but favourable to him. How far he had a right to Kate’s -esteem, or whether, indeed, it was a right thing for him to be anxious -about it, is quite a different question. He was anxious about it. He -wanted to stand well in the girl’s eyes. He had known her all his life, -he said to himself. Of course they could only be acquaintances, not even -friends, in all probability, so different must their lines of life be; -but still it was hard to feel that Kate disliked him, that she thought -badly of him. He had no right to care, but he did care. He stopped in -his work many and many a day to think of it. And then he would lay down -his book or his pen, and gnaw his nails (a bad habit, which his mother -vainly hoped she had cured him of), and think--till all the law went out -of his head which he was studying. - -This was very wrong, and he did not do it any more than he could help; -but sometimes the tide of rising thought was too much for him. Bertie -was settling to work, as he had great occasion to do. He had lost much -time, and there was not a moment to be lost in making up for it. Within -the last three months, indeed, his careless life had sustained a change -which filled all his friends with satisfaction. It was but a short time -to judge by, but yet, if ever man had seen the evil of his ways, and set -himself, with true energy, to mend them, it was Bertie, everybody -allowed. He had left his fashionable and expensive cousin the moment -they had arrived in London. Instead of Bertie Eldridge’s fashionable -quarters, in one of the streets off Piccadilly, which hitherto he had -shared, he had established himself in chambers in the Temple, up two -pair of stairs, where he was working, it was reported, night and day. -Bertie Eldridge, indeed, had so frightened all his people by his -laughing accounts of the wet towels which bound the other Bertie’s head -of nights, while he laboured at his law books, that the student received -three several letters on the subject--one from each of his aunts, and -one from his mother. - -‘My dear, it goes to my heart to hear how you are working,’ the latter -said. ‘I thank God that my own boy is beginning to see what is necessary -to hold his place in life. But not too much, dearest Bertie, not too -much. What would it avail me if my son came to be Lord Chancellor, and -lost his health, or even his life, on the way?’ - -This confusing sentence did not make Bertie ridicule the writer, for he -was, strange to say, very fond of his mother, but he wrote her a merry -explanation, and set her fears at rest. However, though he did not -indulge in wet towels, he had begun to work with an energy no one -expected of him. He had a motive. He had seen the necessity, as his -mother said. To wander all over the world with Bertie Eldridge, whose -purse was carelessly free, but whose way it was, unconsciously, while -intending to save his friends from expense, to draw them into greater -and ever greater outlay, was not a thing which could be done, or which -it would be at all satisfactory to do for life. And many very grave -thoughts had come to Bertie on the journey home. Perhaps he had grown -just a little disgusted with his cousin, who saw everything from his own -point of view, and could not enter into the feelings and anxieties of a -poorer man. - -‘Oh! bother! All will come right in the end,’ he would say, when his -cousin pointed out to him the impossibility for himself of the -situation, so far as he himself was concerned. - -‘How can it come right for me?’ Hardwick had asked. - -‘How you do worry!’ said Bertie Eldridge. ‘Haven’t we always shared -everything? And why shouldn’t we go on doing so? I may be kept out of -it, of course, for years and years, but not for ever. Hang it, Bertie, -you know all must come right in the end; and haven’t we shared -everything all our lives?’ - -This is a sort of speech which it is very difficult to answer. It is so -much easier for the richer man to feel benevolent and liberal than for -the poorer man to understand his ground of gratitude in such a -partnership. Bertie Eldridge, had, no doubt, shared many of his luxuries -with his cousin. He had shared his yacht for instance--a delight which -Bertie Hardwick could by no means have procured himself--but, while -doing this, he had drawn the other into such waste of time and money as -he never could have been tempted to otherwise. Bertie Hardwick knew -that had he not ‘shared everything’ with his cousin he would have been a -wealthier man: and how then could he be grateful for that community of -goods which the other Bertie was so lavishly conscious of? - -‘He can have spent nothing while we were together,’ the latter was -always saying. ‘He must have saved, in short, out of the allowance my -uncle gives him.’ - -Bertie Hardwick knew that the case was very different, but he could not -be so ungenerous as to insist upon this in face of his cousin’s -delightful sense of liberality. He held his tongue, and this silence did -not make him more amiable. In short, the partnership had been broken, as -partnerships of the kind are generally broken, with a little discomfort -on both sides. - -Bertie Eldridge continued his pleasant, idle life--did what he liked, -and went where he liked, though, perhaps, with less freedom than of old; -while Bertie Hardwick retired to Pump Court and worked--as the other -said--night and day. He was hard at work one of those Spring afternoons -which Kate spent down at Langton. His impulse towards labour was new, -and, as yet, it had many things to struggle against. He had not been -brought up to work; he had been an out-of-door lad, fond of any pursuit -that implied open air and exercise. Most young men are so brought up -now-a-days, whether it is the best training for them or not; and since -he took his degree, which had not been accompanied by any distinction, -he had been yachting, travelling, amusing himself--none of which things -are favourable to work in Pump Court, upon a bright April afternoon. His -window was open, and the very air coming in tantalized and tempted him. -It plucked at his hair; it disordered his papers; it even blew the book -close which he was bending over. ‘Confound the wind!’ said Bertie. But, -somehow, he could not shut the window. How fresh it blew! even off the -questionable Thames, reminding the solitary student of walks and rides -through the budding woods; of the first days of the boating season; of -all the delights of the opening year; confound the wind! He opened his -book, and went at it again with a valorous and manful heart, a heart -full of anxieties, yet with hope in it too, and, what is almost better -than hope--determination. The book was very dry, but Bertie applied to -it that rule which is so good in war--so good in play--capital for -cricket and football, in the hunting-field, and wherever daring and -patience are alike necessary--_he would not be beat_! It is, perhaps, -rather a novel doctrine to apply to a book about conveyancing--or, at -least, such a use of it was novel to Bertie. But it answered all the -same. - -And it was just as he was getting the mastery of his own mind, and -forgetting, for the moment, the fascinations of the sunshine and the -errant breeze, that some one came upstairs with a resounding hasty -footstep and knocked at his door. ‘It’s Bertie,’ he said to himself, -with a sigh, and opened to the new-comer. Now he was beat, but not by -the book--by fate, and the evil angels--not by any fault of his own. - -Bertie Eldridge came in, bringing a gust of fresh air with him. He -seated himself on his cousin’s table, scorning the chairs. His brow was -a little clouded, though he was like one of the butterflies who toil -not, neither do they spin. - -‘By Jove! to see you there grinding night and day, makes a man open his -eyes--you that were no better than other people. What do you think -you’ll ever make of it, old fellow? Not the Woolsack, mind you--I give -in to you a great deal, but you’re not clever enough for that.’ - -‘I never thought I was,’ said the other, laughing, but not with -pleasure; and then there was a pause, and I leave it to the reader to -judge which were the different interlocutors in the dialogue which -follows, for to continue writing ‘Bertie,’ and ‘the other Bertie,’ is -more than human patience can bear. - -‘You said you had something to say to me--out with it! I have a hundred -things to do. You never were so busy in your life as I am. Indeed, I -don’t suppose you know what being occupied means.’ - -‘Of course it is the old subject I want to talk of. What could it be -else! What is to be done? You know everything that has happened as well -as I do. Busy! If you knew what my reflections are early and late, -waking and sleeping----’ - -‘I think I can form an idea. Has something new occurred--or is it the -old question, the eternal old business, which you never thought of, -unfortunately, till it was too late?’ - -‘It is no business of yours to taunt me, nor is it a friend’s office. I -am driven to my wit’s ends. For anything I can see, things may go on as -they are for a dozen years.’ - -‘Everybody must have felt so from the beginning. How you could be so -mad, both she and you; you most, in one way, for you knew the world -better; she most, in another, for it is of more importance to a woman.’ - -‘Shut up, Bertie. I won’t have any re-discussion of that question. The -thing is, what is to be done now? I was such a fool as to write to her -about going down to Langton, at my father’s desire; and now I dare not -go, or she will go frantic. Besides, she says it must be acknowledged -before long: she must do it, if I can’t.’ - -‘Good God!’ - -‘What is there to be horrified about? It was all natural. The thing is, -what is to be done? If she would keep quiet, all would be right. I am -sure her mother could manage everything. One place is as good as -another to live in. Don’t look at me like that. I am distracted--going -mad--and you won’t give me any help.’ - -‘The question is, what help can I give?’ - -‘It is easy enough--as easy as daylight. If I were to go, it would only -make us both miserable, and lead to imprudences. I know it would. But if -you will do it for me----’ - -‘Do you love her, Bertie?’ - -‘Love her! Good heavens! after all the sacrifices I have made! Look at -me, as I am, and ask me if I love her! But what can I do? If I speak now -we are all ruined; but if she could only be persuaded to wait--only to -wait, perhaps for a few days, or a few months----’ - -‘Or a few years! And to wait for what? How can you expect any good to -come to you, when you build everything upon your----’ - -‘Shut up, I tell you! Is it my fault? He ought to treat me differently. -I never would have entertained such a thought, but for---- Bertie, -listen to me. Will you go? They will hear reason from you.’ - -‘They ought not to hear reason. It is a cowardly shame! Yes, I don’t -mind your angry looks--it is a shame! You and I have been too long -together to mince matters between ourselves. I tell you I never knew -anything more cowardly and wretched. It is a shame--a----’ - -‘The question is, not what you think of it,’ said the other sullenly, -‘but will you go?’ - -‘I suppose I must,’ was the reply. - -When the visitor left, half an hour later, after more conversation of -this same strain, can it be wondered at if Bertie Hardwick’s studies -were no longer so steady as they had been? He shut up his books at last, -and went out and walked towards the river. It was black and glistening, -and very full with the Spring rains. The tide was coming up--the river -was crowded with vessels of all kinds. Bertie walked to Chelsea, and got -a boat there, and went up to Richmond with the tide. But he did not go -to the ‘Star and Garter,’ where his cousin was dining with a brilliant -party. He walked back again to his chambers, turning over in his tired -brain a hundred anxieties. And that night he did sit up at work, and for -half an hour had recourse to the wet towel. Not because he was working -day and night, but because these anxieties had eaten the very heart out -of his working day. - - - - -CHAPTER LXII. - - -From Pump Court, in the Temple, it is a long way to the banks of a -little loch in Scotland, surrounded by hills, covered with heather, and -populous with grouse--that is, of course, in the season. The grouse in -this early Summer were but babies, chirping among the big roots of the -ling, like barndoor chickens; the heather was not purple but only -greening over through the grey husks of last year’s bloom. The gorse -blossoms were forming; the birch-trees shaking out their folded leaves a -little more and more day by day against the sky, which was sometimes so -blue, and sometimes so leaden. At that time of the year, or at any -other, it is lovely at Loch Arroch. Seated on the high bank behind the -little inn, on the soft grass, which is as green as emeralds, but soft -as velvet, you can count ten different slopes of hills surrounding the -gleaming water, which receives them all impartially; ten distinct -ridges, all as various as so many sportsmen, distinct in stature and -character--from the kindly birch-crowned heads in front here, away to -the solemn distant altitudes, folded in snow-plaids or cloud-mantles, -and sometimes in glorious sheen of sunset robes, that dazzle you--which -fill up the circle far away. The distant giants are cleft into three -peaks, and stand still to have their crowns and garments changed, with a -benign patience, greeting you across the loch. There are no tourists, -and few strangers, except the fishermen, who spend their days not -thinking of you or of the beauties of nature, tossed in heavy cobbles -upon the stormy loch, or wading up to their waist in ice-cold pools of -the river. The river dashes along its wild channel through the glen, -working through rocks, and leaping precipitous corners, shrouding -itself, like a coy girl, with the birchen tresses which stream over it, -till it comes to another loch--a big silvery clasp upon its foaming -chain. Among these woods and waters man is still enough; but Nature is -full of commotion. She sings about all the hillsides in a hundred burns, -with delicatest treble; she makes her own bass under the riven rocks, -among the foam of the greater streams; she mutters over your head with -deep, sonorous melancholy utterance in the great pine-trees, and -twitters in the leaflets of the birch. Lovely birks!--sweetest of all -the trees of the mountains! Never were such haunts for fairies, or for -mountain girls as agile and as fair as those sweet birchen woods. ‘Stern -and wild,’ do you say? And surely we say it, for so Sir Walter said -before us. But what an exquisite idea was that of Nature--what a sweet, -fantastic conceit, just like her wayward wealth of resource, to clothe -the slopes of those rude hills with the Lady of the Woods! She must have -laughed with pleasure, like a child, but with tears of exquisite poet -satisfaction in her eyes, when she first saw the wonderful result. And -as for you poor people who have never seen Highland loch or river shine -through the airy foliage, the white-stemmed grace and lightness of a -birch-wood, we are sorry for you, but we will not insult your ignorance; -for, soft in your ear, the celebrated Mr. Cook, and all his satellites -who make up tours in the holiday season, have never, Heaven be praised! -heard of Loch Arroch; and long may it be before the British tourist -finds out that tranquil spot. - -I cannot tell how Mrs. Anderson and her daughter found it out. The last -Consul, it is true, had been from Perthshire, but that of itself gave -them little information. They had gone to Edinburgh first, and then, -feeling that scarcely sufficiently out of the way, had gone further -north, until at last Kinloch-Arroch received them; and they stayed -there, they could not tell why, partly because the people looked so -kind. The note which Kate received on her birthday had no date, and the -post-mark on it was of a distant place, that no distinct clue might be -given to their retreat; but Ombra always believed, though without the -slightest ground for it, that this note of her mother’s, like all her -other injudicious kindnesses to Kate, had done harm, and been the means -of betraying them. For it was true that they were now in a kind of -hiding, these two women, fearing to be recognised, not wishing to see -any one, for reasons which need not be dwelt upon here. They had left -Langton-Courtenay with a miserable sense of friendlessness and -loneliness, and yet it had been in some respects a relief to them to get -away; and the stillness of Loch Arroch, its absolute seclusion, and the -kind faces of the people they found there, all concurred in making them -decide upon this as their resting-place. They were to stay all the -summer, and already they were known to everybody round. Old Francesca -had already achieved a great _succès_ in the Perthshire village. The -people declared that they understood her much better than if she had -been ‘ane o’ thae mincing English.’ She was supposed to be French, and -Scotland still remembers that France was once her auld and kind alley. -The women in their white mutches wondered a little, it is true, at the -little old Italian’s capless head, and knot of scanty hair; but her -kind little brown face, and her clever rapid ways, took them by storm. -When she spoke Italian to her mistress they gathered round her in -admiration. ‘Losh! did you ever hear the like o’ that?’ they cried, with -hearty laughs, half restrained by politeness--though half of them spoke -Gaelic, and saw nothing wonderful in that achievement. - -Ombra, the discontented and unhappy, had never in her life before been -so gentle and so sweet. She was not happy still, but for the moment she -was penitent, and subdued and at peace, and the admiration and the -interest of their humble neighbours pleased her. Mrs. Anderson had given -a description of her daughter to the kind landlady of the little inn, -which did not tally with the circumstances which the reader knows; but -probably she had her own reasons for that, and the tale was such as -filled everybody with sympathy. ‘You maunna be doon-hearted, my bonnie -lamb,’ the old woman would say to her; and Ombra would blush with -painful emotion, and yet would be in her heart touched and consoled by -the homely sympathy. Ah! if those kind people had but known how much -harder her burden really was! But yet to know how kindly all these poor -stranger folk felt towards them was pleasant to the two women, and they -clung together closer than ever in the enforced quiet. They were very -anxious, restless, and miserable, and yet for a little while they were -as nearly happy as two women could be. This is a paradox which some -women will understand, but which I cannot pause to explain. - -Things were going on in this quiet way, and it was the end of May, a -season when as yet few even of the fishers who frequent that spot by -nature, and none of the wise wanderers who have discovered Loch Arroch -had begun to arrive, when one evening a very tall man, strong and heavy, -trudged round the corner into the village, with his knapsack over his -shoulders. He was walking through the Highlands alone at this early -period of the year. He put his knapsack down on the bench outside the -door, and came into the little hall, decorated with glazed cases, in -which stuffed trout of gigantic proportions still seemed to swim among -the green, green river weeds, to ask kind Mrs. Macdonald, the landlady, -if she could put him up. He was ‘a soft-spoken gentleman,’ courteous, -such as Highlanders love, and there was a look of sadness about him -which moved the mistress of the ‘Macdonald Arms.’ But all at once, while -he was talking to her, he started wildly, made a dart at the stair, -which Francesca at that moment was leisurely ascending, and upset, as he -passed, little Duncan, Mrs. Macdonald’s favourite grandchild. - -‘The man’s gane gyte!’ said the landlady. - -Francesca for her part took no notice of the stranger. If she saw him, -she either did not recognise him, or thought it expedient to ignore him. -She went on, carrying high in front of her a tray full of newly-ironed -fine linen, her own work, which she was carrying from the kitchen. The -stranger stood at the foot of the stairs and watched her, with his face -lifted to the light, which streamed from a long window opposite. There -was an expression in his countenance (Mrs. Macdonald said afterwards) -which was like a picture. He had found what he sought! - -‘That is old Francesca,’ he said, coming back to her, ‘Mrs. Anderson’s -maid. Then, of course, Mrs. Anderson is here.’ - -‘Ou ay, sir, the leddies are here,’ said Mrs. Macdonald--‘maybe they are -expecting you? There was something said a while ago about a gentleman--a -brother, or some near friend to the young goodman.’ - -‘The young goodman?’ - -‘Ou ay, sir--him that’s in India, puir gentleman!--at sic a time, too, -when he would far rather be at hame. But ye’ll gang up the stair? -Kath’rin, take the gentleman up the stair--he’s come to visit the -leddies--and put him into No. 10 next door. Being so near the leddies, I -never put no man there that I dinna ken something aboot. You’ll find -Loch Arroch air, sir, has done the young mistress good.’ - -The stranger followed upstairs, with a startled sense of other wonders -to come; and thus it happened that, without warning, Mr. Sugden suddenly -walked into the room where Ombra lay on a sofa by the fireside, with her -mother sitting by. Both the ladies started up in dismay. They were so -bewildered that neither could speak for a moment. The blood rushed to -Ombra’s face in an overpowering blush. He thought he had never seen her -look so beautiful, so strange--he did not know how; and her look of -bewildered inquiry and suspicion suddenly showed him what he had never -thought of till that moment--that he had no right to pry into their -privacy--to hunt her, as it were, into a corner--to pursue her here. - -‘Mr. Sugden!’ Mrs. Anderson cried in dismay; and then she recovered her -prudence, and held out her hand to him, coming between him and Ombra. -‘What a very curious meeting this is!--what an unexpected pleasure! Of -all places in the world, to meet a Shanklin friend at Loch Arroch! -Ombra, do not disturb yourself, dear; we need not stand on ceremony with -such an old friend as Mr. Sugden. My poor child has a dreadful cold.’ - -And then he took her hand into his own--Ombra’s hand--which he used to -sit and watch as she worked--the whitest, softest hand. It felt so small -now, like a shadow, and the flush, had gone from her face. He seemed to -see nothing but those eyes, watching him with fear and suspicion--eyes -which distrusted him, and reminded him that he had no business here. - -And he sat down by the sofa, and talked ordinary talk, and told them of -Shanklin, which he had left. He had been making a pedestrian tour in -Scotland. Yes, it was early, but he did not mind the weather, and the -time suited him. It was a surprise to him to see Francesca, but he had -heard that Mrs. Anderson had left Langton-Courtenay---- - -‘Yes,’ she said, briefly, without explanation; and added--‘We were -travelling, like you, when Ombra fell in love with this place. You must -have seen it to perfection if you walked down the glen to-day--the -Glencoe Hills were glorious to-day. Which is your next stage? I am -afraid Mrs. Macdonald has scarcely room----’ - -‘Oh! yes, she has given me a room for to-night,’ he said; and he saw the -mother and daughter look at each other, and said to himself, in an agony -of humiliation, what a fool he had been--what an intrusive, impertinent -fool! - -When he took his leave, Mrs. Anderson went after him to the door; she -asked, with trepidation in her voice, how long he meant to stay. This -was too much for the poor fellow; he led the way along the passage to -the staircase window, lest Ombra should hear through the half-open door. - -‘Mrs. Anderson,’ he said hoarsely, ‘once you promised me if she should -ever want a brother’s help or a brother’s care--not that it is what I -could have wished----’ - -‘Mr. Sugden, this is ridiculous; I can take care of my own child. You -have no right to come and hunt us out, when you know--when you can see -that we wish--to be private.’ Then, with a sudden change, she -added--‘Oh, you are very good--I am sure you are very good, but she -wants for nothing. Dear Mr. Sugden, if you care for her or me, go away. - -‘I will go away to-morrow,’ he said, with a deep sigh of disappointment -and resignation. - -She looked out anxiously at the sky. It was clouding over; night was -coming on--there was no possibility of sending him away that night. - -‘Mr. Sugden,’ she said, wringing her hands, ‘when a gentleman thrusts -himself into anyone’s secrets he is bound not to betray them. You will -hear news here, which I did not wish to be known at present--Ombra is -married.’ - -‘Married!’ he said, with a groan, which he could not restrain. - -‘Yes, her husband is not able to be with her. We are waiting till he can -join us--till he can make it public. You have found this out against our -will; you must give me your word not to betray us.’ - -‘Why should I betray you?’ he said; ‘to whom? I came, not knowing. Since -ever I knew her I have been her slave, you know. I will be so now. Is -she--happy, at least?’ - -‘She is very happy,’ said Mrs. Anderson; and then her courage failed -her, and she cried. She did not burst into tears--such an expression -does not apply to women of her age. The tears which were, somehow, near -the surface, fell suddenly, leaving no traces. ‘Everything is not -so--comfortable as might be wished,’ she said, ‘but, so far as _that_ -goes, she is happy.’ - -‘May I come again?’ he said. His face had grown very long and pale; he -looked like a man who had just come back from a funeral. ‘Or would you -rather I went away at once?’ - -She gave another look at the sky, which had cleared; night was more -distant than it had seemed ten minutes ago. And Mrs. Anderson did not -think that it was selfishness on her part to think of her daughter -first. She gave him her hand and pressed his, and said-- - -‘You are the kindest, the best friend. Oh, for her sake, go!’ - -And he went away with a heavy heart, striding over the dark unknown -hills. It was long past midnight before he got shelter--but what did -that matter? He would have done much more joyfully for her sake. But his -last hope seemed gone as he went along that mountain way. He had hoped -always to serve her sometime or other, and now he could serve her no -more! - - - - -CHAPTER LXIII. - - -This was the reason why Kate heard no more from Mr. Sugden. He knew, and -yet he did not know. That which had been told him was very different -from what he had expected to hear. He had gone to seek a deserted -maiden, and he had found a wife. He had gone with some wild hope of -being able to interpose on her behalf, ‘as her brother would have done,’ -and bring her false lover back to her--when, lo! he found that he was -intruding upon sacred domestic ground, upon the retreat of a wife whose -husband was somewhere ready, no doubt, to defend her from all intrusion. -This confounded him for the first moment. He went away, as we have said, -without a word, asking no explanation. What right had he to any -explanation? Probably Ombra herself, had she known what his mission and -what his thoughts were, would have been furious at the impertinence. But -her mother judged him more gently, and he, poor fellow, knew in his own -soul how different his motives were from those of intrusion or -impertinence. - -When he came to the homely, lonely little house, where he found shelter -in the midst of the night, he stopped there in utter languor, still -confused by his discovery and his failure. But when he came to himself -he was not satisfied. Next day, in the silence and loneliness of the -mountains, he mused and pondered on this subject, which was never absent -from his mind ten minutes together. He walked on and on upon the road he -had traversed in the dark the night before, till he came to the point -where it commanded the glen below, and where the descent to Loch Arroch -began. He saw at his feet the silvery water gleaming, the loch, the far -lines of the withdrawing village roofs, and that one under which she -was. At the sight the Curate’s mournful heart yearned over the woman he -loved. Why was she there alone, with only her mother, and she a wife? -What was there that was not ‘exactly comfortable,’ as Mrs. Anderson had -said? - -The result of his musing was that he stayed in the little mountain -change-house for some time. There was a desolate little loch near, -lying, as in a nook, up at the foot of great Schehallion. And there he -pretended to fish, and in the intervals of his sport, which was dreary -enough, took long walks about the country, and, without being seen by -them, found out a great deal about the two ladies. They were alone. The -young lady’s husband was said to be ‘in foreign pairts.’ The good people -had not heard what he was, but that business detained him somewhere, -though it was hoped he would be back before the Autumn. ‘And I wish he -may, for yon bonnie young creature’s sake!’ the friendly wife added, who -told him this tale. - -The name they told him she was called by was not a name he knew, which -perplexed him. But when he remembered his own observations, and Kate’s -story, he could not believe that any other lover could have come in. -When Mr. Sugden had fully satisfied himself, and discovered all that was -discoverable, he went back to England with the heat of a sudden purpose. -He went to London, and he sought out Bertie Hardwick’s rooms. Bertie -himself was whistling audibly as Mr. Sugden knocked at his door. He was -packing his portmanteau, and stopped now and then to utter a mild oath -over the things which would not pack in as they ought. He was going on a -journey. Perhaps to her, Mr. Sugden thought; and, as he heard his -whistle, and saw his levity, his blood boiled in his veins. - -‘What, Sugden!’ cried Bertie. ‘Come in, old fellow, I am glad to see -you. Why, you’ve been and left Shanklin! What did you do that for? The -old place will not look like itself without you.’ - -‘There are other vacant places that will be felt more than mine,’ said -the Curate, in a funereal voice, putting himself sadly on the nearest -chair. - -‘Oh! the ladies at the Cottage! To be sure, you are quite right. They -must be a dreadful loss,’ said Bertie. - -Mr. Sugden felt that he flushed and faltered, and these signs of guilt -made it doubly clear. - -‘It is odd enough,’ he said, with double meaning, ‘that we should talk -of that, for I have just come from Scotland, from the Highlands, where, -of all people in the world, I met suddenly with Miss Anderson and her -mother.’ - -Bertie faced round upon him in the middle of his packing, which he had -resumed, and said, ‘Well!’ in a querulous voice--a voice which already -sounded like that of a man put on his defence. - -‘Well!’ said the Curate--‘I don’t think it is well. She is not Miss -Anderson now. But I see you know that. Mr. Hardwick, if you know -anything of her husband, I think you should urge him not to leave her -alone there. She looks--not very well. Poor Ombra!’ cried the Curate, -warming into eloquence. ‘I have no right to call her by her name, but -that I--I was fond of her too. I would have given my life for her! And -she is like her name--she is like a shadow, that is ready to flit away.’ - -Bertie Hardwick listened with an agitated countenance--he grew red and -pale, and began to pace about the room; but he made no answer--he was -confused and startled by what his visitor said. - -‘I daresay my confession does not interest you much,’ Mr. Sugden -resumed. ‘I make it to show I have some right--to take an interest, at -least. That woman for whom I would give my life, Mr. Hardwick, is pining -there for a man who leaves her to pine--a man who must be neglecting her -shamefully, for it cannot be long since he married her--a man who----’ - -‘And pray, Mr. Sugden,’ said Bertie, choking with apparent anger and -agitation, ‘where did you obtain your knowledge of this man?’ - -‘Not from her,’ said the Curate; ‘but by chance--by the inquiries I made -in my surprise. Mr. Hardwick, if you know who it is who is so happy, and -so negligent of his happiness----’ - -‘Well?’ - -‘He has no right to stay away from her after this warning,’ cried the -Curate, rising to his feet. ‘Do you understand what a thing it is for me -to come and say so?--to one who is throwing away what I would give my -life for? But she is above all. If he stays away from her, he will -reproach himself for it all his life!’ - -And with these words he turned to go. He had said enough--his own eyes -were beginning to burn and blaze. He felt that he might seize this false -lover by the throat if he stayed longer. And he had at least done all he -could for Ombra. He had said enough to move any man who was a man. He -made a stride towards the door in his indignation; but Bertie Hardwick -interrupted him, with his hand on his arm. - -‘Sugden,’ he said, with a voice full of emotion, ‘I am not so bad as you -think me; but I am not so good as you are. The man you speak of shall -hear your warning. But there is one thing I have a right to ask. What -you learnt by chance, you will not make any use of--not to her cousin, -for instance, who knows nothing. You will respect her secret there?’ - -‘I do not know that I ought to do so, but I promised her mother,’ said -the Curate, sternly. ‘Good morning, Mr. Hardwick. I hope you will act at -once on what you have heard.’ - -‘Won’t you shake hands?’ said Bertie. - -The Curate was deeply prejudiced against him--hated him in his levity -and carelessness, amusing himself while she was suffering. But when he -looked into Bertie’s face, his enmity melted. Was this the man who had -done her--and him--so much wrong? He put out his hand with reluctance, -moved against his will. - -‘Do you deserve it?’ he said, in his deep voice. - -‘Yes--so far as honesty goes,’ said the young man, with a broken, -agitated laugh. - -The Curate went away, wondering and unhappy. Was he so guilty, that -open-faced youth, who seemed yet too near boyhood to be an accomplished -deceiver?--or was there still more in the mystery than met the eye? - -This was how Kate got no news. She looked for it for many a day. As the -Summer ripened and went on, a hungry thirst for information of one kind -or another possessed her. Her aunt’s birthday letter had been a few -tender words only--words which were humble, too, and sad. ‘Poor Ombra,’ -she had said, ‘was pretty well.’ Poor Ombra!--why _poor_ Ombra? Kate -asked herself the question with sudden fits of anxiety, which she could -not explain to herself; and she began to watch for the post with almost -feverish eagerness. But the suspense lasted so long, that the keenness -of the edge wore off again, and no news ever came. - -In July, however, Lady Caryisfort came, having lingered on her way from -Italy till it became too late to keep the engagement she had made with -Mr. Courtenay for Kate’s first season in town. She was so kind as to go -to Langton-Courtenay instead, on what she called a long visit. - -‘Your uncle has to find out, like other people, that he will only find -aid ready made to his hand when he doesn’t want it,’ she said--‘that is -the moment when everything becomes easy. I might have been of use to -him, I know, two months ago, and accordingly my private affairs detained -me, and it is only now, you see, that I am here.’ - -‘I don’t see why you should have hurried for my uncle,’ said Kate; ‘he -has never come to see me, though he has promised twenty times. But you -are welcome always, whenever you please.’ - -‘Thanks, dear,’ said Lady Caryisfort, who was languid after her journey. -‘He will come now, when you don’t want him. And so the aunt and the -cousin are gone, Kate? You must tell me why. I heard, after you left -Florence, that Miss Anderson had flirted abominably with both these -young men--behind your back, my poor darling, when you were with me, I -suppose; though I always thought that young Eldridge would have suited -you precisely--two nice properties, nice families--everything that was -nice. But an ideal match like that never comes to pass. They tell me she -was called _la demoiselle à deux cavaliers_. Don’t look shocked. Of -course, it could only be a flirtation; there could be nothing wrong in -it. But, you dear little innocent, is this all new to you?’ - -‘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. - - - - -CHAPTER LXIV. - - -All that 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 Bertie Eldridge’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. He had 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 got in 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. - - - - -CHAPTER LXV. - - -The reason 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 brilliant _début_ which 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 all before, 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--_that_ she 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 examining it 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 Kate of 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? - - - - -CHAPTER LXVI. - - -It is 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 more -difficult 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 the _pas_. 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 not _him_, 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 fallen but 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, ‘where mamma is waiting; -and one secret more----’ - - - - -CHAPTER LXVII. - - -Mrs. Anderson was 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 take _this_, 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 have seen 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 remembering that 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 him _now_. - -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 she ought 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 not _known_--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. - - - - -CHAPTER LXVIII. - - -There is 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 John -drew 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 home gradually 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. - - -FOOTNOTES: - - [A] Ice. - - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ombra, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OMBRA *** - -***** This file should be named 53583-0.txt or 53583-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/5/8/53583/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Ombra - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: November 23, 2016 [EBook #53583] -[Last updated: December 13, 2016] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OMBRA *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="317" height="500" alt="cover" title="" /> -</p> - -<h1>OMBRA</h1> - -<p class="c">BY</p> - -<p class="c">MRS. OLIPHANT</p> - -<p class="c"><small>AUTHOR OF<br /> -‘MADONNA MARY,’ ‘FOR LOVE AND LIFE,’<br /> -‘SQUIRE ARDEN,’ ‘MAY,’ ETC.</small> -</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Simon.</i> ... ‘Your tale, my friend,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Is made from nothing, and of nothings spun—<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Foam on the ocean, hoar-frost on the grass,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">The gossamer threads that sparkle in the sun<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Patterned with morning dew—things that are born<br /></span> -<span class="i3">And die, are come and gone, blossom and fade<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Ere day mature has drawn one sober breath.’<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0"><i>Philip.</i> ’Tis so; and so is life; and so is youth;<br /></span> -<span class="i3">Foam, frost, and dew; what would you? Maidens call<br /></span> -<span class="i3">That filmy gossamer the Virgin’s threads,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">And virgins’ lives are woven of threads like those.’<br /></span> - -<span class="i10"><i>The Two Poor Maidens.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="c"> -NEW EDITION<br /> -<br /> -LONDON CHAPMAN AND HALL (LIMITED) 193 PICCADILLY. 1880.<br /> -<br /><br /> -POPULAR TWO SHILLING NOVELS.<br /> -———<br /> - -<i>BY MRS. OLIPHANT.</i><br /> -———<br /></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="font-size:70%;"> - -<tr><td>MAY<br /> -FOR LOVE AND LIFE<br /> -LAST OF THE MORTIMERS <br /> -SQUIRE ARDEN<br /> -OMBRA<br /> -MADONNA MARY</td> -<td class="bl"> -THE DAYS OF MY LIFE<br /> -HARRY MUIR<br /> -HEART AND CROSS<br /> -MAGDALEN HEPBURN<br /> -THE HOUSE ON THE MOOR<br /> -LILLIESLEAF</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="c" colspan="2">LUCY CROFTON.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="c" colspan="2">———</td></tr> -<tr><td class="c" colspan="2">London: CHAPMAN & HALL (LIMITED), 193 Piccadilly.</td></tr> -</table> - -<div class="blockquot2"><p><span class="smcap">This</span> book was written by the desire and at the suggestion of a dear -friend, to whom it would have been dedicated had Providence -permitted. But since then, all suddenly and unawares, he has been -called upon to take that journey which every man must take. Upon -the grave which has reunited him to his sweet wife, who went -before, I lay this poor little soon-fading handful of mortal -flowers. H. B. and E. B., faithful friends, wheresoever you may be -in His wide universe, God bless you, dear and gentle souls!</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<h1><i>OMBRA.</i></h1> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border: 2px black solid;margin:auto auto;max-width:60%; -padding:1%;"> -<tr><td class="cb"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II"> II., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III"> III., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV"> IV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V"> V., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI"> VI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII"> VII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"> VIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX"> IX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X"> X., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI"> XI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII"> XII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII"> XIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"> XIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV"> XV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI"> XVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII"> XVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII"> XVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX"> XIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX"> XX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI"> XXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII"> XXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII"> XXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV"> XXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV"> XXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI"> XXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII"> XXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII"> XXVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX"> XXIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX"> XXX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI"> XXXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII"> XXXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII"> XXXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV"> XXXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV"> XXXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI"> XXXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII"> XXXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII"> XXXVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX"> XXXIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XL"> XL., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLI"> XLI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLII"> XLII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII"> XLIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV"> XLIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLV"> XLV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVI"> XLVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVII"> XLVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVIII"> XLVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIX"> XLIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_L"> L., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LI"> LI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LII"> LII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LIII"> LIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LIV"> LIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LV"> LV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LVI"> LVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LVII"> LVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LVIII"> LVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LIX"> LIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LX"> LX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXI"> LXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXII"> LXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXIII"> LXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXIV"> LXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXV"> LXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXVI"> LXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXVII"> LXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_LXVIII"> LXVIII.</a> -</td></tr> -</table> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Katherine Courtenay</span> was an only child, and a great heiress; and both her -parents had died before she was able to form any clear idea of them. She -was brought up in total ignorance of the natural life of childhood—that -world hemmed in by the dear faces of father and mother, brother and -sister, which forms to most girls the introductory chapter into life. -She never knew it. She lived in Langton-Courtenay—with her nurse first, -and then with her governess, the centre of a throng of servants, in the -immense desolate house. Even in these relationships the lonely child did -not find the motherhood which lonely children so often find in the care -of some pitying, tender-hearted stranger. Her guardian, who was her -father’s uncle, an old man of the world, was one of those who distrust -old servants, and accept from their inferiors nothing more than can be -paid for. He had made up his mind from the beginning that little Kate -should not be eaten up by locusts, as he said—that she should have no -kind of retainers about her, flattering her vanity with unnecessary -affection and ostentatious zeal; but only honest servants (as honest, he -would add, as they ever are), who expected nothing but the day’s wages -for the day’s work. To procure this, he allowed no one to remain long -with his ward. Her nurse was changed half a dozen times during the -period in which she required such a guardian; and her governess had -shared the same fate. She had never been allowed to attach herself to -one more than another. When any signs of feeling made themselves -apparent, Mr. Courtenay sent forth his remorseless decree.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span> ‘Kate shall -never be any woman’s slave, nor any old servant’s victim, if I can help -it,’ he said. He would have liked, had that been practicable, to turn -her into a public school, and let her ‘find her level,’ as boys do; but -as that was not practicable, he made sure, at least, that no sentimental -influences should impair his nursling’s independence and vigour. Thus -the alleviations which natural sympathy and pity might have given her, -were lost to Kate. Her attendants were afraid to love her; her -often-changed instructresses had to shut their hearts against the appeal -of compassion, as well as the appeal made by the girl’s natural -attractiveness. She had to be to them as princesses are but rarely to -their teachers and companions—a half-mistress, half-pupil. An act of -utter self-renunciation was required of them before ever they set foot -in Langton-Courtenay. Mr. Courtenay himself made the engagement, and -prescribed its terms. He paid very liberally; and he veiled his -insolence under the garb of perfect politeness. ‘I do not wish Miss -Courtenay to make any friends out of her own class,’ he would say. ‘I -shall do my utmost to make the temporary connection between my niece and -you advantageous to yourself, Miss ——. But I must exact, on the other -side, that there shall be no sentimental bonds formed, no everlasting -friendships, no false relationship. I have seen the harm of such things, -and suffered from it. Therefore, if these should be your ideas——’</p> - -<p>‘You wanted a governess, I heard, and I applied for the situation—I -never thought of anything more,’ said quickly, with some offence, the -irritated applicant.</p> - -<p>‘Precisely,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘With this understanding everything may -be decided at once. I am happy to have met with a lady who understands -my meaning.’ And thus the bargain would be made. But, as it is natural -to suppose, the ladies who were willing to take service under these -terms, were by no means the highest of their class. Sometimes it would -happen that Mr. Courtenay received a sharp rebuff in these preliminary -negotiations. ‘I trust, of course, that I shall grow fond of my pupil, -and she of me,’ said one stouter-hearted woman, for example. And the old -Squire made her a sarcastic bow.</p> - -<p>‘Quite unnecessary—wholly unnecessary, I assure you,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Then there is nothing more to be said about it,’ was the reply; and -this applicant—whose testimonials were so high, and were from such -‘good people’ (meaning, of course, from a succession of duchesses, -countesses, and families of renown), that Mr. Courtenay would, he -confessed, have given ‘any money’ to secure her services—got up with -impatience, and made him a curtsey which would, could she have managed -it, have been as sarcastic as his bow, but which, as it turned out,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span> was -only an agitated and awkward obeisance, tremulous with generous rage: -‘such an arrangement would be quite impossible to me.’</p> - -<p>And so poor Kate missed a woman who might have been a kind of secondary -mother to the forlorn child, and acquired a mercenary dragon instead, -who loved nobody, and was incapable of attracting love.</p> - -<p>The consequences of this training were not, perhaps, exactly such as -might have been expected. Kate’s high spirits and energetic temper -retained a certain ascendancy over her circumstances; her faults were -serious and deep-rooted, but on the surface she had a <i>gaieté du -cœur</i>—an impulsive power of sympathy and capacity for interesting -herself in other people, which could not but be potent for good or evil -in her life. It developed, however, in the first place, into a love of -interference, and consequently of gossip, which would have alarmed -anyone really concerned for her character and happiness. She was kept -from loving or from being loved. She was arbitrarily fixed among -strangers, surrounded with faces which were never permitted to become -familiar, defrauded of all the interests of affection; and her lively -mind avenged itself by a determination to know everything and meddle -with everything within her reach. Kate at fifteen was not mournful, -despondent, or solitary, as might have been looked for; on the contrary, -she was the very type of activity, a little inquisitive despot, the -greatest gossip and busy-body within a dozen miles of Langton-Courtenay. -The tendrils of her nature, which ought to have clung firm and close -around some natural prop, trailed all abroad, and caught at everything. -Nothing was too paltry for her, and nothing too grand. She had the -audacity to interfere in the matter of the lighted candles on the altar, -when the new High-Church Rector of Langton first came into power; and -she interfered remorselessly to take away Widow Budd’s snuff, when it -was found out that the reason she assigned for wanting it—the state of -her eyes—was a shameful pretence. Kate did not shrink from either of -these bold practical assaults upon the liberty of her subjects. She -would no doubt have inquired into the Queen’s habits, and counselled, if -not required some change in them, had that illustrious lady paid a visit -to Langton-Courtenay. This was how Nature managed itself for her -especial training. She could no more be made unsympathetic, unenergetic, -or deprived of her warm interest in the world, than she could be made -sixty. But all these good qualities could be turned into evil, and this -was what her guardian managed to do. It did not occur to him to watch -over her personally during her childhood, and therefore he was -unconscious of the exact progress of affairs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span></p> - -<p>Old Mr. Courtenay was totally unlike the child whom he had undertaken to -train. He did not care a straw for his fellow-creatures; they took their -way, and he took his, and there was an end of the matter. When any great -calamity occurred, he shrugged his shoulders, and comforted himself with -the reflection that it must be their own fault. When, on the contrary, -there was joy and rejoicing, he took his share of the feast, and -reflected, with a smile, that wise men enjoy the banquets which fools -make. To put yourself out of the way for anything that might happen, -seemed to him the strangest, the most incomprehensible folly. And when -he made up his mind to save the young heiress of his house from the -locusts, and to keep her free from all connections or associations which -might be a drag upon her in future times, he had been honestly -unconscious that he was doing wrong to Nature. Love!—what did she want -with love?—what was the good of it? Mr. Courtenay himself got on very -well without any such frivolous imaginary necessity, and so, of course, -would Kate. He was so confident in the wisdom, and even in the -naturalness of his system, that he did not even think it worth his while -to watch over its progress. Of course it would come all right. Why -should he trouble himself about the details?—to keep fast to this -principle gave him quite enough trouble. Circumstances, however, had -occurred which made it expedient for him to visit Langton-Courtenay when -Kate completed her fifteenth year. New people had appeared on the scene, -who threatened to be a greater trouble to him, and a greater danger for -Kate, than even the governesses; and his sense of duty was strong enough -to move him, in thus far, at least, to personal interference on his -ward’s behalf.</p> - -<p>At fifteen Kate Courtenay was the very impersonation of youthful beauty, -vigour, and impetuous life. She seemed to dance as she walked, to be -eloquent and rhetorical when she spoke, out of the mere exuberance of -her being. Her hair, which was full of colour, chestnut-brown, still -fell in negligent abundance about her shoulders; not in stiff curls, -after the old mode, nor <i>crêpé</i>, according to the new, but in one -undulating, careless flow. Though she was still dressed in the sackcloth -of the school-room, there was an air of authoritative independence about -her, more imposing a great deal than was that garb of complete -womanhood, the ‘long dress,’ to which she looked forward with awe and -hope. Her figure was full for her age, yet so light, so well-formed, so -free and rapid in movement, that it had all the graceful effect of the -most girlish slenderness. Her voice was slightly high-pitched—not soft -and low, as is the ideal woman’s—and she talked for three people, -pouring forth her experiences, her recollections, her questions and -remarks, in a flood. It was not quite ladylike, more than one unhappy -instructress<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span> of Kate’s youth had suggested; but there seemed no reason -in the world why she should pay any attention to such a suggestion. ‘If -it is natural for me to talk so, why should I try to talk otherwise? Why -should I care what people think? You may, Miss Blank, because they will -find fault with you, and take away your pupils, and that sort of thing; -but nobody can do anything to me.’ This was Kate’s vindication of her -voice, which rang through all Langton-Courtenay clear as a bell, and -sweet enough to hear, but imperative, decisive, high-pitched, and -unceasing. When her uncle saw her, his first sensation was one of -pleasure. She was waiting for him on the step before the front door, the -sunshine surrounding her with a golden halo, made out of the stray -golden luminous threads in her hair.</p> - -<p>‘How do you do, uncle?’ she called out to him as soon as he appeared. ‘I -am so glad you have made up your mind to come at last. It is always a -change to have you here, and there are so many things I want to talk of. -You have taken the fly from the station, I see, though the carriage went -for you half-an-hour ago. That is what I am always telling you, Giles, -you are continually half-an-hour too late. Uncle, mind how you get down. -That fly-horse is the most vicious thing! She’ll go off when you have -one foot to the ground, if you don’t mind. I told old Mrs. Sayer to sell -her, but these people never will do what they are told. I am glad to see -you, Uncle Courtenay. How do you do?’</p> - -<p>‘A little bewildered with my journey, Kate—and to find you a young lady -receiving your guests, instead of a shy little girl running off when you -were spoken to.’</p> - -<p>‘Was I ever shy?’ said Kate, with unfeigned wonder. ‘What a very odd -thing! I don’t remember it. I thought I had always been as I am now. -Tell Mrs. Sayers, Tom, that I have heard something I don’t like about -one of the people at Glenhouse, and that I am coming to speak to her -to-morrow. Uncle, will you have some tea, or wine, or anything, or shall -I take you to your room! Dinner is to be at seven. I am so glad you have -come to make a change. I <i>hate</i> dinner at two. It suits Miss Blank’s -digestion, but I am sure I hate it, and now it shall be changed. Don’t -you think I am quite grown up, Uncle Courtenay? I am as tall as you.’</p> - -<p>He was little, dried-up, shrivelled—a small old man; and she a young -Diana, with a bloom which had still all the freshness of childhood. -Uncle Courtenay felt irritated when she measured her elastic figure -beside the stooping form of his old age.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes, yes!’ he said, pettishly. ‘Grown up, indeed! I should think -you were. But stop this stream of talk, for heaven’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> sake, and moderate -your voice, and take me in somewhere. I don’t want to have your height -discussed among your servants, nor anything else I may have to say.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! for that matter, I do not mind who hears me talk,’ said Kate. ‘Why -should I? Nobody, of course, ever interferes with me. Come into the -library, uncle. It is nice and cool this hot day. Did you see anyone in -the village as you came up? Did you notice if there was anyone at the -Rectory? They are curious people at the Rectory, and don’t take the -trouble to make themselves at all agreeable. Miss Blank thinks it very -strange, considering that I am the Lady of the Manor, and have a right -to their respect, and ought to be considered and obeyed. Don’t you -think, uncle——’</p> - -<p>‘Obeyed!’ he said, with a laugh which was half amusement, and half -consternation. ‘A baby of fifteen is no more the Lady of the Manor than -Miss Blank is. You silly child, what do you mean?’</p> - -<p>‘I am not a child,’ said Kate, haughtily. ‘I am quite aware of my -position. I may not be of age yet, but that does not make much -difference. However, if you are tired, uncle, as I think you are by your -face, I won’t bore you with that, though it is one of my grievances. -Should you like to be left alone till dinner? If you would let me advise -you, I should say lie down, and have some eau-de-Cologne on a -handkerchief, and perhaps a cup of tea. It is the best thing for worry -and headache.’</p> - -<p>‘In heaven’s name, how do you know?’</p> - -<p>‘Perfectly well,’ said Kate, calmly. ‘I have made people do it a hundred -times, and it has always succeeded. Perfect quiet, uncle, and a wet -handkerchief on your forehead, and a cup of my special tea. I will tell -Giles to bring you one, and a bottle of eau-de-Cologne; and if you don’t -move till the dressing bell rings, you will find yourself quite -refreshed and restored. Why, I have made people do it over and over -again, and I have never known it to fail.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Miss Courtenay</span>, of Langton-Courtenay, had scarcely ever in her life been -promoted before to the glories of a late dinner. She had received no -visitors, and the house was still under school-room sway, as became her -age, consequently this was a great era to Kate. She placed herself at -the head of the table, with a pride and delight which neither her -cynical old uncle nor her passive governess had the least notion of. The -occurrence was trifling to them, but to her its importance was immense. -Miss Blank, who was troubled by fears of being in the way—fears which -her charge made no effort to enlighten—and whose digestion, besides, -was feeble, preferred to have the usual two o’clock dinner, and to leave -Kate alone to entertain her uncle. This dinner had been the subject of -Kate’s thoughts for some days. She had insisted on the production of all -the plate which the little household at Langton had been permitted to -retain; she had the table decked with a profusion of flowers. She had -not yet discretion enough to know that a small table would have been in -better taste than the large one, seated at opposite ends of which her -guardian and herself were as if miles apart. They could not see each -other for the flowers; they could scarcely hear each other for the -distance; but Kate was happy. There was a certain grown-up grandeur, -even in the discomfort. As for Mr. Courtenay, he was extremely -impatient. ‘What a fool the girl must be!’ he said to himself; and went -on to comment bitterly upon the popular fallacy which credits women with -intuitive good taste and social sense, at least. When he made a remark -upon the long distance that separated them, Kate cheerfully suggested -that he should come up beside her. She took away his breath by her -boldness; she deafened him with her talk. Behind that veil of flowers -which concealed her young, bright figure, she poured forth the monologue -of a rural gossip, never pausing to inquire if he knew or cared anything -about the objects of it. And of course Mr. Courtenay neither knew nor -cared. His own acquaintance with the house of his father had ended long -before she was born, before her father<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> had succeeded to the property; -and he never had been interested in the common people who formed Kate’s -world. Then it was very apparent to Kate’s uncle that the man who waited -(and waited very badly) grinned without concealment at his young -mistress’s talk; and that Kate herself was not indifferent to the <i>fond</i> -of appreciation thus secured to her. It would be impossible to put into -words the consternation which filled him as he ate an indifferent -dinner, and listened to all this. He had succeeded so far that no one -governess nor maid had secured dominion over the mind of the future -sovereign of Langton; but at what a cost had he secured it! ‘You seem to -interest yourself a great deal about all these people,’ he said at -length.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Uncle Courtenay, of course I do. I have nobody else to take an -interest in,’ said Kate. ‘But the people at the Rectory are very -disagreeable. If the living should fall vacant in my time, it certainly -shall never go to one of them. The second son, Herbert, whom they call -Bertie, is going in for the Church, and I suppose they think he will -succeed his father; but I am sure he never shall, if that happens in my -time. There are two daughters, Edith and Minnie; and I don’t think Mrs. -Hardwick can be a good manager, for the girls are always so badly -dressed; and you know, Uncle Courtenay, it is a very good living. I have -felt tempted a dozen times to say, “Why don’t you clothe the girls -better?” If they had been farmers, or anything of that sort, I should at -once——’</p> - -<p>‘And how do the farmers like your interference, Kate?’</p> - -<p>‘My interference, Uncle Courtenay! Why, of course one must speak if one -sees things going wrong. But to return to the Hardwicks. I did write, -you know, about the candles on the altar——’</p> - -<p>‘Why, Kate, I did not know how universal you were,’ said her uncle, -half-amused—‘theological, too?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know about theology; but burning candles in daylight, when -there was not a bit of darkness—not a fog, even—what is the good of -it? I thought I had a right to let Mr. Hardwick know. It is my parish -and my tenantry, and I do not mean to give them up. Isn’t the Queen the -head of the Church?—then, of course, I am the head of -Langton-Courtenay, and it is flat rebellion on the Rector’s part. What -do you mean, Uncle Courtenay?—are you laughing at me?’</p> - -<p>‘Why, Kate, your theories take away my breath,’ said Mr. Courtenay. -‘Don’t you think this is going a little too far? You cannot be head of -the Church in Langton-Courtenay without interfering with Her Majesty’s -prerogative. She is over all the country, you know. You don’t claim the -power of the sword, I hope, as well——’</p> - -<p>‘What is the power of the sword, uncle? I should claim anything that I -thought belonged to me,’ cried Kate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span></p> - -<p>‘But you would not hold a court, I hope, and erect a gallows in the -courtyard,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘I suppose our ancestor, Sir Bernard had -the right, but I would not advise you to claim it, my dear. Kate, now -that the man is gone, I must tell you that I think you have been very -impertinent to the Rector, and nothing but the fact that you are a baby, -and don’t know what you’re doing——’</p> - -<p>‘A baby!—and impertinent!—uncle!—I!’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, you—though you think yourself such a great personage, you must -learn to remember that you are a child, my dear. I will make a point of -calling on the Rector to-morrow, and I hope he will look over your -nonsense. But remember there must be no more of it, Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ she said, half weeping. ‘I will not be so -spoken to. Uncle, you are only my guardian, and it is I who am the -mistress here.’</p> - -<p>‘You little fool!’ he said, under his breath; and then a sudden twinge -came over him—a doubt whether he had been as wise as he thought he had -been in the training of this girl. He was not the sort of man, so common -in the world, to whom cynicism in every other respect is compatible with -enthusiasm in respect to himself. He was a universal cynic. He -distrusted himself as well as other people, and consequently he did not -shut his eyes to the fact that a mistake had been made. While Kate dried -her eyes hastily, and tried her best to maintain her dignity, and -overcome those temptations towards the hysterical which prevented her -from making an immediate reply, her uncle was so candid as to stop -short, as it were, in his own course, and review a decision he had just -made. He had not known Kate when he made it; now that he saw her in all -her force and untamableness, with all those wonderful ideas of her -position, and determination to interfere with every one, he could not -but think that it might be wise to reconsider the question. What should -he do with this unmanageable girl?—good heavens! what could he do with -her? Whereas, here was a new influence offering itself, which perhaps -might do all that was wanted. Mr. Courtenay pondered while Kate -recovered some appearance of calm. She had never (she said to herself) -been so spoken to in her life. She did not understand it—she would not -submit to it! And when the hot mist of tears dried up from her eyes, -Kate looked from behind the flowers at Mr. Courtenay, with her heart -beating high for the conflict, and yet felt daunted—she could not tell -how—and did not know what to do. She would have liked to rush out of -the room, slamming the door behind her; but in that case she would have -lost at once her dignity and the strawberries, which are tempting at -fifteen. She would not let him see that he had beaten her; and yet—how -could she begin the struggle?—what could she say? She sat and peeped at -him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span> from behind the vase of flowers which stood in the centre of the -table, and was silent for five whole minutes in her -bewilderment—perhaps longer than she ever had been silent before in her -life. Finally, it was Mr. Courtenay who broke the silence—a fact which -of itself gave him a vast advantage over her.</p> - -<p>‘Kate,’ he said, ‘I have listened to you for a long time. I want you now -to listen to me for a little. You have heard of your aunt Anderson? She -is your mother’s only sister. She has been—I suppose you know?—for a -long time abroad.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know anything about her,’ said Kate, pouting. This was not -entirely true, for she had heard just so much of this unknown relation -as a few rare letters received from her could tell—letters which left -no particular impression on Kate’s mind, except the fact that her -correspondent signed herself ‘Your affectionate Aunt,’ and which had -ceased for years. Kate’s mother had not been born on the -Langton-Courtenay level. She had been the daughter of a solicitor, whose -introduction into the up-to-that-moment spotless pedigree of the -Courtenays lay very heavy on the heart of the family. Kate knew this -fact very well, and it galled her. She might have forgiven her mother, -but she felt a visionary grudge against her aunt, and why should she -care to know anything about her? This sense of inferiority on the part -of her relation kept her silent, as well as the warm and lively force of -temper which dissuaded her from showing any interest in a matter -suggested by her uncle. If she could but have kept up so philosophical a -way of thinking! But the fact was, that no sooner had she answered than -her usual curiosity and human interest in her fellow-creatures began to -tug at Kate’s heart. What was he going to tell her about her aunt -Anderson? Who was she? What was she? What manner of woman? Was she poor, -and so capable of being made Kate’s vassal; or well off, and likely to -meet her niece on equal terms? She had to shut up her lips very tight, -lest some of these many questions should burst from them. And if Uncle -Courtenay had but known his advantage, and kept silent a little, she -would have almost gone on her knees to him for further information. But -Mr. Courtenay did not understand his advantage, and went on talking.</p> - -<p>‘Her husband was British Consul somewhere or other in Italy. They have -been all over the Continent, in one place and another; but he died a -year ago, and now they have come home. She wishes to see you, Kate. I -have got a letter from her—with a great deal of nonsense in it—but -that by the way. There is a great deal of nonsense in all women’s -letters! She wants to come here, I suppose; but I don’t choose that she -should come here.’</p> - -<p>‘Why, Uncle Courtenay?’ said Kate, forgetting her wrath in the -excitement of this novelty.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span></p> - -<p>‘It is unnecessary to enter into my reasons. When you are of age you can -have whom you please; but in the meantime I don’t intend that this house -should be a centre of meddling and gossip for the whole neighbourhood. -So the aunt shan’t come. But you can go and visit her for a few weeks, -if you choose, Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘Why shouldn’t my aunt come if I wish it?’ cried Kate, furious. ‘Uncle -Courtenay, I tell you again you are only my guardian, and -Langton-Courtenay belongs to <i>me</i>!’</p> - -<p>‘And I reply, my dear, that you are fifteen, and nothing belongs to -you,’ said the old man, with a smile. ‘It is hard to repress so much -noble independence, but still that is the truth.’</p> - -<p>‘You are a tyrant—you are a monster, Uncle Courtenay! I won’t submit to -it! I will appeal to some one. I will take it into my own hands.’</p> - -<p>‘The most sensible thing you can do, in the meantime, is to retire to -your own room, and try to bring yourself back to common sense,’ said Mr. -Courtenay, contemptuously. ‘Not another word, Kate. Where is your -governess, or your nurse, or whoever has charge of you? Little fool! do -you think, because you rule over a pack of obsequious servants, that you -can manage me.’</p> - -<p>‘I will not be your slave! I will never, never be your slave!’ cried -Kate, springing to her feet, and raising her flushed face over the -flowers. Her eyes blazed, her little rosy hand was clenched so tight -that the soft knuckles were white. Her lips were apart, her breath -burned, her soul was on fire. Quite ready for a fight, ready to meet any -enemy that might come against her—breathing fire and flame!</p> - -<p>‘Pho! pho! child, don’t be a fool!’ said Mr. Courtenay; and he calmly -rang the bell, and ordered Giles to remove the wine to a small table -which stood in the window, where he removed himself presently, without -taking the least notice of her.</p> - -<p>Kate stood for a moment, like a young goddess of war, thunder-stricken -by the calm of her adversary; and then rushed out, flinging down her -napkin, and dragging a corner of the table-cloth, so as to upset the -great dish of ruby strawberries which she had not tasted. They fell on -the floor like a heavy shower, scattering over all the carpet; and Kate -closed the door after her with a <i>thud</i> which ran through the whole -house. She paused a moment in the hall, irresolute. Poor untrained, -unfriended child, she had no one to go to, to seek comfort from. She -knew how Miss Blank would receive her passion; and she was too proud to -acknowledge to her maid, Maryanne, how she had been beaten. She caught -the broad-brimmed garden-hat which hung in the hall, and a shawl to wrap -herself in, and rushed out, a forlorn, solitary young creature, into the -noble park that was her own. There was not a child in the village<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span> but -had some one to fly to when it had received a blow; but Kate had no -one—she had to calm herself down, and bear her passion and its -consequences alone. She rushed across the park, forgetting even that her -uncle Courtenay could see her from the window, and unconscious of the -chuckle with which he perceived her discomfiture. ‘Little passionate -idiot!’ he said to himself, as he sipped his wine. But yet perhaps had -he known what was to come of it, Mr. Courtenay would not have been quite -so contented with himself. He had forgotten all about the feelings and -sufferings of her age, if indeed he had ever known them. He did not care -a jot for the mortification and painful rage with which he had filled -her. ‘Serve her right!’ he would have said. He was old himself, and far -beyond the reach of such tempests; and he had no pity for them. But all -the more he thought with a sense of comfort of this Mrs. Anderson, with -her plebeian name, and sentimental anxiety about ‘the only child of a -beloved sister.’ The beloved sister herself had not been very welcome in -Langton-Courtenay. The Consul’s widow should never be allowed to enter -here, that was very certain; but, still, use might be made of her to -train this ungovernable child.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Kate Courtenay</span> rushed across the park in a passion of mortification and -childish despair, and fled as fast as her swift feet could carry her to -a favourite spot—a little dell, through which the tiniest of brooks ran -trickling, so hidden under the trees and copse that even Summer never -quite dried it up. There was a little semi-artificial waterfall, just -where the brook descended into the depths of this little dell. In Spring -it was a wilderness of primroses and violets; and so long as wild -flowers would blow, they were always to be found in this sunny nook. The -only drawback was that a footpath ran within sight of it, and that the -village had an often-contested right of way skirting the bank. Kate had -issued arbitrary orders more than once that no one was to be suffered to -pass; but the law was too strong for Kate, as it had been for her -grandfathers before her; and, on the whole, perhaps the occasional -passenger had paid for his intrusion by the additional liveliness he had -given to the landscape. It was one of Kate’s ‘tricks,’ her governess -once went so far as to say, to take her evening walk here, in order to -detect the parties of lovers with whom this footway was a favourite -resort. All this, however, was absent from Kate’s mind now. She rushed -through the trees and bushes, and threw herself on the sunny grass by -the brookside; and at fifteen passion is not silent, as it endeavours to -be at a more advanced age. Kate did not weep only, but cried, and -sobbed, and made a noise, so that some one passing by in the footway on -the other side of the bushes was arrested by the sound, and drew near.</p> - -<p>It is hard to hear sounds of weeping in a warm Summer evening, when the -air is sweet with sounds of pleasure. There is something incongruous in -it, which wounds the listener. The passenger in this case was young and -tender-hearted, and he was so far like Kate herself, that when he heard -sounds of trouble, he felt that he had a right to interfere. He was a -clergyman’s son, and in the course of training to be a clergyman too. -His immediate destination was, as soon as he should be old enough to be -ordained, the curacy of Langton-Courtenay, of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> which his father was -Rector. Whether he should eventually succeed his father was of course in -the hands of Providence and Miss Courtenay; he had not taken his degree -yet, and was at least two years off the time when he could take orders; -but still the shadow of his profession was upon him, and, in right of -that, Herbert Hardwick felt that it was his business to interfere.</p> - -<p>What he saw, when he looked through the screen of trees, was the figure -of a girl in a light Summer dress, half seated, half lying on the grass. -Her head was bent down between her hands; and even had this not been the -case, it is probable Bertie, who had scarcely seen Miss Courtenay, would -not have recognised her. Of course, had he taken time to think, he must -have known at once that nobody except Kate, or some visitor at the Hall, -was likely to be there; but he never took time to think. It was not his -way. He stepped at once over the fence, walking through the brushwood, -and strode across the brook without pause or hesitation.</p> - -<p>‘What is the matter?’ he said, in his boyish promptitude. ‘Have you hurt -yourself?—have you lost your way?—what is wrong?’</p> - -<p>For a moment she took no notice of him, except to turn her back more -completely on him. Herbert had sisters, and he was not so ceremonious to -young womankind generally as might otherwise have happened. He laid his -hand quite frankly on her shoulder, and knelt down beside her on the -grass. ‘No,’ he said, with a certain authority, ‘my poor child, whoever -you may be, I can’t leave you to cry your eyes out. What is the matter? -Look up and tell me. Have you lost yourself? If you will tell me where -you have come from, I will take you home. Or have you hurt yourself? -Now, pray don’t be cross, but answer, and let me know what I can do.’</p> - -<p>Kate had almost got her weeping-fit over, and surprise had wakened a new -sentiment in her mind. Surprise and curiosity, and the liveliest desire -to know whose the voice was, and whose the hand laid so lightly, yet -with a certain authority, upon her shoulder. She made a dash with her -handkerchief across her face to clear away the tears, and then she -suddenly turned round and confronted her comforter. She looked up at him -with tears hanging on her eyelashes, and her face wet with them, yet -with all the soul of self-will which was natural to her looking out of -her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Do you know,’ she said hastily, ‘that you are trespassing? This is -private property, and you have no right to be here.’</p> - -<p>The answer which Bertie Hardwick made to this was, first, an astonished -stare, and then a burst of laughter. The sudden change from sympathy and -concern to amusement was so great<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> that it produced an explosion of -merriment which he could not restrain. He was a handsome lad of -twenty—blue-eyed, with brown hair curling closely about his head, -strongly built, and full of life, though not gigantic in his -proportions. Even now, though he had heard of the imperious little Lady -of the Manor, it did not occur to him to connect her with this stranger. -He laughed with perfect heartiness and <i>abandon</i>; she looking on quite -gravely and steadily, the while, assisting at the outburst—a fact which -did not diminish the amusing character of the scene.</p> - -<p>‘I came to help you,’ he said. ‘I hope you will not give information. -Nobody will know I have trespassed unless you tell, and that would be -ungrateful; for I thought there was something the matter, and came to be -of use to you.’</p> - -<p>‘There is nothing the matter,’ said Kate, very gravely, making a -photograph of him with the keen, inquisitive eyes, from which, by this -time, all tears were gone.</p> - -<p>‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said; and then, with another laugh—‘I -suppose you are trespassing too. Can I help you over the fence?—or is -there anything that I can do?’</p> - -<p>‘I am not trespassing—I am at home—I am Miss Courtenay,’ said Kate, -with infinite dignity, rising from the grass. She stood thus looking at -him with the air of a queen defending her realm from invasion; she felt, -to tell the truth, something like Helen Macgregor, when she starts up -suddenly, and demands of the Sassenach how they dare to come into -Macgregor’s country. But the young man was not impressed; the muscles -about his mouth quivered with suppressed laughter and the strenuous -effort to keep it down. He made her a bow—the best he could under the -circumstances—and stood with the evening sunshine shining upon his -uncovered head and crisp curls, a very pleasant object to look upon, in -an attitude of respect which was half fun and half mockery, though Kate -did not find that out.</p> - -<p>‘Then I have been mistaken, and there is nothing for it but to -apologise, and take myself off,’ said Bertie. ‘I am very sorry, I am -sure. I thought something had gone wrong. To tell the truth I thought -you were—crying.’</p> - -<p>‘I was crying,’ said Kate. She did not in the least want him to go. He -was company—he was novelty—he was something quite fresh, and already -had altogether driven away her passion and her tears. Her heart quite -leapt up at this agreeable diversion. ‘I was crying, and something had -gone very wrong,’ she said in a subdued tone, and with a gentle sigh.</p> - -<p>‘I am very sorry,’ said Bertie. ‘I don’t suppose it is anything in which -I could be of use—?’</p> - -<p>She looked at him again. ‘I think I know who you are,’ she said. ‘You -must be the second son at the Rectory—the one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span> whom they call Bertie. -At least I don’t know who else you could be.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I am the one they call Bertie,’ he said, laughing. ‘Herbert -Hardwick, at your service. And I did not mean to trespass.’</p> - -<p>The laugh rang pleasantly through all the echoes. It was infectious. -Kate felt that, but for her dignity, she would like to laugh too. And -yet it was a serious matter; and to aid and abet a trespasser, and at -the same time ‘encourage’ the Rectory people, was, she felt, a thing -which she ought not to do. But then it had been real concern for -herself, the Lady of the Manor, which had been at the bottom of it; and -that deserved to be considered on the other side.</p> - -<p>‘I suppose not,’ she said, seriously. ‘Indeed, I am very particular -about it. I don’t see why you should laugh. I should not think of going -to walk in your grounds without leave, and why should you in mine? But -since you are here, you must not go all that way back. If you like to -come with me, I will show you a nearer way. Don’t you think it is a very -fine park? Were you ever in one like it before?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Herbert, calmly, ‘a great many. Langton-Courtenay is very -nice, but it wants size. The glades are pretty, and the trees are -charming, but everything is on a small scale.’</p> - -<p>‘On a small scale!’ Kate cried, half-choking with indignation. This -unparalleled presumption took away even her voice.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, decidedly small. How many acres are there in it? My uncle, Sir -Herbert Eldridge, has five hundred acres in his. I am called after him, -and I have been a great deal with him, you know. That is why I think -your park so small. But it is very pretty!’ said Herbert, -condescendingly, with a sense of the humour of the situation. As for -Kate, she was crushed. She looked up at him first in a blaze of disdain, -intending to do battle for her own, but the number of acres in Sir -Herbert Eldridge’s park made an end of Kate.</p> - -<p>‘I thought you were going to be a clergyman,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘So I am, I suppose; but what then?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! I thought—I didn’t know,’ cried Kate. ‘I supposed perhaps you were -not very well off. But if you have such a rich uncle, with such a -beautiful park——’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know what that has to do with it,’ said Bertie, with a -mischievous light in his eyes. ‘We are not so very poor. We have dinners -three or four times a week, and bread and cheese on the other days. A -great many people are worse off than that.’</p> - -<p>‘If you mean to laugh at me,’ said Kate, stopping short, with an angry -gesture, ‘I think you had better turn back again. I <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span>am not a person to -be made fun of.’ And then instantly the water rushed to her eyes, for -she was as susceptible as any child is to ridicule. The young man -checked himself on the verge of laughter, and apologised.</p> - -<p>‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘I did not mean to make myself -disagreeable. Besides, I don’t think you are quite well. I hope you will -let me walk with you as far as the Hall.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! no,’ said Kate. But the suppressed tears, which had come to her -eyes out of rage and indignation, suddenly grew blinding with self-pity, -and recollection of her hard fate. ‘Oh! you can’t think how unhappy I -am,’ she said, suddenly clasping her hands together—and a big tear came -with a rush down her innocent nose, and fell, throwing up a little -shower of salt spray from the concussion, upon her ungloved hand. This -startled her, and her sense of dignity once more awoke; but she -struggled with difficulty against her desire for sympathy. ‘I ought not -to talk to a stranger,’ she said; ‘but, oh! you can’t think how -disagreeable Uncle Courtenay can make himself, though he looks so nice. -And Miss Blank does not mind if I were dead and buried! Oh!’ This -exclamation was called forth by another great blot of dew from her eyes, -which once more dashed and broke upon her hand, as a wave does on a -rock. Kate looked at it with a silent concern which absorbed her. Her -own tears! What was there in the world more touching or more sad?</p> - -<p>‘I am so sorry,’ said Bertie Hardwick, moved by compassion. ‘Was that -what you were crying for? You should come to the Rectory, to my mother, -who always sets everybody right.’</p> - -<p>‘Your mother would not care to see me,’ said Kate, looking at him -wistfully. ‘She does not like me—she thinks I am your enemy. People -should consider, Mr. Bertie—they should consider my position——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, you poor little thing,’ said Bertie, with the utmost sympathy; -‘that is quite true—you have neither father nor mother to keep you -right—people ought to make allowance for that.’</p> - -<p>To describe Kate’s consternation at this speech would be impossible. She -a poor little thing!—she without any one to set her right! Was the boy -mad? She was so stunned for the moment that she could make no reply—so -many new emotions overwhelmed her. To make the discovery that Bertie -Hardwick was nice, that he had an uncle with a park larger than the park -at Langton-Courtenay; to learn that Langton-Courtenay was ‘small,’ and -that she herself was a poor little thing. ‘What next?’ Kate asked -herself. For all this had come to her knowledge in the course of half an -hour. If life was to bring a succession of such surprises, how strange, -how very strange it must be!</p> - -<p>‘And I do wish you knew my mother,’ he went on innocently, not having -the least idea that Kate’s silence arose from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> the fact that she was -dumb with indignation; ‘she has the gift of understanding everybody. -Isn’t it a pity that you should not know us, Miss Courtenay? My little -sister Minnie is about your age, I should think.’</p> - -<p>‘It is not my fault I don’t know you,’ burst forth Kate; ‘it is because -you have not behaved properly to me—because your father would not pay -any attention. Is it right for a clergyman to set a bad example, and -teach people to rebel? He never even took any notice of my letter, -though I am the natural head of the parish——’</p> - -<p>‘You poor child!’ cried Bertie; and then he laughed.</p> - -<p>Kate could not bear it—this was worse than her Uncle Courtenay. She -stood still for a moment, and looked at him with things unspeakable in -her eyes; and then she turned round, and rushed off across the green -sward to the Hall, leaving him bewildered and amazed in the middle of -the park, this time most evidently a trespasser, not even knowing his -way back. He called after her, but received no answer; he stood and -gazed round him in his consternation. Finally he laughed, though this -time it was at himself, thus left in the lurch. But Kate was not aware -of that fact. She heard the laugh, and it gave her wings; she fled to -her melancholy home, where there was nobody to comfort her, choking with -sobs and rage. Oh! how forlorn she was!—oh! how insulted, despised, -trodden upon by everybody, she who was the lawful lady of the land! He -would go and tell the Rectory girls, and together they would laugh at -her. Kate would have sent a thunderbolt on the Rectory, or fire from -Heaven, if she could.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Kate</span> rushed upstairs to her own room when she reached the Hall; she was -wild with mortification and the sense of downfall. It was the first time -she had come into collision with her fellow-creatures of a class equal -to her own. Servants and poor people in the village had been impertinent -to her ere now; but these were accidents, which Kate treated with the -contempt they deserved, and which she could punish by the withdrawal of -privileges and presents. She could scold, and did so soundly; and she -could punish. But she could neither scold nor punish in the present -case. Her Uncle Courtenay would only look at her in that exasperating -way, with that cool smile on his face, as if she were a kitten; and this -new being, with whom already she felt herself so well acquainted—Bertie -would laugh, and be kind, and sorry for her. ‘Poor child!—poor little -thing!’ These were the words he had dared to use. ‘Oh!’ Kate thought, I -would like to kill him! I would like to——’ And then she asked herself -what would he say at home? and writhed on the bed on which she had -thrown herself in inextinguishable shame. They would laugh at her; they -would make fun of her. ‘Oh! I would like to kill myself,’ cried Kate, in -her thoughts. She cried her eyes out in the silence of her room. There -was no Bertie to come there with sympathetic eyes to ask what she was -doing. Miss Blank did not care; neither did any one in the house—not -even her own maid, who was always about her, and to whom she would talk -for hours together. Kate buried her head in her pillow, and tried to -picture to herself the aspect of the Rectory. There would be the -mother—who, Bertie said, understood everybody—seated somewhere near -the table; and Edith and Minnie in the room—one of them, perhaps, doing -worsted-work, one at the piano, or copying music, or drawing, as young -ladies do in novels. Now and then, no doubt Mrs. Hardwick would give -them little orders; she would say, perhaps, ‘Play me one of the Lieder, -Minnie,’ or ‘that little air of Mozart’s.’ And she would say something -about her work to Edith. Involuntarily that picture rose before lonely -Kate. She seemed to see them seated there, with the windows open, and -sweet scents<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> coming in from the garden. She heard the voices murmuring, -and a soft little strain, <i>andante pianissimo</i>, tinkling like the soft -flow of a stream through the pleasant place. Oh! how pleasant it must -be—even though she did not like the Rectory people, though Mr. Hardwick -had been so rebellious, though they did not believe in her (Kate’s) -natural headship of Church and Slate in Langton-Courtenay.</p> - -<p>She sobbed as she lay and dreamed, and developed her new imagination. -She had wondered, half angrily, half wistfully, about the Rectory people -before, but Bertie seemed to give a certain reality to them. He was the -brother of the girl whom Kate had so often inspected with keen eyes, but -did not know; and he said ‘Mamma’ to that unknown Mrs. Hardwick. -‘Mamma!’ What a curious word it was, when you came to think of it! Not -so serious, nor full of meaning as mother was, but soft and -caressing—as of some one who would always feel for you, always put her -arm round you, say ‘dear’ to you, ask what was the matter? Miss Blank -never asked what was the matter! She took it for granted that Kate was -cross, that it was ‘her own fault,’ or, as the very kindest hypothesis, -that she had a headache, which was not in Kate’s way.</p> - -<p>She lay sobbing, as I have said; but sobbing softly, as her emotion wore -itself out, without tears. Her eyes were red, and her temples throbbed a -little. She was worn out; she would not rouse herself and go downstairs -to tempt another conflict with her uncle, as, had it not been for this -last event, she would have felt disposed to do. And yet, poor child, she -wanted her tea. Dinner had not been a satisfactory meal, and Kate could -not help saying to herself that if Minnie and Edith had been suffering -as she was, their mamma would have come to them in the dark, and kissed -them, and bathed their hot foreheads, and brought them cups of tea. But -there was no one to bring a cup of tea, without being asked, to a girl -who had no mother. Kate had but to ring her bell, and she could have had -whatever she pleased; but what did that matter? No one came near her, as -it happened. The governess and her maid both supposed her to be with her -uncle, and it was only when Maryanne came in at nine o’clock to prepare -her young mistress’s hair-brushes and dressing-gown, that the young -mistress was found, to Maryanne’s consternation, stretched on her bed, -with a face as white as her dress, and eyes surrounded with red rings. -And in the dark, of all things in the world, in a place like -Langton-Courtenay, where it was well known the Blue Lady walked, and -turned folks to stone! At the first glance Maryanne felt certain that -the Blue Lady only could be responsible for the condition in which her -young mistress was found.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! miss,’ she cried, ‘and why didn’t you ring the bell?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span></p> - -<p>‘It did not matter,’ said Kate, reproachful and proud.</p> - -<p>‘Lying there all in the dark—and it don’t matter! ‘Oh! miss, I know as -you ain’t timorsome like me, but if you was once to see something——’</p> - -<p>‘Hold your tongue!’ said Kate, peremptorily. ‘See something! The thing -is, in this house, that one never sees anything! One might die, and it -never would be known. You don’t care enough for one to come and look if -one is dead or alive.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! miss!’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t say “Oh miss!” to me,’ cried Kate, indignantly, ‘or pretend—— -Go and fetch me some tea. That is the only thing you can do. You don’t -forget your own tea, or anything else you want; but when I am out of -sorts, or have a—headache——’</p> - -<p>Kate had no headache, except such as her crying had made; but it was the -staple malady, the thing that did duty for everything in Miss Blank’s -vocabulary, and her pupil naturally followed her example, to this -extent, at least.</p> - -<p>‘Have you got a headache, miss? I’ll tell Miss Blank—I’ll go and fetch -the housekeeper.’</p> - -<p>‘If you do, I will ask Uncle Courtenay to send you away to-morrow!’ -cried Kate. ‘Go and fetch me some tea.’</p> - -<p>But the tea which she had to order for herself was very different, she -felt sure, from the tea that Edith Hardwick’s mother would have carried -upstairs to her unasked. It was tea made by Maryanne, who was not very -careful if the kettle was boiling, and who had filled a large teapot -full of water, in order to get this one cup. It was very hot and very -washy, and made Kate angry. She sent away Maryanne in a fit of -indignation, and did her own hair for the night, and made herself very -uncomfortable. How different it must be with Edith and Minnie! If Kate -had only known it, however, Edith and Minnie, had they conducted -themselves as she was doing, would have been metaphorically whipped and -put to bed.</p> - -<p>In the morning she came down with pale cheeks, but no one took any -notice. Uncle Courtenay was reading his paper, and had other things to -think of; and Miss Blank intended to ask what her pupil had been doing -with herself when they should be alone together in the school-room. They -ate their meal in a solemn silence, broken only now and then by a remark -from Miss Blank, which was scarcely less solemn. Uncle Courtenay took no -notice—he read his paper, which veiled him even from his companion’s -eyes. At last, Miss Blank, having finished her breakfast, made a sign to -Kate that it was time to rise; and then Kate took courage.</p> - -<p>‘Uncle Courtenay,’ she said very softly, ‘you said you were going to -call—at—the Rectory?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span></p> - -<p>Uncle Courtenay looked at her round the corner of his paper. ‘Well,’ he -said, ‘what of that? Of course I shall call at the Rectory—after what -you have told me, I have no choice.’</p> - -<p>‘Then please—may I go with you?’ said Kate. She cast down her eyes -demurely as she spoke, and consequently did not see the inquiring glance -that he cast at her; but she saw, under her eyelashes, that he had laid -down his paper; and this evidence of commotion was a comfort to her -soul.</p> - -<p>‘Go with me!’ he said. ‘Not to give the Rector any further impertinence, -I hope?’</p> - -<p>Kate’s eyes flashed, but she restrained herself. ‘I have never been -impertinent to any one, uncle. If I mistook what I had a right to, was -that my fault? I am willing to make it up, if they are; and I can go -alone if I mayn’t go with you.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! you can go with me if you choose,’ said Mr. Courtenay, -ungraciously; and then he took up his paper. But he was not so -ungracious as he appeared; he was rather glad, on the whole, to have -this opportunity of talking to her, and to see that (as he thought) his -reproof of the previous night had produced so immediate an effect. He -said to himself, cheerfully, ‘Come, the child is not so ungovernable -after all;’ and was pleased, involuntarily, by the success of his -operation. He was pleased, too, with her appearance when she was -dressed, and ready to accompany him. She was subdued in tone, and less -talkative a great deal than she had been the day before. He took it for -granted that it was his influence that had done this—‘Another proof,’ -he said to himself, ‘how expedient it is to show that you are master, -and will stand no nonsense.’ He had been so despairing about her the -night before, and saw such a vista of troubles before him in the six -years of guardianship that remained, that this docility made him at once -complacent and triumphant now.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want to be hard upon you, Kate,’ he said; ‘but you must -recollect that at present, in the eye of the law, you are a child, and -have no right to interfere with anything—neither parish, nor estate, -nor even house.’</p> - -<p>‘But it is all mine, Uncle Courtenay.’</p> - -<p>‘That has nothing to do with it,’ said her guardian, promptly. ‘The deer -in the park have about as much right to meddle as you.’</p> - -<p>‘Is our park small?’ said Kate. ‘Do you know Sir Herbert Eldridge, Uncle -Courtenay? Where does he live?—and has he a very fine place? I can’t -believe that there are five hundred acres in his park; and I don’t know -how many there are in ours. I don’t understand measuring one’s own -places. What does it matter an acre or two? I am sure there is no park -so nice as Langton-Courtenay under the sun.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span></p> - -<p>‘What is all this about parks? You take away my breath,’ said Mr. -Courtenay, in dismay.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! nothing,’ said Kate; ‘only that I heard a person say—when I was -out last night I met one of the Rectory people, Uncle Courtenay—it is -partly for that I want to go—his sister, he says, is the same age as -I——’</p> - -<p>‘<i>His</i> sister!—it was a he, then?’ said Mr. Courtenay, with that prompt -suspiciousness which is natural to the guardian of an heiress.</p> - -<p>‘It was Bertie, the second son—of course it was a he. A girl could not -have jumped over the fence—one might scramble, you know, but one -couldn’t jump it with one’s petticoats. He told me one or two -things—about his family.’</p> - -<p>‘But why did he jump over the fence? And what do you know about him? Do -you talk to everybody that comes in your way—about his family?’ cried -Mr. Courtenay, with returning dismay.</p> - -<p>‘Of course I do, Uncle Courtenay,’ said Kate, looking full at him. ‘You -may say I have no right to interfere, but I have always known that -Langton was to be mine, and I have always taken an interest -in—everybody. Why, it was my duty. What else could I do?’</p> - -<p>‘I should prefer that you did almost anything else,’ said Mr. Courtenay, -hastily; and then he stopped short, feeling that it was incautious to -betray his reasons, or suggest to the lively imagination of this -perverse young woman that there was danger in Bertie Hardwick and his -talk. ‘The danger’s self were lure alone,’ he said to himself, and -plunged, in his dismay, into another subject. ‘Do you remember what I -said to you last night about your Aunt Anderson?’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t -you like to go and see her, Kate? She has a daughter of your own age, an -only child. They have been abroad all their lives, and, I daresay, speak -a dozen languages—that sort of people generally do. I think it would be -a right thing to visit her——’</p> - -<p>‘If it would be a right thing to visit her, Uncle Courtenay, it would be -still righter to ask her to come here.’</p> - -<p>‘But that I forbid, my dear,’ said the old man.</p> - -<p>Then there was a pause. Kate was greatly tempted to lose her temper, -but, on the whole, experience taught her that losing one’s temper seldom -does much good, and she restrained herself. She tried a different mode -of attack.</p> - -<p>‘Uncle Courtenay,’ she said, pathetically, ‘is it because you don’t want -any one to love me that nobody is ever allowed to stay here?’</p> - -<p>‘When you are older, Kate, you will see what I mean,’ said Mr. -Courtenay. ‘I don’t wish you to enter the world with any yoke on your -neck. I mean you to be free. You will thank me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span> afterwards, when you see -how you have been saved from a tribe of locusts—from a household of -dependents——’</p> - -<p>Kate stopped and gazed at him with a curious, semi-comprehension. She -put her head a little on one side, and looked up to him with her bright -eyes. ‘Dependents!’ she said—‘dependents, uncle! Miss Blank tells me I -have a great number of dependents, but I am sure they don’t care for -me.’</p> - -<p>‘They never do,’ said Mr. Courtenay—this was, he thought, the one grand -experience which he had won from life.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Bertie Hardwick</span> was on the lawn in front of the Rectory when the two -visitors approached. The Rectory was a pretty, old-fashioned house, -large and quaint, with old picturesque wings and gables, and a front -much covered with climbing plants. Kate had always been rather proud of -it, as one of the ornaments of her estate. She looked at it almost as -she looked at the pretty west gate of her park, where the lodge was so -commodious and so pleasant, coveted by all the poor people on the -estate. It was by Kate’s grace and favour that the west lodge was given -to one or another, and so would it be with the Rectory. She looked upon -the one in much the same light as the other. It would be hard to tell -what magnetic chord of sympathies had moved Bertie Hardwick to some -knowledge of what his young acquaintance was about to do; but it is -certain that he was there, pretending to play croquet with his sisters, -and keeping a very keen eye upon the bit of road which was visible -through the break in the high laurel hedge. He had been amused, and -indeed somewhat touched and interested, in spite of himself, on the -previous night; and somehow he had a feeling that she would come. When -he caught a glimpse of her, he threw down the croquet mallet, as if it -hurt him, and cried out—‘Edith, run and tell mamma she is coming. I -felt quite sure she would.’</p> - -<p>‘Who is coming?’ cried the two girls.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, don’t chatter and ask questions—rush and tell mamma!’ cried -Bertie; and he himself, without thinking of it, went forward to open the -garden door. It was a trial of Kate’s steadiness to meet him thus, but -she did so with wide-open eyes and a certain serious courage. ‘You saw -me at a disadvantage, but I don’t mind,’ Kate’s serious eyes were -saying; and as she took the matter very gravely indeed, it was she who -had the best of it now. Bertie, in spite of himself, felt confused as he -met her look; he grew red, and was ashamed of his own foolish impulse to -go and open the door.</p> - -<p>‘This is Mr. Bertie Hardwick, uncle,’ said Kate, gravely;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> ‘and this, -Mr. Bertie, is my Uncle Courtenay—whom I told you of,’ she added, with -a little sigh.</p> - -<p>Her Uncle Courtenay—whom she was obliged to obey, and over whom neither -her impetuosity nor her melancholy had the least power. She shook her -head to herself, as it were, over her sad fate, and by this movement -placed once more in great danger the gravity of poor Bertie, who was -afraid to laugh or otherwise misconduct himself under the eyes of Mr. -Courtenay. He led the visitors into the drawing-room, through the open -windows; and it is impossible to tell what a relief it was to him when -he saw his mother coming to the rescue. And then they all sat down; Kate -as near Mrs. Hardwick as she could manage to establish herself. Kate did -not understand the shyness with which Minnie and Edith, half withdrawn -on the other side of their mother, looked at her.</p> - -<p>‘I am not a wild beast,’ she said to herself. ‘I wonder do they think I -will bite?’</p> - -<p>‘Did you tell them about last night?’ she said, turning quickly to -Bertie; for Mrs. Hardwick, instead of talking to <i>her</i>, the Lady of the -Manor, as Kate felt she ought to have done, gave her attention to Mr. -Courtenay instead.</p> - -<p>‘I told them I had met you, Miss Courtenay,’ said Bertie.</p> - -<p>‘And did they laugh? Did you make fun of me? Why do they look at me so -strangely?’ cried Kate, growing red; ‘I am not a wild beast.’</p> - -<p>‘You forget that you and my father have quarrelled,’ said Bertie; ‘and -the girls naturally take his side.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! is it that?’ cried Kate, clearing up a little. She gave a quick -glance at him, with a misgiving as to whether he was entirely serious. -But Bertie kept his countenance. ‘For that matter, I have come to say -that I did not mean anything wrong; perhaps I made a mistake. Uncle -Courtenay says that, till I am of age, I have no power; and if the -Rector pleases—oh! there is the Rector—I ought to speak for myself.’</p> - -<p>She rose as Mr. Hardwick came up to her. Her sense of her own importance -gave a certain dignity to her young figure, which was springy and -stately, like that of a young Diana. She threw back the flood of -chestnut hair that streamed over her shoulders, and looked straight at -him with her bright, well-opened eyes. Altogether she looked a creature -of a different species from Edith and Minnie, who kept close together, -looking at her with wonder, and a mixture of admiration and repugnance.</p> - -<p>‘Isn’t it bold of her to speak to papa like that?’ Minnie whispered to -Edith.</p> - -<p>‘But she is going to ask his pardon,’ Edith whispered back to Minnie. -‘Oh! hush, and hear what she says.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span></p> - -<p>As for Bertie, he looked on with a strange feeling that it was he who -had introduced this new figure into the domestic circle, and with a -little anxiety of proprietorship hoped that she would make a good -impression. She was his novelty, his property—and she was, there could -be no doubt, a very great novelty indeed.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Hardwick, please,’ said Kate, reddening, yet confronting him with -her head very erect, and her eyes very open, ‘I find that I made a -mistake. Uncle Courtenay tells me I had no right at my age to interfere. -I shall not be of age for six years, and don’t you think it would be -best to be friendly—till then? If you are willing, I should be glad. I -thought I had a right—but I understand now that it was all a mistake.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Hardwick looked round upon the company, questioning and puzzled. He -was a tall man, spare, but of a large frame, with deep-set blue eyes -looking out of a somewhat brown face. His eyes looked like a bit of sky, -which had strayed somehow into that brown, ruddy framework. They were -the same colour as his son’s, Bertie’s; but Bertie’s youthful -countenance was still white and red, and the contrast was not so great. -The Rector’s face was very grave when in repose, and its expression had -almost daunted Kate; but gradually he caught the joke (which was -intended to be so profoundly serious) and lighted up. He had looked at -his wife first, with a man’s natural instinct, asking an explanation; -and perhaps the suppressed laughter in Mrs. Hardwick’s eyes was what -gave him the clue. He made the little Lady of the Manor a profound bow. -‘Let us understand each other, Miss Courtenay,’ he said, with mock -solemnity—‘are we to be friendly only till you come of age? Six years -is a long time. But if after that hostilities are to be resumed——’</p> - -<p>‘When I am of age of course I must do my duty,’ said Kate.</p> - -<p>She was so serious, standing there in the midst of them, grave as twenty -judges, that nobody could venture to laugh. Uncle Courtenay, who was -getting impatient, and who had no feeling either of chivalry or -admiration for his troublesome ward, uttered a hasty exclamation; but -the Rector took her hand, and shook it, with a smile which at once -conciliated his two girls, who were looking on.</p> - -<p>‘That is just the feeling you ought to have,’ he said. ‘I see we shall -be capital friends—I mean for six years; and then whatever you see to -be your duty—Is it a bargain? I am delighted to accept these terms.’</p> - -<p>‘And I am very glad,’ said Kate, sedately. She sat down again when he -released her hand—giving her head a little shake, as was customary with -her, and looked round with a certain majestic composure on the little -assembly. As for Bertie,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span> though he could not conceal from himself the -fact that his father and mother were much amused, he still felt very -proud of his young lady. He went up to her, and stood behind her chair, -and made signs to his mother that she was to talk; which Mrs. Hardwick -did to such good purpose that Kate, who wanted little encouragement, and -to whom a friendly face was sweet, soon stood fully self-revealed to her -new acquaintances. They took her out upon the lawn, and instructed her -in croquet, and grew familiar with her; and, before half an hour had -passed, Minnie and Edith, one on each side, were hanging about her, half -in amazement, half in admiration. She was younger than both, for even -Minnie, the little one, was sixteen; but then neither of them was a -great lady—neither the head and mistress of her own house.</p> - -<p>‘Isn’t it dreadfully dreary for you to live in that great house all by -yourself?’ said Edith. They were so continually together, and so apt to -take up each other’s sentiments, one repeating and continuing what the -other had said, that they could scarcely get through a question except -jointly. So that Minnie now added her voice, running into her sister’s. -‘It must be so dull, unless your governess is very nice indeed.’</p> - -<p>‘My governess—Miss Blank?’ said Kate. ‘I never thought whether she was -nice or not. I have had so many. One comes for a year, and then another, -and then another. I never could make out why they liked to change so -often. Uncle Courtenay thinks it is best.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! our governess stayed for years and years,’ said Edith; added -Minnie, ‘We were nearly as fond of her as of mamma.’</p> - -<p>‘But then I suppose,’ said Kate, with a little sigh, ‘she was fond of -you?’</p> - -<p>‘Why, of course,’ cried the two girls together. ‘How could she help it, -when she had known us all our lives?’</p> - -<p>‘You think a great deal of yourselves,’ said Kate, with dreary scorn, -‘to think people must be fond of you! If you were like me you would know -better. I never fancy anything of the kind. If they do what I tell them, -that is all I ask. You are very different from me. You have father, and -mother, and brothers, and all sorts of things. But I have nobody, except -Uncle Courtenay—and I am sure I should be very glad to make you a -present of him.’</p> - -<p>‘Have you not even an aunt?’ said Minnie, with big round eyes of wonder. -‘Nor a cousin?’ said Edith, equally surprised.</p> - -<p>‘No—that is, oh! yes, I have one of each—Uncle Courtenay was talking -of them as we came here—but I never saw them. I don’t know anything -about them,’ said Kate.</p> - -<p>‘What curious people, not to come to see you!’ ‘And what a pity you -don’t know them!’ said the sisters.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span></p> - -<p>‘And how curiously you talk,’ said uncompromising Kate; ‘both together. -Please, is there only one of you, or are there two of you? I suppose it -is talking in the same voice, and being dressed alike.’</p> - -<p>‘We are considered alike,’ said Edith, the eldest, with an air of -suppressed offence. As for Minnie, she was too indignant to make any -reply.</p> - -<p>‘And so you are alike,’ said Kate; ‘and a little like your brother, too; -but he speaks for himself. I don’t object to people being alike; but I -should try very hard to make you talk like two people, not like one, and -not always to hang together and dress the same, if you were with me.’</p> - -<p>Upon this there was a dead pause. The Rectory girls were good girls, but -not quite prepared to stand an assault like this. Minnie, who had a -quick temper, and who had been taught that it was indispensable to keep -it down, shut her lips tight, and resisted the temptation to be angry. -Edith, who was more placid, gazed at the young censor with wonder. What -a strange girl!</p> - -<p>‘Because,’ said Kate, endeavouring to be explanatory, ‘your voices have -just the same sound, and you are just the same height, and your blue -frocks are even made the same. Are there so many girls in the world,’ -she said suddenly, with a pensive appeal to human nature in general, -‘that people can afford to throw them away, and make two into one?’</p> - -<p>Deep silence followed. Mrs. Hardwick had been called away, and Bertie -was talking to the gardener at the other end of the lawn. This was the -first unfortunate result of leaving the girls to themselves. They walked -on a little, the two sisters falling a step behind in their -discomfiture. ‘How dare she speak to us so?’ Minnie whispered through -her teeth. ‘Dare!—she is our guest!’ said Edith, who had a high sense -of decorum. A minute after, Kate perceived that something was amiss. She -turned round upon them, and gazed into their faces with serious -scrutiny. ‘Are you angry?’ she said—‘have I said anything wrong?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! not angry,’ said Edith. ‘I suppose, since you look surprised, you -don’t—mean—any harm.’</p> - -<p>‘I?—mean harm?— Oh! Mr. Bertie,’ cried Kate, ‘come here -quick—quick!—and explain to them. <i>You</i> know me. What have I done to -make them angry? One may surely say what one thinks.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know that it is good to say all one thinks,’ said Edith, who -taught in the Sunday-schools, and who was considered very thoughtful and -judicious—‘at least, when it is likely to hurt other people’s -feelings.’</p> - -<p>‘Not when it is true?’ said the remorseless Kate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span></p> - -<p>And then the whole group came to a pause, Bertie standing open-mouthed, -most anxious to preserve the peace, but not knowing how. It was the -judicious Edith who brought the crisis to a close by acting upon one of -the maxims with which she was familiar as a teacher of youth.</p> - -<p>‘Should you like to walk round the garden?’ she said, changing the -subject with an adroitness which was very satisfactory to herself, ‘or -come back into the drawing-room? There is not much to see in our little -place, after your beautiful gardens at Langton-Courtenay; but still, if -you would like to walk round—or perhaps you would prefer to go in and -join mamma?’</p> - -<p>‘My uncle must be ready to go now,’ said Kate, with responsive -quickness, and she stalked in before them through the open window. As -good luck would have it, Mr. Courtenay was just rising to take his -leave. Kate followed him out, much subdued, in one sense, though all in -arms in another. The girls were not nearly so nice as she thought they -would be—reality was not equal to anticipation—and to think they -should have quarrelled with her the very first time for nothing! This -was the view of the matter which occurred to Kate.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I cannot</span> undertake to say how it was, but it is certain that Bertie -Hardwick met Kate next day, as she took her walk into the village, -accompanied by Miss Blank. At the sight of him, that lady’s countenance -clouded over; but Kate was glad, and the young man took no notice of -Miss Blank’s looks. As it happened, the conversation between the -governess and her pupil had flagged—it often flagged. The conversation -between Kate and Miss Blank consisted generally of a host of bewildering -questions on the one side, and as few answers as could be managed on the -other. Miss Blank no doubt had affairs of her own to think of; and then -Kate’s questions were of everything in heaven and earth, and might have -troubled even a wise counsellor. Mr. Courtenay was still at Langton, but -had sent out his niece for her usual walk—a thing by which she felt -humiliated—and she had met with a rebuff in the village in consequence -of some interference. She was in low spirits, and Miss Blank did not -mind. Accordingly, Bertie was a relief and comfort to her, more than can -be described.</p> - -<p>‘Why don’t your sisters like me?’ said Kate. ‘I wonder, Mr. Bertie, why -people don’t like me? If they would let me, I should like to be friends; -but you saw they would not.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think—perhaps—that they quite understood——’</p> - -<p>‘But it is so easy to understand,’ said Kate, with a little impatient -sigh. She shook her head, and tossed back her shining hair, which made -an aureole round her. ‘Don’t let us speak of it,’ she said; ‘but you -understood from the very first?’</p> - -<p>Bertie was pleased, he could not have told why. The fact was, he, too, -had been extremely puzzled at first; but now, after three meetings, he -felt himself an old friend and privileged interpreter of the strange -girl whom his sisters were so indignant with, and who certainly was a -more important personage at Langton-Courtenay than any other -fifteen-year-old girl in England. Both Mr. Hardwick and Bertie had to -some extent made themselves Kate’s champions, moved thereto by that -strange predisposition to take the side of a feminine stranger<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> (at -least, when she is young and pleasant) against the women of their own -house, which almost all men are moved by. Women take their father’s, -their husband’s, their brother’s side through thick and thin, with a -natural certainty that their own must be in the right; but men -invariably take it for granted that their own must be wrong. Thus, not -only Bertie, who might be moved by other arguments, but even Mr. -Hardwick, secretly believed that ‘the girls’ had taken offence -foolishly, and maintained the cause of Kate.</p> - -<p>‘They have seen nothing out of their own sphere,’ their brother said, -apologetically—‘they don’t know much—they are very much petted and -spoiled at home.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said Kate, feeling as if a chilly <i>douche</i> had suddenly been -administered in her face. She drew a long, half-sobbing breath, and then -she said, with a pathetic tone in her voice, ‘Oh! I wonder why people -don’t like me!’</p> - -<p>‘You are wrong, Miss Courtenay—I am sure you are wrong,’ said Bertie, -warmly. ‘Not like you!—that must be their stupidity alone. And I can’t -believe, even, that any one is so stupid. You must be making a mistake.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Mr. Bertie, how can you say so? Why, your sisters!’ cried Kate, -returning to the charge.</p> - -<p>‘But it is not that they—don’t like you,’ said Bertie. ‘How could you -think it? It is only a misunderstanding—a—a—want of knowing——’</p> - -<p>‘You are trying to save my feelings,’ said Kate; ‘but never mind my -feelings. No, Mr. Bertie, it is quite true. I do not want to deceive -myself—people do not like me.’ These words she produced singly, as if -they had been so many stones thrown at the world. ‘Oh! please don’t say -anything—perhaps it is my fate; perhaps I am never to be any better. -But that is how it is—people don’t like me; I am sure I don’t know -why.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Courtenay——’ Bertie began, with great earnestness; but just -then the man-of-all-work from the Rectory, who was butler, and footman, -and valet, and everything combined, made his appearance at the corner, -beckoning to him; and as the servant was sent by his father, he had no -alternative but to go away. When he was out of sight, Kate, whose eyes -had followed him as far as he was visible, breathed forth a gentle sigh, -and was going on quietly upon her way, silent, until the mood should -seize her to chatter once more, when an event occurred that had never -been known till now to happen at Langton—the governess, who was -generally blank as her name, opened her mouth and spoke.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Courtenay,’ she said, for she was not even sufficiently interested -in her pupil to care to speak to her by her Christian name—‘Miss -Courtenay, if this sort of thing continues, I shall have to go away.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span></p> - -<p>Kate, who was not much less startled than Balaam was on a similar -occasion, stopped short, and turned round with a face of consternation -upon her companion. ‘If what continues?’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘This,’ said Miss Blank—‘this meeting of young men, and walking with -them. It is hard enough to have to manage <i>you</i>; but if this goes on, I -shall speak to Mr. Courtenay. I never was compromised before, and I -don’t mean to be so now.’</p> - -<p>Kate was so utterly unconscious of the meaning of all this, that she -simply stared in dismay. ‘Compromised!’ she said, with big eyes of -astonishment; ‘I don’t know what you mean. What is it that must not go -on? Miss Blank, I hope you have not had a sunstroke, or something that -makes people talk without knowing what they say.’</p> - -<p>‘I will not take any impertinence from you, Miss Courtenay,’ said Miss -Blank, going red with wrath. ‘Ask why people don’t like you, -indeed!—you should ask me, instead of asking a gentleman, fishing for -compliments! <i>I’ll</i> tell you why people don’t like you. It is because -you are always interfering—thrusting yourself into things you have no -business with—taking things upon you that no child has a right to -meddle with. That is why people hate you——’</p> - -<p>‘Hate me!’ cried Kate, who, for her part, had grown pale with horror.</p> - -<p>‘Yes; hate you—that is the word. Do you think any one would put up with -such a life who could help it? You are an heiress, and people are -obliged to mind you; but if you had been a poor girl, you would have -known the difference. Nobody would have put up with you then; you would -have been beaten, or starved, or done something to. It is only your -money that gives you the power to trample others under your feet.’</p> - -<p>Kate was appalled by this address. It stupefied her, in the first place, -that Miss Blank should have taken the initiative, and launched forth -into speech, as it were, on her own account; and the assault took away -the girl’s breath. She felt as one might feel who had been suddenly -saluted with a shower of blows from an utterly unsuspected adversary. -She did not know whether to fight or flee. She walked along mechanically -by her assailant’s side, and gasped for breath. Her eyes grew large and -round with wonder. She listened in amaze, not able to believe her ears.</p> - -<p>‘But I won’t be kept quiet any longer,’ said Miss Blank—‘I will speak. -Why should I get myself into trouble for you? I will go to Mr. -Courtenay, when we get back, and I will tell him it is impossible to go -on like this. It was bad enough before. You were trouble enough from the -first day I ever set eyes on you; but I have always said to myself, when -<i>that</i> commences,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span> I will go away. My character is above everything, and -all the gold in England would not tempt me to stay.’</p> - -<p>Kate listened to all this with a bewilderment that took from her the -power of speech. What did the woman mean?—was she ‘in a passion,’ as, -indeed, other governesses, to Kate’s knowledge, had been; or was she -mad? It must be a sunstroke, she decided at last. They had been walking -in the sun, and Miss Blank’s bonnet was too thin, being made of flimsy -tulle. Her brain must be affected. Kate resolved heroically that she -would not aggravate the sufferer by any response, but would send for the -housekeeper as soon as they got back, and place Miss Blank in her hands. -People in her sad condition must not be contradicted. She quickened her -steps, discussing with herself whether a dark room and ice to the -forehead would be enough, or whether it would be necessary to cut off -all her hair, or even shave her head. This pre-occupation about Miss -Blank’s welfare shielded the girl for some time against the fiery, -stinging arrows which were being thrown at her; but this immunity did -not last, for the way was long, and Miss Blank, having once broken out, -put no further restraint upon herself. It was clear now that her only -hope was in laying Kate prostrate, leaving no spirit nor power of -resistance in her. By degrees the sharp words began to get admittance at -the girl’s tingling ears. She was beaten down by the storm of -opposition. Was it possible?—could it be true? Did people <i>hate</i> her? -Her imagination began to work as these burning missiles flew at her. -Miss Blank had been her companion for a year, and hated her! Uncle -Courtenay was her own uncle—her nearest relative—and he, too, hated -her! The girls at the Rectory, who looked so gentle, had turned against -her. Oh! why, why was it? By degrees a profound discouragement seized -upon the poor child. Miss Blank was eloquent; she had a flow of words -such as had never come to her before. She poured forth torrents of -bitterness as she walked, and Kate was beaten down by the storm. By the -time they reached home she had forgotten all about the sunstroke, and -shaving Miss Blank’s head, and thought of nothing but getting -free—getting into the silence—being alone. Maryanne put a letter into -her hand as she ran upstairs; but what did she care for a letter! -Everybody hated her—if it were not that she was an heiress everybody -would abandon her—and she had not one friend to go to, no one whom she -could ask to help her in all the dreary world. She was too far gone for -weeping. She sat down before her dressing-table and looked into the -glass with miserable, dilated eyes. ‘I am just like other people,’ Kate -said to herself; ‘there is no mark upon me. Cain was marked; but that -was because he was a murderer; and I never killed anybody, I never did -any harm to anybody, that I know of. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> am only just a girl, like other -girls. Oh! I suppose I am dreadfully wicked! But then everybody is -wicked—the Bible says so; and how am I worse than all the rest? I don’t -hate any one,’ said Kate, aloud, and very slowly. Her poor little mouth -quivered, her eyes filled, and right upon the letter on her table there -fell one great blob of a tear. This roused her in the midst of her -distress. To Kate—as to every human being of her age—it seemed -possible that something new, something wonderful might be in any letter. -She took it up and tore it open. She was longing for comfort, longing -for kindness, as she had never done in her life.</p> - -<p>The letter which we are about to transcribe was not a very wise one, -perhaps not even altogether to be sworn by as true—but it opened an -entire new world to poor Kate.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p> -<span class="smcap">My dearest unknown darling niece</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="indd">‘You can’t remember me, for I have never seen you since you were a -tiny, tiny baby in long clothes; and you have had nobody about you -to remind you that you had any relations on your mother’s side. You -have never answered my letters even, dear, though I don’t for a -moment blame you, or suppose it is your fault. But now that I am in -England, darling, we must not allow ourselves to be divided by -unfortunate feelings that may exist between different sides of the -family. I must see you, my dear only sister’s only darling child! I -have but one child, too, my Ombra, and she is as anxious as I am. I -have written to your guardian, asking if he will let you come and -see us. I do not wish to go to your grand house, which was always -thought too fine for us, but I must see you, my darling child; and -if Mr. Courtenay will not let you come to us, my Ombra and I will -come to Langton-Courtenay, to the village, where we shall no doubt -find lodgings somewhere—I don’t mind how humble they are, so long -as I can see you. My heart yearns to take you in my arms, to give -you a hundred kisses, my own niece, my dear motherless child. Send -me one little word by your own hand, and don’t reject the love that -is offered you, my dearest Kate. Ombra sends you her dear love, and -thinks of you, not as a cousin, but as a sister; and I, who have -the best right, long for nothing so much as to be a mother to you! -Come to us, my sweet child, if your uncle will let you; but, in the -meantime, write to me, that I may know you a little even before we -meet. With warmest love, my darling niece, your most affectionate -aunt and, if you will let her be so, mother,</p> - -<p class="r"> -‘<span class="smcap">Jane Anderson</span>.’<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Now poor Kate had only two or three times in her whole<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span> life received a -letter before. Since, as she said, she had ‘grown up,’ she had not heard -from her aunt, who had written her, she recollected, one or two baby -epistles, printed in large letters, in her childhood. Her poor little -soul was still convulsed with the first great, open undisguised shock of -unkindness, when this other great event came upon her. It was also a -shock in its way. It made such a tempest in her being as conflicting -winds make out at sea. The one had driven her down to the depths, the -other dashed her up, up to a dizzy height. She felt dazed, insensible, -proud, triumphant, and happy, all at once. Here was somebody of her own, -somebody of her very own—something like the mother at the Rectory. -Something new, close, certain—her own!</p> - -<p>She dashed the tears from her eyes with a handkerchief, seized upon her -letter, her dear letter, and rushed downstairs to the library, where -Uncle Courtenay sat in state, the judge, and final tribunal for all -appeals.</p> - -<h2><a name="Illustration" id="Illustration"></a>[Illustration]</h2> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Courtenay</span> was in the library at Langton, tranquilly pursuing some -part of the business which had brought him thither, when Miss Blank and -her charge returned from their walk. His chief object, it is true, in -this visit to the house of his fathers, had been to look after his ward; -but there had been other business to do—leases to renew, timber to cut -down, cottages to build; a multiplicity of small matters, which required -his personal attention. These were straightforward, and did not trouble -him as the others did; and the fact was that he felt much relieved by -the absence of the young feminine problem, which it was so hard upon -him, at his age, and with his habits, to be burdened with. He had -dismissed her even out of his mind, and was getting through the less -difficult matters steadily, with a grateful sense that here at least he -had nothing in hand that was beyond his power. It was shady in the -Langton library, cool, and very quiet; whereas outside there was one -blaze of sunshine, and the day was hot. Mr. Courtenay was -comfortable—perhaps for the first time since his arrival. He was -satisfied with his present occupation, and for the moment had dismissed -his other cares.</p> - -<p>This was the pleasant position of affairs when Miss Blank rushed in upon -him, with indignation in her countenance. There was something more than -indignation—there was the flush of heat produced by her walk, and her -unusual outburst of temper, and the dust, and a little dishevelment -inseparable from wrath. She scarcely took time to knock at the door. She -was a person who had been recommended to him as imperturbable in temper -and languid in disposition—the last in the world to make any fuss; -consequently he stared upon her now with absolute consternation, and -even a little alarm.</p> - -<p>‘Compose yourself, Miss Blank—take time to speak. Has anything happened -to Kate?’</p> - -<p>He was quite capable of hearing with composure anything that might have -happened to Kate—anything short of positive injury, indeed, which would -have freed him of her, would have been tidings of joy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span></p> - -<p>‘I have come to say, sir,’ said Miss Blank, ‘that there are some things -a lady cannot be expected to put up with. I have always felt the time -must come when I could not put up with Miss Courtenay. I am not an -ill-tempered person, I hope——’</p> - -<p>‘Quite the reverse, I have always heard,’ said Mr. Courtenay, politely, -but with a sigh.</p> - -<p>‘Thank you, sir. I believe I have always been considered to have a good -temper; but I have said to myself, since ever I came here, “Miss -Courtenay is bad enough <i>now</i>—she is trial enough to any lady’s -feelings now.” I am sorry to have to say it if it hurts your feelings, -Mr. Courtenay, but your niece s—she is—it is really almost impossible -for a lady who has a respect for herself, and does not wish to be -hurried into exhibitions of temper, to say what Miss Kate is.’</p> - -<p>‘Pray compose yourself, Miss Blank. Take a seat. From my own -observation,’ said Mr. Courtenay, ‘I am aware my niece must be -troublesome at times.’</p> - -<p>‘Troublesome!’ said Miss Blank—‘at times! That shows, sir, how little -you know. About her troublesomeness I can’t trust myself to speak; nor -is it necessary at the present moment. But I have always said to myself, -“When that time comes, I will go at once.” And it appears to me, Mr. -Courtenay, that though premature, that time has come.’</p> - -<p>‘What time, for Heaven’s sake?’ said the perplexed guardian.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Courtenay, you know what she is as well as I do. It is not for any -personal reason, though I am aware many people think her pretty; but it -is not that. She is an heiress, she will have a nice property, and a -great deal of money, therefore it is quite natural that it should be -premature.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Blank, you would do me an infinite favour if you would speak -plainly. What is it that is premature?’</p> - -<p>Miss Blank had taken a seat, and she had loosed the strings of her -bonnet. Her ideas of decorum had indeed been so far overcome by her -excitement, that even under Mr. Courtenay’s eye she had begun to fan -herself with her handkerchief. She made a pause in this occupation, and -pressed her handkerchief to her face, as expressive of confusion; and -from the other side of this shield she answered, ‘Oh! that I should have -to speak to a gentleman of such things! If you demand a distinct answer, -I must tell you. It is <i>lovers</i>, Mr. Courtenay.’</p> - -<p>‘Lovers!’ he said, involuntarily, with a laugh of relief.</p> - -<p>‘You may laugh, but it is no laughing matter,’ said Miss Blank. ‘Oh! if -you had known, as I do by experience, what it is to manage girls! Do you -know what a girl is, Mr. Courtenay?—the most aggravating, trying, -unmanageable, untamable——’</p> - -<p>‘My dear Miss Blank,’ said, Mr. Courtenay, seriously, ‘I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span> presume that -you were once one of these untamable creatures yourself.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said the governess, with a long-drawn breath. It had not occurred -to her, and, curiously enough, now that it was suggested, the idea -seemed rather to flatter her than otherwise. She shook her head; but she -was softened. ‘Perhaps I should not have said all girls,’ she resumed. -‘I was very strictly brought up, and never allowed to take such folly -into my head. But to return to our subject, Mr. Courtenay. I must beg -your attention to this—it has been my principle through life, I have -never departed from it yet, and I cannot now—When lovers appear, I have -always made it known among my friends—I go.’</p> - -<p>‘I have no doubt it is an admirable principle,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘But -in the present case let us come to particulars. Who are the lovers?’</p> - -<p>‘One of the young gentlemen at the Rectory,’ answered Miss Blank, -promptly; and then for the first time she felt that she had produced an -effect.</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay made no reply—he put down his pen, which he had been -holding all this time in his hand; his face clouded over; he pushed his -paper away from him and puckered his lips and his forehead. This time, -without doubt, she had produced an effect.</p> - -<p>‘I must beg you accordingly, Mr. Courtenay, to accept my resignation,’ -said Miss Blank. ‘I have always kept up a good connection, and never -suffered myself to be compromised, and I don’t mean to begin now. This -day month, sir, if you please—if in the meantime you are suited with -another lady in my place——’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Blank, don’t you think this is something like forsaking your post? -Is it not ungenerous to desert my niece when she has so much need of -your protection? Do you not feel——’ Mr. Courtenay had commenced -unawares.</p> - -<p>‘Sir,’ said Miss Blank, with dignity, ‘when I was engaged, it was -specially agreed that this was to be no matter of feelings. I have -specially watched over my feelings, that they might not get any way -involved. I am sure you must recollect the terms of my engagement as -well as I.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay did recollect them, and felt he had made a false step; and -then the difficulties of his position rushed upon his bewildered sight. -He did not know girls as Miss Blank did, who had spent many a weary year -in wrestling with them; but he knew enough to understand that, if a girl -in her natural state was hard to manage, a girl with a lover must be -worse. And what was he to do if left alone, and unaided, to rule and -quiet such an appalling creature? He drew in his lips, and contracted -his forehead, until his face was about half its usual size.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span> It gave him -a little relief when the idea suddenly struck him that Miss Blank’s -hypothesis might not be built on sufficient foundation. Women were -always thinking of lovers—or, at least, not knowing anything precisely -about women, so Mr. Courtenay had heard.</p> - -<p>‘Let us hope, at least,’ he said, ‘that your alarming suggestion has -been hastily made. Will you tell me what foundation you have for -connecting Kate’s name with—with anything of the kind? She is only -fifteen—she is not old enough.’</p> - -<p>‘I thought I had said distinctly, Mr. Courtenay, that I considered it to -be premature?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes, certainly—you said so—but—— Perhaps, Miss Blank, you will -kindly favour me with the facts——’</p> - -<p>At this point another hurried knock came to the door. And once more, -without waiting for an answer, Kate, all tears and trouble, her face -flushed like Miss Blank’s, her hair astray, and an open letter in her -hand, came rushing into the room. Two agitated female creatures in one -hour, rushing into the private sanctuary of the most particular of -bachelors! Mr. Courtenay commended her, though she was his nearest -relation, to all the infernal gods.</p> - -<p>‘What is the matter now?’ he cried, sharply. ‘Why do you burst in -uninvited when I am busy? Kate, you seem to be trying every way to -irritate and annoy me. What is it now?’</p> - -<p>‘Uncle,’ cried Kate, breathlessly, ‘I have just got a letter, and I want -to ask you—never mind her!—may I go to my Aunt Anderson’s? She is -willing to have me, and it will save you heaps of trouble! Oh! please, -Uncle Courtenay, please never mind anything else! May I go?’</p> - -<p>‘May you go—to your Aunt Anderson? Why, here is certainly a new -arrangement of the board!’ said Mr. Courtenay. He said the last words -mockingly, and he fixed his eyes on Kate as if she had been a natural -curiosity—which, indeed, in a great degree, she was to him.</p> - -<p>‘Yes—to my Aunt Anderson. You spoke of her yourself—you know you did. -You said she must not come here! and she does not want to come here. I -don’t think she would come if she was asked! but she says I am to go to -her. Uncle Courtenay, in a little while I shall be able to do what I -like, and go where I like——’</p> - -<p>‘Not for six years, my dear,’ said Mr. Courtenay, with a smile.</p> - -<p>Kate stamped her foot in her passion.</p> - -<p>‘If I were to write to the Lord Chancellor, I am sure he would let me!’ -she cried.</p> - -<p>‘But you are not a ward in Chancery—you are my ward,’ said Mr. -Courtenay, blandly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span></p> - -<p>‘Then I will run away!’ cried Kate, once more stamping her foot. ‘I will -not stay here. I hate Langton-Courtenay, and everybody that is unkind, -and the people who hate <i>me</i>. I tell you I hate them, Uncle Courtenay! I -will run away!’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t doubt it, for one,’ said Miss Blank, quietly; ‘but with whom, -Miss Kate, I should like to know? I daresay your plans are all laid.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay did not see the blank stare of surprise with which Kate, -all innocent of the meaning which was conveyed to his ear by these -words, surveyed her adversary. His own better-instructed mind was moved -by it to positive excitement. Even if Miss Blank had been premature in -her suggestion, still there could be little doubt that lovers were a -danger from which Kate could not be kept absolutely safe. And there were -sons at the Rectory, one of whom, a good-looking young fellow of twenty, -he had himself seen coming forward with a look of delighted recognition. -Danger! Why, it was almost more than danger; it seemed a certainty of -evil—if not now, why, then, next year, or the year after! Mr. -Courtenay, like most old men of the world, felt an instinctive distrust -of, and repugnance to, parsons. And a young parson was proverbially on -the outlook for heiresses, and almost considered it a duty to provide -for himself by marriage. All this ran through his disturbed mind as -these two troublesome feminine personages before him waited each for her -answer. ‘Confound women! They are more trouble than they are worth, a -hundred times over!’ the old bachelor said to himself.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Courtenay</span> was much too true to his instincts, however, to satisfy -these two applicants, or to commit himself by any decision on the spot. -He dismissed Miss Blank with the formal courtesy which he employed -towards his inferiors, begging her to wait until to-morrow, when he -should have reflected upon the problem she had laid before him. And he -sent away Kate with much less ceremony, bidding her hold her tongue, and -leave the room and leave things alone which she did not understand. He -would not listen to the angry response which rose to her lips; and Kate -had a melancholy night in consequence, aggravated by the miserable -sensation that she had been snubbed in presence of Miss Blank, who was -quite ready to take advantage of her discomfiture. When Kate’s guardian, -however, was left alone to think, it is probable that his own -reflections were not delightful. He was not a man apt to take himself to -task, nor give way to self-examination, but still it was sufficiently -apparent to him that his plan had not succeeded as he had hoped in -Kate’s case. What he had hoped for had been to produce a quiet, calm -girl, who would do what she was told, whose expectations and wishes -would be on a subdued scale, and who would be reasonable enough to feel -that his judgment was supreme in all matters. Almost all men at one time -or another of their lives entertain the idea of ‘moulding’ a model -woman. Mr. Courtenay’s ideal was not high—all he wanted was -submissiveness, manageableness, quiet manners, and a total absence of -the sentimental and emotional. The girl might have been permitted to be -clever, to be a good musician, or a good artist, or a great student, if -she chose, though such peculiarities always detract more or less from -the air of good society which ought to distinguish a lady; but still Mr. -Courtenay prided himself upon being tolerant, and he would not have -interfered in such a case. But that this ward of his, this -representative of his family, should choose to be an individual being -with a very strong will and marked characteristics of her own, -exasperated the old man of the world. ‘Most women have no character at -all,’ he repeated to himself, raising his eyebrows in wondering appeal -to Providence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> Had the happy period when that aphorism was true, -departed along with all the other manifestations of the age of Gold?—or -was it still true, and was it the fault of Providence, to punish him for -his sins, that his share of womankind should be so perverse? This was a -question which it was difficult to make out; but he was rather inclined -to chafe at Providence, which really does interfere so unjustifiably -often, when things would go very well if they were left to themselves. -The longer he thought of it, the more disgusted did he become—at once -with Miss Blank and with her charge. What a cold-hearted wretch the -woman must be! How strange that she should not at least ‘take an -interest’ in the girl! To be sure he had made it a special point in her -engagement that she should not take an interest. He was right in doing -so, he felt sure; but, still, here was an unforeseen crisis, at which it -would have been very important to have lighted on some one who would not -be bound by a mere bargain. The girl was an unmanageable little fool, -determined to have her own way at all risks; and the law would not -permit him to shut her up, and keep her in the absolute subjection of a -prison. She must have every advantage, forsooth—freedom and society, -and Heaven knows what besides; education as much as if she were going to -earn her living as a governess; and even that crowning horror, Lovers, -when the time came. Yes, there was no law in the realm forbidding an -heiress to have lovers. Miss Blank might resign, not wishing to -compromise herself: but he, the unhappy guardian, could not resign. It -was not illegal for a young man to speak to Kate—any idle fellow, with -an introduction, might chatter to her, and drive her protectors frantic, -and yet could not be put into prison for it. And there could be little -doubt that, simply to spite her guardian, after she had worried him to -death in every other way, she would fall in love. She would do it, as -sure as fate; and even if she met with opposition she was a girl quite -capable of eloping with her lover, giving unbounded trouble, and -probably throwing some lasting stigma on herself and her name. It was -premature, as Miss Blank said; but Miss Blank was a person of -experience, learned in the ways of girls, and doubtless knew what she -was saying. She had declined to have anything further to do with Kate; -she had declared her own sway and ‘lovers’ to be quite incompatible. But -Mr. Courtenay could not give a month’s warning, and what was he to do?</p> - -<p>If there was but anybody to be found who would ‘take an interest’ in the -girl! This idea flashed unconsciously through his mind, and he did not -even realise that in wishing for this, in perceiving its necessity, he -was stultifying all the previous exertions of his guardianship. Theories -are all very well, but it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> astonishing how ready men are to drop them -in an emergency. Mr. Courtenay was in a dreadful emergency at present, -and he prayed to his gods for some one to ‘take an interest’ in this -girl. Her Aunt Anderson! The suggestion was so very convenient, it was -so delightfully ready a way of escape out of his troubles, that he felt -it necessary to pull himself up, and look at it fully. It is not to be -supposed that it was a pleasant or grateful suggestion in itself. Had he -been in no trouble about Kate, he would have at once, and sternly, -declined all invitations (he would have said interference) on the part -of her mother’s family. The late Mr. Courtenay had made a very foolish -marriage, a marriage quite beneath his position; and the sister of the -late Mrs. Courtenay had been discouraged in all her many attempts to see -anything of the orphan Kate. Fortunately she had not been much in -England, and, until the present, these attempts had all been made when -Kate was a baby. Had the young lady of Langton-Courtenay been at all -manageable, they would have been equally discouraged now. But the very -name of Mrs. Anderson, at this crisis, breathed across Mr. Courtenay’s -tribulations like the sweet south across a bed of violets. It was such a -temptation to him as he did not know how to withstand. Her mother’s -family! They had no right, certainly, to any share of the good things, -which were entirely on the Courtenay side; but certainly they had a -right to their share of the trouble. This trouble he had borne for -fifteen years, and had not murmured. Of course, in the very nature of -things, it was their turn now.</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay reflected very deeply on this subject, looking at it in -all its details. Fortunately there were but few remnants of her mother’s -family. Mrs. Anderson was the widow of a Consul, who had spent almost -all his life abroad. She had a pension, a little property, and an only -daughter, a little older than Kate. There were but two of them. If they -turned out to be of that locust tribe which Mr. Courtenay so feared and -hated, they could at least be bought off cheaply, when they had served -their purpose. The daughter, no doubt, would marry, and the mother could -be bought off. Mr. Courtenay did not enter into any discussion with -himself as to the probabilities of carrying out this scheme of buying -off. At this moment he did not care to dwell upon any difficulties. In -the meantime, he had the one great difficulty, Kate herself, to get -settled somehow; and anything which might happen six years hence was so -much less pressing. By that time a great many things unforeseen might -have happened; and Mr. Courtenay did not choose to make so long an -excursion into the unknown. What was he to do with her now? Was he to be -compelled to stay in the country, to give up all his pleasures and -comforts, and the habits of his life, in order to guard and watch over -this girl?—or should she be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span> given over, for the time, to the -guardianship of her mother’s family? This was the real question he had -to decide.</p> - -<p>And by degrees he came to think more and more cordially of Mrs. -Anderson—more cordially, and, at the same time, contemptuously. What a -fool she must be, to offer voluntarily to take all this trouble! No -doubt she expected to make her own advantage out of it; but Mr. -Courtenay, with a grim smile upon his countenance, felt that he himself -was quite capable of taking care of that. He might employ her, but he -would take care that her devotion should be disinterested. She would be -better than a governess at this crisis of Kate’s history! She would be a -natural duenna and inspectress of morals, as well as the superintendent -of education; and it should, of course, be fully impressed upon her that -it was for her interest to discourage lovers, and keep the external -world at arm’s length. The very place of her residence was favourable. -She had settled in the Isle of Wight, a long way from Langton-Courtenay, -and happily so far from town that it would not be possible to run up and -down and appeal to him at any moment. He thought of this all night, and -it was the first subject that returned to his thoughts in the morning. -Mrs. Anderson, or unlimited worry, trouble, and annoyance—banishment to -the country, severance from all delights. Then let it be Mrs. Anderson! -he said to himself, with a sigh. It was hard upon him to have such a -decision to make, and yet it was satisfactory to feel that he had -decided for the best. He went down to breakfast with a certain solemn -composure, as of a man who was doing right and making a sacrifice. It -would be the salvation of his personal comfort, and to secure that, at -all costs, was fundamentally and eternally right; but it was a sacrifice -at once of pride and of principle, and he felt that he had a right to -the honours of martyrdom on that score.</p> - -<p>After breakfast he called his ward into the library, with a polite -little speech of apology to Miss Blank. ‘If you will permit me the -pleasure of a few words with you at twelve o’clock, I think we may -settle that little matter,’ he said, with the greatest suavity; leaving -upon that lady’s mind the impression that Kate was to be bound hand and -foot, and delivered over into her hands—which, as Miss Blank had no -desire, could she avoid it, to leave the comfort of Langton-Courtenay, -was very satisfactory to her; and then he withdrew into the library with -the victim.</p> - -<p>‘Now, Kate,’ he said, sitting down, ‘I am going to speak to you very -seriously.’</p> - -<p>‘You have been doing nothing but speak to me seriously ever since you -came,’ said Kate, pouting. ‘I wish you would not give yourself so much -trouble, Uncle Courtenay. All I want is just yes or no.’</p> - -<p>‘But a great deal depends on the yes or the no. Look here,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> Kate, I am -willing to let you go—oh! pray don’t clap your hands too soon!—I am -willing to let you go, on conditions, and the conditions are rather -serious. You had better not decide until you hear——’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure I shall not mind them,’ said impetuous Kate, before whose -eyes there instantly rose up a prospect of a new world, all full of -freshness, and novelty, and interest. Mind!—she would not have minded -fire and water to get at an existence which should be altogether new.</p> - -<p>‘Listen, however,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘My conditions are very grave. If -you go to Mrs. Anderson, Kate——’</p> - -<p>‘Of course I shall go, if you will let me, Uncle Courtenay.’</p> - -<p>‘If you go,’ said Mr. Courtenay, with a wave of his hand deprecating -interruption, ‘it must not be for a visit only—you must go to stay.’</p> - -<p>‘To stay!’</p> - -<p>Kate’s eyes, which grew round with the strain of wonder, interest, and -excitement, and which kindled, and brightened, and shone, reflecting -like a mirror the shades of feeling that passed through her mind, were a -sight to see.</p> - -<p>‘If you go,’ he continued, ‘and if Mrs. Anderson is content to receive -you, it must be for the remainder of your minority. I have had a great -deal of trouble with your education, and now it is just that your -mother’s family should take their share. Hear me out, Kate. Your aunt, -of course, should have an allowance for your maintenance, and you could -have as many masters and governesses, and all the rest, as were -necessary; but if you go out of my hands, you go not for six weeks, but -for six years, Kate.’</p> - -<p>Kate had been going to speak half a dozen times, but now, having -controlled herself so long, she paused with a certain mixture of -feelings. Her delight was certainly toned down. To go and come—to be -now Queen of Langton, and now her aunt’s amused and petted guest, had -been her own dream of felicity. This was a different matter, there could -be no doubt. It would be the old story—if not the monotony of Langton, -which she knew, the monotony of Shanklin, which she did not know. -Various clouds passed over the firmament which had looked so smiling. -Perhaps it was possible her Aunt Anderson and Ombra might not turn out -desirable companions for six years—perhaps she might regret her native -place, her supremacy over the cottagers, whom she sometimes exasperated. -The cloud thickened, dropped lower. ‘Should I never be allowed to come -back?—not even to <i>see</i> Langton, Uncle Courtenay?’ she asked in a -subdued voice.</p> - -<p>‘Langton, in that case, ought to be let or shut up.’</p> - -<p>‘Let!—to other people!—to strangers, Uncle Courtenay!—our house!’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span></p> - -<p>‘Well, you foolish child, are we such very superior clay that we cannot -let our house? Why, the best people in England do it. The Duke of -Brentford does it. You have not quite his pretensions, and he does not -mind.’</p> - -<p>‘But I have quite his pretensions,’ cried Kate—‘more!—and so have you, -uncle. What is he more than a gentleman? and we are gentlemen, I hope. -Besides, a Duke has a vulgar sort of grandeur with his title—you know -he has—and can do what he pleases; but we must act as gentlefolks. Oh! -Uncle Courtenay, not that!’</p> - -<p>‘Pshaw!’ was all that Mr. Courtenay replied. He was not open to -sentimental considerations, especially when money was concerned; but, -still, he had so much natural prejudice remaining in him for the race -and honour of Langton-Courtenay, that he thought no worse of his -troublesome ward for what she had said. He would of course pay no manner -of attention to it; but still, on the whole, he liked her so to speak.</p> - -<p>‘Let us waive the question,’ he resumed. ‘No, not to -Langton-Courtenay—I don’t choose you should return here, if you quit -it. But there might be change of air, once a year or so, to other -places.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! might we go and travel?—might we go,’ cried Kate, looking up to -him with shining eyes and eager looks, and lips apart, like an angelic -petitioner, ‘abroad?’</p> - -<p>She said this last word with such a fulness and roundness of sound, as -it would be impossible, even in capitals, to convey through the medium -of print.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ he said, with a smile, ‘probably that splendour and delight -might be permitted to be—if you could afford it off your allowance, -being always understood.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! of course we could afford it,’ said Kate. ‘Uncle, I consent at -once—I will write to my Aunt Anderson at once. I wish she was not -called Anderson—it sounds so common—like the groom in the village. -Uncle Courtenay, when can I start? To-morrow? Now, why should you shake -your head? I have very few things to pack; and to-morrow is just as good -as any other day.’</p> - -<p>‘Quite as good, I have no doubt; and so is to-morrow week,’ said Mr. -Courtenay. ‘In the first place, you must take till to-morrow to decide.’</p> - -<p>‘But when I have decided already!’ said Kate.</p> - -<p>‘To-morrow at this time bring me your final answer. There, now run -away—not another word.’</p> - -<p>Kate went away, somewhat indignant; and for the next twenty-four hours -did nothing but plan tours to all the beautiful places she had ever -heard or read about. Her deliberations as to the scheme in general were -all swallowed up in this. ‘I will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span> take them to Switzerland; I will take -them to Italy. We shall travel four or five months in every year; and -see everything and hear everything, and enjoy everything,’ she said to -herself, clapping her hands, as it were, under her breath. For she was -generous in her way; she was quite clear on the point that it was she -who must ‘take’ her aunt and cousin everywhere, and make everything -agreeable for them. Perhaps there was in this a sense of superiority -which satisfied that craving for power and influence which belonged to -her nature; but still, notwithstanding her defective education, it was -never in Kate’s mind to keep any enjoyment to herself.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Before</span> four-and-twenty hours had passed, a certain premonition of -approaching change had stolen into the air at Langton-Courtenay. Miss -Blank, too, had been received by Mr. Courtenay in a private audience, -where he treated her with the courtesy due from one crowned head to -another; but, nevertheless, gave her fully to understand that her reign -was over. This took her all the more by surprise, that she had expected -quite the reverse, from his words and looks in the morning; and it was -perhaps an exclamation which burst from her as she withdrew, amazed and -indignant, to her own room, which betrayed the possibilities of the -future to the household. Miss Blank was not prone to exclamations, nor -to betraying herself in any way; but to have your resignation blandly -accepted, when you expected to be implored, almost with tears, to retain -your post, is an experience likely to overcome the composure of any one. -The exclamation itself was of the plainest character—it was, ‘Oh! I -like his politeness—I like that!’ These words were heard by a passing -housemaid; and not only were the words heard, but the flushed cheek, the -indignant step, the air of injury were noted with all that keenness and -intelligence which the domestic mind reserves for the study of the -secrets of those above them. ‘She’s got the sack like the rest,’ was -Jane’s remark to herself; and she spread it through the house. The -intimation produced a mild interest, but no excitement. But when late in -the afternoon Maryanne came rushing downstairs, open-mouthed, to report -some unwary words which had dropped from her young mistress, the -feelings of the household acquired immediate intensity. It was a -suspecting place, and a poor sort of place, where there never were any -great doings; but still Langton-Courtenay was a comfortable place, and -when Maryanne, with that perverted keenness of apprehension already -noticed, which made her so much more clever in divining her mistress’s -schemes than doing her mistress’s work, had put Kate’s broken words -together, a universal alarm took possession of the house. The housemaid, -and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> kitchenmaid, and the individual who served in the capacity of -man-of-all-work, shook in their shoes. Mrs. Cook, however, who was -housekeeper as well, shook out her ample skirts, and declared that she -did not mind. ‘A house can’t take care of itself,’ she said, with noble -confidence; ‘and they ain’t that clever to know now to get on without -me.’ The gardener, also, was easy in his mind, secure in the fact that -‘the “place,” must be kep’ up;’ but a thrill of tremulous expectation -ran through all those who were liable to be sent away.</p> - -<p>These fears were very speedily justified. In as short a time as the post -permitted, Mr. Courtenay received an effusive and enthusiastic answer -from Mrs. Anderson, to whom he had written very curtly, making his -proposal. This proposal was that she should receive Kate, not as a -visitor, but permanently, until she attained her majority, giving her -what educational advantages were within her reach, getting masters for -her, and everything that was needful; and, in short, taking entire -charge of her. ‘Circumstances prevent me from doing this myself,’ he -wrote; ‘and, of course, a lady is better fitted to take charge of a girl -at Kate’s troublesome age than I can be.’ And then he entered upon the -subject of money. Kate would have an allowance of five hundred pounds a -year. It was ridiculously large for a child like his niece, he thought -to himself; but parsimony was not Mr. Courtenay’s weakness. For this she -was to have everything a girl could require, with the exception of -society, which her guardian forbade. ‘It is not my wish that she should -be introduced to the world till she is of age, and I prefer to choose -the time and the way myself,’ he said. With these conditions and -instructions, Kate was to go, if her aunt wished it, to the Cottage.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson’s letter, as we have said, was enthusiastic. She asked, -was she really to have her dearest sister’s only child under her care? -and appealed to heaven and earth to testify that her delight was -unspeakable. She said that her desire could only be the welfare, in -every point, of ‘our darling niece!’ That nobody could be more anxious -than she was to see her grow up the image of her sweet mother, ‘which, -in my mind, means an example of every virtue and every grace!’ She -declared that were she rich enough to give Kate all the advantages she -ought to have, she would prove to Mr. Courtenay her perfect -disinterestedness by refusing to accept any money with the dear child. -But, for Kate’s own sake, she must accept it; adding that the provision -seemed to be both ample and liberal. Mrs. Anderson went on to say that -masters of every kind came to a famous school in her neighbourhood, and -that Mr. Courtenay might be quite sure of darling Kate’s having every -advantage. As for society, there was none, and he need be under no -apprehension<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span> on that subject. She herself lived the quietest of lives, -though of course she understood that, when Mr. Courtenay said society, -he did not mean that she was to be interdicted from having a friend now -and then to tea. This was the utmost extent of her dissipations, and she -understood, as a matter of course, that he did not refer to anything of -that description. She would come herself to London, she said, to receive -from his hands ‘our darling niece,’ and he could perhaps then enter into -further details as to anything he specially wished in reference to a -subject on which their common interest was so great. Mr. Courtenay -coughed very much over this letter—it gave him an irritation in his -throat. ‘The woman is a humbug as well as a fool!’ he said to himself. -But yet the question was—humbug or no humbug—was she the best person -to free him of the charge of Kate? And, however he might resist, his -judgment told him that this was the case.</p> - -<p>The Rectory people came to return the visit of Mr. and Miss Courtenay -while the house was in this confusion and commotion. They made a most -decorous call at the proper hour, and in just the proper number—Mr. and -Mrs. Hardwick, and one daughter. Kate had fallen from the momentary -popularity which she had attained on her first appearance at the -Rectory. She was now ‘that interfering, disagreeable thing,’ to the two -girls. Nevertheless, as was right, in consideration of Miss Courtenay’s -age, Edith, the sensible one, accompanied her mother.</p> - -<p>‘I am the best one to go,’ said Edith to her mother. ‘For Minnie, I am -sure, would lose her temper, and it is much best not to throw her into -temptation.’</p> - -<p>‘You must be quite sure you can resist the temptation yourself,’ said -Mrs. Hardwick, who had brought up her children very well indeed, and had -early taught them to identify and struggle against their specially -besetting sins.</p> - -<p>‘You know, mamma, though I am sure I am a great deal worse in other -things, this kind of temptation is not my danger,’ said Edith; and with -this satisfactory arrangement, the party took its way to the Hall.</p> - -<p>Kate, in the flutter of joyous excitement which attended the new change -in her fortunes, was quite a new creature—not the same who had called -at the Rectory, and surprised and offended them. She had forgotten all -about her own naughtiness. She seized upon Edith, and drew her into a -corner, eager for a listener.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! do you know I am going away?’ she said. ‘Have you ever been away -from home? Have you been abroad? Did you ever go to live among people -whom you never saw before? That is what I am going to do.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! I am so sorry for you!’ said Edith, glad, as she afterwards<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span> -explained to her mother, to be able to say something which should at -once be amiable and true.</p> - -<p>‘Sorry!’ said Kate—‘oh! don’t be sorry. I am very glad. I am going to -my aunt, who is fond of me, though I never saw her. Going to people who -are fond of you is different——’</p> - -<p>‘Are you fond of her?’ said Edith.</p> - -<p>‘I never saw her,’ said Kate, opening her eyes.</p> - -<p>Here was an opportunity to be instructive such as seldom occurred, even -in the schools where Miss Edith’s gift was known. The young sage laid -her hand upon Kate’s, who was considerably surprised by the unlooked-for -affectionateness. ‘I am older than you,’ said Edith—‘I am quite grown -up. You will not mind my speaking to you? Oh! do you know, dear, what is -the best way to make people fond of you?’</p> - -<p>‘No.’</p> - -<p>‘To love them,’ said Edith, with fervour. Kate looked at her with calm, -reflective, fully-opened eyes.</p> - -<p>‘If you can,’ she said—‘but then how can you? Besides, it is their -business to begin; they are older; they ought to know more about it—to -be more in the way; Uncle Courtenay, for instance—— I am sure you are -very good—a great deal better than I am; but could you be fond of him?’</p> - -<p>‘If he was my uncle—if it was my duty,’ said Edith.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! I don’t know about duty,’ said Kate, shaking back her abundant -locks. The idea did not all commend itself to her mind. ‘It is one’s -duty to learn lessons,’ she went on, ‘and keep one’s temper, and not to -talk too much, and that sort of thing; but to be fond of people—— -However, never mind; we can talk of that another time. We are going on -Monday, and I never was out of Langton-Courtenay for a single night in -all my life before.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor child!—what a trial for you!’ said Edith.</p> - -<p>At this moment Mrs. Hardwick struck in—‘After the first is over, I am -sure you will like it very much,’ she said. ‘It will be such a change. -Of course it is always trying to leave home for the first time.’</p> - -<p>‘Trying!’ cried Kate; and she rose up in the very restlessness of -delight, with her eyes shining, and her hair streaming behind her. But -what was the use of discussing it? Of course they could not understand. -It was easier to show them over the house and the grounds than to -explain her feelings to them. And both Mrs. Hardwick and Edith were -deeply impressed by the splendour of Langton-Courtenay. They gave little -glances at Kate of mingled surprise and admiration. After all, they -felt, the possessor of such a place—the owner of the lands which -stretched out as far as they could see—ought to be excused if she was a -little different from other girls. ‘What a temptation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> it must be!’ -Edith whispered to her mother; and it pleased Mrs. Hardwick to see how -tolerant of other people’s difficulties her child was. Kate grew quite -excited by their admiration. She rushed over all the house, leading them -into a hundred quaint corners. ‘I shall fill it from top to bottom when -I am of age,’ she said. ‘All those funny bedrooms have been so -dreadfully quiet and lonely since ever I was born; but it shall be gay -when my time comes.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! hush, my dear,’ said pious Mrs. Hardwick—‘don’t make so sure of -the future, when we don’t know what a day or an hour may bring forth.’</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ said Kate, holding her position stoutly, ‘if anything happens, -of course there is an end of it; but if nothing happens—if I live, and -all that—oh! I just wish I was one-and-twenty, to show you what I -should do!’</p> - -<p>‘Do you think it will make you happy to be so gay?’ said Edith, but with -a certain wistful inquiry in her eyes, which was not like her old -superiority.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! my dear children, hush!’ repeated her mother—‘don’t talk like -this. In the first place, gaiety is nothing—it is good neither for body -nor soul; and besides, I cannot let you chatter so about the future. You -will forgive me, my dear Miss Courtenay, for I am an old-fashioned -person; but when we think how little we know about the future;—and your -life will be an important one—a lesson and an example to so many. We -ought to try to make ourselves of use to our fellow-creatures—and you -must endeavour that the example should be a good one.’</p> - -<p>‘Fancy me an example!’ said Kate, half to herself; and then she was -silent, with a philosophy beyond her years. She did not attempt to -argue; she had wit enough to see that it would be useless, and to pass -on to another subject. But as she ran along the corridor, and into all -the rooms, the thought of what she would make of them, when she came -back, went like wine through her thrilling veins. She was glad to go -away—far more glad than any one could imagine who had never lived the -grey, monotonous routine of such an existence, uncheered by companions, -unwarmed by love. But she would also be glad to come back—glad to enter -splendidly, a young queen among her court. Her head was almost turned by -this sublime idea. She would come back with new friends, new principles, -new laws; she would be Queen absolute, without partner or help; she -would be the lawgiver, redresser of wrongs. Her supremacy would be -beneficent as the reign of an ideal sovereign; but she <i>would</i> be -supreme!</p> - -<p>When her visitors left, she stood on the threshold of her own house, -looking with shining eyes into that grand future. The shadows had all -faded from her mind. She had almost forgotten,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> in the excitement of her -new plans, all about Miss Blank’s sharp words, and the people who hated -her. It would have surprised her had any one called that old figment to -her recollection. Hate! there was nothing like it in that future. There -was power and beneficence, and mirth and brightness. There was -everything that was gay, everything that was beautiful; smiles, and -bright looks, and wit, and unbounded novelty; and herself the dispenser -of everything pleasant, herself always supreme! This was the dream of -the future which framed itself in Kate Courtenay’s thoughts.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">While</span> all this agitation was going on over Kate’s fate on one side, it -is not to be supposed that there was no excitement on the other. Her two -relations, the mother and daughter to whom she was about to be confided, -were nearly as much disturbed as Kate herself by the prospect of -receiving her. It might, indeed, be said to have disturbed them more, -for it affected their entire life. They had lately returned to England, -and settled down, after a wandering life, in a house of their own. They -were not rich, but they had enough. They were not humble, but accustomed -to think very well of themselves; and the fact was that, though Mrs. -Anderson had, for many reasons, accepted Mr. Courtenay’s proposal with -enthusiasm, even she felt that the ideal seclusion she had been dreaming -of was at once broken up—even she—and still more Ombra, her daughter, -who was fanciful, and of a somewhat jealous and contradictory temper, -fond of her own way, and of full freedom to carry her fancies out.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson, let us say at once, was neither a hypocrite nor a fool, -and never, during their whole intercourse, regarded her heiress-niece as -a means of drawing advantage to herself, or in a mercenary way. She was -a warm-hearted, kind, and just woman; but she had her faults. The chief -of these was a very excess of virtue. Her whole soul was set upon not -being good only, but appearing so. She could not bear the idea of being -deficient in any decorum, in any sentiment which society demanded. No -one could have grieved more sincerely than she did for her husband; but -a bitterer pang even than that caused her by natural sorrow would have -gone through her heart, had she been tempted to smile through her tears -a day sooner than public opinion warranted a widow to smile. In every -position—even that in which she felt most truly—a sense of what -society expected from her was always in her mind. This code of unwritten -law went deeper with her even than nature. She had truly longed and -yearned over Kate, in her kind heart, from the moment she had reached -England; and had she followed her natural instincts, would have rushed -at once to Langton-Courtenay, to see the child who was all that remained -of a sister whom<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span> she had loved. But the world, in that case, would have -said that she meant to establish herself at Langton-Courtenay, and that -her affection for her niece was feigned or mercenary.</p> - -<p>‘Let her alone, then,’ Ombra said. ‘Why should we trouble ourselves? If -her friends think we are not good enough for her, let her alone. Why -should she think herself better than we?’</p> - -<p>‘My love, she is very young,’ said Mrs. Anderson; ‘and, besides, if I -took no notice at all of Catherine’s only child, what would people -suppose? It would be thought either that I had a guilty conscience in -respect to the Courtenays, or that I had been repulsed. Nobody would -believe that we had simply let her alone, as you say; and, besides, I am -longing to see Kate with all my heart.</p> - -<p>‘What does it matter what people say?’ said Ombra. ‘I do not see what -any one has to do with our private affairs.’</p> - -<p>‘That is a great delusion,’ said Mrs. Anderson, shaking her head; ‘every -one has to do with every one else’s private affairs. If you do not wish -to lay yourself open to remark, you will always keep this in mind. And -our position is very trying, between your cousin’s wealth and our love -for her——’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think I have very much love for her, mamma.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear child, don’t let any one but me hear you say so. She ought to -be like a sister to you,’ said Mrs. Anderson.</p> - -<p>And Ombra let the discussion drop, and permitted her mother, in this -respect, to have her own way. But she was not in any respect of her -mother’s way of thinking. Her temptation was to hate and despise the -opinion of society just in proportion to the reverence for it which she -had been bred in: a result usual enough with clear-sighted and impetuous -young persons, conscious of the defects of their parents. Ombra was a -pretty, gentle, soft-mannered girl in outward appearance; but a certain -almost fierce independence and determination to guide her own course as -she herself pleased, was in her heart. She would not be influenced, as -her mother had been, by other people’s ideas. She thought, with some -recent writers, that the doctrine of self-sacrifice, as taught specially -to women, was altogether false, vain, and miserable. She felt that she -herself ought to be first in her home and sphere; and she did not feel -disposed even to share with, much less to yield to, the rich cousin whom -she had never seen. She shrugged her shoulders over Mrs. Anderson’s -letter to Kate, but she did not interfere further, until Mr. Courtenay’s -astounding proposal arrived, fluttering the household as a hawk would -flutter the dovecots. At the first reading, it drove Ombra frantic. It -was impossible, out of the question, not to be thought of for a moment! -In this small house, with their two maids, in the quiet of Shanklin, -what were they to do with a self-important girl, a creature, no doubt, -bred from her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> cradle to a consciousness of her own greatness, and who -wanted all sorts of masters and advantages? Mrs. Anderson knew how to -manage her daughter, and for the moment she allowed her to have her way, -and pour forth her indignation. The letter came by the early post; and -it was only when they were seated at tea in the evening that she brought -forward the other side of the question.</p> - -<p>‘What you say is all very true, Ombra; but we have two spare -bedrooms—there would still be one left for a friend, even if we took in -poor dear little Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor Kate! Why is she poor? She could buy us over and over,’ said -Ombra, in her indignation.</p> - -<p>‘Buy what?’ said her clever mother—‘our love?’</p> - -<p>‘Mamma, please don’t speak any nonsense about love!’ said Ombra, -hastily. ‘I can’t love people at a moment’s notice; because a girl whom -I never saw happens to be the child of my aunt, whom I never saw——’</p> - -<p>‘Then suppose we leave you out,’ said her mother. ‘She is the child of -my sister, whom I knew well, and was very fond of—that alters the -question so far as I am concerned.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! of course, mamma,’ said Ombra, with darkened brows, ‘I do not -pretend to do more than give my opinion. It is for you to say how it is -to be.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you think I can make a decision without you?’ said the mother, -pathetically. ‘You must try to look at it more reasonably, my dear. Next -to you, Kate is the creature most near to me in the world—next to me. -Now, listen, Ombra; she is your nearest relation. Think what it will be -to have a friend and a sister if anything should happen to me. The house -is small, but we cannot truly say that we have not room for a little -girl of fifteen in it. And then think of her loneliness—not a soul to -care for her, except that old Mr. Courtenay——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! that is nonsense; she must have some one to care for her, or else -she must be intensely disagreeable,’ said Ombra. ‘Mamma, remember what I -say—if we take her in, we shall repent it all our lives.’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing of the sort, my dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, eagerly following up -this softened opposition. ‘Why she is only fifteen—a mere child!—we -can mould her as we will. And then, my dearest child, though heaven -knows it is not interest I am thinking of, still it will be a great -advantage; our income will be doubled. I must say Mr. Courtenay is very -liberal, if nothing else. We shall be able to do many things that we -could not do otherwise. Why, Ombra, you look as if you thought I meant -to rob your cousin——’</p> - -<p>‘I would not use a penny of her allowance—it should be all spent upon -herself!’ cried the girl, flushing with indignant passion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> ‘Our income -doubled! Mamma, what can you be thinking of? Do you suppose I could -endure to be a morsel the better for <i>that</i> Kate?’</p> - -<p>‘You are a little fool, and there is no talking to you,’ said Mrs. -Anderson, with natural impatience; and for half an hour they did not -speak to each other. This, however, could not last very long, for -providentially, as Mrs. Anderson said, one of the Rectory girls came in -at the time when it was usual for the ladies to take their morning walk, -and she would not for all the Isle of Wight have permitted Elsie to see -that her child and she were not on their usual terms. When Elsie had -left them, a slight relapse was threatened, but they were then walking -together along the cliff, with one of the loveliest of landscapes before -them—the sun setting, the ruddy glory lighting up Sandown Bay, and all -the earth and sea watching that last crisis and climax of the day.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! there is the true daffodil sky!’ Ombra exclaimed, in spite of -herself, and the breach was healed. It was she herself who resumed the -subject some time later, when they turned towards home. ‘I do not see,’ -she said abruptly, ‘what we could do about masters for <i>that</i> girl, if -she were to come here. To have them down from town would be ruinous, and -to be constantly going up to town with her—to you, who so hate the -ferry—would be dreadful!’</p> - -<p>‘My love, you forget Miss Story’s school, where they have all the best -masters,’ said Mrs. Anderson, mildly.</p> - -<p>‘You could not send her to school.’</p> - -<p>‘But they would come to us, my dear. Of course they would be very glad -to come to us for a little more money, and I should gladly take the -opportunity for your music, Ombra. I thought of that. I wish everything -could be settled as easily. If you only saw the matter as I do——’</p> - -<p>‘There is another thing,’ said Ombra, hastily, ‘which does not matter to -me, for I hate society; but if she is to be kept like a nun, and never -to see any one——’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson smiled serenely. ‘My love, who is there to see?—the -Rectory children and a few ladies—people whom we ask to tea. Of course, -I would not think of taking her to balls or even dinner-parties; but -then, I never go to dinner-parties—there is no one to ask us; and as -for balls, Ombra, you know what you said about that nice ball at Ryde.’</p> - -<p>‘I hate them!’ said Ombra, vehemently. ‘I hope I shall never be forced -to go to another in all my life.’</p> - -<p>‘Then that question is settled very easily,’ said Mrs. Anderson, without -allowing any signs of triumph to appear in her face. And next day she -wrote to Mr. Courtenay, as has been described. When she wrote about ‘our -darling niece,’ the tears were in her eyes. She meant it with all her -heart; but, at the same time, it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span> was the right thing to say, and to be -anxious and eager to receive the orphan were the right sentiments to -entertain. ‘It is the most proper arrangement,’ she said afterwards to -the Rector’s wife, who was her nearest neighbour. ‘Of course her -mother’s sister is her most natural guardian. The property is far best -in Mr. Courtenay’s hands; but the child herself——’</p> - -<p>‘Poor child!’ said Mrs. Eldridge, looking at her own children, who were -many, and thinking within herself that to trust them to any one, even an -aunt——</p> - -<p>‘Yes, poor child!’ cried Mrs. Anderson, with the tears in her eyes; ‘and -my Catherine would have made such a mother! But we must do what we can -to make it up to her. She will have some one at least to love her here.’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure you will be—good to her,’ said the Rector’s wife, looking -wistfully, in her pity, into the face of the woman who, to her simple -mind, did protest too much. Mrs. Eldridge felt, as many a -straightforward person does, that her neighbour’s extreme propriety, and -regard for what was befitting and ‘expected of her,’ was the mask of -insincerity. She did not understand the existence of true feeling -beneath all that careful exterior. But she was puzzled and touched for -the moment by the tears in her companion’s eyes.</p> - -<p>‘You can’t get up tears, you know, when you will,’ she said to her -husband, when they discussed poor Kate’s prospects of happiness in her -aunt’s house, that same night.</p> - -<p>‘I can’t,’ said the Rector, ‘nor you; but one has heard of crocodile -tears!’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Fred, no—not so bad as that!’</p> - -<p>But still both these good people distrusted Mrs. Anderson, through her -very anxiety to do right, and show that she was doing it. They were -afraid of her excess of virtue. The exaggeration of the true seemed to -them false. And they even doubted the amount of Kate’s allowance, -because of the aunt’s frankness in telling them of it. They thought her -intention was to raise her own and her niece’s importance, and -calculated among themselves what the real sum was likely to be. Poor -Mrs. Anderson! everybody was unjust to her—even her daughter—on this -point.</p> - -<p>But it was with no sense of this general distrust, but, on the contrary, -with the most genial sense of having done everything that could be -required of her, that she left home on a sunny June morning, with her -heart beating quicker than usual in her breast, to bring home her -charge. Her heart was beating partly out of excitement to see Kate, and -partly out of anxiety about the crossing from Ryde, which she hated. The -sea looked calm, from Sandown, but Mrs. Anderson knew, by long -experience, that the treacherous sea has a way of looking calm until you -have trusted yourself to its tender mercies. This thought, along with -her eagerness to see her sister’s child, made her heart beat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mr. Courtenay</span> had stipulated that Kate was to be met by her aunt, not at -his house, but at the railway, and to continue her journey at once. His -house, he said, was shut up; but his real reason was reluctance to -establish any precedent or pretext for other invasions. Kate started in -the very highest spirits, scarcely able to contain herself, running over -with talk and laughter, making a perpetual comment upon all that passed -before her. Even Miss Blank’s sinister congratulations, when she took -leave of the little travelling party, ‘I am sure I wish you joy, sir, -and I wish Mrs. Anderson joy!’ did not damp Kate’s spirits. ‘I shall -tell my aunt, Miss Blank, and I am sure she will be much obliged to -you,’ the girl said, as she took her seat in the carriage. And Maryanne, -who, red and excited, was seated by her, tittered in sympathy.</p> - -<p>When Mr. Courtenay hid himself behind a newspaper, it was on Maryanne -that Kate poured forth the tide of her excitement. ‘Isn’t it -delightful!’ she said, a hundred times over. ‘Oh! yes, miss; but father -and mother!’ Maryanne answered, with a sob. Kate contemplated her -gravely for twenty seconds. Here was a difference, a distinction, which -she did not understand. But before the minute was half over her thoughts -had gone abroad again in a confusion of expectancy and pleasure. She -leant half out of the window, casting eager glances upon the people who -were waiting the arrival of the train at the station. The first figure -upon which she set her eyes was that of a squat old woman in a red and -yellow shawl. ‘Oh! can that be my aunt?’ Kate said to herself, with -dismay. The next was a white-haired, substantial old lady, old enough to -be Mrs. Anderson’s mother. ‘This is she! She is nice! I shall be fond of -her!’ cried Kate to herself. When the white-haired lady found some one -else, Kate’s heart sank. Oh! where was the new guardian?</p> - -<p>‘Miss Kate! oh! please, Miss Kate!’ said Maryanne; and turning sharply -round, Kate found herself in somebody’s arms.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span> She had not time to see -who it was; she felt only a warm darkness surround her, the pressure of -something which held her close, and a voice murmuring, ‘My darling -child! my Catherine’s child!’ murmuring and purring over her. Kate had -time to think, ‘Oh! how tall she is! Oh! how warm! Oh! how funny!’ -before she was let loose and kissed—which latter process allowed her to -see a tall woman, not in the least like the white-haired grandmother -whom she had fixed upon—a woman not old, with hair of Kate’s own -colour, smiles on her face, and tears in her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Let me look at you, my sweet! I should have known you anywhere. You are -so like your darling mother!’ said the new aunt. And then she wept; and -then she said, ‘Is it you? Is it really you, my Kate?’ And all this took -place at the station, with Uncle Courtenay sneering hard by, and -strangers looking on.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, aunt, of course it is me,’ said Kate, who scorned grammar; ‘who -should it be? I came expressly to meet you; and Uncle Courtenay is -there, who will tell you it is all right.’</p> - -<p>‘Dearest! as if I had any need of your Uncle Courtenay,’ said Mrs. -Anderson; and she kissed her over again, and cried once more, most -honest but inappropriate tears.</p> - -<p>‘Are you sorry?’ cried Kate, in surprise; ‘because I am glad, very glad -to see you. I could not cry for anything—I am as happy as I can be.’</p> - -<p>‘You darling!’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘But you are right, it is too public -here. I must take you away to have some luncheon, too, my precious -child. There is no time to lose. Oh! Kate, Kate, to think I should have -you at last, after so many years!’</p> - -<p>‘I hope you will be pleased with me now, aunt,’ said Kate, a little -alarm mingling with her surprise. Was she worth all this fuss? It was -fuss; but Kate had no constitutional objection to fuss, and it was -pleasant, on the whole. After all the snubbing she had gone through, it -was balm to her to be received so warmly; even though the cynicism which -she had been trained into was moved by a certain sense of the ludicrous, -too.</p> - -<p>‘Kate says well,’ said old Mr. Courtenay. ‘I hope you will be pleased -with her, now you have her. To some of us she has been a sufficiently -troublesome child; but I trust in your hands—your more skilful -hands——’</p> - -<p>‘I am not afraid,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a very suave smile; ‘and -even if she were troublesome, I should be glad to have her. But we start -directly; and the child must have some luncheon. Will you join us, or -must we say good-bye? for we shall not be at home till after dinner, and -at present Kate must have something to eat?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span></p> - -<p>‘I have an engagement,’ said Mr. Courtenay, hastily. What! he lunch at a -railway station with a girl of fifteen and this unknown woman, who, by -the way, was rather handsome after her fashion! What a fool she must be -to think of such a thing! He bowed himself off very politely, with an -assurance that now his mind was easy about his ward. She must write to -him, he said and let him know in a few days how she liked Shanklin; but -in the meantime he was compelled to hurry away.</p> - -<p>When Kate felt herself thus stranded as it were upon an utterly lonely -and unknown shore, in the hands of a woman she had never seen before, -and the last familiar face withdrawn, there ran a little pain, a little -thrill, half of excitement, half of dismay, in her heart. She clutched -at Maryanne, who stood behind her; she examined once again, with keen -eyes, the new guide of her life. This was novelty indeed!—but novelty -so sharp and sudden that it took away her breath. Mrs. Anderson’s tone -had been very different to her uncle from what it was to herself. What -did this mean? Kate was bewildered, half frightened, stunned by the -change, and she could not make it out.</p> - -<p>‘My dear, I am sure your uncle has a great many engagements,’ said Mrs. -Anderson; ‘gentlemen who are in society have so many claims upon them, -especially at this time of the year; or perhaps he thought it kindest to -let us make friends by ourselves. Of course he must be very fond of you, -dear; and I must always be grateful for his good opinion: without that -he would not have trusted his treasure in my hands.’</p> - -<p>‘Aunt Anderson,’ said Kate, hastily, ‘please don’t make a mistake. I am -sure I am no treasure at all to him, but only a trouble and a nuisance. -You must not think so well of me as that. He thought me a great trouble, -and he was very glad to get rid of me. I know this is true.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson only smiled. She put her arm through the girl’s, and led -her away. ‘We will not discuss the question, my darling, for you must -have something to eat. When did you leave Langton? Our train starts at -two—we have not much time to lose. Are you hungry? Oh! Kate, how glad I -am to have you! How very glad I am! You have your mother’s very eyes.’</p> - -<p>‘Then don’t cry, aunt, if you are glad.’</p> - -<p>‘It is because I am glad, you silly child. Come in here, and give me one -good kiss. And now, dear, we will have a little cold chicken, and get -settled in the carriage before the crowd comes.’</p> - -<p>And how different was the second part of this journey! Mrs. Anderson got -no newspaper—she sat opposite to Kate, and <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span>smiled at all she said. She -told her the names of the places they were passing; she was alive to -every light and shade that passed over her young, changeable face. Then -Kate fell silent all at once, and began to think, and cast many a -furtive look at her new-found relation; at last she said, in a low -voice, and with a certain anxiety—</p> - -<p>‘Aunt, is it possible that I could remember mamma?’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! no, Kate; she died just when you were born.’</p> - -<p>‘Then did I ever see you before?’</p> - -<p>‘Never since you were a little baby—never that you could know.’</p> - -<p>‘It is very strange,’ the girl said half to herself; ‘but I surely know -some face like yours. Ah! could it be <i>that</i>?’ She stopped, and her face -flushed up to her hair.</p> - -<p>‘Could it be what, dear?’</p> - -<p>Then Kate laughed out—the softest, most musical, tender little laugh -that ever came from her lips. ‘I know,’ she said—‘it is myself!’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson blushed, too, with sudden pleasure. It was a positive -happiness to her, penetrating beneath all her little proprieties and -pretensions. She took the girl’s hands, and bending forward, looked at -her in the face; and it was true—they were as like as if they had been -mother and daughter—though the elder had toned down, and lost that -glory of complexion, that brightness of intelligence; and the younger -was brighter, quicker, more intelligent than her predecessor had ever -been. This made at once the sweetest, most pleasant link between them; -it bound them together by Nature’s warm and visible bond. They were both -proud of this tie, which could be seen in their faces, which they could -not throw off nor cast away.</p> - -<p>But after the ferry was crossed—when they were drawing near Shanklin—a -silence fell upon both. Kate, with a quite new-born timidity, was shy of -inquiring about her cousin; and Mrs. Anderson was too doubtful of -Ombra’s mood to say more of her than she could help. She longed to be -able to say, ‘Ombra will be sure to meet us,’ but did not dare. And -Ombra did not meet them; she was not to be seen, even, as they walked up -to the house. It was a pretty cottage, embowered in luxuriant leafage, -just under the shelter of the cliff, and looking out over its own lawn, -and a thread of quiet road, and the slopes of the Undercliff, upon the -distant sea. There was, however, no one at the door, no one at any of -the windows, no trace that they were expected, and Mrs. Anderson’s heart -was wrung by the sight. Naturally she grew at once more prodigal of her -welcomes and caresses. ‘How glad I am to see you here, my darling Kate! -This is your home, dear child. As long as I live, whenever you may want -it, my humble house will be yours from this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> day—always remember that; -and welcome, my darling,—welcome home!’</p> - -<p>Kate accepted the kisses, but her thoughts were far away. Where was the -other who should have given her a welcome too? All the girl’s eager soul -rushed upon this new track. Did Ombra object to her?—why was not she -here? Ombra’s mother, though she said nothing, had given many anxious -glances round her, which were not lost upon Kate’s keen perceptions? -Could Ombra object to the intruder? After all her aunt’s effusions, this -was a new idea to Kate.</p> - -<p>The door was thrown open by a little woman in a curious headdress, made -out of a coloured handkerchief, whose appearance filled Kate with -amazement, and whose burst of greeting she could not for the first -moment understand. Kate’s eyes went over her shoulder to a commonplace -English housemaid behind with a sense of relief. ‘Oh! how the young lady -is welcome!’ cried old Francesca. ‘How she is as the light to our -eyes!—and how like our padrona—how like! Come in—come in; your -chamber is ready, little angel. Oh! how bella, bella our lady must have -been at that age!’</p> - -<p>‘Hush, Francesca; do not put nonsense into the child’s head,’ said Mrs. -Anderson, still looking anxiously round.</p> - -<p>‘I judge from what I see,’ said the old woman; and then she added, in -answer to a question from her mistress’s eyes, ‘Meess Ombra has the bad -head again. It was I that made her put herself to bed. I made the room -dark, and gave her the tea, as madam herself does it, otherwise she -would be here to kiss this new angel, and bid her the welcome. Come in, -come in, <i>carissima</i>; come up, I will show you the chamber. Ah! our -signorina has not been able to keep still when she heard you, though she -has the bad head, the very bad head.’</p> - -<p>And then there appeared to Kate, coming downstairs, the slight figure of -a girl in a black dress—a girl whom, at the first moment, she thought -younger than herself. Ombra was not at all like her mother—she was like -her name, a shadowy creature, with no light about her—not even in the -doubtful face, pale and fair, which her cousin gazed upon so curiously. -She said nothing till she had come up to them, and did not quicken her -pace in the least, though they were all gazing at her. To fill up this -pause, Mrs. Anderson, who was a great deal more energetic and more -impressionable than her daughter, rushed to her across the little hall.</p> - -<p>‘My darling, are you ill? I know only that could have prevented you from -coming to meet your cousin. Here she is, Ombra mia; here we have her at -last—my sweet Kate! Now love each other, girls; be as your mothers -were; open your hearts to each other. Oh! my dear children, if you but -knew how I love you both!’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span></p> - -<p>And Mrs. Anderson cried while the two stood holding each other’s hands, -looking at each other—on Kate’s side with violent curiosity; on Ombra’s -apparently with indifference. The mother had to do all the emotion that -was necessary, with an impulse which was partly love, and partly -vexation, and partly a hope to kindle in them the feelings that became -the occasion.</p> - -<p>‘How do you do? I am glad to see you. I hope you will like Shanklin,’ -said chilly Ombra.</p> - -<p>‘Thanks,’ said Kate; and they dropped each other’s hands; while poor -Mrs. Anderson wept unavailing tears, and old Francesca, in sympathy, -fluttered about the new ‘little angel,’ taking off her cloak, and -uttering aloud her admiration and delight. It was a strange beginning to -Kate’s new life.</p> - -<p>‘I wonder, I wonder——’ the new-comer said to herself when she was -safely housed for the night, and alone. Kate had seated herself at the -window, from whence a gleam of moon and sky was visible, half veiled in -clouds. She was in her dressing-gown, and with her hair all over her -shoulders, was a pretty figure to behold, had there been any one to see. -‘I wonder, I wonder!’ she said to herself. But she could not have put -into words what her wonderings were. There was only in them an -indefinite sense that something not quite apparent had run on beneath -the surface in this welcome of hers. She could not tell what it was—why -her aunt should have wept; why Ombra should have been so different. Was -it the ready tears of the one that chilled the other? Kate was not clear -enough on the subject to ask herself this question. She only wondered, -feeling there was something more than met the eye. But, on the whole, -the child was happy—she had been kissed and blessed when she came -upstairs; she seemed to be surrounded with an atmosphere of love and -care. There was nobody (except Ombra) indifferent—everybody cared; all -were interested. She wondered—but at fifteen one does not demand an -answer to all the indefinite wonderings which arise in one’s heart; and, -despite of Ombra, Kate’s heart was lighter than it had ever been (she -thought) in all her life. Everything was strange, new, unknown to her, -yet it was home. And this is a paradox which is always sweet.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> was something that might almost have been called a quarrel -downstairs that night over the new arrival. Ombra was cross, and her -mother was displeased; but Mrs. Anderson had far too strong a sense of -propriety to suffer herself to scold. When she said ‘I am disappointed -in you, Ombra. I have seldom been more wounded than when I came to the -door, and did not find you,’ she had done all that occurred to her in -the way of reproof.</p> - -<p>‘But I had a headache, mamma.’</p> - -<p>‘We must speak to the doctor about your headaches,’ said Mrs. Anderson; -and Ombra, with something like sullenness, went to bed.</p> - -<p>But she was not to escape so easily. Old Francesca had been Ombra’s -nurse. She was not so very old, but had aged, as peasant women of her -nation do. She was a Tuscan born, with the shrill and high-pitched voice -natural to her district, and she had followed the fortunes of the -Andersons all over the world, from the time of her nursling’s birth. She -was, in consequence, a most faithful servant and friend, knowing no -interests but those of her mistress, but at the same time a most -uncompromising monitor. Ombra knew what was in store for her, as soon as -she discovered Francesca, with her back turned, folding up the dress she -had worn in the morning. The chances are that Ombra would have fled, had -she been able to do so noiselessly, but she had already betrayed herself -by closing the door.</p> - -<p>‘Francesca,’ she said, affecting an ease which she did not feel, ‘are -you still here? Are you not in bed? You will tire yourself out. Never -mind those things. I will put them away myself.’</p> - -<p>‘The things might be indifferent to me,’ said Francesca, turning round -upon her, ‘but you are not. My young lady, I have a great deal to say to -you.’</p> - -<p>This conversation was chiefly in Italian, both the interlocutors -changing, as pleased them, from one language to another; but as it is -unnecessary to cumber the page with italics, or the reader’s mind with -two languages, I will take the liberty of putting it in English, though -in so doing I may wrong Francesca’s phrases. When her old nurse -addressed her thus, Ombra trembled—half<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span> in reality because she was a -chilly being, and half by way of rousing her companion’s sympathy. But -Francesca was ruthless.</p> - -<p>‘You have the cold, I perceive,’ she said, ‘and deserve to have it. -Seems to me that if you thought sometimes of putting a little warmth in -your heart, instead of covering upon your body, that would answer -better. What has the little cousin done, <i>Dio mio</i>, to make you as if -you had been for a night on the mountains? I look to see the big -ice-drop hanging from your fingers, and the snow-flakes in your hair! -You have the cold!—bah! you <i>are</i> the cold!—it is in you!—it freezes! -I, whose blood is in your veins, I stretch out my hand to get warm, and -I chill, I freeze, I die!’</p> - -<p>‘I am Ombra,’ said the girl, with a smile, ‘you know; how can I warm -you, Francesca? It is not my nature.’</p> - -<p>‘Are you not, then, God’s making, because they have given you a foolish -name?’ cried Francesca. ‘The Ombra I love, she is the Ombra that is -cool, that is sweet, that brings life when one comes out of a blazing -sun. You say the sun does not blaze here; but what is <i>here</i>, after all? -A piece of the world which God made! When you were little, Santissima -Madonna! you were sweet as an olive orchard; but now you are sombre and -dark, like a pine-wood on the Apennines. I will call you ‘Ghiaccia,’<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> -not Ombra any more.’</p> - -<p>‘It was not my fault. You are unjust. I had a headache. You said so -yourself.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, <i>disgraziata</i>! I said it to shield you. You have brought upon my -conscience a great big—what you call fib. I hope my good priest will -not say it was a lie!’</p> - -<p>‘I did not ask you to do it,’ cried Ombra. ‘And then there was mamma, -crying over that girl as if there never had been anything like her -before!’</p> - -<p>‘The dear lady! she did it as I did, to cover your coldness—your look -of ice. Can we bear that the world should see what a snow-maiden we have -between us? We did it for your sake, ungrateful one, that no one should -see——’</p> - -<p>‘I wish you would let me alone,’ said Ombra; and though she was -seventeen—two years older than Kate—and had a high sense of her -dignity, she began to cry. ‘If you only would be true, I should not -mind; but you have so much effusion—you say more than you mean, both -mamma and you.’</p> - -<p>‘Seems to me that it is better to be too kind than too cold,’ said -Francesca, indignantly. ‘And this poor little angel, the orphan, the -child of the Madonna—ah! you have not that thought in your icy -Protestant; but among us Christians every orphan is Madonna’s child. How -could I love the holiest mother, if I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> did not love her child? Bah! you -know better, but you will not allow it. Is it best, tell me, to wound -the <i>poverina</i> with your too little, or to make her warm and glad with -our too mooch?—even if it were the too mooch,’ said Francesca, half -apologetically; ‘though there is nothing that is too mooch, if it is -permitted me to say it, for the motherless one—the orphan—the -Madonna’s child!’</p> - -<p>Ombra made no reply; she shrugged her shoulders, and began to let down -her hair out of its bands—the worst of the storm was over.</p> - -<p>But Francesca had reserved herself for one parting blaze, ‘And know you, -my young lady, what will come to you, if thus you proceed in your life?’ -she said. ‘When one wanders too mooch on the snowy mountains, one falls -into an ice-pit, and one dies. It will so come to you. You will grow -colder and colder, colder and colder. When it is for your good to be -warm, you will be ice: you will not be able more to help yourself. You -will make love freeze up like the water in the torrent; you will lay it -in a tomb of snow, you will build the ice-monument over it, and then all -you can do will be vain—it will live no more. Signorina Ghiaccia, if -thus you go on, this is what will come to you.’</p> - -<p>And with this parting address, Francesca darted forth, not disdaining, -like a mere mortal and English domestic, to shut the door with some -violence. Ombra had her cry out by herself, while Kate sat wondering in -the next room. The elder girl asked herself, was it true?—was she -really a snow-maiden, or was it some mysterious influence from her name -that threw this shade over her, and made her so contradictory and -burdensome even to herself?</p> - -<p>For Ombra was not aware that she had been christened by a much more -sober name. She stood as Jane Catherine in the books of the Leghorn -chaplain—a conjunction of respectable appellatives which could not have -any sinister influence. I doubt, however, whether she would have taken -any comfort from this fact; for it was pleasant to think of herself as -born under some wayward star—a shadowy creature, unlike common flesh -and blood, half Italian, half spirit. ‘How can I help it?’ she said to -herself. The people about her did not understand her—not even her -mother and Francesca. They put the commonplace flesh-and-blood girl on a -level with her—this Kate, with half-red hair, with shallow, bright -eyes, with all that red and white that people rave about in foolish -books. ‘Kate will be the heroine wherever we go,’ she said, with a -smile, which had more pain than pleasure in it. She was a little -jealous, a little cross, disturbed in her fanciful soul; and yet she was -not heartless and cold, as people thought. The accusation wounded her, -and haunted her as if with premonitions of reproaches to come. It was -not hard to bear from Francesca, who was her devoted slave; but it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span> -occurred dimly to Ombra, as if in prophecy, that the time would come -when she should hear the same words from other voices. Not -Ombra-Ghiaccia! Was it possible? Could that fear ever come true?</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson, for her part, was less easy about this change in her -household than she would allow. When she was alone, the smiles went off -her countenance. Kate, though she had been so glad to see her, though -the likeness to herself had made so immediate a bond between them, was -evidently enough not the kind of girl who could be easily managed, or -who was likely to settle down quietly into domestic peace and order. She -had the makings of a great lady in her, an independent, high-spirited -princess, to whom it was not necessary to consider the rules which are -made for humbler maidens. Already she had told her aunt what she meant -to do at Langton when she went back; already she had inquired with -lively curiosity all about Shanklin. Mrs. Anderson thought of her two -critics at the Rectory, who, she knew by instinct, were ready to pick -holes in her, and be hard upon her ‘foreign ways,’ and trembled for her -niece’s probable vagaries. It was ‘a great responsibility,’ a ‘trying -position,’ for herself. Many a ‘trying position’ she had been in -already, the difficulties of which she had surmounted triumphantly. She -could only hope that ‘proper feeling,’ ‘proper respect’ for the usages -of society, would bring her once more safely through. When Francesca -darted in upon her, fresh from the lecture she had delivered, Mrs. -Anderson’s disturbed look at once betrayed her.</p> - -<p>‘My lady looks as she used to look when the big letters came, saying -Go,’ said Francesca; ‘but, courage, Signora mia, the big letters come no -more.’</p> - -<p>‘No; nor he who received them, Francesca,’ said the mistress, sadly. -‘But it was not that I was thinking of—it was my new care, my new -responsibility.’</p> - -<p>‘Bah!’ cried Francesca; ‘my lady will pardon me, I did not mean to be -rude. Ah! if my lady was but a Christian like us other Italians! Why -there never came an orphan into a kind house, but she brought a -blessing. The dear Madonna will never let trouble come to you from her -child; and, besides, the little angel is exactly like you. Just so must -my lady have looked at her age—beautiful as the day.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! Francesca, you are partial,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with, however, a -returning smile. ‘I never was so pretty as Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘My lady will pardon me,’ said Francesca, with quiet gravity; ‘in my -eyes, <i>senza complimenti</i>, there is no one so beautiful as my lady even -now.’</p> - -<p>This statement was much too serious and superior to compliment-making, -to be answered, especially as Francesca turned at once to the window, to -close the shutters, and make all safe for the night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Anderson’s</span> house was situated in one of those nests of warmth and -verdure which are characteristic of the Isle of Wight. There was a white -cliff behind, partially veiled with turf and bushes, the remains of an -ancient landslip. The green slope which formed its base, and which, in -Spring, was carpeted with wild-flowers, descended into the sheltered -sunny garden, which made a fringe of flowers and greenness round the -cottage. On that side there was no need of fence or boundary. A wild -little rustic flight of steps led upward to the winding mountain-path -which led to the brow of the cliff, and the cliff itself thus became the -property of the little house. Both cottage and garden were small, but -the one was a mass of flowers, and the airy brightness and lightness of -the other made up for its tiny size. The windows of the little -drawing-room opened into the rustic verandah, all garlanded with -climbing plants; and though the view was not very great, nothing but -flowers and verdure, a bit of quiet road, a glimpse of blue sea, yet -from the cliff there was a noble prospect—all Sandown Bay, with its -white promontory, and the wide stretch of water, sometimes blue as -sapphire, though grey enough when the wind brought it in, in huge -rollers upon the strand. The sight, and sound, and scent of the sea were -all alike new to Kate. The murmur in her ears day and night, now soft, -like the hu-ush of a mother to a child, now thundering like artillery, -now gay as laughter, delighted the young soul which was athirst for -novelty. Here was something which was always new. There was no limit to -her enjoyment of the sea. She liked it when wild and when calm, and -whatever might be its vagaries, and in all her trials of temper, which -occurred now and then, fled to it for soothing. The whole place, indeed, -seemed to be made especially for Kate. It suited her to climb steep -places, to run down slopes, to be always going up or down, with -continual movement of her blood and stir of her spirits. She declared -aloud that this was what she had wanted all her life—not flat parks and -flowers, but the rising waves to pursue her when she ventured too close -to them, the falling tide to open up sweet pools and mysteries, and -penetrate her with the wholesome breath of the salt, delightful beach.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span></p> - -<p>‘I don’t know how I have lived all this time away from it. I must have -been born for the seaside!’ she cried, as she walked on the sands with -her two companions.</p> - -<p>Ombra, for her part, shrugged her shoulders, and drew her shawl closer. -She had already decided that Kate was one of the race of extravagant -talkers, who say more than they feel.</p> - -<p>‘The sea is very nice,’ said Mrs. Anderson, who in this respect was not -so enthusiastic as Kate.</p> - -<p>‘Very nice! Oh! aunt, it is simply delightful! Whenever I am -troublesome—as I know I shall be—just send me out here. I may talk all -the nonsense I like—it will never tire the sea.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you talk a great deal of nonsense, Kate?’</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid I do,’ said the girl, with penitence. ‘Not that I mean it; -but what is one to do? Miss Blank, my last governess, never talked at -all, when she could help it, and silence is terrible—anything is better -than that; and she said I chattered, and was always interfering. What -could I do? One must be occupied about something!’</p> - -<p>‘But are you fond of interfering, dear?’</p> - -<p>‘Auntie!’ said Kate, throwing back her hair, ‘if I tell you the very -worst of myself, you will not give me up, or send me away? Thanks! It is -enough for me to be sure of that. Well, perhaps I am, a little—I mean I -like to be doing something, or talking about something. I like to have -something even to think about. You can’t think of Mangnall’s Questions, -now, can you?—or Mrs. Markham? The village people used to be a great -deal more interesting. I used to like to hear all that was going on, and -give them my advice. Well, I suppose it was not very good advice. But I -was not a nobody there to be laughed at, you know, auntie—I was the -chief person in the place!’</p> - -<p>Here Ombra laughed, and it hurt Kate’s feelings.</p> - -<p>‘When I am old enough, I shall be able to do as I please in -Langton-Courtenay,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘Certainly, my love,’ said Mrs. Anderson, interposing; ‘and I hope, in -the meantime, dear, you will think a great deal of your -responsibilities, and all that is necessary to make you fill such a -trying position as you ought.’</p> - -<p>‘Trying!’ said Kate, with some surprise; ‘do you think it will be -trying? I shall like it better than anything. Poor old people, I must -try to make it up to them, for perhaps I rather bothered them sometimes, -to tell the truth. I am not like you and Ombra, so gentle and nice. And, -then, I had never seen people behave as I suppose they ought.’</p> - -<p>‘I am glad you think we behave as we ought, Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! auntie; but then there is something about Ombra that makes me -ashamed of myself. She is never noisy, nor dreadful, like me. She -touches things so softly, and speaks so gently. Isn’t she lovely, -aunt?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span></p> - -<p>‘She is lovely to me,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a glow of pleasure. ‘And -I am so glad you like your cousin, Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘Like her! I never saw any one half so beautiful. She looks such a lady. -She is so dainty, and so soft, and so nice. Could I ever grow like that? -Ah! auntie, you shake your head—I don’t mean so pretty, only a little -more like her, a little less like a——’</p> - -<p>‘My dear child!’ said the gratified mother, giving Kate a hug, though it -was out of doors. And at that moment, Ombra, who had been in advance, -turned round, and saw the hasty embrace, and shrugged her pretty -shoulders, as her habit was.</p> - -<p>‘Mamma, I wish very much you would keep these bursts of affection till -you get home,’ said Ombra. ‘The Eldridges are coming down the cliff.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! who are the Eldridges? I know some people called Eldridge,’ said -Kate—‘at least, I don’t know them, but I have heard——’</p> - -<p>‘Hush! they will hear, too, if you don’t mind,’ said Ombra. And Kate was -silent. She was changing rapidly, even in these few days. Ombra, who -snubbed her, who was not gracious to her, who gave her no caresses, had, -without knowing it, attained unbounded empire over her cousin. Kate had -fallen in love with her, as girls so often do with one older than -themselves. The difference in this case was scarcely enough to justify -the sudden passion; but Ombra looked older than she was, and was so very -different a being from Kate, that her gravity took the effect of years. -Already this entirely unconscious influence had done more for Kate than -all the educational processes she had gone through. It woke the woman, -the gentlewoman, in the child, who had done, in her brief day, so many -troublesome things. Ombra suddenly had taken the ideal place in her -mind—she had been elevated, all unwitting of the honour, to the shrine -in Kate’s heart. Everything in her seemed perfection to the girl—even -her name, her little semi-reproofs, her gentle coldness. ‘If I could but -be like Ombra, not blurting things out, not saying more than I mean, not -carried away by everything that interests me,’ she said, -self-reproachfully, with rising compunction and shame for all her past -crimes. She had never seen the enormity of them as she did now. She set -up Ombra, and worshipped her in every particular, with the enthusiasm of -a fanatic. She tried to curb her once bounding steps into some -resemblance to the other’s languid pace; and drove herself and Maryanne -frantic by vain endeavours to smoothe her rich crisp chestnut hair into -the similitude of Ombra’s shadowy, dusky locks. This sudden worship was -independent of all reason. Mrs. Anderson herself was utterly taken by -surprise by it, and Ombra had not as yet a suspicion of the fact; but it -had already begun to work upon Kate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span></p> - -<p>It was not in her, however, to make the acquaintance of this group of -new people without a little stir in her pulses—all the more as Mrs. -Eldridge came up to herself with special cordiality.</p> - -<p>‘I am sure this is Miss Courtenay,’ she said. ‘I have heard of you from -my nephew and nieces at Langton-Courtenay. They told me you were coming -to the Island. I hope you will like it, and think it as pretty as I do. -You are most welcome, I am sure, to Shanklin.’</p> - -<p>‘Are you their aunt at Langton-Courtenay?’ said Kate, with eyes which -grew round with excitement and pleasure. ‘Oh! how very odd! I did not -think anybody knew me here.’</p> - -<p>‘I am aunt to the boys and girls,’ said Mrs. Eldridge. ‘Mrs. Hardwick is -my husband’s sister. We must be like old friends, for the Hardwicks’ -sake.’</p> - -<p>‘But the Hardwicks are not old friends to me,’ said Kate, with a child’s -unnecessary conscientiousness of explanation. ‘Bertie I know, but I have -only seen the others twice.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! that does not matter,’ said the Rector’s wife; ‘you must come and -see me all the same.’ And then she turned to Mrs. Anderson, and began to -talk of the parish. Kate stood by and listened with wondering eyes as -they discussed the poor folk, and their ways and their doings. They did -not interfere in her way; but perhaps their way was not much better, on -the whole, than Kate’s. She had been very interfering, there was no -doubt; but then she had interfered with everybody, rich and poor alike, -and made no invidious distinction. She stood and listened wondering, -while the Rector added his contribution about the mothers’ meetings, and -the undue expectations entertained by the old women at the almshouses. -‘We must guard against any foolish partiality, or making pets of them,’ -Mr. Eldridge said; and his wife added that Mr. Aston, in the next -parish, had quite <i>spoiled</i> his poor people. ‘He is a bachelor; he has -nobody to keep him straight, and he believes all their stories. They -know they have only to send to the Vicarage to get whatever they -require. When one of them comes into our parish, we don’t know what to -do with her,’ she said, shaking her head. Kate was too much occupied in -listening to all this to perceive that Ombra shrugged her shoulders. Her -interest in the new people kept her silent, as they reascended the -cliff, and strolled towards the cottage; and it was not till the Rector -and his wife had turned homewards, once more cordially shaking hands -with her, and renewing their invitation, that she found her voice.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! auntie, how very strange—how funny!’ she said. ‘To think I should -meet the Eldridges here!’</p> - -<p>‘Why not the Eldridges?—have you any objection to them?’ said Mrs. -Anderson.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh, no!—I suppose not.’ (Kate put aside with an effort that audacity -of Sir Herbert Eldridge, and false assumption about the size of his -park.) ‘But it is so curious to meet directly, as soon as I arrive, -people whom I have heard of——’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed, my dear Kate, it is not at all wonderful,’ said her aunt, -didactically. ‘The world is not nearly such a big place as you suppose. -If you should ever travel as much as we have done (which heaven -forbid!), you would find that you were always meeting people you knew, -in the most unlikely places. Once, at Smyrna, when Mr. Anderson was -there, a gentleman came on business, quite by chance, who was the son of -one of my most intimate friends in my youth. Another time I met a -companion of my childhood, whom I had lost sight of since we were at -school, going up Vesuvius. Our chaplain at Cadiz turned out to be a -distant connection of my husband’s, though we knew nothing of him -before. Such things are always happening. The world looks very big, and -you feel as if you must lose yourself in it; but, on the contrary, -wherever one goes, one falls upon people one knows.’</p> - -<p>‘But yet it is so strange about the Hardwicks,’ said Kate, persisting; -‘they are the only people I ever went to see—whom I was allowed to -know.’</p> - -<p>‘How very pleasant!’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘Now I shall be quite easy in -my mind. Your uncle must have approved of them, in that case, so I may -allow you to associate with the Eldridges freely. How very nice, my -love, that it should be so!’</p> - -<p>Kate made no reply to this speech. She was not, to tell the truth, quite -clear that her uncle approved. He had not cared to hear about Bertie -Hardwick; he had frowned at the mention of him. ‘And Bertie is the -nicest—he is the only one I care for,’ said Kate to herself; but she -said nothing audibly on the subject. To her, notwithstanding her aunt’s -philosophy, it seemed very strange indeed that Bertie Hardwick’s -relatives should be the first to meet her in this new world.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Kate</span> settled down into her new life with an ease and facility which -nobody had expected. She wrote to her uncle that she was perfectly -happy; that she never could be sufficiently thankful to him for freeing -her from the yoke of Miss Blank, and placing her among people who were -fond of her. ‘Little fool!’ Mr. Courtenay muttered to himself. ‘They -have flattered her, I suppose.’ This was the easiest and most natural -explanation to one who knew, or thought he knew, human nature so well.</p> - -<p>But Kate was not flattered, except by her aunt’s caressing ways and -habitual fondness. Nobody in the Cottage recognised her importance as -the heiress of Langton-Courtenay. Here she was no longer first, but -second—nay third, taking her place after her cousin, as nature -ordained. ‘Ombra and Kate,’ was the new form of her existence—first -Ombra, then the new-comer, the youngest of all. She was spoiled as a -younger child is spoiled, not in any other way. Mrs. Anderson’s theory -in education was indulgence. She did not believe in repression. She was -always caressing, always yielding. For one thing, it was less -troublesome than a continual struggle; but that was not her motive. She -took high ground. ‘What we have got to do is to ripen their young -minds,’ she said to the Rector’s wife, who objected to her as ‘much too -good,’ a reproach which Mrs. Anderson liked; ‘and it is sunshine that -ripens, not an east wind!’ This was almost the only imaginative speech -she had ever made in her life, and consequently she liked to repeat it. -‘Depend upon it, it is sunshine that ripens them, and not east wind!’</p> - -<p>‘The sunshine ripens the wheat and the tares alike, as we are told in -Scripture,’ said Mrs. Eldridge, with professional seriousness.</p> - -<p>‘That shows that Providence is of my way of thinking,’ said her -antagonist. ‘Why should one cross one’s children, and worry them? They -will have enough of that in their lives! Besides, I have practical proof -on my side. Look, at Ombra! There is a child that never was crossed -since she was born;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> and if I had scolded till I made myself ill, do you -think I could have improved upon <i>that</i>?’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Eldridge stood still for a moment, not believing her ears. She had -daughters of her own, and to have Ombra set up as a model of excellence! -But she recovered herself speedily, and gave vent to her feelings in a -more courteous way.</p> - -<p>‘Ah! it is easy to see you never had any boys,’ she said, with that -sense of superiority which the mother of both sections of humanity feels -over her who has produced but one. ‘Ombra, indeed!’ Mrs. Eldridge said, -within herself. And, indeed, it was a want of ‘proper feeling,’ on Mrs. -Anderson’s part, to set up so manifestly her own daughter above other -people’s. She felt it, and immediately did what she could to atone.</p> - -<p>‘Boys, of course, are different,’ she said; ‘but I am sure you will -agree with me that a poor child who has never had any one to love her, -who has been brought up among servants, a girl who is motherless——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! poor child! I can only say you are too good—too good! With such a -troublesome disposition, too. I never could be half as good!’ cried the -Rector’s wife.</p> - -<p>Thus Mrs. Anderson triumphed in the argument. And as it happened that -ripening under the sunshine was just what Kate wanted, the system -answered in the most perfect way, especially as a gently chilling -breeze, a kind of moral east wind, extremely subdued, but sufficiently -keen, came from Ombra, checking Kate’s irregularities, without seeming -to do so, and keeping her high spirit down. Ombra’s influence over her -cousin increased as time went on. She was Kate’s model of all that was -beautiful and sweet. The girl subdued herself with all her might, and -clipped and snipped at her own character, to bring it to the same mould -as that of her cousin. And as such worship cannot go long unnoted, Ombra -gradually grew aware of it, and softened under its influence. The -Cottage grew very harmonious and pleasant within doors. When Kate went -to bed, the mother and daughter would still linger and have little -conversations about her, conversations in which the one still defended -and the other attacked—or made a semblance of attacking—the new-comer; -but the acrid tone had gone out of Ombra’s remarks.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want to say a word against Kate,’ she would say, keeping up her -old <i>rôle</i>. ‘I think there is a great deal of good about her; but you -know we have no longer our house to ourselves.’</p> - -<p>‘Could we enjoy our house to ourselves, Ombra, knowing that poor child -to have no home?’ said Mrs. Anderson, with feeling.</p> - -<p>‘Well, mamma, the poor child has a great many advantages<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> over us,’ said -Ombra, hesitating. ‘I should like to have had her on a visit; but to be -always between you and me——’</p> - -<p>‘No one can be between you and me, my child.’</p> - -<p>‘That is true, perhaps. But then our little house, our quiet life all to -ourselves.’</p> - -<p>‘That was a dream, my dear—that was a mere dream of your own. People in -our position cannot have a life all to ourselves. We have our duties to -society; and I have my duty to you, Ombra. Do you think I could be so -selfish as to keep you altogether to myself, and never let you see the -world, or have your chance of choosing some one who will take care of -you better than I can?’</p> - -<p>‘Please don’t,’ said Ombra. ‘I am quite content with you; and there is -not much at Shanklin that can be called society or the world.’</p> - -<p>‘The world is everywhere,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with dignity. ‘I am not -one of those who confine the term to a certain class. Your papa was but -a Consul, but I have seen many an ambassador who was very inferior to -him. Shanklin is a very nice place, Ombra; and the society, what there -is, is very nice also. I like my neighbours very much—they are not -lords and ladies, but they are well-bred, and some of them are -well-born.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t suppose we are among that number,’ said Ombra, with a momentary -laugh. This was one of her pet perversities, said out of sheer -opposition; for though she thrust the fact forward, she did not like it -herself.</p> - -<p>‘I think you are mistaken,’ said her mother, with a flush upon her face. -‘Your papa had very good connections in Scotland; and my father’s -family, though it was not equal to the Courtenays, which my sister -married into, was one of the most respectable in the county. You are not -like Kate—you have not the pedigree which belongs to a house which has -landed property; but you need not look down upon your forefathers for -all that.’</p> - -<p>‘I do not look down upon them. I only wish not to stand up upon them, -mamma, for they are not strong enough to bear me, I fear,’ Ombra said, -with a little forced laugh.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t like joking on such subjects,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘But to -return to Kate. She admires you very, very much, my darling—I don’t -wonder at that——’</p> - -<p>‘Silly child!’ said Ombra, in a much softened tone.</p> - -<p>‘It shows her sense, I think; but it throws all the greater a -responsibility on you. Oh! my dear love, could you and I, who are so -happy together, dare to shut our hearts against that poor desolate -child?’</p> - -<p>Once more Ombra slightly, very slightly shrugged her shoulders; but she -answered—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span></p> - -<p>‘I am sure I have no wish to shut my heart against her, mamma.’</p> - -<p>‘For my part,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘I feel I cannot pet her too much, or -be too indulgent to her, to make up to her for fifteen years spent among -strangers, with nobody to love.’</p> - -<p>‘How odd that she should have found nobody to love!’ said Ombra, turning -away. She herself was, as she believed, ‘not demonstrative,’ not -‘effusive.’ She was one of the many persons who think that people who do -not express any feeling at all, must necessarily have more real feeling -than those who disclose it—a curious idea, quite frequent in the world; -and she rather prided herself upon her own reserve. Yet, reserved as she -was, she, Ombra, had always found people to love her, and why not Kate? -This was the thought that passed through her mind as she gave up the -subject; but still she had grown reconciled to her cousin, had begun to -like her, and to be gratified by her eager, girlish homage. Kate’s -admiration spoke in every look and word, in her abject submission to -Ombra’s opinion, her concurrence in all that Ombra said, her imitation -of everything she did. Ombra was a good musician, and Kate, who had no -great faculty that way, got up and practised every morning, waking the -early echoes, and getting anything but blessings from her idol, whose -bed was exactly above the piano on the next floor. Ombra was a great -linguist, by dint of her many travels, and Kate sent unlimited orders -for dictionaries and grammars to her uncle, and began to learn verbs -with enthusiasm. She had all the masters who came from London to Miss -Story’s quiet establishment, men whose hours were golden, and whom -nobody but an heiress could have entertained in such profusion; and she -applied herself with the greatest diligence to such branches of study as -were favoured by Ombra, putting her own private tastes aside for them -with an enthusiasm only possible to first love. Perhaps Kate’s -enthusiasm was all the greater because of the slow and rather grudging -approbation which her efforts to please elicited. Mrs. Anderson was -always pleased, always ready to commend and admire; but Ombra was very -difficult. She made little allowance for any weakness, and demanded -absolute perfection, as mentors at the age of seventeen generally do; -and Kate hung on her very breath. Thus she took instinctively the best -way to please the only one in the house who had set up any resistance to -her. Over the rest Kate had an easy victory. It was Ombra who, all -unawares, and not by any virtue of hers, exercised the best control and -influence possible over the head-strong, self-opinioned girl. She was -head-strong enough herself, and very imperfect, but that did not affect -her all-potent visionary sway.</p> - -<p>And nothing could be more regular, nothing more quiet and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> monotonous, -than the routine of life in the Cottage. The coming of the masters was -the event in it; and that was a mild kind of event, causing little -enthusiasm. They breakfasted, worked, walked, and dined, and then rose -next morning to do the same thing over again. Notwithstanding Mrs. -Anderson’s talk about her duty to society, there were very few claims -made upon her. She was not much called upon to fulfil these duties. -Sometimes the ladies went out to the Rectory to tea; sometimes, indeed, -Mrs. Anderson and Ombra dined there; but on these occasions Kate was -left at home, as too young for such an intoxicating pleasure. ‘And, -besides, my darling, I promised your uncle,’ Mrs. Anderson would say. -But Kate was always of the party when it was tea. There were other -neighbours who gave similar entertainments; and before a year had -passed, Kate had tasted the bread and butter of all the houses in the -parish which Mrs. Anderson thought worthy of her friendship. But only to -tea; ‘I made that condition with Mr. Courtenay, and I must hold by it, -though my heart is broken to leave you behind. If you knew how trying it -was, my dearest child!’ she would say with melancholy tones, as she -stepped out, with a shawl over her evening toilet; but these were very -rare occurrences indeed. And Kate went to the teas, and was happy.</p> - -<p>How happy she was! When she was tired of the drawing-room (as happened -sometimes), she would rush away to an odd little room under the leads, -which was Francesca’s work-room and oratory, where the other maids were -never permitted to enter, but which had been made free to Mees Katta. -Francesca was not like English servants, holding jealously by one -special <i>metier</i>. She was cook, and she was housekeeper, but, at the -same time, she was Mrs. Anderson’s private milliner, making her dresses; -and the personal attendant of both mother and daughter. Even Jane, the -housemaid, scorned her for this versatility; but Francesca took no -notice of the scorn. She was not born to confine herself within such -narrow limits as an English kitchen afforded her; and she took -compensation for her unusual labours. She lectured Ombra, as we have -seen; she interfered in a great many things which were not her business; -she gave her advice freely to her mistress; she was one of the -household, not less interested than the mistress herself. And when Kate -arrived, Francesca added another branch of occupation to the others; or, -rather, she revived an art which she had once exercised with great -applause, but which had fallen into disuse since Ombra ceased to be a -child. She became the minstrel, the improvisatore, the ancient -chronicler, the muse of the new-comer. When Kate felt the afternoon -growing languid she snatched up a piece of work, and flew up the stairs -to Francesca’s retreat. ‘Tell me something,’ she would say;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> and, -sitting at the old woman’s feet, would forget her work, and her dulness, -and everything in heaven and earth, in the entrancement of a tale. These -were not fairy-tales, but bits of those stories, more strange than -fairy-tales, which still haunt the old houses of Italy. Francesca’s -tales were without end. She would begin upon a family pedigree, and work -her way up or down through a few generations, without missing a stitch -in her work, or dropping a thread in her story. She filled Kate’s head -with counts and barons, and gloomy castles and great palaces. It was an -amusement which combined the delight of gossip and the delight of -novel-reading in one.</p> - -<p>And thus Kate’s life ran on, as noiseless, as simple as the growth of a -lily or a rose, with nothing but sunshine all about, warming her, -ripening her, as her new guardian said, bringing slowly on, day by day, -the moment of blossoming, the time of the perfect flower.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was summer when Kate arrived at the Cottage, and it was not till the -Easter after that any disturbing influences came into the quiet scene. -Easter was so late that year that it was almost summer again. The rich -slopes of the landslip were covered with starry primroses, and those -violets which have their own blue-eyed beauty only to surround them, and -want the sweetness of their rarer sisters. The landslip is a kind of -fairyland at that enchanted moment. Everything is coming—the hawthorn, -the wild roses, all the flowers of early summer, are, as it were, on -tiptoe, waiting for the hour of their call; and the primroses have come, -and are crowding everywhere, turning the darkest corners into gardens of -delight. Then there is the sea, now matchless blue, now veiled with -mists, framing in every headland and jutting cliff, without any margin -of beach to break its full tone of colour; and above, the new-budded -trees, the verdure that grows and opens every day, the specks of white -houses everywhere, dotted all over the heights. Spring, which makes -everything and every one gay, which brings even to the sorrowful a touch -of that reaction of nature that makes pain sorer for the moment, yet -marks the new springing of life—fancy what it was to the -sixteen-year-old girl, now first emancipated, among people who loved -her, never judged her harshly, nor fretted her life with uncalled-for -opposition!</p> - -<p>Kate felt as if the primroses were a crowd of playmates, suddenly come -to her out of the bountiful heart of nature. She gathered baskets full -every day, and yet they never decreased. She passed her mornings in -delicious idleness making them into enormous bouquets, which gave the -Cottage something of the same aspect as the slopes outside. She had a -taste for this frivolous but delightful occupation. I am free to confess -that to spend hours putting primroses and violets together, in the -biggest flat dishes which the Cottage could produce, was an extremely -frivolous occupation; most likely she would have been a great deal -better employed in improving her mind, in learning verbs, or practising -exercises, or doing something useful. But youth has a great deal of -leisure, and this bright fresh girl, in the bright little hall of the -Cottage, arranging her flowers in the spring sunshine, made a very -pretty picture. She put the primroses<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> in, with their natural leaves -about them, with sweet bunches of blue violets to heighten the effect, -touching them as if she loved them; and, as she did it, she sang as the -birds do, running on with unconscious music, and sweetness, and -gladness. It was Spring with her as with them. Nothing was as yet -required of her but to bloom and grow, and make earth fairer. And she -did this unawares and was as happy over her vast, simple bouquet, and -took as much sweet thought how to arrange it, as if that had been the -great aim of life. She was one with her flowers, and both together they -belonged to Spring—the Spring of the year, the Spring of life, the -sweet time which comes but once, and never lasts too long.</p> - -<p>She was thus employed one morning when steps came through the garden, -steps which she did not much heed. For one thing, she but half heard -them, being occupied with her ‘work,’ as she called it, and her song, -and having no fear that anything unwelcome would appear at that sunny, -open door. No one could come who did not know everybody in the little -house, who was not friendly, and smiling, and kind, whose hand would not -be held out in pleasant familiarity. Here were no trespassers, no -strangers. Therefore Kate heard the steps as though she heard them not, -and did not even pause to ask herself who was coming. She was roused, -but then only with the mildest expectation, when a shadow fell across -her bit of sunshine. She looked up with her song still on her lip, and -her hands full of flowers. She stopped singing. ‘Oh! Bertie!’ she cried, -half to herself, and made an eager step forward. But then suddenly she -paused—she dropped her flowers. Curiosity, wonder, amazement came over -her face. She went on slowly to the door, gazing, and questioning with -her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Are there two of you?’ she said gravely. ‘I heard that Bertie Hardwick -was coming. Oh! which is you? Stop—don’t tell me. I am not going to be -mystified. I can find it out for myself.’</p> - -<p>There were two young men standing in the hall, who laughed and blushed -as they stood submitting to her inspection; but Kate was perfectly -serious. She stood and looked at them with an unmoved and somewhat -anxious countenance. A certain symbolical gravity and earnestness was in -her face; but there was indeed occasion to hesitate. The two who stood -before her seemed at the first glance identical. They had the same eyes, -the same curling brown hair, the same features, the same figure. -Gradually, however, the uncertainty cleared away from Kate’s face.</p> - -<p>‘It must be you,’ she said, still very seriously. ‘You are not quite so -tall, and I think I remember your eyes. You must be Bertie, I am sure.’</p> - -<p>‘We are both Bertie,’ said the young man, laughing.</p> - -<p>‘Ah! but you must be <i>my</i> Bertie; I am certain of it,’ said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> Kate. Not a -gleam of maiden consciousness was in her; she said it with all -simplicity and seriousness. She did not understand the colour that came -to one Bertie’s face or the smile that flashed over the other; and she -held out her hand to the one whom she had selected. ‘I am so glad to see -you. Come in, and tell me all about Langton. Dear old Langton! Though -you were so disagreeable about the size of the park——’</p> - -<p>‘I will never be disagreeable again.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, nonsense!’ cried Kate, interrupting him. ‘As if one could stop -being anything that is natural! My aunt is somewhere about, and Ombra is -in the drawing-room. Come in. Perhaps, though, you had better tell me -who this—other gentleman—— Why, Mr. Bertie, I am not quite sure, -after all, which is the other and which is you!’</p> - -<p>‘This is my cousin, Bertie Eldridge,’ said her old friend. ‘You will -soon know the difference. You remember what an exemplary character I am, -and he is quite the reverse. I am always getting into trouble on his -account.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Courtenay will soon know better than to believe you,’ said the -other; at which Kate started and clapped her hands.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! I know now that is not your voice. Ombra, please, here are two -gentlemen——’</p> - -<p>This is how the two cousins were introduced into the Cottage. They had -been there before separately; but neither Mrs. Anderson nor her daughter -knew how slight was the acquaintance which entitled Kate to qualify one -of the new-comers as ‘my Bertie.’ They were both young, not much over -twenty, and their likeness was wonderful; it was, however, a likeness -which diminished as they talked, for their expression was as different -as their voices. Kate had no hesitation in appropriating the one she -knew.</p> - -<p>‘Tell me about Langton,’ she said—‘all about it. I have heard nothing -for nearly a year. Oh! don’t laugh. I know the house stands just where -it used to stand, and no one dares to cut down the trees. But itself—— -Don’t you know what Langton means to me?’</p> - -<p>‘Home?’ said Bertie Hardwick, but with a little doubt in his tone.</p> - -<p>‘Home!’ repeated Kate; and then she, too, paused perplexed. ‘Not exactly -home, for there is no one there I care for—much. Oh! but can’t you -understand? It is not home; I am much happier here; but, in a kind of a -way, it is me!’</p> - -<p>Bertie Hardwick was puzzled, and he was dazzled too. His first meeting -with her had made no small impression upon him; and now Kate was almost -a full-grown woman, and the brightness about her dazzled his eyes.</p> - -<p>‘It cannot be you now,’ he said. ‘It is—let.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span></p> - -<p>Kate gave a fierce little cry, and clenched her hands.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Uncle Courtenay, I wish I could just kill you!’ she said, half to -herself.</p> - -<p>‘It is let, for four or five years, to the only kind of people who can -afford to have great houses now—to Mr. Donkin, who has a large—shop in -town.’</p> - -<p>Kate moaned again, but then recovered herself.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t see that it matters much about the shop. I think if I were -obliged to work, I should not mind keeping a shop. It would be such fun! -But, oh! if Uncle Courtenay were only here!’</p> - -<p>‘It is better not. There might be bloodshed, and you would regret it -after,’ said Bertie, gravely.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t laugh at me; I mean it. And, if you won’t tell me anything about -Langton, tell me about yourself. Who is <i>he</i>? What does he mean by being -so like you? He is different when he talks; but at the first glance—— -Why do you allow any one to be so like you, Mr. Bertie? If he is not -nice, as you said——’</p> - -<p>‘I did not mean you to believe me,’ said Bertie. ‘He is the best fellow -going. I wish I were half as good, or half as clever. He is my cousin, -and just like my brother. Why, I am proud of being like him. We are -taken for each other every day.’</p> - -<p>‘<i>I</i> should not like it,’ said Kate. ‘Ombra and I are not like each -other, though we are cousins too. Do you know Ombra? I think there never -was any one like her; but, on the whole, I think it is best to be two -people, not one. Are you still at Oxford?—and is he at Oxford? Mr. -Bertie, if I were you, I don’t think I should be a clergyman.’</p> - -<p>‘Why?’ said Bertie, who, unfortunately for himself, was much of her -mind.</p> - -<p>‘You might not get a living, you know,’ said Kate.</p> - -<p>This she said conscientiously, to prepare him for the fact that he was -not to have Langton-Courtenay; but his laugh disconcerted her, and -immediately brought before her eyes the other idea that his -objectionable uncle, who had a park larger than Langton, might have a -living too. She coloured high, having begun to find out, by means of her -education in the Cottage, when she had committed herself.</p> - -<p>‘Or,’ she went on, with all the calmness she could command, ‘when you -had a living you might not like it. The Rector here—— Oh! of course he -must be your uncle too. He is very good, I am sure, and very nice,’ said -Kate, floundering, and feeling that she was getting deeper and deeper -into the mire; ‘but it is so strange to hear him talk. The old women in -the almshouses, and the poor people, and all that, and mothers’ -meetings—— Of course, it must be very right and very good; but, Mr. -Bertie, nothing but mothers’ meetings, and old women in almshouses, <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span>for -all your life——’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose he has something more than that,’ said Bertie, half -affronted, half amused.</p> - -<p>‘I suppose so—or, at least, I hope so,’ said Kate. ‘Do you know what a -mothers’ meeting is? But to go to Oxford, you know, for that——! If I -were you, I would be something else. There must be a great many other -things that you could be. Soldiers are not much good in time of peace, -and lawyers have to tell so many lies—or, at least, so people say in -books. I will tell you what I should advise, Mr. Bertie. Doctors are of -real use in the world—I would be a doctor, if I were you.’</p> - -<p>‘But I should not at all like to be a doctor,’ said Bertie. ‘Of all -trades in the world, that is the last I should choose. Talk of mothers’ -meetings! a doctor is at every fool’s command, to run here and there; -and besides—— I think, Miss Courtenay, you have made a mistake.’</p> - -<p>‘I am only saying what I would do if it was me,’ said Kate, softly -folding her hands. ‘I would rather be a doctor than any of the other -things. And you ought to decide, Mr. Bertie; you will not be a boy much -longer. You have got something here,’ and she put up her hand to her own -soft chin, and stroked it gently, ‘which you did not have the last time -I saw you. You are almost—a man.’</p> - -<p>This for Bertie to hear, who was one-and-twenty, and an Oxford man—who -had felt himself full grown, both in frame and intellect, for these two -years past! He was wroth—his cheek burned, and his eye flashed. But, -fortunately, Mrs. Anderson interposed, and drew her chair towards them, -putting an end to the <i>tête-à-tête</i>. Mrs. Anderson was somewhat -disturbed, for her part. Here were two young men—two birds of -prey—intruding upon the stillness which surrounded the nest in which -she had hidden an heiress. What was she to do? Was it safe to permit -them to come, fluttering, perhaps, the nestling? or did stern duty -demand of her to close her doors, and shut out every chance of evil? As -soon as she perceived that the conversation between Kate and her Bertie -was special and private, she trembled and interposed. She asked the -young man all about his family, his sisters, his studies—anything she -could think of—and so kept her heiress, as she imagined, safe, and the -wild beast at bay.</p> - -<p>‘You are sure your uncle approved of the Hardwicks as friends for you, -Kate?’ she said that evening, when the visit had been talked over in -full family conclave. Mrs. Anderson might make what pretence she pleased -that they were only ordinary visitors, but the two Berties had made a -commotion much greater than the Rector and his wife did, or even the -schoolboy and schoolgirl Eldridges, noisy and tumultuous as their visits -often were.</p> - -<p>‘He made me go to the Rectory with him,’ said Kate, very demurely. ‘It -was not my doing at all; he wanted me to go.’</p> - -<p>And, after that, what could there be to say?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> two Berties came again next day—they came with their cousins, and -they came without them. They joined the party from the Cottage in their -walks, with an intuitive knowledge where they were going, which was -quite extraordinary. They got up croquet-parties and picnics; they were -always in attendance upon the two girls. Mrs. Anderson had many a -thought on the subject, and wondered much what her duty was in such a -very trying emergency; but there were two things that consoled her—the -first that it was Ombra who was the chief object of the two young men’s -admiration; and the second that they could not possibly stay long. Ombra -was their first object. She assured herself of this with a warm and -pleasant glow at her heart, though she was not a match-making mother, -nor at all desirous of ‘marrying off,’ and ‘getting rid of’ her only -child. Besides, the young men were too young for anything serious—not -very long out of their teens; lads still under strict parental -observation and guidance; they were too young to make matrimonial -proposals to any one, or to carry such proposals out. But, nevertheless, -it was pleasant to Mrs. Anderson to feel that Ombra was their first -object, and that her ‘bairn’ was ‘respected like the lave.’ ‘Thank -Heaven, Kate’s money has nothing to do with it,’ she said to herself; -and where was the use of sending away two handsome young men, whom the -girls liked, and who were a change to them? Besides, they were going -away so soon—in a fortnight—no harm could possibly come.</p> - -<p>So Mrs. Anderson tolerated them, invited them, gave them luncheon -sometimes, and often tea, till they became as familiar about the house -as the young Eldridges were, or any other near neighbours. And the girls -did not have their heads at all turned by the new cavaliers, who were so -assiduous in their attentions. Ombra gently ridiculed them both, hitting -them with dainty little arrows of scorn, smiling at their boyish ways, -their impetuosity and self-opinion. Kate, on the contrary, took them up -very gravely, with a motherly, not to say grandmotherly interest in -their future, giving to him whom she called her old friend the very best -of good advice. Mrs. Anderson herself was much amused by this new -development of her charge’s powers. She said to herself, a dozen times -in a day, how ridiculous it was to suppose that boys and girls could not -be in each<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span> other’s company without falling in love. Why, here were two -pairs continually in each other’s company, and without the faintest -shadow of any such folly to disturb them! Perhaps a sense that it was to -her own perfect good management that this was owing, increased her -satisfaction. She ‘kept her eye on them,’ never officiously, never -demonstratively, but in the most vigilant way; and a certain gentle -complacency mingled with her content. Had she left them to roam about as -they pleased without her, then indeed trouble might have been looked -for; but Mrs. Anderson was heroic, and put aside her own ease, and was -their companion everywhere. At the same time (but this was done with the -utmost caution) she took a little pains to find out all about Sir -Herbert Eldridge, the father of one of the Berties—his county, and the -amount of his property, and all the information that was possible. She -breathed not a word of this to any one—not even to Ombra; but she put -Bertie Eldridge on her daughter’s side of the table at tea; and perhaps -showed him a little preference, for her own part, a preference, however, -so slight, so undiscernible to the vulgar eye, that neither of the young -men found it out. She was very good to them, quite irrespective of their -family, or the difference in their prospects; and she missed them much -when they went away. For go away they did, at the end of their -fortnight, leaving the girls rather dull, and somewhat satirical. It was -the first invasion of the kind that had been made into their life. The -boys at the Rectory were still nothing but boys; and men did not abound -in the neighbourhood. Even Ombra was slightly misanthropical when the -Berties went away.</p> - -<p>‘What it is to be a boy!’ she said; ‘they go where they like, these two, -and arrange their lives as they please. What a fuss everybody makes -about them; and yet they are commonplace enough. If they were girls like -us, how little any one would care——’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, Mr. Eldridge will be a great landed proprietor, and have a -great deal in his power,’ said Mrs. Anderson.</p> - -<p>‘Because he happens to have been born Sir Herbert’s son; no thanks to -<i>him</i>,’ said Ombra, with disdain. ‘And most likely, when he is a great -landed proprietor he will do nothing worth noticing. The other is more -interesting to me; he at least has his own way to make.’</p> - -<p>‘I wonder what poor Bertie will do?’ said Kate, with her grandmother -air. ‘I should not like to see him a clergyman. What Ombra says is very -true, auntie. When one is a great Squire, you know, one can’t help one’s -self; one’s life is all settled before one is born. But when one can -choose what to be!—— For my part,’ said Kate, with great gravity, ‘I am -anxious about Bertie, too. I gave him all the advice I could—but I am -not sure that he is the sort of boy to take advice.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span></p> - -<p>‘He is older than you are, my love, and perhaps he may think he knows -better,’ said Mrs. Anderson with a smile.</p> - -<p>‘But that would be a mistake,’ said Kate. ‘Boys have so many things to -do, they have no time to think. And then they don’t consider things as -we do; and besides——’ But here Kate paused, doubting the wisdom of -further explanations. What she had meant to say was that, having no -thinking to do for herself, her own position being settled and -established beyond the reach of fate, she had the more time to give to -the concerns of her neighbours. But it occurred to her that Ombra had -scorned Bertie Eldridge’s position, and might scorn hers also, and she -held her peace.</p> - -<p>‘Besides, there is always a fuss made about them, as if they were better -than other people. Don’t let us talk of them any more; I am sick of the -subject,’ said Ombra, withdrawing into a book. The others made no -objection; they acquiesced with a calmness which perhaps scarcely -satisfied Ombra. Mrs. Anderson declared openly that she missed the -visitors much; and Kate avowed, without hesitation, that the boys were -fun, and she was sorry that they were gone. But the chances are that it -was Ombra who missed them most, though she professed to be rather glad -than otherwise. ‘They were a nuisance, interrupting one whatever one was -doing. Boys at that age always are a nuisance,’ she said, with an air of -severity, and she returned to all her occupations with an immense deal -of seriousness.</p> - -<p>But this disturbance of their quiet affected her in reality much more -than it affected her companions—the very earnestnest of her resumed -duties testified to this. She was on the edge of personal life, -wondering and already longing to taste its excitements and troubles; and -everything that disturbed the peaceful routine felt like that life which -was surely coming, and stirred her pulses. It was like the first -creeping up of the tide about the boat which is destined to live upon -the waves; not enough yet to float the little vessel off from the stays -which hold it, but enough to rock and stir it with prophetic sensation -of the fuller flood to come.</p> - -<p>Ombra was ‘viewy,’ to use a word which has become well-nigh obsolete. -She was full of opinions and speculations, which she called thought; a -little temper, a good deal of unconscious egotism, and a reflective -disposition, united to make her what is called, a ‘thoughtful girl.’ She -mused upon herself, and upon the few varieties of human life she knew, -and upon the world, and all its accidents and misunderstandings, as she -had seen them, and upon the subjects which she read about. But partly -her youth, and partly her character, made her thoughts like the -observations of a traveller newly entered into a strange country, and -feeling himself capable, as superficial travellers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span> often are, to lay -bare its character, and fathom all its problems at a glance. Other -people were, to this young philosopher, as foreigners are to the -inexperienced traveller. She was very curious about them, and marked -their external peculiarities with sufficient quickness; but she had not -imagination enough to feel for them or with them, or to see their life -from their own point of view. Her own standing-point was the only one in -the world to her. She could judge others only by herself.</p> - -<p>Curiously enough, however, with this want of sympathetic imagination -there was combined a good deal of fancy. Ombra had written little -stories from her earliest youth. She had a literary turn. At this period -of her life, when she was nearly eighteen, and the world was full of -wonders and delightful mysteries to her, she wrote a great deal, -sometimes in verse, sometimes in prose, and now and then asked herself -whether it was not genius which inspired her. Some of her poems, as she -called them, had been printed in little religious magazines and -newspapers—for Ombra’s muse was as yet highly religious. She had every -reason to believe herself one of the stars that shine unseen—a creature -superior to the ordinary run of humanity. She read more than any one she -knew, and thought, or believed that she thought, deeply on a great many -subjects. And one of these subjects naturally was that of the position -of women. She was girl enough, and had enough of nature in her, to enjoy -the momentary brightness of the firmament which the two Berties had -brought. She liked the movement and commotion as much as the others -did—the walks, the little parties, the expeditions, and even the games; -and she felt the absence of these little excitements when they came to -an end. And thereupon she set herself to reflect upon them. She carried -her little portfolio up to a rustic seat which had been made on the -cliff, sheltered by some ledges of rock, and covered with flowers and -bushes, and set herself to think. And here her thoughts took that turn -which is so natural, yet so hackneyed and conventional. No one would, in -reality, have been less disposed than Ombra to give up a woman’s—a -lady’s privileges. To go forth into the world unattended, without the -shield and guard of honour, which her semi-foreign education made doubly -necessary to her, would have seemed to the girl the utmost misery of -desolation. She would have resented the need as a wrong done her by -fate. But nevertheless she sat up in her rocky bower, and looked over -the blue sea, and the white headlands, and said to herself, bitterly, -what a different lot had fallen to these two Berties from that which was -her own. They could go where they liked, society imposed no restraints -upon them; when they were tired of one place, they could pass on to -another. Heaven and earth was moved for their education, to make -everything known to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> them, to rifle all the old treasure-houses, to -communicate to them every discovery which human wisdom had ever made. -And for what slight creatures were all these pains taken; boys upon whom -she looked down in the fuller development of her womanhood, feeling them -ever so much younger than she was, less serious in their ideas, less -able to do anything worth living for! It seemed to Ombra, at that -moment, that there was in herself a power such as none of ‘these boys’ -had a conception of—genius, the divinest thing in humanity! But that -which would have been fostered and cultivated in them, would be -quenched, or at least hampered and kept down in her. ‘For I am only a -woman!’ said Ombra, with a swelling heart.</p> - -<p>All this was perfectly natural; and, at the same time, it was quite -conventional. It was a little overflow of that depression after a feast, -that reaction of excitement, which makes every human creature blaspheme -in one way or other. The sound of Kate’s voice, singing as she came up -the little path to the cliff, made her cousin angry, in this state of -her mind and nerves. Here was a girl no better than the boys, a creature -without thought, who neither desired a high destiny, nor could -understand what it meant.</p> - -<p>‘How careless you are, Kate!’ she cried, in the impulse of the moment. -‘Always singing, or some nonsense—and you know you can’t sing! If I -were as young as you are, I would not lose my time as you do! Do you -never think?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Kate, with a meekness she never showed but to Ombra, ‘a -great deal sometimes. But I can’t on such a morning. There seems nothing -in all the world but sunshine and primroses, and the air is so sweet! -Come up to the top of the cliff, and try how far you can see. I think I -can make out that big ship that kept firing so the other day. Ombra, if -you don’t mind, I shall be first at the top!’</p> - -<p>‘As if I cared who was first at the top! Oh! Kate, Kate, you are as -frivolous as—as—the silly creatures in novels—or as these boys -themselves!’</p> - -<p>‘The boys were very good boys!’ said Kate. ‘If they are silly, they -can’t help it. Of course they were not as clever as you—no one is; and -Bertie, you know—little Bertie, my Bertie—ought to think more of what -he is going to do. But they were very nice, as boys go. We can’t expect -them to be like <i>us</i>. Ombra, do come and try a run for the top.’</p> - -<p>‘What a foolish child you are!’ said Ombra, suffering her portfolio to -be taken out of her hands; and then her youth vindicated itself, and she -started off like a young fawn up the little path. Kate could have won -the race had she tried, but was too loyal to outstrip her princess. And -thus the cobwebs were blown away from the young thinker’s brain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> will be seen, however, that, though Kate’s interpretation of the -imperfections of ‘the boys’ was more genial than that of Ombra, yet that -still there was a certain condescension in her remarks, and sense that -she herself was older, graver, and of much more serious stuff altogether -than the late visitors. Her instinct for interference, which had been in -abeyance since she came to the Cottage, sprung up into full force the -moment these inferior creatures came within her reach. She felt that it -was her natural mission, the work for which she was qualified, to set -and keep them right. This she had been quite unable to feel herself -entitled to do in the Cottage. Mrs. Anderson’s indulgence and -tenderness, and Ombra’s superiority, had silenced even her lively -spirit. She could not tender her advice to them, much as she might have -desired to do so. But Bertie Hardwick was a bit of Langton, one of her -own people, a natural-born subject, for whose advantage all her powers -were called forth. She thought a great deal about his future, and did -not hesitate to say so. She spoke of it to Mr. Eldridge, electrifying -the excellent Rector.</p> - -<p>‘What a trouble boys must be!’ she said, when she ran in with some -message from her aunt, and found the whole party gathered at luncheon. -There were ten Eldridges, so that the party was a large one; and as the -holidays were not yet over, Tom and Herbert, the two eldest, had not -returned to school.</p> - -<p>‘They <i>are</i> a trouble, in the holidays,’ said Mrs. Eldridge, with a -sigh; and then she looked at Lucy, her eldest girl, who was in disgrace, -and added seriously, ‘but not more than girls. One expects girls to know -better. To see a great creature of fifteen, nearly in long dresses, -romping like a Tom-boy, is enough to break one’s heart.’</p> - -<p>‘But I was thinking of the future,’ said Kate, and she too gave a little -sigh, as meaning that the question was a very serious one indeed.</p> - -<p>The Rector smiled, but Mrs. Eldridge did not join him. Somehow Kate’s -position, which the Rector’s wife was fond of talking of, gave her a -certain solemnity, which made up for her want of age and experience in -that excellent woman’s eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span></p> - -<p>‘As for us,’ Kate continued very gravely, ‘either we marry or we don’t, -and that settles the question; but boys that have to work—— Oh! when I -think what a trouble they are, it makes me quite sad.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor Kate!’ said the laughing Rector; ‘but you have not any boys of -your own yet, which must simplify the matter.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Kate gravely, ‘not quite of my own; but if you consider the -interest I take in Langton, and all that I have to do with it, you will -see that it does not make much difference. There is Bertie Hardwick, for -instance, Mr. Eldridge——’</p> - -<p>The Rector interrupted her with a hearty outburst of laughter.</p> - -<p>‘Is Bertie Hardwick one of the boys whom you regard as almost your own?’ -he said.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ Kate answered stoutly, ‘of course I take a great interest in -him. I am anxious about what he is to be. I don’t think he ought to go -into the Church; I have thought a great deal about it, and I don’t think -that would be the best thing for him. Mr. Eldridge, why do you laugh?’</p> - -<p>‘Be quiet, dear,’ said his wife, knitting her brows at him -significantly. Mrs. Eldridge had not a lively sense of humour; and she -had pricked up her ears at Bertie Hardwick’s name. Already many a time -had she regretted bitterly that her own Herbert (she would not have him -called Bertie, like the rest) was not old enough to aspire to the -heiress. And, as that could not be mended, the mention of Bertie -Hardwick’s name stirred her into a state of excitement. She was not a -mercenary woman, neither had it ever occurred to her to set up as a -match-maker; ‘but,’ as she said, ‘when a thing stares you in the -face——’ And then it would be so much for Kate’s good.</p> - -<p>‘You ought not to laugh,’ said Kate, with gentle and mild reproof, ‘for -I mean what I say. He could not live the kind of life that you live, Mr. -Eldridge. I suppose you did not like it yourself when you were young?’</p> - -<p>‘My dear child, you go too far—you go too fast,’ cried the Rector, -alarmed. ‘Who said I did not like it when I was young? Miss Kate, though -I laugh, you must not forget that I think my work the most important -work in the world.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! yes, to be sure,’ said Kate; ‘of course one knows—but then when -you were young—— And Bertie is quite young—he is not much more than a -boy; I cannot see how he is to bear it—the almshouses, and the old -women, and the mothers’ meetings.’</p> - -<p>‘You must not talk, my child, of things you don’t understand,’ said the -Rector, quite recovered from his laughter. He had ten pairs of eyes -turned upon him, ten minds, to which it had never occurred to inquire -whether there was anything more important in the world than mothers’ -meetings. Perhaps had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span> he allowed himself to utter freely his own -opinions, he might have agreed with Kate that these details of his -profession occupied too prominent a place in it. But he was not at -liberty then to enter upon any such question. He had to preserve his own -importance, and that of his office, in presence of his family. The -wrinkles of laughter all faded from the corners of his mouth. He put up -his hand gravely, as if to put her aside from this sacred ark which she -was touching with profane hands.</p> - -<p>‘Kate talks nonsense sometimes, as most young persons do,’ said Mrs. -Eldridge, interfering. ‘But at present it is you who don’t understand -what she is saying—or, at least, what she means is something quite -different. She means that Bertie Hardwick would not like such a -laborious life as yours; and, indeed, what she says is quite true; and -if you had known all at once what you were coming to, all the toil and -fatigues—— Ah! I don’t like to think of it. Yes, Kate, a clergyman’s -life is a very trying life, especially when a man is so conscientious as -my husband. There are four mothers’ meetings in different parts of the -parish; and there is the penny club, and the Christmas clothing, and the -schools, not to speak of two services every Sunday, and two on -Wednesdays and Fridays; and a Curate, who really does not do half so -much as he ought. I do not want to say anything against Mr. Sugden, but -he does pay very little attention to the almshouses; and as for the -infant-school——’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, the children are present,’ said the Rector.</p> - -<p>‘I am very well aware of that, Fred; but they have ears and eyes as well -as the rest of us. After all, the infant-school and the Sunday-schools -are not very much to be left to one; and there are only ten old people -in the almshouses. And, I must say, my dear, considering that Mr. Sugden -is able to walk a hundred miles a day, I do believe, when he has an -object——’</p> - -<p>‘Hush! hush!’ said the Rector, ‘we must not enter into personal -discussions. He is fresh from University life, and has not quite settled -down as yet to his work. University life is very different, as I have -often told you. It takes a man some time to get accustomed to change his -habits and ways of thinking. Sugden is rather lazy, I must say—he does -not mean it, but he is a little careless. Did I tell you that he had -forgotten to put down Farmer Thompson’s name in the Easter list? It was -a trifle, you know—it really was not of any consequence; but, still, he -forgot all about it. It is the negligent spirit, not the thing itself, -that troubles me.’</p> - -<p>‘A trifle!’ said Mrs. Eldridge, indignantly; and they entered so deeply -into the history of this offence, that Kate, whose attention had been -wandering, had to state her errand, and finish her luncheon without -further reference to Bertie. But her curiosity was roused; and when, -some time after, she met Mr. Sugden,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> the Curate, it was not in her to -refrain from further inquiries. This time she was walking with her aunt -and cousin, and could not have everything her own way; but the curate -was only too well pleased to join the little party. He was a young man, -tall and strong, looking, as Mrs. Rector said, as if he could walk a -hundred miles a day; and his manner was not that of one who would be -guilty of indolence. He was glad to join the party from the Cottage, -because he was one of those who had been partially enslaved by -Ombra—partially, for he was prudent, and knew that falling in love was -not a pastime to be indulged in by a curate; but yet sufficiently to be -roused by the sight of her into sudden anxiety, to look and show himself -at his best.</p> - -<p>‘Ask him to tea, auntie, please,’ said Kate, whispering, as the Curate -divided the party, securing himself a place by the side of Ombra. Mrs. -Anderson looked at the girl with amazement.</p> - -<p>‘I have no objection,’ she said, wondering. ‘But why?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! never mind why—to please me,’ said the girl. Mrs. Anderson was not -in the habit of putting herself into opposition; and besides, the little -languor and vacancy caused by the departure of the Berties had not yet -quite passed away. She gave the invitation with a smile and a whispered -injunction. ‘But you must promise not to become one of the young ladies -who worship curates, Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘Me!’ said Kate, with indignation, and without grammar; and she gazed at -the big figure before her with a certain friendly contempt. Mr. Sugden -lived a dull life, and he was glad to meet with the pretty Ombra, to -walk by her side, and talk to her, or hear her talk, and even to be -invited to tea. His fall from the life of Oxford to the life of this -little rural parish had been sudden, and it had been almost more than -the poor young fellow’s head could bear. One day surrounded by young -life and energy, and all the merriment and commotion of a large -community, where there was much intellectual stir, to which his mind, -fortunately for himself, responded but faintly, and a great deal of -external activity, into which he had entered with all his heart; and the -next day to be dropped into the grey, immovable atmosphere of rural -existence—the almshouses, the infant-schools, and Farmer Thompson! The -young man had not recovered it. Life had grown strange to him, as it -seems after a sudden and bewildering fall. And it never occurred to -anybody what a great change it was, except the Rector, who thought it -rather sinful that he could not make up his mind to it at once. -Therefore, though he had a chop indifferently cooked waiting for him at -home, he abandoned it gladly for Mrs. Anderson’s bread and butter. Ombra -was very pretty, and it was a variety in the monotonous tenor of his -life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span></p> - -<p>When they had returned to the Cottage, and had seated themselves to the -simple and lady-like meal, which did not much content his vigorous young -appetite, Mr. Sugden began to be drawn out without quite understanding -the process. The scene and circumstances were quite new to him. There -was a feminine perfume about the place which subdued and fascinated him. -Everything was pleasant to look at—even the mother, who was still a -handsome woman; and a certain charm stole over the Curate, though the -bread and butter was scarcely a satisfactory meal.</p> - -<p>‘I hope you like Shanklin?’ Mrs. Anderson said, as she poured him out -his tea.</p> - -<p>‘Of course Mr. Sugden must say he does, whether or not,’ said Ombra. -‘Fancy having the courage to say that one does not like Shanklin before -the people who are devoted to it! But speak frankly, please, for I am -not devoted to it. I think it is dull; it is too pretty, like a scene at -the opera. Whenever you turn a corner, you come upon a picture you have -seen at some exhibition. I should like to hang it up on the wall, but -not to live in it. Now, Mr. Sugden, you can speak your mind.’</p> - -<p>‘I never was at an exhibition,’ said Kate, ‘nor at the opera. I never -saw such a lovely place, and you know you don’t mean it, Ombra—you, who -are never tired of sketching or writing poetry about it.’</p> - -<p>‘Does Miss Anderson write poetry?’ said the Curate, somewhat startled. -He was frightened, like most men, by such a discovery. It froze the -words on his lips.</p> - -<p>‘No, no—she only amuses herself,’ said the mother, who knew what the -effect of such an announcement was likely to be; upon which the poor -Curate drew breath.</p> - -<p>‘Shanklin is a very pretty place,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I am not so used to -pretty places as I ought to be. I come from the Fens myself. It is hilly -here, and there is a great deal of sea; but I don’t think,’ he added, -with a little outburst, and a painful consciousness that he had not been -eloquent—‘I don’t think there is very much to do.’</p> - -<p>‘Except the infant-schools and the almshouses,’ said Kate.</p> - -<p>‘Good Lord!’ said the poor young man, driven to his wits’ end; and then -he grew very red, and coughed violently, to cover, if possible, the -ejaculation into which he had been betrayed. Then he did his best to -correct himself, and put on a professional tone. ‘There is always the -work of the parish for me,’ he said, trying to look assured and -comfortable; ‘but I was rather thinking of you ladies; unless you are -fond of yachting—but I suppose everybody is who lives in the Isle of -Wight?’</p> - -<p>‘Not me,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘I do not like it, and I would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> not trust -my girls, even if they had a chance, which they have not. Oh! no; we -content ourselves with a very quiet life. They have their studies, and -we do what we can in the parish. I assure you a school-feast is quite a -great event.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Sugden shuddered; he could not help it; he had not been brought up -to it; he had been trained to a lively life, full of variety, and -amusement, and exercise. He tried to say faintly that he was sure a -quiet life was the best, but the words nearly choked him. It was now -henceforward his <i>rôle</i> to say that sort of thing; and how was he to do -it, poor young muscular, untamed man! He gasped and drank a cup of hot -tea, which he did not want, and which made him very uncomfortable. Tea -and bread and butter, and a school-feast by way of excitement! This was -what a man was brought to, when he took upon himself the office of a -priest.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Sugden, please tell me,’ said Kate, ‘for I want to know—is it a -very great change after Oxford to come to such a place as this?’</p> - -<p>‘O Lord!’ cried the poor Curate again. A groan burst from him in spite -of himself. It was as if she had asked him if the change was great from -the top of an Alpine peak to the bottom of a crevasse. ‘I hope you’ll -excuse me,’ he said, with a burning blush, turning to Mrs. Anderson, and -wiping the moisture from his forehead. ‘It was such an awfully rapid -change for me; I have not had time to get used to it. I come out with -words I ought not to use, and feel inclined to do ever so many things I -oughtn’t to do—I know I oughtn’t; but then use, you know, is second -nature, and I have not had time to get out of it. If you knew how -awfully sorry I was——’</p> - -<p>‘There is nothing to be awfully sorry about,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a -smile. But she changed the conversation, and she was rather severe upon -her guest when he went away. ‘It is clear that such a young man has no -business in the Church,’ she said, with a sharpness quite unusual to -her. ‘How can he ever be a good clergyman, when his heart is so little -in it? I do not approve of that sort of thing at all.’</p> - -<p>‘But, auntie, perhaps he did not want to go into the Church,’ said Kate; -and she felt more and more certain that it was not the thing for Bertie -Hardwick, and that he never would take such a step, except in defiance -of her valuable advice.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Circumstances</span> after this threw Mr. Sugden a great deal in their way. He -lived in a superior sort of cottage in the village, a cottage which had -once been the village doctor’s, and had been given up by him only when -he built that house on the Undercliff, which still shone so white and -new among its half-grown trees. It must be understood that it was the -Shanklin of the past of which we speak—not the little semi-urban place -with lines of new villas, which now bears that name. The mistress of the -house was the dressmaker of the district as well, and much became known -about her lodger by her means. She was a person who had seen better -days, and who had taken up dressmaking at first only for her own -amusement, she informed her customers, and consequently she had very -high manners, and a great deal of gentility, and frightened her humble -neighbours. Her house had two stories, and was very respectable. It -could not help having a great tree of jessamine all over one side, and a -honeysuckle clinging about the porch, for such decorations are -inevitable in the Isle of Wight; but still there were no more flowers -than were absolutely necessary, and that of itself was a distinction. -The upper floor was Mr. Sugden’s. He had two windows in his -sitting-room, and one in his bedroom, which commanded the street and all -that was going on there; and it was the opinion of the Rector’s wife -that no man could desire more cheerful rooms. He saw everybody who went -or came from the Rectory. He could moralise as much as he pleased upon -the sad numbers who frequented the ‘Red Lion.’ He could see the -wheelwright’s shop, and the smithy, and I don’t know how many more -besides. From the same window he could even catch a glimpse of the rare -tourists or passing travellers who came to see the Chine. And what more -would the young man have?</p> - -<p>Miss Richardson, the dressmaker, had many little jobs to do for Kate. -Sometimes she took it into her head to have a dress made of more rapidly -than Maryanne’s leisurely fingers could do it; sometimes she saw a -fashion-book in Miss Richardson’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> window to which she took a sudden -fancy; so that there was a great deal of intercourse kept up between the -dressmaker’s house and the Cottage. This did not mean that Kate was much -addicted to dress, or extravagant in that point; but she was fanciful -and fond of changes—and Maryanne, having very little to do, became -capable of doing less and less every day. Old Francesca made all Mrs. -Anderson’s gowns and most of Ombra’s, besides her other work; but -Maryanne, a free-born Briton, was not to be bound to any such slavery. -And thus it happened that Miss Richardson went often to the Cottage. She -wore what was then called a cottage-bonnet, surrounding, with a border -of clean quilted net, her prim but pleasant face, and a black merino -dress with white collar and cuffs; she looked, in short, very much as a -novice Sister would look now; but England was very Protestant at that -moment, and there were no Sisters in Miss Richardson’s day.</p> - -<p>‘My young gentleman is getting a little better used to things, thank -you, ma’am,’ said Miss Richardson. ‘Since he has been a little more -taken out of an evening, you and other ladies inviting him to tea, you -can’t think what a load is lifted off my mind. The way he used to walk -about at first, crushing over my head till I thought the house would -come down! They all feel it a bit, ma’am, do my gentlemen. The last one -was a sensible man, and fond of reading, but they ain’t all fond of -reading—more’s the pity! I’ve been out in the world myself, and I know -how cold it strikes coming right into the country like this.’</p> - -<p>‘But he has his parish work,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a little -severity.</p> - -<p>‘That is what Mrs. Eldridge says; but, bless you, what’s his parish work -to a young gentleman like that, fresh from college? He don’t know what -to say to the folks—he don’t know what to do with them. Bless your -heart,’ said Miss Richardson, warming into excitement, ‘what should he -know about a poor woman’s troubles with her family—or a man’s, either, -for that part? He just puts his hand in his pocket; that’s all he does. -“I’m sure I’m very sorry for you, and here’s half-a-crown,” he says. -It’s natural. I’d have done it myself when I was as young, before I knew -the world, if I’d had the halfcrown; and he won’t have it long, if he -goes on like this.’</p> - -<p>‘It is very kind of him, and very nice of him,’ said Kate.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Miss, it’s kind in meaning, but it don’t do any good. It’s just a -way of getting rid of them, the same as sending them off altogether. -There ain’t one gentleman in a thousand that understands poor folks. -Give them a bit of money, and get quit of them; that’s what young men -think; but poor folks want something different. I’ve nothing to say -against Greek and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> Latin; they’re all very fine, I don’t doubt, but they -don’t tell you how to manage a parish. You can’t, you know, unless -you’ve seen life a bit, and understand folk’s ways, and how things -strike them. Turn round, if you please, Miss, till I fit it under the -arm. It’s just like as if Miss Ombra there should think she could make a -dress, because she can draw a pretty figure. You think you could, -Miss?—then just you try, that’s all I have got to say. The gentlemen -think like you. They read their books, and they think they understand -folk’s hearts, but they don’t, any more than you know how to gore a -skirt. Miss Kate, if you don’t keep still, I can’t get on. The scissors -will snip you, and it would be a thousand pities to snip such a nice -white neck. Now turn round, please, and show the ladies. There’s -something that fits, I’m proud to think. I’ve practised my trade in town -and all about; I haven’t taken it out of books. Though you can draw -beautiful, Miss Ombra, you couldn’t make a fit like that.’</p> - -<p>Miss Richardson resumed, with pins in her mouth, when she had turned -Kate round and round, ‘There’s nobody I pity in all the world, ma’am, as -I pity those young gentlemen. They’re very nice, as a rule; they speak -civil, and don’t give more trouble than they can help. Toss their boots -about the room, and smoke their cigars, and make a mess—that’s to be -looked for; but civil and nice-spoken, and don’t give trouble when they -think of it. But, bless your heart, if I had plenty to live on, and no -work to do but to look out of my window and take walks, and smoke my -cigar, I’d kill myself, that’s what I’d do! Well, there’s the schools -and things; but he can’t be poking among the babies more than half an -hour or so now and then; and I ask you, ladies, as folks with some -sense, what <i>is</i> that young gentleman to do in a mothers’ meeting? No, -ma’am, ask him to tea if you’d be his friend, and give him a little -interest in his life. They didn’t ought to send young gentlemen like -that into small country parishes. And if he falls in love with one of -your young ladies, ma’am, none the worse.’</p> - -<p>‘But suppose my young ladies would have nothing to say to him?’ said -Mrs. Anderson, smiling upon her child, for whom, surely, she might -expect a higher fate. As for Kate, the heiress, the prize, such a thing -was not to be thought of. But Kate was only a child; she did not occur -to the mother, who even in her heiress-ship saw nothing which could -counterbalance the superior attractions of Ombra.</p> - -<p>Miss Richardson took the pins out of her mouth, and turned Kate round -again, and nodded half a dozen times in succession her knowing head.</p> - -<p>‘Never mind, ma’am,’ she said, ‘never mind—none the worse, say I. Them -young gentlemen ought to learn that they can’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> have the first they -fancy. Does ’em good. Men are all a deal too confident -now-a-days—though I’ve seen the time! But just you ask him to tea, -ma’am, if you’d stand his friend, and leave it to the young ladies to -rouse him up. Better folks than him has had their hearts broken, and -done ’em good!’</p> - -<p>It was not with these bloodthirsty intentions that Mrs. Anderson adopted -the dressmaker’s advice; but, notwithstanding, it came about that Mr. -Sugden was asked a great many times to tea. He began to grow familiar -about the house, as the Berties had been; to have his corner, where he -always sat; to escort them in their walks. And it cannot be denied that -this mild addition to the interests of life roused him much more than -the almshouses and the infant schools. He wrote home, to his paternal -house in the Fens, that he was beginning, now he knew it better, as his -mother had prophesied, to take a great deal more interest in the parish; -that there were some nice people in it, and that it was a privilege, -after all, to live in such a lovely spot! This was the greatest relief -to the mind of his mother, who was afraid, at the first, that the boy -was not happy. ‘Thank heaven, he has found out now that a life devoted -to the service of his Maker is a happy life!’ that pious woman said, in -the fulness of her heart; not knowing, alas! that it was devotion to -Ombra which had brightened his heavy existence.</p> - -<p>He fell in love gradually, before the eyes of the older people, who -looked on with more amusement than any graver feeling; and, with a -natural malice, everybody urged it on—from Kate, who gave up her seat -by her cousin’s to the Curate, up to Mr. Eldridge himself, who would -praise Ombra’s beauty, and applaud her cleverness with a twinkle in his -eye, till the gratified young man felt ready to go through fire and -water for his chief. The only spectators who were serious in the -contemplation of this little tragi-comedy were Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. -Eldridge, of whom one was alarmed, and the other disapproving. Mrs. -Anderson uttered little words of warning from time to time, and did all -she could to keep the two apart; but then her anxiety was all for her -daughter, who perhaps was the sole person in the parish unaware of the -fact of Mr. Sugden’s devotion to her. When she had made quite sure of -this, I am afraid she was not very solicitous about the Curate’s -possible heartbreak. He was a natural victim; it was scarcely likely -that he could escape that heartbreak sooner or later, and in the -meantime he was happy.</p> - -<p>‘What can I do?’ she said to the Rector’s wife. ‘I cannot forbid him my -house; and we have never given him any encouragement—in that way. What -can I do?’</p> - -<p>‘If Ombra does not care for him, I think she is behaving very badly,’ -said Mrs. Eldridge. ‘I should speak to her, if I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> were in your place. I -never would allow my Lucy to treat any man so. Of course, if she means -to accept him, it is a different matter; but I should certainly speak to -Ombra, if I were in your place.’</p> - -<p>‘The child has not an idea of anything of the kind,’ said Mrs. Anderson, -faltering. ‘Why should I disturb her unconsciousness?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ said Mrs. Eldridge, ironically, ‘I am sure I beg your pardon. I -don’t, for my part, understand the unconsciousness of a girl of -nineteen!’</p> - -<p>‘Not quite nineteen,’ said Ombra’s mother, with a certain humility.</p> - -<p>‘A girl old enough to be married,’ said the other, vehemently. ‘I was -married myself at eighteen and a half. I don’t understand it, and I -don’t approve of it. If she doesn’t know, she ought to know; and unless -she means to accept him, I shall always say she has treated him very -badly. I would speak to her, if it were I, before another day had -passed.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson was an impressionable woman, and though she resented her -neighbour’s interference, she acted upon her advice. She took Ombra into -her arms that evening, when they were alone, in the favourite hour of -talk which they enjoyed after Kate had gone to bed.</p> - -<p>‘My darling!’ she said, ‘I want to speak to you. Mr. Sugden has taken to -coming very often—we are never free of him. Perhaps it would be better -not to let him come quite so much.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t see how we can help it,’ said Ombra, calmly; ‘he is dull, he -likes it; and I am sure he is very inoffensive. I do not mind him at -all, for my part.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, faltering; ‘but then, perhaps, he may -mind you.’</p> - -<p>‘In that case he would stop away,’ said Ombra, with perfect unconcern.</p> - -<p>‘You don’t understand me, dear. Perhaps he thinks of you too much; -perhaps he is coming too often, for his own good.’</p> - -<p>‘Thinks of me—too much!’ said Ombra, with wide-opened eyes; and then a -passing blush came over her face, and she laughed. ‘He is very careful -not to show any signs of it, then,’ she said. ‘Mamma, this is not your -idea. Mrs. Eldridge has put it into your head.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, my darling, but if it were true——’</p> - -<p>‘Why, then, send him away,’ said Ombra, laughing. ‘But how very silly! -Should not I have found it out if he cared for me? If he is in love with -any one, it is with you.’</p> - -<p>And after this what could the mother do?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Ombra</span> was a young woman, as we have said, full of fancy, but without any -sympathetic imagination. She had made a picture to herself—as was -inevitable—of what the lover would be like when he first approached -her. It was a fancy sketch entirely, not even founded upon observation -of others. She had said to herself that love would speak in his eyes, as -clearly as any tongue could reveal it; she had pictured to herself the -kind of chivalrous devotion which belongs to the age of romance—or, at -least, which is taken for granted as having belonged to it. And as she -was a girl who did not talk very much, or enter into any exposition of -her feelings, she had cherished the ideal very deeply in her mind, and -thought over it a great deal. She could not understand any type of love -but this one; and consequently poor Mr. Sugden, who did not possess -expressive eyes, and could not have talked with them to save his life, -was very far from coming up to her ideal. When her mother made this -suggestion, Ombra thought over it seriously, and thought over him who -was the subject of it, and laughed within herself at the want of -perception which associated Mr. Sugden and love together. ‘Poor dear -mamma,’ she said in her heart, ‘it is so long since she had anything to -do with it, she has forgotten what it looks like.’ And all that day she -kept laughing to herself over this strange mistake; for Ombra had this -other peculiarity of self-contained people, that she did not care much -for the opinion of others. What she made out for herself, she believed -in, but not much else. Mr. Sugden was very good, she thought—kind to -everybody, and kind to herself, always willing to be of service; but to -speak of him and love in the same breath! He was at the Cottage that -same evening, and she watched him with a little amused curiosity. Kate -gave up the seat next to her to the Curate, and Ombra smiled secretly, -saying to herself that Kate and her mother were in a conspiracy against -her. And the Curate looked at her with dull, light blue eyes, which were -dazzled and abashed, not made expressive and eloquent by feeling. He -approached awkwardly, with a kind of terror. He directed his -conversation chiefly to Mrs. Anderson; and did not address herself -directly for a whole half hour at least. The thing seemed simply comical -to Ombra. ‘Come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> here, Mr. Sugden,’ she said, when she changed her seat -after tea, calling him after her, ‘and tell me all about yesterday, and -what you saw and what you did.’ She did this with a little bravado, to -show the spectators she did not care; but caught a meaning glance from -Mrs. Eldridge, and blushed, in spite of herself. So, then, Mrs. Eldridge -thought so too! How foolish people are! ‘Here is a seat for you, Mr. -Sugden,’ said Ombra, in defiance. And the Curate, in a state of perfect -bliss, went after her, to tell her of an expedition which she cared -nothing in the world about. Heaven knows what more besides the poor -young fellow might have told her, for he was deceived by her manner, as -the others were, and believed in his soul that, if never before, she had -given him actual ‘encouragement’ to-night. But the Rector’s wife came to -the rescue, for she was a virtuous woman, who could not see harm done -before her very eyes without an attempt to interfere.</p> - -<p>‘I hope you see what you are doing,’ she whispered severely in Ombra’s -ear before she sat down, and fixed her eyes upon her with all the -solemnity of a judge.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! surely, dear Mrs. Eldridge—I want to hear about this expedition to -the fleet,’ said Ombra. ‘Pray, Mr. Sugden, begin.’</p> - -<p>Poor fellow! the Curate was not eloquent, and to feel his Rectoress -beside him, noting all his words, took away from him what little faculty -he had. He began his stumbling, uncomfortable story, while Ombra sat -sweetly in her corner, and smiled and knitted. He could look at her when -she was not looking at him; and she, in defiance of all absurd theories, -was kind to him, and listened, and encouraged him to go on.</p> - -<p>‘Yes. I daresay nothing particular occurred,’ Mrs. Eldridge said at -last, with some impatience. ‘You went over the <i>Royal Sovereign</i>, as -everybody does. I don’t wonder you are at a loss for words to describe -it. It is a fine sight, but dreadfully hackneyed. I wonder very much, -Ombra, you never were there.’</p> - -<p>‘But for that reason Mr. Sugden’s account is very interesting to me,’ -said Ombra, giving him a still more encouraging look.</p> - -<p>‘Dreadful little flirt!’ Mrs. Eldridge said to herself, and with -virtuous resolution, went on—‘The boys, I suppose, will go too, on -their way here. They are coming in Bertie’s new yacht this time. I am -sure I wish yachts had never been invented. I suppose these two will -keep me miserable about the children from the moment they reach Sandown -pier.’</p> - -<p>‘Which two?’ said Ombra. It was odd that she should have asked the -question, for her attention had at once forsaken the Curate, and she -knew exactly who was meant.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! the Berties, of course. Did not you know they were coming?’ said -Mrs. Eldridge. ‘I like the boys very well—but their yacht! Adieu to -peace for me from the hour it arrives! I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> know I shall be put down by -everybody, and my anxieties laughed at; and you girls will have your -heads turned, and think of nothing else.’</p> - -<p>‘The Berties!—are they coming?’ cried Kate, making a spring towards -them. ‘I am so glad! When are they coming?—and what was that about a -yacht? A yacht!—the very thing one wanted—the thing I have been -sighing, dying for! Oh! you dear Mrs. Eldridge, tell me when they are -coming. And do you think they will take us out every day?’</p> - -<p>‘There!’ said the Rector’s wife, with the composure of despair. ‘I told -you how it would be. Kate has lost her head already, and Ombra has no -longer any interest in your expedition, Mr. Sugden. Are you fond of -yachting too? Well, thank Providence you are strong, and must be a good -swimmer, and won’t let the children be drowned, if anything happens. -That is the only comfort I have had since I heard of it. They are coming -to-morrow—we had a letter this morning—both together, as usual, and -wasting their time in the same way. I disapprove of it very much, for my -part. A thing which may do very well for Bertie Eldridge, with the -family property, and title, and everything coming to him, is very -unsuitable for Bertie Hardwick, who has nothing. But nobody will see it -in that light but me.’</p> - -<p>‘I must talk to him about it,’ said Kate, thoughtfully. Ombra did not -say anything, but as the Rector’s wife remarked, she had no longer any -interest in the Curate’s narrative. She was not uncivil, she listened to -what he said afterwards, but it fell flat upon her, and she asked him if -he knew the Berties, and if he did not think yachting would be extremely -pleasant? It may be forgiven to him if we record that Mr. Sugden went -home that night with a hatred of the Berties, which was anything but -Christian-like. He (almost) wished the yacht might founder before it -reached Sandown Bay; he wished they might be driven out to sea, and get -sick of it, and abandon all thoughts of the Isle of Wight. Of course -they were fresh-water sailors, who had never known what a gale was, he -said contemptuously in his heart.</p> - -<p>But nothing happened to the yacht. It arrived, and everything came true -which Mrs. Eldridge had predicted. The young people in the village and -neighbourhood lost their heads. There was nothing but voyages talked -about, and expeditions here and there. They circumnavigated the island, -they visited the Needles, they went to Spithead to see the fleet, they -did everything which it was alarming and distressing for a mother to see -her children do. And sometimes, which was the greatest wonder of all, -she was wheedled into going with them herself. Sometimes it was Mrs. -Anderson who was the <i>chaperon</i> of the merry party. The Berties -themselves were unchanged. They were as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> much alike as ever, as -inseparable, as friendly and pleasant. They even recommended themselves -to the Curate, though he was very reluctant to be made a friend of -against his will. As soon as they arrived, the wings of life seemed to -be freer, the wheels rolled easier, everything went faster. The very sun -seemed to shine more brightly. The whole talk of the little community at -Shanklin was about the yacht and its masters. They met perpetually to -discuss this subject. The croquet, the long walks, all the inland -amusements, were intermitted. ‘Where shall we go to-morrow?’ they asked -each other, and discussed the winds and the tides like ancient mariners. -In the presence of this excitement, the gossip about Mr. Sugden died a -natural death. The Curate was not less devoted to Ombra. He haunted her, -if not night and day, at least by sea and land, which had become the -most appropriate phraseology. He kept by her in every company; but as -the Berties occupied all the front of the picture, there was no room in -any one’s mind for the Curate. Even Mrs. Anderson forgot about him—she -had something more important on her mind.</p> - -<p>For that was Ombra’s day of triumph and universal victory. Sometimes -such a moment comes even to girls who are not much distinguished either -for their beauty or qualities of any kind—girls who sink into the -second class immediately after, and carry with them a sore and puzzled -consciousness of undeserved downfall. Ombra was at this height of -youthful eminence now. The girls round her were all younger than she, -not quite beyond the nursery, or, at least, the schoolroom. With Kate -and Lucy Eldridge by her, she looked like a half-opened rose, in the -perfection of bloom, beside two unclosed buds—or such, at least, was -her aspect to the young men, who calmly considered the younger girls as -sisters and playmates, but looked up to Ombra as the ideal maiden, the -heroine of youthful fancy. Perhaps, had they been older, this fact might -have been different; but at the age of the Berties sixteen was naught. -As they were never apart, it was difficult to distinguish the sentiments -of these young men, the one from the other. But the only conclusion to -be drawn by the spectators was that both of them were at Ombra’s feet. -They consulted her obsequiously about all their movements. They caught -at every hint of her wishes with the eagerness of vassals longing to -please their mistress. They vied with each other in arranging cloaks and -cushions for her.</p> - -<p>Their yacht was called the <i>Shadow</i>; no one knew why, except, indeed, -its owners themselves, and Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. Eldridge, who made a -shrewd guess. But this was a very different matter from the Curate’s -untold love. The Rector’s wife, ready as she was to interfere, could say -nothing about this. She would not, for the world, put such an idea into -the girl’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> head, she said. It was, no doubt, but a passing fancy, and -could come to nothing; for Bertie Hardwick had nothing to marry on, and -Bertie Eldridge would never be permitted to unite himself to Ombra -Anderson, a girl without a penny, whose father had been nothing more -than a Consul.</p> - -<p>‘The best thing we can wish for her is that they may soon go away; and -I, for one, will never ask them again,’ said Mrs. Eldridge, with deep -concern in her voice. The Rector thought less of it, as was natural to a -man. He laughed at the whole business.</p> - -<p>‘If you can’t tell which is the lover, the love can’t be very -dangerous,’ he said. Thus totally ignoring, as his wife felt, the worst -difficulty of all.</p> - -<p>‘It might be both,’ she said solemnly; ‘and if it is only one, the other -is aiding and abetting. It is true I can’t tell which it is; but if I -were Maria, or if I were Annie——’</p> - -<p>‘Thank Heaven you are neither,’ said the Rector; ‘and with ten children -of our own, and your nervousness in respect to them, I think you have -plenty on your shoulders, without taking up either Annie’s or Maria’s -share.’</p> - -<p>‘I am a mother, and I can’t help feeling for other mothers,’ said Mrs. -Eldridge, who gave herself a great deal of trouble unnecessarily in this -way. But she did not feel for Ombra’s mother in these perplexing -circumstances. She was angry with Ombra. It was the girl’s fault, she -felt, that she was thus dangerous to other women’s boys. Why should she, -a creature of no account, turn the heads of the young men? ‘She is not -very pretty, even—not half so pretty as her cousin will be, who is -worth thinking of,’ she said, in her vexation. Any young man would have -been fully justified in falling in love with Kate. But Ombra, who was -nobody! It was too bad, she felt; it was a spite of fate!</p> - -<p>As for Mrs. Anderson, she, warned by the failure of her former -suggestions, said nothing to her child of the possibilities that seemed -to be dawning upon her; but she thought the more. She watched the -Berties with eyes which, being more deeply interested, were keener and -clearer than anybody else’s eyes; and she drew her own conclusions with -a heart that beat high, and sometimes would flutter, like a girl’s, in -her breast.</p> - -<p>Ombra accepted very graciously all the homage paid to her. She felt the -better and the happier for it, whatever her opinion as to its origin -might be. She began to talk more, being confident of the applause of the -audience. In a hundred little subtle ways she was influenced by it, -brightened, and stimulated. Did she know why? Would she choose as she -ought? Was it some superficial satisfaction with the admiration she was -receiving that moved her, or some dawning of deeper feeling? Mrs. -Anderson watched her child with the deepest anxiety, but she could not -answer these questions. The merest stranger knew as much as she did what -Ombra would do or say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Things</span> went on in this way for some weeks, while the <i>Shadow</i> lay 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.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span></p> - -<p>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 feudal <i>suzeraine</i> should be -respected; whereas, even her good advice was all thrown back upon her, -and she had so much good advice to offer!</p> - -<p>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 to <i>her</i>, 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.</p> - -<p>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 young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> moon 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.</p> - -<p>‘What is the matter, Ombra? Something has happened. But you are safe, my -darling child!’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t,’ said Ombra, withdrawing herself almost pettishly from her -mother’s arms. ‘Nothing has happened. I—only was—tired; and I came -home.’</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>‘Ombra, dear, what is it? I know there is something. Kate?’</p> - -<p>‘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!’</p> - -<p>‘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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘Ombra, have some pity on me! Tell me, for heaven’s sake, what you -mean.’</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘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?’</p> - -<p>‘I cannot tell what could make you miserable,’ said her mother, with -some impatience. ‘Ombra, if I could be angry with you——’</p> - -<p>‘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——’</p> - -<p>‘But, dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, recovering in a moment, ‘there is -nothing so very dreadful in this. I knew he would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> tell you so one day -or other. I have seen it coming for a long time——’</p> - -<p>‘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!’</p> - -<p>‘Ombra!’ Mrs. Anderson was struck with such absolute consternation that -she could not say another word.</p> - -<p>‘I refused him,’ said the girl, suddenly, turning away with a quiver in -her voice.</p> - -<p>‘You refused him?’</p> - -<p>‘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!’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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 thought <i>he</i> did; 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——’</p> - -<p>‘My dear child, this is mere folly,’ said her mother. ‘If it is only a -misunderstanding—and you love each other——’</p> - -<p>‘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!’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘I will say nothing to—to shame you, as you call it.’</p> - -<p>‘Promise you will not say one word.’</p> - -<p>‘Ombra, I must act according to my sense of my duty. I will be very -careful——’</p> - -<p>‘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!’</p> - -<p>And the promise had to be made.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> promise 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.</p> - -<p>‘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——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Ombra, surely it was best to tell me—surely you would not have -kept this from your mother?’</p> - -<p>‘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!’</p> - -<p>‘But, Ombra——’</p> - -<p>‘No more! Oh! mamma, why will you take such a cruel advantage? I cannot -bear any more!’</p> - -<p>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 always <i>à deux</i>, 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 but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> limits 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?</p> - -<p>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 to <i>her</i> -first, 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 be <i>him</i> hanging 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.</p> - -<p>‘Is Miss Anderson ill?’ he said, while he held her hand in greeting.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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 way<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> -was to cross in the yacht. They did not stop even to eat anything. I am -surprised you did not meet them.’</p> - -<p>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——’</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘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 anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> wrong 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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘Bertie Hardwick looked as if he had seen a ghost,’ said another.</p> - -<p>‘No, it was Bertie Eldridge,’ cried a third.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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. -‘<i>What</i> do 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, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> his hampered her. He would -have liked to say something more distinct than he could now permit -himself to do.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>But Mr. Sugden was too much in earnest to be embarrassed by the gentle -denial she made of any necessity for his help.</p> - -<p>‘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——’</p> - -<p>‘My dear Mr. Sugden! you are so very good——’</p> - -<p>‘No, not good,’ he said, anxiously—‘don’t say that—good to myself—if -you will but believe me. I would forget everything else.’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>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.’</p> - -<p>‘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?’</p> - -<p>‘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?’</p> - -<p>Kate stood abashed, drawn back to a little distance, tears coming to her -eyes.</p> - -<p>‘I did not mean any harm,’ she said, humbly.</p> - -<p>‘Not mean any harm! But you thought my child—my Ombra—had run away!’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! forgive me,’ said Kate. ‘I know now how absurd it was; but—I -thought—she might be—in love. People do it—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span>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.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson was worn out. She suffered Kate’s supporting arm to steal -round her. She leant her head upon the girl’s shoulder.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Anderson</span> awaited 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.</p> - -<p>‘Ombra!’ she said softly—‘Ombra, my darling, my poor child!’</p> - -<p>Ombra turned round sharply, fixing her eyes now on her mother’s face as -she had fixed them on the light.</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘I hope not, dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘You have too much courage and -good sense, my darling, to be ill.’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘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 me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> so! 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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘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——’</p> - -<p>‘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?’</p> - -<p>‘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!’</p> - -<p>‘Francesca, go away! You have no right to speak to me so. What have I -done?’</p> - -<p>‘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—<i>cacciato</i>—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!’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span></p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>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 had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> never -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.</p> - -<p>‘How is Ombra?’ she whispered, as if the sound of a voice would be -injurious to her.</p> - -<p>‘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—— -’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘Is it true,’ said Ombra, looking her mother in the face, ‘that the -yacht went away last night?’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘Are they coming back?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said, boldly, the undaunted Kate.</p> - -<p>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,’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘You remember what I said,’ he would whisper to her earnestly—‘if you -want my services in <i>any</i> way. 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——’</p> - -<p>‘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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Kate</span> was 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!’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span></p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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!’</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> penetrating 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.</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>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 she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> had -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.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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——’</p> - -<p>‘To live in the almshouses?’ said Kate, with looks aghast. ‘Look forward -to it! Oh, auntie, what a terrible idea!’</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ Mrs. Anderson said, somewhat subdued, ‘their expectations and -ours are different.’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span></p> - -<p>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 the -<i>sourd</i> irritation 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.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Kate’s</span> eighteenth 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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> -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!</p> - -<p>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—but <i>sensitive</i> (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.</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘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 on <i>our</i> side. 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.’</p> - -<p>‘If Uncle Courtenay comes, he must be content with what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> we 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.’</p> - -<p>‘I would not say that,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with dignity. ‘<i>I</i> want him. -I am glad that he should come, and see with his own eyes how you are -being brought up.’</p> - -<p>‘<i>Being</i> brought up! But I am eighteen. I have stopped growing. I am not -a child any longer. I <i>am</i> brought up,’ said Kate.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson looked anxiously at her child.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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——’</p> - -<p>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!’</p> - -<p>‘Not your only one now,’ said Ombra, with tears rushing to her eyes, and -a little indignant movement; ‘you have Kate——’</p> - -<p>‘Ombra!’</p> - -<p>‘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——’</p> - -<p>‘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——’</p> - -<p>‘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——’</p> - -<p>You made no show, darling; but surely it would be strange<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> if 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.’</p> - -<p>Ombra’s shadowy cheek coloured deeper and deeper, her eyelashes drooped -over it; she shrank from her mother’s eye.</p> - -<p>‘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!’</p> - -<p>‘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?’</p> - -<p>‘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?’</p> - -<p>‘My darling, forgive me! I meant that you thought she came between -us—that you had need of all <i>my</i> sympathy,’ 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.</p> - -<p>‘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?’</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>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 opening<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> under 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.</p> - -<p>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. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> was 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.</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>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!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">With</span> a malice sometimes shown by Providence, we have said; and we feel -sure that we are but expressing what many a troubled housewife has felt, -and blamed herself for feeling. Is it not on such days—days which -seemed to be selected for their utter inconvenience and general -wretchedness—that troublesome and ‘particular’ visitors always do come? -When a party is going on, and all the place is in gay disorder, as now -it was, is it not then that the sour and cynical guest—the person who -ought to be received with grave looks and sober aspect—suddenly falls -upon us, as from the unkind skies? The epicure comes when we are sitting -down to cold mutton—when the tablecloth is not so fresh as it might be. -Everything of this accidental kind, or almost everything, follows the -same rule, and therefore it is with a certain sense of malicious -intention in the untoward fate which pursues us that so many of us -regard such a hazard as this which had befallen Mrs. Anderson. She rose -with a feeling of impatient indignation which almost choked her. Yes, it -was ‘just like’ what must happen. Of course it was he, because it was -just the moment when he was not wanted—when he was unwelcome—of course -it must be he! But Mrs. Anderson was equal to the occasion, -notwithstanding the horrible consciousness that there was no room ready -for him, no dinner cooked or cookable, no opportunity, even, of -murmuring a word of apology. She smoothed her brows bravely, and put on -her most cheerful smile.</p> - -<p>‘I am very glad to see you—I am delighted that you have made up your -mind to come to see us at last,’ she said, with dauntless courage.</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay made her his best bow, and looked round upon the scene -with raised eyebrows, and a look of criticism which went through and -through her. ‘I did not expect anything so brilliant,’ he said, rubbing -his thin hands. ‘I was not aware you were so gay in Shanklin.’</p> - -<p>Gay! If he could only have seen into her heart!</p> - -<p>For at that very moment the two Berties had joined the party, and were -standing by Ombra in her corner; and the mother’s eye was drawn aside to -watch them, even though this other guest stood before her. The two stood -about in an embarrassed way, evidently not knowing what to do or say. -They paid their respects to Ombra with a curious humility and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> -deprecating eagerness; they looked at her as if to say, ‘Don’t be angry -with us—we did not mean to do anything to offend you;’ whereas Ombra, -on her side, sat drawn back in her seat, with an air of consciousness -and apparent displeasure, which Mrs. Anderson thought everybody must -notice. Gay!—this was what she had to make her so; her daughter cold, -estranged, pale with passion and disappointment, and an inexpressible -incipient jealousy, betraying herself and her sentiments; and the young -men so disturbed, so bewildered, not knowing what she meant. They -lingered for a few minutes, waiting, it seemed, to see if perhaps a -kinder reception might be given them, and then withdrew from Ombra with -almost an expression of relief, to find more genial welcome elsewhere; -while she sank back languid and silent, in a dull misery, which was lit -up by jealous gleams of actual pain, watching them from under her -eyelids, noting, as by instinct, everyone they spoke to or looked at. -Poor Mrs. Anderson! she turned from this sight, and kept down the ache -in her heart, and smiled and said,</p> - -<p>‘Gay!—oh! no; but the children like a little simple amusement, and this -is Kate’s birthday.’ If he had but known what kind of gaiety it was that -filled her!—but had he known, Mr. Courtenay fortunately would not have -understood. He had outgrown all such foolish imaginations. It never -would have occurred to him to torment himself as to a girl’s looks; but -there seemed to him much more serious matters concerned, as he looked -round the pretty lawn. He had distinguished Kate now, and Kate had just -met the two Berties, and was talking to them with a little flush of -eagerness. Kate, like the others, did not know which Bertie it was who -had thrust himself so perversely into her cousin’s life; but it had -seemed to her, in her self-communings on the subject, that the thing to -do was to be ‘very civil’ to the Berties, to make the Cottage very -pleasant to them, to win them back, so that Ombra might be unhappy no -more. Half for this elaborate reason, and half because she was in high -spirits and ready to make herself agreeable to everybody, she stood -talking gaily to the two young men, with three pair of eyes upon her. -When had they come?—how nice it was of them to have arrived in time for -her party!—how kind of Bertie Hardwick to bring her those flowers from -Langton!—and was it not a lovely day, and delightful to be out in the -air, and begin Summer again!</p> - -<p>All this Kate went through with smiles and pleasant looks, while they -looked at her. Three pairs of eyes, all with desperate meaning in them. -To Ombra it seemed that the most natural thing in the world was taking -place. The love which she had rejected, which she had thrown away, was -being transferred before her very face to her bright young cousin, who -was wiser than she, and would not throw it away. It was the most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> -natural thing in the world, but, oh, heaven, how bitter!—so bitter that -to see it was death! Mrs. Anderson watched Kate with a sick -consciousness of what was passing through her daughter’s mind, a sense -of the injustice of it and the bitterness of it, yet a poignant sympathy -with poor Ombra’s self-inflicted suffering.</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay’s ideas were very different, but he was not less impressed -by the group before his eyes. And the other people about looked too, -feeling that sudden quickening of interest in Kate which her guardian’s -visit naturally awakened. They all knew by instinct that this was her -guardian who had appeared upon the scene, and that something was going -to happen. Thus, all at once, the gay party turned into a drama, the -secondary personages arranging themselves intuitively in the position of -the chorus, looking on and recording the progress of the tale.</p> - -<p>‘I suppose Kate’s guardian must have come to fetch her away. What a loss -she will be to the Andersons!’ whispered a neighbouring matron, full of -interest, in Mrs. Eldridge’s ear.</p> - -<p>‘One never can tell,’ said that thoughtful woman. ‘Kate is quite grown -up now, and with two girls, you never know when one may come in the -other’s way.’</p> - -<p>This was so oracular a sentence, that it was difficult to pick up the -conversation after it; but after a while, the other went on—</p> - -<p>‘Let us take a little walk, and see what the girls are about. I -understand Kate is a great heiress—she is eighteen now, is she not? -Perhaps she is of age at eighteen.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I don’t think so!’ said Mrs. Eldridge. ‘The Courtenays don’t do -that sort of thing; they are staunch old Tories, and keep up all the old -traditions. But still Mr. Courtenay might think it best; and perhaps, -from every point of view, it might be best. She has been very happy -here; but still these kind of arrangements seldom last.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, yes!’ said the other, ‘there is no such dreadful responsibility as -bringing up other people’s children. Sooner or later it is sure to bring -dispeace.’</p> - -<p>‘And a girl is never so well anywhere,’ added Mrs. Eldridge, ‘as in her -father’s house.’</p> - -<p>Thus far the elder chorus. The young ones said to each other, with a -flutter of confused excitement and sympathy, ‘Oh, what an old ogre -Kate’s guardian looks!’ ‘Has he come to carry her off, I wonder?’ ‘Will -he eat her up if he does?’ ‘Is she fond of him?’ Will she go to live -with him when she leaves the Cottage?’ ‘How she stands talking and -laughing to the two Berties, without ever knowing he is here!’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson interrupted all this by a word. ‘Lucy,’ she said, to the -eldest of the Rector’s girls, ‘call Kate to me, dear. Her uncle is here, -and wants her; say she must come at once.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh, it is her uncle!’ Lucy whispered to the group that surrounded her.</p> - -<p>‘It is her uncle,’ the chorus went on. ‘Well, but he is an old ogre all -the same!’ ‘Oh, look at Kate’s face!’ ‘How surprised she is!’ ‘She is -glad!’ ‘Oh, no, she doesn’t like it!’ ‘She prefers talking nonsense to -the Berties!’ ‘Don’t talk so—Kate never flirts!’ ‘Oh, doesn’t she -flirt?’ ‘But you may be sure the old uncle will not stand that!’</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay followed the movements of the young messenger with his -eyes. He had received Mrs. Anderson’s explanations smilingly, and begged -her not to think of him.</p> - -<p>‘Pray, don’t suppose I have come to quarter myself upon you,’ he said. -‘I have rooms at the hotel. Don’t let me distract your attention from -your guests. I should like only to have two minutes’ talk with Kate.’ -And he stood, urbane and cynical, and looked round him, wondering -whether Kate’s money was paying for the entertainment, and setting down -every young man he saw as a fortune-hunter. They had all clustered -together like ravens, to feed upon her, he thought. ‘This will never -do—this will never do,’ he said to himself. How he had supposed his -niece to be living, it would be difficult to say; most likely he had -never attempted to form any imagination at all on the subject; but to -see her thus surrounded by other young people, the centre of admiration -and observation, startled him exceedingly.</p> - -<p>It was not, however, till Lucy went up to her that he quite identified -Kate. There she stood, smiling, glowing, a radiant, tall, well-developed -figure, with the two young men standing by. It required but little -exercise of fancy to believe that both of them were under Kate’s sway. -Ombra thought so, looking on darkly from her corner; and it was not -surprising that Mr. Courtenay should think so too. He stood petrified, -while she turned round, with a flush of genial light on her face. She -was glad to see him, though he had not much deserved it. She would have -been glad to see any one who had come to her with the charm of novelty. -With a little exclamation of pleasant wonder, she turned round, and made -a bound towards him—her step, her figure, her whole aspect light as a -bird on the wing. She left the young men without a word of explanation, -in her old eager, impetuous way, and rushed upon him. Before he had -roused himself up from his watch of her, she was by his side, putting -out both her hands, holding up her peach-cheek to be kissed. Kate!—was -it Kate? She was not only tall, fair, and woman grown—that was -inevitable—but some other change had come over her, which Mr. Courtenay -could not understand. She was a full-grown human creature, meeting him, -as it were, on the same level; but there was another change less natural -and more confusing, which Mr. Courtenay could make nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> of. An air -of celestial childhood, such as had never been seen in Kate Courtenay, -of Langton, breathed about her now. She was younger as well as older; -she was what he never could have made her, what no hireling could ever -have made her. She was a young creature, with natural relationships, -filling a natural place in the earth, obeying, submitting, influencing, -giving and receiving, loving and being loved. Mr. Courtenay, poor -limited old man, did not know what it meant; but he saw the change, and -he was startled. Was it—could it be Kate?</p> - -<p>‘I am so glad to see you, Uncle Courtenay. So you have really, truly -come? I am very glad to see you. It feels so natural—it is like being -back again at Langton. Have you spoken to auntie? How surprised she must -have been! We only got your letter this morning; and I never supposed -you would come so soon. If we had known, we would not have had all those -people, and I should have gone to meet you. But never mind, uncle, it -can’t be helped. To-morrow we shall have you all to ourselves.’</p> - -<p>‘I am delighted to find you are so glad to see me,’ said Mr. Courtenay. -‘I scarcely thought you would remember me. But as for the enjoyment of -my society, that you can have at once, Kate, notwithstanding your party. -Take me round the garden, or somewhere. The others, you know, are -nothing to me; but I want to have some talk with you, Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know what my aunt will think,’ said Kate, somewhat discomfited. -‘Ombra is not very well to-day, and I have to take her place among the -people.’</p> - -<p>‘But you must come with me in the meantime. I want to talk to you.’</p> - -<p>She lifted upon him for a moment a countenance which reminded him of the -unmanageable child of Langton-Courtenay. But after this she turned -round, consulted her aunt by a glance, and was back by his side -instantly, with all her new youthfulness and grace.</p> - -<p>‘Come along, then,’ she said, gaily. ‘There is not much to show you, -uncle—everything is so small; but such as it is, you shall have all the -benefit. Come along, you shall see everything—kitchen-garden and all.’</p> - -<p>And in another minute she had taken his arm, and was walking by his side -along the garden path, elastic and buoyant, slim and tall—as tall as he -was, which was not saying much, for the great Courtenays were not lofty -of stature; and Kate’s mother’s family had that advantage. The blooming -face she turned to him was on a level with his own; he could no longer -look down upon it. She was woman grown, a creature no longer capable of -being ordered about at any one’s pleasure. Could this be the little -wilful busybody, the crazy little princess, full of her own grandeur, -the meddling little gossip, Kate?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Does</span> this sort of thing happen often?’ said Mr. Courtenay, leading Kate -away round the further side of the garden, much to the annoyance of the -croquet players. The little kitchen-garden lay on the other side of the -house, out of sight even of the pretty lawn. He was determined to have -her entirely to himself.</p> - -<p>‘What sort of thing, Uncle Courtenay?’</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay indicated with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder the -company they had just left.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! the croquet,’ said Kate, cheerfully. ‘No, not often here—more -usually it is at the Rectory, or one of the other neighbours. Our lawn -is so small; but sometimes, you know, we must take our turn.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! you must take your turn, must you?’ he said. ‘Are all these people -your Rectors, or neighbours, I should like to know?’</p> - -<p>‘There are more Eldridges than anything else,’ said Kate. ‘There are so -many of them—and then all their cousins.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! I thought there must be cousins,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘Do you know -you have grown quite a young woman, Kate?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Uncle Courtenay, I know; and I hope I give you satisfaction,’ she -said, laughing, and making him a little curtsey.</p> - -<p>How changed she was! Her eyes, which were always so bright; had warmed -and deepened. She was beautiful in her first bloom, with the blush of -eighteen coming and going on her cheeks, and the fresh innocence of her -look not yet harmed by any knowledge of the world. She was eighteen, and -yet she was younger as well as older than she had been at fifteen, -fresher as well as more developed. The old man of the world was puzzled, -and did not make it out.</p> - -<p>‘You are altered,’ he said, somewhat coldly; and then, ‘I understood -from your aunt that you lived very quietly, saw nobody——’</p> - -<p>‘Nobody but our friends,’ explained Kate.</p> - -<p>‘Friends! I suppose you think everybody that looks pleasant is your -friend. Good lack! good lack!’ said the Mentor. ‘Why, this is -society—this is dissipation. A season in town would be nothing to it.’</p> - -<p>Kate laughed. She thought it a very good joke; and not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> the faintest -idea crossed her mind that her uncle might mean what he said.</p> - -<p>‘Why, there are four, five, six grown-up young men,’ he said, standing -still and counting them as they came in sight of the lawn. ‘What is that -but dissipation? And what are they all doing idle about here? Six young -men! And who is that girl who is so unhappy, Kate?’</p> - -<p>‘The girl who is unhappy, uncle?’ Kate changed colour; the instinct of -concealment came to her at once, though the stranger could have no way -of knowing that there was anything to conceal. ‘Oh! I see,’ she added. -‘You mean my cousin Ombra. She is not quite well; that is why she looks -so pale.’</p> - -<p>‘I am not easily deceived,’ he said. ‘Look here, Kate, I am a keen -observer. She is unhappy, and you are in her way.’</p> - -<p>‘I, uncle!’</p> - -<p>‘You need not be indignant. You, and no other. I saw her before you left -your agreeable companions yonder. I think, Kate, you had better do your -packing and come away with me.’</p> - -<p>‘With you, uncle?’</p> - -<p>‘These are not very pleasant answers. Precisely—with me. Am I so much -less agreeable than that pompous aunt?’</p> - -<p>‘Uncle Courtenay, you seem to forget who I am, and all about it!’ cried -Kate, reddening, her eyes brightening. ‘My aunt! Why, she is like my -mother. I would not leave her for all the world. I will not hear a word -that is not respectful to her. Why, I belong to her! You must forget—— -I am sure I beg your pardon, Uncle Courtenay,’ she added, after a pause, -subduing herself. ‘Of course you don’t mean it; and now that I see you -are joking about my aunt, of course you were only making fun of me about -Ombra too.’</p> - -<p>‘I am a likely person to make fun,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘I know nothing -about your Ombras; but I am right, nevertheless, though the fact is of -no importance. I have one thing to say, however, which is of importance, -and that is, I can’t have this sort of thing. You understand me, Kate? -You are a young woman of property, and will have to move in a very -different sphere. I can’t allow you to begin your career with the -Shanklin tea-parties. We must put a stop to that.’</p> - -<p>‘I assure you, Uncle Courtenay,’ cried Kate, very gravely, and with -indignant state, ‘that the people here are as good as either you or I. -The Eldridges are of very good family. By-the-bye, I forgot to mention, -they are cousins of our old friends at the Langton Rectory—the -Hardwicks. Don’t you remember, uncle? And Bertie and the rest—you -remember Bertie?—visit here.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! they visit here, do they?’ said Mr. Courtenay, with meaning looks.</p> - -<p>Something kept Kate from adding, ‘He is here now.’ She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> meant to have -done so, but could not, somehow. Not that she cared for Bertie, she -declared loftily to herself; but it was odious to talk to any one who -was always taking things into his head! So she merely nodded, and made -no other reply.</p> - -<p>‘I suppose you are impatient to be back to your Eldridges, and people of -good family?’ he said. ‘The best thing for you would be to consider all -this merely a shadow, like your friend with the odd name. But I am very -much surprised at Mrs. Anderson. She ought to have known better. What! -must I not say as much as that?’</p> - -<p>‘Not to me, if you please, uncle,’ cried Kate, with all the heat of a -youthful champion.</p> - -<p>He smiled somewhat grimly. Had the girl taken it into her foolish head -to have loved him, Mr. Courtenay would have been much embarrassed by the -unnecessary sentiment. But yet this foolish enthusiasm for a person on -the other side of the house—for one of the mother’s people, who was -herself an interloper, and had really nothing to do with the Courtenay -stock, struck him as a robbery from himself. He felt angry, though he -was aware it was absurd.</p> - -<p>‘I shall take an opportunity, however, of making my opinion very clear,’ -he said, deliberately, with a pleasurable sense that at least he could -make this ungrateful, unappreciative child unhappy. The latter half of -this talk was held at the corner of the lawn, where the two stood -together, much observed and noted by all the party. The young people all -gazed at Kate’s guardian with a mixture of wonder and awe. What could he -be going to do to her? They felt his disapproval affect them somehow -like a cold shade; and Mrs. Anderson felt it also, and was disturbed -more than she would show, and once more felt vexed and disgusted indeed -with Providence, which had so managed matters as to send him on such a -day.</p> - -<p>‘He looks as if he were displeased,’ she said to Ombra, when her -daughter came near her, and she could indulge herself in a moment’s -confidence.</p> - -<p>‘What does it matter how he looks?’ said Ombra, who herself looked -miserable enough.</p> - -<p>‘My darling, it is for poor Kate’s sake.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Kate!—always Kate! I am tired of Kate!’ said Ombra, sinking down -listlessly upon a seat. She had the look of being tired of all the rest -of the world. Her mother whispered to her, in a tone of alarm, to bestir -herself, to try to exert herself, and entertain their guests.</p> - -<p>‘People are asking me what is the matter with you already,’ said poor -Mrs. Anderson, distracted with these conflicting cares.</p> - -<p>‘Tell them it is temper that is the matter,’ said poor Ombra. And then -she rose, and made a poor attempt once more to be gay.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span></p> - -<p>This, however, was not long necessary, for Kate came back, flushed, and -in wild spirits, announcing that her uncle had gone, and took the whole -burden of the entertainment on her own shoulders. Even this, though it -was a relief to her, Ombra felt as an injury. She resented Kate’s -assumption of the first place; she resented the wistful looks which her -cousin directed to herself, and all her caressing words and ways.</p> - -<p>‘Dear Ombra, go and rest, and I will look after these tiresome people,’ -Kate said, putting her arm round her.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want to rest—pray take no notice of me—let me alone!’ cried -Ombra. It was temper—certainly it was temper—nothing more.</p> - -<p>‘But don’t think you have got rid of him, auntie, dear,’ whispered Kate, -in Mrs. Anderson’s ear. ‘He says he is coming back to-night, when all -these people are gone—or if not to-night, at least to-morrow -morning—to have some serious talk. Let us keep everybody as late as -possible, and balk him for to-night.’</p> - -<p>‘Why should I wish to balk him, my dear?’ said Mrs. Anderson, with all -her natural dignity. ‘He and I can have but one meeting-ground, one -common interest, and that is your welfare, Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, auntie, I want to balk him,’ cried the girl, ‘and I shall do all -I can to keep him off. After tea we shall have some music,’ she added, -with a laugh, ‘for the Berties, auntie, who are so fond of music. The -Berties must stay as long as possible, and then everything will come -right.’</p> - -<p>Poor Mrs. Anderson! she shook her head with a kind of mild despair. The -Berties were as painful a subject to her as Mr. Courtenay. She was -driven to her wits’ end. To her the disapproving look of the latter was -a serious business; and if she could have done it, instead of tempting -them to stay all night, she would fain have sent off the two Berties to -the end of the world. All this she had to bear upon her weighted -shoulders, and all the time to smile, and chat, and make herself -agreeable. Thus the pretty Elysium of the Cottage—its banks of early -flowers, its flush of Spring vegetation and blossom, and the gay group -on the lawn—was like a rose with canker in it—plenty of canker—and -seated deep in the very heart of the bloom.</p> - -<p>But Kate managed to carry out her intention, as she generally did. She -delayed the high tea which was to wind up the rites of the afternoon. -When it was no longer possible to put it off, she lengthened it out to -the utmost of her capabilities. She introduced music afterwards, as she -had threatened—in short, she did everything an ingenious young woman -could do to extend the festivities. When she felt quite sure that Mr. -Courtenay must have given up all thought of repeating his visit to the -Cottage, she relaxed in her exertions, and let the guests go—not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> -reflecting, poor child, in her innocence, that the lighted windows, the -music, the gay chatter of conversation which Mr. Courtenay heard when he -turned baffled from the Cottage door at nine o’clock, had confirmed all -his doubts, and quickened all his fears.</p> - -<p>‘Now, auntie, dear, we are safe—at least, for to-night,’ she said; ‘for -I fear Uncle Courtenay means to make himself disagreeable. I could see -it in his face—and I am sure you are not able for any more worry -to-night.’</p> - -<p>‘I have no reason to be afraid of your Uncle Courtenay, my dear.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! no—of course not; but you are tired. And where is Ombra?—Ombra, -where are you? What has become of her?’ cried Kate.</p> - -<p>‘She is more tired than I am—perhaps she has gone to bed. Kate, my -darling, don’t make her talk to-night.’</p> - -<p>Kate did not hear the end of this speech; she had rushed away, calling -Ombra through the house. There was no answer, but she saw a shadow in -the verandah, and hurried there to see who it was. There, under the -green climbing tendrils of the clematis, a dim figure was standing, -clinging to the rustic pillar, looking out into the darkness. Kate stole -behind her, and put her arm round her cousin’s waist. To her amazement, -she was thrust away, but not so quickly as to be unaware that Ombra was -crying. Kate’s consternation was almost beyond the power of speech.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Ombra, what is wrong?—are you ill?—have I done anything? Oh! I -cannot bear to see you cry!’</p> - -<p>‘I am not crying,’ was the answer, in a voice made steady by pride.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t be angry with me, please. Oh! Ombra, I am so sorry! Tell me what -it is!’ cried wistful Kate.</p> - -<p>‘It is temper,’ cried Ombra, after a pause, with a sudden outburst of -sobs. ‘There, that is all; now leave me to myself, after you have made -me confess. It is temper, temper, temper—nothing! I thought I had not -any, but I have the temper of a fiend, and I am trying to struggle -against it. Oh! for heaven’s sake, let me alone!’</p> - -<p>Kate took away her arm, and withdrew herself humbly, with a grieved and -wondering pain in her heart. Ombra with the temper of a fiend! Ombra -repulsing her, turning away from her, rejecting her sympathy! She crept -to her little white bedroom, all silent, and frightened in her surprise, -not knowing what to think. Was it a mere caprice—a cloud that would be -over to-morrow?—was it only the result of illness and weariness? or had -some sudden curtain been drawn aside, opening to her a new mystery, an -unsuspected darkness in this sweet life?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Long</span> after Kate’s little bedchamber had fallen into darkness, the light -still twinkled in the windows of the Cottage drawing-room. The lamp was -still alight at midnight, and Ombra and her mother sat together, with -the marks of tears on their cheeks, still talking, discussing, going -over their difficulties.</p> - -<p>‘I could bear him to go away,’ Ombra had said, in her passion; ‘I could -bear never to see him again. Sometimes I think I should be glad. Oh! I -am ashamed—ashamed to the bottom of my heart to care for one who -perhaps cares no longer for me! if he would only go away; or if I could -run away, and never more see him again! It is not that, mamma—it is not -that. It is my own fault that I am unhappy. After what he said to me, to -see him with—her! Yes, though I should die with shame, I will tell you -the truth. He comes and looks at me as if I were a naughty child, and -then he goes and smiles and talks to <i>her</i>—after all he said. Oh! it is -temper, mamma, vile temper and jealousy, and I don’t know what! I hate -her then, and him; and I detest myself. I could kill myself, so much am -I ashamed!’</p> - -<p>‘Ombra! Ombra! my darling, don’t speak so!—it is so unlike you!’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she said, with a certain scorn, ‘it is so unlike me that I was -appalled at myself when I found it out. But what do you know about me, -mother? How can you tell I might not be capable of anything that is bad, -if I were only tempted, as well as this?’</p> - -<p>‘My darling! my darling!’ said the mother, in her consternation, not -knowing what to say.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ the girl went on, ‘your darling, whom you have brought up out of -the reach of evil, who was always so gentle, and so quiet, and so good. -I know—I remember how I have heard people speak of me. I was called -Ombra because I was such a shadowy, still creature, too gentle to make a -noise. Oh! how often I have heard that I was good; until I was tempted. -If I were tempted to murder anybody, perhaps I should be capable of it. -I feel half like it sometimes now.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span></p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson laid her hand peremptorily on her daughter’s arm.</p> - -<p>‘This is monstrous!’ she said. ‘Ombra, you have talked yourself into a -state of excitement. I will not be sorry for you any longer. It is mere -madness, and it must be brought to a close.’</p> - -<p>‘It is not madness!’ she cried—‘I wish it were. I sometimes hope it -will come to be. It is temper!—temper! and I hate it! And I cannot -struggle against it. Every time he goes near her—every time she speaks -to him! Oh! it must be some devil, do you think—like the devils in the -Bible—that has got possession of me?’</p> - -<p>‘Ombra, you are ill—you must go to bed,’ said her mother. ‘Why do you -shake your head? You will wear yourself into a fever; and what is to -become of me? Think a little of me. I have troubles, too, though they -are not like yours. Try to turn your mind, dear, from what vexes you, -and sympathise with me. Think what an unpleasant surprise to me to see -that disagreeable old man; and that he should have come to-day, of all -days; and the interview I shall have to undergo to-morrow——’</p> - -<p>‘Mamma,’ said Ombra, with reproof in her tone, ‘how strange it is that -you should think of such trifles. What is he to you? A man whom you care -nothing for—whom we have nothing to do with.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with eyes steadily fixed upon her -daughter, ‘I have told you before it is for Kate’s sake.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Kate!’ Ombra made a gesture of impatience. In her present mood, she -could not bear her cousin’s name. But her mother had been thinking over -many things during this long afternoon, which had been so gay, and -dragged so heavily. She had considered the whole situation, and had made -up her mind, so far as it was practicable, to a certain course of -action. Neither for love’s sake, nor for many other considerations, -could she spare Kate. Even Ombra’s feelings <i>must</i> yield, though she had -been so indiscreet even as to contemplate the idea of sacrificing Kate -for Ombra’s feelings. But now she had thought better of it, and had made -up her mind to take it for granted that Ombra too could only feel as a -sister to Kate.</p> - -<p>‘Ombra, you are warped and unhappy just now; you don’t do justice either -to your cousin or yourself. But even at this moment, surely you cannot -have thrown aside everything; you cannot be devoid of all natural -feeling for Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘I have no natural feeling,’ she said, hoarsely. ‘Have not I told you -so? I would not allow myself to say it till you put it into my head. -But, mamma, it is true. I want her out of my way. Oh! you need not look -so horrified; you thought so yourself this morning. From the first, I -felt she was in my way. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> deranged all our plans—she came between -you and me. Let her go! she is richer than we are, and better off. Why -should she stay here, interfering with our life? Let her go! I want her -out of my way!’</p> - -<p>‘Ombra!’ said Mrs. Anderson, rising majestically from her chair. She was -so near breaking down altogether, and forgetting every other -consideration for her child’s pleasure, that it was necessary to her to -be very majestic. ‘Ombra, I should have thought that proper feeling -alone—— Yes, <i>proper</i> feeling! a sense of what was fit and becoming in -our position, and in hers. You turn away—you will not listen. Well, -then, it is for me to act. It goes to my heart to feel myself alone like -this, having to oppose my own child. But, since it must be so, since you -compel me to act by myself, I tell you plainly, Ombra, I will not give -up Kate. She is alone in the world; she is my only sister’s only child; -she is——’</p> - -<p>Ombra put her hands to her ears in petulance and anger.</p> - -<p>‘I know,’ she cried; ‘spare me the rest. I know all her description, and -what she is to me.’</p> - -<p>‘She is five hundred a year,’ said Mrs. Anderson, secretly in her heart, -with a heavy sigh, for she was ashamed to acknowledge to herself that -this fact would come into the foreground. ‘I will not give the poor -child up,’ she said, with a voice that faltered. Bitter to her in every -way was this controversy, almost the first in which she had ever -resisted Ombra. Though she looked majestic in conscious virtue, what a -pained and faltering heart it was which she concealed under that -resolute aspect! She put away the books and work-basket from the table, -and lighted the candles, and screwed down the lamp with indescribable -inward tremors. If she considered Ombra alone in the matter, and Ombra -was habitually, invariably her first object, she would be compelled to -abandon Kate, whom she loved—and loved truly!—and five hundred a year -would be taken out of their housekeeping at once.</p> - -<p>Poor Mrs. Anderson! she was not mercenary, she was fond of her niece, -but she knew how much comfort, how much modest importance, how much ease -of mind, was in five hundred a year. When she settled in the Cottage at -first, she had made up her mind and arranged all her plans on the basis -of her own small income, and had anxiously determined to ‘make it do,’ -knowing that the task would be difficult enough. But Kate’s advent had -changed all that. She had brought relief from many petty cares, as well -as many comforts and elegancies with her. They could have done without -them before she came, but now what a difference this withdrawal would -make! Ombra herself would feel it. ‘Ombra would miss her cousin a great -deal more than she supposes,’ Mrs. Anderson said to herself, as she went -upstairs;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> ‘and, as for me, how I should miss her!’ She went into Kate’s -room that night with a sense in her heart that she had something to make -up to Kate. She had wronged her in thinking of the five hundred a year; -but, for all that, she loved her. She stole into the small white chamber -very softly, and kissed the sleeping face with most motherly fondness. -Was it her fault that two sets of feelings—two different -motives—influenced her? The shadow of Kate’s future wealth, of the -splendour and power to come, stood by the side of the little white bed -in which lay a single individual of that species of God’s creation which -appeals most forcibly to all tender sympathies—an innocent, -unsuspecting girl; and the shadow of worldly disinterestedness came into -the room with the kind-hearted woman, who would have been good to any -motherless child, and loved this one with all her heart. And it is so -difficult to discriminate the shadow from the reality; the false from -the true.</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay came to the Cottage next morning, and had a solemn and -long interview with Mrs. Anderson. Kate watched about the door, and -hovered in the passages, hoping to be called in. She would have given a -great deal to be able to listen at the keyhole, but reluctantly yielded -to honour, which forbade such an indulgence. When she saw her uncle go -away without asking for her, her heart sank; and still more did her -heart sink when she perceived the solemn aspect with which her aunt came -into the drawing-room. Mrs. Anderson was very solemn and stately, as -majestic as she had been the night before, but there was relief and -comfort in her eyes. She looked at the two girls as she came in with a -smile of tenderness which looked almost like pleasure. Ombra was writing -at the little table in the window—some of her poetry, no doubt. Kate, -in a most restless state, had been dancing about from her needlework to -her music, and from that to three or four books, which lay open, one -here and one there, as she had thrown them down. When her aunt came in -she stopped suddenly in the middle of the room, with a yellow magazine -in her hand, almost too breathless to ask a question; while Mrs. -Anderson seated herself at the table, as if in a pulpit, brimful of -something to say.</p> - -<p>‘What is it, auntie?’ cried Kate.</p> - -<p>‘My dear children, both of you,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘I have something -very important to say to you. You may have supposed, Kate, that I did -not appreciate your excellent uncle; but now that I know his real -goodness of heart, and the admirable feeling he has shown—Ombra, do -give up your writing for a moment. Kate, your uncle is anxious to give -us all a holiday—he wishes me to take you abroad.’</p> - -<p>‘Abroad!’ cried both the girls together, one in a shrill tone, as of -bewilderment and desperation, one joyous as delight could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> make it. Mrs. -Anderson expanded gradually, and nodded her head.</p> - -<p>‘For many reasons,’ she said, significantly, ‘your uncle and I, on -talking it over, decided that the very best thing for you both would be -to make a little tour. He tells me you have long wished for it, Kate. -And to Ombra, too, the novelty will be of use——’</p> - -<p>‘Novelty!’ said Ombra, in a tone of scorn. ‘Where does he mean us to go, -then? To Japan, or Timbuctoo, I suppose.’</p> - -<p>‘Not quite so far,’ said her mother, trying to smile. ‘We have been to a -great many places, it is true, but not all the places in the world; and -to go back to Italy, for instance, will be novelty, even though we have -been there before. We shall go with every comfort, taking the -pleasantest way. Ombra, my love!’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! you must settle it as you please,’ cried Ombra, rising hastily. She -put her papers quickly together; then, with her impetuous movements, -swept half of them to the ground, and rushed to the door, not pausing to -pick them up. But there she paused, and turned round, her face pale with -passion. ‘You know you don’t mean to consult me,’ she said, hurriedly. -‘What is the use of making a pretence? You must settle it as you -please.’</p> - -<p>‘What is the matter?’ said Kate, after she had disappeared, growing pale -with sympathy. ‘Oh! auntie dear, what is the matter? She was never like -this before.’</p> - -<p>‘She is ill, poor child,’ said the mother, who was distracted, but dared -not show it. And then she indulged herself in a few tears, giving an -excuse for them which betrayed nothing. ‘Oh! Kate, what will become of -me if there is anything serious the matter? She is ill, and I don’t know -what to do!’</p> - -<p>‘Send for the doctor, aunt,’ suggested Kate.</p> - -<p>‘The doctor can do nothing, dear. It is a—a complaint her father had. -She would not say anything to the doctor. She has been vexed and -bothered——’</p> - -<p>‘Then this is the very thing for her,’ said Kate. ‘This will cure her. -They say change is good for every one. We have been so long shut up in -this poky little place.’</p> - -<p>On other occasions Kate had sworn that the island and the cottage were -the spots in all the world most dear to her heart. This was the first -effect of novelty upon her. She felt, in a moment, that her aspirations -were wide as the globe, and that she had been cooped up all her life.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Anderson, fervently, ‘I have felt it. We have not been -living, we have been vegetating. With change she will be better. But it -is illness that makes her irritable.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> You must promise me to be very -gentle and forbearing with her, Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘I gentle and forbearing to Ombra!’ cried Kate, half laughing, half -crying—‘I! When I think what a cub of a girl I must have been, and how -good—how good you both were! Surely everybody in the world should fail -you sooner than I!’</p> - -<p>‘My dear child,’ said Mrs. Anderson, kissing her with true affection; -and once more there was a reason and feasible excuse for the tears of -pain and trouble that would come to her eyes.</p> - -<p>The plan was perfect—everything that could be desired; but if Ombra set -her face against it, it must come to nothing. It was with this thought -in her mind that she went upstairs to her troublesome and suffering -child.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Ombra</span>, however, did not set her face against it. What difficulty the -mother might have had with her, no one knew, and she appeared no more -that day, having ‘a bad headache,’ that convenient cause for all -spiritual woes. But next morning, when she came down, though her face -was pale, there was no other trace in her manner of the struggle her -submission had cost her, and the whole business was settled, and even -the plan of the journey had begun to be made. Already, in this day of -Ombra’s retirement, the news had spread far and wide. Kate had put on -her hat directly, and had flown across to the Rectory to tell this -wonderful piece of news. It was scarcely less interesting there than in -the Cottage, though the effect was different. The Eldridges raised a -universal wail.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, what shall we do without you?’ cried the girls and the boys—a -reflection which almost brought the tears to Kate’s own eyes, yet -pleased her notwithstanding.</p> - -<p>‘You will not mind so much when you get used to it. We shall miss you as -much as you miss us—oh, I wish you were all coming with us!’ she cried; -but Mrs. Eldridge poured cold water on the whole by suggesting that -probably Mrs. Anderson would let the Cottage for the Summer, and that -some one who was nice might take it and fill up the vacant place till -they came back; which was an idea not taken in good part by Kate.</p> - -<p>On her way home she met Mr. Sugden and told him; she told him in haste, -in the lightness of her heart and the excitement of the moment; and -then, petrified by the effect she had produced, stood still and stared -at him in alarm and dismay.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Mr. Sugden! I am sure I did not mean—I did not think——’</p> - -<p>‘Going away?’ he said, in a strange, dull, feelingless way. ‘Ah! for six -months—I beg your pardon—I am a little confused. I have just heard -some—some bad news. Did you say going away?’</p> - -<p>‘I am so sorry,’ said Kate, faltering, ‘so very sorry. I hope it is not -anything I have said——’</p> - -<p>‘You have said?’ he answered, with a dull smile, ‘oh, no! I have had bad -news, and I am a little upset. You are going away? It is sudden, is it -not?—or perhaps you thought it best<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> not to speak. Shanklin will look -odd without you,’ he went on, looking at her. He looked at her with a -vague defiance, as if daring her to find him out. He tried to smile; his -eyes were very lacklustre and dull, as if all the vision had suddenly -been taken out of them; and his very attitude, as he stood, was feeble, -as if a sudden touch might have made him fall.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Kate, humbly, ‘I am sorry to leave Shanklin and all my -friends; but my uncle wishes it for me, and as Ombra is so poorly, we -thought it might do her good.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ he said, drawing a long breath; and then he added hurriedly, ‘Does -she like it? Does <i>she</i> think it will do her good?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think she likes it at all,’ said Kate, ‘she is so fond of home; -but we all think it is the best thing. Good-bye, Mr. Sugden. I hope you -will come and see us. I must go home now, for I have so much to do.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, thanks. I will come and see you,’ said the Curate. And then he -walked on mechanically—straight on, not knowing where he was going. He -was stunned by the blow. Though he knew very well that Ombra was not for -him, though he had seen her taken, as it were, out of his very hands, -there was a passive strength in his nature which made him capable of -bearing this. So long as no active step was taken, he could bear it. It -had gone to his heart with a penetrating anguish by times to see her -given up to the attentions of another, receiving, as he thought, the -love of another, and smiling upon it. But all the while she had smiled -also upon himself; she had treated him with a friendly sweetness which -kept him subject; she had filled his once unoccupied and languid soul -with a host of poignant emotions. Love, pain, misery, consolation—life -itself, seemed to have come to him from Ombra. Before he knew her, he -had thought pleasantly of cricket and field-sports, conscientiously of -his duties, piteously of the mothers’ meetings, which were so sadly out -of his way, and yet were supposed to be duty too.</p> - -<p>But Ombra had opened to him another life—an individual world, which was -his, and no other man’s. She had made him very unhappy and very glad; -she had awakened him to himself. There was that in him which would have -held him to her with a pathetic devotion all his life. It was in him to -have served the first woman that woke his heart with an ideal constancy, -the kind of devotion—forgive the expression, oh, intellectual -reader!—which makes a dull man sublime, and which dull men most often -exhibit. He was not clever, our poor Curate, but he was true as steel, -and had a helpless, obstinate way of clinging to his loves and -friendships. Never, whatever happened, though she had married, and even -though he had married, and the world had rolled on, and all the events -of life had sundered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> them, could Ombra have been to him like any other -woman; and now she was the undisputed queen and mistress of his life. -She was never to be his; but still she was his lady and his queen. He -was ready to have saved her even by the sacrifice of all idea of -personal happiness on his own part. His heart was glowing at the present -moment with indignant sorrow over her, with fury towards one of the -Berties—he did not know which—who had brought a mysterious shadow over -her life; and yet he was capable of making an heroic effort to bring -back that Bertie, and to place him by Ombra’s side, though every step he -took in doing so would be over his own heart.</p> - -<p>All this was in him; but it was not in him to brave this altogether -unthought-of catastrophe. To have her go away; to find himself left with -all life gone out of him; to have the heart torn, as it were, out of his -breast; and to feel the great bleeding, aching void which nothing could -fill up. He had foreseen all the other pain, and was prepared for it; -but for this he was not prepared. He walked straight on, in a dull -misery, without the power to think. Going away!—for six months! Which -meant simply for ever and ever. Where he would have stopped I cannot -tell, for he was young and athletic, and capable of traversing the -entire island, if he had not walked straight into the sea over the first -headland which came in his way—a conclusion which would not have been -disagreeable to him in the present state of his feelings, though he -could scarcely have drowned had he tried. But fortunately he met the -Berties ere he had gone very far. They were coming from Sandown Pier.</p> - -<p>‘Have you got the yacht here?’ he asked, mechanically; and then, before -they could understand, broke into the subject of which his heart and -brain were both full. ‘Have you heard that the ladies of the Cottage are -going away?’</p> - -<p>This sudden introduction of the subject which occupied him so much was -indeed involuntary. He could not have helped talking about it; but at -the same time it was done with a purpose—that he might, if possible, -make sure <i>which it was</i>.</p> - -<p>‘The ladies at the Cottage!’ They both made this exclamation in -undeniable surprise. And he could not help, even in his misery, feeling -a little thrill of satisfaction that he knew better than they.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he said, made bolder by this feeling of superiority, ‘they are -going to leave Shanklin for six months.’</p> - -<p>The two Berties exchanged looks. He caught their mutual consultation -with his keen and jealous eyes. What was it they said to each other? He -was not clever enough to discover; but Bertie Hardwick drew a long -breath, and said, ‘It is sudden, surely,’ with an appearance of dismay -which Mr. Sugden, in his own suffering, was savagely glad to see.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span></p> - -<p>‘Very sudden,’ he said. ‘I only heard it this morning. It will make a -dreadful blank to us.’</p> - -<p>And then the three stood gazing at each other for nearly a minute, -saying nothing; evidently the two cousins did not mean to commit -themselves. Bertie Eldridge switched his boot with his cane. ‘Indeed!’ -had been all he said; but he looked down, and did not meet the Curate’s -eye.</p> - -<p>‘Have you got the yacht here!’ Mr. Sugden repeated, hoping that if he -seemed to relax his attention something might be gained.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, she is lying at the pier, ready for a long cruise,’ said Bertie -Hardwick. ‘We are more ambitious than last year. We are going to——’</p> - -<p>‘Norway, I think,’ said Eldridge, suddenly. ‘There is no sport to be had -now but in out-of-the-way places. We are bound for Scandinavia, Sugden. -Can you help us? I know you have been there.’</p> - -<p>‘Scandinavia!’ the other Bertie echoed, with a half whistle, half -exclamation; and an incipient smile came creeping about the corners of -the brand-new moustache of which he was so proud.</p> - -<p>‘I am rather out of sorts to-day,’ said the Curate. ‘I have had -disagreeable news from home; but another time I shall be very glad. -Scandinavia! Is the “Shadow” big enough and steady enough for the -northern seas?’</p> - -<p>And then, as he pronounced the name, it suddenly occurred to him why the -yacht was called the ‘Shadow.’ The thought brought with it a poignant -sense of contrast, which went through and through him like an arrow. -They could call their yacht after her, paying her just such a subtle, -inferred compliment as girls love. And they could go away now, lucky -fellows, to new places, to savage seas, where they might fight against -the elements, and delude their sick hearts (if they possessed such -things) by a struggle with nature. Poor Curate!—he had to stay and -superintend the mothers’ meetings—which also was a struggle with -nature, though after a different kind.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! she will do very well,’ said Bertie Eldridge, hastily. ‘Look sharp, -Bertie, here is the dogcart. We are going to Ryde for a hundred things -she wants. I shall send her round there to-morrow. Will you come!’</p> - -<p>‘I can’t,’ said the Curate, almost rudely. And then even his unoffending -hand seized upon a dart that lay in his way. ‘How does all this yachting -suit your studies?’ he said.</p> - -<p>Bertie Hardwick laughed. ‘It does not suit them at all,’ he said, -jumping into the dogcart. ‘Good-bye, old fellow. I think you should -change your mind, and come with us to-morrow!’</p> - -<p>‘I won’t,’ said the Curate, under his breath. But they did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> not hear -him; they dashed off in very good spirits, apparently nowise affected by -his news. As for Mr. Sugden, he ground his teeth in secret. That which -he would have given his life, almost his soul for, had been thrown away -upon one of these two—and to them it was as nothing. It did not cloud -their looks for more than a minute, if indeed it affected them at all; -whereas to him it was everything. They were the butterflies of life; -they had it in their power to pay pretty compliments, to confer little -pleasures, but they were not true to death, as he was. And yet Ombra -would never find that out; she would never know that his love—which she -did not even take the trouble to be conscious of—was for life and -death, and that the other’s was an affair of a moment. They had driven -off laughing; they had not even pretended to be sorry for the loss which -the place was about to suffer. It was no loss to them. What did they -care? They were heartless, miserable, without sense or feeling; yet one -of them was Ombra’s choice.</p> - -<p>This incident, however, made Mr. Sugden take his way back to the -village. He had walked a great deal further than he had any idea of, and -had forgotten all about the poor women who were waiting with their -subscriptions for the penny club. And it chafed him, poor fellow, to -have to go into the little dull room, and to take the pennies. ‘Good -heavens! is this all I am good for?’ he said to himself. ‘Is there no -small boy or old woman who could manage it better than I? Was this why -the good folks at home spent so much money on me, and so much patience?’ -Poor young Curate, he was tired and out of heart, and he was six feet -high and strong as a young lion; yet there seemed nothing in heaven or -earth for him to do but to keep the accounts of the penny club and visit -the almshouses. He had done that very placidly for a long time, having -the Cottage always to fall back upon, and being a kindly, simple soul at -bottom—but now! Were there no forests left to cut down? no East-end -lanes within his reach to give him something to fight with and help him -to recover his life?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Berties drove away laughing, but when they had got quite out of the -Curate’s sight, Bertie Eldridge turned to his cousin with indignation.</p> - -<p>‘How could you be such an ass?’ he said. ‘You were just going to let out -that the yacht was bound for the Mediterranean, and then, of course, -their plans would have been instantly changed.’</p> - -<p>‘You need not snap me up so sharply,’ said the other; ‘I never said a -word about the Mediterranean, and if I had he would have taken no -notice. What was it to him, one way or another? I see no good in an -unnecessary fib.’</p> - -<p>‘What was it to him? How blind you are! Why it is as much to him as it -is—— Did you never find <i>that</i> out?’</p> - -<p>‘You don’t mean to say,’ said the other Bertie, with confusion. ‘But, by -Jove, I might have known, and that’s how he found out! He is not such a -slow beggar as he looks. Did you hear that about my studies? I dare say -he said it with a bad motive, but he has reason, heaven knows! My poor -studies!’</p> - -<p>‘Nonsense! You can’t apply adjectives, my dear fellow, to what does not -exist.’</p> - -<p>‘That is all very well for you,’ said Bertie Hardwick. ‘You have no -occasion to trouble yourself. You can’t come to much harm. But I am -losing my time and forming habits I ought not to form, and disappointing -my parents, and all that. You know it, Bertie, and I know it, and even -such a dull, good-humoured slug as Sugden sees it. I ought not to go -with you on this trip—that is as plain as daylight.’</p> - -<p>‘Stuff!’ said the other Bertie.</p> - -<p>‘It is not stuff. He was quite right. I ought not to go, and I won’t!’</p> - -<p>‘Look here,’ said the other; ‘if you don’t, you’ll be breaking faith -with me. You know we have always gone halves in everything all our -lives. We are not just like any two other fellows; we are not even like -brothers. Sometimes I think we have but one soul between us. You are -pledged to me, and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> to you, for whatever may happen. If it is harm, we -will share it; and if it is good, why there is no telling what -advantages to you may be involved as well. You cannot forsake me, -Bertie; it would be a treachery not only to me, but to the very nature -of things.’</p> - -<p>Bertie Hardwick shook his head; a shade of perplexity crossed his face.</p> - -<p>‘I never was your equal in argument, and never will be,’ he said, ‘and, -besides, you have certain stock principles which floor a fellow. But it -is no use struggling; I suppose it is my fate. And a very jolly fate, to -tell the truth; though what the people at home will say, and all my -godfathers and godmothers, who vowed I was to be honest and industrious, -and work for my living——’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t much believe in that noble occupation,’ said the other; ‘but -meantime let us think over what we want at Ryde, which is a great deal -more important. Going abroad! I wonder if the old fellow was thinking of -you and me when he signed that sentence. It is the best thing, the very -best, that could have happened. Everything will be new, and yet there -will be the pleasure of bringing back old associations and establishing -intercourse afresh. How lucky it is! Cheer up, Bertie. I feel my heart -as light as a bird.’</p> - -<p>‘Mine is like a bird that is fluttering just before its fall,’ said -Bertie, with gravity which was half mock and half real, shaking his -head.</p> - -<p>‘You envy me my good spirits,’ said his companion, ‘and I suppose there -is not very much ground for them. Thank heaven I don’t offend often in -that way. It is more your line than mine. But I do feel happier about -the chief thing of all than I have done since Easter. Courage, old boy; -we’ll win the battle yet.’</p> - -<p>Bertie Hardwick shook his head again.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think I shall ever win any battle,’ he said, dolorously; ‘but, -in the meantime, here’s the list for fitting out the “Shadow.” I suppose -you think more of that now than of anything else.’</p> - -<p>The other Bertie laughed long and low at his cousin’s mournful tone; but -they were soon absorbed in the lists, as they bowled along towards Ryde, -with a good horse, and a soft breeze blowing in their faces. All the -seriousness dispersed from Bertie Hardwick’s face as they went on—or -rather a far more solemn seriousness came over it as he discussed the -necessity of this and that, and all the requirements of the voyage. Very -soon he forgot all about the momentary curb that had stopped his -imagination in full course. ‘My studies!’ he said, when the business of -the day was over, with a joyous burst of laughter more unhesitating even -than his cousin’s. He had surmounted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> that little shock, and his -amusement was great at the idea of being reproached with neglect of -anything so entirely nominal. He had taken his degree, just saving it, -with no honour, nor much blame either; and now for a whole year he had -been afloat in the world, running hither and thither, as if that world -were but one enormous field of amusement. He ought not to have done so. -When he decided to give up the Church, he ought, as everybody said, to -have turned his mind to some other profession; and great and many were -the lamentations over his thoughtlessness in the Rectory of -Langton-Courtenay. But somehow the two Berties had always been as one in -the minds of all their kith and kin; and even the Hardwicks regarded -with a vague indulgence the pleasant idleness which was thus shared. Sir -Herbert Eldridge was rich, and had influence and patronage, and the -other Bertie was his only son. It would be no trouble to him to provide -‘somehow’ for his nephew when the right moment came. And thus, though -the father and mother shook their heads, and Mrs. Hardwick would -sometimes sigh over the waste of Bertie’s abilities and his time, yet -they had made no very earnest remonstrances up to this moment; and all -had gone on merrily, and all had seemed well.</p> - -<p>That evening, however, as it happened, he received an energetic letter -on the subject from his father—a letter pointing out to him the folly -of thus wasting his best years. Mr. Hardwick reminded his son that he -was three-and-twenty, that he had his way to make in the world, and that -it was his duty to make up his mind how he was going to do it.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t insist upon the Church,’ he said, ‘if your mind is not inclined -that way—for that is a thing I would never force; but I cannot see you -sink into a state of dependence. Your cousin is very kind; but you -ought, and you must know it, to be already in the way of supporting -yourself.’</p> - -<p>Bertie wrote an answer to this letter at once that evening, without -waiting to take counsel of the night; perhaps he felt that it was safe -to do it at once, while the idea of work still looked and felt like a -good joke. This was his reply:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p> -‘<span class="smcap">My dear Father</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="indd">‘I am very sorry to see that you feel so strongly about my -idleness. I know I am an idle wretch, and always was; but it can’t -last, of course; and after this bout I will do my best to mend. The -fact is that for this cruise I am pledged to Bertie. I should be -behaving very shabbily to him, after all his kindness, if I threw -him over at the last moment. And, besides, we don’t go without an -object, neither he nor I, of which you will hear anon. I cannot say -more now. Give my love to Mamma and the girls; and don’t be vexed -if I find there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> is no time to run home before we start. I shall -write from the first port we touch at. Home without fail before -Christmas. Good-bye.</p> - -<p class="r"> -‘Yours affectionately, H. H.’<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>Bertie was much pleased with this effusion; and even when he read it -over in the morning, though it did not appear to strike so perfectly the -golden line between seriousness and levity as it had appeared to do at -night, it was still a satisfactory production. And it pleased him, in -the vanity of his youth, to have made the obscure yet important -suggestion that his voyage was ‘not without an object.’ What would they -all think if they ever found out what that object was? He laughed at the -thought, though with a tinge of heightened colour. The people at home -would suppose that some great idea had come to the two—that they were -going on an antiquarian or a scientific expedition; for Bertie Eldridge -was a young man full of notions, and had made attempts in both these -branches of learning. Bertie laughed at this very comical idea; but -though he was thus satisfied with his own cleverness in baffling his -natural guardians, there was a single drop of shame, a germ of -bitterness, somewhere at the bottom of his heart. He could fence gaily -with his father, and forget the good advice which came to him from those -who had a right to give it; but that chance dart thrown by the Curate -had penetrated a weak point in his armour. Mr. Sugden’s suggestion, who -was a young man on his own level, a fellow whom he had laughed at, and -had no lofty opinion of, clung to him like an obstinate bit of -thistledown. It was of no consequence, said with an intention to -wound—a mere spiteful expression of envy; but it clung to him, and -pricked him vaguely, and made him uncomfortable, in spite of himself.</p> - -<p>For Bertie was only thoughtless, not selfish. He was running all the -risks involved by positive evil in his levity; but he did not mean it. -Had he known what real trouble was beginning to rise in the minds of his -‘people’ in respect to him, and how even his uncle Sir Herbert growled -at the foolish sacrifice he was making, Bertie had manhood enough to -have pulled himself up, and abandoned those delights of youth. And -indeed a certain uneasiness had begun to appear faintly in his own -mind—a sense that his life was not exactly what it might be, which, of -itself, might have roused him to better things. But temptation was -strong, and life was pleasant; and at twenty-three there still seems so -much of it to come, and such plenty of time to make amends for all one’s -early follies. Then there were a hundred specious excuses for him, which -even harder judges than he acknowledged. From their cradles, his cousin -Bertie and himself had been as one—they had been born on the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> day; -they had taken every step of their lives together; they resembled each -other as twin brothers sometimes do; and something still more subtle, -still more fascinating, than the bond between twin-brothers existed -between them. This had been the admiration of their respective families -when they were children; and it was with some pride that Lady Eldridge -and Mrs. Hardwick had told their friends of the curious sympathy between -the boys; how when one was ill, the other was depressed and wretched, -though his cousin was at a distance from him, and he had no knowledge, -except by instinct, of the malady.</p> - -<p>‘We know directly when anything is wrong with the other Bertie,’ the -respective mothers would say, with that pride which mothers feel in any -peculiarity of their children.</p> - -<p>This strange tie was strengthened by their education; they went to -school together on the same day; they kept side by side all through, and -though one Bertie might be at the head of the form and another at the -bottom, still in the same form they managed to keep, all tutors, -masters, and aids to learning promoting, so far as in them lay, the -twinship, which everybody found ‘interesting.’ And they went to the same -college, and day for day, and side by side, took every successive step. -Bertie Eldridge was the cleverest; it was he who was always at the top; -and then he was—a fact which he much plumed himself upon—the eldest by -six hours, and accordingly had a right to be the guide and teacher. Thus -the very threads of their lives were twisted so close together that it -was a difficult thing to pull them asunder; and though all the older -people had come by this time to regret the natural weakness which had -prompted them to allow this bond to knit itself closer with every year -of life, none of them had yet hit upon a plan for breaking it. The -reader will easily perceive what a fatal connection this was for the -poorer of the two—he who had to make his own way, and had no hereditary -wealth to fall back upon. For Bertie Eldridge it was natural and -suitable, and as innocent and pleasant as a life without an object can -be; but for Bertie Hardwick it was destruction. However, it was -difficult, very difficult, for him to realise this. He laughed at his -father’s remonstrances, even while he assented to them, and allowed that -they were perfectly true; yes, everything that was said was quite -true—and yet the life itself was so natural, so inevitable. How could -he tear himself from it—‘break faith with Bertie?’ He resolved -indefinitely that some time or other it would have to be done, and then -plunged, with a light heart, into the victualling and the preparation of -the ‘Shadow.’ But, nevertheless, that arrow of Mr. Sugden’s stuck -between the joints of his armour. He felt it prick him when he moved; he -could not quite forget it, do what he would.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> next day the whole population of the place surged in and out of the -Cottage, full of regrets and wonders. ‘Are you really going?’ the ladies -said, ‘so soon? I suppose it was quite a sudden idea? And how delightful -for you!—but you can’t expect us to be pleased. On the contrary, we are -all inconsolable. I don’t know what we shall do without you. How long do -you intend to stay away?’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing is settled,’ said Mrs. Anderson, blandly. ‘We are leaving -ourselves quite free. I think it is much better not to be hampered by -any fixed time for return.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, much better!’ said the chorus. ‘It is such a bore generally; just -when one is beginning to know people, and to enjoy oneself, one has to -pack up and go away; but there are few people, of course, who are so -free as you are, dear Mrs. Anderson—you have no duty to call you back. -And then you know the Continent so well, and how to travel, and all -about it. How I envy you! But it will be such a loss for us. I don’t -know what we shall do all the Summer through without you and dear Ombra -and Kate. All our pic-nics, and our water-parties, and our croquet, and -everything—I don’t know what we shall do——’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose you will let the Cottage for the summer?’ said Mrs. Eldridge, -who was of a practical mind; ‘and I hope nice people may come. That will -be always some consolation for the rest of us; and we cannot grudge our -friends their holiday, can we?’ she added, with fine professional -feeling, reading a mild lesson to her parishioners, to which everybody -replied, with a flutter of protestation, ‘Oh, of course not, of course -not!’</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay assisted at the little ceremonial. He sat all the -afternoon in an easy-chair by the window, noting everything with a -smile. The tea-table was in the opposite corner, and from four till six -there was little cessation in the talk, and in the distribution of cups -of tea. He sat and looked on, making various sardonic remarks to -himself. Partly by chance, and partly by intention, he had drawn his -chair close to that of Ombra, who interested him. He was anxious to -understand this member of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> the household, who gave Kate no caresses, who -did nothing to conciliate or please her, but rather spoke sharply to her -when she spoke at all. He set this down frankly and openly as jealousy, -and determined to be at the bottom of it. Ombra was not a ‘locust.’ She -was much more like a secret enemy. He made up his mind that there was -some mischief between them, and that Ombra hated the girl whom everybody -else, from interested motives, pretended to love; therefore, he tried to -talk to her, first, because her gloom amused him, and second, that he -might have a chance of finding something out.</p> - -<p>‘I have been under a strange delusion,’ he said. ‘I thought there was -but a very small population in the Isle of Wight.’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed, I don’t know what the number is,’ said Ombra.</p> - -<p>‘I should say it must be legion. The room has been three times filled, -and still the cry is, they come! And yet I understand you live very -quietly, and this is an out-of-the-way place. Places which are in the -way must have much more of it. It seems to be that Mayfair is less gay.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know Mayfair.’</p> - -<p>‘Then you have lived always in the country,’ said Mr. Courtenay, -blandly. This roused Ombra. She could have borne a graver imputation -better, but to be considered a mere rustic, a girl who knew nothing!——</p> - -<p>‘On the contrary, I have lived very little in the country,’ she said, -with a tone of irritation. ‘But then the towns I have lived in have -belonged to a different kind of society than that which, I suppose, you -meet with in Mayfair. I have lived in Madrid, Lisbon, Genoa, and -Florence——’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! in your father’s time,’ said Mr. Courtenay, gently. And the sound -of his voice seemed to say to Ombra, ‘In the Consul’s time! Yes, to be -sure. Just the sort of places he would be sure to live in.’ Which -exasperated her more than she dared show.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, that was our happy time!’ she cried, hotly. ‘The time when we were -free of all interference. My father was honoured and loved by -everybody.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! I don’t doubt it, I don’t doubt it,’ said Mr. Courtenay, hurriedly, -for she looked very much as if she might be going to cry. ‘Spain is very -interesting, and so is Italy. It will be pleasant for you to go back.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think it will,’ she said, bluntly. ‘Things will be so -different.’ And then, after a pause, she added, with nervous haste, -‘Kate may like it, perhaps, but not I.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay thought it best to pause. He had no wish to be made a -confidant, or to have Ombra’s grievances against Kate poured into his -ears. He leaned back in his chair, and watched with grim amusement while -the visitors went and came. Mr. Sugden had come in while he had been -talking,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> and was now to be seen standing like a tall shadow by the -other side of the window, looking down upon Ombra; and a nervous -expectation had become visible in her, which caught Mr. Courtenay’s eye. -She did not look up when the door opened, but, on the contrary, kept her -eyes fixed on the work she held in her hand with a rigidity which -betrayed her more than curiosity would have done. She would not look up, -but she listened with a hot, hectic flush on the upper part of her -cheeks, just under her drooped eyelids, holding her breath, and sitting -motionless in the suspense which devoured her. The needle shook in her -hand, and all the efforts she made to keep it steady did but reveal the -more the excitement of all her nerves. Mr. Courtenay watched her with -growing curiosity; he was not sympathetic; but it was something new to -him and entertaining, and he watched as if he had been at a theatre. He -did not mean to be cruel; it was to him like a child’s fit of pouting. -It was something about love, no doubt, he said to himself. Poor little -fool! Somebody had interfered with her love—her last plaything; perhaps -Kate, who looked very capable of doing mischief in such matters; and how -unhappy she was making herself about nothing at all!</p> - -<p>At last the anxiety came to a sudden stop; the hand gave one jerk more -violent than before; the eyes shot out a sudden gleam, and then Ombra -was suddenly, significantly still. Mr. Courtenay looked up, and saw that -two young men had come into the room, so much like each other that he -was startled, and did not know what to make of it. As he looked up, with -an incipient smile on his face, he caught the eye of the tall Curate on -the other side of the window, who was looking at him threateningly. -‘Good heavens! what have I done?’ said Mr. Courtenay to himself, much -amazed. ‘<i>I</i> have not fallen in love with the irresistible Ombra!’ He -was still more entertained when he discovered that the look which he had -thus intercepted was on its way to the new comers, whom Ombra did not -look at, but whose coming had affected her so strangely. Here was an -entire drama in the smallest possible space. An agitated maiden on the -eve of parting with her lover; a second jealous lover looking on. ‘Thank -heaven it is not Kate!’ Mr. Courtenay said from the bottom of his heart. -The sight of this little scene made him feel more and more the danger -from which he had escaped. He had escaped it, but only by a -hair’s-breadth; and, thank the kind fates, was looking on with amusement -at a story which did not concern him; not with dismay and consternation -at a private embarrassment and difficulty of his own. This sense of a -hairbreadth escape gave the little spectacle zest. He looked on with -genuine amusement, like a true critic, delighted with the show of human -emotion which was taking place before his eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span></p> - -<p>‘Who are these two young fellows?’ he asked Ombra, determined to have -the whole advantage of the situation, and draw her out to the utmost of -his power.</p> - -<p>‘What two?’ she said, looking up suddenly, with a dull red flush on her -cheek and a choked voice. ‘Oh! they are Mr. Hardwick and Mr. Eldridge; -two—gentlemen—mamma knows.’</p> - -<p>They were both talking to Kate, standing one on either side of her in -the middle of the room. Ombra gave them a long intent look, with the -colour deepening in her face, and the breath coming quick from her lips. -She took in the group in every detail, as if it had been drawn in lines -of fire. How unconscious Kate looked standing there, talking easily, in -all the freedom of her unawakened youth. ‘Heaven be praised!’ thought -Mr. Courtenay once more, pious for the first time in his life.</p> - -<p>‘What! not brothers? What a strange likeness, then!’ he said, -tranquilly. ‘I suppose one of them is young Hardwick, from -Langton-Courtenay, whom Kate knew at home. He is a parson, like his -father, I suppose?’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Ombra, dropping her eyes once more upon her work.</p> - -<p>‘Not a parson? That is odd, for the elder son, I know, has gone to the -Bar. I suppose he has relations here? Kate and he have met before?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes.’</p> - -<p>It was all that Ombra could say; but in her heart she added, ‘Always -Kate—Kate knew him—Kate has met him! Is there nobody, then, but Kate -in the world to be considered. <i>They</i> think so too.’</p> - -<p>The old man, for the first time, had a little pity. He asked no more -questions, seeing that she was past all power of answering them; and -half in sympathy, half in curiosity, drew his chair back a little, and -left the new-comers room to approach. When they did so, after some -minutes, Ombra’s feverish colour suddenly forsook her cheeks, and she -grew very pale. Bertie Eldridge was the first to speak. He came up with -a little air of deprecation and humility, which Mr. Courtenay, not -knowing the <i>fin mot</i> of the enigma, did not understand.</p> - -<p>‘I am so sorry to hear you are going away,’ he said. ‘Is it not very -sudden, Miss Anderson? You did not speak of it on Wednesday, I think.’</p> - -<p>‘Did I see you on Wednesday?’ said Ombra. ‘Oh! I beg your pardon, I know -you were here; but I did not think we had any talk.’</p> - -<p>‘A little, I believe,’ said the young man, colouring. His -self-possession seemed to fail him, which was amazing to Mr. Courtenay, -for the young men of the period do not often fail in self-possession. He -got confused, spoke low, and faltered something about knowing he had no -right to be told.</p> - -<p>‘No,’ she replied, with nervous colour and a flash of sudden<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> pride; -‘out of our own little cottage I do not know anyone who has a right to -be consulted—or cares either,’ she added, in an undertone.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Anderson, you cannot think <i>that</i>!’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, but I do!’ Then there was a little pause; and after some moments, -Ombra resumed: ‘Kate’s movements are important to many people. She will -be a great lady, and entitled to have her comings and goings recorded in -the newspapers; but we have no such claim upon the public interest. It -does not matter to any one, so far as I know, whether we go or stay.’</p> - -<p>A silence again. Ombra bent once more over her work, and her needle flew -through it, working as if for a wager. The other Bertie, who was behind, -had been moving about, in mere idleness, the books on Ombra’s -writing-table. At him she suddenly looked up with a smile—</p> - -<p>‘Please, Mr. Hardwick! all my poor papers and books which I have just -been putting in order—don’t scatter them all over the table again.’</p> - -<p>‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, looking up. He had borne the air of the -stage-confidant, till that moment, in Mr. Courtenay’s eyes, which were -those of a connoisseur in such matters. But now his belief on this -subject was shaken. When he glanced up and saw the look which was -exchanged by the two, and the gloom with which Mr. Sugden was regarding -both, a mist seemed to roll away from the scene. How different the -girl’s aspect was now!—soft with a dewy brightness in her eyes, and a -voice that trembled with some concealed agitation; and there was a glow -upon Bertie’s face, which made him handsomer. ‘My cousins are breaking -their hearts over your going,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, no fear of their hearts!’ said Ombra, lightly; ‘they will mend. If -the Cottage is let, the new tenants will probably be gayer people than -we are, and do more to amuse their neighbours. And if we come back——’</p> - -<p>‘If?’ said the young man.</p> - -<p>‘Nothing is certain, I suppose, in this world—or, at least, so people -say.’</p> - -<p>‘It is very true,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘It is seldom a young lady is so -philosophical—but, as you say, if you come back in a year, the chances -are you will find your place filled up, and your friends changed.’</p> - -<p>Ombra turned upon him with sparks of fire suddenly flashing from her -eyes. Philosopher, indeed!—say termagant, rather.</p> - -<p>‘It is vile and wretched and horrible to say so!’ she cried; ‘but I -suppose it is true.’</p> - -<p>And all this time the tall Curate never took his eyes off the group, but -stood still and listened and watched. Mr. Courtenay began to feel very -uncomfortable. The scene was deadly real, and not as amusing as he had -hoped.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">In</span> the little bustle of preparation which ensued, there was, of course, -a good deal of dressmaking to do, and Miss Richardson, the dressmaker -from the village, who was Mr. Sugden’s landlady, was almost a resident -at the Cottage for the following week. She set out every morning in her -close black bonnet and black shawl, with her little parcel of -properties—including the last fashion book, done up in a very tight -roll. She helped Maryanne, and she helped Francesca, who was more -difficult to deal with; and she was helped in her turn by the young -ladies themselves, who did not disdain the task. It was very pleasant to -Miss Richardson, who was a person of refined tastes, to find herself in -such refined society. She was never tired remarking what a pleasure it -was to talk to ladies who could understand you, and who were not proud, -and took an interest in their fellow creatures; and it was during this -busy week that Kate acquired that absolute knowledge of Miss -Richardson’s private history with which she enlightened her friends at a -later period. She sat and sewed and talked in the little parlour which -served for Kate’s studies, and for many other miscellaneous purposes; -and it was there, in the midst of all the litter of dressmaking, that -Mrs. Anderson and the girls took their afternoon tea, and that even Mrs. -Eldridge and some other intimate friends were occasionally introduced. -Mrs. Eldridge knew Miss Richardson intimately, as was natural, and liked -to hear from her all that was going on in the village; but the -dressmaker’s private affairs were not of much interest to the Rector’s -wife—it required a lively and universal human interest like Kate’s to -enter into such details.</p> - -<p>It was only on the last evening of her labours, however, that Miss -Richardson made so bold as to volunteer a little private communication -to Mrs. Anderson. The girls had gone out into the garden, after a busy -day. All was quiet in the soft April evening; even Mr. Sugden had not -come that night. They were all alone, feeling a little excited by the -coming departure, a little wearied with their many occupations, a little -sad at the thought of leaving the familiar place. At least, such were -Mrs. Anderson’s feelings, as she stood in the verandah looking out. It -was a little more than twilight, and less than night. Ombra was standing -in a corner of the low garden wall, looking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> out upon the sea. Kate was -not visible—a certain wistfulness, sadness, farewell feeling, seemed -about in the very air. What may have happened before we come back? Mrs. -Anderson sighed softly, with this thought in her mind. But she was not -unhappy. There was enough excitement in the new step about to be taken -to keep all darker shades of feeling in suspense. ‘If I might make so -bold, ma’am,’ said Miss Richardson, suddenly, by her side.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson started, but composed herself immediately. ‘Surely,’ she -said, with her habitual deference to other people’s wishes. The -dressmaker coughed, cleared her throat, and made two or three -inarticulate beginnings. At length she burst forth—</p> - -<p>‘The comfort of speaking to a real lady is, as she don’t mistake your -meaning, nor bring it up against you after. I’m not one as interferes in -a general way. I do think, Mrs. Anderson, ma’am, as I’m well enough -known in Shanklin to take upon me to say that. But my heart does bleed -for my poor young gentleman; and I must say, even if you should be -angry, whatever he is to do, when you and the young ladies go away, is -more than I can tell. When I saw his face this morning, though he’s a -clergyman, and as good as gold, the thing as came into my head—and I -give you my word for it, ma’am—was as he’d do himself some harm.’</p> - -<p>‘You mean Mr. Sugden? I do not understand this at all,’ said Mrs. -Anderson, who had found time to collect herself. ‘Why should he do -himself any harm? You mean he will work too much, and make himself ill?’</p> - -<p>‘No, ma’am,’ said Miss Richardson, with dignity. ‘I don’t apologise for -saying it, for you’ve eyes, ma’am, and can see as well as me what’s been -a-going on. He’s been here, ma’am, spending the evenings, take one week -with another, five nights out of the seven—and now you and the young -ladies is going away. And Miss Ombra—but I don’t speak to one as can’t -take notice, and see how things is going as well as me.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Richardson, I think we all ought to be very careful how we talk of -a young man, and a clergyman. I have been very glad to see him here. I -have always thought it was good for a young man to have a family circle -open to him. But if any gossip has got up about the young ladies, it is -perfectly without foundation. I should not have expected from you——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Mrs. Anderson, ma’am!’ cried the dressmaker, carried away by her -feelings. ‘Talk to me of gossip, when I was speaking as a friend! an -’umble friend, I don’t say different, but still one that takes a deep -interest. Foundation or no foundation, ma’am, that poor young gentleman -is a-breaking of his heart. I see it before I heard the news. I said to -myself, “Miss Ombra’s been and refused him;”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> and then I heard you and -the young ladies were going away. Whether he’s spoken, and been refused, -or whether he haven’t had the courage to speak, it ain’t for me to -guess; but oh! Mrs. Anderson, ma’am, speak a word of comfort to the poor -young gentleman! My heart is in it. I can’t stop, even if I make you -angry. I’m not one to gossip, and, when I’m trusted, wild horses won’t -drag a word out of me; but I make bold to speak to you—though you’re a -lady, and I work for my bread—as one woman to another, ma’am. If you -hadn’t been a real lady, I wouldn’t have dared to a-done it. Oh, if -you’d but give him a word of good advice! such as we can’t have -everything we want; and there’s a deal of good left, even though Miss -Ombra won’t have him; and he oughtn’t to be ungrateful to God, and that. -He’d take it from you. Oh! ma’am, if you’d give him a word of good -advice!’</p> - -<p>Miss Richardson wept while she spoke; and at length her emotion affected -her companion.</p> - -<p>‘You are a good soul,’ said Mrs. Anderson, holding out her hand; ‘you -are a kind creature. I will always think better of you for this. But you -must not say a word about Miss Ombra. He has never spoken to me; and -till a man speaks, you know, a lady has no right to take such a thing -for granted. But I will not forget what you have said; and I will speak -to him, if I can find an opportunity—if he will give me the least -excuse for doing it. He will miss us, I am sure.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! miss you, ma’am!’ cried Miss Richardson; ‘all the parish will miss -you, and me among the first, as you’ve always been so good to; but as -for my poor young gentleman, what I’m afraid of is as he’ll do himself -some harm.’</p> - -<p>‘Hush! my daughter is coming!’ said Mrs. Anderson; and she added, in a -louder tone, ‘I will see that you have everything you want to-morrow; -and you must try to give us two days more. I think two days will be -enough, Ombra, with everybody helping a little. Good night. To-morrow, -when you come, you must make us all work.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you very kindly, ma’am,’ said the dressmaker, with a curtsey; -‘and good night.’</p> - -<p>‘What was she talking to you about, mamma?’ said Ombra’s languid voice, -in the soft evening gloom; not that she cared to know—the words came -mechanically to her lips.</p> - -<p>‘About the trimming of your travelling dress, my dear,’ said her mother, -calmly, with that virtuous composure which accompanies so many gentle -fibs. (‘And so she was, though not just now,’ Mrs. Anderson added to -herself, in self-exculpation.)</p> - -<p>And then Kate joined them, and they went indoors and lit the lamp. Mr. -Sugden had been taking a long walk, that night. Some one was sick at the -other end of the parish, to whom the Rector had sent him; and he was -glad. The invalid was six<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> miles off, and he had walked there and back. -But every piece of work, alas! comes to an end, and so did this; and he -found himself in front of the Cottage, he could not tell how, just after -this soft domestic light began to shine under the verandah, as under an -eyelid. He stood and looked at it, poor fellow! with a sick and sore -heart. A few nights more, and that lamp would be lit no longer; and the -light of his life would be gone out. He stood and looked at it in a -rapture of love and pain. There was no one to see him; but if there had -been a hundred, he would not have known nor cared, so lost was he in -this absorbing passion and anguish. He had not the heart to go in, -though the times were so few that he would see her again. He went away, -with his head bent on his breast, saying to himself that if she had been -happy he could have borne it; but she was not happy; and he ground his -teeth, and cursed the Berties, those two butterflies, those two fools, -in his heart!</p> - -<p>There was one, however, who saw him, and that was Francesca, who was -cutting some salad in the corner of the kitchen-garden, in the faint -light which preceded the rising of the moon. The old woman looked over -the wall, and saw him, and was sorry. ‘The villains!’ she said to -herself. But though she was sorry, she laughed softly as she went in, as -people will, while the world lasts, laugh at such miseries. Francesca -was sorry for the young man—so sorry, even, that she forgot that he was -a priest, and, therefore, a terrible sinner in thinking such thoughts; -but she was not displeased with Ombra this time. This was natural. ‘What -is the good of being young and beautiful if one has not a few victims?’ -she said to herself. ‘Time passes fast enough and then it is all over, -and the man has it his own way. If <i>nostra</i> Ombra did no more harm than -that!’ And, on the whole, Francesca went in with the salad for her -ladies’ supper rather exhilarated than otherwise by the sight of the -hopeless lover. It was the woman’s revenge upon man for a great deal -that he makes her suffer; and in the abstract women are seldom sorry for -such natural victims.</p> - -<p>Next evening, however, Mr. Sugden took heart, and went to the Cottage, -and there spent a few hours of very sweet wretchedness, Ombra being -unusually good to him—and to the Curate she always was good. After the -simple supper had been eaten, and Francesca’s salad, Mrs. Anderson -contrived that both the girls should be called away to try on their -travelling-dresses, at which Miss Richardson and Maryanne were working -with passion. The window was open; the night was warm, and the moon had -risen over the sea. Mrs. Anderson stepped out upon the verandah with the -Curate, and they exchanged a few sentences on the beauty of the night, -such as were consistent with the occasion; then she broke off the -unreal, and took up the true. ‘Mr. Sugden,’ she said, ‘I wanted to speak -to you. It seems<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> vain to take such a thing for granted, but I am afraid -you will miss us when we go away.’</p> - -<p>‘<i>Miss</i> you!’ he cried; and then tears came into the poor fellow’s eyes, -and into his voice, and he took her hand with despairing gratitude. -‘Thanks for giving me a chance to speak,’ he said—‘it is like yourself. -Miss you!—I feel as if life would cease altogether after Monday—it -won’t, I suppose, and most things will go on as usual; but I cannot -think it—everything will be over for me.’</p> - -<p>‘You must not think so,’ she said; ‘it will be hard upon you at first, -but you will find things will arrange themselves better than you -expect—other habits will come in instead of this. No, indeed I am not -unkind, but I know life better than you do. But for that, you know, we -could not go on living, with all the changes that happen to us. We -should be killed at the first blow.’</p> - -<p>‘And so I shall be killed,’ he said, turning from her with heavier gloom -than before, and angry with the consolation. ‘Oh! not bodily, I suppose. -One can go on and do one’s work all the same; and one good thing is, it -will be of importance to nobody but myself.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t say so,’ said kind Mrs. Anderson, with tears in her eyes. ‘Oh! my -dear boy—if you will let me call you so—think what your visionary loss -is in comparison with so many losses that people have to bear every -day.’</p> - -<p>‘It is no visionary loss to me,’ he said, bitterly. ‘But if she were -happy, I should not mind. I could bear it, if all were well with her. I -hope I am not such a wretch as to think of myself in comparison. Don’t -think I am too stupid to see how kind you are to me; but there is one -thing—only one that could give me real comfort. Promise that, if the -circumstances are ever such as to call for a brother’s interference, you -will send for me. It is not what I would have wished, God knows!—not -what I would have wished—but I will be a brother to her, if she needs a -brother. Promise. There are some things which a man can do best, and if -she is wronged, if her brother could set things right——’</p> - -<p>‘Dear Mr. Sugden, I don’t understand you,’ said Mrs. Anderson, -faltering.</p> - -<p>‘But you will, if such a time should come? You will remember that you -have promised. I will say good night now. I can’t go in again after this -and see her without making a fool of myself, and it is best she should -keep some confidence in me. Good night.’</p> - -<p>Had she fulfilled Miss Richardson’s commission?—or had she pledged -herself to appeal to him instead, in some incomprehensible contingency? -Mrs. Anderson looked after him bewildered, and did not know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Sunday</span> was their last evening at Shanklin, and they were all rather -melancholy—even Kate, who had been to church three times, and to the -Sunday school, and over the almshouses, and had filled up the -interstices between these occupations by a succession of tearful rambles -round the Rectory garden with Lucy Eldridge, whose tears flowed at the -smallest provocation. ‘I will remember everything you have told me,’ -Lucy protested. ‘I will go to the old women every week, and take them -their tea and sugar—for oh! Kate, you know papa does <i>not</i> approve of -money—and I will see that the little Joliffes are kept at school—and I -will go every week to see after your flowers; but oh! what shall I do -without you? I shan’t care about my studies, or anything; and those -duets which we used to play together, and our German, which we always -meant to take up—I shall not have any heart for them now. Oh! Kate, I -wish you were not going! But that is selfish. Of course I want <i>you</i> to -have the pleasure; only——’</p> - -<p>‘I wish <i>you</i> were going,’ said Kate—‘I wish everybody was coming; but, -as that is impossible, we must just make the best of it; and if anybody -should take the Cottage, and you should go and make as great friends -with them as you ever did with me——’</p> - -<p>‘How can you think so?’ said Lucy, with fresh tears.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ said Kate, ‘if I were very good, I suppose I ought to hope you -would make friends with them; but I am not so frightened of being -selfish as you are. One must be a little selfish—but for that, people -would have no character at all.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Kate, if mamma were to hear you——’</p> - -<p>‘I should not mind. Mrs. Eldridge knows as well as I do. Giving in to -other people is all very well; but if you have not the heart or the -courage to keep something of your very own, which you won’t give away, -what is the good of you? I don’t approve of sacrificing like that.’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure you would sacrifice yourself, though you speak so,’ said -Lucy. ‘Oh! Kate, you would sacrifice anything—even a—person—you -loved—if some one else loved him.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span></p> - -<p>‘I should do nothing of the sort,’ said Kate, stoutly. ‘In the first -place, you mean a man, I suppose, and it is only women who are called -persons. I should do nothing of the sort. What right should I have to -sacrifice him if he were fond of me, and hand him over to some one else? -That is not self-sacrifice—it is the height of impertinence; and if he -were not fond of me, of course there would be nothing in my power. Oh, -no; I am not that sort of person. I will never give up any one’s love or -any one’s friendship to give it to another. Now, Lucy, remember that. -And if you are as great friends with the new people as you are with -me——’</p> - -<p>‘What odd ideas you have!’ said Lucy. ‘I suppose it is because you are -so independent and a great lady; and it seems natural that everybody -should yield to you.’</p> - -<p>Upon which Kate flushed crimson.</p> - -<p>‘How mean you must think me! To stand up for my own way because I shall -be rich. But never mind, Lucy. I don’t suppose you can understand, and I -am fond of you all the same. I am fond of you <i>now</i>; but if you go and -forget me, and go off after other people, you don’t know how different I -can be. I shall hate you—I shall——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Kate, don’t be so dreadful!’ cried Lucy. ‘What would mamma say?’</p> - -<p>‘Then don’t provoke me,’ said Kate. And then they fell back upon more -peaceful details, and the hundred commissions which Lucy undertook so -eagerly. I am not sure that Kate was quite certain of the sincerity of -her self-sacrificing friend. She made a great many wise reflections on -the subject when she had left her, and settled it with a philosophy -unusual to her years.</p> - -<p>‘She does not mean to be insincere,’ Kate mused to herself. ‘She does -not understand. If there is nothing deeper in it, how can she help it? -When the new people come, she will be quite sure she will not care for -them; and then they will call, and she will change her mind. I suppose I -will change my mind too. How queer people are! But, at all events, I -don’t pretend to be better than I am.’ And with a little premonitory -smart, feeling that her friend was already, in imagination, unfaithful, -Kate walked home, looking tenderly at everything.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! how lovely the sea is!’ she said to herself—‘how blue, and grey, -and green, and all sorts of colours! I hope it will not be rough when we -cross to-morrow. I wonder if the voyage from Southampton will be -disagreeable, and how Ombra will stand it. Is Ombra really ill now, or -is it only her mind? Of course she cannot turn round to my aunt and say -it is her mind, or that the Berties had anything to do with it. I wonder -what really happened <i>that</i> night; and I wonder which it is. She cannot -be in love with them both at once, and they cannot be both<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> in love with -her, or they would not be such friends. I wonder—— but, there, I am -doing nothing but wondering, and there are so many things that are -queer. How beautiful that white headland is with a little light about -it, as if the day had forgotten to carry all that belonged to it away! -And perhaps I may never see it any more. Perhaps I may never come back -to the Cottage, or the cliffs, or the sea. What a long time I have been -here—and what a horrid disagreeable girl I was! I think I must be a -little better now. I am not so impertinent, at all events, though I do -like to meddle. I suppose I shall always like to meddle. Oh! I wonder -how I shall feel when I go back again to Langton-Courtenay? I am -eighteen <i>past</i>, and in three years I shall be able to do whatever I -like. Lucy said a great lady—a great lady! I think, on the whole, I -like the idea. It is so different from most other people. I shall not -require to marry unless I please, or to do anything that is -disagreeable. And if I don’t set the parish to rights! The poor folks -shall be all as happy as the day is long,’ cried Kate to herself, with -energy. ‘They shall have each a nice garden, and a bit of potato-ground, -and grass for a cow. And what if I were to buy a quantity of those nice -little Brittany cows when we are abroad? Auntie thinks they are the -best. How comfortable everybody will be with a cow and a garden! But, oh -dear! what a long time it will be first! and I don’t know if I shall -ever see this dear Cottage, and the bay, and the headland, and all the -cliffs and the landslips, and the ups and the downs again.’</p> - -<p>‘Mees Katta, you vill catzh ze cold,’ said Francesca, coming briskly up -to her. ‘It is not so beautiful this road, that you should take the long -looks, and have the air so dull. Sorry, no, she is not sorry—my young -lady is not sorry to go to see Italy, and ze mountains, and ze world—— -’</p> - -<p>‘Not quite that, Francesca,’ said Kate; ‘but I have been so happy at the -Cottage, and I was thinking what if I should never see it again!’</p> - -<p>‘That is what you call non-sense,’ said Francesca. ‘Why should not -Mademoiselle, who is verra young, comm back and zee all she lofs? If it -was an old, like me—but I think nothink, nothink of ze kind, for I -always comms back, like what you call ze bad penny. This is pretty, but -were you once to see Italy, Mees Katta, you never would think no more of -this—never no more!’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed, I should!’ cried Kate, indignantly; ‘and if this was the -ugliest place in England, and your Italy as beautiful as heaven, I -should still like this best.’</p> - -<p>Francesca laughed, and shook her little brown head.</p> - -<p>‘Wait till my young lady see,’ she said—‘wait till she see. The air is -never damp like this, but sweet as heaven, as Mees Katta says; and the -sea blue, all blue; you never see nozing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> like it. It makes you well, -you English, only to see Italy. What does Mademoiselle say?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! do you think the change of air will cure Ombra?’ cried Kate.</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Francesca, turning round upon her, ‘not the change of air, -but the change of mind, will cure Mees Ombra. What she wants is the -change of mind.’</p> - -<p>‘I do not understand you,’ said Kate. ‘I suppose you mean the change of -scene, the novelty, the——’</p> - -<p>‘I mean the change of ze mind,’ said Francesca; ‘when she will -understand herself, and the ozer people’s; when she knows to do right, -and puts away her face of stone, then she will be well—quite well. It -is not sickness; it is her mind that makes ill, Mees Katta. When she -will put ze ice away and be true, then she shall be well.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Francesca, you talk like an old witch, and I am frightened for -you!’ cried Kate. ‘I don’t believe in illness of the mind; you will see -Ombra will get better as soon as we begin to move about.’</p> - -<p>‘As soon as she change her mind she will be better,’ said the oracular -Francesca. ‘There is nobody that tells her the truth but me. She is my -child, and I lof her, and I tell her the trutt.’</p> - -<p>‘I think I see my aunt in the garden,’ said Kate, hurrying on; for -though she was very curious, she was honourable, and did not wish to -discover her cousin’s secrets through Francesca’s revelations.</p> - -<p>‘If your aunt kill me, I care not,’ said Francesca, ‘but my lady is the -most good, the most sense—— She knows Mees Ombra, and she lets me -talk. She is cured when she will change the mind.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want to hear any more, please,’ said honourable Kate. But -Francesca went on nodding her head, and repeating her sentiment: ‘When -she change the mind, she will be well,’ till it got to honest Kate’s -ears, and mixed with her dreams. The mother and daughter were in the -garden, talking not too cheerfully. A certain sadness was in the air. -The lamp burned dimly in the drawing-room, throwing a faint, desolate -light over the emptiness. ‘This is what it will look like to-morrow,’ -said Kate; and she cried. And the others were very much disposed to -follow her example. It was the last night—words which are always -melancholy; and presently poor Mr. Sugden stole up in the darkness, and -joined them, with a countenance of such despair that poor Kate, excited, -and tired, and dismal as she herself felt, had hard ado to keep from -laughing. The new-comer added no cheer to the little party. He was -dismal as Don Quixote, and, poor fellow, as simple-minded and as true.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span></p> - -<p>And next morning they went away. Mr. Courtenay himself, who had lingered -in the neighbourhood, paying a visit to some friends, either from excess -of kindness, or determination to see the last of them, met them at -Southampton, and put them into the boat for Havre, the nearest French -port. Kate had her Maryanne, who, confounded by the idea of foreign -travel, was already helpless; and the two other ladies were attended by -old Francesca, as brisk and busy as a little brown bee, who was of use -to everybody, and knew all about luggage and steamboats. Mr. Sugden, who -had begged that privilege from Mrs. Anderson, went with them so far, and -pointed out the ships of the fleet as they passed, and took them about -the town, indicating all its principal wonders to them, as if he were -reading his own or their death-warrants.</p> - -<p>‘If it goes on much longer, I shall laugh,’ whispered Kate, in her -aunt’s ear.</p> - -<p>‘It would be very cruel of you,’ said that kind woman. But even her -composure was tried. And in the evening they sailed, with all the -suppressed excitement natural to the circumstances.</p> - -<p>‘You have the very best time of the year for your start,’ said Mr. -Courtenay, as he shook hands with them.</p> - -<p>‘And, thanks to you, every comfort in travelling,’ said Mrs. Anderson.</p> - -<p>Thus they parted, with mutual compliments. Mr. Sugden wrung her hand, -and whispered hoarsely, ‘Remember—like her brother!’ He stalked like a -ghost on shore. His face was the last they saw when the steamboat moved, -as he stood in the grey of the evening, grey as the evening, looking -after them as long as they were visible. The sight of him made the -little party very silent. They made no explanation to each other; but -Kate had no longer any inclination to laugh. ‘Like a brother!—like her -brother!’ These words, the Curate, left to himself, said over and over -in his heart as he walked back and forward on the pier for hours, -watching the way they had gone. The same soft evening breeze which -helped them on, blew about him, but refreshed him not. The object of his -life was gone.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> little party travelled, as it is in the nature of the British -tourist to travel, when he is fairly started, developing suddenly a -perfect passion for sight-seeing, and for long and wearisome journeys. -Mrs. Anderson, though she was old enough and experienced enough to have -known better, took the plunge with the truest national enthusiasm. Even -when they paused in Paris, which she knew as well as or better than -anything in her own country, she still felt herself a tourist, and went -conscientiously over again and saw the sights—for Kate, she said, but -also for herself. They rushed across France with the speed of an express -train, and made a dash at Switzerland, though it was so early in the -year. They had it almost all to themselves, the routes being scarcely -open, and the great rush of travellers not yet begun; and who, that does -not know it, can fancy how beautiful it is among the mountains in May! -Kate was carried entirely out of herself by what she saw. The Spring -green brightening and enhancing those rugged heights, and dazzling peaks -of snow; the sky of an ethereal blue, all dewy and radiant, and -surprised into early splendour, like the blue eyes of a child; the paths -sweet with flowers, the streams full with the melting snow, the sense of -awakening and resurrection all over the land. Kate had not dreamed of -anything so splendid and so beautiful. The weather was much finer than -is usual so early in the year, and of course the travellers took it not -for an exceptional season, as they ought, but gave the fact that they -were abroad credit for every shining day. Abroad! Kate had felt for -years (she said all her life) that in that word ‘abroad’ every delight -was included; and now she believed herself. The novelty and movement by -themselves would have done a great deal; and the wonderful beauty of -this virgin country, which looked as if no crowd of tourists had ever -profaned it, as if it had kept its stillness, its stateliness and -grandeur, and dazzling light and majestic glooms, all for their -enjoyment, elevated her into a paradise of inward delight. Even Maryanne -was moved, though chiefly by her mistress’s many and oft-repeated -efforts to rouse her. When Kate had exhausted everybody else, she rushed -upon her handmaid.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh! Maryanne, look! Did you ever see—did you ever dream of anything so -beautiful?’</p> - -<p>‘No, miss,’ said Maryanne.</p> - -<p>‘Look at that stream rushing down the ravine. It is the melted snow. And -look at all those peaks above. Pure snow, as dazzling as—as——’</p> - -<p>‘They looks for all the world like the sugar on a bride-cake, miss,’ -said Maryanne.</p> - -<p>At which Kate laughed, but went on—</p> - -<p>‘Those cottages are called châlets, up there among the clouds. Look how -green the grass is—like velvet. Oh! Maryanne, shouldn’t you like to -live there—to milk the cows in the evening, and have the mountains all -round you—nothing but snow-peaks, wherever you turned your eyes?’</p> - -<p>Maryanne gave a shudder.</p> - -<p>‘Why, miss,’ she said, ‘you’d catch your death of cold!’</p> - -<p>‘Wait till Mees Katta see my <i>bella Firenze</i>,’ said old Francesca. -‘There is the snow quite near enough—quite near enough. You zee him on -the tops of ze hills.’</p> - -<p>‘I never, never shall be able to live in a town. I hate towns,’ said -Kate.</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ cried the old woman, ‘my young lady will not always think so. This -is pleasant now; but there is no balls, no parties, no croquée on ze -mountains! Mees Katta shakes her head; but then the Winter will come, -and, oh! how beautiful is Firenze, with all the palaces, and ze people, -and processions that pass, and all that is gay! There will be the -Opera,’ said Francesca, counting on her fingers, ‘and the Cascine, and -the Carnival, and the Veglioni, and the grand Corso with the flowers. -Ah! I have seen many young English Mees, I know.’</p> - -<p>‘I never could have supposed Francesca would be so stupid,’ cried Kate, -returning to the party on the quarter-deck—for this conversation took -place in a steamer on the Lake of Lucerne. ‘She does not care for the -mountains as much as Maryanne does, even. Maryanne thinks the snow is -like sugar on a bride-cake,’ she went on, with a laugh; ‘but Francesca -does nothing but rave about Florence, and balls, and operas. As if I -cared for such things—and as if we were going there!’</p> - -<p>‘But Francesca is quite right, dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with -hesitation. ‘When the Summer is over, we shall want to settle down -again, and see our fellow-creatures; and really, as Francesca has -suggested it, we might do a great deal worse. Florence is a very nice -place.’</p> - -<p>‘In Winter, auntie? Are not we going home?’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, I know your uncle would wish you to see as much as possible -before returning home,’ said Mrs. Anderson, faltering,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> and with -considerable confusion. ‘I confess I had begun to think that—a few -months in Italy—as we are here——’</p> - -<p>Kate was taken by surprise. She did not quite know whether she was -delighted or disappointed by the idea; but before she could reply, she -met the eye of her cousin, whose whole face had kindled into passion. -Ombra sprang to her feet, and drew Kate aside with a nervous haste that -startled her. She grasped her arm tight, and whispered in her ear, ‘We -are to be kept till you are of age—I see it all now—we are prisoners -till you are of age. Oh! Kate, will you bear it? You can resist, but I -can’t—they will listen to you.’</p> - -<p>It is impossible to describe the shock which was given to Kate’s loyalty -by this speech. It was the first actual suggestion of rebellion which -had been made to her, and it jarred her every nerve. She had not been a -submissive child, but she had never plotted—never done anything in -secret. She said aloud, in painful wonder—</p> - -<p>‘Why should we be prisoners?—and what has my coming of age to do with -it?’ turning round, and looking bewildered into her cousin’s face.</p> - -<p>Ombra made no reply; she went back to her seat, and retired into herself -for the rest of the day. Things had gone smoothly since the journey -began up to this moment. She had almost ceased to brood, and had begun -to take some natural interest in what was going on about her. But now -all at once the gloom returned. She sat with her eyes fixed on the shore -of the lake, and with the old flush of feverish red, half wretchedness, -half anger, under her eyes. Kate, who had grown happy in the brightening -of the domestic atmosphere, was affected by this change in spite of -herself. She exchanged mournful looks with her aunt. The beautiful lake -and the sunny peaks were immediately clouded over; she was doubly -checked in the midst of her frank enjoyment.</p> - -<p>‘You are wrong, Ombra,’ said Mrs. Anderson, after a long pause. ‘I don’t -know what you have said to Kate, but I am sure you have taken up a false -idea. There is no compulsion. We are to go only when we please, and to -stay only as long as we like.’</p> - -<p>‘But we are not to return home this year?’</p> - -<p>‘I did not say so; but I think, perhaps, on the whole, that to go a -little further, and see a little more, would be best both for you and -Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘Exactly,’ said Ombra, with bitterness, nodding her head in a derisive -assent.</p> - -<p>Kate looked on with wistful and startled eyes. It was almost the first -time that the idea of real dissension between these two had crossed her -mind; and still more this infinitely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> startling doubt whether all that -was said to her was true. At least there had been concealment; and was -it really, truly the good of Ombra and Kate, or some private arrangement -with Uncle Courtenay, that was in her aunt’s mind. This suggestion came -suddenly into her very heart, wounding her as with an arrow; and from -that day, though sometimes lessening and sometimes deepening, the cloud -upon Ombra’s face came back. But as she grew less amiable, she grew more -powerful. Henceforward the party became guided by her wayward fancies. -She took a sudden liking for one of the quietest secluded places—a -village on the little blue lake of Zug—and there they settled for some -time, without rhyme or reason. Green slopes, with grey stone-peaks -above, and glimpses of snow beyond, shut in this lake-valley. I agree -with Ombra that it is very sweet in its stillness, the lake so blue, the -air so clear, and the noble nut-bearing trees so umbrageous, shadowing -the pleasant châlets. In the centre was a little white-washed village -church among its graves, its altar all decked with stately May lilies, -the flowers of the Annunciation. The church had no beauty of -architecture, no fine pictures—not even great antiquity to recommend -it; but Ombra was fond of the sunshiny, still place. She would go there -when she was tired, and sit down on one of the rush-bottomed chairs, and -sometimes was to be seen kneeling furtively on the white altar steps.</p> - -<p>Kate, who roamed up and down everywhere, and had soon all the facility -of a young mountaineer, would stop at the open church-door as she came -down from the hills, alpenstock in hand, sunburnt and agile as a young -Diana.</p> - -<p>‘You are not going to turn a Roman Catholic, Ombra?’ she said. ‘I think -it would make my aunt very unhappy.’</p> - -<p>‘I am not going to turn anything,’ said Ombra. ‘I shall never be -different from what I am—never any better. One tries and tries, and it -is no good.’</p> - -<p>‘Then stop trying, and come up on the hills and shake it off,’ said -Kate.</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps I might if I were like you; but I am not like you.’</p> - -<p>‘Or let us go on, and see people and do things again—do all sorts of -things. I like this little lake,’ said Kate. ‘One has a home-feeling. I -almost think I should begin to poke about the cottages, and find fault -with the people, if we were to stay long. But that is not your -temptation, Ombra. Why do you like to stay?’</p> - -<p>‘I stay because it is so still—because nobody comes here, nothing can -happen here; it must always be the same for ever and for ever and ever!’ -cried Ombra. ‘The hills and the deep water, and the lilies in the -church—which are artificial, you know, and cannot fade.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span></p> - -<p>Kate did not understand this little bitter jibe at the end of her -cousin’s speech; but was overwhelmed with surprise when Ombra next -morning suggested that they should resume their journey. They were -losing their time where they were, she said; and as, if they were to go -to Italy for the Winter, it would be necessary to return by Switzerland -next year, she proposed to strike off from the mountains at this spot, -to go to Germany, to the strange old historical cities that were within -reach. ‘Kate should see Nuremberg,’ she said; and Kate, to her -amazement, found the whole matter settled, and the packing commenced -that day. Ombra managed the whole journey, and was a practical person, -handy and rational, until they came to that old-world place, where she -became <i>reveuse</i> and melancholy once more.</p> - -<p>‘Do you like this better than Switzerland?’ Kate asked, as they looked -down from their windows along the three-hundred-years-old street, where -it was so strange to see people walking about in ordinary dresses and -not in trunkhose and velvet mantles.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t care for any place. I have seen so many, and one is so much -like another,’ said Ombra. ‘But look, Kate, there is one advantage. -Anything might happen here; any one might be coming along those streets -and you would never feel surprised. If I were to see my father walking -quietly this way, I should not think it at all strange.’</p> - -<p>‘But, Ombra—he is dead!’ said Kate, shrinking a little, with natural -uneasiness.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, he is dead, but that does not matter. Look down that hazy street -with all the gables. Any one might be coming—people whom we have -forgotten—even,’ she said, pressing Kate’s arm, ‘people who have -forgotten us.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Ombra, how strangely you speak! People that care for you don’t -forget you,’ cried Kate.</p> - -<p>‘That does not mend the matter,’ said Ombra, and withdrew hurriedly from -the window.</p> - -<p>Poor Kate tried very hard to make something out of it, but could not; -and therefore she shrugged her shoulders and gave her head a little -shake, and went to her German, which she was working at fitfully, to -make the best of her opportunities. The German, though she thought -sometimes it would break her heart, was not so hard as Ombra; and even -the study of languages had to her something amusing in it.</p> - -<p>One of the young waiters in the hotel kept a dictionary in the staircase -window, and studied it as he flew up and down stairs for a new word to -experiment with upon the young ladies; and another had, by means of the -same dictionary, set up a flirtation with Maryanne; so fun was still -possible, notwithstanding all; and whether it was by the mountain paths, -or in those hazy strange old streets, Kate walked with her head, as it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> -were, in the clouds, in a soft rapture of delight and pleasantness, -taking in all that was sweet and lovely and good, and letting the rest -drop off from her like a shower of rain. She even ceased to think of -Ombra’s odd ways—not out of want of consideration, but with the -facility which youth has for taking everything for granted, and -consenting to whatever is. It was a great pity, but it could not be -helped, and one must make the best of it all the same.</p> - -<p>And thus the Summer passed on, full of wonders and delights. Mrs. -Anderson and her daughter, and even Francesca, were invaluable to the -ignorant girl. They knew how everything had to be done; they were -acquainted alike with picture-galleries and railway-tickets, and knew -even what to say about every work of art—an accomplishment deeply -amazing to Kate, who did not know what to say about anything, and who -had several times committed herself by praising vehemently some daub -which was beyond the reach of praise. When she made such a mistake as -this, her mortification and shame were great; but unfortunately her -pride made her hold by her opinion. They saw so many pictures, so many -churches, so much that was picturesque and beautiful, that her brain was -in a maze, and her intellect had become speechless.</p> - -<p>They took their way across the mountains in Autumn, getting entangled in -the vast common tide of travellers to Italy; and, after all, Francesca’s -words came true, and it was a relief to Kate to get back into the -stream—it relieved the strain upon her mind. Instead of thinking of -more and lovelier pictures still, she was pleased to rest and see -nothing; and even—a confession which she was ashamed to make to -herself—Kate was as much delighted with the prospect of mundane -pleasures as she had been with the scenery. Society had acquired a new -charm. She had never been at anything more than ‘a little dance,’ or a -country concert, and balls and operas held out their arms to her. One of -the few diplomatic friends whom Mrs. Anderson had made in her consular -career was at Florence; and even Mr. Courtenay could not object to his -niece’s receiving the hospitalities of the Embassy. She was to ‘come -out’ at the Ambassador’s ball—not in her full-blown glory, as an -heiress and a great lady, but as Mrs. Anderson’s niece, a pretty, young, -undistinguished English girl. Kate knew nothing about this, nor cared. -She threw herself into the new joys as she had done into the old. A new -chapter, however it might begin, was always a pleasant thing in her -fresh and genial life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Florence</span> altogether was full of pleasant novelty to the young traveller. -To find herself living up two pair of stairs, with windows overlooking -the Arno, and at a little distance the quaint buildings of the Ponte -Vecchio, was as great a change as the first change had been from -Langton-Courtenay to the little Cottage at Shanklin. Mrs. Anderson’s -apartment on the second floor of the Casa Graziana was not large. There -was a drawing-room which looked to the front, and received all the -sunshine which Florentine skies could give; and half a mile off, at the -other end of the house, there was a grim and spare dining-room, -furnished with the indispensable tables and chairs, and with a curious -little fireplace in the corner, raised upon a slab of stone, as on a -pedestal. It would be difficult to tell how cold it was here as the -Winter advanced; but in the <i>salone</i> it was genial as Summer whenever -the sun shone. The family went, as it were, from Nice to Inverness when -they went from the front to the back, for their meals. Perhaps it might -have been inappropriate for Miss Courtenay of Langton-Courtenay to live -up two pair of stairs; but it was not at all unsuitable for Mrs. -Anderson; and, indeed, when Lady Barker, who was Mrs. Anderson’s friend, -came to call, she was much surprised by the superior character of the -establishment. Lady Barker had been a Consul’s daughter, and had risen -immensely in life by marrying the foolish young <i>attaché</i>, whom she now -kept in the way he ought to go. She was not the Ambassadress, but the -Ambassadress’s friend, and a member of the Legation; and, though she was -now in a manner a great lady herself, she remembered quite well what -were the means of the Andersons, and knew that even the <i>terzo piano</i> of -a house on the Lung-Arno was more than they could have ventured on in -the ancient days.</p> - -<p>‘What a pretty apartment,’ she said; ‘and how nicely situated! I am -afraid you will find it rather dear. Florence is so changed since your -time. Do you remember how cheap everything used to be in the old days? -Well, if you will believe me, you pay just fifteen times as much for -every article now.’</p> - -<p>‘So I perceive,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘We give a thousand<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> francs for -these rooms, which ought not to be more than a hundred scudi—and -without even the old attraction of a pleasant accessible Court.’</p> - -<p>Lady Barker opened her eyes—at once, at the fact of Mrs. Anderson -paying a thousand francs a month for her rooms, and at her familiar -mention of the pleasant Court.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, there are some very pleasant people here now!’ she said; ‘if your -young ladies are fond of dancing, I think I can help them to some -amusement. Lady Granton will send you cards for her ball. Is Ombra -delicate?—do you still call her Ombra? How odd it is that you and I, -under such different circumstances, should meet here!’</p> - -<p>‘Yes—very odd,’ said Mrs. Anderson; ‘and yet I don’t know. People who -have been once in Italy always come back. There is a charm about -it—a——’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, we didn’t think so once!’ said Lady Barker, with a laugh. She could -remember the time when the Andersons, like so many other people -compelled to live abroad, looked upon everything that was not English -with absolute enmity. ‘You used to think Italy did not agree with your -daughter,’ she said; ‘have you brought her for her health now?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh no! Ombra is quite well; she is always pale,’ said Mrs. Anderson. -‘We have come rather on account of my niece—not for her health, but -because she had never seen anything out of her own country. We think it -right that she should make good use of her time before she comes of -age.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! will she come of age?’ said Lady Barker, with a glance of laughing -curiosity. She decided that the pretty girl at the window, who had two -or three times broken into the conversation, was a great deal too pretty -to be largely endowed by fortune; and smiled at her old friend’s -grandiloquence, which she remembered so well. She made a very good story -of it at the little cosy dinner-party at the Embassy that evening, and -prepared the good people for some amusement. ‘A pretty English country -girl, with some property, no doubt,’ she said. ‘A cottage <i>ornée</i>, most -likely, and some fields about it; but her aunt talks as if she were -heiress to a Grand Duke. She has come abroad to improve her mind before -she comes of age.’</p> - -<p>‘And when she goes back there will be a grand assemblage of the -tenantry, no doubt, and triumphal arches, and all the rest of it,’ said -another of the fine people.</p> - -<p>‘So Mrs. Vice-Consul allows one to suppose,’ said Lady Barker. ‘But she -is so pretty—prettier than anything I have seen for ages; and Ombra, -too, is pretty, the late Vice-Consul’s heiress. They will <i>far -furore</i>—two such new faces, and both so English; so fresh; so -<i>gauche</i>!’</p> - -<p>This was Lady Barker’s way of backing her friends; but the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> friends did -not know of it, and it procured them their invitation all the same, and -Lady Granton’s card to put on the top of the few other cards which -callers had left. And Mrs. Anderson came to be, without knowing it, the -favourite joke of the ambassadorial circle. Mrs. Vice-Consul had more -wonderful sayings fastened upon her than she ever dreamt of, and became -the type and symbol of the heavy British matron to that lively party. -Her friend made her out to be a bland and dignified mixture of Mrs. -Malaprop and Mrs. Nickleby. Meanwhile, she had a great many things to -do, which occupied her, and drove even her anxieties out of her mind. -There was the settling down—the hiring of servants and additional -furniture, and all the trifles necessary to make their rooms -‘comfortable;’ and then the dresses of the girls to be put in order, and -especially the dress in which Kate was to make her first appearance.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson had accepted Mr. Courtenay’s conditions; she had -acquiesced in the propriety of keeping silent as to Kate’s pretensions, -and guarding her from all approach of fortune-hunters. There was even -something in this which was not disagreeable to her maternal feelings; -for to have Kate made first, and Ombra second, would not have been -pleasant. But still, at the same time, she could not restrain a natural -inclination to enhance the importance of her party by a hint—an -inference. That little intimation about Kate’s coming of age, she had -meant to tell, as indeed it did, more than she intended; and now her -mind was greatly exercised about her niece’s ball-dress. ‘White -tarlatane is, of course, very nice for a young girl,’ she said, -doubtfully, ‘it is all my Ombra has ever had; but, for Kate, with her -pretensions——’</p> - -<p>This was said rather as one talks to one’s self, thinking aloud, than as -actually asking advice.</p> - -<p>‘But I thought Kate in Florence was to be simply your niece,’ said -Ombra, who was in the room. ‘To make her very fine would be bad taste; -besides,’ she added, with a little sigh, ‘Kate would look well in white -calico. Nature has decked her so. I suppose I never, at my best, was -anything like that.’</p> - -<p>Ombra had improved very much since their arrival in Florence. Her -fretfulness had much abated, and there was no envy in this sigh.</p> - -<p>‘At your best, Ombra! My foolish darling, do you think your best is -over?’ said the mother, with a smile.</p> - -<p>‘I mean the bloom,’ said Ombra. ‘I never had any bloom—and Kate’s is -wonderful. I think she gives a pearly, rosy tint to the very air. I was -always a little shadow, you know!’</p> - -<p>‘You will not do yourself justice,’ cried Mrs. Anderson. ‘Oh! Ombra, if -you only knew how it grieves me! You draw back, and you droop into that -dreamy, melancholy way; there is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> always a mist about you. My darling, -this is a new place, you will meet new people, everything is fresh and -strange. Could you not make a new beginning, dear, and shake it off!’</p> - -<p>‘I try,’ said Ombra, in a low tone.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want to be hard upon you, my own child; but, then, dear, you -must blame yourself, not any one else. It was not his fault.’</p> - -<p>‘Please don’t speak of it,’ cried the girl. ‘If you could know how -humbled I feel to think that it is <i>that</i> which has upset my whole life! -Ill-temper, jealousy, envy, meanness—pleasant things to have in one’s -heart! I fight with them, but I can’t overcome them. If I could only -“not care!” How happy people are who can take things easily, and who -don’t care!’</p> - -<p>‘Very few people do,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘Those who have command of -themselves don’t show their feelings, but most people <i>feel</i> more or -less. The change, however, will do you good. And you must occupy -yourself, my love. How nicely you used to draw, Ombra! and you have -given up drawing. As for poetry, my dear, it is very pretty—it is very, -very pretty—but I fear it is not much good.’</p> - -<p>‘It does not sell, you mean, like novels.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know much about novels; but it keeps you always dwelling upon -your feelings. And then, if they were ever published, people would talk. -They would say, “Where has Ombra learned all this? Has she been as -unhappy as she says? Has she been disappointed?” My darling, I think it -does a girl a great deal of harm. If you would begin your drawing again! -Drawing does not tell any tales.’</p> - -<p>‘There is no tale to tell,’ cried Ombra. Her shadowy face flushed with a -colour which, for the moment, was as bright as Kate’s, and she got up -hurriedly, and began to arrange some books at a side-table, an -occupation which carried her out of her mother’s way; and then Kate came -in, carrying a basket of fruit, which she and Francesca had bought in -the market. There were scarcely any flowers to be had, she complained, -but the grapes, with their picturesque stems, and great green leaves, -stained with russet, were almost as ornamental. A white alabaster tazza, -which they had bought at Pisa, heaped with them, was almost more -effective, more characteristic than flowers.</p> - -<p>‘I have been trying to talk to the market-women,’ she said, ‘down in -that dark, narrow passage, by the Strozzi Palace. Francesca knows all -about it. How pleasant it is going with Francesca—to hear her chatter, -and to see her brown little face light up! She tells me such stories of -all the people as we go.’</p> - -<p>‘How fond you are of stories, Kate!’</p> - -<p>‘Is it wrong? Look, auntie, how lovely this vine-branch looks! England -is better for some things, though. There will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> still be some clematis -over our porch—not in flower, perhaps, but in that downy, fluffy stage, -after the flower. Francesca promises me everything soon. Spring will -begin in December, she says, so far as the flowers go, and then we can -make the <i>salone</i> gay. Do you know there are quantities of English -people at the hotel at the corner? I almost thought I heard some one say -my name as I went by. I looked up, but I could not see anybody I knew.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope there is nobody we know,’ cried Ombra, under her breath.</p> - -<p>‘My dear children,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with solemnity, ‘you must -recognise this principle in Italy, that there are English people -everywhere; and wherever there are English people, there is sure to be -some one whom you know, or who knows you. I have seen it happen a -hundred times; so never mind looking up at the windows, Kate—you may be -sure we shall find out quite soon enough.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, I like people,’ said Kate, carelessly, as she went out of the -room. ‘It will not be any annoyance to me.’</p> - -<p>‘<i>She</i> does not care,’ said Ombra—‘it is not in her nature. She will -always be happy, because she will never mind. One is the same as another -to her. I wish I had that happy disposition. How strange it is that -people should be so different! What would kill me would scarcely move -her—would not cost her a tear.’</p> - -<p>‘Ombra, I am not so sure——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! but I am sure, mamma. She does not understand how things can matter -so much to me. She wonders—I can see her look at me when she thinks I -don’t notice. She seems to say, “What can Ombra mean by it?—how silly -she is to care!”’</p> - -<p>‘But you have not taken Kate into your confidence?’ said Mrs. Anderson, -in alarm.</p> - -<p>‘I have not taken any one into my confidence—I have no confidence to -give,’ said Ombra, with the ready irritation which had come to be so -common with her. The mother bore it, as mothers have to do, turning away -with a suppressed sigh. What a difference the last year had made on -Ombra!—oh! what a thing love was to make such a difference in a girl! -This is what Mrs. Anderson said to herself with distress and pain; she -could scarcely recognise her own child in this changed manifestation, -and she could not approve, or even sympathise with her, in the degree, -at least, which Ombra craved.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> fact was that Ombra, as she said, had not given her confidence to -any one; she had betrayed herself to her mother in her first excitement, -when she had lost command of herself; but that was all. A real and full -confidence she had never given. Ombra’s love of sympathy was great, but -it was not accompanied, as it generally is, by that open heart which -finds comfort in disclosing its troubles. Her heart was not open. She -neither revealed herself nor divined others; she was not selfish, nor -harsh in temper and disposition; but all that she was certain of was her -own feelings. She did not know how to find out what other people were -feeling or thinking, consequently she had a very imperfect idea of those -about her, and seldom found out for herself what was going on in their -minds. This limited her powers of sympathy in a wonderful way, and it -was this which was at the root of all her trouble. She had been wooed, -but only when it came to a conclusion had she really known what that -wooing meant. In her ignorance she had refused the man whom she was -already beginning to love, and then had gone on to think about him, -after he had revealed himself—to understand all he had been meaning—to -love him, with the consciousness that she had rejected him, and with the -fear that his affections were being transferred to her cousin. This was -what gave the sting to it all, and made poor Ombra complain so -mournfully of her temper. She did not divine what her love meant till it -was too late; and then she resented the fact that it was too -late—resented the reserve which she had herself imposed upon him, the -friendly demeanour she had enjoined. She had begged him, when she -rejected him, as the greatest of favours, to keep up his intercourse -with the family, and be as though this episode had never been. And when -the poor fellow obeyed her she was angry with him. I do not know whether -the minds of men are ever similarly affected, but this is a weakness not -uncommon with women. And then she took his subdued tone, his wistful -looks, his seldom approaches to herself, as so many instances that he -had got over what she called his folly. Why should he continue to -nourish his folly when she had so promptly announced her indifference? -And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> then it was that it became apparent to her that he had transferred -his affections to Kate. As it happened, by the fatality which sometimes -attends such matters, the unfortunate young man never addressed Kate, -never looked at her, but Ombra found him out. When Kate was occupied by -others, her cousin took no notice; but when that one step approached, -that one voice addressed her, Ombra’s eyes and ears were like the lynx. -Kate was unconscious of the observation, by means of being absolutely -innocent; and the hero himself was unconscious for much the same reason, -and because he felt sure that his hopeless devotion to his first love -must be so plain to her as to make any other theory on the subject out -of the question. But Ombra, who was unable to tell what eyes meant, or -to judge from the general scope of action, set up her theory, and made -herself miserable. She had been wretched when watching ‘them;’ she was -wretched to go away and be able to watch them no longer. She had left -home with a sense of relief, and yet the news that they were not to -return home for the winter smote her like a catastrophe. Even the fact -that he had loved her once seemed a wrong to her, for then she did not -know it; and since then had he not done her the cruel injury of ceasing -to love her?</p> - -<p>Poor Ombra! this was how she tormented herself; and up to this moment -any effort she had made to free herself, to snap her chains, and be once -more rational and calm, seemed but to have dug the iron deeper into her -soul. Nothing cuts like an imaginary wrong. The sufferer would pardon a -real injury a hundred times while nursing and brooding over the supposed -one. She hated herself, she was ashamed, disgusted, revolted by the new -exhibitions of unsuspected wickedness, as she called it, in her nature. -She tried and tried, but got no better. But in the meantime all outward -possibilities of keeping the flame alight being withdrawn, her heart had -melted towards Kate. It was evident that in Kate’s lighter and more -sunshiny mind there was no room for such cares as bowed down her own; -and with a yearning for love which she herself scarcely understood, she -took her young cousin, who was entirely guiltless, into her heart.</p> - -<p>Kate and she were sitting together, the morning of the ball to which the -younger girl looked forward so joyfully. Ombra was not unmoved by its -approach, for she was just one year over twenty, an age at which balls -are still great events, and not unapt to influence life. Her heart was a -little touched by Kate’s anxious desire that her dress and ornaments -should be as fresh and pretty and valuable as her own. It was good of -her; to be sure, there was no reason why one should wish to outshine the -other; but still Kate had been brought up a great lady, and Ombra was -but the Consul’s daughter. Therefore her heart was touched, and she -spoke.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span></p> - -<p>‘It does not matter what dress I have, Kate; I shall look like a shadow -all the same beside you. You are sunshine—that was what you were born -to be, and I was born in the shade.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t make so much of yourself, Ombra mia,’ said Kate. ‘Sunshine is all -very well in England, but not here. Am I to be given over to the -Englishmen and the dogs, who walk in the sun?’</p> - -<p>A cloud crossed Ombra’s face at this untoward suggestion.</p> - -<p>‘The Englishmen as much as you please,’ she said; and then, recovering -herself with an effort, ‘I wonder if I shall be jealous of you, Kate? I -am a little afraid of myself. You so bright, so fresh, so ready to make -friends, and I so dull and heavy as I am, besides all the other -advantages on your side. I never was in society with you before.’</p> - -<p>‘Jealous of me!’ Kate thought it was an admirable joke. She laughed till -the tears stood in her bright eyes. ‘But then there must be love before -there is jealousy—or, so they say in books. Suppose some prince -appears, and we both fall in love with him? But I promise you, it is I -who shall be jealous. I will hate you! I will pursue you to the ends of -the world! I will wear a dagger in my girdle, and when I have done -everything else that is cruel, I will plunge it into your treacherous -heart! Oh! Ombra, what fun!’ cried the heroine, drying her dancing eyes.</p> - -<p>‘That is foolish—that is not what I mean,’ said serious Ombra. ‘I am -very much in earnest. I am fond of you, Kate——’</p> - -<p>This was said with a little effort; but Kate, unconscious of the effort, -only conscious of the love, threw her caressing arm round her cousin’s -waist, and kissed her.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she said, softly; ‘how strange it is, Ombra! I, who had nobody -that cared for me,’ and held her close and fast in the tender gratitude -that filled her heart.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I am fond of you,’ Ombra continued; ‘but if I were to see you -preferred to me—always first, and I only second, more thought of, more -noticed, better loved! I feel—frightened, Kate. It makes one’s heart so -sore. One says to oneself, “It is no matter what I do or say. It is of -no use trying to be amiable, trying to be kind—she is sure to be always -the first. People love her the moment they see her; and at me they never -look.” You don’t know what it is to feel like that.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Kate, much subdued; and then she paused. ‘But, Ombra, I am -always so pleased—I have felt it fifty times; and I have always been so -proud. Auntie and I go into a corner, and say to each other, “What nice -people these are—they understand our Ombra—they admire her as she -should be admired!” We give each other little nudges, and nod at each<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> -other, and are so happy. You would be the same, of course, if—though it -don’t seem likely——’ And here Kate broke off abruptly, and blushed -and laughed.</p> - -<p>‘You are the youngest,’ said Ombra—‘that makes it more natural in your -case. And mamma, of course, is—mamma—she does not count. I wonder—I -wonder how I shall take it—in my way or in yours?’</p> - -<p>‘Are you so sure it will happen?’ said Kate, laughing. Kate herself did -not dislike the notion very much. She had not been brought up with that -idea of self-sacrifice which is inculcated from their cradles on so many -young women. She felt that it would be pleasant to be admired and made -much of; and even to throw others into the shade. She did not make any -resolutions of self-renunciation. The visionary jealousy which moved -Ombra, which arose partly from want of confidence in herself, and partly -from ignorance of others, could never have arisen in her cousin. Kate -did not think of comparing herself with any one, or dwelling upon the -superior attractions of another. If people did not care for her, why, -they did not care for her, and there was an end of it; so much the worse -for them. To be sure she never yet had been subjected to the temptation -which had made Ombra so unhappy. The possibility of anything of the kind -had never entered her thoughts. She was eighteen and a half, and had -lived for years on terms of sisterly amity with all the Eldridges, -Hardwicks, and the ‘neighbours’ generally; but as yet she had never had -a lover, so far as she was aware. ‘The boys,’ as she called them, were -all as yet the same to Kate—she liked some more than others, as she -liked some girls more than others; but to be unhappy or even annoyed -because one or another devoted himself to Ombra more than to her, such -an idea had never crossed the girl’s mind. She was fancy free; but it -did not occur to her to make any pious resolution on the subject, or to -decide beforehand that she would obliterate herself in a corner, in -order to give the first place and all the triumph to Ombra. There are -young saints capable of doing this; but Kate Courtenay was not one of -them. Her eyes shone; her rose-lips parted with just the lightest breath -of excitement. She wanted her share of the triumphs too.</p> - -<p>Ombra shook her head, but made no reply. ‘Oh,’ she said, to herself, -‘what a hard fate to be always the shadow!’ She exerted all the -imagination she possessed, and threw herself forward, as it were, into -the evening which was coming. Kate was in all the splendour of her first -bloom—that radiance of youth and freshness which is often the least -elevated kind of beauty, yet almost always the most irresistible. The -liquid brightness of her eyes, the wild-rose bloom of her complexion,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> -the exquisite softness, downiness, deliciousness of cheek and throat and -forehead, might be all as evanescent as the dew upon the sunny grass, or -the down on a peach. It was youth—youth supreme and perfect in its most -delicate fulness, the <i>beauté de diable</i>, as our neighbours call it. -Ombra, being still so young herself, did not characterise it so; nor, -indeed, was she aware of this glory of freshness which, at the present -moment, was Kate’s crowning charm. But she wondered at her cousin’s -beauty, and she did not realise her own, which was so different. ‘Shall -I be jealous—shall I hate her?’ she asked herself. At home she had -hated her for a moment now and then. Would it be the same again?—was -her own mind so mean, her character so low, as that? Thinking well of -one’s self, or thinking ill of one’s self, requires only a beginning; -and Ombra’s experience had not increased her respect for her own nature. -Thus she prepared for the Ambassadress’s ball.</p> - -<p>It was a strange manner of preparation, the reader will think. Our -sympathy has been trained to accompany those who go into battle without -a misgiving—who, whatever jesting alarm they may express, are never -really afraid of running away; but, after all, the man who marches -forward with a terrible dread in his mind that when the moment comes he -will fail, ought to be as interesting, and certainly makes a much -greater claim upon our compassion, than he who is tolerably sure of his -nerves and courage. The battle of the ball was to Ombra as great an -event as Alma or Inkermann. She had never undergone quite the same kind -of peril before, and she was afraid as to how she should acquit herself. -She represented to herself all the meanness, misery, contemptibleness, -of what she supposed to be her besetting sin—that did not require much -trouble. She summed it all up, feeling humiliated to the very heart by -the sense that under other circumstances she had yielded to that -temptation before, and she asked herself—shall I fail again? She was -afraid of herself. She had strung her nerves, and set her soul firmly -for this struggle, but she was not sure of success. At the last moment, -when the danger was close to her, she felt as if she must fail.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Kate</span> thought she had never imagined anything so stately, so beautiful, -so gay, so like a place for princes and princesses to meet, as the suite -of rooms in the Palazzo occupied by the English Embassy, where the ball -was held. The vista which stretched before her, one room within another, -the lines of light infinitely reflected by the great mirrors—the lofty -splendid rooms, rich in gold and velvet; the jewels of the ladies, the -glow of uniforms and decorations; the beautiful dresses—all moved her -to interest and delight. Delight was the first feeling; and then there -came the strangest sensation of insignificance, which was not pleasant -to Kate. For three years she had lived in little cottage rooms, in -limited space, with very simple surroundings. But the first glance at -this new scene brought suddenly before the girl’s eyes her native -dwelling-place, her own home, which, of course, was but an English -country-house, yet was more akin to the size and splendour of the -Palazzo than to the apartments on the Lung-Arno, or the little Cottage -on the Undercliff. Kate found herself, in spite of herself, making -calculations how the rooms at Langton-Courtenay would look in -comparison; and from that she went on to consider whether any one here -knew of Langton-Courtenay, or was aware that she herself was anything -but Mrs. Anderson’s niece. She was ashamed of herself for the thought, -and yet it went quick as lightning through her excited mind.</p> - -<p>Lady Granton smiled graciously upon them, and even shook hands with the -lady whom she knew as Mrs. Vice-Consul, with more cordiality than usual, -with a gratitude which would have given Mrs. Anderson little -satisfaction had she known it, to the woman who had already amused her -so much; but then the group passed on like the other groups, a mother -and two unusually pretty daughters, as people thought, but strangers, -nobodies, looking a little <i>gauche</i>, and out of place, in the fine -rooms, where they were known to no one. Ombra knew what the feeling was -of old, and was not affronted by it; but Kate had never been deprived of -a certain shadow of distinction among her peers. The people at Shanklin -had, to their own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> consciousness, treated her just as they would have -done any niece of Mrs. Anderson’s; but, unconsciously to themselves, the -fact that she was Miss Courtenay, of Langton-Courtenay, had produced a -certain effect upon them. No doubt Kate’s active and lively character -had a great deal to do with it, but the fact of her heiress-ship, her -future elevation, had much to do with it also. A certain pre-eminence -had been tacitly allowed to her; a certain freedom of opinion, and even -of movement, had been permitted, and felt to be natural. She was the -natural leader in half the pastimes going, referred to and consulted by -her companions. This had been her lot for these three years past. She -never had a chance of learning that lesson of personal insignificance -which is supposed to be so salutary. All at once, in a moment, she -learned it now. Nobody looked up to her, nobody considered her, nobody -knew or cared who she was. For the first half-hour Kate was astonished, -in spite of all her philosophy, and then she tried to persuade herself -that she was amused. But the greatest effort could not persuade her that -she liked it. It made her tingle all over with the most curious mixture -of pain, and irritation, and nervous excitement. The dancing was going -on merrily, and there was a hum of talking and soft laughter all around; -people passing and repassing, greeting each other, shaking hands, -introducing to each other their common friends. But the three ladies who -knew nobody stood by themselves, and felt anything but happy.</p> - -<p>‘If this is what you call a ball, I should much rather have been at -home,’ said Kate, with indignation.</p> - -<p>‘It is not cheerful, is it?’ said Ombra. ‘But we must put up with it -till we see somebody we know. I wish only we could find a seat for -mamma.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! never mind me, my dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘I can stand very -well, and it is amusing to watch the people. Lady Barker will come to us -as soon as she sees us.’</p> - -<p>‘Lady Barker! As if any one cared for her!’ said Kate; but even Kate, -though she could have cried for mortification, kept looking out very -sharply for Lady Barker. She was not a great lady, nor of any -importance, so far as she herself was concerned, but she held the keys -of the dance, of pleasure, and amusement, and success, for that night, -at least, for both Ombra and Kate. The two stood and looked on while the -pairs of dancers streamed past them, with the strangest feelings—or at -least Kate’s feelings were very strange. Ombra had been prepared for it, -and took it more calmly. She pointed out the pretty faces, the pretty -dresses to her cousin, by way of amusing her.</p> - -<p>‘What do you think of this toilette?’ she said. ‘Look, Kate, what a -splendid dark girl, and how well that maize<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> becomes her! I think she is -a Roman princess. Look at her diamonds. Don’t you like to see diamonds, -Kate?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Kate, with a laugh at herself, ‘they are very pretty; but I -thought we came to dance, not to look at the people. Let us have a -dance, you and I together, Ombra—why shouldn’t we? If men won’t ask us, -we can’t help that—but I must dance.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! hush, my darling,’ said Mrs. Anderson, alarmed. ‘You must not -really think of anything so extraordinary. Two girls together! It was -all very well at Shanklin. Try to amuse yourself for a little, looking -at the people. There are some of the great Italian nobility here. You -can recognise them by their jewels. That is one, for instance, that lady -in velvet——’</p> - -<p>‘It is very interesting, no doubt,’ cried Kate, ‘and if they were in a -picture, or on a stage, I should like to look at them; but it is very -queer to come to a ball only to see the people. Why, we might be their -maids, standing in a corner to see the ladies pass. Is it right for the -lady of the house to ask us, and then leave us like this? Do you call -that hospitality? If this was Langton-Courtenay,’ said Kate, bringing -her own dignity forward unconsciously, for the first time for years, -‘and it was I who was giving this ball, I should be ashamed of myself. -Am I speaking loud? I am sure I did not mean it; but I should be -ashamed——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! hush, dear, hush!’ cried Mrs. Anderson. ‘Lady Barker will be coming -presently.’</p> - -<p>‘But it was Lady Granton who invited us, auntie. It is her business to -see——’</p> - -<p>‘Hush, my dearest child! How could she, with all these people to attend -to? When you are mistress of Langton-Courtenay, and give balls yourself, -you will find out how difficult it is——’</p> - -<p>‘Langton-Courtenay?’ said some one near. The three ladies -instantaneously roused up out of their languor at the sound. Whose voice -was it? It came through the throng, as if some one half buried in the -crowd had caught up the name, and flung it on to some one else. Mrs. -Anderson looked in one direction, Kate, all glowing and smiling, in -another, while the dull red flush of old, the sign of surprised -excitement and passion, came back suddenly to Ombra’s face. Though they -had not been aware of it, the little group had already been the object -of considerable observation; for the girls were exceptionally pretty, in -their different styles, and they were quite new, unknown, and piquant in -their obvious strangeness. Even Kate’s indignation had been noted by a -quick-witted English lady, with an eyeglass, who was surrounded by a -little court. This lady was slightly beyond the age for dancing, or, if -not really so, had been wise enough to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> meet her fate half-way, and to -retire gracefully from youth, before youth abandoned her. She had taken -up her place, resisting all solicitations.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t ask me—my dancing-days are over. Ask that pretty girl yonder, -who is longing to begin,’ she had said, with a smile, to one of her -attendants half an hour before.</p> - -<p>‘<i>Je ne demande pas mieux</i>, if indeed you are determined,’ said he. ‘But -who is she? I don’t know them.’</p> - -<p>‘Nobody seems to know them,’ said Lady Caryisfort; and so the -observation began.</p> - -<p>Lady Caryisfort was very popular. She was a widow, well off, childless, -good-looking, and determined, people said, never to marry again. She was -the most independent of women, openly declaring, on all hands, that she -wanted no assistance to get through life, but was quite able to take -care of herself. And the consequence was that everybody about was most -anxious to assist in taking care of her. All sorts of people took all -sorts of trouble to help her in doing what she never hesitated to say -she could do quite well without them. She was something of a -philosopher, and a good deal of a cynic, as such people often are.</p> - -<p>‘You would not be so good to me if I had any need of you,’ she said, -habitually; and this was understood to be ‘Lady Caryisfort’s way.’</p> - -<p>‘Nobody knows them,’ she added, looking at the party through her -eyeglass. ‘Poor souls, I daresay they thought it was very fine and -delightful to come to Lady Granton’s ball. And if they had scores of -friends already, scores more would turn up on all sides. But because -they know nobody, nobody will take the trouble to know them. The younger -one is perfectly radiant. That is what I call the perfection of bloom. -Look at her—she is a real rosebud! Now, what <i>fainéants</i> you all are!’</p> - -<p>‘Why are we <i>fainéants</i>?’ said one of the court.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ said Lady Caryisfort, who professed to be a man-hater, within -certain limits, ‘I am aware that the nicest girl in the world, if she -were not pretty, might stand there all the night, and nobody but a woman -would ever think of trying to get any amusement for her. But there is -what you are capable of admiring—there is beauty, absolute beauty; none -of your washy imitations, but real, undeniable loveliness. And there you -stand and gape, and among a hundred of you she does not find one -partner. Oh! what it is to be a man! Why, my pet retriever, who is fond -of pretty people, would have found her out by this, and made friends -with her, and here are half a dozen of you fluttering about me!’</p> - -<p>There was a general laugh, as at a very good joke; and some one ventured -to suggest that the flutterers round Lady Caryisfort could give a very -good reason——<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span></p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said that lady, fanning herself tranquilly, ‘because I don’t want -you. In society that is the best of reasons; and that pretty creature -there does want you, therefore she is left to herself. She is getting -indignant. Why, she grows prettier and prettier. I wonder those glances -don’t set fire to something! Delicious! She wants her sister to dance -with her. What a charming girl! And the sister is pretty, too, but knows -better. And mamma—oh! how horrified mamma is! This is best of all!’</p> - -<p>Thus Lady Caryisfort smiled and applauded, and her attendants laughed -and listened. But, curiously enough, though she was so interested in -Kate, and so indignant at the neglect to which she was subjected, it did -not occur to her to take the young stranger under her protection, as she -might so easily have done. It was her way to look on—to interfere was -quite a different matter.</p> - -<p>‘Now this is getting quite dramatic,’ she cried; ‘they have seen some -one they know—where is he?—or even where is she?—for any one they -know would be a godsend to them. How do you do, Mr. Eldridge? How late -you are! But please don’t stand between me and my young lady. I am -excited about her; they have not found him yet—and how eager she looks! -Mr. Eldridge—why, good heavens! where has he gone?’</p> - -<p>‘Who was it that said Langton-Courtenay?’ cried Kate; ‘it must be some -one who knows the name, and I am sure I know the voice. Did you hear it, -auntie? Langton-Courtenay!—I wonder who it could be?’</p> - -<p>A whole minute elapsed before anything more followed. Mrs. Anderson -looked one way, and Kate another. Ombra did not move. If the lively -observer, who had taken so much interest in the strangers, could have -seen the downcast face which Kate’s bright countenance threw into the -shade, her drama would instantly have increased in interest. Ombra stood -without moving a hair’s-breadth—without raising her eyes—without so -much as breathing, one would have said. Under her eyes that line of hot -colour had flushed in a moment, giving to her face the look of something -suppressed and concealed. The others wondered who it was, but Ombra knew -by instinct who had come to disturb their quiet once more. She -recognised the voice, though neither of her companions did; and if there -had not been any evidence so clear as that voice—had it been a mere -shadow, an echo—she would have known. It was she who distinguished in -the ever-moving, ever-rustling throng, the one particular movement which -indicated that some one was making his way towards them. She knew -he—they—were there, without raising her eyes, before Kate’s cry of -joyful surprise informed her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh, the Berties!—I beg your pardon—Mr. Hardwick and Mr. Eldridge. Oh, -fancy!—that you should be here!’</p> - -<p>Ombra neither fell nor fainted, nor did she even speak. The room swam -round and round, and then came back to its place; and she looked up, and -smiled, and put out her hand.</p> - -<p>The two pretty strangers stood in the corner no longer; they stood up in -the next dance, Kate in such a glow of delight and radiance that the -whole ball-room thrilled with admiration. There had been a little -hesitation as to which of the two should be her partner—a pause during -which the two young men consulted each other by a look; but she had -herself so clearly indicated which Bertie she preferred, that the matter -was speedily decided. ‘I wanted to have you,’ she said frankly to Bertie -Hardwick, as he led her off, ‘because I want to hear all about home. -Tell me about home. I have not thought of Langton for two years at -least, and my mind is full of it to-night—I am sure I don’t know why. I -keep thinking, if I ever give a ball at Langton, how much better I will -manage it. Fancy!’ cried Kale, flushing with indignation, ‘we have been -here an hour, and no one has asked us to dance, neither Ombra nor me.’</p> - -<p>‘That must have been because nobody knew you,’ said Bertie Hardwick.</p> - -<p>‘And whose fault was that? Fancy asking two girls to a dance, and then -never taking the trouble to look whether they had partners or not! If I -ever give a ball, I shall behave differently, you may be sure.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope you will give a great many balls, and that I shall be there to -see.’</p> - -<p>‘Of course,’ said Kate, calmly; ‘but if you ever see me neglecting my -duty like Lady Granton, don’t forget to remind me of to-night.’</p> - -<p>Lady Granton’s sister was standing next to her, and, of course, heard -what she said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">‘It</span> was you who knew them, Mr. Eldridge,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘Tell me -about them—you can’t think how interested I am. She thinks Lady Granton -neglected her duty, and she means to behave very differently when she is -in the same position. She is delicious! Tell me who she is.’</p> - -<p>‘My cousin knows better than I do,’ said Bertie Eldridge, drawing back a -step. ‘She is an old friend and neighbour of his.’</p> - -<p>‘If your cousin were my son, I should be frightened of so very dangerous -a neighbour,’ said Lady Caryisfort. It was one of her ways to -distinguish as her possible sons men a few years younger than herself.</p> - -<p>‘Even to think her dangerous would be a presumption in me,’ said Bertie -Hardwick. ‘She is the great lady at home. Perhaps, though you laugh, you -may some day see whether she can keep the resolution to behave -differently. She is Miss Courtenay, of Langton-Courtenay, Lady -Caryisfort. You must know her well enough by name.’</p> - -<p>‘What!—the Vice-Consul’s niece! I must go and tell Lady Granton,’ said -an <i>attaché</i>, who was among Lady Caryisfort’s attendants.</p> - -<p>She followed him with her eyes as he went away, with an amused look.</p> - -<p>‘Now my little friend will have plenty of partners,’ she said. ‘Oh! you -men, who have not even courage enough to ask a pretty girl to dance -until you have a certificate of her position. But I don’t mean you two. -You had the certificate, I suppose, a long time ago?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes. She has grown very pretty,’ said Bertie Eldridge, in a patronising -tone.</p> - -<p>‘How kind of you to think so!—how good of you to make her dance! as the -French say. Mr. Hardwick, I suppose she is your father’s squire? Are you -as condescending as your cousin? Give me your arm, please, and introduce -me to the party. I am sure they must be fun. I have heard of Mrs. -Vice-Consul——’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think they are particularly funny,’ said Bertie Hardwick, with -a tone which the lady’s ear was far too quick to lose.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span></p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ she said to herself, ‘a victim!’ and was on the alert at once.</p> - -<p>‘It is the younger one who is Miss Courtenay, I suppose?’ she said. ‘The -other is—her cousin. I see now. And I assure you, Mr. Hardwick, though -she is not (I suppose?) an heiress, she is very pretty too.’</p> - -<p>Bertie assented with a peculiar smile. It was a great distinction to -Bertie Hardwick to be seen with Lady Caryisfort on his arm, and a very -great compliment to Mrs. Anderson that so great a personage should leave -her seat in order to make her acquaintance. Yet there were drawbacks to -this advantage; for Lady Caryisfort had a way of making her own theories -on most things that fell under her observation; and she did so at once -in respect to the group so suddenly brought under her observation. She -paid Mrs. Anderson a great many compliments upon her two girls.</p> - -<p>‘I hear from Mr. Hardwick that I ought to know your niece “at home,” as -the schoolboys say,’ she said. ‘Caryisfort is not more than a dozen -miles from Langton-Courtenay. I certainly did not expect to meet my -young neighbour here.’</p> - -<p>‘Her uncle wishes her to travel; she is herself fond of moving about,’ -murmured Mrs. Anderson.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! to be sure—it is quite natural,’ said Lady Caryisfort; ‘but I -should have thought Lady Granton would have known who her guest -was—and—and all of us. There are so many English people always here, -and it is so hard to tell who is who——’</p> - -<p>‘If you will pardon me,’ said Mrs. Anderson, who was not without a sense -of her own dignity, ‘it is just because of the difficulty in telling who -is who that I have brought Kate here. Her guardian does not wish her to -be introduced in England till she is of age; and as I am anxious not to -attract any special attention, such as her position might warrant——’</p> - -<p>‘Is her guardian romantic?’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘Does he want her to -be loved for herself alone, and that sort of thing? For otherwise, do -you know, I should think it was dangerous. A pretty girl is never quite -safe——’</p> - -<p>‘Of course,’ said Mrs. Anderson, gravely, ‘there are some risks, which -one is obliged to run—with every girl.’</p> - -<p>And she glanced at Bertie Hardwick, who was standing by; and either -Bertie blushed, being an ingenuous young man, or Lady Caryisfort fancied -he did; for she was very busy making her little version of this story, -and every circumstance, as far as she had gone, fitted in.</p> - -<p>‘But an heiress is so much more dangerous than any other girl. Suppose -she should fancy some one beneath—some one not quite sufficiently—some -one, in short, whom her guardians<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> would not approve of? Do you know, I -think it is a dreadful responsibility for you.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson smiled; but she gave her adviser a sudden look of fright -and partial irritation.</p> - -<p>‘I must take my chance with others,’ she said. ‘We can only hope nothing -will happen.’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing happen! When it is girls and boys that are in question -something always happens!’ cried Lady Caryisfort, elevating her -eyebrows. ‘But here come your two girls, looking very happy. Will you -introduce them to me, please? I hope you will not be affronted with me -for an inquisitive old woman,’ she went on, with her most gracious -smile; ‘but I have been watching you for ever so long.’</p> - -<p>She was watching them now, closely, scientifically, under her drooped -eyelids. Bertie had brightened so at their approach, there could be no -mistaking that symptom. And the pale girl, the dark girl, the quiet one, -who, now that she had time to examine her, proved almost more -interesting than the beauty—had changed, too, lighting up like a sky at -sunset. The red line had gone from under Ombra’s eyes; there was a -rose-tint on her cheek which came and went; her eyes were dewy, like the -first stars that come out at evening. A pretty, pensive creature, but -bright for the moment, as was the other one—the one who was all made of -colour and light.</p> - -<p>‘This is my niece, Lady Caryisfort,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with an effort; -and she added, in a lower tone, ‘This is Ombra, my own child.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you call her Ombra? What a pretty name! and how appropriate! Then of -course the other one is sunshine,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘I hope I shall -see something of them while I stay here; and, young ladies, I hope, as I -said, that you do not consider me a very impertinent old woman because I -have been watching you.’</p> - -<p>Kate laughed out the clearest, youthful laugh.</p> - -<p>‘Are you an old woman?’ she said. ‘I should not have guessed it.’</p> - -<p>Lady Caryisfort turned towards Kate with growing favour. How subtle is -the effect of wealth and greatness (she thought). Kate spoke out -frankly, in the confidence of her own natural elevation, which placed -her on a level with all these princesses and great ladies; while Ombra, -though she was older and more experienced, hung shyly back, and said -nothing at all. Lady Caryisfort, with her quick eyes, perceived, or -thought she perceived, this difference in a moment, and, -half-unconsciously, inclined towards the one who was of her own caste.</p> - -<p>‘Old enough to be your grandmother,’ she said; ‘and I am your neighbour, -besides, at home, so I hope we shall be great<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> friends. I suppose you -have heard of the Caryisforts? No! Why, you must be a little changeling -not to know the people in your own county. You know Bertie Hardwick, -though?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! yes—I have known him all my life,’ said Kate, calmly, looking up -at her.</p> - -<p>How different the two girls were! The bright one (Lady Caryisfort -remarked to herself) as calm as a Summer day; the shadowy one all -changing and fluttering, with various emotions. It was easy to see what -that meant.</p> - -<p>This conversation, however, had to be broken up abruptly, for already -the stream of partners which Lady Caryisfort had prophesied was pouring -upon the girls. Lady Barker, indeed, had come to the rescue as soon as -the appearance of the two Berties emancipated the cousins. When they did -not absolutely require her help, she proffered it, according to Lady -Caryisfort’s rule; and even Lady Granton herself showed signs of -interest. An heiress is not an everyday occurrence even in the highest -circles; and this was not a common heiress, a mere representative of -money, but the last of an old family, the possessor of fair and solid -English acres, old, noble houses, a name any man might be proud of -uniting to his own; and a beauty besides. This was filling the cup too -high, most people felt—there was no justice in it. Fancy, rich, -well-born, and beautiful too! She had no right to have so much.</p> - -<p>‘I cannot think why you did not tell me,’ said Lady Barker, coming to -Mrs. Anderson’s side. She felt she had made rather a mistake with her -Mrs. Vice-Consul; and the recollection of her jokes about Kate’s -possible inheritance made her redden when she thought of them. She had -put herself in the wrong so clearly that even her stupid <i>attaché</i> had -found it out.</p> - -<p>‘I had no desire to tell anybody—I am sorry it is known now,’ said Mrs. -Anderson.</p> - -<p>Long before this a comfortable place had been found for Kate’s aunt. Her -heiress had raised her out of all that necessity of watching and -struggling for a point of vantage which nobodies are compelled to submit -to when they venture among the great. But it is doubtful whether Mrs. -Anderson was quite happy in her sudden elevation. Her feelings were of a -very mixed and uncertain character. So far as Lady Barker was concerned, -she could not but feel a certain pride—she liked to show the old -friend, who was patronising and kind, that she needed no exercise of -condescension on her part; and she was pleased, as that man no doubt was -pleased, who, having taken the lower room at the feast, was bidden, -‘Friend, go up higher.’ That sensation cannot be otherwise than -pleasant—the little commotion, the flutter of apologies and regrets -with which she was discovered ‘to have been standing all this time;’ -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> slight discomfiture of the people round, who had taken no notice, -on perceiving after all that she was somebody, and not nobody, as they -thought. All this had been pleasant. But it was not so pleasant to feel -in so marked and distinct a manner that it was all on Kate’s account. -Kate was very well; her aunt was fond of her, and good to her, and would -have been so independent of her heiress-ship. But to find that her own -value, such as it was—and most of us put a certain value on -ourselves—and the beauty and sweetness of her child, who, to her eyes, -was much more lovely than Kate, should all go for nothing, and that an -elevation which was half contemptuous, should be accorded to them solely -on Kate’s account, was humiliating to the good woman. She took advantage -of it, and was even pleased with the practical effect; but it wounded -her pride, notwithstanding, in the tenderest point. Kate, whom she had -scolded and petted into decorum, whom she had made with her own hands, -so to speak, into the semblance she now bore, whose faults and -deficiencies she was so sensible of! Poor Mrs. Anderson, the position of -dignity ‘among all the best people’ was pleasant to her; but the thought -that she had gained it only as Kate’s aunt put prickles in the velvet. -And Ombra, her child, her first of things, was nothing but Kate’s -cousin. ‘But that will soon be set to rights,’ the mother said to -herself, with a smile; and then she added aloud—</p> - -<p>‘I am very sorry it is known now. We never intended it. A girl in Kate’s -position has enough to go through at home, without being exposed to—to -fortune-hunters and annoyances here. Had I known these boys were in -Florence, I should not have come. I am very much annoyed. Nothing could -be further from her guardian’s wishes—or my own.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, well, you can’t help it!’ said Lady Barker. ‘It was not your fault. -But you can’t hide an heiress. You might as well try to put brown -holland covers on a lighthouse. By-the-bye, young Eldridge is very well -connected, and very nice—don’t you think?’</p> - -<p>‘He is Sir Herbert Eldridge’s son,’ said Mrs. Anderson, stiffly.</p> - -<p>‘Yes. Not at all bad looking, and all that. Nobody could consider him, -you know, in the light of a fortune-hunter. But if you take my advice -you will keep all those young Italians at arm’s length. Some of them are -very captivating in their way; and then it sounds romantic, and girls -are pleased. There is that young Buoncompagni, that Miss Courtenay is -dancing with now. He is one of the handsomest young fellows in Florence, -and he has not a sou. Of course he is looking out for some one with -money. Positively you must take great care. Ah! I see it is Mr. Eldridge -your daughter is dancing with. You are old friends, I suppose?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span></p> - -<p>‘Very old friends,’ said Mrs. Anderson; and she was not sorry when her -questioner was called away. Perhaps, for the moment, she was not much -impressed by Kate’s danger in respect to the young Count Buoncompagni. -Her eyes were fixed upon Ombra, as was natural. In the abstract, a seat -even upon velvet cushions (with prickles in them), against an emblazoned -wall, for hours together, with no one whom you know to speak to, and -only such crumbs of entertainment as are thrown to you when some one -says, ‘A pretty scene, is it not? What a pretty dress! Don’t you think -Lady Caryisfort is charming? And dear Lady Granton, how well she is -looking!’ Even with such brilliant interludes of conversation as the -above, the long vigil of a chaperon is not exhilarating. But when Mrs. -Anderson’s eye followed Ombra she was happy; she was content to sit -against the wall, and gaze, and would not allow to herself that she was -sleepy. ‘Poor dear Kate, too!’ she said to herself, with a compunction, -‘<i>she</i> is as happy as possible.’ Thus nature gave a compensation to -Ombra for being only Miss Courtenay’s cousin—a compensation which, for -the moment, in the warmth of personal happiness, she did not need.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">‘Why</span> should you get up this morning, Signora <i>mia</i>?’ said old Francesca. -‘The young ladies are fast asleep still. And it was a grand success, <i>a -che lo dite</i>. Did not I say so from the beginning? To be sure it was a -grand success. The Signorine are divine. If I were a young principe, or -a marchesino, I know what I should do. Mees Katta is charming, my -dearest lady; but, <i>nostra</i> Ombra—ah! <i>nostra</i> Ombra——’</p> - -<p>‘Francesca, we must not be prejudiced,’ said Mrs. Anderson, who was -taking her coffee in bed—a most unusual indulgence—while Francesca -stood ready for a gossip at the bedside. The old woman was fond of -petting her mistress when she had an opportunity, and of persuading her -into little personal indulgences, as old servants so often are. The -extra trouble of bringing up the little tray, with the fragrant coffee, -the little white roll from the English baker, which the Signora was so -prejudiced as to prefer, and one white camelia out of last night’s -bouquet, in a little Venetian glass, to serve the purpose of decoration, -was the same kind of pleasure to her as it is to a mother to serve a -sick child who is not ill enough to alarm her. Francesca liked it. She -liked the thanks, and the protest against so innocent an indulgence with -which it was always accompanied.</p> - -<p>‘I must not be so lazy again. I am quite ashamed of myself. But I was -fatigued last night.’</p> - -<p>‘<i>Si! si!</i>’ cried Francesca. ‘To be sure the Signora was tired. What! -sit up till four o’clock, she who goes to bed at eleven; and my lady is -not twenty now, as she once was! Ah! I remember the day when, after a -ball, Madame was fatigued in a very different way.’</p> - -<p>‘Those days are long past, Francesca,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a smile, -shaking her head. She did not dislike being reminded of them. She had -known in her time what it was to be admired and sought after; and after -sitting for six hours against the wall, it was a little consolation to -reflect that she too had had her day.</p> - -<p>‘As Madame pleases, so be it,’ said Francesca; ‘though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> my lady could -still shine with the best if she so willed it; but for my own part I -think she is right. When one has a child, and such a child as our -Ombra——’</p> - -<p>‘My dear Francesca, we must not be prejudiced,’ said Mrs. Anderson. -‘Ombra is very sweet to you and me; and I think she is very lovely; but -Kate is more beautiful than she is—Kate has such a bloom. I myself -admire her very much—not of course so much as—my own child.’</p> - -<p>‘If the Signora had said it, I should not have believed her,’ said -Francesca. ‘I should be sorry to show any want of education to Madame, -but I should not have believed her. Mademoiselle Katta is good child—I -love her—I am what you call fond; but she is not like our Ombra. It is -not necessary that I should draw the distinction. The Signora knows it -is quite a different thing.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes, Francesca, I know—I know only too well; and I hope I am not -unjust,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘I hope I am not unkind—I cannot help it -being different. Nothing would make me neglect my duty, I trust; and I -have no reason to be anything but fond of Kate—I love her very much; -but still, as you say——’</p> - -<p>‘The Signora knows that I understand,’ said Francesca. ‘Two gentlemen -have called already this morning—already, though it is so early. They -are the same young Signorini who came to the Cottage in IsleofWite.’ -(This Francesca pronounced as one word.) ‘Now, if the Signora would tell -me, it would make me happy. There is two, and I ask myself—which?’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘And so do I sometimes,’ she said; ‘and I thought I knew; but last -night—— My dear Francesca, when I am sure I will tell you. But, -indeed, perhaps it is neither of them,’ she added, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>Francesca shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘Madame would say that perhaps it is bose.’</p> - -<p>I have not thought it necessary always to put down Francesca’s broken -English, nor the mixture of languages in which she spoke. It might be -gratifying to the writer to be able to show a certain acquaintance with -those tongues; but it is always doubtful whether the reader will share -that gratification. But when she addressed her mistress, Francesca spoke -Italian, and consequently used much better language than when she was -compelled to toil through all the confusing sibilants and <i>ths</i> of the -English tongue.</p> - -<p>‘I do not know—I cannot tell,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘Take the tray, <i>mia -buona amica</i>. You shall know when I know. And now I think I must get up. -One can’t stay in bed, you know, all day.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span></p> - -<p>When her mistress thus changed the subject, Francesca saw that it was no -longer convenient to continue it. She was not satisfied that Mrs. -Anderson did not know, but she understood that she was in the meantime -to make her own observations. Keener eyes were never applied to such a -purpose, but at the present moment Francesca was too much puzzled to -come to any speedy decision on the subject; and notwithstanding her love -for Ombra, who was supreme in her eyes, Francesca was moved to a feeling -for Kate which had not occurred to the other ladies. ‘Santissima -Madonna! it is hard—very hard for the little one,’ she said to herself, -as she mused over the matter. ‘Who is to defend her from Fate? She will -see them every day—she is young—they are young—what can anyone -expect? Ah! Madonna <i>mia</i>, send some good young marchesino, some piccolo -principe, to make the Signorina a great lady, and save her from breaking -her little heart. It would be good for <i>la patria</i>, too,’ Francesca -resumed, piously thinking of Kate’s wealth.</p> - -<p>She was a servant of the old Italian type, to whom it was natural to -identify herself with her family. She did not even ‘toil for duty, not -for meed,’ but planned and deliberated over all their affairs with the -much more spontaneous and undoubting sentiment that their affairs were -her own, and that they mutually belonged to each other. She said ‘our -Ombra’ with as perfect good faith as if her young mistress had been her -own child—and so indeed she was. The bond between them was too real to -be discussed or even described—and consequently it was with the natural -interest of one pondering her own business that Francesca turned it all -over in her mind, and considered how she could best serve Kate, and keep -her unharmed by Ombra’s uncertainty.</p> - -<p>When Count Antonio Buoncompagni came with his card and his inquiries, -the whole landscape lighted up around her. Francesca was a Florentine of -the Florentines. She knew all about the Buoncompagni; her aunt’s -husband’s sister had been <i>cameriera</i> to the old Duchessa, Antonio’s -grandmother; so that in a manner, she said to herself, she belonged to -the family. The Contessina, his mother, had made her first communion -along with Francesca’s younger sister, Angiola. This made a certain -spiritual bond between them. The consequence of all these important -facts, taken together, was that Francesca felt herself the natural -champion of Count Buoncompagni, who seemed thus to have stepped in at -the most suitable moment, and as if in answer to her appeal to the -Madonna, to lighten her anxieties, and free her child Ombra from the -responsibility of harming another. The Count Antonio was young and very -good-looking. He addressed Francesca in those frank and friendly tones -which she had so missed in England; he called her amica mia, though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span> he -had never seen her before. ‘Ah! Santissima Madonna, <i>quella -differenza</i>!’ she said to herself, as he went down the long stair, and -the young Englishmen, who had known her for years, and were very -friendly to the old woman, came up, and got themselves admitted without -one unnecessary word. They had no caressing friendly phrase for her as -they went and came. Francesca was true as steel to her mistress and all -her house; she would have gone through fire and water for them; but it -never occurred to her that to take the part of confidante and abettor to -the young Count, should he mean to present himself as a suitor to Kate, -would be treacherous to them or their trust. Of all things that could -happen to the Signorina, the best possible thing—the good fortune most -to be desired—would be that she should get a noble young husband, who -would be very fond of her, and to whose house she would bring joy and -prosperity. The Buoncompagni, unfortunately, though noble as the king -himself, were poor; and Francesca knew very well what a difference it -would make in the faded grand palazzo if Kate went there with her -wealth. Even so much wealth as she had brought to her aunt would, -Francesca thought, make a great difference; and what, then, would not -the whole fabulous amount of Kate’s fortunes do? ‘It will be good for -<i>la patria</i>, too,’ she repeated to herself; and this not guiltily, like -a conscious conspirator, but with the truest sense of duty.</p> - -<p>She carried in Count Antonio’s card to the <i>salone</i> where the ladies -were sitting with their visitors. Ombra was seated at one of the -windows, looking out; beside her stood Bertie Hardwick, not saying much; -while his cousin, scarcely less silent, listened to Kate’s chatter. -Kate’s gay voice was in full career; she was going over all last night’s -proceedings, giving them a dramatic account of her feelings. She was -describing her own anger, mortification, and dismay; then her relief, -when she caught sight of the two young men. ‘Not because it was you,’ -she said gaily, ‘but because you were men—or boys—things we could -dance with; and because you knew us, and could not help asking us.’</p> - -<p>‘That is not a pleasant way of stating it,’ said Bertie Eldridge. ‘If -you had known our delight and amaze and happiness in finding you, and -how transported we were——’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose you must say that,’ said Kate; ‘please don’t take the -trouble. I know you could not help making me a pretty speech; but what -<i>I</i> say is quite true. We were glad, not because it was you, but because -we felt in a moment, here are some men we know, they cannot leave us -standing here all night; we must be able to get a dance at last.’</p> - -<p>‘I have brought the Signora a card,’ said Francesca, interrupting the -talk. ‘Ah, such a beautiful young Signor! What<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> a consolation to me to -be in my own country; to be called <i>amica mia</i> once again. You are very -good, you English Signori, and very kind in your way, but you never -speak as if you loved us, though we may serve you for years. When one -comes like this handsome young Count Antonio, how different! “<i>Cara -mia</i>,” he says, “put me at the feet of their Excellencies. I hope the -beautiful young ladies are not too much fatigued!” Ah, my English -gentlemen, you do not talk like that! You say, “Are they quite -well—Madame Anderson and the young ladies?” And if it is old Francesca, -or a new domestic, whom you never saw before, not one word of -difference! You are cold; you are insensible; you are not like our -Italian. Signorina Katta, do you know the name on the card?’</p> - -<p>‘It’s Count Antonio Buoncompagni!’ said Kate, with a bright blush and -smile. ‘Why, that was my partner last night! How nice of him to come and -call—and what a pretty name! And he dances like an angel, Francesca—I -never saw any one dance so well!’</p> - -<p>‘That is a matter of course, Signorina. He is young; he is a -Buoncompagni; his ancestors have all been noble and had education for a -thousand years—what should hinder him to dance? If the Signorina will -come to me when these gentlemen leave you, I will tell her hundreds of -beautiful stories about the Buoncompagni. We are, as it were, -connected—the sister-law of my aunt Filomena was once maid to the old -Duchessa—besides other ties,’ Francesca added, raising her head with a -certain careless grandeur. ‘Nobody knows better than I do the history of -the Buoncompagni; and the Signorina is very fond of stories, as Madame -knows.’</p> - -<p>‘My good Francesca, so long as you don’t turn her head with your -stories,’ said Mrs. Anderson, good-humouredly. And she added, when the -old woman had left the room, ‘Often and often I have been glad to hear -Francesca’s stories myself. All these Italian families have such curious -histories. She will go on from one to another, as if she never would -have done. She knows everybody, and whom they all married, and all about -them. And there is some truth, you know, in what she says—we are very -kind, but we don’t talk to our servants nor show any affection for them. -I am very fond of Francesca, and very grateful to her for her faithful -service, but even I don’t do it. Kate has a frank way with everybody. -But our English reserve is dreadful!’</p> - -<p>‘We don’t say everything that comes uppermost,’ said one of the young -men. ‘We do not wear our hearts on our sleeves,’ said the other.</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Ombra; ‘perhaps, on the contrary, you keep them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> so covered -up that one never can tell whether you have any hearts at all.’</p> - -<p>Ombra’s voice had something in it different from the sound of the -others; it had a meaning. Her words were not lightly spoken, but fully -intended. This consciousness startled all the little party. Mrs. -Anderson flung herself, as it were, into the breach, and began to talk -fast on all manner of subjects; and Ombra, probably repenting the -seriousness of her speech, exerted herself to dissipate the effect of -it. But Kate kept the Count’s card in her hand, pondering over it. A -young Italian noble; the sort of figure which appears in books and in -pictures; the kind of person who acts as hero in tale and song. He had -come to lay himself at the feet of the beautiful young ladies. Well! -perhaps the two Berties meant just as much by the clumsy shy visit which -they were paying at that moment—but they never laid themselves at -anybody’s feet. They were well-dressed Philistines, never allowing any -expression of friendship or affectionateness to escape them. Had they no -hearts at all, as Ombra insinuated, or would they not be much pleasanter -persons if they wore their said hearts on their sleeves, and permitted -them to be pecked at? Antonio Buoncompagni! Kate stole out after a -while, on pretence of seeking her work, and flew to the other end of the -long, straggling suite of rooms to where Francesca sat. ‘Tell me all -about them,’ she said, breathlessly. And Francesca clapped her hands -mentally, and felt that her work had begun.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">‘It</span> is very interesting,’ said Kate; ‘but it is about this Count’s -grandfather you are talking, Francesca. Could not we come a little lower -down?’</p> - -<p>‘Signorina mia, when one is a Buoncompagni, one’s grandfather is very -close and near,’ said Francesca. ‘There are some families in which a -grandfather is a distant ancestor, or perhaps the beginning of the race. -But with the Buoncompagni you do not adopt that way of reckoning. Count -Antonio’s mother is living—she is a thing of to-day, like the rest of -us. Then I ask, Signorina Katta, whom can one speak of? That is the way -in old families. Doubtless in the Signorina’s own house——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my grandpapa is a thousand years off!’ said Kate. ‘I don’t believe -in him—he must have been so dreadfully old. Even papa was old. He -married when he was about fifty, I suppose, and I never saw him. My poor -little mother was different, but I never saw her either. Don’t speak of -my family, please. I suppose they were very nice, but I don’t know much -about them.’</p> - -<p>‘Mademoiselle would not like to be without them,’ said Francesca, -nodding her little grey head. ‘Mademoiselle would feel very strange if -all at once it were said to her, “You never had a grandpapa. You are a -child of the people, my young lady. You came from no one knows where.” -Ah, you prefer the old ones to that! Signorina Katta. If you were to go -into the Buoncompagni Palazzo, and see all the beautiful pictures of the -old Cavalieri in their armour, and the ladies with pearls and rubies -upon their beautiful robes! The Contino would be rich if he could make -up his mind to sell those magnificent pictures; but the Signorina will -perceive in a moment that to sell one’s ancestors—that is a thing one -could never do.’</p> - -<p>‘No, I should not like to sell them,’ said Kate, thoughtfully. ‘But do -you mean that? Are the Buoncompagni poor?’</p> - -<p>‘Signorina mia,’ said Francesca, with dignity, ‘when were they rich—our -grand nobili Italiani! Not since the days when Firenze was a queen in -the world, and did what she would. That was ended a long, long time ago. -And what, then, was it the duty of the great Signori to do? They had to -keep their old palaces, and all the beautiful things the house had got -when it was rich, for the good of <i>la patria</i>, when she should wake up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span> -again. They had to keep all the old names, and the recollections. -Signorina Katta, a common race could not have done this. We poor ones in -the streets, we have done what we could; we have kept up our courage and -our gaiety of heart for our country. The Buoncompagni, and such like, -kept up the race. They would rather live in a corner of the old Palazzo -than part with it to a stranger. They would not sell the pictures, and -the <i>belle cose</i>, except now and then one small piece, to keep the -family alive. And now, look you, Signorina mia, <i>la patria</i> has woke up -at last, and <i>ecco</i>! Her old names, and her old palaces, and the <i>belle -cose</i> are here waiting for her. Ah! we have had a great deal to suffer, -but we are not extinguished. Certainly they are poor, but what then? -They exist; and every true Italian will bless them for that.’</p> - -<p>This old woman, with her ruddy-brown, dried-up little face, and her -scanty hair, tied into a little knot at the top of it—curious little -figure, whom Kate had found it hard work to keep from laughing at when -she arrived first at Shanklin—was a politician, a visionary, a -patriot-enthusiast. Kate now, at eighteen, looked at Francesca with -respect, which was just modified by an inclination, far down at the -bottom of her heart, to laugh. But for this she took herself very -sharply to task. Kate had not quite got over the natural English -inclination to be contemptuous of all ‘foreigners’ who took a different -view of their duty from that natural to the British mind. If the -Buoncompagni had tried to make money, and improve their position; if -they had emigrated, and fought their way in the world; if they had done -some active work, instead of vegetating and preserving their old -palaces, she asked herself? Which was no doubt an odd idea to have got -into the Tory brain of the young representative of an old family, bound -to hate revolutionaries; but Kate was a revolutionary by nature, and her -natural Toryism was largely tinctured by the natural Radicalism of her -age, and that propensity to contradict, and form theories of her own, -which were part of her character. It was part of her character still, -though it had been smoothed down, and brought under subjection, by her -aunt’s continual indulgence. She was not so much impressed as she felt -she ought to have been by Francesca’s speech.</p> - -<p>‘I am glad they exist,’ she said. ‘Of course we must all really have had -the same number of grandfathers and grandmothers, but still an old -family is pleasant. The only thing is, Francesca—don’t be -angry—suppose they had done something, while the <i>patria</i>, you know, -has been asleep; suppose they had tried to get on, to recover their -money, to do something more than exist! It is only a -suggestion—probably I am quite wrong, but——<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span></p> - -<p>‘The Signorina perhaps will condescend to inform me,’ said Francesca, -with lofty satire, ‘what, in her opinion, it would have been best for -our nobles to do?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! I am sure I don’t know. I only meant—I don’t know anything about -it!’ cried Kate.</p> - -<p>‘If the Signorina will permit me to say so, that is very visible,’ said -Francesca; and then, for full five minutes, she plied her needle, and -was silent. This, perhaps, was rather a hard punishment for Kate, who -had left the visitors in the drawing-room to seek a more lively -amusement in Francesca’s company, and who, after the excitement of the -ball, was anxious for some other excitement. She revenged herself by -pulling the old woman’s work about, and asking what was this, and this. -Francesca was making a dress for her mistress, and Mrs. Anderson, though -she did not despise the fashion, was sufficiently sensible to take her -own way, and keep certain peculiarities of her own.</p> - -<p>‘Why do you make it like this?’ said Kate. ‘Auntie is not a hundred. She -might as well have her dress made like other people. She is very -nice-looking, I think, for her age. Don’t you think so? She must have -been pretty once, Francesca. Why, you ought to know—you knew her when -she was young. Don’t you think she has been——?’</p> - -<p>‘Signorina, be so good as to let my work alone,’ said Francesca. ‘What! -do you think there is nothing but youth that is to be admired? I did not -expect to find so little education in one of my Signorinas. Know, -Mademoiselle Katta, that there are many persons who think Madame -handsomer than either of the young ladies. There is an air of -distinction and of intelligence. You, for instance, you have the <i>beauté -de diable</i>—one admires you because you are so young; but how do you -know that it will last? Your features are not remarkable, Signorina -Katta. When those roses are gone, probably you will be but an -ordinary-looking woman; but my Signora Anderson, she has features, she -has the grand air, she has distinction——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! you spiteful old woman!’ cried Kate, half vexed, half laughing. ‘I -never said I thought I was pretty. I know I am just like a doll, all red -and white; but you need not tell me so, all the same.’</p> - -<p>‘Mademoiselle is not like a doll,’ said Francesca. ‘Sometimes, when she -has a better inspiration, Mademoiselle has something more than red and -white. I did not affirm that it would not last. I said how do you know? -But my Signora has lasted. She is noble!—she is distinguished! And as -for what she has been——’</p> - -<p>‘That is exactly what I said,’ said Kate.</p> - -<p>‘We do not last in Italy,’ said Francesca, pursuing the subject with the -gravity of an abstract philosopher. ‘It is, perhaps,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> our beautiful -climate. Your England, which has so much of mist and of rain, keeps the -grass green, and it preserves beauty. The Contessa Buoncompagni has lost -all her beauty. She was of the Strozzi family, and made her first -communion on the same day as my little Angiolina, who is now blessed in -heaven. Allow me to say it to you, Signorina mia, they were beautiful as -two angels in their white veils. But the Contessina has grown old. She -has lost her hair, which does not happen to the English Signore, -and—other things. I am more old than she, and when I see it I grieve. -She does not go out, except, of course, which goes without saying, to -the Duomo. She is a good woman—a very good woman. If she cannot afford -to give the best price for her salad, is it her fault? She is a great -lady, as great as anybody in all Firenze—Countess Buoncompagni, born -Strozzi. What would you have more? But, dear lady, it is no shame to her -that she is not rich. Santissima Madonna, why should one hesitate to say -it? It is not her fault.’</p> - -<p>‘Of course it cannot be her fault; nobody would choose to be poor if -they could help it,’ said Kate.</p> - -<p>‘I cannot say, Signorina Katta—I have not any information on the -subject. To be rich is not all. It might so happen—though I have no -special information—that one would choose to be poor. I am poor myself, -but I would not change places with many who are rich. I should esteem -more,’ said Francesca, raising her head, ‘a young galantuomo who was -noble and poor, and had never done anything against the <i>patria</i>, nor -humbled himself before the Tedeschi, a hundred and a thousand times more -than those who hold places and honours. But then I am a silly old woman, -most likely the Signorina will say.’</p> - -<p>‘Is Count Buoncompagni like that?’ asked Kate; but she did not look for -an answer.</p> - -<p>And just then the bell rang from the drawing-room, and Francesca put -down her work and bustled away to open the door for the young Englishmen -whose company Kate had abandoned. The girl took up Francesca’s work, and -made half a dozen stitches; and then went to her own room, where -Maryanne was also at work. Kate gave a little sketch of the dresses at -the ball to the handmaiden, who listened with breathless interest.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think anyone could have looked nicer than you and Miss Ombra in -your fresh tarlatane, Miss,’ said Maryanne.</p> - -<p>‘Nobody took the least notice of us,’ said Kate. ‘We are not worth -noticing among so many handsome, well-dressed people. We were but a -couple of girls out of the nursery in our white. I think I will choose a -colour that will make some show if I ever go to a ball again.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Miss Kate, you will go to a hundred balls!’ cried Maryanne, with -fervour.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span></p> - -<p>Kate shrugged her shoulders with sham disdain; but she felt, with a -certain gentle complacency, that it was true. A girl who has once been -to a ball must go on. She cannot be shut up again in any nursery and -school-room; she is emancipated for ever and ever; the glorious world is -thrown open to her. The tarlatane which marked her bread-and-butter days -would no doubt yield to more splendid garments; but she could not go -back—she had made her entry into life.</p> - -<p>Lady Caryisfort called next day—an event which filled Mrs. Anderson -with satisfaction. No doubt Kate was the chief object of her visit; and -as it was the first time that Kate’s aunt and cousin had practically -felt the great advantage which her position gave her over them, there -was, without doubt, some difficulty in the situation. But, fortunately, -Ombra’s attention was otherwise occupied; and Mrs. Anderson, though she -was a high-spirited woman, and did not relish the idea of deriving -consequence entirely from the little girl whom she had brought up, had -yet that philosophy which more or less is the accompaniment of -experience, and knew that it was much better to accept the inevitable -graciously, than to fight against it. And if anything could have -neutralised the wound to her pride, it would have been the ‘pretty -manners’ of Lady Caryisfort, and the interest which she displayed in -Ombra. Indeed, Ombra secured more of her attention than Kate did—a -consoling circumstance. Lady Caryisfort showed every inclination to -‘take them up.’ It was a thing she was fond of doing; and she was so -amiable and entertaining, and so rich, and opened up such perfectly good -society to her <i>protégées</i>, that few people at the moment of being taken -up realised the fact that they must inevitably be let down again -by-and-by—a process not so pleasant.</p> - -<p>At this moment nothing could be more delightful than their new friend. -She called for them when she went out driving, and took them to Fiesole, -to La Pioggia, to the Cascine—wherever fashion went. She lent them her -carriage when she was indolent, as often happened, and did not care to -go out. She asked them to her little parties when she had ‘the best -people’—a compliment which Mrs. Anderson felt deeply, and which was -very different from the invitation to the big ball at the Embassy, to -which everybody was invited. In short, Lady Caryisfort launched the -little party into the best society of English at Florence, such as it -is. And the pretty English heiress became as well known as if she had -gone through a season at home previous to this Italian season. Poor -Uncle Courtenay! Had he seen Antonio Buoncompagni, who danced like an -angel, leading his ward through the mazes of a cotillon, what would that -excellent guardian’s feelings have been?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XL" id="CHAPTER_XL"></a>CHAPTER XL.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">We</span> have said that Ombra’s attention was otherwise occupied. Had it not -been so, it is probable that she would have resented and struggled -against the new and unusual and humiliating consciousness of being but -an appendage to her cousin; but fortunately all such ideas had been -driven out of her head. A new life, a new world, seemed to have begun -for Ombra. All the circumstances of their present existence appeared to -lend themselves to the creation of this novel sphere. Old things seemed -to have passed away, and all had become new. From the moment of the -first call, made in doubt and tribulation, by the two Berties, they had -resumed again, in the most natural manner, the habits of their former -acquaintance, but with an entirely new aspect. Here there was at once -the common bond which unites strangers in a new place—a place full of -beauty and wonder, which both must see, and which it is so natural they -should see together. The two young men fell into the habit of constant -attendance upon the ladies, with a naturalness which defeated all -precautions; and an intercourse began to spring up, which combined that -charming flavour of old friendship, and almost brotherhood, with any -other sentiment that might arise by the way. This conjunction, too, made -the party so independent and so complete. With such an escort the ladies -could go anywhere; and they went everywhere accordingly—to -picture-galleries, to all the sights of the place, and even now and then -upon country excursions, in the bright, cold Winter days. ‘The boys,’ as -Kate called them, came and went all day long, bringing news of -everything that was to be seen or heard, always with a new plan or -suggestion for the morrow.</p> - -<p>The little feminine party brightened up, as women do brighten always -under the fresh and exhilarating influence of that breath from outside -which only ‘the boys’ can bring. Soon Mrs. Anderson, and even Ombra -herself, adopted that affectionate phrase—to throw another delightful, -half-delusive veil over all possibilities that might be in the future. -It gave a certain ‘family feeling,’ a mutual right to serve and be -served; and at times Mrs. Anderson felt as if she could persuade herself -that ‘the boys,’ who were so full of that kindly and tender<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> gallantry -which young men can pay to a woman old enough to be their mother, were -in reality her own as much as the girls were—if not sons, nephews at -the least. She said this to herself, by way, I fear, of excusing -herself, and placing little pleasant shields of pretence between her and -the reality. To be sure, she was the soul of propriety, and never left -the young people alone together; but, as she said, ‘at whatever cost to -herself,’ bore them company in all their rambles. But yet sometimes a -recollection of Mr. Courtenay would cross her mind in an uncomfortable -way. And sometimes a still more painful chill would seize her when she -thought of Kate, who was thus thrown constantly into the society of the -Berties. Kate treated them with the easiest friendliness, and they were -sincerely (as Mrs. Anderson believed) brotherly to her. But, still, they -were all young; and who could tell what fancies the girl might take into -her head? These two thoughts kept her uncomfortable. But yet the life -was happy and bright; and Ombra was happy. Her cloud of temper had -passed away; her rebellions and philosophies had alike vanished into the -air. She was brighter than ever she had been in her life—more loving -and more sympathetic. Life ran on like a Summer day, though the -Tramontana sometimes blew, and the dining-room was cold as San Lorenzo; -but all was warm, harmonious, joyous within.</p> - -<p>Kate, for one, never troubled her head to ask why. She accepted the -delightful change with unquestioning pleasure. It was perfectly simple -to her that her cousin should get well—that the cloud should disperse. -In her thoughtlessness she did not even attribute this to any special -cause, contenting herself with the happy fact that so it was.</p> - -<p>‘How delightful it is that Ombra should have got so well!’ she said, -with genuine pleasure, to her aunt.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, looking at her wistfully. ‘It is the -Italian air—it works like a charm.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think it is the air,’ said Kate—‘privately, auntie, I think -the Italian air is dreadfully chilly—at least, when one is out of the -sun. It is the fun, and the stir, and the occupation. Fun is an -excellent thing, and having something to do—— Now, don’t say no, -please, for I am quite sure of it. I feel so much happier, too.’</p> - -<p>‘What makes you happier, my darling?’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a very -anxious look.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! I don’t know—everything,’ said Kate; and she gave her aunt a kiss, -and went off singing, balancing a basket on her head with the pretty -action of the girls whom she saw every day carrying water from the -fountain.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson was alone, and this pretty picture dwelt in her mind, and -gave her a great deal of thought. Was it only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> fun and occupation, as -the girl said?—or was there something else unknown to Kate dawning in -her heart, and making her life bright, all unconsciously to herself? -‘They are both as brothers to her,’ Mrs. Anderson said to herself, with -pain and fear; and then she repeated to herself how good they were, what -true gentlemen, how incapable of any pretence which could deceive even -so innocent a girl as Kate. The truth was, Mrs. Anderson’s uneasiness -increased every day. She was doing by Kate as she would that another -should not do by Ombra. She was doubly kind and tender, lavishing -affection and caresses upon her, but she was not considering Kate’s -interest, or carrying out Mr. Courtenay’s conditions. And what could she -do? The happiness of her own child was involved; she was bound hand and -foot by her love for Ombra. ‘Then,’ she would say to herself, ‘Kate is -getting no harm. She is eighteen past—quite old enough to be -“out”—indeed, it would be wrong of me to deny her what pleasure I can, -and it is not as if I took her wherever we were asked. I am sure, so far -as I am concerned, I should have liked much better to go to the -Morrises—nice, pleasant people, not too grand to make friends of—but I -refused, for Kate’s sake. She shall go nowhere but in the <i>very best -society</i>. Her uncle himself could not do better for her than Lady -Granton or Lady Caryisfort—most likely not half so well; and he will be -hard to please indeed if he is discontented with that,’ Mrs. Anderson -said to herself. But notwithstanding all these specious pleadings at -that secret bar, where she was at once judge and advocate and culprit, -she did not succeed in obtaining a favourable verdict; all she could do -was to put the thought away from her by times, and persuade herself that -no harm could ensue.</p> - -<p>‘Look at Ombra now,’ Kate said, on the same afternoon to Francesca, -whose Florentine lore she held in great estimation. Her conversation -with her aunt had brought the subject to her mind, and a little -curiosity about it had awakened within her when she thought it over. -‘See what change of air has done, as I told you it would—and change of -scene.’</p> - -<p>‘Mees Katta,’ said Francesca, ‘change of air is very good—I say nothing -against that—but, as I have remarked on other occasions, one must not -form one’s opinion on ze surface. Mademoiselle Ombra has <i>changed ze -mind</i>.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! yes, I know you said she must do that, and you never go back from -what you once said; but, Francesca, I don’t understand you in the least. -How has she changed her mind?’</p> - -<p>‘If Mademoiselle would know, it is best to ask Mees Ombra her-self,’ -said Francesca, ‘not one poor servant, as has no way to know.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ cried Kate, flushing scarlet, ‘when, you are so humble<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span> there is -an end of everything—I know that much by this time. There! I will ask -Ombra herself; I will not have you make me out to be underhand. Ombra, -come here one moment, please. I am so glad you are better; it makes me -happy to see you look like your old self; but tell me one thing—my aunt -says it is the change of air, and I say it is change of scene and plenty -to do. Now, tell me which it is—I want to know.’</p> - -<p>Ombra had been passing the open door; she came and stood in the doorway, -with one hand upon the lintel. A pretty, flitting, evanescent colour had -come upon her pale cheek, and there was now always a dewy look of -feeling in her eyes, which made them beautiful. She stood and smiled, in -the soft superiority of her elder age, upon the girl who questioned her. -Her colour deepened a little, her eyes looked as if there was dew in -them, ready to fall. ‘I am better,’ she said, in a voice which seemed to -Kate to be full of combined and harmonious notes—‘I am better without -knowing why—I suppose because God is so good.’</p> - -<p>And then she went away softly, crooning the song which she had been -humming to herself, in the lightness of her heart, as her cousin called -her. Kate was struck with violent shame and self-disgust. ‘Oh, how -wicked I am!’ she said, rushing to her own room and shutting herself in. -And there she had a short but refreshing cry, though she was by no means -given to tears. She had been brought up piously, to be sure—going to -church, attending to her ‘religious duties,’ as a well-brought-up young -woman ought to do. But it had not occurred to her to give any such -visionary reason for anything that had happened to her. Kate preferred -secondary causes, to tell the truth. But there was something more than -met the ear in what Ombra said. How was it that God had been so good? -Kate was very reverential of this new and unanswerable cause for her -cousin’s restoration. But how was it?—there was still something, which -she did not fathom, beyond.</p> - -<p>Such pleasant days these were! When ‘the boys’ came to pay their -greetings in the morning, ‘Where shall we go to-day?’ was the usual -question. They went to the pictures two or three days in the week, -seeing every scrap of painting that was to be found anywhere—from the -great galleries, where all was light and order, to the little -out-of-the-way churches, which hid, in the darkness of their heart of -hearts, some one precious morsel of an altar-piece, carefully veiled -from the common public. And, in the intervals, they would wander through -the streets, learning the very houses by heart; gazing into the shop -windows, at the mosaics, on the Lung-Arno; at the turquoises and pearls, -which then made the Ponte Vecchio a soft blaze of colour, blue and -white; at the curiosity shops, and those hung<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> about with copies in -which Titian was done into weakness, and Raphael to imbecility. Every -bit of Florence was paced over by these English feet, one pair of which -were often very tired, but never shrunk from the duty before them. Most -frequently ‘the boys’ returned to luncheon, which even Mrs. Anderson, -who knew better, was prejudiced enough to create into a steady-going -English meal. In the afternoon, if they drove with Lady Caryisfort to -the Cascine, the Berties came to the carriage-windows to tell them all -that was going on; to bring them bouquets; to point out every new face. -When they went to the theatre or opera in the evening, again the same -indefatigable escort accompanied and made everything smooth for them. -When they had invitations, the Berties, too, were invariably of the -party. When they stayed at home the young men, even when not invited, -would always manage to present themselves during the evening, uniting in -pleasant little choruses of praise to Mrs. Anderson for staying at home. -‘After all, this is the best,’ the young hypocrites would say; and one -of them would read while the ladies worked; or there would be ‘a little -music,’ in which Ombra was the chief performer. Thus, from the beginning -of the day to the end, they were scarcely separated, except for -intervals, which gave freshness ever renewed to their meeting. It was -like ‘a family party;’ so Mrs. Anderson said to herself a dozen times in -a day.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLI" id="CHAPTER_XLI"></a>CHAPTER XLI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">‘Come</span> and tell me all about yourself, Kate,’ said Lady Caryisfort, from -her sofa. She had a cold, and was half an invalid. She had kept Kate -with her while the others went out, after paying their call. Lady -Caryisfort had enveloped her choice of Kate in the prettiest excuses: ‘I -wish one of you girls would give up the sunshine, and stay and keep me -company,’ she had said. ‘Let me see—no, I will not choose Ombra, for -Ombra has need of all the air that is to be had; but Kate is strong—an -afternoon’s seclusion will not make any difference to her. Spare me -Kate, please, Mrs. Anderson. I want some one to talk to—I want -something pleasant to look at. Let her stay and dine with me, and in the -evening I will send her home.’</p> - -<p>So it had been settled; and Kate was in the great, somewhat dim -drawing-room, which was Lady Caryisfort’s abode. The house was one of -the great palazzi in one of the less-known streets of Florence. It was -on the sunny side, but long ago the sun had retreated behind the high -houses opposite. The great lofty palace itself was like a mountain side, -and half way down this mountain side came the tall windows, draped with -dark velvet and white muslin, which looked out into the deep ravine, -called a street, below. The room was very large and lofty, and had -openings on two sides, enveloped in heavy velvet curtains, into two -rooms beyond. The two other side walls were covered with large frescoes, -almost invisible in this premature twilight; for it was not late, and -the top rooms in the palace, which were inhabited by Cesare, the -mosaic-worker, still retained the sunshine. All the decorations were of -a grandiose character; the velvet hangings were dark, though warm in -colour; a cheerful wood fire threw gleams of variable reflection here -and there into the tall mirrors; and Lady Caryisfort, wrapped in a huge -soft white shawl, which looked like lace, but was Shetland wool, lay on -a sofa under one of the frescoes. As the light varied, there would -appear now a head, now an uplifted arm, out of the historical -composition above. The old world was all about in the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> walls, in the -waning light, in the grand proportions of the place; but the dainty lady -in her shawl, the dainty table with its pretty tea-service, which stood -within reach of her hand, and Kate, whose bloom not even the twilight -could obliterate, belonged not to the old, but the new. There was a low, -round chair, a kind of luxurious shell, covered with the warm, dark -velvet, on the other side of the little table.</p> - -<p>‘Come and sit down beside me here,’ said Lady Caryisfort, ‘and tell me -all about yourself.’</p> - -<p>‘There is not very much to tell,’ said Kate, ‘if you mean facts; but if -it is <i>me</i> you want to know about, then there is a little more. Which -would you like best?’</p> - -<p>‘I thought you were a fact.’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose I am,’ said Kate, with a laugh. ‘I never thought of that. But -then, of course, between the facts that have happened to me and this -fact, Kate Courtenay, there is a good deal of difference. Which would -you like best? Me? But, then, where must I begin?’</p> - -<p>‘As early as you can remember,’ said the inquisitor; ‘and, recollect, I -should most likely have sought you out, and known all about you long -before this, if you had stayed at Langton—so you may be perfectly frank -with me.’</p> - -<p>To tell the truth, all the little scene had been got up on purpose for -this confidential talk; the apparently chance choice of Kate as a -companion, and even Lady Caryisfort’s cold, were means to an end. Kate -was of her own county, she was of her own class, she was thrown into a -position which Lady Caryisfort thought was not the one she ought to have -filled, and with all the fervour of a lively fancy and benevolent -meaning she had thrown herself into this little ambush. The last words -were just as near a mistake as it was possible for words to be, for Kate -had no notion of being anything but frank; and the little assurance that -she might be so safely almost put her on her guard.</p> - -<p>‘You would not have been allowed to seek me out,’ said Kate. ‘Uncle -Courtenay had made up his mind I was to know nobody—I am sure I don’t -know why. He used to send me a new governess every year. It was the -greatest chance that I was allowed to keep even Maryanne. He thought -servants ought to be changed; and I am afraid,’ said Kate, with -humility, ‘that I was not at all <i>nice</i> when I was at home.’</p> - -<p>‘My poor child! I don’t believe you were ever anything but nice.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Kate, taking hold of the caressing hand which was laid on her -arm; ‘you can’t think how disagreeable I was till I was fifteen; then my -dear aunt—my good aunt, whom you don’t like so much as you might——’</p> - -<p>‘How do you know that, you little witch?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh, I know very well! She came home to England, after being years away, -and she wrote to my uncle, asking if she might see me, and he was -horribly worried with me at the time,’ said Kate. ‘I had worried him so -that he could not eat his dinner even in peace—and Uncle Courtenay -likes his dinner—so he wrote and said she might have me altogether if -she pleased; and though he gave the very worst account of me, and said -all the harm he could, auntie started off directly and took me home.’</p> - -<p>‘That was kind of her, Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘Kind of her! Oh, it was a great deal more than kind! Fancy how I felt -when she cried and kissed me! I am not sure that anybody had ever kissed -me before, and I was such a stupid—such a thing without a soul—that I -was quite astonished when she cried. I actually asked her why? Whenever -I think of it I feel my cheeks grow crimson.’ And here Kate, with a -pretty gesture, laid one of Lady Caryisfort’s soft rose-tipped fingers -upon her burning cheek.</p> - -<p>‘You poor dear child! Well, I understand why Mrs. Anderson cried, and it -was nice of her; but <i>après</i>,’ said Kate’s confessor.</p> - -<p>‘<i>Après?</i> I was at home; I was as happy as the day was long. I got to be -like other girls; they never paid any attention to me, and they petted -me from morning to night.’</p> - -<p>‘But how could that be?’ said Lady Caryisfort, whose understanding was -not quite equal to the strain thus put upon it.</p> - -<p>‘I forgot all about myself after that,’ said Kate. ‘I was just like -other girls. Ombra thought me rather a bore at first; but, fortunately, -I never found that out till she had got over it. She had always been -auntie’s only child, and I think she was a trifle—jealous; I have an -idea,’ said Kate——‘But how wicked I am to go and talk of Ombra’s -faults to you!’</p> - -<p>‘Never mind; I shall never repeat anything you tell me,’ said the -confidante.</p> - -<p>‘Well, I think, if she has a weakness, it is that perhaps she likes to -be first. I don’t mean in any vulgar way,’ said Kate, suddenly flushing -red as she saw a smile on her companion’s face, ‘but with people she -loves. She would not like (naturally) to see her mother love anyone else -as much as her! or even she would not like to see me——’</p> - -<p>‘And how about other people?’ cried Lady Caryisfort, amused.</p> - -<p>‘About other people I do not know what to say; I don’t think she has -ever been tried,’ said Kate, with a grave and puzzled look. ‘She has -always been first, without any question—or, at least, so I think; but -that is puzzling—that is more difficult. I would rather not go into -that question, for, by-the-bye, this is all about Ombra—it is not about -me.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span></p> - -<p>‘That is true,’ said Lady Caryisfort; ‘we must change the subject, for I -don’t want you to tell me your cousin’s secrets, Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘Secrets! She has not any,’ said Kate, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>‘Are you quite sure of that?’</p> - -<p>‘Sure of Ombra! Of course I must be. If I were not quite sure of Ombra, -whom could I believe in? There are no secrets,’ said Kate, with a little -pride, ‘among us.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor child!’ thought Lady Caryisfort to herself; but she said nothing, -though, after a while, she asked gently, ‘Were you glad to come abroad? -I suppose it was your guardian’s wish?’</p> - -<p>Once more Kate laughed.</p> - -<p>‘That is the funniest thing of all,’ she said. ‘He came to pay us a -visit; and fancy he, who never could bear me to have a single companion, -arrived precisely on my birthday, when we were much gayer than usual, -and had a croquet party! It was as good as a play to see his face. But -he made my aunt promise to take us abroad. I suppose he thought we could -make no friends abroad.’</p> - -<p>‘But in that he has evidently been mistaken, Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know. Except yourself, Lady Caryisfort, what friends have we -made? You have been very kind, and as nice as it is possible to be——’</p> - -<p>‘Thanks, dear. The benefit has been mine,’ said Lady Caryisfort, in an -undertone.</p> - -<p>‘But we don’t call Lady Granton a friend,’ continued Kate, ‘nor the -people who have left cards and sent us invitations since they met us -there. And until we came to Florence we had not met you.’</p> - -<p>‘But then there are these two young men—Mr. Eldridge and Mr. Hardwick.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! the Berties,’ said Kate; and she laughed. ‘<i>They</i> don’t count, -surely; they are old friends. We did not require to come to Italy to -make acquaintance with them.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps you came to Italy to avoid them?’ said Lady Caryisfort, drawing -her bow at a venture.</p> - -<p>Kate looked her suddenly in the face with a start; but the afternoon had -gradually grown darker, and neither could make out what was in the -other’s face.</p> - -<p>‘Why should we come to Italy to avoid them?’ said Kate, gravely.</p> - -<p>Her new seriousness quite changed the tone of her voice. She was -thinking of Ombra and all the mysterious things that had happened that -Summer day after the yachting. It was more than a year ago, and she had -almost forgotten; but somehow, Kate could not tell how, the Berties had -been woven in with the family existence ever since.</p> - -<p>Lady Caryisfort gave her gravity a totally different meaning, ‘So that -is how it is,’ she said to herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span></p> - -<p>‘If I were you, Kate,’ she said aloud, ‘I would write and tell my -guardian all about it, and who the people are whom you are acquainted -with here. I think he has a right to know. Would he be quite pleased -that the Berties, as you call them, should be with you so much? Pardon -me if I say more than I ought.’</p> - -<p>‘The Berties!’ said Kate, now fairly puzzled. ‘What has Uncle Courtenay -to do with the Berties? He is not Ombra’s guardian, but only mine: and -<i>they</i> have nothing to do with me.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! perhaps I am mistaken,’ said Lady Caryisfort; and she changed the -subject dexterously, leading Kate altogether away from this too decided -suggestion. They talked afterwards of everything in earth and heaven; -but at the end of that little dinner, which they ate <i>tête-à-tête</i>, Kate -returned to the subject which in the meantime had been occupying a great -part of her thoughts.</p> - -<p>‘I have been thinking of what you said about Uncle Courtenay,’ she said, -quite abruptly, after a pause. ‘I do write to him about once every -month, and I always tell him whom we are seeing. I don’t believe he ever -reads my letters. He is always paying visits through the Winter when -Parliament is up, and I always direct to him at home. I don’t suppose he -ever reads them. But that, of course, is not my fault, and whenever we -meet anyone new I tell him. We don’t conceal anything; my aunt never -permits that.’</p> - -<p>‘And I am sure it is your own feeling too,’ cried Lady Caryisfort. ‘It -is always best.’</p> - -<p>And she dismissed the subject, not feeling herself possessed of -sufficient information to enter into it more fully. She was a little -shaken in her own theory on the subject of the Berties, one of whom at -least she felt convinced must have designs on Kate’s fortune. That was -‘only natural;’ but at least Kate was not aware of it. And Lady -Caryisfort was half annoyed and half pleased when one of her friends -asked admittance in the evening, bringing with her the young Count -Buoncompagni, whom Kate had met at the Embassy. It was a Countess -Strozzi, an aunt of his, and an intimate of Lady Caryisfort’s, who was -his introducer. There was nothing to be said against the admission of a -good young man who had come to escort his aunt in her visit to her -invalid friend, but it was odd that they should have chosen that -particular night, and no other. Kate was in her morning dress, as she -had gone to make a morning call, and was a little troubled to be so -discovered; but girls look well in anything, as Lady Caryisfort said to -herself, with a sigh.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLII" id="CHAPTER_XLII"></a>CHAPTER XLII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was about this time, about two months after their arrival in -Florence, and when the bright and pleasant ‘family life’ we have been -describing had gone on for about six weeks in unbroken harmony, that -there began to breathe about Kate, like a vague, fitful wind, such as -sometimes rises in Autumn or Spring, one can’t tell how or from whence, -a curious sense of isolation, of being somehow left out and put aside in -the family party. For some time the sensation was quite indefinite. She -felt chilled by it; she could not tell how. Then she would find herself -sitting alone in a corner, while the others were grouped together, -without being able to explain to herself how it happened. It had -happened several times, indeed, before she thought of attempting to -explain so strange an occurrence; and then she said to herself that of -course it was mere chance, or that she herself must have been sulky, and -nobody else was aware.</p> - -<p>A day or two, however, after her visit to Lady Caryisfort, there came a -little incident which could not be quite chance. In the evening Mrs. -Anderson sat down by her, and began to talk about indifferent subjects, -with a little air of constraint upon her, the air of one who has -something not quite pleasant to say. Kate’s faculties had been quickened -by the change which she had already perceived, and she saw that -something was coming, and was chafed by this preface, as only a very -frank and open nature can be. She longed to say, ‘Tell me what it is, -and be done with it.’ But she had no excuse for such an outcry. Mrs. -Anderson only introduced her real subject after at least an hour’s talk.</p> - -<p>‘By-the-bye,’ she said—and Kate knew in a moment that now it was -coming—‘we have an invitation for to-morrow, dear, which I wish to -accept, for Ombra and myself, but I don’t feel warranted in taking -you—and, at the same time, I don’t like the idea of leaving you.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! pray don’t think of me, aunt,’ said Kate, quickly. A flush of -evanescent anger at this mode of making it known suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> came over -her. But, in reality, she was half stunned, and could not believe her -ears. It made her vague sense of desertion into something tangible at -once. It realised all her vague feelings of being one too many. But, at -the same time, it stupefied her. She could not understand it. She did -not look up, but listened with eyes cast down, and a pain which she did -not understand in her heart.</p> - -<p>‘But I must think of you, my darling,’ said Mrs. Anderson, in a voice -which, at this moment, rung false and insincere in the girl’s ears, and -seemed to do her a positive harm. ‘How is it possible that I should not -think of you? It is an old friend of mine, a merchant from Leghorn, who -has bought a place in the country about ten miles from Florence. He is a -man who has risen from nothing, and so has his wife, but they are kind -people all the same, and used to be good to me when I was poor. Lady -Barker is going—for she, too, you know, is of my old set at Leghorn, -and, though she has risen in the world, she does not throw off people -who are rich. But I don’t think your uncle would like it, if I took -<i>you</i> there. You know how very careful I have been never to introduce -you to anybody he could find fault with. I have declined a great many -pleasant invitations here, for that very reason.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! please, aunt, don’t think of doing so any more,’ cried Kate, stung -to the heart. ‘Don’t deprive yourself of anything that is pleasant, for -me. I am very well. I am quite happy. I don’t require anything more than -I have here. Go, and take Ombra, and never mind me.’</p> - -<p>And the poor child had great difficulty in refraining from tears. -Indeed, but for the fact that it would have looked like crying for a -lost pleasure, which Kate, who was stung by a very different feeling, -despised, she would not have been able to restrain herself. As it was, -her voice trembled, and her cheeks burned.</p> - -<p>‘Kate, I don’t think you are quite just to me,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘You -know very well that neither in love, nor in anything else, have I made a -difference between Ombra and you. But in this one thing I must throw -myself upon your generosity, dear. When I say your generosity, Kate, I -mean that you should put the best interpretation on what I say, not the -worst.’</p> - -<p>‘I did not mean to put any interpretation,’ said Kate, drawn two ways, -and ashamed now of her anger. ‘Why should you explain to me, auntie, or -make a business of it? Say you are going somewhere to-morrow, and you -think it best I should not go. That is enough. Why should you say a word -more?’</p> - -<p>‘Because I wanted to treat you like a woman, not like a child, and to -tell you the reason,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span> we will say no more -about it, as those boys are coming. I do hope, however, that you -understand me, Kate.’</p> - -<p>Kate could make no answer, as ‘the boys’ appeared at this moment; but -she said to herself sadly, ‘No, I don’t understand—I can’t tell what it -means,’ with a confused pain which was very hard to bear. It was the -first time she had been shaken in her perfect faith in the two people -who had brought her to life, as she said. She did not rush into the -middle of the talk, as had once been her practice, but sat, chilled, in -her corner, wondering what had come over her. For it was not only that -the others were changed—a change had come upon herself also. She was -chilled; she could not tell how. Instead of taking the initiative, as -she used to do, in the gay and frank freshness which everybody had -believed to be the very essence of her character, she sat still, and -waited to be called, to be appealed to. Even when she became herself -conscious of this, and tried to shake it off, she could not succeed. She -was bound as in chains; she could not get free.</p> - -<p>And when the next morning came, and Kate, with a dull amaze which she -could not overcome, saw the party go off with the usual escort, the only -difference being that Lady Barker occupied her own usual place, her -feelings were not to be described. She watched them from the balcony -while they got into the carriage, and arranged themselves gaily. She -looked down upon them and laughed too, and bade them enjoy themselves. -She met the wistful look in Mrs. Anderson’s eyes with a smile, and, -recovering her courage for the moment, made it understood that she meant -to pass an extremely pleasant day by herself. But when they drove away, -Kate went in, and covered her eyes with her hands. It was not the -pleasure, whatever that might be; but why was she left behind? What had -she done that they wanted her no longer?—that they found her in the -way? It was the first slight she had ever had to bear, and it went to -her very heart.</p> - -<p>It was a lovely bright morning in December. Lovely mornings in December -are rare in England; but even in England there comes now and then a -winter day which is a delight and luxury, when the sky is blue, crisper, -profounder than summer, when the sun is resplendent, pouring over -everything the most lavish and overwhelming light; when the atmosphere -is still as old age is when it is beautiful—stilled, chastened, -subdued, with no possibility of uneasy winds or movement of life; but -all quietness, and now and then one last leaf fluttering down from the -uppermost boughs. Such a morning in Florence is divine. The great old -houses stand up, expanding, as it were, erecting their old heads -gratefully into the sun and blueness of the sphere; the old towers rise, -poising themselves, light as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span> birds, yet strong as giants, in that -magical atmosphere. The sun-lovers throng to the bright side of the way, -and bask and laugh and grow warm and glad. And in the distance the -circling hills stand round about the plain, and smile from all their -heights in fellow-feeling with the warm and comforted world below. One -little girl, left alone in a sunny room on the Lung-Arno in such a -morning, with nothing but her half-abandoned tasks to amuse her, nobody -to speak to, nothing to think of but a vague wrong done to herself, -which she does not understand, is not in a cheerful position, though -everything about her is so cheerful; and Kate’s heart sank down—down to -her very slippers.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t understand why you shouldn’t come,’ said some one, bursting in -suddenly. ‘Oh! I beg your pardon; I did not mean to be so abrupt.’</p> - -<p>For Kate had been crying. She dashed away her tears with an indignant -hand, and looked at Bertie with defiance. Then the natural reaction came -to her assistance. He looked so scared and embarrassed standing there, -with his hat in his hand, breathless with haste, and full of -compunction. She laughed in spite of herself.</p> - -<p>‘I am not so ashamed as if it had been anyone else,’ she said. ‘<i>You</i> -have seen me cry before. Oh! it is not for the expedition; it is only -because I thought they did not want me, that was all.’</p> - -<p>‘<i>I</i> wanted you,’ said Bertie, still breathless, and under his breath.</p> - -<p>Kate looked up wondering, and suddenly met his eye, and they both -blushed crimson. Why? She laughed to shake it off, feeling, somehow, a -pleasanter feeling about her heart.</p> - -<p>‘It was very kind of you,’ she said; ‘but, you know, you don’t count; -you are only one of the boys. You have come back for something?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Lady Barker’s bag, with her fan and her gloves, and her -eau-de-Cologne.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Lady Barker’s. There it is, I suppose. I hate Lady Barker!’ cried -Kate.</p> - -<p>‘And so do I; and to see her in your place——’</p> - -<p>‘Never mind about that. Go away, please, or you will be late; and I hope -you will have a pleasant day all the same.’</p> - -<p>‘Not without you,’ said Bertie; and he took her hand, and for one moment -seemed doubtful what to do with it. What was he going to do with it? The -thought flashed through Kate’s mind with a certain amusement; but he -thought better of the matter, and did nothing. He dropped her hand, -blushing violently again, and then turned and fled, leaving her consoled -and amused, and in a totally changed condition. What did he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> mean to do -with the hand he had taken? Kate held it up and looked at it carefully, -and laughed till the tears came to her eyes. He had meant to kiss it, -she felt sure, and Kate had never yet had her hand kissed by mortal man; -but he had thought better of it. It was ‘like Bertie.’ She was so much -amused that her vexation went altogether out of her mind.</p> - -<p>And in the afternoon Lady Caryisfort called and took her out. When she -heard the narrative of Kate’s loneliness, Lady Caryisfort nodded her -head approvingly, and said it was very nice of Mrs. Anderson, and quite -what ought to have been. Upon which Kate became ashamed of herself, and -was convinced that she was the most ungrateful and guilty of girls.</p> - -<p>‘A distinction must be made,’ said Lady Caryisfort, ‘especially as it is -now known who you are. For Miss Anderson it is quite different, and her -mother, of course, must not neglect her interests.’</p> - -<p>‘How funny that anyone’s interests should be affected by an invitation!’ -said Kate, with one of those unintentional revelations of her sense of -her own greatness which were so amusing to her friends. And Count -Buoncompagni came to her side of the carriage when they got to the -Cascine. It was entirely under Lady Caryisfort’s wing that their -acquaintance had been formed, and nobody, accordingly, could have a word -to say against it. Though she could not quite get Bertie (as she said) -out of her head after the incident of the morning, the young Italian was -still a very pleasant companion. He talked well, and told her about the -people as none of the English could do. ‘There is Roscopanni, who was -the first out in ’48, he said. ‘He was nearly killed at Novara. But -perhaps you do not care to hear about our patriots?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! but I do,’ cried Kate, glowing into enthusiasm; and Count Antonio -was nothing loth to be her instructor. He confessed that he himself had -been ‘out,’ as Fergus MacIvor, had he survived it, might have confessed, -to the ’45. Kate had her little prejudices, like all English girls—her -feeling of the inferiority of ‘foreigners,’ and their insincerity and -theatrical emotionalness. But Count Antonio took her imagination by -storm. He was handsome; he had the sonorous masculine voice which suits -Italian best, and does most justice to its melodious splendour; yet he -did not speak much Italian, but only a little now and then, to give her -courage to speak it. Even French, however, which was their general -medium of communication, was an exercise to Kate, who had little -practice in any language but her own. Then he told her about his own -family, and that they were poor, with a frankness which went to Kate’s -heart; and she told him, as best she could, about Francesca, and how she -had heard the history of the Buoncompagni—‘before ever I saw you,’ Kate -said, stretching the fact a little.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span></p> - -<p>Thus the young man was emboldened to propose to Lady Caryisfort a visit -to his old palace and its faded glories. There were some pictures he -thought that <i>ces dames</i> would like to look at. ‘Still some pictures, -though not much else,’ he said, ending off with a bit of English, and a -shrug of his shoulders, and a laugh at his own poverty; and an -appointment was made before the carriage drove off.</p> - -<p>‘The Italians are not ashamed of being poor,’ said Kate, with animation, -as they went home.</p> - -<p>‘If they were, they might as well give in at once, for they are all -poor,’ said Lady Caryisfort, with British contempt. But Kate, who was -rich, thought all the more of the noble young Florentine, with his old -palace and his pictures. And then he had been ‘out.’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIII" id="CHAPTER_XLIII"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Kate</span> took it upon herself to make unusual preparations for the supper on -that particular evening. She decorated the table with her own hands, and -coaxed Francesca to the purchase of various dainties beyond the -ordinary.</p> - -<p>‘They will be tired; they will want something when they come back,’ she -said.</p> - -<p>‘Mademoiselle is very good; it is angelic to be so kind after what has -passed—after the affair of the morning,’ said Francesca. ‘If I had been -in Mademoiselle’s place, I do not think I should have been able to show -so much education. For my part, it has yet to be explained to me how my -lady could go to amuse herself and leave Mees Katta alone here.’</p> - -<p>‘Francesca, don’t talk nonsense,’ said Kate. ‘I quite approve what my -aunt did. She is always right, whatever anyone may think.’</p> - -<p>‘It is very likely, Mees Katta,’ said Francesca; ‘but I shall know ze -why, or I will not be happy. It is not like my lady. She is no besser -than a slave with her Ombra. But I shall know ze why; I shall know ze -reason why!’</p> - -<p>‘Then don’t tell me, please, for I don’t wish to be cross again,’ said -Kate, continuing her preparations. ‘Only I do hope they won’t bring Lady -Barker with them,’ she added to herself. Lady Barker was the scapegoat -upon whom Kate spent her wrath. She forgave the other, but her she had -made up her mind not to forgive. It was night when the party came home. -Kate rushed to the balcony to see them arrive, and looked on; without, -however, making her presence known. There was but lamplight this time, -but enough to show how Ombra sprang out of the carriage, and how -thoroughly the air of a successful expedition hung about the party. -‘Well!’ said Kate to herself, ‘and I have had a pleasant day too.’ She -ran to the door to welcome them, but, perhaps, made her appearance -inopportunely. Ombra was coming upstairs hand in hand with some one—it -was not like her usual gravity—and when the pair saw the door open they -separated, and came up the remaining steps each alone. This was odd, and -startled Kate. Then, when she asked, ‘Have you had a pleasant day?’ some -one answered, ‘The most delightful day that ever was!’ with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> an -enthusiasm that wounded her feelings—she could not tell why. Was it -indeed Bertie Hardwick who said that? he who had spoken so differently -in the morning? Kate stood aghast, and asked no more questions. She -would have let the two pass her, but Ombra put an arm round her waist -and drew her in.</p> - -<p>‘Oh Kate, listen, I am so happy!’ said Ombra, whispering in her ear. -‘Don’t be vexed about anything, dear; you shall know it all afterwards. -I am so happy!’</p> - -<p>This was said in the little dark ante-room, where there were no lights, -and Kate could only give her cousin a hasty kiss before she danced away. -Bertie, for his part, in the dark, too, said nothing at all. He did not -explain the phrase—‘The most delightful day that ever was!’ ‘Well!’ -said poor Kate to herself, gulping down a little discomfort—‘well! I -have had a pleasant day too.’</p> - -<p>And then what a gay supper it was!—gayer than usual; gayer than she had -ever known it! She did not feel as if she were quite in the secret of -their merriment. They had been together all day, while she had been -alone; they had all the jokes of the morning to carry on, and a hundred -allusions which fell flat upon Kate. She had been put on her generosity, -it was true, and would not, for the world, have shown how much below the -general tone of hilarity she was; but she was not in the secret, and -very soon she felt ready to flag. When she put in her experiences of the -day, a momentary polite attention was given, but everybody’s mind was -elsewhere. Mrs. Anderson had a half-frightened, half-puzzled look, and -now and then turned affecting glances upon Kate; but Ombra was radiant. -Never had she looked so beautiful; her eyes shone like two stars; her -faint rose-colour went and came; her face was lit with soft smiles and -happiness. All sorts of fancies crossed Kate’s mind. She looked at the -young men, who were both in joyous spirits—but either her -discrimination failed her, or her eyes were dim, or her understanding -clouded. Altogether Kate was in a maze, and did not know what to do or -think; they stayed till it was very late, and both Ombra and her mother -went to close and lock the door after them when they went away, leaving -Kate once more alone. She sat still at a corner of the table, and -listened to the voices and laughter still at the door. Bertie Hardwick’s -voice, she thought, was the one she heard most. They were all so happy, -and she only listening to it, not knowing what it meant! Then, when the -door was finally locked, Mrs. Anderson came back to her alone. ‘Ombra -has gone to bed,’ she said. ‘She is tired, though she has enjoyed it so -very much. And, my dear child, you must go to bed too. It is too late -for you to be up.’</p> - -<p>‘But you have had a very pleasant day.’</p> - -<p>‘They have—oh yes!’ said Mrs Anderson. ‘The young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> ones have been very -happy; but it has not been a pleasant day to me. I have so many -anxieties; and then to think of you by yourself at home.’</p> - -<p>‘I was not by myself,’ said Kate. Lady Caryisfort called and took me -out.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! Lady Caryisfort is very kind,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a tone, -however, in which there was neither delight nor gratitude; and then she -put her arm round her niece, and leaned upon her. ‘Ah!’ she said again, -‘I can see how it will be! They will wean you away from me. You who have -never given me a moment’s uneasiness, who have been such a good child to -me! I suppose it must be so—and I ought not to complain.’</p> - -<p>‘But, auntie,’ said Kate, bewildered, ‘nobody tries to take me from -you—nobody wants me, that I know of—even you——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘even I. I know. And I shall have to put up -with that too. Oh! Kate, I know more than one of us will live to regret -this day;—but nobody so much as I.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t understand you. Auntie, you are over-tired. You ought to be -asleep.’</p> - -<p>‘You will understand me some time,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘and then you -will recollect what I said. But don’t ask me any questions, dear. -Good-night.’</p> - -<p>Good night! She had been just as happy as any of the party, Kate -reflected, half an hour before, and her voice had been audible from the -door, full of pleasantness and the melody of content. Was the change a -fiction, got up for her own benefit, or was there something mysterious -lying under it all? Kate could not tell, but it may be supposed how -heart-sick and weary she was when such an idea as that her dearest -friend had put on a semblance to deceive her, could have entered her -mind. She was very, very much ashamed of it, when she woke in the middle -of the night, and it all came back to her. But what was she to think? It -was the first mystery Kate had encountered, and she did not know how to -deal with it. It made her very uneasy and unhappy, and shook her faith -in everything. She lay awake for half an hour pondering it; and that was -as much to Kate as a week of sleepless nights would have been to many, -for up to this time she had no need to wake o’ nights, nor anything to -weigh upon her thoughts when she woke.</p> - -<p>Next morning, however, dissipated these mists, as morning does so often. -Ombra was very gay and bright, and much more affectionate and caressing -than usual. Kate and she, indeed, seemed to have changed places—the -shadow had turned into sunshine. It was Ombra who led the talk, who -rippled over into laughter, who petted her cousin and her mother, and -was the soul of everything. All Kate’s doubts and difficulties fled -before the unaccustomed tenderness of Ombra’s looks and words. She had -no defence against this unexpected means of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span> subjugation, and for some -time she even forgot that no explanation at all was given to her of the -events of the previous day. It had been ‘a pleasant day,’ ‘a delightful -day,’ the walk had been perfect, ‘and everything else,’ Ombra had said -at breakfast, ‘except that you were not with us, Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘And that we could not help,’ said Mrs. Anderson, into whose face a -shade of anxiety had crept. But she was not as she had been in that -mysterious moment on the previous night. There was no distress about -her. She had nearly as much happiness in her eyes as that which ran over -and overflowed in Ombra’s. Had Kate dreamed that last five minutes, and -its perplexing appearances? But Mrs. Anderson made no explanations any -more than Ombra. They chatted about the day’s entertainment, their -hosts, and many things which Kate could only half understand, but they -did not say, ‘We are so happy because of this or that.’ Through all this -affectionateness and tenderness this one blank remained, and Kate could -not forget it. They told her nothing. She was left isolated, separated, -outside of some magic circle in which they stood.</p> - -<p>The young men joined them very early, earlier even than usual; and then -this sense of separation became stronger and stronger in Kate’s mind. -Would they never have done talking of yesterday? The only thing that -refreshed her spirit a little was when she announced the engagement Lady -Caryisfort had made—‘for us all,’ Kate said, feeling a little -conscious, and pleasantly so, that she herself was, in this case, -certainly to be the principal figure—to visit the Buoncompagni palace. -Bertie Hardwick roused up immediately at the mention of this.</p> - -<p>‘Palace indeed!’ he said. ‘It is a miserable old house, all mildewed and -moth-eaten! What should we do there?’</p> - -<p>‘I am going, at least,’ said Kate, ‘with Lady Caryisfort. Count -Buoncompagni said there were some nice pictures; and I like old houses, -though you may not be of my opinion. Auntie, you will come?’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Courtenay’s taste is peculiar,’ said Bertie. ‘One knows what an -old palace, belonging to an impoverished family, means in Italy. It -means mouldy hangings, horrible old frescoes, furniture (and very little -of that) crumbling to pieces, and nothing in good condition but the coat -of arms. Buoncompagni is quite a type of the class—a young, idle, -do-nothing fellow, as noble as you like, and as poor as Job; good for -leading a cotillion, and for nothing else in this world; and living in -his mouldy old palace, like a snail in its shell.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think you need to be so severe,’ said Kate, with flashing eyes. -‘If he is poor, it is not his fault; and he is not ashamed of it, as -some people are. And, indeed, I don’t think you young men work so very -hard yourselves as to give you a right to speak.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span></p> - -<p>This was a blow most innocently given, but it went a great deal deeper -than Kate had supposed. Bertie’s countenance became crimson; he was -speechless; he could make no reply; and, like every man whose conscience -is guilty, he felt sure that she meant it, and had given him this blow -on purpose. It was a strange quarter to be assailed from; but yet, what -else could it mean? He sat silent, and bit his nails, and remembered Mr. -Sugden, and asked himself how it was that such strange critics had been -moved against him. We have said that this episode was refreshing to -Kate; but not so were the somewhat anxious arrangements which followed -on Mrs. Anderson’s part, ‘for carrying out Kate’s plan, which would be -delightful.’</p> - -<p>‘I always like going over an old palace,’ she said, with a certain -eagerness; ‘and if you gentlemen have not done it already, I am sure it -will be worth your while.’</p> - -<p>But there was very little response from anyone; and in a few minutes -more the interruption seemed to be forgotten, and they had all resumed -their discussion of the everlasting history of the previous day. Once -more Kate felt her isolation, and after awhile she escaped silently from -the room. She did not trust herself to go to her own chamber, but -retired to the chilly dining-room, and sat down alone over her Italian, -feeling rather desolate. She tried to inspire herself with the idea of -putting the Italian into practice, and by the recollection of Count -Antonio’s pretty compliments to her on the little speeches she ventured -to make in answer to his questions. ‘I must try not to make any mistakes -this time,’ she said to herself; but after five minutes she stopped and -began thinking. With a conscious effort she tried to direct her mind to -the encounter of yesterday—to Lady Caryisfort and Count Buoncompagni; -but somehow other figures would always intrude; and a dozen times at -least she roused up sharply, as from a dream, and found herself asking -again, and yet again, what had happened yesterday? Was it something -important enough to justify concealment? Was it possible, whatever it -was, that it could be concealed from <i>her</i>? What was it? Alas! poor -Count Antonio was but the ghost whom she tried to think of; while these -were the real objects that interested her. And all the time the party -remained in the drawing-room, not once going out. She could hear their -voices now and then when a door was opened. They stayed indoors all the -morning—a thing which had never happened before. They stayed to -luncheon. In the afternoon they all went out walking together; but even -that was not as of old. A change had come over everything—the world -itself seemed different; and what was worst of all was that this change -was pleasant to all the rest and melancholy only to Kate. She said to -herself, wistfully, ‘No doubt I would be pleased as well as the rest if -only I knew.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIV" id="CHAPTER_XLIV"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">For</span> the next few days everything was merry as marriage-bells; and though -Kate felt even the fondness and double consideration with which she was -treated when she was alone with her aunt and cousin to belong somehow to -the mystery, she had no excuse even to herself for finding fault with -it. They were very good to her. Ombra, at least, had never been so kind, -so tender, so anxious to please her. Why should she be anxious to please -her? She had never done so before; it had never been necessary; it was a -reversal of everything that was natural; and, like all the rest, it -meant something underneath, something which had to be made up for by -these superficial caresses. Kate did not go so far as this in her -articulate thoughts; but it was what she meant in the confused and -painful musings which now so often possessed her. But she could not -remonstrate, or say, ‘Why are you so unnecessarily, unusually tender? -What wrong have you done me that has to be made up for in this way?’ She -could not say this, however much she might feel it. She had to hide her -wonder and dissatisfaction in her own heart.</p> - -<p>At last the day came for the visit to the Buoncompagni palace. They were -to walk to Lady Caryisfort’s, to join her, and all had been arranged on -the previous night. The ladies were waiting, cloaked and bonneted, when -Bertie Eldridge made his appearance alone.</p> - -<p>‘I hope I have not kept you waiting,’ he said; ‘that ridiculous cousin -of mine won’t come. I don’t know what has come over him; he has taken -some absurd dislike to poor Buoncompagni, who is the best fellow in the -world. I hope you will accept my company alone.’</p> - -<p>Ombra had been the first to advance to meet him, and he stood still -holding her hand while he made his explanation. She dropped it, however, -with an air of disappointment and annoyance.</p> - -<p>‘Bertie will not come—when he knows that I—that we are waiting for -him! What a strange thing to do! Bertie, who is always so good; how very -annoying—when he knew we depended on him!’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span></p> - -<p>‘I told him so,’ said the other,—‘I told him what you would say; but -nothing had any effect. I don’t know what has come to Bertie of late. He -is not as he used to be; he has begun to talk of work, and all sorts of -nonsense. But to-day he will not come, and there is nothing more to be -said. It is humbling to me to see how I suffer without him; but I hope -you will try to put up with me by myself for one day.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! I cannot think what Bertie means by it. It is too provoking!’ said -Ombra, with a clouded countenance; and when they got into the street -their usual order of march was reversed, and Ombra fell behind with -Kate, whose mind was full of a very strange jumble of feeling, such as -she could not explain to herself. On ordinary occasions one or other of -the Berties was always in attendance on Ombra. To-day she indicated, in -the most decided manner, that she did not want the one who remained. He -had to walk with Mrs. Anderson, while the two girls followed together. -‘I never knew anything so provoking,’ Ombra continued, taking Kate’s -arm. ‘It is as if he had done it on purpose—to-day, too, of all days in -the world!’</p> - -<p>‘What is particular about to-day?’ said Kate, who, to tell the truth, -was at this moment less in sympathy with Ombra than she had ever been -before.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! to-day—why, there is—— well,’ said Ombra, pausing suddenly, ‘of -course there is nothing particular about to-day. But he must have known -how it would put us out—how it would spoil everything. A little party -like ours is quite changed when one is left out. You ought to see that -as well as I do. It spoils everybody’s pleasure. It changes the feeling -altogether.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think it does so always,’ said Kate. But she was generous even -at this moment, when a very great call was made on her generosity. ‘I -never heard you call Mr. Hardwick Bertie before,’ she added, not quite -generous enough to pass this over without remark.</p> - -<p>‘To himself, you mean,’ said Ombra with a slight blush. ‘We have always -called them the Berties among ourselves. But I think it is very -ridiculous for people who see so much of each other to go on saying Mr. -and Miss.’</p> - -<p>‘Do they call you Ombra, then?’ said Kate, lifting her eyebrows. Poor -child! she had been much, if secretly, exasperated, and it was not in -flesh and blood to avoid giving a mild momentary prick in return.</p> - -<p>‘I did not say so,’ said Ombra. ‘Kate, you, too, are contradictory and -uncomfortable to-day; when you see how much I am put out——’</p> - -<p>‘But I don’t see why you should be so much put out,’ said Kate, in an -undertone, as they reached Lady Caryisfort’s door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span></p> - -<p>What did it mean? This little incident plunged her into a sea of -thoughts. Up to this moment she had supposed Bertie Eldridge to be her -cousin’s favourite, and had acquiesced in that arrangement. Somehow she -did not like this so well. Kate had ceased for a long time to call -Bertie Hardwick ‘my Bertie,’ as she had once done so frankly; but still -she could not quite divest herself of the idea that he was more her own -property than anyone else’s—her oldest friend, whom she had known -before any of them. And he had been so kind the other morning, when the -others had deserted her. It gave her a strange, dull, uncomfortable -sensation to find him thus appropriated by her cousin. ‘I ought not to -mind—it can be nothing to me,’ she said to herself; but, nevertheless, -she did not like it. She was glad when they came to Lady Caryisfort’s -door, and her <i>tête-à-tête</i> with Ombra was over; and it was even -agreeable to her wounded <i>amour-propre</i> when Count Antonio came to her -side, beaming with smiles and self-congratulations at having something -to show her. He kept by Lady Caryisfort as they went on to the palazzo, -which was close by, with the strictest Italian propriety; but when they -had entered his own house the young Count did not hesitate to show that -his chief motive was Kate. He shrugged his shoulders as he led them in -through the great doorway into the court, which was full of myrtles and -greenness. There was a fountain in the centre, which trickled shrilly in -the air just touched with frost, and oleanders planted in great vases -along a terrace with a low balustrade of marble. The tall house towered -above, with all its multitudinous windows twinkling in the sun. There -was a handsome <i>loggia</i>, or balcony, over the terrace on the first -floor. It was there that the sunshine dwelt the longest, and there it -was still warm, notwithstanding the frost. This balcony had been -partially roofed in with glass, and there were some chairs placed in it -and a small white covered table.</p> - -<p>‘This is the best of my old house,’ said Count Antonio, leading them in, -hat in hand, with the sun shining on his black hair. ‘Such as it is, it -is at the service of <i>ces dames</i>; but its poor master must beg them to -be very indulgent—to make great allowances for age and poverty.’ And -then he turned and caught Kate’s eye, and bowed to the ground, and said, -‘<i>Sia padrona!</i>’ with the pretty extravagance of Italian politeness, -with a smile for the others, but with a look for herself which made her -heart flutter. ‘<i>Sia padrona</i>—consider yourself the mistress of -everything,’—words which meant nothing at all, and yet might mean so -much! And Kate, poor child, was wounded, and felt herself neglected. She -was left out by others—banished from the love and confidence that were -her due—her very rights invaded. It soothed her to feel that the young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> -Italian, in himself as romantic a figure as heart could desire, who had -been ‘out’ for his country, whose pedigree ran back to Noah, and perhaps -a good deal further, was laying his half-ruined old house and his noble -history at her feet. And the signs of poverty, which were not to be -concealed, and which Count Antonio made no attempt to conceal, went to -Kate’s heart, and conciliated her. She began to look at him, smiling -over the wreck of greatness with respect as well as interest; and when -he pointed to a great empty space in one of the noble rooms, Kate’s -heart melted altogether.</p> - -<p>‘There was our Raphael—the picture he painted for us. That went off in -’48, when my father fitted out the few men who were cut to pieces with -him at Novara. I remember crying my eyes out, half for our Madonna, half -because I was too small to go with him. Nevare mind’ (he said this in -English—it was one of his little accomplishments of which he was -proud). ‘The country is all the better; but no other picture shall ever -hang in that place—that we have sworn, my mother and I.’</p> - -<p>Kate stood and gazed up at the vacant place with an enthusiasm which -perhaps the picture itself would scarcely have called from her. Her eyes -grew big and luminous, ‘each about to have a tear.’ Something came into -her throat which prevented her from speaking; she heard a little flutter -of comments, but she could not betray the emotion she felt by trying to -add to them. ‘Oh!’ she said to herself with that consciousness of her -wealth which was at times a pleasure to her—‘oh! if I could find that -Madonna, and buy it and send it back!’ And then other thoughts -involuntarily rushed after that one—fancies, gleams of imagination, -enough to cover her face with blushes. Antonio turned back when the -party went on, and found her still looking up at the vacant place.</p> - -<p>‘It is a sad blank, is it not?’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘It is the most beautiful thing in all the house,’ said Kate; and one of -the tears fell as she looked at him, a big blob of dew upon her glove. -She looked at it in consternation, blushing crimson, ashamed of herself.</p> - -<p>Antonio did what any young Italian would have done under the -circumstances. Undismayed by the presence of an audience, he put one -knee to the ground, and touched the spot upon Kate’s little gloved thumb -with his lips; while she stood in agonies of shame, not knowing what to -do.</p> - -<p>‘The Signorina’s tear was for Italy,’ he said, as he rose; ‘and there is -not an Italian living who would not thank her for it on his knees.’</p> - -<p>He was perfectly serious, without the least sense that there could be -anything ridiculous or embarrassing in the situation; but it may be -imagined what was the effect upon the English party, all with a natural -horror of a scene.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span></p> - -<p>Lady Caryisfort, I am sorry to say, showed herself the most ill-bred -upon this occasion—she pressed her handkerchief to her lips, but could -not altogether restrain the very slightest of giggles. Ombra opened her -eyes, and looked at her mother; while poor Kate, trembling, horrified, -and overwhelmed with shame, shrank behind Mrs. Anderson.</p> - -<p>‘It was not my fault,’ she gasped.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t think anything of it, my love,’ whispered Mrs. Anderson, in -consolation. ‘They mean nothing by it—it is the commonest thing in the -world.’ A piece of consolation which was not, however, quite so -consolatory as it was intended to be.</p> - -<p>But she kept her niece by herself after this incident as long as it was -practicable; and so it came about that the party divided into three. -Lady Caryisfort and Antonio went first, Mrs. Anderson and Kate next, and -Ombra and Bertie Eldridge last of all. As Kate moved gradually on, she -heard that a very close and low-toned conversation was going on behind -her; and Ombra did not now seem so much annoyed by Bertie Hardwick’s -absence as she had been a little while ago. Was she—an awful revelation -seemed to burst upon Kate—was Ombra a coquette? She dismissed the -thought from her mind as fast as possible; but after feeling so -uncomfortable about her cousin’s sudden interest in Bertie, she could -not help feeling now a certain pity for him, as if he too, like herself, -were slighted now. Not so would Kate herself have treated anyone. It was -not in her, she said to herself, to take up and cast down, to play with -any sentiment, whether friendship or anything else; and in her heart she -condemned Ombra, though secretly she was not sorry. She was a -coquette—that was the explanation. She liked to have both the young men -at her feet, without apparently caring much for either. This was a sad -accusation to bring against Ombra, but somehow Kate felt more kindly -disposed towards her after she had struck this idea out.</p> - -<p>When they reached the <i>loggia</i>, the table was found to be covered with -an elegant little breakfast, which reminded Kate of the pretty meals to -be seen in a theatre, which form part of so many pretty comedies. It was -warm in the sunshine, and there was a <i>scaldina</i>, placed Italian -fashion, under the table, for the benefit of the chilly; and an old man, -in a faded livery, served the repast, which he had not cooked, solely -because it had been ordered from an hotel, to poor old Girolamo’s -tribulation. But his master had told him the reason why, and the old -servant had allowed that the expenditure might be a wise one. Kate -found, to her surprise, that she was the special object of the old man’s -attention. He ran off with a whole string of ‘Che! che’s,’ when he had -identified her, which he did by consultation of his master’s eye. ‘Bella -Signorina, this is from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> the old Buoncompagni vineyards,’ he said, as he -served to her some old wine; and, with another confidential movement, -touched her arm when he handed her the fruit, ‘From the gardens, -Signorina mia,’ he whispered; and the honey ‘from Count Antonio’s own -bees up on the mountains;’ and, ‘Cara Signorina mia, this the Contessa’s -own hands prepared for those beautiful lips,’ he said, with the -preserves. He hung about her; he had eyes for no one else.</p> - -<p>‘What is the old man saying to you, Kate?’ said her aunt.</p> - -<p>‘Nothing,’ answered Kate, half amused and half distressed; and she met -Count Antonio’s eye, and they both blushed, to the admiration of the -beholders.</p> - -<p>This was how the visit terminated. Old Girolamo followed them -obsequiously down the great staircase, bowing, with his hand upon his -breast, and his eyes upon the young English lady, who was as rich as the -Queen of Sheba, and as beautiful as the Holy Mother herself. And Kate’s -heart beat with all the little magic flutter of possibilities that -seemed to gather round her. If her heart had been really touched, she -would not have divined what it all meant so readily; but it was only her -imagination that was touched, and she saw all that was meant. It was the -first time that she had seen a man pose himself before her in the -attitude of love, and (though no doubt it is wrong to admit it) the -thing pleased her. She was not anxious, as she ought to have been, to -preserve Antonio’s peace of mind. She was flattered, amused, somewhat -touched. That was what he meant. And for herself, she was not unwilling -to breathe this delicate incense, and be, as other women, wooed and -worshipped. Her ideas went no further. Up to this moment it was somewhat -consolatory, and gave her something pleasant to think of. Poor old -Girolamo! Poor old palace! She liked their master all the better for -their sake.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLV" id="CHAPTER_XLV"></a>CHAPTER XLV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">In</span> the few weeks that followed it happened that Kate was thrown very -much into the society of Lady Caryisfort. It would have been difficult -to tell why; and not one of the party could have explained how it was -that Ombra and her mother were always engaged, or tired, or had -headaches, when Lady Caryisfort called on her way to the Cascine. But so -it happened; and gradually Kate passed into the hands of her new friend. -Often she remained with her after the drive, and went with her to the -theatre, or spent the evening with her at home. And though Mrs. Anderson -sometimes made a melancholy little speech on the subject, and half -upbraided Kate for this transference of her society, she never made any -real effort to withstand it, but really encouraged—as her niece felt -somewhat bitterly—a friendship which removed Kate out of the way, as -she had resolved not to take her into her confidence. Kate was but half -happy in this strange severance, but it was better to be away, better to -be smiled upon and caressed by Lady Caryisfort, than to feel herself one -too many, to be left out of the innermost circle at home.</p> - -<p>And the more she went to the Via Maggio the more she saw of Count -Buoncompagni. Had it been in any other house than her own that Kate had -encountered this young, agreeable, attractive, honest fortune-hunter, -Lady Caryisfort would have been excited and indignant. But he was an -<i>habitué</i> of her own house, an old friend of her own, as well as the -relation of her dearest and most intimate Italian friend; and she was -too indolent to disturb her own mind and habits by the effort of sending -him away.</p> - -<p>‘Besides, why should I? Kate cannot have some one to go before her to -sweep all the young men out of her path,’ she said, with some amusement -at her own idea. ‘She must take her chance, like everybody else; and he -must take his chance. ‘By way of setting her conscience at rest, -however, she warned them both. She said to Count Antonio seriously,</p> - -<p>‘Now, don’t flirt with my young lady. You know I dislike it. And I am -responsible for her safety when she is with me; and you must not put any -nonsense into her head.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span></p> - -<p>‘Milady’s commands are my law,’ said Antonio, meaning to take his own -way. And Lady Caryisfort said lightly to Kate,</p> - -<p>‘Don’t you forget, dear, that all Italians are fortune-hunters. Never -believe a word these young men say. They don’t even pretend to think it -disgraceful, as we do. And, unfortunately, it is known that you are an -heiress.’</p> - -<p>All this did not make Kate happier. It undermined gradually her -confidence in the world, which had seemed all so smiling and so kind. -She had thought herself loved, where now she found herself thrust aside. -She had thought herself an important member of a party which it was -evident could go on without her; and the girl was humbled and downcast. -And now to be warned not to believe what was said to her, to consider -all those pleasant faces as smiling, not upon herself, but upon her -fortune. It would be difficult to describe in words how depressed she -was. And Antonio Buoncompagni, though she had been thus warned against -him, had an honest face. He looked like the hero in an opera, and sang -like the same; but there was an honest simplicity about his face, which -made it very hard to doubt him. He was a child still in his innocent -ways, though he was a man of the world, and doubtless knew a great deal -of both good and evil which was unknown to Kate. But she saw the -simplicity, and she was pleased, in spite of herself, with the constant -devotion he showed to her. How could she but like it? She was wounded by -other people’s neglect, and he was so kind, so amiable, so good to her. -She was pleased to see him by her side, glad to feel that he preferred -to come; not like those who had known her all her life, and yet did not -care.</p> - -<p>So everything went on merrily, and already old Countess Buoncompagni had -heard of it at the villa, and meditated a visit to Florence, to see the -English girl who was going to build up the old house once more. And -even, which was most wonderful of all, a sense that she might have to do -it—that it was her fate, not to be struggled against—an idea half -pleasant, half terrible, sometimes stole across the mind even of Kate -herself.</p> - -<p>Lady Caryisfort received more or less every evening, but most on the -Thursdays; and one of these evenings the subject was brought before her -too distinctly to be avoided. That great, warm-coloured, dark -drawing-room, with the frescoes, looked better when it was full of -people than when its mistress was alone in it. There were quantities of -wax lights everywhere, enough to neutralise the ruby gloom of the velvet -curtains, and light up the brown depths of the old frescoes, with the -faces looking out of them. All the mirrors, as well as the room itself, -were full of people in pretty dresses, seated in groups or standing -about, and there were flowers and lights everywhere. Lady Caryisfort -herself inhabited her favourite sofa near the fire,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> underneath that -great fresco; she had a little group round her as she always had; but -something rather unusual had occurred. Among all the young men who -worshipped and served this pretty woman, who treated them as boys and -professed not to want them—and the gay young women who were her -companions—there had penetrated one British matron, with that devotion -to her duties, that absolute virtuousness and inclination to point out -their duty to others, which sometimes distinguishes that excellent -member of society. She had been putting Lady Caryisfort through a -catechism of all her doings and intentions, and then, as ill-luck would -have it, her eye lighted upon pretty Kate, with the young man who was -the very Count of romance—the <i>primo tenore</i>, the <i>jeune premier</i>, whom -anyone could identify at a glance.</p> - -<p>‘Ah! I suppose I shall soon have to congratulate you on <i>that</i>,’ she -said, nodding her head with airy grace in the direction where Kate was, -‘for you are a relation of Miss Courtenay’s, are you not? I hope the -match will be as satisfactory for the lady as for the gentleman—as it -must be indeed, when it is of your making, dear Lady Caryisfort. What a -handsome couple they will make!’</p> - -<p>‘Of my making!’ said Lady Caryisfort. And the crisis was so terrible -that there was a pause all round her—a pause such as might occur in -Olympus before Jove threw one of his thunderbolts. All who knew her, -knew what a horrible accusation this was. ‘A match—of my making!’ she -repeated. ‘Don’t you know that I discourage marriages among my friends? -I—to make a match!—who hate them, and the very name of them!’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, dear Lady Caryisfort, you are so amusing! To hear you say that, -with such a serious look! What an actress you would have made!’</p> - -<p>‘Actress,’ said Lady Caryisfort, ‘and match-maker! You do not compliment -me; but I am not acting just now. I never made a match in my life—I -hate to see matches made! I discourage them; I throw cold water upon -them. Matches!—if there is a thing in the world I hate——’</p> - -<p>‘But I mean a <i>nice</i> match, of course; a thing most desirable; a -marriage such as those, you know,’ cried the British matron, with -enthusiasm, ‘which are made in heaven.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t believe in anything of the kind,’ said the mistress of the -house, who liked to shock her audience now and then.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, <i>dear</i> Lady Caryisfort!’</p> - -<p>‘I do not believe in anything of the kind. Marriages are the greatest -nuisance possible; they have to be, I suppose, but I hate them; they -break up society; they disturb family peace;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span> they spoil friendship; -they make four people wretched for every two whom they pretend to make -happy!’</p> - -<p>‘Lady Caryisfort—Lady Caryisfort! with all these young people about!’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think what I say will harm the young people; and, besides, -everybody knows my feelings on this subject. I a match-maker! Why, it is -my horror! I begin to vituperate in spite of myself. I—throw away my -friends in such a foolish way! The moment you marry you are lost—I mean -to me. Do you hear, young people? Such of you as were married before I -knew you I can put up with. I have accepted you in the lump, as it were. -But, good heavens! fancy me depriving myself of that child who comes and -puts her pretty arms round my neck and tells me all her secrets! If she -were married to-morrow she would be prim and dignified, and probably -would tell me that her John did not quite approve of me. No, no; I will -have none of that.’</p> - -<p>‘Lady Caryisfort is always sublime on this subject,’ said one of her -court.’</p> - -<p>‘Am I sublime? I say what I feel,’ said Lady Caryisfort, languidly -leaning back upon her cushions. ‘When I give my benediction to a -marriage, I say, at the same time, <i>bon jour</i>. I don’t want to be -surrounded by my equals. I like inferiors—beings who look up to me; so -please let nobody call me a match-maker. It is the only opprobrious -epithet which I will not put up with. Call me anything else—I can bear -it—but not that.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! dear Lady Caryisfort, are not you doing wrong to a woman’s best -instincts?’ said her inquisitor, shaking her head with a sigh.</p> - -<p>Lady Caryisfort shrugged her shoulders.</p> - -<p>‘Will some one please to give me my shawl?’ she said; and half-a-dozen -pair of hands immediately snatched at it. ‘Thanks; don’t marry—I like -you best as you are,’ she said, with a careless little nod at her -subjects before she turned round to plunge into a conversation with -Countess Strozzi, who did not understand English. The British matron was -deeply scandalised; she poured out her indignant feelings to two or -three people in the room before she withdrew, and next day she wrote a -letter to a friend in England, asking if it was known that the great -heiress, Miss Courtenay, was on the eve of being married to an Italian -nobleman—‘or, at least, he calls himself Count Somebody; though of -course, one never believes what these foreigners tell one,’ she wrote. -‘If you should happen to meet Mr. Courtenay, you might just mention -this, in case he should not know how far things had gone.’</p> - -<p>Thus, all unawares, the cloud arose in the sky, and the storm prepared -itself. Christmas had passed, and Count Antonio felt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span> that it was almost -time to speak. He was very grateful to Providence and the saints for the -success which had attended him. Perhaps, after all, his mother’s prayers -in the little church at the villa, and those perpetual <i>novenas</i> with -which she had somewhat vexed his young soul when she was with him in -Florence, had been instrumental in bringing about this result. The -Madonna, who, good to everyone, is always specially good to an only son, -had no doubt led into his very arms this wealth, which would save the -house. So Antonio thought quite devoutly, without an idea in his -good-natured soul that there was anything ignoble in his pursuit or in -his gratitude. Without money he dared not have dreamed of marrying, and -Kate was not one whom he could have ventured to fall in love with apart -from the necessity of marriage. But he admired her immensely, and was -grateful to her for all the advantages she was going to bring him. He -even felt himself in love with her, when she looked up at him with her -English radiance of bloom, singling him out in the midst of so many who -would have been proud of her favour. There was not a thought in the -young Italian’s heart which was not good, and tender, and pleasant -towards his heiress. He would have been most kind and affectionate to -her had she married him, and would have loved her honestly had she -chosen to love him; but he was not impassioned—and at the present -moment it was to Antonio a most satisfactory, delightful, successful -enterprise, which could bring nothing but good, rather than a love-suit, -in which his heart and happiness were engaged.</p> - -<p>However, things were settling steadily this way when Christmas came. -Already Count Antonio had made up his mind to begin operations by -speaking to Lady Caryisfort on the subject, and Kate had felt vaguely -that she would have to choose between the position of a great lady in -England on her own land and that of a great lady in beautiful Florence. -The last was not without its attractions, and Antonio was so kind, while -other people were so indifferent. Poor Kate was not as happy as she -looked. More and more it became apparent to her that something was going -on at home which was carefully concealed from her. They even made new -friends, whom she did not know—one of whom, in particular, a young -clergyman, a friend of the Berties, stared at her now and then from a -corner of the drawing-room in the Lung-Arno, with a curiosity which she -fully shared. ‘Oh! he is a friend of Mr. Hardwick’s; he is here only for -a week or two; he is going on to Rome for the Carnival,’ Mrs. Anderson -said, without apparently perceiving what an evidence Kate’s ignorance -was of the way in which their lives had fallen apart. And the Berties -now were continually in the house. They seemed to have no other -engagements, except<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> when, now and then, they went to the opera with the -ladies. Sometimes Kate thought one or the other of them showed signs of -uneasiness, but Ombra was bright as the day, and Mrs. Anderson made no -explanation. And how could she, the youngest of the household, the one -who was not wanted—how could she interfere or say anything? The wound -worked deeper and deeper, and a certain weariness and distrust crept -over Kate. Oh, for some change!—even Antonio’s proposal, which was -coming. For as it was only her imagination and her vanity, not her -heart, which were interested, Kate saw with perfect clear-sightedness -that the proposal was on its way.</p> - -<p>But before it arrived—before any change had come to the state of -affairs in the Lung-Arno—one evening, when Kate was at home, and, as -usual, abstracted over a book in a corner; when the Berties were in full -possession, one bending over Ombra at the piano, one talking earnestly -to her mother, Francesca suddenly threw the door open, with a vehemence -quite unusual to her, and without a word of warning—without even the -announcement of his name to put them on their guard—Mr. Courtenay -walked into the room.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVI" id="CHAPTER_XLVI"></a>CHAPTER XLVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> scene which Mr. Courtenay saw when he walked in suddenly to Mrs. -Anderson’s drawing-room, was one so different in every way from what he -had expected, that he was for the first moment as much taken aback as -any of the company. Francesca, who remembered him well, and whose mind -was moved by immediate anxiety at the sight of him, had not been able to -restrain a start and exclamation, and had ushered him in suspiciously, -with so evident a feeling of alarm and confusion that the suspicious old -man of the world felt doubly convinced that there was something to -conceal. But she had neither time nor opportunity to warn the party; and -yet this was how Mr. Courtenay found them. The drawing-room, which -looked out on the Lung-Arno, was not small, but it was rather low—not -much more than an <i>entresol</i>. There was a bright wood fire on the -hearth, and near it, with a couple of candles on a small table by her -side, sat Kate, distinctly isolated from the rest, and working -diligently, scarcely raising her eyes from her needlework. The centre -table was drawn a little aside, for Ombra had found it too warm in front -of the fire; and about this the other four were grouped—Mrs. Anderson, -working, too, was talking to one of the young men; the other was holding -silk, which Ombra was winding; a thorough English domestic party—such a -family group as should have gladdened virtuous eyes to see. Mr. -Courtenay looked at it with indescribable surprise. There was nothing -visible here which in the least resembled a foreign Count; and Kate was, -wonderful to tell, left out—clearly left out. She was sitting apart at -her little table near the fire, looking just a little weary and -forlorn—a very little—not enough to catch Mrs. Anderson’s eye, who had -got used to this aspect of Kate. But it struck Mr. Courtenay, who was -not used to it, and who had suspected something very different. He was -so completely amazed, that he could not think it real. That little old -woman must have given some signal; they must have been warned of his -coming; otherwise it was altogether impossible to account for this -extraordinary scene. They all jumped to their feet at his appearance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span> -There was first a glance of confusion and embarrassment exchanged, as he -saw; and then everyone rose in their wonder.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Courtenay! What a great, what a very unexpected——,’ said Mrs. -Anderson. She had meant to say pleasure; but even she was so much -startled and confounded that she could not carry her intention out.</p> - -<p>‘Is it Uncle Courtenay?’ said Kate, rising, too. She was not alarmed—on -the contrary, she looked half glad, as if the sight of him was rather a -relief than otherwise. ‘Is it you, Uncle Courtenay? Have you come to see -us? I am very glad. But I wonder you did not write.’</p> - -<p>‘Thanks for your welcome, Kate. Thanks, Mrs. Anderson. Don’t let me -disturb you. I made up my mind quite suddenly. I had not thought of it a -week ago. Ah! some more acquaintances whom I did not expect to see.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay was very gracious—he shook hands all round. The Berties -shrank, no one could have quite told how—they looked at each other, -exchanging a glance full of dismay and mutual consultation. Mr. -Courtenay’s faculties were all on the alert; but he had been thinking -only of his niece, and the young men puzzled him. They were not near -Kate, they were not ‘paying her attention;’ but, then, what were they -doing here? He was not so imaginative nor so quick in his perceptions as -to be able to shift from the difficulty he had mastered to this new one. -What he had expected was a foreign adventurer making love to his niece; -and instead of that here were two young Englishmen, not even looking at -his niece. He was posed; but ever suspicious. For the moment they had -baffled him; but he would find it out, whatever they meant, whatever -they might be concealing from him; and with that view he accepted the -great arm-chair blandly, and sat down to make his observations with the -most smiling and ingratiating face.</p> - -<p>‘We are taking care of Kate—she is a kind of invalid, as you will see,’ -said Mrs. Anderson. ‘It is not bad, I am glad to say, but she has a -cold, and I have kept her indoors, and even condemned her to the -fireside corner, which she thinks very hard.’</p> - -<p>‘It looks very comfortable,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘So you have a cold, -Kate? I hear you have been enjoying yourself very much, making troops of -friends. But pray don’t let me disturb anyone. Don’t let me break up the -party——’</p> - -<p>‘It is time for us to keep our engagement,’ said Bertie Hardwick, who -had taken out his watch. ‘It is a bore to have to go, just as there is a -chance of hearing news of home; but I hope we shall see Mr. Courtenay -again. We must go now. It is actually nine o’clock.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes. I did not think it was nearly so late,’ said his cousin, echoing -him. And they hurried away, leaving Mr. Courtenay<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> more puzzled than -ever. He had put them to flight, it was evident—but why? For personally -he had no dread of them, nor objection to them, and they had not been -taking any notice of Kate.</p> - -<p>‘I have disturbed your evening, I fear,’ he said to Mrs. Anderson. She -was annoyed and uncomfortable, though he could not tell the reason why.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! no, not the least. These boys have been in Florence for some little -time, and they often come in to enliven us a little in the evenings. But -they have a great many engagements. They can never stay very long,’ she -said, faltering and stammering, as if she did not quite know what she -was saying. But for this Kate would have broken out into aroused -remonstrance. Can never stay very long! Why, they stayed generally till -midnight, or near it. These words were on Kate’s lips, but she held them -back, partly for her aunt’s sake, partly—she could not tell why. Ombra, -overcast in a moment from all her brightness, sat behind, drawing her -chair back, and began to arrange and put away the silk she had been -winding. It shone in the lamplight, vivid and warm in its rich colour. -What a curious little picture this made altogether! Kate, startled and -curious, in her seat by the fire; Mrs. Anderson, watchful, not knowing -what was going to happen, keeping all her wits about her, occupied the -central place; and Ombra sat half hidden behind Mr. Courtenay’s chair, a -shadowy figure, with the lamplight just catching her white hands, and -the long crimson thread of the silk. In a moment everything had changed. -It might have been Shanklin again, from the aspect of the party. A -little chill seemed to seize them all, though the room was so light and -warm. Why was it? Was it a mere reminiscence of his former visit which -had brought such change to their lives? He was uncomfortable, and even -embarrassed, himself, though he could not have told why.</p> - -<p>‘So Kate has a cold!’ he repeated. ‘From what I heard, I supposed you -were living a very gay life, with troops of friends. I did not expect to -find such a charming domestic party. But you are quite at home here, I -suppose, and know the customs of the place—all about it? How sorry I am -that your young friends should have gone away because of me!’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! pray don’t think of it. It was not because of you. They had an -engagement,’ said Mrs. Anderson. Yes, I have lived in Florence before; -but that was in very different days, when we were not left such domestic -quiet in the evenings,’ she added, elevating her head a little, yet -sighing. She did not choose Mr. Courtenay, at least, to think that it -was only her position as Kate’s chaperon which gave her importance here. -And it was quite true that the Consul’s house had been a lively one in -its day. Two young wandering Englishmen would not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span> have represented -society <i>then</i>; but perhaps all the <i>habitués</i> of the house were not -exactly on a level with the Berties. ‘I have kept quiet, not without -some trouble,’ she continued, ‘as you wished it so much for Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘That was very kind of you,’ he said; ‘but see, now, what odd reports -get about. I heard that Kate had plunged into all sorts of gaiety—and -was surrounded by Italians—and I don’t know what besides.’</p> - -<p>‘And you came to take care of her?’ said Ombra, quietly, at his elbow.</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay started. He did not expect an assault on that side also.</p> - -<p>‘I came to see you all, my dear young lady,’ he said; ‘and I -congratulate you on your changed looks, Miss Ombra. Italy has made you -look twice as strong and bright as you were in Shanklin. I don’t know if -it has done as much for Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘Kate has a cold,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘but otherwise she is in very -good looks. As for Ombra, this might almost be called her native air.’</p> - -<p>This civil fencing went on for about half an hour. There was attack and -defence, but both stealthy, vague, and general; for the assailant did -not quite know what he had to find fault with, and the defenders were -unaware what would be the point of assault. Kate, who felt herself the -subject of contention, and who did not feel brave enough or happy enough -to take up her <i>rôle</i> as she had done at Shanklin, kept in her corner, -and said very little. She coughed more than was at all necessary, to -keep up her part of invalid; but she did not throw her shield over her -aunt as she had once done. With a certain mischievous satisfaction she -left them to fight it out: they did not deserve Mr. Courtenay’s wrath, -but yet they deserved something. For that one night Kate, who was -somewhat sick and sore, felt in no mood to interfere. She could not even -keep back one little arrow of her own, when her uncle had withdrawn, -promising an early visit on the morrow.</p> - -<p>‘As you think I am such an invalid, auntie,’ she said, with playfulness, -which was somewhat forced, when the door closed upon that untoward -visitor, ‘I think I had better go to bed.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps it will be best,’ said Mrs. Anderson, offended. And Kate rose, -feeling angry and wicked, and ready to wound, she could not tell why.</p> - -<p>‘It is intolerable that that old man should come here with his -suspicious looks—as if we meant to take advantage of him or harm -<i>her</i>,’ cried Ombra, in indignation.</p> - -<p>‘If it is me whom you call <i>her</i>, Ombra—’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! don’t be ridiculous!’ cried Ombra, impatiently. ‘I am sure poor -mamma has not deserved to be treated like a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span> governess or a servant, and -watched and suspected, on account of you.’</p> - -<p>By this time, however, Mrs. Anderson had recovered herself.</p> - -<p>‘Hush,’ she said, ‘Ombra; hush, Kate—don’t say things you will be sorry -for. Mr. Courtenay has nothing to be suspicious about, that I know of, -and it is only manner, I dare say. It is a pity that he should have that -manner; but it is worse for him than it is for me.’</p> - -<p>Now Kate did not love her Uncle Courtenay, but for once in her life she -was moved to defend him. And she did love her aunt; but she was wounded -and sore, and felt herself neglected, and yet had no legitimate ground -for complaint. It was a relief to her to have this feasible reason for -saying something disagreeable. The colour heightened in her face.</p> - -<p>‘My Uncle Courtenay has always been good to me,’ she said, ‘and if -anxiety about me has brought him here, I ought to be grateful to him at -least. He does not mean to be rude to anyone, I am sure; and if I am the -first person he thinks of, you need not grudge it, Ombra. There is -certainly no one else in the world so foolish as to do that.’</p> - -<p>The tears were in Kate’s eyes; she went away hastily, that they might -not fall. She had never known until this moment, because she had never -permitted herself to think, how hurt and sore she was. She hurried to -her own room, and closed her door, and cried till her head ached. And -then the dreadful thought came—how ungrateful she had been!—how -wicked, how selfish! which was worse than all.</p> - -<p>The two ladies were so taken by surprise that they stood looking after -her with a certain consternation. Ombra was the first to recover -herself, and she was very angry, very vehement, against her cousin.</p> - -<p>‘Because she is rich, she thinks she should always be our tyrant!’ she -cried.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! hush, Ombra, hush!—you don’t think what you are saying,’ said her -mother.</p> - -<p>‘You see now, at least, what a mistake it would have been to take her -into our confidence, mamma. It would have been fatal. I am so thankful I -stood out. If she had us in her power now what should we have done?’ -Ombra added, more calmly, after the first irritation was over.</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Anderson shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘It is never wise to deceive anyone; harm always comes of it,’ she said, -sadly.</p> - -<p>‘To deceive! Is it deceiving to keep one’s own secrets?’</p> - -<p>‘Harm always comes of it,’ answered Mrs. Anderson, emphatically.</p> - -<p>And after all was still in the house, and everybody asleep,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span> she stole -through the dark passage in her dressing-room, and opened Kate’s door -softly, and went in and kissed the girl in her bed. Kate was not asleep, -and the tears were wet on her cheeks. She caught the dark figure in her -arms.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! forgive me. I am so ashamed of myself!’ she cried.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson kissed her again, and stole away without a word. ‘Forgive -her! It is she who must forgive me. Poor child! poor child!’ she said, -in her heart.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVII" id="CHAPTER_XLVII"></a>CHAPTER XLVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Next</span> morning, when Mr. Courtenay took his way from the hotel to the -Lung-Arno, his eye was caught by the appearance of a young man who was -walking exactly in front of him with a great bouquet of violets in his -hand. He was young, handsome, and well-dressed, and the continual -salutes he received as he moved along testified that he was well known -in Florence. The old man’s eye (knowing nothing about him) dwelt on him -with a certain pleasure. That he was a genial, friendly young soul there -could be no doubt; so pleasant were his salutations to great and small, -made with hat and hand and voice, as continually as a prince’s -salutations to his subjects. Probably he was a young prince, or duke, or -marchesino; at all events, a noble of the old blue blood, which, in -Italy, is at once so uncontaminated and so popular.</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay had no premonition of any special interest in the -stranger, and consequently he looked with pleasure on this impersonation -of youth and good looks and good manners. Yes, no doubt he was a -nobleman of the faithful Italian blood, one of those families which had -kept in the good graces of the country, by what these benighted nations -considered patriotism. A fine young fellow—perhaps with something like -a career before him, now that Italy was holding up her head again among -the nations—altogether an excellent specimen of a patrician; one of -those well-born and well-conditioned beings whom every man with good -blood in his own veins feels more or less proud of. Such were the -thoughts of the old English man of the world, as he took his way in the -Winter sunshine to keep his appointment with his niece.</p> - -<p>It was a bright cold morning—a white rim of snow on the Apennines gave -a brilliant edge to the landscape, and on the smaller heights on the -other side of Arno there was green enough to keep Winter in subjection. -The sunshine was as warm as Summer; very different from the dreary dirty -weather which Mr. Courtenay had left in Bond Street and Piccadilly, -though Piccadilly sometimes is as bright as the Lung-Arno. Though he was -as old as Methuselah in Kate’s eyes, this ogre of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> guardian was not so -old in his own. And he had once been young, and when young had been in -Florence; and he had a flower in his button-hole and no overcoat, which -made him happy. And though he was perplexed, he could not but feel that -the worst that he been threatened with had not come true, and that -perhaps the story was false altogether, and he was to escape without -trouble. All this made Mr. Courtenay walk very lightly along the sunny -pavement, pleased with himself, and disposed to be pleased with other -people; and the same amiable feelings directed his eyes towards the -young Italian, and gave him a friendly feeling to the stranger. A fine -young fellow; straight and swift he marched along, and would have -distanced the old man, but for those continual greetings, which retarded -him. Mr. Courtenay was just a little surprised when he saw the youth -whom he had been admiring enter the doorway to which he was himself -bound; and his surprise may be imagined when, as he climbed the stairs -towards the second floor where his niece lived, he overheard a lively -conversation at Mrs. Anderson’s very door.</p> - -<p>‘<i>Amica mia</i>, I hope your beautiful young lady is better,’ said the -young man. ‘Contrive to tell her, my Francesca, how miserable I have -been these evil nights, while she has been shut up by this hard-hearted -lady-aunt. You will say, <i>cara mia</i>, that it is the Lady Caryisfort who -sends the flowers, and that I am desolated—desolated!—and all that -comes into your good heart to say. For you understand—I am sure you -understand.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes, I understand, Signor Cont’ Antonio,’ said Francesca. ‘Trust to -me, I know what to say. She is not very happy herself, the dear little -Signorina. It is dreary for her seeing the other young lady with her -lovers; but, perhaps, my beautiful young gentleman, it is not bad for -you. When one sees another loved, one wishes to be loved one’s self; but -it is hard for Mees Katta. She will be glad to have the Signor Conte’s -flowers and his message.’</p> - -<p>‘But take care, Francesca <i>mia</i>, you must say they are from my Lady -Caryisfort,’ said Count Antonio, ‘and lay me at the feet of my little -lady. I hunger—I thirst—I die to see her again! Will she not see my -Lady Caryisfort to-day? Is she too ill to go out to-night? The new -<i>prima donna</i> has come, and has made a <i>furore</i>. Tell her so, <i>cara -mia</i>. Francesca make her to come out, that I may see her. You will stand -my friend—you were always my friend.’</p> - -<p>‘The Signor Conte forgets what I have told him; that I am as a -connection of the family. I will do my very best for him. Hist! hush! -<i>oh, miserecordia! Ecco il vecchio!</i>’ cried Francesca, under her -breath.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span></p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay had heard it all, but as his Italian was imperfect he had -not altogether made it out, and he missed this warning about <i>il -vecchio</i> altogether. The young man turned and faced him as he reached -the landing. He was a handsome young fellow, with dark eyes, which were -eloquent enough to get to any girl’s heart. Mr. Courtenay felt towards -him as an old lady in the best society might feel, did she see her son -in the fatal clutches of a penniless beauty. The fact that Kate was an -heiress made, as it were, a man of her, and transferred all the female -epithets of ‘wilful’ and ‘designing’ to the other side. Antonio, with -the politeness of his country, took off his hat and stood aside to let -the older man pass. ‘Thinks he can come over me too, with his confounded -politeness,’ Mr. Courtenay said to himself—indeed, he used a stronger -word than confounded, which it would be unladylike to repeat. He made no -response to the young Italian’s politeness, but pushed on, hat on head, -after the vigorous manner of the Britons. ‘Who are these for?’ he asked, -gruffly, indicating with his stick the bunch of violets which made the -air sweet.</p> - -<p>‘For ze young ladies, zare,’ said Francesca, demurely, as she ushered -him out of the dark passage into the bright drawing-room.</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay went in with suppressed fury. Kate was alone in the room -waiting for him, and what with the agitation of the night, and the -little flutter caused by his arrival, she was pale, and seemed to -receive him with some nervousness. He noticed, too, that Francesca -carried away the bouquet, though he felt convinced it was not intended -for Ombra. She was in the pay of that young adventurer!—that Italian -rogue and schemer!—that fortune-hunting young blackguard! These were -the intemperate epithets which Mr. Courtenay applied to his handsome -young Italian, as soon as he had found him out!</p> - -<p>‘Well, Kate,’ he said, sitting down beside her, ‘I am sorry you are not -well. It must be dull for you to be kept indoors, after you have had so -much going about, and have been enjoying yourself so much.’</p> - -<p>‘Did you not wish me to enjoy myself?’ said Kate, whom her aunt’s kiss -the night before had once more enlisted vehemently on the other side.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! surely,’ said her guardian. ‘What do persons like myself exist for, -but to help young people to enjoy themselves. It is the only object of -our lives!’</p> - -<p>‘You mean to be satirical, I see,’ said Kate, with a sigh, ‘but I don’t -understand it. I wish you would speak plainly out. You taunted me last -night with having made many friends, and having enjoyed myself—was it -wrong? If you will tell me how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> few friends you wish me to have, or -exactly how little enjoyment you think proper for me, I will endeavour -to carry out your wishes—as long as I am obliged.’</p> - -<p>This was said in an undertone, with a grind and setting of Kate’s white -teeth which, though very slight, spoke volumes. She had quite taken up -again the colours which she had almost let fall last night. Mr. -Courtenay was prepared for remonstrance, but not for such a vigorous -onslaught.</p> - -<p>‘You are civil, my dear, he said, ‘and sweet and submissive, and, -indeed, everything I could have expected from your character and early -habits; but I thought Mrs. Anderson had brought you under. I thought you -knew better by this time than to attempt to bully me.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want to bully you,’ cried Kate, with burning cheeks; ‘but why -do you come like this, with your suspicious looks, as if you came -prepared to catch us in something?—whereas, all the world may know all -about us—whom we know, and what we do.’</p> - -<p>‘This nonsense is your aunt’s, I suppose, and I don’t blame you for it,’ -said Mr. Courtenay. ‘Let us change the subject. You are responsible to -me, as it happens, but I am not responsible to you. Don’t make yourself -disagreeable, Kate. Tragedy is not your line, though it is your -cousin’s. By the way, that girl is looking a great deal better than she -did; she is a different creature. She has grown quite handsome. Is it -because Florence is her native air, as her mother said?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know,’ said Kate. Though she had taken up her aunt’s colours -again vehemently, she did not feel so warmly towards Ombra. A certain -irritation had been going on in her mind for some time. It had burst -forth on the previous night, and Ombra had offered no kiss, said no word -of reconciliation. So she was not disposed to enter upon any admiring -discussion of her cousin. She would have resented anything that had been -said unkindly, but it was no longer in her mind to plunge into applause -of Ombra. A change had thus come over them both.</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay looked at her very keenly—he saw there was something -wrong, but he could not tell what it was—Some girlish quarrel, no -doubt, he said to himself. Girls were always quarrelling—about their -lovers, or about their dresses, or something. Therefore he went over -this ground lightly, and returned to his original attack.</p> - -<p>‘You like Florence?’ he said. ‘Tell me what you have been doing, and -whom you have met. There must be a great many English here, I suppose?’</p> - -<p>However, he had roused Kate’s suspicions, and she was not inclined to -answer.</p> - -<p>‘We have been doing what everybody else does,’ she said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span>—‘going to see -the pictures and all the sights; and we have met Lady Caryisfort. That -is about all, I think. She has rather taken a fancy to me, because she -belongs to our own country. She takes me to drive sometimes; and I have -seen a great deal of her—especially of late.’</p> - -<p>‘Why especially of late?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! I don’t know—that is, my aunt and Ombra found some old friends who -were not fine enough, they said, to please you, so they left me behind; -and I did not like it, I suppose being silly; so I have gone to Lady -Caryisfort’s more than usual since.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh-h!’ said Mr. Courtenay, feeling that enlightenment was near. ‘It was -very honourable of your aunt, I am sure. And this Lady Caryisfort?—is -she a match-maker, Kate?’</p> - -<p>‘A match-maker! I don’t understand what you mean, uncle.’</p> - -<p>‘You have met a certain young Italian, a Count Buoncompagni, whom I have -heard of, there?’</p> - -<p>Kate reddened, in spite of herself—being on the eve of getting into -trouble about him, she began to feel a melting of her heart to Antonio.</p> - -<p>‘Do you know anything about Count Buoncompagni?’ she asked, with -elaborate calm. This, then, was what her uncle meant—this was what he -had come from England about. Was it really so important as that?</p> - -<p>‘I have heard of him,’ said Mr. Courtenay, drily. ‘Indeed, five minutes -ago, I followed him up the stairs, without knowing who he was, and heard -him giving a string of messages and a bunch of flowers to that wretched -old woman.’</p> - -<p>‘Was it me he was asking for?’ said Kate, quite touched. ‘How nice and -how kind he is! He has asked for me every day since I have had this -cold. The Italians are so nice, Uncle Courtenay. They are so -sympathetic, and take such an interest in you.’</p> - -<p>‘I have not the least doubt of it,’ he said, grimly. ‘And how long has -this young Buoncompagni taken an interest in you? It may be very nice, -as you say, but I doubt if I, as your guardian, can take so much -pleasure in it as you do. I want to hear all about it, and where and how -often you have met.’</p> - -<p>Kate wavered a moment—whether to be angry and refuse to tell, or to -keep her temper and disarm her opponent. She chose the latter -alternative, chiefly because she was beginning to be amused, and felt -that some ‘fun’ might be got out of the matter. And it was so long now -(about two weeks and a half) since she had had any ‘fun.’ She did so -want a little amusement. Whereupon she answered very demurely, and with -much conscious skill,</p> - -<p>‘I met him first at the Embassy—at Lady Granton’s ball.</p> - -<p>‘At Lady Granton’s ball?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span></p> - -<p>‘Yes. There were none but the very best people there—the <i>crême de la -crême</i>, as auntie says. Lady Granton’s sister introduced him to me. He -is a very good dancer—just the sort of man that is nice to waltz with; -and very pleasant to talk to, uncle.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! he is very pleasant to talk to, is he?’ said Uncle Courtenay, still -more grimly.</p> - -<p>‘Very much so indeed. He talks excellent French, and beautiful Italian. -It does one all the good in the world talking to such a man. It is -better than a dozen lessons. And then he is so kind, and never laughs at -one’s mistakes. And he has such a lovely old palace, and is so well -known in Florence. He may not be very rich, perhaps——’</p> - -<p>‘Rich!—a beggarly adventurer!—a confounded fortune-hunter!—an Italian -rogue and reprobate! How this precious aunt of yours could have shut her -eyes to such a piece of folly; or your Lady Caryisfort, forsooth——’</p> - -<p>‘Why forsooth, uncle? Do you mean that she is not Lady Caryisfort, or -that she is unworthy of the name? She is very clever and very agreeable. -But I was going to say that though Count Buoncompagni is not rich, he -gave us the most beautiful little luncheon the day we went to see his -pictures. Lady Caryisfort said it was perfection. And talking of -that—if he brought some flowers, as you say, I should like to have -them. May I go and speak to Francesca about them?—or perhaps you would -rather ring the bell?’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVIII" id="CHAPTER_XLVIII"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was thus that Kate evaded the further discussion of the question. She -went off gaily bounding along the long passage. ‘Francesca, Francesca, -where are my flowers?’ she cried. Her heart had grown light all at once. -A little mischief, and a little opposition, and the freshness, yet -naturalness, of having Uncle Courtenay to fight with, exhilarated her -spirits. Yes, it felt natural. To be out of humour with her aunt was a -totally different matter. That was all pain, with no compensating -excitement; but the other was ‘fun.’ It filled her with wholesome energy -and contradictoriness. ‘If Uncle Courtenay supposes I am going to give -up poor Antonio for him——’—she said in her heart, and danced along -the passage, singing snatches of tunes, and calling to Francesca. ‘Where -are my flowers?—I know there are some flowers for me. Some one cares to -know whether I am dead or alive,’ she said.</p> - -<p>Francesca came out of the dining-room, holding up her hands to implore -silence. Oh! my dear young lady,’ said Francesca, ‘you must not be -imprudent. When we receive flowers from a beautiful young gentleman, we -take them to our chamber, or we put them in our bosoms—we don’t dance -and sing over them—or, at least, young ladies who have education, who -know what the world expects of them, must not so behave. In my room, -Mees Katta, you will find your flowers. They are sent from the English -milady—Milady Caryisfort,’ Francesca added, demurely folding her arms -upon her breast.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! are they from Lady Caryisfort?’ said Kate, with a little -disappointment. After all, it was not so romantic as she thought.</p> - -<p>‘My young lady understands that it must be so,’ said Francesca, ‘for -young ladies must not be compromised; but the hand that carried them was -that of the young Contino, and as handsome a young fellow as any in -Florence. I am very glad I am old—I might be his grandmother; for -otherwise, look you, Mademoiselle, his voice is so mellow, and he looks -so with his eyes, and says Francesca <i>mia, cara amica</i>, and such like, -that I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> should be foolish, even an old woman like me. They have a way -with them, these Buoncompagni. His father, I recollect, who was very -like Count Antonio, very nearly succeeded in turning the head of my -Angelina, my little sister that died. No harm came of it, Mees Katta, or -I would not have told. We took her away to the convent at Rocca, where -we had a cousin, a very pious woman, well known throughout the country, -Sister Agnese, of the Reparazione; and there she got quite serious, and -as good as a little saint before she died.’</p> - -<p>‘Was it his fault that she died?’ cried Kate, always ready for a story. -‘I should have thought, Francesca, that you would have hated him for -ever and ever.’</p> - -<p>‘I had the honour of saying to the Signorina that no harm was done,’ -said Francesca, with gravity. ‘Why should I hate the good Count for -being handsome and civil? It is a way they have, these Buoncompagni. -But, for my part, I think more of Count Antonio than I ever did of his -father. Milady Caryisfort would speak for him, Mees Katta. She is a lady -that knows the Italians, and understands how to speak. She has always -supported the Contino’s suit, has not she? and she will speak for him. -He is desolated, desolated—he has just told me—to be so many days -without seeing Mademoiselle; and, indeed, he looked very sad. We other -Italians don’t hide our feelings as you do in your country. He looked -sad to break one’s heart; and, Mees Katta, figure to yourself my -feelings when I saw the Signora’s uncle come puff-puff, with his -difficulty of breathing, up the stair.</p> - -<p>‘What did it matter?’ said Kate, putting the best face upon it. ‘Of -course I will not conceal anything from my uncle—though there is -nothing to conceal.’</p> - -<p>‘Milady Caryisfort will speak. If I might be allowed to repeat it to the -Signorina, she is the best person to speak. She knows him well through -his aunt, who is dei Strozzi, and a very great lady. You will take the -Signor Uncle there, Mees Katta, if you think well of my advice.’</p> - -<p>‘I do not want any advice—there is nothing to be advised about,’ cried -Kate, colouring deeply, and suddenly recognising the character which -Francesca had taken upon herself. She rushed into Francesca’s room, and -brought out the violets, all wet and fragrant. They were such a secret -as could not be hid. They perfumed all the passages as she hurried to -her own little room, and separated a little knot of the dark blue -blossoms to put in her bodice. How sweet they were! How ‘nice’ of -Antonio to bring them! How strange that he should say they were from -Lady Caryisfort! Why should he say they were from Lady Caryisfort? And -was he really sad because he did not see her? How good, how kind he was! -Other people were not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span> sad. Other people did not care, she supposed, if -they never saw her again. And here Kate gave a little sigh, and blushed -a great indignant blush, and put her face down into the abundant -fragrant bouquet. It was so sweet, and love was sweet, and the thought -that one was cared for, and thought of, and missed! This thought was -very grateful and pleasant, as sweet as the flowers, and it went to -Kate’s heart. She could have done a great deal at that moment for the -sake of the tender-hearted young Italian, who comforted her wounded -feelings, and helped to restore the balance of her being by the -attentions which were so doubly consoling in the midst—she said to -herself—of coldness and neglect.</p> - -<p>Lady Caryisfort called soon afterwards, and was delighted to make Mr. -Courtenay’s acquaintance; and, as Kate was better, she took them both to -the Cascine. That was the first morning—Kate remembered afterwards, -with many wondering thoughts—that the Berties had not called before -luncheon, and Ombra did not appear until that meal, and was less -agreeable than she had been since they left Shanklin. But these thoughts -soon fled from her mind, and so did a curious, momentary feeling, that -her aunt and cousin looked relieved when she went away with Lady -Caryisfort. They did not go. Mrs. Anderson, too, had a cold, she said, -and would not go out that day, and Ombra was busy.</p> - -<p>‘Ombra is very often busy now,’ said Lady Caryisfort, as they drove off. -‘What is it, Kate? She and Mrs. Anderson used to find time for a drive -now and then at first.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know what it is,’ Kate said, with some pain; and then a little -ebullition of her higher spirits prompted her to add an explanation, -which was partly malicious, and partly kind, to save her cousin from -remark. ‘She writes poetry,’ said Kate, demurely. ‘Perhaps it is that.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! good heavens, if I had known she was literary!’ cried Lady -Caryisfort, with gentle horror. But here were the Cascine, and the -flower-girls, and the notabilities who had to be pointed out to the -new-comer; and the Count, who had appeared quite naturally by Kate’s -side of the carriage. Mr. Courtenay said little, but he kept his eyes -open, and noted everything. He looked at the lady opposite to him, and -listened to her dauntless talk, and heard all the compliments addressed -to her, and the smiling contempt with which she received them. This sort -of woman could not be aiding and abetting in a vulgar matrimonial -scheme, he said to himself. And he was puzzled what to make of the -business, and how to put a stop to it. For the Italian kept his place at -Kate’s side, without any attempt at concealment, and was not a person -who could be sneered down by the lordly British stare, or treated quite -as a nobody. Mr. Courtenay<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span> knew the world, and he knew that an -Englishman who should be rude to Count Buoncompagni on his own soil, on -the Cascine at Florence, must belong to a different class of men from -the class which, being at the top of the social ladder, is more -cosmopolitan than any other, except the working people, who are at its -lower level. An indignant British uncle from Bloomsbury or Highgate -might have done this, but not one whose blood was as blue as that of the -Buoncompagni. It was impossible. And yet it was hard upon him to see all -this going on under his very eyes. Lady Caryisfort had insisted that he -and Kate should dine with her, and it was with the farewell of a very -temporary parting glance that Count Antonio went away. This was -terrible, but it must be fully observed before being put a stop to. He -tried to persuade himself that to be patient was his only wisdom.</p> - -<p>‘But will not your aunt be vexed, be affronted, feel herself neglected, -if we go to dine with Lady Caryisfort? Ladies, I know, are rather prompt -to take offence in such matters,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! my aunt!—she will not be offended. I don’t think she will be -offended,’ said Kate, in the puzzled tone which he had already noticed. -And the two young men of last night were again in the drawing-room when -he went upstairs. Was there some other scheme, some independent -intrigue, in this? But he shrugged his shoulders and said, what did it -matter? It was nothing to him. Miss Ombra had her mother to manage her -affairs. Whatever their plans might be they were not his business, so -long as they had the good sense not to interfere with Kate.</p> - -<p>The dinner at Lady Caryisfort’s was small, but pleasant. The only -Italian present was a Countess Strozzi, a well-bred woman, who had been -Ambassadress from Tuscany once at St. James’s, and whom Mr. Courtenay -had met before—but no objectionable Counts. He really enjoyed himself -at that admirable table. After all, he thought, there is no Sybarite -like your rich, accomplished, independent woman—no one who combines the -beautiful and dainty with the excellent in such a high degree; so long -as she understands cookery; for the choice of guests and the external -arrangements are sure to be complete. And Lady Caryisfort did understand -cookery. It was the pleasantest possible conclusion to his hurried -journey and his perplexity. It was London, and Paris, and Florence all -in one; the comfort, the exquisite fare, the society, all helped each -other into perfection; and there was a certain flavour of distance and -novelty in the old Italian palace which enhanced everything—the flavour -of the past. This was not a thing to be had every day, like a Paris -dinner. But in the evening Mr. Courtenay was less satisfied. When the -great <i>salon</i>, with its warm velvet hangings and its dim<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span> frescoes, -began to fill, Buoncompagni turned up from some corner or other, and -appeared as if by magic at Kate’s side. The guardian did the only thing -which could be done in the circumstances. He approached the sofa under -the picture, which was the favourite throne of the lady of the house, -and waited patiently till there was a gap in the circle surrounding her, -and he could find an entrance. She made room for him at last, with the -most charming grace.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Courtenay, you are not like the rest of my friends. I have not -heard all your good things, nor all your news, as I have theirs. You are -a real comfort to talk to, and I did not have the good of you at dinner. -Sit by me, please, and tell me something new. Nobody does,’ she added, -with a little flutter of her fan,—‘nobody ever seems to think that -fresh fare is needful sometimes. Let us talk of Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘If I am bound to confine myself to that subject,’ said the old man of -society, ‘I reserve the question whether it is kind to remind me thus -broadly that I am a Methuselah.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! I am a Methusela myself, without the h,’ said Lady Caryisfort. ‘The -young people interest me in a gentle, grandmotherly way. I like to see -them enjoy themselves, and all that.’</p> - -<p>‘Precisely,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘I quite understand and perceive the -appropriateness of the situation. You are interested in <i>that</i>, for -example?’ he said, suddenly changing his tone, and indicating a group at -the other side of the room. Kate, with some flowers in her hand, which -had dropped from the bouquet still in her bosom, with her head drooping -over them, and a vivid blush on her cheek—while Count Antonio, bending -over her, seemed asking for the flowers, with a hand half extended, and -stooping so low that his handsome head was close to hers. This attitude -was so prettily suggestive of something asked and granted, that a -bewildered blush flushed up upon Lady Caryisfort’s delicate face at the -sight. She turned to her old companion with a startled look, in which -there was something almost like pain.</p> - -<p>‘Well?’ she said, with mingled excitement, surprise, and defiance, which -he did not understand.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think it is well,’ he said. ‘Will you tell me—and pardon an -old disagreeable guardian for asking—how far this has gone?’</p> - -<p>‘You see as well as I do,’ she said, with a little laugh; and then, -changing her tone—‘But, however far it is gone, I have nothing to do -with it. It seems extremely careless on my part; but I give you my word, -Mr. Courtenay, I never really noticed it till to-night.’</p> - -<p>This was true enough, notwithstanding that she had perceived the dangers -of the situation, and warned both parties against it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> at the outset. For -up to this moment she had not seen the least trace of emotion on the -part of Kate.</p> - -<p>‘Nothing could make me doubt a lady’s word,’ said the old man; ‘but one -knows that in such matters the code of honour is held lightly.’</p> - -<p>‘I am not holding it lightly,’ she said, with sudden fire; and then, -pausing with an effort—‘It is true I had not noticed it before. Kate is -so frank and so young; such ideas never seem to occur to one in -connection with her. But, Mr. Courtenay, Count Buoncompagni is no -adventurer. He may be poor, but he is—honourable—good——’</p> - -<p>‘The woman is agitated,’ Mr. Courtenay said to himself. ‘What fools -these women are! My stars!’ But he added, with grim politeness, ‘It is -utterly out of the question, Lady Caryisfort. You are the girl’s -countrywoman—even her countywoman. You are not one to incur the fatal -reputation of match-making. Help me to break off this folly completely, -and I will be grateful to you for ever. It must be done, whether you -will help me or not.’</p> - -<p>As he spoke, somehow or other she recovered her calm.</p> - -<p>‘Are you so hard-hearted,’ she said,—‘so implacable a model of -guardians? And I, innocent soul, who had supposed you romantic and -Arcadian, wishing Kate to be loved for herself alone, and all the -sentimental et ceteras. So it must be put a stop to, must it? Well, if -there is nothing to be said for poor Antonio, I suppose, as it is my -fault, I must help.’</p> - -<p>‘There can be no doubt of it,’ said Mr. Courtenay.</p> - -<p>Lady Caryisfort kept her eyes upon the two, and her lively brain began -to work. The question interested her, there could be no doubt. She was -shocked at herself, she said, that she had allowed things to go so far -without finding it out. And then the two people of the world laid their -heads together, and schemed the destruction of Kate’s fanciful little -dream, and of poor Antonio’s hopes. Mr. Courtenay had no compunction; -and though Lady Caryisfort smiled and made little appeals to him not to -look so implacable, there was a certain gleam of excitement quite -unusual to her about her demeanour also.</p> - -<p>They had settled their plan before Kate had decided that, on the whole, -it was best to thrust the dropped violets back into her belt, and not to -give them to Antonio. It was nice to receive the flowers from him; but -to give one back, to accept the look with which it was asked, to commit -herself in his favour—that was a totally different question. Kate -shrank into herself at the suit which was thus pressed a hair’s-breadth -further than she was prepared for. It was just the balance of a straw -whether she should have yielded or taken fright. And, happily for her, -with those two pair of eyes upon her, it was the fright that won the -day, and not the impulse to yield.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIX" id="CHAPTER_XLIX"></a>CHAPTER XLIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Kate</span> had a good deal to think of when she went home that evening, and -shut herself up in the room which was full of the sweetness of Antonio’s -violets. Francesca, with an Italian’s natural terror of flower-scents, -had carried them away; but Kate had paused on her way to her room to -rescue the banished flowers.</p> - -<p>‘They are enough to kill Mademoiselle in her bed, and leave us all -miserable,’ said Francesca.</p> - -<p>‘I am not a bit afraid of violets,’ said Kate.</p> - -<p>On the contrary, she wanted them to help her. For she did not go into -the drawing-room, though it was still early. The two young men, she -heard, were there; and Kate felt a little sick at heart, and did not -care to go where she was not wanted—‘Where her absence,’ as she said to -herself, ‘was never remarked.’ Oh! how different it was from what it had -been! Only a few weeks ago she had been unable to form an idea of -herself detached from her aunt and cousin, who went everywhere with her, -and shared everything. Even Lady Caryisfort had shown no favouritism -towards Kate at first. She had been quite as kind to Ombra, quite as -friendly to Mrs. Anderson. It was their own doing altogether. They had -snatched, as it were, at Lady Caryisfort, as one who would disembarrass -them of the inconvenient cousin—‘the third, who was always <i>de trop</i>,’ -poor Kate said to herself, with a sob in her throat, and a dull pang in -her heart. They still went through all the formulas of affection, but -they got rid of her, they did not want her. When she had closed the door -of her room even upon Maryanne, and sat down over the fire in her -dressing-gown, she reflected upon her position, as she had never -reflected on it before. She was nobody’s child. People were kind to her, -but she was not necessary to anyone’s happiness; she belonged to no home -of her own, where her presence was essential. Her aunt loved her in a -way, but, so long as she had Ombra, could do without Kate. And her uncle -did not love her at all, only interfered with her life, and turned it -into new channels, as suited him. She was of no importance to anyone, -except in relation to Langton-Courtenay, and her money, and estates.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span></p> - -<p>This is a painful and dangerous discovery to be made by a girl of -nineteen, with a great vase full of violets at her elbow, the offering -of such a fortune-hunter as Antonio Buoncompagni, one who was mercenary -only because it was his duty to his family, and in reality meant no -harm. He was a young man who was quite capable of having fallen in love -with her, had she not been so rich and so desirable a match; and as it -was he liked her, and was ready to swear that he loved her, so as to -deceive not only her, but himself. But perhaps, after all, it was he, -and not she, who was most easily deceived. Kate, though she did not know -it, had an instinctive inkling of the real state of the case, which was -the only thing which saved her from falling at once and altogether into -Antonio’s net. Had she been sure that he loved her, nothing could have -saved her; for love in the midst of neglect, love which comes -spontaneous when <i>other people</i> are indifferent, is the sweetest and -most consolatory of all things. Sometimes she had almost persuaded -herself that this was the case, and had been ready to rush into -Antonio’s arms; but then there would come that cold shudder of -hesitation which precedes a final plunge—that doubt—that consciousness -that the Buoncompagni were poor, and wanted English money to build them -up again. As for the poverty itself, she cared nothing; but she felt -that, had her lover been even moderately well off, it would have saved -her from that shrinking chill and suspicion. And then she turned, and -rent herself, so to speak, remembering the sublime emptiness of that -space on the wall where the Madonna dei Buoncompagni used to be.</p> - -<p>‘If I can ever find it out anywhere, whatever it may cost, I will buy -it, and send it back to him,’ Kate said, with a flush on her cheek. And -next moment she cried with real distress, feeling for his -disappointment, and asking herself why should not she do it?—why not? -To make a man happy, and raise up an old house, is worth a woman’s -while, surely, even though she might not be very much in love. Was it -quite certain that people were always very much in love when they -married? A great many things, more important, were involved in any -alliance made by a little princess in her own right; and such was Kate’s -character to her own consciousness, and in the eyes of other people. The -violets breathed all round her, and the soft silence and loneliness of -the night enveloped her; and then she heard the stir in the -drawing-room, the movement of the visitors going away, and whispering -voices which passed her door, and Ombra’s laugh, soft and sweet, like -the very sound of happiness——</p> - -<p>Ombra was happy; and what cared anyone for Kate? She was the one alone -in this little loving household—and that it should be so little made -the desolation all the greater. She was one of three, and yet the others -did not care what she was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span> thinking, how she was feeling. Kate crept to -bed silently, and put out her light, that her aunt might not come to -pity her, after she had said good night to her own happy child, whom -everybody thought of. ‘And yet I might have as good,’ Kate said to -herself. ‘I am not alone any more than Ombra. I have my violets too—my -beau chevalier—if I like.’ Ah! the beau chevalier! Some one had sung -that wistful song at Lady Caryisfort’s that night. It came back upon -Kate’s mind now in the dark, mingled with the whispering of the voices, -and the little breath of chilly night air that came when the door -opened.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Ne voyez vous pas que la nuit est profonde,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Et que le monde<br /></span> -<span class="i4">N’est que souci.’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Strange, at nineteen, in all the sweetness of her youth, the heiress of -Langton had come to understand how that might be!</p> - -<p>Lady Caryisfort took more urgent measures on her side than Mr. Courtenay -had thought it wise to do. She detained her friend, the Countess -Strozzi, and her friend’s nephew, when all the other guests were gone. -This flattered Antonio, who thought it possible some proposition might -be about to be made to him, and made the Countess uncomfortable, who -knew the English better than he. Lady Caryisfort made a very bold -assault upon the two. She took high ground, and assured them that, -without her consent and countenance, to mature a scheme of this kind -under her wing, as it were, was a wrong thing to do. She was so very -virtuous, in short, that Countess Strozzi woke up to a sudden and lively -hope that Lady Caryisfort had more reasons than those which concerned -Kate for disliking the match; but this she kept to herself; and the -party sat late and long into the night discussing the matter. Antonio -was reluctant, very reluctant, to give up the little English maiden, -whom he declared he loved.</p> - -<p>‘Would you love her if she were penniless—if she had no lands and -castles, but was as her cousin?’ said Lady Caryisfort; and the young man -paused. He said at last that, though probably he would love her still -better in these circumstances, he should not dare to ask her to marry -him. But was that possible? And then it was truly that Lady Caryisfort -distinguished herself. She told him all that was possible to a ferocious -English guardian—how, though he could not take the money away, he could -bind it up so that it would advantage no one; how he could make the poor -husband no better than a pensioner of the rich wife, or even settle it -so that even the rich wife should become poor, and have nothing in her -power except the income, which, of course, could not be taken from her. -‘Even that she will not have till she is of age, two long years hence,’ -Lady Caryisfort<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span> explained; and then gave such a lucid sketch of -trustees and settlements that the young Italian’s soul shrank into his -boots. His face grew longer and longer as he listened.</p> - -<p>‘But I am committed—my honour is involved,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘<i>Ah! pazzo, allora hai parlato?</i>’ cried his kinswoman.</p> - -<p>‘No, I have not spoken, not in so many words; but I have been -understood,’ said Antonio, with that imbecile smile and blush of vanity -which women know so well.</p> - -<p>‘I think you may make yourself easy in that respect,’ said Lady -Caryisfort. ‘Kate is not in love with you,’ a speech which almost undid -what she had been labouring to do; for Antonio’s pride was up, and could -scarcely be pacified. He had committed himself; he had given Kate to -understand that he was her lover, and how was he now to withdraw? ‘If he -proposes, she is a romantic child—no more than a child—and she is -capable of accepting him,’ Lady Caryisfort said to his aunt in their -last moment of consultation.</p> - -<p>‘Leave him to me, <i>cara mia</i>,’ said the Countess—‘leave him to me.’ And -that noble lady went away with her head full of new combinations. ‘The -girl will not be of age for two years, and in that time anything may -happen. It would be hard for you to wait two years, Antonio <i>mio</i>; let -us think a little. I know another, young still, very handsome, and with -everything in her own power——’</p> - -<p>Antonio was indignant, and resented the suggestion; but Countess Strozzi -was not impatient. She knew very well that to such arguments, in the -long run, all Antonios yield.</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay entered the drawing room in the Lung-Arno next day at -noon, and found all the ladies there. Again the Berties were absent, but -there was no cloud that morning upon Ombra’s face. Kate had made her -appearance, looking pale and ill, and the hearts of her companions had -been touched. They were compunctious and ashamed, and eager to make up -for the neglect of which she had never complained. Even Ombra had kissed -her a second time after the formal morning salutation, and had said -‘Forgive me!’ as she did so.</p> - -<p>‘For what?’ said Kate, with the intention of being proud and -unconscious. But when she had looked up, and met her aunt’s anxious -look, and Ombra’s eyes with tears in them, her own overflowed. ‘Oh! I am -so ill-tempered,’ she said, ‘and ungrateful. Don’t speak to me.’</p> - -<p>‘You are just as I was a little while ago,’ said Ombra. ‘But, Kate, with -you it is all delusion, and soon, very soon, you will know better. Don’t -be as I was.’</p> - -<p>As Ombra was! Kate dried her eyes, yet she did not know whether to be -gratified or to be angry. Why should she be as Ombra had been? But yet -even these few words brought about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span> a better understanding. And the -three were seated together, in the old way, when Mr. Courtenay entered. -He had the air of a man full of business. In his hand he carried a -packet of letters, some of which he had not yet opened.</p> - -<p>‘I have just had letters from Langton,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if you -take any interest in Langton—or these ladies, who have never even seen -it——’</p> - -<p>‘Of course I do, uncle,’ cried Kate. ‘Take interest in my own house, my -dear old home!’</p> - -<p>‘It does not follow that young ladies who are fond of Italy should care -about a dull old place in the heart of England,’ said this wily old man. -‘Grieve tells me it is going to rack and ruin, which is not pleasant -news. He says it is wicked and shameful to leave it so long without -inhabitants; that the village is discontented, and dirty, and wretched, -with no one to look after it. In short, ladies, if I look miserable, you -must forgive me, for I have not got over Grieve’s letter.’</p> - -<p>‘Who is Grieve, uncle?’</p> - -<p>‘The new estate-agent, Kate. Didn’t you know? Ah! you must begin to take -an interest in the estate. My time is drawing to a close, and I shall be -glad, very glad, to be rid of it. If I could go down and live there, I -might do something; but as that is impossible, I suppose things must -continue going to the bad till you come of age.’</p> - -<p>Kate sat upright in her chair; her cheeks began to glow, and her eyes to -shine.</p> - -<p>‘Why should things go to the bad?’ she said. ‘I would rather they did -not, for my part.’</p> - -<p>‘How can they do otherwise,’ said Mr. Courtenay, ‘while the house is -shut up, and there is no one to see to anything? Grieve is a good -fellow, but I can’t give him Langton to live in, or make him into a -Courtenay.’</p> - -<p>‘I should hope not,’ said Kate, setting her small white teeth. By this -time her whole countenance began to gleam with excitement and -resolution, and that charm to which she always responded with such -delight and readiness, the charm of novelty. Then she made a pause, and -drew in her breath. ‘Uncle,’ she said, ‘I am not a child any longer. Why -shouldn’t I go home, and open the house, and live as I ought? I want -something to do. I want duty, such as other people have. It is my -business to look after Langton. Let me go home.’</p> - -<p>‘You foolish child!’ he said; which was a proof, though Kate did not see -it, that everything was working as he wished. ‘You foolish child! How -could you, at nineteen, go and live in that house alone?’</p> - -<p>She looked up. Her crimson cheek grew white, her eyes went in one -wistful, imploring look from her aunt to Ombra,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span> from Ombra back again -to Mrs. Anderson. Her lips parted in her eagerness, her eyes shone out -like lights. She was as if about to speak—but stopped short, and -referred to them, as it were, for the answer. Mr. Courtenay looked at -them too, not without a little anxiety; but the interest in his face was -of a very different kind from that shown by Kate.</p> - -<p>‘If you mean,’ said Mrs. Anderson, faltering, and, for her part, -consulting Ombra with her eyes, ‘that you would like me to go with -you—Kate, my darling, thank you for wishing it—oh! thank you, I have -not deserved—— But most likely your uncle would not like it, Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘On the contrary,’ said Mr. Courtenay, with his best bow, ‘if you would -entertain the idea—if it suits with your other plans to go to Langton -till Kate comes of age, it would be everything that I could desire.’</p> - -<p>The three looked at each other for a full moment in uncertainty and -wonder. And then Kate suddenly jumped up, overturned the little table by -her side, on which stood the remains of her violets, and danced round -the room with wild delight.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! let us go at once!—let us leave this horrid old picture-gallery! -Let us go home, home!’ she cried, in an outburst of joy. The vase was -broken, and the dead violets strewed over the carpet. Francesca came in -and swept them away, and no one took any notice. That was over. And now -for home—for home!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_L" id="CHAPTER_L"></a>CHAPTER L.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> success of this move had gone far beyond Mr. Courtenay’s highest -hopes. He was unprepared for the suddenness of its acceptance. He went -off and told Lady Caryisfort, with a surprise and satisfaction that was -almost rueful. ‘Since that woman came into my niece’s affairs,’ he said, -‘I have had to sacrifice something for every step I have gained; and I -find that I have made the sacrifice exactly when it suited her—to buy a -concession she was dying to make. I never meant her to set foot in -Langton, and now she is going there as mistress; and just, I am certain, -at the time it suits her to go. This is what happens to a simple-minded -man when he ventures to enter the lists with women. I have a great mind -to put everything in her hands and retire from the field.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think she is so clever as you give her credit for,’ said Lady -Caryisfort, who was somewhat languid after the night’s exertions. ‘I -suspect it was you who found out the moment that suited you rather than -she.’</p> - -<p>But she gave him, in her turn, an account of what she had done, and they -formed an alliance offensive and defensive—a public treaty of -friendship for the world’s inspection, and a secret alliance known only -to themselves, by the conditions of which Lady Caryisfort bound herself -to repair to London and take Kate under her charge when it should be -thought necessary and expedient by the allied powers. She pledged -herself to present the heiress and watch over her and guard her from all -match-makers, that the humble chaperon might be dismissed, and allowed -to go in peace. When he had concluded this bargain Mr. Courtenay went -away with a lighter heart, to make preparations for his niece’s return. -He had been most successful in his pretence to get her away from -Florence; and now this second arrangement to get rid of the relations -who would be no longer necessary, seemed to him a miracle of diplomacy. -He chuckled to himself over it, and rubbed his hands.</p> - -<p>‘Kate must not be treated as a child any longer—she is grown up, she -has a judgment of her own,’ he said, with a delicious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span> sense of humour; -and then he listened very gravely to all her enthusiastic descriptions -of what she was to do when she got to Langton. Kate, however, after the -first glow of her resolution, did not feel the matter so easy as it -appeared. She had no thought of the violets, which Francesca swept up, -at the moment; but afterwards the recollection of them came back to her. -She had allowed them to be swept away without a thought. What a cold -heart—what an ungrateful nature—she must have! And poor Antonio! In -the light of Langton, Antonio looked to her all at once impossible—as -impossible as it would be to transplant his old palace to English soil. -No way could the two ideas be harmonised. She puckered her brows over it -till she made her head ache. Count Buoncompagni and Langton-Courtenay! -They would not come together—could not—it was impossible! Indeed the -one idea chased the other from her mind. And how was she to intimate -this strange and cruel fact to him? How was she to show that all his -graceful attentions must be brought to an end?—that she was going home, -and all must be over! And the worst was that it could not be done -gradually; but one way or another must be managed at once.</p> - -<p>The next day Lady Caryisfort came, as usual, on her way to the Cascine; -but, to Kate’s surprise and relief, and, it must be owned, also to her -disappointment, Antonio was not there. She declined the next invitation -to Lady Caryisfort’s, inventing a headache for the occasion, and growing -more and more perplexed the longer she thought over that difficult -matter. It was while she was musing thus that Bertie Hardwick one day -managed to get beside her for a moment, while Ombra was talking to his -cousin. Bertie Eldridge had raised a discussion about some literary -matter, and the two had gone to consult a book in the little ante-room, -which served as a kind of library; the other Bertie was left alone with -Kate, a thing which had not happened before for weeks. He went up to her -the moment they were gone, and stood hesitating and embarrassed before -her.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Courtenay,’ he said, and waited till she looked up.</p> - -<p>Something moved in Kate’s heart at the sound of his voice—some chord of -early recollection—remembrances which seemed to her to stretch so far -back—before the world began.</p> - -<p>‘Well, Mr. Hardwick?’ she said, looking up with a smile. Why there -should be something pathetic in that smile, and a little tightness -across her eyelids, as if she could have cried, Kate could not have -told, and neither can I.</p> - -<p>‘Are you pleased to go home?—is it with your own will? or did your -uncle’s coming distress you?’ he said, in a voice which was—yes, very -kind, almost more than friendly; brotherly, Kate said to herself.</p> - -<p>‘Distress me?’ she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span></p> - -<p>‘Yes; I have thought you looked a little troubled sometimes. I can’t -help noticing. Don’t think me impertinent, but I can’t bear to see -trouble in your face.’</p> - -<p>Kate made no reply, but she looked up at him—looked him straight in the -eyes. Once more she did not know why she did it, and she did not think -of half the meanings which he saw written in her face. He faltered; he -turned away; he grew red and grew pale; and then came back to her with -an answering look which did not falter; but for the re-entrance of the -others he must have said something. But they came back, and he did not -speak. If he had spoken, what would he have said?</p> - -<p>This gave a new direction to Kate’s thoughts, but still it was with a -heavy heart that she entered Lady Caryisfort’s drawing-room, not more -than a week after that evening when Antonio had asked for the violets, -and she had hesitated whether she would give them. She had hesitated! It -was this thought which made her so much ashamed. She had been lonely, -and she had been willing to accept his heart as a plaything; and how -could she say to him now, ‘I am no longer lonely. I am going home; and I -could not take you, a stranger, back, to be master of Langton?’ She -could not say this, and what was she to say? Antonio Buoncompagni was -not much more comfortable; he had been thoroughly schooled, and he had -begun to accept his part. He even saw, and that clearly, that a pretty, -independent bird in the hand, able to pipe as he wished, was better than -a fluttering, uncertain fledgling in the bush; but he had a lively sense -of honour, and he had committed himself. The young lady, he thought, -ought at least to have the privilege of refusing him. ‘Go, then, and be -refused—<i>pazzo</i>!’ said his aunt. ‘Most people avoid a refusal, but thou -wishest it. It is a pity that thou shouldst not be satisfied.’ But, -having obtained this permission, the young Count was not, perhaps, so -ready to avail himself of it. He did not care to be rejected any more -than other men, but he was anxious to reconcile his conscience to his -desertion; and he had a tender sense that he himself—Antonio—was not -one to be easily forgotten. He watched Kate from the moment of her -entry, and persuaded himself that she was pale. ‘<i>Poverina!</i>’ he said, -beneath his moustache. Alas! the sacrifice must be made; but then it -might be done in a gentle way.</p> - -<p>The evening, however, was half over before he had found his way to her -side—a circumstance which filled Kate with wonder, and kept her in a -curious suspense; for she could not talk freely to anyone else while he -was within sight, to whom she had so much (she thought) to say. He came, -and Kate was confused and troubled. Somehow she felt he was changed. Was -he less handsome, less tall, less graceful? What had happened to him? -Surely there was something. He was no longer the young hero<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span> who had -dropped on his knee, and kissed her hand for Italy. She was confused, -and could not tell how it was.</p> - -<p>‘You are going to leave Florence?’ he said. ‘It is sudden—it is too sad -to think of. Miss Courtenay, I hope it is not you who wish to leave our -beautiful Italy—you, who have understood her so well?’</p> - -<p>‘No, it is not I,’ said Kate. ‘I should not have gone of my own free -will; but yet I am very willing—I am ready to go—it is home,’ she -added, hastily, and with meaning. ‘It is the place I love best in the -world.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I had thought—I had hoped you loved Italy too.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! so I do, Count Buoncompagni—and I thought I did still more,’ cried -the girl, eager to make her hidden and shy, yet brave apology. ‘I -thought I could have lived and died here, where people were so good to -me. But, you know, whenever I heard the name of home, it made my blood -all dance in my veins. I felt I had been making a mistake, and that -there was nothing in the world I loved like Langton-Courtenay. I made a -great mistake, but I did not mean it. I hope nobody will think it is -unkind of me, or that I am fond of change.’</p> - -<p>Count Antonio stood and listened to this speech with a grim smile on his -face, and a look in his eyes which was new to Kate. He, too, was making -a disagreeable discovery, and he did not like it. He made her a bow, but -he did not make any answer. He stood by her side a few moments, and then -he asked her suddenly, ‘May I get you some tea?—can I bring you -anything?’ with a forced quietness; and when Kate said ‘No,’ he went -away, and devoted himself for all the rest of the evening to Lady -Caryisfort. There was pique in his manner, but there was something more, -which she could not make out; and she sat rather alone for the rest of -the evening. She was left to feel her mistake, to wonder, to be somewhat -offended and affronted; and went back to the Lung-Arno impatient to -hurry over all the packing, and get home at once. But she never found -out that in thus taking the weight of the breaking off on her own -shoulders, she had saved Count Antonio a great deal of trouble.</p> - -<p>When Lady Caryisfort found out what had passed, her amusement was very -great. ‘She will go now and think all her life that she has done him an -injury, and broken his heart, and all kinds of nonsense,’ she said to -herself. ‘Poor Antonio! what a horrible thing money is! But he has -escaped very cheaply, thanks to Kate, and she will make a melancholy -hero of him, poor dear child, for the rest of her life.’</p> - -<p>In this, however, Lady Caryisfort, not knowing all the circumstances, -was wrong; for Kate felt vaguely that there was something more than the -honourable despair of a young Paladin<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span> in her Count’s acceptance of her -explanation. He accepted it too readily, with too little attempt to -resist or remonstrate. She was more angry than pitiful, ignorant as she -was. A man who takes a woman so entirely at her first word almost -insults her, even though the separation is her own doing. Kate felt this -vaguely, and a hot blush rose to her cheek for two or three days after, -at the very mention of Antonio’s name.</p> - -<p>The person, however, who felt this breaking off most was old Francesca, -who had gone to an extra mass for weeks back, to promote the suit she -had so much at heart. She cried herself sick when she saw it was all -over, and said to herself, she knew something evil would happen as soon -as <i>il vecchio</i> came. <i>Il vecchio’s</i> appearance was always the signal -for mischief. He had come, and now once more the party was on the wing, -and she herself was to be torn from her native place, the Florence she -adored, for this old man’s caprice. Francesca thought with a little -fierce satisfaction that, when his soul went to purgatory, there would -be nobody to pray him out, and that his penance would be long enough. -The idea gave her a great deal of satisfaction. She would not help him -out, she was certain—not so much as by a single prayer.</p> - -<p>But all the time she got on with her packing, and the ladies began to -frequent the shops to buy little souvenirs of Florence. It was a busy -time, and there was a great deal of movement, and so much occupation -that the members of the little party lost sight of each other, as it -were, and pursued their different preparations in their own way. ‘She is -packing,’ or, ‘she is shopping,’ was said, first of one, and then of -another; and no further questions were asked. And thus the days crept -on, and the time approached when they were to set out once more on the -journey home.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LI" id="CHAPTER_LI"></a>CHAPTER LI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Yes</span>, packing, without doubt, takes up a great deal of time, and that -must have been the reason why Mrs. Anderson and Ombra were so much -occupied. They had so many things to do. Francesca, of course, was -occupied with the household; she did the greater part of the cooking, -and superintended everything, and consequently had not time for the -manifold arrangements—the selection of things they did not immediately -want, which were to be sent off direct from Leghorn, and of those which -they would require to carry with them. And in this work the ladies -toiled sometimes for days together.</p> - -<p>Kate had no occasion to make a slave of herself. She had Maryanne to -attend to all her immediate requirements, and, in her own person, had -nothing better to do than to sit alone, and read, or gaze out of the -window upon the passengers below, and the brown Arno running his course -in the sunshine, and the high roofs blazing into the mellow light on the -other side, while the houses below were in deepest shadow. Kate was too -young, and had too many requirements, and hungers of the heart, to enjoy -this scene for itself so much, perhaps, as she ought to have done. Had -there been somebody by to whom she could have pointed out, or who would -have pointed out to her, the beautiful gleams of colour and sunshine, I -have no doubt her appreciation of it all would have been much greater. -As it was, she felt very solitary; and often after, when life was -running low with her, her imagination would bring up that picture of the -brown river, and the housetops shining in the sun, and all the people -streaming across the Ponte della Trinità, to the other side of the -Arno—stranger people, whom she did not know, who were always coming and -going, coming and going. Morning made no difference to them, nor night, -nor the cold days, nor the rain. They were always crossing that bridge. -Oh! what a curious, tedious thing life was, Kate thought—always the -same thing over again, year after year, day after day. It was so still -that she almost heard her own breathing within the warm, low room, where -the sunshine entered so freely, but where nothing else entered all the -morning, except herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span></p> - -<p>To be sure, this was only for a few days; but, after all, what a strange -end it was to the life in Florence, which had begun so differently! In -the afternoon, to be sure, it was not lonely. Her uncle would come, and -Lady Caryisfort, and the Berties, but not so often as usual. They never -came when Mr. Courtenay was expected; but Kate felt, by instinct, that -when she and her uncle were at Lady Caryisfort’s, the two young men -reappeared, and the evenings were spent very pleasantly. What had she -done to be thus shut out? It was a question she could not answer. Now -and then the young clergyman would appear, who was the friend of Bertie -Eldridge, a timid young man, with light hair and troubled eyes. And -sometimes she caught Bertie Hardwick looking at herself with a -melancholy, anxious gaze, which she still less understood. Why should he -so regard her? she was making no complaint, no show of her own -depression; and why should her aunt look at her so wistfully, and beg -her pardon in every tone or gesture? Kate could not tell; but the last -week was hard upon her, and still more hard was a strange accident which -occurred at the end.</p> - -<p>This happened two or three days before they left Florence. She was -roused early, she did not know how, by a sound which she could not -identify. Whether it was distant thunder, which seemed unlikely, or the -shutting of a door close at hand, she could not tell. It was still dark -of the winter morning, and Kate, rousing up, heard some early street -cries outside, only to be heard in that morning darkness before the -dawn, and felt something in the air, she could not tell what, which -excited her. She got up, and cautiously peered into the ante-room out of -which her own room opened. To her wonder she saw a bright fire burning. -Was it late, she thought? and hastened to dress, thinking she had -overslept herself. But when she had finished her morning toilette, and -came forth to warm her cold fingers at that fire, there was still no -appearance of anyone stirring. What did it mean? The shutters were still -closed, and everything was dark, except this brisk fire, which must have -been made up quite recently. Kate had taken down a book, and was about -to make herself comfortable by the fireside, when the sound of some one -coming startled her. It was Francesca, who looked in, with her warm -shawl on.</p> - -<p>‘I thought I heard some one,’ said Francesca. ‘Mees Katta, you haf give -me a bad fright. Why do you get up so early, without warning anyone? I -hear the sound, and I say to myself my lady is ill—and behold it is -only Mees Katta. It does not show education, waking poor peoples in ze -cold out of their good warm bet.’</p> - -<p>‘But, Francesca, I heard noises too; and what can be the matter?’ said -Kate, becoming a little alarmed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span></p> - -<p>‘Ah! but there is nosing the matter. Madame sleep—she would not answer -even when I knocked. And since you have made me get up so early, it -shall be for ze good of my soul, Mees Katta. I am going to mass.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! let me go too,’ said Kate. ‘I have never been at church so early. -Don’t say a word, Francesca, because I <i>know</i> my aunt will not mind. I -will get my hat in a minute. See, I am ready.’</p> - -<p>‘The Signorina will always have her way,’ said Francesca; and Kate found -herself, before she knew, in the street.</p> - -<p>It was still dark, but day was breaking; and it was by no means the -particularly early hour that Kate supposed. There were no fine people -certainly about the streets, but the poorer population was all awake and -afoot. It was very cold—the beginning of January—the very heart of -winter. The lamps were being extinguished along the streets; but the -cold glimmer of the day neither warmed nor cleared the air to speak of; -and through that pale dimness the great houses rose like ghosts. Kate -glanced round her with a shiver, taking in a strange wild vision, all in -tints of grey and black, of the houses along the side of the Arno, the -arched line of the bridge, the great dim mass of the other part of the -town beyond, faint in the darkness, and veiled, indistinct figures still -coming and going. And then she followed Francesca, with scarcely a word, -to the little out-of-the-way church, with nothing in it to make a show, -which Francesca loved, partly because it was humble. For poor people -have a liking for those homely, mean little places, where no grandeur of -ornament nor pomp of service can ever be. This is a fact, explain it as -they can, who think the attractions of ritualistic art and splendid -ceremonial are the chief charms of the worship of Rome.</p> - -<p>Francesca found out this squalid little church by instinct, as a poor -woman of her class in England would find a Bethesda chapel. But at this -moment the little church looked cheery, with its lighted altar blazing -into the chilly darkness. Kate followed into one of the corners, and -kneeled down reverently by her companion. Her head was confused by the -strangeness of the scene. She listened, and tried to join in what was -going on, with that obstinate English prejudice which makes common -prayer a necessity in a church. But it was not common prayer that was to -be found here. The priest was making his sacrifice at the altar; the -solitary kneeling worshippers were having their private intercourse with -God, as it were, under the shadow of the greater rite. While Francesca -crossed herself and muttered her prayer under her breath, Kate, scarcely -capable of that, covered her eyes with her hand, and pondered and -wondered. Poor little church, visited by no admiring stranger;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span> poor -unknown people, snatching a moment from their work, market-people, -sellers of chestnuts from the streets, servants, the lowliest of the -low; but morning after morning their feeble candles twinkled into the -dark, and they knelt upon the damp stones in the unseen corners. How -strange it was! Not like English ideas—not like the virtuous ladies who -patronised the daily service at Shanklin. Kate’s heart felt a great -yearning towards those badly-dressed poor folks, some of whom smelled of -garlic. She cried a little silently, the tears dropping one by one, like -the last of a summer shower, from behind the shelter of her hand. And -when Francesca had ended her prayers, and Kate, startled from her -thinking, took her hand from her eyes, the little grey church was all -full of the splendour of the morning, the candles put to flight, the -priest’s muttering over.</p> - -<p>‘If my young lady will come this way,’ whispered Francesca, ‘she will be -able to kiss the shrine of the famous Madonna—she who stopped the -cholera in the village, where my blessed aunt Agnese, of the -Reparazione, was so much beloved.’</p> - -<p>‘I would rather kiss you, Francesca,’ cried Kate, in a little transport, -audible, so that some praying people raised their heads to look at her, -‘for you are a good woman.’</p> - -<p>She spoke in English; and the people at their prayers looked down again, -and took no more notice. It was nothing wonderful for an English visitor -to talk loud in a church.</p> - -<p>It was bright daylight when they came out, and everything was gay. The -sun already shone dazzling on all the towers and heights, for it was no -longer early; it was half-past eight o’clock, and already the forenoon -had begun in that early Italian world. As they returned to the Lung-Arno -the river was sparkling in the light, and the passengers moving quickly, -half because of the cold, and half because the sun was so warm and -exhilarating.</p> - -<p>‘My aunt and Ombra will only be getting up,’ said Kate, with a little -laugh of superiority; when suddenly she felt herself clutched by -Francesca, and, looking round, suddenly stopped short also in the -uttermost amaze. In front of her, walking along the bright street, were -the two whom she had just named—her aunt and Ombra—and not alone. The -two young men were walking with them—one with each lady. Ombra was -clinging to the arm of the one by her side; and they all kept close -together, with a half-guilty, half clandestine air. The sight of them -filled Kate with so much consternation, as well as wonder, that these -particulars recurred to her afterwards, as do the details of an accident -to those who have been too painfully excited to observe them at the -moment of their occurrence.</p> - -<p>Francesca clutched her close and held her back as the group went on. -They passed, almost brushing by the two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span> spectators, yet in their haste -perceiving nothing. But Kate had no inclination to rush forward and join -herself to the party, as the old woman feared. After a moment’s interval -the two resumed their walk, slowly, in speechless wonder. What did it -mean? Perhaps Francesca guessed more truly than Kate did; but even she -was not in the secret. Before, however, they reached the door, Kate had -recovered herself. She quickened her steps, though Francesca held her -back.</p> - -<p>‘They must know that we have seen them,’ she said over and over to -herself, with a parched throat.</p> - -<p>And when the door was reached, the two parties met. It was Ombra who -made the discovery first. She had turned round upon her companion to say -some word of parting; her face was pale, but full of emotion; she was -like one of the attendant saints at a martyrdom, so pale was she, and -with a strange look of trance and rapture. But when her eye caught Kate -behind, Ombra was strangely moved. She gave a little cry, and without -another word ran into the house and up the stairs. Mrs. Anderson turned -suddenly round when Ombra disappeared. She stood before the door of the -house, and faced the new comers.</p> - -<p>‘What, Kate!’ she said, half frightened, half relieved, ‘is it you? What -has brought you out so early—and with Francesca, too?’</p> - -<p>‘You too are out early, aunt.’</p> - -<p>‘That is true; but it is not an answer,’ said Mrs. Anderson with a flush -that rose over all her face.</p> - -<p>And the two young men stood irresolute, as if they did not know whether -to go or stay. Bertie Eldridge, it seemed to Kate, wore his usual -indifferent look. He was always <i>blasé</i> and languid, and did not give -himself much trouble about anything; but Bertie Hardwick was much -agitated. He turned white, and he turned red, and he gave Kate looks -which she could not understand. It seemed to her as if he were always -trying to apologise and explain with his eyes; and what right had Bertie -Hardwick to think that she wanted anything explained or cared what he -did? She was angry, she did not quite know why—angry and wounded—hurt -as if some one had struck her, and she did not care to stop and ask or -answer questions. She followed Mrs. Anderson upstairs, listening -doubtfully to Francesca’s voluble explanation—how Mademoiselle had been -disturbed by some sounds in the house, ‘possibly my lady herself, though -I was far from thinking so when I left,’ said Francesca, pointedly; and -how Mees Katta had insisted upon going to mass with her?</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson shook her head, but turned round to Kate at the door with -a softened look, which had something in it akin<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span> to Bertie’s. She kissed -Kate, though the girl half averted her face.</p> - -<p>‘I do not blame you, my dear, but your uncle might not like it. You must -not go again,’ she said, thus gently placing the inferior matter in the -first place.</p> - -<p>And they went in, to find the fire in the ante-room burning all alone, -as when Kate had left, and the calm little house looking in its best -order, as if nothing had ever happened there.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LII" id="CHAPTER_LII"></a>CHAPTER LII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">That</span> was a curious day—a day full of strange excitement and suppressed -feeling—suppressed on all sides, yet betraying itself in some -unexplainable way. Mrs. Anderson made no explanation whatever of her -early expedition—at least to Kate; she did not even refer to it. She -gave her a little lecture at breakfast, while they sat alone -together—for Ombra did not appear—about the inexpediency of going with -Francesca to church. ‘I know that you did not mean anything, my -darling,’ she said, tenderly; ‘but it is very touching to see the poor -people at their prayers, and I have known a girl to be led away so, and -to desert her own church. Such an idea must never be entertained for -you; you are not a private individual, Kate—you are a woman with a -great stake in the country, an example to many——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I am so tired of hearing that I have a stake in the country!’ cried -Kate, who at that moment, to tell the truth, was sick of everything, and -loathed her life heartily, and everything she heard and saw.</p> - -<p>‘But that is wrong,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘You must not be tired of such -an honour and privilege. You must be aware, Kate, that an ordinary girl -of your years would not be considered and studied as you have been. Had -you been only my dear sister’s child, and not the mistress of -Langton-Courtenay, even I should have treated you differently; though, -for your own good,’ Mrs. Anderson added, ‘I have tried as much as -possible to forget your position, and look upon you as my younger -child.’</p> - -<p>Kate’s heart was full—full of a yearning for the old undoubting love, -and yet a sense that it had been withdrawn from her by no fault of hers, -which made it impossible for her to make overtures of tenderness, or -even to accept them. She said, ‘I like that best;’ but she said it low, -with her eyes fixed upon her plate, and her voice choking. And perhaps -her aunt did not hear. Mrs. Anderson had deliberately mounted upon her -high horse. She had invoked, as it were, the assistance of her chief -weakness, and was making use of it freely. She said a good deal more -about Kate’s position—about the necessity of being<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span> faithful to one’s -church, not only as a religious, but a public duty; and thus kept up the -discussion till breakfast was fairly over. Then, as usual, Kate was left -alone. Francesca had a private interview after in her mistress’s room, -but what was said to her was never known to anyone. She left it looking -as if tears still lay very near her eyes, but not a word did she repeat -of any explanation given to her—and, indeed, avoided Kate, so that the -girl was left utterly alone in the very heart of that small, and once so -tender, household.</p> - -<p>And thus life went on strangely, in a mist of suppressed excitement, for -some days. How her aunt and cousin spent that time Kate could not tell. -She saw little of them, and scarcely cared to note what visits they -received, or what happened. In the seclusion of her own room she heard -footsteps coming and going, and unusual sounds, but took no notice; and -from that strange morning encounter, saw no more of the Berties until -they made their appearance suddenly one day in the forenoon, when Mr. -Courtenay was there; when they announced their immediate departure, and -took their leave at one and the same moment. The parting was a strange -one; they all shook hands stiffly with each other, as if they had been -mere acquaintances. They said not a word of meeting again; and the young -men were both agitated, looking pale and strange. When they left at -last, Mr. Courtenay, in his airy way, remarked that he did not think -Florence had agreed with them. ‘They look as if they were both going to -have the fever,’ he said; ‘though, by-the-bye, it is in Rome people have -the fever, not in Florence.’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose they are sorry to leave,’ said Mrs. Anderson, steadily; and -then the subject dropped.</p> - -<p>It seemed to Kate as if the world went round and round, and then -suddenly settled back into its place. And by this time all was -over—everything had stopped short. There was no more shopping, nor even -packing. Francesca was equal to everything that remained to be done; and -the moment of their own departure drew very near.</p> - -<p>Ombra drew down her veil as they were carried away out of sight of -Florence on the gentle bit of railway which then existed, going to the -north. And Mrs. Anderson looked back upon the town with her hands -clasped tight together in her lap, and tears in her eyes. Kate noted -both details, but even in her own mind drew no deductions from them. She -herself was confused in her head as well as in her heart, bewildered, -uncertain, walking like some one in a dream. The last person she saw in -the railway-station was Antonio Buoncompagni, with a bunch of violets in -his coat. He walked as far as he could go when the slow little train got -itself into motion, and took off his hat, with a little gesture which -went to Kate’s heart. Poor Antonio!—had she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span> perhaps been unkind to him -after all? There was something sad, and yet not painful—something -almost comforting in the thought.</p> - -<p>And so they were really on their way again, and Florence was over like -yesterday when it is past, and like a tale that is told! How strange to -think so! A place never perhaps to be entered again—never, certainly, -with the same feelings as now. Ombra’s veil was down, and it was thick, -and concealed her, and tears stood in Mrs. Anderson’s eyes. They had -their own thoughts, too, though Kate had no clue to them. No clue! -Probably these thoughts dwelt upon things absolutely unknown to -her—probably they too were saying to themselves, ‘How strange to leave -Florence in the past—to be done with it!’ But had they left it in the -past?</p> - -<p>As for Mr. Courtenay, he read his paper, which he had just received from -England. There was a debate in it about some object which interested -him, and the <i>Times</i> was full of abuse of some of his friends. The old -man chuckled a little over this, as he sat on the comfortable side, with -his back towards the engine, and his rug tucked over his knees. He did -not so much as give Florence a glance as they glided away. What was -Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba? Nothing had happened to him there. -Nothing happened to him anywhere—though his ward gave him a good deal -of trouble. As for this journey of his, it was a bore, but still it had -been successful, which was something, and he made himself extremely -comfortable, and read over, as they rolled leisurely along, every word -of the <i>Times</i>.</p> - -<p>And thus they travelled home.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LIII" id="CHAPTER_LIII"></a>CHAPTER LIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> is a curious sensation to return, after a long interval, to the home -of one’s youth, especially if one has had very great ideas of that home, -and thought it magnificent. Even a short absence changes most curiously -this first conception of grandeur. When Kate ran into Langton-Courtenay -on her return, rushing through the row of new servants, who bowed and -curtseyed in the hall, her sense of mortification and disappointment was -intense. Everything had shrunken somehow; the rooms were smaller, the -ceilings lower, the whole place diminished. Were these the rooms which -she had compared in her mind with the suite in which the English -ambassadress gave her ball? Kate stood aghast, blushing up to the roots -of her hair, and felt so mortified that she did not remember to do the -honours to her aunt and cousin. When she recollected, she went back to -where they had placed themselves in the great old hall, round the great -fireplace. There was a comfortable old-fashioned settle by it, and on -this Mrs. Anderson had seated herself, to warm her frozen fingers, and -give Kate time to recover herself.</p> - -<p>‘I have not the least doubt we shall find everything very comfortable,’ -she said to the new housekeeper, who stood before her, curtseying in her -rustling silk gown, and wondering already whether she was to have three -mistresses, or which was to be the ‘lady of the house.’ Mrs. Spigot felt -instinctively that the place was not likely to suit her, when Kate ran -against the new housemaid, and made the new butler (Mr. Spigot) fall -back out of her way. This was not a dignified beginning for a young lady -coming home; and if the aunt was to be mistress, it was evident that the -situation would not be what the housekeeper thought.</p> - -<p>‘My niece is a little excited by coming home,’ said Mrs. Anderson. -‘To-morrow Miss Courtenay will be rested, and able to notice you all.’ -And she nodded to the servants, and waved her hand, dismissing them. If -a feeling passed through Mrs. Anderson’s mind, as she did so, that this -was truly the position that she ought to have filled, and that Kate, a -chit of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span> nineteen, was not half so well endowed for it by nature as she -herself would have been, who can blame her? She gave a sigh at this -thought, and then smiled graciously as the servants went away, and felt -that to have such a house, and so many servants under her control, even -provisionally, would be pleasant. The housemaids thought her a very -affable lady; but the upper servants were not so enthusiastic. Mrs. -Anderson had mounted upon her very highest horse. She had put away all -the vagaries of Italian life, and settled down into the very blandest of -British matrons. She talked again about proper feeling, and a regard for -the opinions of society. She had resumed all the caressing and -instructive ways which, at the very beginning of their intercourse, she -had adopted with Kate. And all these sentiments and habits came back so -readily that there were moments in which she asked herself, ‘Had she -ever been in Italy at all?’ But yes, alas, yes! Never, if she lived a -thousand years, could she forget the three months just past.</p> - -<p>Kate came back with some confusion to the hall, to find Ombra kneeling -on the great white sheepskin mat before the fire; while Mrs. Anderson -sat benignly on the settle, throwing off her shawls, and loosing her -bonnet. Ombra’s veil was thrown quite back; the ruddy glow threw a pink -reflection on her face, and her eyes seemed to have thawed in the -cheery, warm radiance. They were bright, and there seemed to be a little -moisture in them. She held out her hand to her cousin, and drew her down -beside her.</p> - -<p>‘This is the warmest place,’ said Ombra; ‘and your hands are like ice, -Kate. But how warm it feels to be at home in England! and I like your -house—it looks as if it had never been anything but a home.’</p> - -<p>‘It is delightful!—it is much larger and handsomer than I supposed,’ -said Mrs. Anderson, from the settle. ‘With such a place to come home to, -dear, I think you may be pardoned a little sensation of pride.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! do you think so?’ said Kate, gratified. ‘I am so very glad you like -it. It seems to me so insignificant, after all we have seen. I used to -think it was the biggest, the finest, the most delightful house in the -world; but if you only knew how the roofs have come down, and the rooms -have shrunk!—I feel as if I could both laugh and cry.’</p> - -<p>‘That is quite natural—quite natural. Kate, I have sent the servants -away. I thought you would be better able to see them to-morrow,’ said -Mrs. Anderson. ‘But when you have warmed yourself, I think we may ask -for Mrs. Spigot again, and go over the rooms, and see which we are to -live in. It will not be necessary to open the whole house for us three, -especially in Winter. Besides our bed-rooms and the dining-room, I think -a snug little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span> room that we can make ourselves comfortable in—that will -be warm, and not too large——’</p> - -<p>It pleased Mrs. Anderson to sit there in the warmth and stillness, and -make all these suggestions. The big house gave her a sensible pleasure. -It was delicious to think that a small room might be chosen for comfort, -while there were miles of larger ones all at her orders. She smiled and -beamed upon the two girls on the hearth. And indeed it was a pretty -picture—Kate began to glow and brighten, with her hat off, and her -bright hair shining in the firelight. Her travelling-dress was trimmed -round the throat with white fur, like a bird’s plumage, which caught a -pink tinge too from the firelight, and seemed to caress her, nestling -against her pretty cheek. The journey, and the arrival, and all the -excitement had driven away, for the moment at least, all mists and -clouds, and there was a pretty conflict in her face—half pleasure to be -at home, half whimsical discontent with home. Ombra with her veil quite -back, and her face cleared also of some other mystical veil, had her -hand on Kate’s shoulder, and was looking at her kindly, almost tenderly; -and one of Ombra’s cheeks was getting more than pink—it was crimson in -the genial glow; she held up her hand to shield it, which looked -transparent against the firelight. Mrs. Anderson looked very -complacently, very fondly at both. Now that everything was over, she -said to herself, and they had got <i>home</i>, surely at least a little -interval of calm might come. She shut her eyes and her ears, and refused -to look forward, refused to think of the seeds sown, and the results -that must come from them. She had been carried away to permit and even -sanction many things that her conscience disapproved; but perhaps the -Fates would exact no vengeance this time—perhaps all would go well. She -looked at Ombra, and it seemed to her that her child, after so many -agitations, looked happy—yes, really happy—not with feverish joy or -excitement, but with a genial quiet that belonged to home. Oh! if it -might be so?—and why might it not be so?—at least for a time.</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay had stayed in town, and the three ladies were alone in the -house. They settled down in a few days into ease and comfort which, -after their travelling, was very sweet. Things were different altogether -from what they had been in the Shanklin cottage; and though Mrs. -Anderson was in the place of Kate’s guardian, yet Kate was no longer a -child, to be managed for and ruled in an arbitrary way. It was now that -the elder lady showed her wisdom. It was a sensible pleasure to her to -govern the great house; here at last she seemed to have scope for her -powers; but yet, though she ruled, she did so from the background; with -heroic self-denial she kept Kate in the position she was so soon to -occupy by right, trained her for it, guided her first steps, and taught -her what to do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span></p> - -<p>‘When you are of age, this is how you must manage,’ she would say.</p> - -<p>‘But when I am of age, why should not you manage for me?’ Kate replied; -and her aunt made no answer.</p> - -<p>They had come together again, and the old love had asserted itself once -more. The mysteries unexplained had been buried by common consent. Kate -lulled her own curiosity to rest, and when various questions came to the -very tip of her tongue, she bit and stilled that unruly member, and made -a not unsuccessful effort to restrain herself. But it was a hard -discipline, and strained her strength. Sometimes, when she saw the -continual letters which her aunt and cousin were always receiving, -curiosity would give her a renewed pinch. But generally she kept herself -down, and pretended not to see the correspondence, which was so much -larger than it ever used to be. She was so virtuous even as not to look -at the addresses of the letters. What good would it do her to know who -wrote them? Of course some must be from the Berties, one, or both—what -did it matter? The Berties were nothing to Kate; and, whatever the -connection might be, Kate had evidently nothing to do with it, for it -had never been told her. With this reasoning she kept herself down, -though she was always sore and disposed to be cross about the hour of -breakfast. Mrs. Anderson, for her part, would never see the crossness. -She petted Kate, and smoothed her down, and read out, with anxious -conciliation, scraps from Lady Barker’s letters, and others of a -similarly indifferent character; while, in the meantime, the other -letters, ones which were not indifferent nor apt for quotation, were -read by Ombra. The moment was always a disagreeable one for Kate—but -she bore it, and made no sign.</p> - -<p>But to live side by side with a secret has a very curious effect upon -the mind; it sharpens some faculties and deadens others in the strangest -way. Kate had now a great many things to think of, and much to do; -people came to call, hearing she had come home; and she made more -acquaintances in a fortnight than she had done before in a year. And -yet, notwithstanding this, I think it was only a fortnight that the -reign of peace and domestic happiness lasted. During that time, she made -the most strenuous effort a girl could make to put out of her mind the -recollection that there was something in the lives of her companions -that had been concealed from her. Sometimes, indeed, when she sat by her -cousin’s side, there would suddenly rise up before her a glimpse of that -group at the doorway on the Lung-Arno, and the scared look with which -Ombra had rushed away; or some one of the many evening scenes when she -was left out, and the other four, clustered about the table, would glide -across her eyes like a ghost. Why was she left out?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span> What difference -would it have made to them, if they had made her one of themselves—was -she likely to have betrayed their secret? And then Bertie Hardwick’s -troubled face would come before her, and his looks, half-apologetic, -half-explanatory; looks, which, now she thought of them, seemed to have -been so very frequent. Why was he always looking at her, as if he wanted -to explain; as if he were disturbed and ill at ease; as if he felt her -to be wronged? Though, of course, she was not in the least wronged, Kate -said to herself, proudly; for what was it to her if all the Berties in -the world had been at Ombra’s feet?—Kate did not want them! Of that, at -least, she was perfectly sure.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson’s room was a large one; opening into that of Ombra on the -one side, and into an ante-room, which they could sit in, or dress in, -or read and write in, for it was furnished for all uses. It was a <i>petit -appartement</i>, charmingly shut in and cosy, one of the best set of rooms -in the house, which Kate had specially chosen for her aunt. Here the -mother and daughter met one night after a very tranquil day, over the -fire in the central room. It was a bright fire, and the cosy chairs that -stood before it were luxurious, and the warm firelight flickered through -the large room, upon the ruddy damask of the curtains, and the long -mirror, and all the pretty furnishings. Ombra came in from her own room -in her dressing-gown, with her dusky hair over her shoulders. Dusky were -her looks altogether, like evening in a Winter’s twilight. Her -dressing-gown was of a faint grey-blue—not a pretty colour in itself, -but it suited Ombra; and her long hair fell over it almost to her waist. -She came in noiselessly to her mother’s room, and it was her voice which -first betrayed her presence there. Mrs. Anderson had been sitting -thinking, with a very serious face; she started at her child’s voice.</p> - -<p>‘I have been trying my very best to bear it—I think I have done my very -best; I have smiled, and kept my temper, and tried to look as if I were -not ready to die of misery. Oh! mamma, mamma, can this go on for ever? -What am I to do?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Ombra, for God’s sake have patience!’ cried her mother—‘nothing -new has happened to-day?’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing new!—is it nothing new to have those girls here from the -Rectory, jabbering about their brother? and to know that he is -coming—next week, they say? We shall be obliged to meet—and how are we -to meet? when I think how I took leave of him last! My life is odious to -me!’ cried the girl, sinking down in a chair, and covering her face with -her hands. ‘I don’t know how to hold up my head and look those people in -the face; and it is worse when no one comes. To live for a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span> whole long, -endless day without seeing a strange face, with Kate’s eyes going -through and through me——’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t make things worse than they are,’ said her mother, ‘Oh! Ombra, -have a little patience! Kate suspects nothing.’</p> - -<p>‘Suspects!’ cried Ombra—‘she <i>knows</i> there is something—not what it -is, but that there is something. Do you think I don’t see her looks in -the morning, when the letters come? Poor Kate! she will not look at -them; she is full of honour—but to say she does not suspect!’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know what to say to satisfy you, Ombra,’ said her mother. ‘Did -not I beg you on my knees to take her into your confidence? It would -have made everything so much easier, and her so much happier.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! mamma, my life is hard enough of itself—don’t make it harder and -harder!’ cried Ombra; and then she laid down her head upon her mother’s -shoulder, and wept. Poor Mrs. Anderson bore it all heroically; she -kissed and soothed her child, and persuaded her that it could not last -long—that Bertie would bring good news—that everything would be -explained and atoned for in the end. ‘There can be no permanent harm, -dear—no permanent harm,’ she repeated, ‘and everybody will be sorry and -forgive.’ And so, by degrees, Ombra was pacified, and put to bed, and -forgot her troubles.</p> - -<p>This was the kind of scene which took place night after night in the -tranquil house, where all the three ladies seemed so quietly happy. Kate -heard no echo of it through the thick walls and curtains, yet not -without troubles of her own was the heiress. The intimation of Bertie’s -coming disturbed her too. She thought she had got quite composed about -the whole matter, willing to wait until the secret should be disclosed, -and the connection between him and her cousin, whatever it was, made -known. But to have him here again, with his wistful looks, and the whole -mystery to be resumed, as if there had been no interruption of it—this -was more than Kate felt she could bear.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LIV" id="CHAPTER_LIV"></a>CHAPTER LIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> news which had made so much commotion in the Hall came from the -Rectory in a very simple way. Edith and Minnie had come up to call. -Their mother rather wished them to do so frequently. She urged upon them -that it might demand a little sacrifice of personal feeling, yet that -personal feeling was always a thing that ought to be sacrificed—it was -a good moral exercise, irrespective of everything else; and Miss -Courtenay was older, and, no doubt, more sensible than when she went -away—not likely to shock them as she did then—and that it would be -good for her to see a good deal of them, and pleasant for people to know -that they went a good deal to the Hall. All this mass of reasoning was -scarcely required, yet Edith and Minnie, on the whole, were glad to know -that it was their duty to visit Kate. They both felt deeply that a thing -which you do as a duty takes a higher rank than a thing you do as a -pleasure; and their visits might have taken that profane character had -not all this been impressed upon them in time.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Miss Courtenay, we have such news,’ said Edith; and Minnie added, -in a parenthesis (‘We are so happy!’) ‘Dear Bertie is coming home for a -few days. He wrote that he was so busy, he could not possibly come; but -papa insisted’ (‘I am so glad papa insisted,’ from Minnie, who was the -accompaniment), ‘and so he is coming—just for two days. He is going to -bring us the things he bought for us at Florence.’ (‘Oh! I do so want to -see them!’) ‘You saw a great deal of him at Florence, did you not?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, we saw him—a great many times,’ said Kate, noticing, under her -eyelids, how Ombra suddenly caught her breath.</p> - -<p>‘He used to mention you in his letters at first—only at first. I -suppose you made too many friends to see much of each other.’ (‘Bertie -is such a fellow for society.’) ‘He is reading up now for the bar. -Perhaps you don’t know that he has given up the church?’</p> - -<p>‘I think I heard him say so,’ answered Kate.</p> - -<p>And then there was a little pause. The Hardwick girls<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span> thought their -great news was received very coldly, and were indignant at the want of -interest shown in ‘our Bertie!’ After awhile Edith explained, with some -dignity:</p> - -<p>‘Of course my brother is very important to us’ (‘He is just the very -nicest boy that ever was!’ from Minnie), ‘though we can’t expect others -to take the same interest——’</p> - -<p>Kate had looked up by instinct, and she caught Ombra’s eyes, which were -opened in a curious little stare, with an elevation of the eyebrows -which spoke volumes. Not the same interest! Kate’s heart grew a little -sick—she could not tell why—and she turned away, making some -conventional answer, she did not know what. A pause again, and then Mrs. -Anderson asked, without looking up from her work:</p> - -<p>‘Is Mr. Hardwick coming to the Rectory alone?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes! At least we think so,’ said the two girls in one.</p> - -<p>‘I ask because he and his cousin were so inseparable,’ said Mrs. -Anderson, smiling. ‘We used to say that when one was visible the other -could not be far off.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! you mean Bertie Eldridge,’ said Edith. ‘No, I am sure he is not -coming. Papa does not like our Bertie to be so much with him as he has -been. We do not think Bertie Eldridge a nice companion for him,’ said -the serious young woman, who rather looked down upon the boys, and -echoed her parents’ sentiments, without any sense of inappropriateness. -‘No, we don’t at all like them to be so much together,’ said Minnie. -Again Kate turned round instinctively. This time Ombra was smiling, -almost laughing, with quite a gay light in her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Of course that is a subject beyond me,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘They -seemed much attached to each other.’ And then the matter dropped, and -the girls entered upon parish news, which left them full scope for -prattle. Edith was engaged to be married to a neighbouring clergyman, -and, accordingly, she was more than ever clerical and parochial in all -her ways of thinking; while Minnie looked forward with a flutter, half -of fear and half of excitement, to becoming the eldest Miss Hardwick, -and having to manage the Sunday School and decorate the church by -herself.</p> - -<p>‘What shall I do when Edith is married?’ was the burden of all the talk -she ventured upon alone. ‘Mamma is so much occupied, she can’t give very -much assistance,’ she said. ‘Oh! dear Miss Courtenay, if you would come -and help me sometimes when Edith goes away!’</p> - -<p>‘I will do anything I can,’ said Kate, shortly. And the two girls -withdrew at last, somewhat chilled by the want of sympathy. Had they but -known what excitement, what commotion, their simple news carried into -that still volcano of a house!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span></p> - -<p>He was to come in a week. Kate schooled herself to be very strong, and -think nothing of it, but her heart grew sick when she thought of the -Florence scenes all over again—perhaps worse, for at Florence at least -there were two. And to Ombra the day passed with feverish haste, and all -her pretences at tranquillity and good humour began to fail in the -rising tide of excitement.</p> - -<p>‘I shall be better again when he has gone away,’ she said to her mother. -‘But, oh! how can I—how can I take it quietly? Could you, if you were -in my position? Think of all the misery and uncertainty. And he must be -coming for a purpose. He would not come unless he had something to say.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Ombra, if there was anything, why should it not be said in a -letter?’ cried her mother. ‘You have letters often enough. I wish you -would just put them in your pocket, and not read them at the breakfast -table. You keep me in terror lest Kate should see the handwriting or -something. After all our precautions——’</p> - -<p>‘Can you really suppose that Kate is so ignorant?’ said Ombra. ‘Do you -think she does not know well enough whom my letters are from?’</p> - -<p>‘Then, for God’s sake, if you think so, let me tell her, and be done -with this horrible secret,’ cried her mother. ‘It kills me to keep up -this concealment; and if you think she knows, why, why should it go on?’</p> - -<p>‘You are so impetuous, mamma!’ said Ombra, with a smile. ‘There is a -great difference between her guessing and direct information procured -from ourselves. And how can we tell what she might do? She would -interfere; it is her nature. You could not trust anything so serious to -such a child.’</p> - -<p>‘Kate is not a child now,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘And oh! Ombra, if you -will consider how ungrateful, how untrue, how unkind it is——’</p> - -<p>‘Stop, mamma!’ cried Ombra, with a flush of angry colour. ‘That is -enough—that is a great deal too much—ungrateful! Are we expected to be -grateful to Kate? You will tell me next to look up to her, to reverence -her——’</p> - -<p>‘Ombra, you have always been hard upon Kate.’</p> - -<p>‘It is not my fault,’ cried Ombra, suddenly giving way to a little burst -of weeping. ‘If you consider how different her position is—— All this -wretched complication—everything that has happened lately—would have -been unnecessary if I had had the same prospects as Kate. Everything -would have gone on easily then. There would have been no need for -concealment—no occasion for deceit.’</p> - -<p>‘That is not Kate’s fault,’ said Mrs. Anderson, who was at her wit’s -end.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh! mother, mother, don’t worry me out of my senses. Did I say it was -Kate’s fault? It is no one’s fault. But all we poor miserables must -suffer as if it were. And there is no help for it; and it is so hard, so -hard to bear!’</p> - -<p>‘Ombra, I told you to count the cost,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘I told you -it would be no easy business. You thought you had strength of mind for -the struggle then.’</p> - -<p>‘And it turns out that I have no strength of mind,’ cried Ombra, almost -wildly. And then she started up and went to her own room again, where -her mother could hear her sighing and moaning till she fell asleep.</p> - -<p>These night scenes took away from Mrs. Anderson’s enjoyment of the great -mansion and the many servants, and that luxurious room which Kate’s -affection had selected for her aunt. She sat over the fire when she was -left alone, and would wonder and ask herself what would come of it, what -could ever come of it, and whether it was possible that she should ever -be happy again. She looked back with a longing which she could not -subdue upon the humble days at Shanklin, when they were all so happy. -The little tiny cottage, the small rooms, all rose up before her. The -drawing-room itself was not half so large as Mrs. Anderson’s bed-room at -Langton-Courtenay. But what happy days these had been! She was not an -old woman, though she was Ombra’s mother. It was not as if life was -nearly over for her, as if she could look forward to a speedy end of all -her troubles. And she knew better than Ombra that somehow or other the -world always exacts punishment, whether immediately or at an after -period, from those who transgress its regulations. She said to herself -mournfully that things do not come right in life as they do in -story-books. Her daughter had taken a weak and foolish step, and she too -had shared in the folly by consenting to it. She had done so, she could -not explain to herself why, in a moment of excitement. And though Ombra -was capable of hoping that some wonderful chain of accidents might occur -to solve every difficulty, Mrs. Anderson was not young enough, or -inexperienced enough, to think anything of the kind possible. Accidents -happen, she was aware, when you do not want them, not when you do. When -a catastrophe is foreseen and calculated upon, it never happens. In such -a case, the most rotten vessel that ever sunk in a storm will weather a -cyclone. Fate would not interfere to help; and when Mrs. Anderson -considered how slowly and steadily the ordinary course of nature works, -and how little it is likely to suit itself to any pressure of human -necessity, her heart grew sick within her. She had a higher opinion of -her niece than Ombra had, and she knew that Kate would have been a tower -of strength and protection to them, besides all the embarrassment that -would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span> have been avoided, and all the pain and shame of deceit. But what -could she do? The young people were stronger than she, and had -overridden all her remonstrances; and now all that could be done was to -carry on as steadily as possible—to conceal the secret—to hope that -something might happen, unlikely though she knew that was.</p> - -<p>Thus was this gentle household distracted and torn asunder; for there is -no such painful thing in the world to carry about with one as a -secret;—it will thrust itself to the surface, notwithstanding the most -elaborate attempts to heap trifles and the common routine of life over -it. It is like a living thing, and moves, or breathes, or cries out at -the wrong moment, disclosing itself under the most elaborate covers; and -finally, howsoever people may deceive themselves, it is never really -hidden. While we are throwing the embroidered veil over it, and -flattering ourselves that it is buried in concealment dark as night, our -friends all the time are watching it throb under the veil, and wondering -with a smile or a sigh, according to their dispositions, how we can be -so foolish as to believe that it is hidden from them. The best we can do -for our secret is to confuse the reality of it, most often making it -look a great deal worse than it is. And this was what Ombra and her -mother were doing, while poor Kate looked on wistful, seeing all their -transparent manœuvres; and a choking, painful sense of concealment -was in the air—a feeling that any moment some volcano might burst -forth.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LV" id="CHAPTER_LV"></a>CHAPTER LV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was a week later before Bertie came. He was brought to call by his -mother and sisters in great delight and pomp; and then there ensued the -strangest scene, of which only half the company had the least -comprehension. The room which Kate had chosen as their sitting-room was -an oblong room, with another smaller one opening from it. This small -room was almost opposite the fireplace in the larger one, and made a -draught which some people—indeed, most people—objected to; but as the -broad open doorway was amply curtained, and a great deal of sun came in -along with the imaginary draught, the brightness of the place won the -day against all objections. The little room was thus preserved from the -air of secrecy and retirement common to such rooms. No one could retire -to flirt there; no one could listen unseen to conversations not intended -for them. The piano was placed in it, and the writing-table, under the -broad recessed window, which filled the whole end of it. It was light as -a lantern, swept by the daylight from side to side, and the two fires -kept it as warm as it was bright. When Mrs. Hardwick sailed in, bearing -under her convoy her two blooming girls close behind her, and the tall -brother towering over their heads, a more proud or happy woman could not -be.</p> - -<p>‘I have brought my Bertie to see you,’ she said, all the seriousness of -that ‘sense of duty’ which weighed upon her ordinary demeanour melting -for the moment in her motherly delight and pride. ‘He was so modest, we -could scarcely persuade him to come. He thought you might think he was -presuming on your acquaintance abroad, and taking as much liberty as if -he had been an intimate——’</p> - -<p>‘I think Mr. Hardwick might very well take as much liberty as that,’ -cried Kate, moved, in spite of herself, to resentment with this -obstinate make-believe. Her aunt looked up at her with such pain in her -eyes as is sometimes seen in the eyes of animals, who can make us no -other protest.</p> - -<p>‘We are very glad to see Mr. Bertie again,’ said Mrs. Anderson, holding -out her hand to him with a smile. ‘He is a Shanklin acquaintance, too. -We are old friends.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span></p> - -<p>And he shook hands with all of them solemnly, his face turning all -manner of colours, and his eyes fixed on the ground. Ombra was the last -to approach, and as she gave him her hand, she did not say a word; -neither did she lift her eyes to look at him. They stood by each other -for a second, hand in hand, with eyes cast down, and a flush of misery -upon both their faces. Was it merely misery? It could not but be -painful, meeting thus, they who had parted so differently; but Kate, who -could not remove her eyes from them, wondered, out of the midst of the -sombre cloud which seemed to have come in with Bertie, and to have -wrapped her round—wondered what other feeling might be in their minds. -Was it not a happiness to stand together even now, and here?—to be in -the same room?—to touch each other’s hands? Even amid all this pain of -suppression and concealment was not there something more in it? She felt -as if fascinated, unable to withdraw her eyes from them; but they -remained together only for a moment; and Bertie’s sisters, who did not -think Miss Anderson of much importance, did not even notice the meeting. -Bertie himself withdrew to Mrs. Anderson’s side, and began to talk to -her and to his mother. The girls, disappointed (for naturally they would -have preferred that he should make himself agreeable to the heiress), -sat down by Kate. Ombra dropped noiselessly on a chair close to the -doorway between the two rooms; and after a few minutes she said to her -cousin, ‘Will you pardon me if I finish my letter for the post?’ and -went into the inner room, and sat down at the writing-table.</p> - -<p>‘She writes a great deal, doesn’t she?’ said Edith Hardwick. ‘Is she -literary, Miss Courtenay? I asked Bertie, but he could not tell me. I -thought she would not mind doing something perhaps for the “Parish -Magazine.”’</p> - -<p>‘Edith does most of it herself,’ said Minnie. (‘Oh! Minnie, for shame!’) -‘And do you know, Miss Courtenay, she had something in the last “Monthly -Packet.”’ (‘Please don’t, Minnie, please! What do you suppose Miss -Courtenay cares?’) ‘I shall bring it up to show you next time I come.’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed, you shall do nothing of the kind!’ said Edith, blushing. And -Kate made a pretty little civil speech, which would have been quite real -and genuine, had not her mind been so occupied with other things; but -with the drama actually before her eyes, how could she think of stories -in the ‘Monthly Packet?’ Her eyes went from one to another as they sat -with the whole breadth of the room between them; and this absorption -made her look much more superior and lofty than she was in reality, or -had any thought of being. Yes, she said to herself, it was best so—they -could not possibly talk to each other as strangers. It was best that -they should thus get out of sight of each other almost—avoid any -intercourse. But how strange it was!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span></p> - -<p>‘Don’t you think it is odd that Bertie, knowing the world as he does, -should be so shy?’ said Edith. (‘Oh! he is so shy!’ cried Minnie.) ‘He -made as many excuses as a frightened little girl. “They won’t want to -see <i>me</i>,” he said. “Miss Courtenay will know it is not rudeness on my -part if I don’t call. Why should I go and bother them?” We <i>dragged</i> him -here!’</p> - -<p>‘We dragged him by the hair of his head,’ said Minnie, who was the wit -of the family.</p> - -<p>And Kate did her best to laugh.</p> - -<p>‘I did not think he had been so shy,’ she said. ‘He wanted, I suppose, -to have you all to himself, and not to lose his time making visits. How -long is he to stay?’</p> - -<p>Edith and Minnie looked at each other. The question had already been -discussed between their mother and themselves whether Bertie would be -asked to dinner, or whether, indeed, they might not all be asked, with -the addition of Edith’s betrothed, who was visiting also at the Rectory. -They all thought it would be a right thing for Kate to do; and, of -course, as Mrs. Anderson was there, it would be so easy, and in every -way so nice. They looked at each other, accordingly, with a little -consciousness.</p> - -<p>‘He is to stay till Monday, I think,’ said Edith; ‘or perhaps we might -coax him to give us another day, if——’ She was going to say if there -was any reason, but that seemed a hint too plain.</p> - -<p>‘That is not a very long visit,’ said Kate. And then, without a hint of -a dinner-party, she plunged into the parish, that admirable ground of -escape in all difficulties.</p> - -<p>They had got into the very depths of charities, and coals, and -saving-clubs, when Mrs. Hardwick rose.</p> - -<p>‘We are such a large party, we must not inflict ourselves upon you too -long,’ said Mrs. Hardwick. She, too, was a little disappointed that -there was not a word about a dinner. She thought Mrs. Anderson should -have known what her duty was in the circumstances, and should have given -her niece a hint; ‘but I hope we shall all meet again before my son goes -away.’</p> - -<p>And then there was a second shaking of hands. When all was over, and the -party were moving off, Kate turned to Bertie, who was last.</p> - -<p>‘You have not taken leave of Ombra,’ she said, looking full at him.</p> - -<p>He coloured to his hair; he made her a confused bow, and hurried into -the room where Ombra was. Kate, with a sternness which was very strange -to her, watched the two figures against the light. Ombra did not move. -She spoke to him apparently without even looking up from her letter. A -dozen words or so—no more. Then there came a sudden cry from the other -door, by which the mother and daughters were going<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span> ‘Oh! we have -forgotten Miss Anderson!’ and the whole stream flowed back.</p> - -<p>‘Indeed, it is Ombra’s fault; but she was writing for the post,’ -exclaimed her mother, calling to her.</p> - -<p>Ombra came forward to the doorway, very pale, even to her lips, but -smiling, and shook hands three times, and repeated that it was her -fault. And then the procession streamed away.</p> - -<p>‘That girl looks very unhealthy,’ Mrs. Hardwick said, when they were -walking down the avenue. ‘I shall try and find out from her mother if -there is consumption in the family, and advise them to try the new -remedy. Did you notice what a colour her lips were? She is very -retiring, poor thing; and, I must say, never puts herself the least in -the way.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you think she is pretty, Bertie?’ said the sisters, together.</p> - -<p>‘Pretty? Oh! I can’t tell. I am no judge,’ said Bertie. ‘Look here, -mamma, I am going to see old Stokes, the keeper. He used to be a great -friend of mine. If I don’t make up to you before you reach home, I’ll be -back at least before it is dark.’</p> - -<p>‘Before it is dark!’ said Mrs. Hardwick, in dismay. But Bertie was gone. -‘I suppose young men must have their way,’ she said, looking after him. -‘But you must not think, girls, that people are any the happier for -having their way. On the contrary, you who have been educated to submit -have a much better preparation for life. I hope dear Bertie will never -meet with any serious disappointment,’ she added, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! mamma, serious disappointment! when he has always succeeded in -everything!’ cried the girls, in their duet.</p> - -<p>‘For he could not bear it,’ said Mrs. Hardwick, shaking her head. ‘It -would be doubly, <i>doubly</i> hard upon him; for he has never been trained -to bear it—never, I may say, since he left the nursery, and got out of -my hands.’</p> - -<p>At this time it was nearly three o’clock, a dull Winter afternoon, not -severe, but dim and mournful. It was the greyness of frost, however, not -of damp, which was in the air; and Kate, who was restless, announced her -intention of taking a long walk. She was glad to escape from this heavy -atmosphere of home; she said, somewhat bitterly, that it was best to -leave them together to unbosom themselves, to tell each other all those -secrets which were not to be confided to her; and to compare notes, no -doubt, as to how he was looking, and how they were to find favourable -opportunities of meeting again, Kate’s heart was sore—she was irritated -by the mystery which, after all, was so plain to her. She saw the secret -thing moving underneath the cover—the only difficulty she had was to -decide what kind of secret it was. What was the relationship between<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span> -Bertie and Ombra? Were they only lovers?—were they something more?—and -what had Bertie Eldridge to do with it? Kate, indignant, would not -permit herself to think; but the questions came surging up in her mind -against her will. She had a little basket in her hand. She was carrying -some grapes and wine to old Stokes, the disabled keeper, who was dying, -and whom everybody made much of. On her way to his cottage she had to -pass that little nook where the brook was, and where she had first seen -Bertie Hardwick. It was the first time she had seen it since her return, -and she paused, half in anger and bitterness, half with a softening -swell of recollection. How rich, and sweet, and warm, and delicious it -had been that Summer evening, with the blossom still on the hawthorns, -and the grass like velvet, and the soft little waterfall tinkling! How -everything was changed!—the bushes all black with frost, the trees bare -of their foliage, with here and there a ragged red leaf at the end of a -bough, the brook tinkling with a sharp metallic sound. Everything else -was frozen and still—all the insect life of Summer, all the movements -and rustlings of grass and leaves and flowers. The flowers and the -leaves were gone; the grass bound fast in an icy coat. ‘But not more -different,’ Kate thought, ‘than were other matters—more important than -the grass and flowers.’</p> - -<p>She was roused from her momentary reverie by the sound of a footstep -ringing clear and sharp along the frosty road; and before she could get -out of the shelter of the little coppice which encircled that haunt of -her childhood, Bertie Hardwick came suddenly up to her. The sight of her -startled the young man—but in what way? A flush of delight rushed over -his face—he brightened all over, as it seemed, eyes and mouth and every -feature. He came forward to her with impetuous steps, and took her hand -before she was aware.</p> - -<p>‘I was thinking of you,’ he cried; ‘longing to meet you just here, not -believing it possible—oh, Kate!—— Miss Courtenay, I beg your pardon. -I—I forget what I was going to say.’</p> - -<p>He did not give up her hand, though; he stood and gazed at her with such -pleasure in his eyes as could not be misconstrued. And then the most -curious phenomenon came into being—a thing most wonderful, not to be -explained. All the anger and the suspicion and the bitterness, suddenly, -in a moment, fled out of Kate’s heart—they fled like evil spirits -exorcised and put to flight by something better than they. Kate was too -honest to conceal what was in her mind. She did not draw away her hand; -she looked at him full with her candid eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Bertie, I am very glad to have met you here. I can’t help -remembering; and I should be glad—very glad to meet <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span>you anywhere; -but——’</p> - -<p>He dropped her hand; he put up both his own to his face, as if to cover -its shame; and then, with a totally changed tone, and a voice from which -all the gladness had gone, he said slowly:</p> - -<p>‘I know; but I am not allowed to explain—I cannot explain. Oh! Kate, -you know no harm of me, do you? You have never known or heard that I was -without sense of honour? trust me, if you can! Nothing in it, not any -one thing, is my fault.’</p> - -<p>Kate started as if she had been struck, and everything that had wounded -her came back in sevenfold strength. She could not keep even a tone of -contempt out of her voice.</p> - -<p>‘I have heard,’ she said, ‘that there was honour among thieves: do <i>you</i> -throw the blame upon Ombra—all the blame? I suppose it is the way men -do. Good-bye, Mr. Hardwick!’ And, before he could say a word, she was -gone—flying past him, indignant, contemptuous, wounded to the core.</p> - -<p>As she came back from the keeper’s cottage, when the afternoon was -duller than ever, and the sky seemed to be dropping over the tree-tops, -Kate thought she saw, in one of the roads which crossed the avenue, the -flutter of a lady’s shawl. The girl was curious in her excitement, and -she paused behind a tree to watch. After a short time the fluttering -shawl drew nearer. It was Ombra, clinging close to Bertie Hardwick’s -arm—turning to him a pale face full of care and anxiety. They were -discussing their dark concerns—their secrets. Kate rushed home without -once stopping or drawing breath.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LVI" id="CHAPTER_LVI"></a>CHAPTER LVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">This</span> incident passed as all incidents do, and the blank of common life -returned. How short those moments of action are in existence, and how -long are the dull intervals—those intervals which count for nothing, -and yet are life itself! Bertie Hardwick went away only after sundry -unsuccessful efforts on the part of his family to unite the party from -the Hall with that at the Rectory. Mrs. Hardwick would willingly, very -willingly, have asked them to dinner, even after the disappointment of -discovering that they did not mean to ask Bertie. She was stopped, -however, by a very commonplace hindrance—where was she to find -gentlemen enough on short notice to balance all those three ladies? Mr. -Hardwick, Bertie, and Edith’s betrothed made the tale correct to begin -with—but three more gentlemen in a country parish on two days’ notice! -It was impossible. All that Mrs. Hardwick could do was to ask, -deprecatingly, that the ladies would come to a family dinner, ‘<i>very</i> -quiet,’ she said; ‘you must not suppose I mean a party.’ Mrs. Anderson, -with her best and most smiling looks, accepted readily. ‘But Ombra is -not very well,’ she said; ‘I fear I must ask you to excuse her. And dear -Kate has such a bad cold—she caught it walking across the park the -other evening to old Stokes the keeper’s cottage.’</p> - -<p>‘To old Stokes!’ cried Mrs. Hardwick. ‘Why, my Bertie was there too.’ -And she added, looking grave, after that burst of radiance, ‘The old man -was a great favourite with everybody. We all go to see him.’</p> - -<p>‘So I hear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, smiling; and next day she put on her -best gown, poor soul! and went patiently down to the Rectory to dinner, -and made a great many apologies for her girls. She did not enjoy it -much, and she had to explain that the first chill of England after Italy -had been too much for Kate and Ombra. ‘We had lived in the Isle of Wight -for some years before,’ she added, ‘so that this is almost their first -experience of the severity of Winter. But a few days indoors I hope will -make them all right.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span></p> - -<p>Edith Hardwick could not believe her eyes when, next day, the day before -Bertie left, she saw Miss Anderson walking in the park. ‘Do you think it -possible it was not true?’ she and her sister asked each other in -consternation; but neither they, nor wiser persons than they, could have -determined that question. Ombra was not well, nor was Kate. They were -both disturbed in their youthful being almost beyond the limits of -self-control. Mrs. Anderson had, in some respects, to bear both their -burdens; but she said to herself, with a sigh, that her shoulders were -used to it. She had borne the yoke in her youth, she had been trained to -bear a great deal, and say very little about it. And so the emotion of -the incident gradually died away, growing fainter and larger in the -stillness, and the monotony came back as of old!</p> - -<p>But, oh! how pleasant the monotony of old would have been, how -delightful, had there been nothing but the daily walks, the daily talks, -the afternoon drives, the cheerful discussions, and cheerful visits, -which had made their simple life at Shanklin so sweet! All that was -over, another cycle of existence had come in.</p> - -<p>I think another fortnight had elapsed since Bertie’s visit, and -everything had been very quiet—and the quiet had been very intolerable. -Sometimes almost a semblance of confidential intercourse would be set up -among them, and Ombra would lean upon Kate, and Kate’s heart melt -towards Ombra. This took place generally in the evening, when they sat -together in the firelight before the lamp was brought, and talked the -kind of shadowy talk which belongs to that hour.</p> - -<p>‘Look at my aunt upon the wall!’ Kate cried, one evening, in momentary -amusement. ‘How gigantic she is, and how she nods and beckons at us!’ -Mrs. Anderson was chilly, and had placed her chair in front of the fire.</p> - -<p>‘She is no more a shadow than we all are,’ said Ombra. ‘When the light -comes, that vast apparition will disappear, and she will be herself. -Kate, don’t you see the parable? We are all stolen out of ourselves, -made into ghosts, till the light comes.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t understand parables,’ said Kate.</p> - -<p>‘I wish you did this one,’ said Ombra, with a sigh, ‘for it is true.’ -And then there was silence for a time, a silence which Kate broke by -saying,</p> - -<p>‘There is the new moon. I must go and look at her.’</p> - -<p>Not through the glass, dear—it is unlucky,’ said Mrs. Anderson; but -Kate took no notice. She went into the inner room, and watched the new -moon through the great window. A cold, belated, baby moon, looking as if -it had lost its way somehow in that blue waste of sky. And the earth -looked cold, chilled to the heart, as much as could be seen of it, the -tree-tops<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span> cowering together, the park frozen. She stood there in a -reverie, and forgot about the time, and where she was. The bustle behind -her of the lamp being brought in did not disturb Kate, and seeing her at -the window, the servant who came with the lights discreetly forbore to -disturb her, and left the curtains undrawn. But, from what followed, it -was evident that nobody else observed Kate, and she was still deep in -her musings, when she was startled, and brought to instant life, by a -voice which seemed to ring through the room to her like a trumpet-note -of defiance.</p> - -<p>‘Mother, this cannot go on!’ Ombra cried out all at once. ‘If it lasts -much longer I shall hate her. I shall want to kill her!’</p> - -<p>‘Ombra!’</p> - -<p>‘It is true, I shall want to kill her! Oh! not actually with my hands! -One never knows what one could do till one is tempted. Still I think I -would not touch her. But, God help us, mother, God help us! I hate her -now!’</p> - -<p>‘God help you, indeed, my unhappy child!’ cried her mother. ‘Oh! Ombra, -do you know you are breaking my heart?’</p> - -<p>‘My own was broken first,’ cried Ombra; and there was a ferocious and -wild force in what she said, which thrilled through and through the -listener, now just beginning to feel that she should not be here, but -unable to stir in her great horror and astonishment. ‘My own was broken -first. What does it matter? I thought I could brave everything; but to -have him sent here for her sake—because she would be the most fit match -for him! to have her come again between him and me——’</p> - -<p>‘She never came between him and you—poor Kate!—she never thought of -him. Has it not been proved that it was only a fancy? Oh! Ombra, how -ungrateful, how unkind you are to her!’</p> - -<p>‘What must I be grateful for?’ cried Ombra. ‘She has always been in my -way, always! She came between you and me. She took half away from me of -what was all mine. Would you hesitate, and doubt, and trouble, as you -do, if it were not for Kate? She has always been in my way! She has been -my enemy, not my friend. If she did not really come between him and me, -then I thought so, and I had all the anguish and sorrow as if it had -been true. And now he is to be sent here to meet her—and I am to put up -with it, he says, as it will give us means of meeting. But I will not -put up with it!’ cried Ombra, her voice rising shrill with passion—‘I -cannot; it is asking too much. I would rather not meet him than meet him -to be watched by Kate’s eyes. He has no right to come here on such a -pretence. I would rather kill her—I would rather never see him again!’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span></p> - -<p>‘Oh! Ombra, how can you tell who may hear you?’ cried her mother, -putting up her hand as if to stop her mouth.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t care who hears me!’ said Ombra, pale and sullen.</p> - -<p>And then there was a rustle and movement, and both started, looking up -with one impulse. In the twilight right beyond the circle of the -lamplight, white as death, with a piteous gaze that neither could ever -forget, stood Kate. Mrs. Anderson sprang to her feet with a cry; Ombra -said not a word—she sat back in her chair, and kept her startled eyes -upon her cousin—great dilated eyes, awakened all in a minute to what -she had done.</p> - -<p>‘Kate, you have heard what she has said?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I have heard it,’ she said, faintly. ‘I did not mean to; but I was -there, and I thought you knew. I have heard everything. Oh! it does not -matter. It hurts at present, but it will go off after a while.’</p> - -<p>She tried to smile, and then she broke down and cried. Mrs. Anderson -went to her and threw her arms around her; but Kate put her aunt gently -away. She looked up through her tears, and shook her head with the best -smile she could muster.</p> - -<p>‘No, it is not worth while,’ she said,—‘not any more. I have been wrong -all the time. I suppose God did not mean it so. I had no natural mother -or sister, and you can’t get such things except by nature. Don’t let us -say any more about it,’ she added, hastily brushing the tears from her -eyes. ‘I am very sorry you have suffered so much on my account, Ombra. -If I had only known—— And I never came between you and anyone—never -dreamt of doing it—never will, never—you may be sure of that. I wanted -my aunt to love me—that was natural—but no one else.’</p> - -<p>‘Kate, I did not mean it,’ faltered Ombra, her white face suddenly -burning with a blush of passionate shame. She had never realised the -meanness of her jealousies and suspicions till this moment. Her mother’s -remonstrances had never opened her eyes; but in a moment, in this -anguish of being found out, she found out herself, and saw through her -cousin’s eyes, as it were, how contemptible it all was.</p> - -<p>‘I think you meant it. I don’t think you could have spoken so had you -not meant it,’ said Kate, with composure. And then she sat down, and -they all looked at each other, Mrs. Anderson standing before the two -girls, wringing her hands. I think they realised what had happened -better than she did. Her alarm and misery were great. This was a quarrel -between her two children—a quarrel which it was very dreadful to -contemplate. They had never quarrelled before; little misunderstandings -might have arisen between them, but these it was always possible to -smooth down; but this was a quarrel. The best thing to do, she felt, was -that they should have it out. Thus for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span> once her perception failed her. -She stood frightened between them, looking from one to another, not -certain on which side the volcano would burst forth. But no volcano -burst forth; things had gone too far for that.</p> - -<p>As for Kate, she did not know what had come over her. She had become -calm without knowing how. All her agitation passed away, and a dead -stillness succeeded—a stillness which made her afraid. Two minutes ago -her heart and body had been tingling with darts of pain. She had felt -the blow everywhere—on her head, which ached and rung as if she had -been struck—on her heart, which seemed all over dull pain—even in her -limbs, which did not feel able to support her. But now all had altered; -a mysterious numbness crept from her feet up to her heart and her head. -She did not feel anything; she saw Ombra’s big, startled eyes straining -at her, and Mrs. Anderson, standing by, wringing her hands; but neither -the one nor the other brought any gleam of feeling to her mind.</p> - -<p>‘It is a pity we came here,’ she said, slowly—‘a great pity, for people -will discuss everything—I suppose they always do. And I don’t know, -indeed, what is best; I am not prepared to propose anything; all seems -dark to me. I cannot go on standing in Ombra’s way—that is all I know. -I will not do it. And perhaps, if we were all to think it over to-night, -and tell what we think to-morrow morning——’ she said, with a smile, -which was very faint, and a strong indication to burst forth instead -into tears.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! my darling!’ said Mrs. Anderson, bewildered by this extraordinary -calm.</p> - -<p>Kate made a little strange gesture. It was the same with which she had -put her aunt away. ‘Don’t!’ she said, under her breath. She could bear -what Ombra had said after the first astonishing outburst, but she could -not bear that caressing—those sweet names which belong only to those -who are loved. Don’t! A touch would have made her recoil—a kiss would -have driven her wild and raving, she thought. This was the horror of it -all—not that they had quarrelled, but that they had pretended to love -her, and all the time had been hating her—or, at the best, had been -keeping each other up to the mark by thought of the gratitude and -kindness they owed her. Kindness and gratitude!—and yet they had -pretended to love.</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps it is better I should not say anything,’ said Ombra, with -another flush, which this time was that of rising anger. ‘I ought not to -have spoken as I did, but I make no apologies—it would be foolish to do -so. You must form your own opinion, and nothing that I could say would -change it. Of course it is no excuse to say that I would not have spoken -as I did had I known you were there.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span></p> - -<p>‘I did not mean to listen,’ said Kate, colouring a little. ‘You might -have seen me all the time; but it is best to say nothing at all -now—none of us had better speak. We have to get through dinner, which -is a pity. But after that, let us think it over quietly—quite -quietly—and in the morning we shall see better. There is no reason,’ -she said, very softly, ‘why, because you do not feel for me as I thought -you did, we should quarrel; for really there is nothing to quarrel -about. One’s love is not in one’s own gift, to be bestowed as one -pleases. You have been very kind to me—very kind.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Kate—oh! my dear child, do you think I don’t love you? Oh! Kate, -do not break my heart!’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t, aunt, please,’ she said, with a shiver. ‘I don’t feel quite -well, and it hurts me. Don’t—any more—now!’</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LVII" id="CHAPTER_LVII"></a>CHAPTER LVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">That</span> was the horrible sting of it—they had made believe to love her, -and it had not been true. Now love, Kate reflected (as she went slowly -to her room, feeling, somehow, as if every step was a mile), was not -like anything else. To counterfeit any other emotion might be pardoned, -but to counterfeit love was the last injury anyone could do you. Perhaps -it was the wound to her pride which helped the wound to her affections, -and made it so bitter. As she thought it all over, she reflected that -she had, no doubt, accepted this love much too easily when she went -first to her aunt’s charge. She had leapt into their arms, as it were. -She had left them no room to understand what their real feelings were; -she had taken it for granted that they loved her. She writhed under the -humiliation which this recollection brought her. After all it was not, -perhaps, they who were in the wrong, but she who had insisted on -believing what they had never taken much pains to persuade her of. After -all, when she came to think of it, Ombra had made no pretence whatever. -The very first time they met, Ombra had repulsed her—she was honest, at -least!</p> - -<p>To be sure, Mrs. Anderson had been very caressing, but that was her -nature. She said dear and darling to every child that came in her -way—she petted everybody. Why, then, should Kate have accepted her -petting as any sign of special love? It was herself that had been a vain -fool, all along. She had taken it for granted: she had assumed it as -necessary and certain that they loved her; and they, embarrassed by this -faith, had been reluctant to hurt her feelings by undeceiving her; this -was how it was. What stings, what tortures of pride and pain, did she -give herself as she thought these things over! Gradually she pulled down -all the pleasant house that had sheltered her these four—nearly five -long years. She plucked it down with her hands. She laid her weary head -on her little sofa beside the fire in her room, and watched the -flickering shadows, and said to herself that here she was, back in the -only home that belonged to her, alone as she had been when she left it. -Four cold walls, with so much furniture, new unknown servants, who could -not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span> love her—who did not even know her; a cold, cold miserable world -outside, and no one in it to whom it would make the difference of a meal -or a night’s rest, whether she lived or died. Oh, cold, terrible -remorseless fate! back again in Langton-Courtenay, which, perhaps, she -ought never to have left, exactly in the same position as when she left -it. Kate could not find any solace in tears; they would not come. All -her youth of heart, her easy emotions, her childish laughing and crying, -were gone. The sunshine of happiness that had lighted up all the world -with dazzling lights had been suddenly quenched. She saw everything as -it was, natural and true. It was like the sudden enlightenment which -came to the dreamer in fairy-land; shrivelled up all the beautiful -faces, turning the gold into dross, and the sweetness into corruption.</p> - -<p>How far these feelings were exaggerated and overdone, the reader can -judge. The spectator, indeed, always sees how much too far the bent bow -rebounds when the string is cut, and how far the sufferer goes astray in -disappointment and grief, as well as in the extravagances of hope. But, -unfortunately, the one who has to go through it never gets the benefit -of that tranquilising knowledge. And to Kate all that she saw now seemed -too real—more real than anything she had known before—and her -desertion complete. She lay on her sofa, and gazed into the fire, and -felt her temples beating and her eyes blazing, but could not cry to -relieve herself. When Maryanne came upstairs to light her mistress’s -candles, and prepare her dress for dinner, she shrieked out to see the -flushed face on the sofa-pillow.</p> - -<p>‘I have a headache—that is all. Don’t make a fuss,’ cried poor Kate.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Kate, you must be going to have a fever. Let me call Mrs. -Anderson—let me send for the doctor,’ cried the girl, in dismay. But -Kate exerted her authority, and silenced her. She sent her downstairs -with messages that she had a headache, and could not come down again, -but was going to bed, and would rather not be disturbed.’</p> - -<p>Late in the evening, when Mrs. Anderson came to the door, Maryanne -repeated the message. ‘I think, ma’am, Miss Kate’s asleep. She said she -was not to be disturbed.’</p> - -<p>But Maryanne did not know how to keep this visitor out. She dared not -oppose her, as she stole in on noiseless foot, and went to the bedside. -Kate was lying with all her pretty hair in a mass on the pillow, with -her eyes closed, and the flush which had frightened Maryanne still on -her face. Was she asleep? Mrs. Anderson would have thought so, but for -seeing two big teardrops just stealing from her closed eyelashes. She -stooped over and kissed her softly on the forehead. ‘God bless you, my -dear child, my dear child!’ she whispered, almost wishing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span> she might not -be heard; and then stole away to her own room, to the other child, much -more tumultuous and exciting, who awaited her. Poor Mrs. Anderson! of -all the three she was the one who had the most to bear.</p> - -<p>Ombra was pacing up and down the large bed-room, so luxurious and -wealthy, her breath coming quick with excitement, her whole frame full -of pulses and tinglings of a hundred pains. She, too, had gone through a -sharp pang of humiliation; but it had passed over. She was not lonely, -like Kate. She had her mother to fall back upon in the meantime; and -even failing her mother, she had some one else, another who would -support her, upon whom she could lean, and who would give her moral -sacking and sympathy. All this makes a wonderful difference in the way -people receive a downfall. Ombra had been thunderstruck at first at her -own recklessness, and the wounds she had given; but now a certain -irritation possessed her, inflaming all the sore places in her mind, and -they were not few. She was walking up and down, thinking what she would -do, what she would say, how she would no longer be held in subjection, -and forced to consider Kate’s ways and Kate’s feelings, Kate this and -that. She was sorry she had said what she did—that she could avow -without hesitation. She had not meant to hurt her cousin, and of course -she had not meant really that she hated her, but only that she was -irritated and unhappy, and not in a position to choose her words. Kate -was rich, and could have whatever she pleased; but Ombra had nothing but -the people who loved her, and she could not bear any interference with -them. It was the parable of the ewe-lamb over again, she said to -herself; and thus was exciting herself, and swelling her excitement to a -higher and higher pitch, when her mother went in—her mother, for whom -all this tempest was preparing and upon whom it was about to fall.</p> - -<p>‘You have been to see her, mamma! You never think of your own dignity! -You have been petting her, and apologising to her!’</p> - -<p>‘She is asleep,’ said Mrs. Anderson, sitting down, and leaning her head -on her hand. She did not feel able for any more contention. Kate, she -felt sure, was not really asleep, but she accepted the semblance, that -no more might be said.</p> - -<p>Ombra laughed, and, though the laugh sounded mocking, there was a great -deal of secret relief in it.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! she is asleep! Did not I say she was no more than a child? She has -got over it already. When she wakes up she will have forgotten all about -it. How excellent those easy-going natures are! I knew it was only for -the moment. I knew she had no feelings to speak of. For once, mama, you -must acknowledge yourself in the wrong!’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span></p> - -<p>And Ombra sat down too, with an immense weight lifted from her mind. She -had not owned it even to herself, but the relief was so great that she -felt now what her anxiety had been. ‘Little foolish thing,’ she said, -‘to be so heroical, and make such a noise—’ Ombra laughed almost -hysterically—‘and then to go to bed and fall asleep, like a baby! She -is little more than a baby—I always told you so, mamma.’</p> - -<p>‘You have always been wrong, Ombra, in your estimation of Kate, and you -are wrong now. Whether she was asleep or not, I can’t say; she looked -like it. But this is a very serious matter all the same. It will not be -so easily got over as you think.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t wish it to be got over!’ cried Ombra. ‘It is a kind of life I -cannot endure, and it ought not to be asked of me—it is too much to ask -of me. You saw the letter. He is to be sent here, with the object of -paying his addresses to her, because she is an heiress, and it is -thought he ought to marry money. To marry—her! Oh! mamma! he ought not -to have said it to me. It was wicked and cruel to make such an -explanation.’</p> - -<p>‘I think so too,’ said Mrs. Anderson, under her breath.</p> - -<p>‘And he does not seem to be horrified by the thought. He says we shall -be able to meet—— Oh! mother, before this happens let us go away -somewhere, and hide ourselves at the end of the earth!’</p> - -<p>‘Ombra, my poor child, you must not hide yourself. There are your rights -to be considered. It is not that I don’t see how hard it is; but you -must not be the one to judge him harshly. We must make allowances. He -was alone—he was not under good influence, when he wrote.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! mother, and am I to believe of <i>him</i> that bad influences affect him -so? This is making it worse—a thousand times worse! I thought I had -foreseen everything that there could be to bear; but I never thought of -this.’</p> - -<p>‘Alas! poor child, how little did you foresee!’ said Mrs. Anderson, in a -low voice—‘not half nor quarter part. Ombra, let us take Kate’s advice. -<i>La nuit porte conseil</i>—let us decide nothing to-night.’</p> - -<p>‘You can go and sleep, like her,’ said Ombra, somewhat bitterly. ‘I -think she is more like you than I am. You will say your prayers, and -compose yourself, and go to sleep.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Anderson smiled faintly. ‘Yes, I could have done that when I was as -young as you,’ she said, and made no other answer. She was sick at -heart, and weary of the discussion. She had gone over the same ground so -often, and how often soever she might go over it, the effect was still -the same. For what could anyone make of such a hopeless, dreary -business?</p> - -<p>After all, it was Ombra, with all her passion, who was asleep the first. -Her sighs seemed to steal through the room like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span> ghosts, and sometimes a -deeper one than usual would cause her mother to steal through the open -doorway to see if her child was ill. But after a time the sighs died -away, and Mrs. Anderson lay in the darkness of the long Winter night, -watching the expiring fire, which burned lower and lower, and listening -to the wind outside, and asking herself what was to be the next -chapter—where she was to go and what to do. She blamed herself bitterly -for all that had happened, and went over it step by step and asked -herself how it could have been helped. Of itself, had it been done in -the light of day, and with consent of all parties, there had been no -harm. She had her child’s happiness to consider chiefly, and not the -prejudices of a family with whom she had no acquaintance. How easy it is -to justify anything that is done and cannot be undone! and how easy and -natural the steps seem by which it was brought about! while all the time -something keeps pricking the casuist, whispering, ‘I told you so.’ Yes, -she had not been without her warnings; she had known that she ought not -to have given that consent which had been wrung from her, as it were, at -the sword’s point. She had known that it was weak of her to let -principle and honour go, lest Ombra’s cheek should be pale, and her face -averted from her mother.</p> - -<p>‘It was not Ombra’s fault,’ she said to herself. ‘It was natural that -Ombra should do anything she did; but I who am older, who know the -world, I should have known better—I should have had the courage to bear -even her unhappiness, for her good. Oh, my poor child! and she does not -know yet, bad as she thinks it, half of what she may have to bear.’</p> - -<p>Thus the mother lay and accused herself, taking first one, and then the -other, upon her shoulders, shedding salt tears under the veil of that -darkness, wondering where she should next wander to, and what would -become of them, and whether light could ever come out of this darkness. -How her heart ached!—what fears and heaviness overwhelmed her! while -Ombra slept and dreamed, and was happy in the midst of the wretchedness -which she had brought upon herself!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LVIII" id="CHAPTER_LVIII"></a>CHAPTER LVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">They</span> were all very subdued when they met next day. It was now, perhaps, -more than at any former time that Kate’s position told. Instinctively, -without a word of it to each other, Mrs. Anderson and her daughter felt -that on her aspect everything depended. They would not have said it to -each other, or even to themselves; but, nevertheless, there could not be -any doubt on the subject. There were two of them, and they were -perfectly free to go and come as they pleased; but the little one—the -younger child—the second daughter, who had been quietly subject to them -so long, was the mistress of the situation; she was the lady of the -house, and they were but her guests. In a moment their positions were -changed, and everything reversed. And Kate felt it too. They were both -in the breakfast-room when she came in. She was very quiet and pale, -unlike her usual self; but when she made her usual greetings, a -momentary glow of red came over her face. It burned as she touched -Ombra’s cheek with her own. After all that had passed, these habitual -kisses were the most terrible thing to go through. It was so hard to -break the bond of custom, and so hard to bestow what means love solely -for custom’s sake. The two girls reddened as if they had been lovers as -they thus approached each other, though for a very different cause; but -no stranger, unless he had been very quick-sighted, would have seen the -subtle, unexpressed change which each of them felt dropping into their -very soul. Kate left the others as soon as breakfast was over, and was -absent the whole morning. At lunch she was again visible, and once more -they sat and talked, with walls of glass or ice between them. This time, -however, Kate gave more distinct indication of her policy.</p> - -<p>‘Would you like to have the carriage this afternoon?’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs. Anderson, doubtfully, trying to read her -niece’s pleasure in her eyes. ‘If there is anywhere you want to go to, -dear——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! if you don’t think of going out, I shall drive to Westerton,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span> to -get some books,’ said Kate. ‘I want some German books. It is a long time -since I have done any German; but if you want the carriage, never -mind—I can go some other day.’</p> - -<p>‘I do not want it,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a chill of dismay; and she -turned to Ombra, and made some anxious suggestion about walking -somewhere. ‘It will be a nice opportunity while Kate is occupied,’ said -the poor soul, scheming to keep things smooth; ‘you said you wanted to -see that part of the park.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Ombra, depressed too, though she would have been too proud -to confess it; and thus it was arranged.</p> - -<p>Kate drove away alone, and had a hearty cry in the carriage, and was -very unhappy; and the mother and daughter went and walked against time -in the frost-bound park. It was a bright Winter afternoon, with a -pleasant sharpness in the air, and a gorgeous sunset of red and gold. -They stopped and pointed it out to each other, and dwelt on all the -different gradations of colour, with an artificial delight. The change -had come in a way which they had not expected, and they did not know how -to face it. It was the only situation which Mrs. Anderson, in her long -musings, had not foreseen, and she did not know how to meet it. There -was nothing but dismay in her mind—dismay and wonder. All her sagacity -was at fault.</p> - -<p>This went on for some time. Kate was very kind to her guests; but more -and more every day they came to feel themselves guests in the house. She -was scarcely ever with them, except at meals; and they would sit -together all the long morning, and sometimes all the long afternoon, -silent, saying nothing to each other, and hear Kate’s voice far off, -perhaps singing as she went through one of the long passages, perhaps -talking to Maryanne, or to a dog whom she had brought in from the -stable. They sat as if under a spell, for even Ombra was hushed. Her -feelings had somehow changed. Instead of the horror with which she had -regarded the probable arrival of her lover, she seemed now possessed -with a feverish desire to receive him, to see him when he came, to watch -him, perhaps to make sure that he was true to her.</p> - -<p>‘How can I go away, and know that he is here, and endure it?’ she said -to her mother. ‘I must stay!—I must stay! It is wretched; but it would -be more wretched to go.’</p> - -<p>This was her mood one day; and the next she would be impatient to leave -Langton-Courtenay at once, and found the yoke which was upon her -intolerable. These were terrible days, as smiling and smooth as of old -to all beholders, but with complete change within. Kate was as brave as -a lion in carrying out the <i>rôle</i> she had marked out for herself. Even -when her heart failed her, she hid it, and went on stoutly in the almost -impossible way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span></p> - -<p>‘I will not interfere with them—I will not ask anything; but otherwise -there shall be no change,’ she said to herself, with something of the -arrogance of youth, ready to give all, and to believe that it could be -accepted without the return of anything. But sometimes it was very hard -for her to keep it up; sometimes the peculiar aspect of the scene would -fill her with sudden compunctions, sudden longings. Everything looked so -like the old, happy days, and yet it was all so different! Sometimes a -tone of her aunt’s voice, a movement or a look of Ombra, would bring -some old tender recollection back to her mind, and she would feel driven -to the last extremity to prevent herself from bursting into tears, or -making a wild appeal to them to let things be as they were again. But -she resisted all these impulses, saying to herself, with forlorn pride, -that the old love had never existed, that it had been but a delirium of -her own, and that consequently there was nothing to appeal to. She -resumed her German, and worked at it with tremendous zeal in the library -by herself. German is an admirable thing when one has been crossed in -love, or mortified in friendship. How often has it been resorted to in -such circumstances—and has always afforded a certain consolation! And -Kate plunged into parish business, to the great delight and relief of -Minnie Hardwick, and showed all her old love of the ‘human interest’ of -the village, the poor folk’s stories and their difficulties. She tired -herself out, and went back and put off her grey frock, and arrayed -herself, and sat down at the table with Ombra, languid and heavy-eyed, -and Mrs. Anderson, who greeted her with faint smiles. There was little -conversation at the table; and it grew less and less as the days went -on. These dinners were not amusing; and yet they had some interest too, -for each watched the other, wondering what she would next do or say.</p> - -<p>I cannot tell exactly how long this lasted. It seemed to all three an -eternity. But one afternoon, when Kate came in from a long walk to the -other side of the parish, she found a letter conspicuously placed on the -hall-table, where she could not fail to see it. She trembled a little -when she saw her aunt’s handwriting. And there were fresh -carriage-wheels marking the way down the avenue; she had noticed this as -she came up. She sat down on the settle in the hall, where Mrs. Anderson -had placed herself on the day of their return, and read the following -letter with surprise, and yet without surprise. It gave her a shock as -of suddenness and strangeness; and yet she had known that it must happen -all along.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p> -‘<span class="smcap">My dearest Kate</span>,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="indd">‘If you can think, when you read this, that I do not mean what I -say, you will be very, very wrong. All<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span> these years I have loved -you as if you were my own child. I could not have done -otherwise—it is not in nature. But this is not what I want to say. -We are going away. It is not with my will, and yet it is not -against my will; for even to leave you alone in the house is better -than forcing you to live this unnatural life. Good-bye, my dear, -dear child! I cannot tell you—more’s the pity!—the circumstances -that have made my poor Ombra bitter with everything, including her -best friends; but she is very, very sorry, always, after she has -said those dreadful words which she does not mean, but which seem -to give a little relief to her suffering and bitterness. This is -all I can tell you now. Some time or other you will know -everything; and then, though you may blame us, you will pity us -too. I want to tell you that it never was my wish to keep the -secret from you—nor even Ombra’s. At least, she would have -yielded, but the other party to the secret would not. Dearest -child, forgive me! I go away from you, however, with a very sore -heart, and I don’t know where we shall go, or what we shall do. -Ever your most affectionate</p> - -<p class="r"> -‘<span class="smcap">A. Anderson.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>‘P.S.—I have written to your uncle, that unavoidable -circumstances, over which I have no control, compelled my leaving. -I should prefer that you did not say anything to him about what -these circumstances were.’</p></div> - -<p>Kate sat still for some time after she had read her letter. She had -expected it—it was inevitable; but, oh! with what loneliness the house -began to fill behind her! She sat and gazed into the fire, dumb, bearing -the blow as she best could. She had expected it, and yet she never -believed it possible. She had felt sure that something would turn up to -reconcile them—that one day or another, sooner or later, they would all -fall upon each other’s necks, and be at one again. She was seized -suddenly by that fatal doubt of herself which always comes too late. Had -she done right, after all? People must be very confident of doing right -who have such important matters in hand. Had she sufficient reason? Was -it not mean and paltry of her, in her own house, to have resented a few -unconsidered words so bitterly? In her own house! And then she had been -the means of turning these two, whom she loved, whether they loved her -or not, out upon the world. Kate sat without stirring while the early -darkness fell. It crept about her imperceptibly, dimness, and silence, -and solitude. The whole great house was a vast desert of silence—not a -sound, not a voice, nothing audible but the fall of the ashes on the -hearth. The servants’ rooms were far away, shut off by double doors, -that no noises might disturb their mistress. Oh! what would not Kate -have given for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span> cheerful sound of the kitchen, that used to be too -audible at Shanklin, which her aunt always complained of. Her aunt! who -had been like her mother! And where was she now? She began to gasp and -sob hysterically, but could not cry. And there was nobody to take any -notice. She heard her own voice, but nobody else heard it. They were -gone! Servants, new servants, filled the house, noiseless creatures, -decorous and well-bred, shut in with double doors, that nobody might -hear any sound of them. And she alone!—a girl not twenty!—alone in a -house which could put up fifty people!—in a house where there was no -sound, no light, no warmth, no fire, no love!</p> - -<p>She sat there till it was dark, and never moved. Why should she move? -There was no fireside to go to, no one whose presence made home. She was -as well on the settle in the hall as anywhere else. The darkness closed -over her. What did she care? She sat stupefied, with the letter in her -hand.</p> - -<p>And there she was found when Mr. Spigot, the butler, came to light the -lamp. He gave a jump when he saw something in the corner of the settle. -And that something started too, and drew itself together, and said, ‘Is -it so late? I did not know!’ and put her hands across her dazzled eyes.</p> - -<p>‘I beg you a thousand pardons, miss,’ said Spigot, confused, for he had -been whistling under his breath. ‘I didn’t know as no one wasn’t there.’</p> - -<p>‘Never mind,’ said Kate. ‘Give me a candle, please. I suppose I must -have dropped asleep.’</p> - -<p>Had she dropped asleep really ‘for sorrow?’—had she fainted and come to -again, nobody being the wiser? Kate could not tell—but there had been a -moment of unconsciousness one way or the other; and when she crept -upstairs with her candle, a solitary twinkle like a glow-worm in the big -staircase, she felt chilled to the bone, aching and miserable. She crept -upstairs into the warmth of her room, and, looking in the glass, saw -that her face was as the face of a ghost. Her hair had dropped down on -one side, and the dampness of the evening had taken all the curl out of -it. It fell straight and limp upon her colourless cheek. She went and -kneeled down before the fire and warmed herself, which seemed the first -necessity of all. ‘How cold one gets when one is unhappy!’ she said, -half aloud; and the murmur of her own voice sounded strange in her ear. -Was it the only voice that she was now to hear?</p> - -<p>When Maryanne came with the candles, it was a comfort to Kate. She -started up from the fire. She had to keep up appearances—to look as if -nothing had happened. Maryanne, for her part, was running over with the -news.</p> - -<p>‘Have you heard, miss, as Mrs. Anderson and Miss Ombra<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span> is gone?’ she -asked, as soon as decency would permit. The whole house had been moved -by this extraordinary departure, and the entire servants’ hall hung upon -Maryanne for news.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Kate, calmly. ‘I thought I should be back in time, but I was -too late. I hope my aunt had everything comfortable. Maryanne, as I am -all alone, you can bring me up some tea here—I can’t take the trouble -to dine—alone.’</p> - -<p>‘Very well, miss,’ said Maryanne; ‘it will be a deal comfortabler. If -Mrs. Spigot had known as the ladies was going, she would have changed -the dinner—but it was so sudden-like.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, it was very sudden,’ said Kate. And thus Maryanne carried no news -downstairs.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LIX" id="CHAPTER_LIX"></a>CHAPTER LIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Kate’s</span> life seemed to stop at this point. For a few days she did not -know what she did. She would have liked to give in, and be ill, but -dared not, lest her aunt (who did not love her) should be compromised. -Therefore she kept up, and walked and went to the parish and chattered -with Minnie Hardwick, and even tried her German, though this latter -attempt was not very successful.</p> - -<p>‘My aunt was called away suddenly on business,’ she explained to Mrs. -Hardwick.</p> - -<p>‘What! and left you alone—quite alone in that great house?’ cried Mrs. -Hardwick. ‘It is not possible! How lonely for you! But I suppose she -will only be gone for a few days?’</p> - -<p>‘I scarcely know. It is business that has taken her away, and nobody can -answer for business,’ said Kate, with an attempt at a laugh. ‘But the -servants are very good, and I shall do very well. I am not afraid of -being alone.’</p> - -<p>‘Not afraid, I daresay, but dreadfully solitary. It ought not to be,’ -said Mrs. Hardwick, in a tone of reproof. And the thought passed through -her mind that she had never quite approved of Mrs. Anderson, who seemed -to know much more of Bertie than was at all desirable, and, no doubt, -had attempted to secure him for that pale girl of hers. ‘Though what any -gentleman could see in her, or how anyone could so much as look at her -while Kate Courtenay was by, I don’t understand,’ she said, after -discussing the question in private.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, mamma! I think she is so sweet and pretty,’ said Edith. ‘But I am -sure Bertie does not like her. Bertie avoided her—he was scarcely -civil. I am sure if there is anyone that Bertie admires it is Kate.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hardwick shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘Bertie knows very well,’ she said, ‘that Miss Courtenay is out of his -reach—delightful as she is, and everything we could desire—except that -she is rather too rich; but that is no reason why he should go and throw -himself away on some girl without a penny. I don’t put any faith in his -avoiding Miss Anderson. When a young man <i>avoids</i> a young woman it is -much the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span> as when he seeks her society. But, Minnie, run away and -look after your club books; you are too young yet to hear such matters -discussed.’</p> - -<p>‘Edith is only a year older than I am,’ said Minnie, within herself, -‘but then she is almost a married lady.’ And with this she comforted her -heart, which was not without its private flutters too.</p> - -<p>And Kate kept on her way, very bravely holding up her little flag of -resolution. She sat in the room which they had all occupied together, -and had coals heaped upon the two fires, and could not get warm. The -silence of the place made her sick and faint. She got up and walked -about, in the hope of hearing at least her own step, and could not on -the soft carpet. When she coughed, it seemed to ring all through the -house. She got frightened when she caught a glimpse of herself in the -great mirror, and thought it was a ghost. She sent to Westerton for all -the novels that were to be had, and these were a help to her; but still, -to sit in a quiet room, with yourself now and then seen passing through -the glass like a thief, and nothing audible but the ashes falling from -the grate, is a terrible experience for a girl. She heard herself -breathing; she heard her cough echo down all the long galleries. She had -her stable dog washed and brushed, and made fit for good society, in the -hope that he would take to the drawing-room, and live with her, and give -her some one to speak to. But, after all, he preferred the stables, -being only a mongrel, without birth or breeding. This rather overcame -Kate’s bravery; but only once did she thoroughly break down. It was the -day after her aunt left, and, with a sudden recollection of -companionship and solace still remaining, she had said to Maryanne, ‘Go -and call old Francesca.’ ‘Francesca, miss!—oh! bless you, she’s gone -with her lady,’ said Maryanne; and Kate, who had not expected this, -broke down all at once, and had a fit of crying.</p> - -<p>‘Never mind—it is nothing. I thought they meant to leave Francesca,’ -she said, incoherently. Thus it became evident to her that they were -gone, and gone for ever. And Kate went back to her melancholy solitude, -and took up her novel; but when she had read the first page, she -stopped, and began to think. She had done no wrong to anyone. If there -was wrong, it had been done to her. She had tried even to resist all -feelings of resentment, and to look as if she had forgotten the wrong -done her. Yet it was she who was being punished, as if she were the -criminal. Nobody anywhere, whatever harm they might have done, had been -punished so sorely. Solitary confinement!—was not that the worst of -all—the thing that drives people mad?</p> - -<p>Then Mr. Courtenay wrote in a state of great fret and annoyance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a>{321}</span> What -did Mrs. Anderson mean by leaving him in the lurch just then, she and -her daughter? She had not even given him an address, that he might write -to her and remonstrate (he had intended to supersede her in Spring, to -be sure, but he did not think it necessary to mention that); and here he -was in town, shut up with a threatening of bronchitis, and it was as -much as his life was worth to travel now. Couldn’t she get some one to -stay with her, or get along somehow until Lady Caryisfort came home?</p> - -<p>Kate wrote him a brave little letter, saying that of course she could -get on—that he need not be at all troubled about her—that she was -quite happy, and should prefer being left as she was. When she had -written it, she lay down on the rug before the fire, and had a cry, and -then came to herself, and sent to ask if Minnie Hardwick might spend the -evening with her. Minnie’s report brought her mother up next morning, -who found that Kate had a bad cold, and sent for the doctor, and kept -her in bed; and all the fuss of this little illness—though Kate -believed she hated fuss—did her good. Her own room was pleasanter than -the drawing-room. It was natural to be alone there; and as she lay on -the sofa, and was read to by Minnie, there seemed at times a possibility -that life might mend. And next day and the next, though she recovered, -this companionship went on. Minnie was not very wise, but she chattered -about everything in heaven and earth. She talked of her brother—a -subject in which Kate could not help taking an interest, which was half -anger, half something else. She asked a hundred questions about -Florence—</p> - -<p>‘Did you really see a great deal of Bertie? How funny that he should not -have told us! Men are so odd!’ cried Minnie. ‘If it had been I, I should -have raved about you for ever and ever!’</p> - -<p>‘Because you are silly and—warm-hearted,’ said Kate, with a sigh. ‘Yes, -I think we saw them pretty often.’</p> - -<p>‘Why do you say <i>them</i>?’</p> - -<p>‘Why?—because the two were always together! We never expected to see -one without the other.’</p> - -<p>‘Like your cousin and you,’ said innocent Minnie. And then she laughed.</p> - -<p>‘Why do you laugh?’ said Kate.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! nothing—an idea that came into my head. I have heard of two -sisters marrying two brothers, but never of two pair of cousins—it -would be funny.’</p> - -<p>‘But altogether out of the question, as it happens,’ said Kate, growing -stately all at once.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! don’t be angry. I did not mean anything. Was Bertie very attentive -to Miss Anderson in Florence? We wonder<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>{322}</span> sometimes. For I am sure he -avoided her here; and mamma says she puts no faith in a gentleman -avoiding a lady. It is as bad as—what do <i>you</i> think?—unless you would -rather not say,’ added Minnie, shyly; ‘or if you think I oughtn’t to -ask——’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know anything about Mr. Bertie Hardwick’s feelings,’ said Kate. -And then she added, with a little sadness which she could not quite -conceal, ‘Nor about anybody, Minnie. Don’t ask me, please. I am not -clever enough to find things out; and nobody ever confides in me.’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure I should confide in you first of all!’ cried Minnie, with -enthusiasm. ‘Oh! when I recollect how much we used to be frightened for -you, and what a funny girl we thought you; and then to think I should -know you so well now, and have got so—fond of you—may I say so?’ said -the little girl, who was proud of her post.</p> - -<p>Kate made no answer for a full minute, and then she said,</p> - -<p>‘Minnie, you are younger than I am, a great deal younger——’</p> - -<p>‘I am eighteen,’ said Minnie, mortified.</p> - -<p>‘But I am nineteen and a half, and very, very old for my age. At your -age one does not know which is the real thing and which is the -shadow—there are so many shadows in this world; and sometimes you take -them for truth, and when you find it out it is hard.’</p> - -<p>Minnie followed this dark saying with a puzzled little face.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she said, perplexed, ‘like Narcissus, you mean, and the dog that -dropped the bone. No, I don’t mean that—that is too—too—common-place. -Oh! did you ever see Bertie Eldridge’s yacht? I think I heard he had it -at the Isle of Wight. It was called the <i>Shadow</i>. Oh! I would give -anything to have a sail in a yacht!’</p> - -<p>Ah! that was called the <i>Shadow</i> too. Kate felt for a moment as if she -had found something out; but it was a delusion, an idea which she could -not identify—a Will-o’-the-Wisp, which looked like something, and was -nothing. ‘I have a shadow too,’ she murmured, half to herself. But -before Minnie’s wondering eyes and tongue could ask what it meant, -Spigot came solemnly to the door. He had to peer into the darkness to -see his young mistress on the sofa.</p> - -<p>‘If you please, Miss Courtenay,’ he said, ‘there is a gentleman -downstairs wishes to see you; and he won’t take no answer as I can -offer. He says if you hear his name——’</p> - -<p>‘What is his name?’ cried Kate. She did not know what she expected, but -it made her heart beat. She sat up, on her sofa, throwing off her wraps, -notwithstanding Minnie’s remonstrances. Who could it be?—or rather, -what?</p> - -<p>‘The Reverend Mr. Sugden, Miss,’ said Mr. Spigot.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a>{323}</span></p> - -<p>‘Mr. Sugden!’ She said the name two or three times over before she could -remember. Then she rose, and directed Spigot to light the candles. She -did not know how it was, but new vigour somehow seemed to come into her -veins.</p> - -<p>‘Minnie,’ she said, ‘this is a gentleman who knows my aunt. He has come, -I suppose, about her business. I want you to stay just now; but if I put -up my hand so, will you run upstairs and wait for me in my room? Take -the book. You will be a true little friend if you will do this.’</p> - -<p>‘Leave you alone!—with a gentleman!’ said Minnie. ‘But then of course -he must be an old gentleman, as he has come about business,’ she said to -herself; and added hastily, ‘Of course I will. And if you don’t put up -your hand—so—must I stay?’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure to put it up,’ said Kate.</p> - -<p>The room by this time was light and bright, and Spigot’s solemn step was -heard once more approaching. Kate placed herself in a large chair. She -looked as imposing and dignified as she could, poor child!—the solitary -mistress of her own house. But how strange it was to see the tall figure -come in—the watchful, wistful face she remembered so well! He held out -his large hand, in which her little one was drowned, just as he used to -do. He glanced round him in the same way, as if Ombra might be somewhere -about in the corners. His Shadow too! Kate could not doubt that. But -when she gave Minnie her instructions, she had taken it for granted that -there would have been certain preliminaries to the -conversation—inquiries about herself, or information about what she was -doing. But Mr. Sugden was full of excitement and anxiety. He took her -small hand into his big one, which swallowed it up, as we have said, and -he held it, as some men hold a button.</p> - -<p>‘I hear they have left you,’ he said. ‘Tell me, is it true?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Kate, too much startled to give her signal, ‘they have left -me.’</p> - -<p>‘And you don’t know where they have gone?’</p> - -<p>She remembered now, and Minnie disappeared, curious beyond all -description. Then Kate withdrew her hand from that mighty grasp.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know where they have gone. Have you heard anything of them, Mr. -Sugden? Have you brought me, perhaps, a message?’</p> - -<p>He shook his head.</p> - -<p>‘I heard it all vaguely, only vaguely; but you know how I used to feel, -Miss Kate. I feel the same still. Though it is not what I should have -wished—I am ready to be a brother to her. Will you tell me all that has -passed since you went away?’</p> - -<p>‘All that has passed?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>{324}</span></p> - -<p>‘If you will, Miss Kate—as you would be kind to one who does not care -very much what happens to him! You are kind, I know—and you love her!’</p> - -<p>The tears came to Kate’s eyes. She grew warm and red all over, throwing -off, as it were, in a moment, the palsy of cold and misery that had come -over her.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she said suddenly, ‘I love her,’ and cried. Mr. Sugden looked on, -not knowing why.</p> - -<p>Kate felt herself changed as in a moment; she felt—nay, she was herself -again. What did it matter whether they loved her?—she loved them. That -was, after all, what she had most to do with. She dried her tears, and -she told her story, straight off, like a tale she had been taught, -missing nothing. And he drank it all in to the end, not missing a word. -When she had finished he sat silent, with a sombre countenance, and not -a syllable was spoken between them for ten minutes at least. Then he -said aloud, as if not talking, but thinking,</p> - -<p>‘The question is which?’ Then he raised his eyes and looked at her. -‘Which?’ he repeated.</p> - -<p>Kate grew pale again, and felt a choking in her throat. She bowed her -head, as if she were accepting her fate.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Bertie Hardwick!’ she said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a>{325}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LX" id="CHAPTER_LX"></a>CHAPTER LX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">This</span> strange little incident, which at the moment it was occurring -seemed to be perfectly natural, but as soon as that moment was over -became inexplicable, dropped into Kate’s life as a stone drops into -water. It made a curious commotion and a bustle for the moment, and -stirred faintly for a little while afterwards, and then disappeared, and -was thought of no more.</p> - -<p>Mr. Sugden would not stay, he would not even eat in the house. He had -come down from town to the station six miles off, the nearest station -for Langton-Courtenay, and there he meant to return again as soon as he -had his information. Kate had been much troubled as to how she, in her -unprotected condition, was to ask him to stay; but when she found out he -would not stay, an uncomfortable sensation as of want of hospitality -came over her. But when he was actually gone, and Minnie Hardwick called -back, somehow the entire incident appeared like a dream, and it seemed -impossible that anything important had happened. Minnie was not curious; -business was to her a sacred word, which covered all difficulties. The -Curate was not old, as she had supposed; but otherwise being a friend of -Mrs. Anderson’s, and involved in her affairs, his sudden visit seemed -perfectly natural. Just so men would come down from town, and be shut up -with her father for an hour or two, and then disappear; and Kate as a -great lady, as an heiress and independent person, no doubt must have the -same kind of visitors.</p> - -<p>Kate, however, thought a great deal of it that night—could not sleep, -indeed, for thinking of it; but less the next morning, and still less -the day after, till at length the tranquillity settled back into its old -stillness. Mr. Sugden had done her good, so far that he had roused her -to consciousness of a hearty sentiment in herself, independent of -anything from without—the natural affection which was her own -independent possession, and not a reflection of other people’s love. -What though they did not love her even? she loved them; and as soon as -she became conscious of this, she was saved from the mental harm<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a>{326}</span> that -might have happened to her. It gave Kate pain when day after day passed -on, and no word came from those who had departed from her so suddenly. -But then she was young, and had been brought up in the persuasion that -everything was likely to turn out right at the end, and that permanent -unhappiness was a very rare thing. She was not alarmed about the safety -of those who had deserted her; they were two, nay, three people -together; they were used to taking care of themselves; so far as she -knew, they had money enough and all that was required. And then her own -life was so strange; it occupied her almost like a fairy-life. She -thought she had never heard of any one so forlorn and solitary. The -singularity of her position did her good. She was half proud, half -amused by it; she smiled when her visitors would remark upon her -singular loneliness—‘Yes, it seems strange to you, I suppose,’ she -said; but I don’t mind it.’ It was a small compensation, but still it -was a kind of compensation, indemnifying her for some at least of her -trouble. The Andersons had disappeared into the great darkness of the -world; but some day they would turn up again and come back to her and -make explanations. And although she had been impressed by Mr. Sugden’s -visit, she was not actually anxious about the future of her aunt and -cousin; some time or other things naturally would put themselves right.</p> - -<p>This, however, did not prevent the feeling of her loneliness from being -terrible to her—insupportable; but it removed all complications from -her feelings, and made them simple. And thus she lived on for months -together, as if in a dream, always assuring Mr. Courtenay that she did -very well, that she wanted nothing, getting a little society in the -Rectory with the Hardwicks, and with some of her county neighbours who -had called upon her. Minnie got used to the carriage, and to making -expeditions into Westerton, the nearest town, and liked it. And -strangely and stilly as ever Châtelaine lived in an old castle, in such -a strange maiden seclusion lived Kate.</p> - -<p>Where had the others gone? She ascertained before long that they were -not at Shanklin—the Cottage was still let to ‘very nice people,’ about -whom Lucy Eldridge wrote very enthusiastic letters to her -cousin—letters which Kate would sometimes draw her innocent moral from, -not without a little faint pain, which surprised her in the midst of all -graver troubles. She pointed out to Minnie how Lucy Eldridge had -rejected the very idea of being friendly with the new comers, much less -admitting them to a share in the place Kate held in her heart. ‘Whereas -now you see I am forgotten altogether,’ Kate said, with a conscious -melancholy that was not disagreeable to her. Minnie protested that with -her such a thing could never happen—it was impossible; and Kate smiled -sadly, and shook her head in her superior<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a>{327}</span> knowledge. She took Minnie -into her intimacy with a sense of condescension. But the friendship did -her good. And Mrs. Hardwick was very kind to her. They were all anxious -to ‘be of use’ to the heiress, to help her through her melancholy hours.</p> - -<p>When Bertie came down for his next flying visit, she manœuvred so -that she succeeded in avoiding him, though he showed no desire this time -to avoid her. But, Kate said to herself, this was something that she -could not bear. She could not see him as if he were an indifferent -stranger, when she knew well that he could reveal to her everything she -wanted to know, and set the tangle right at last. He knew where they -were without doubt—he knew everything. She could not meet him calmly, -and shake hands with him, and pretend she did not remember the past. She -was offended with him, both for their sake and her own—for Ombra’s -sake, because of the secret; and for her own, because of certain little -words and looks which were an insult to her from Ombra’s lover. No, she -could not see him. She had a bad headache when he came with his mother -to call; she was not able to go out when she was asked to the Rectory. -She saw him only at church, and did nothing but bow when he hurried to -speak to her in the churchyard. No, that she would not put up with. -There was even a certain contempt mingled with her soreness. Mrs. -Anderson had put all the blame upon him—the ‘other party to the -secret;’ while he, poor creature, would not even take the responsibility -upon his own shoulders bravely, but blamed Ombra. Well! well! Kate -resolved that she would keep her solitude unbroken, that she would allow -no intrusion upon her of all the old agitations that once had made her -unhappy. She would not consent to allow herself to be made unhappy any -longer, or even to think of those who had given her so much pain.</p> - -<p>Unfortunately, however, after she had made this good resolution, she -thought of nothing else, and puzzled herself over the whole business, -and especially Bertie’s share in it, night and day. He would suddenly -start up into her mind when she was thinking of something else, with a -glow over his face, and anxious gleam in his eyes, as she had seen him -at the church door. Perhaps, then, though so late, he had meant to -explain. Perhaps he intended to lay before her what excuses there might -be—to tell her how one thing followed another, how they had been led -into clandestine ways.</p> - -<p>Kate would make out an entire narrative to herself and then would stop -short suddenly, and ask herself what she meant by it? It was not for her -to explain for them, but for them to explain to her. But she did not -want to think badly of them. Even when her wounds had been deepest, she -did not wish to think unkindly; and it would have given her a kind of -forlorn pleasure<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a>{328}</span> to be able to find out their excuses beforehand. This -occupied her many an hour when she sat alone in the stillness, to which -she gradually became accustomed. After awhile her own reflection in the -glass no longer struck her as looking like a ghost or a thief; she grew -used to it. And then the way in which she threw herself into the parish -did one good to see. Minnie Hardwick felt that Kate’s activity and -Kate’s beneficence took away her breath. She filled the cottages with -what Mrs. Hardwick felt to be luxuries, and disapproved of. She rushed -into Westerton continually, to buy things for the old women. One had an -easy-chair, another a carpet, another curtains to keep out the wind from -the draughty cottage room.</p> - -<p>‘My dear, you will spoil the people; these luxuries are quite out of -their reach. We ought not to demoralize them,’ said the clergywoman, -thinking of the awful consequences, and of the expectations and -discontents that would follow.</p> - -<p>‘If old Widow Morgan belonged to me—if she was my grandmother, for -instance,’ said revolutionary Kate, ‘would there be anything in the -world too good for her? We should hunt the draughts out of every corner, -and pad everything with velvet. And I suppose an old woman of eighty in -a cottage feels it just as much.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Hardwick was silenced, but not convinced; she was, indeed, shocked -beyond measure at the idea of Widow Morgan requiring as many comforts as -Kate’s grandmother. ‘The girl has no discrimination whatever; she does -not see the difference; it is of no use trying to explain to her,’ she -said, with a troubled countenance. But, except these little encounters, -there was no real disagreement between them. Bertie Hardwick’s family, -indeed, took an anxious interest in Kate. They were not worldly-minded -people, but they could not forget that their son had been thrown a great -deal into the society of a great heiress, both in the Isle of Wight and -in Italy. The knowledge that he was in Kate’s vicinity had indeed made -them much more tolerant, though nobody said so, of his wanderings. They -had not the heart, they said, to separate him from his cousin, to whom -he was so much attached; but behind this there was perhaps lurking -another reason. Not that they would ever have forced their son’s -affections, or advised, under any circumstances, a mercenary marriage; -but only, all other things being so suitable—Mrs. Hardwick, who liked -to manage everybody, and did it very well, on the whole, took Kate into -her hands with a glow of satisfaction. She would have liked to form her -and mould her, and make her all that a woman in her important position -ought to be; and, of course, no one could tell what might happen in the -future. It was well to be prepared for all.</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay, for his part, though not quite so happy about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a>{329}</span> his niece, -and troubled by disagreeable pricks of conscience in respect to her, -made all right by promises. He would come in a week or two—as soon as -his cold was better—when he had got rid of the threatening of the gout, -which rather frightened his doctor. Finally, he promised without doubt -that he would come in the Easter recess, and make everything -comfortable. But in the Easter recess it became absolutely necessary for -him, for important private affairs, to go down to the Duke of -Dorchester’s marine palace, where there were some people going whom it -was absolutely essential that he should meet. And thus it came to pass -that Kate spent her twentieth birthday all alone at Langton-Courtenay. -Nobody knew or remembered that it was her birthday. There was not so -much as an old servant about the place to think of it. Maryanne, to be -sure, might have remembered, but did not until next morning, when she -broke forth with, ‘La, Miss Kate!’ into good wishes and regrets, which -Kate, with a flushed face and sore heart, put a stop to at once. No, no -one knew. It is a hard thing, even when one is old, to feel that such -domestic anniversaries have fallen into oblivion, and no one cares any -longer for the milestones of our life; but when one is young—!</p> - -<p>Kate went about all day long with this secret bursting in her heart. She -would not tell it for pride, though, if she had, all the Hardwick -family, at least, would have been ready enough with kisses and -congratulations. She carried it about with her like a pain that she was -hiding. ‘It is my birthday,’ she said to herself, when she paused before -the big glass, and looked at her own solitary figure, and tried to make -a little forlorn fun of herself; ‘good morning, Kate, I will give you a -present. It will be the only one you will get to-day,’ she said, -laughing, and nodding at her representative in the glass, whose eyes -were rather red; ‘but I will not wish you many returns, for I am sure -you don’t want them. Oh! you poor, poor girl!’ she cried, after a -moment—‘I am so sorry for you! I don’t think there is anyone so -solitary in all the world.’ And then Kate and her image both sat down -upon the floor and cried.</p> - -<p>But in the afternoon she went to Westerton, with Minnie Hardwick all -unconscious beside her in the carriage, and bought herself the present -she had promised. It was a tiny little cross, with the date upon it, -which Minnie marvelled at much, wondering if it was to herself that this -memento was to be presented. Kate had a strong inclination to place the -words ‘<i>Infelicissimo giorno</i>’ over the date, but stopped, feeling that -it might look romantic; but it was the unhappiest day to her—the worst, -she thought, she had ever yet had to bear.</p> - -<p>When she came home, however, a letter was put into her hands. It was -from Mrs. Anderson at last.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a>{330}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXI" id="CHAPTER_LXI"></a>CHAPTER LXI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Kate’s</span> existence, however, was too monotonous to be dwelt upon for ever, -and though all that can be afforded to the reader is a glimpse of other -scenes, yet there are one or two such glimpses which may help him to -understand how other people were affected by this complication of -affairs. Bertie Hardwick went up to London after that second brief visit -at the Rectory, when Miss Courtenay had so successfully eluded seeing -him, with anything but comfortable feelings. He had never quite known -how she looked upon himself, but now it became apparent to him that -whatever might be the amount of knowledge which she had acquired, it had -been anything but favourable to him. How far he had a right to Kate’s -esteem, or whether, indeed, it was a right thing for him to be anxious -about it, is quite a different question. He was anxious about it. He -wanted to stand well in the girl’s eyes. He had known her all his life, -he said to himself. Of course they could only be acquaintances, not even -friends, in all probability, so different must their lines of life be; -but still it was hard to feel that Kate disliked him, that she thought -badly of him. He had no right to care, but he did care. He stopped in -his work many and many a day to think of it. And then he would lay down -his book or his pen, and gnaw his nails (a bad habit, which his mother -vainly hoped she had cured him of), and think—till all the law went out -of his head which he was studying.</p> - -<p>This was very wrong, and he did not do it any more than he could help; -but sometimes the tide of rising thought was too much for him. Bertie -was settling to work, as he had great occasion to do. He had lost much -time, and there was not a moment to be lost in making up for it. Within -the last three months, indeed, his careless life had sustained a change -which filled all his friends with satisfaction. It was but a short time -to judge by, but yet, if ever man had seen the evil of his ways, and set -himself, with true energy, to mend them, it was Bertie, everybody -allowed. He had left his fashionable and expensive cousin the moment -they had arrived in London. Instead of Bertie Eldridge’s fashionable -quarters, in one of the streets off<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a>{331}</span> Piccadilly, which hitherto he had -shared, he had established himself in chambers in the Temple, up two -pair of stairs, where he was working, it was reported, night and day. -Bertie Eldridge, indeed, had so frightened all his people by his -laughing accounts of the wet towels which bound the other Bertie’s head -of nights, while he laboured at his law books, that the student received -three several letters on the subject—one from each of his aunts, and -one from his mother.</p> - -<p>‘My dear, it goes to my heart to hear how you are working,’ the latter -said. ‘I thank God that my own boy is beginning to see what is necessary -to hold his place in life. But not too much, dearest Bertie, not too -much. What would it avail me if my son came to be Lord Chancellor, and -lost his health, or even his life, on the way?’</p> - -<p>This confusing sentence did not make Bertie ridicule the writer, for he -was, strange to say, very fond of his mother, but he wrote her a merry -explanation, and set her fears at rest. However, though he did not -indulge in wet towels, he had begun to work with an energy no one -expected of him. He had a motive. He had seen the necessity, as his -mother said. To wander all over the world with Bertie Eldridge, whose -purse was carelessly free, but whose way it was, unconsciously, while -intending to save his friends from expense, to draw them into greater -and ever greater outlay, was not a thing which could be done, or which -it would be at all satisfactory to do for life. And many very grave -thoughts had come to Bertie on the journey home. Perhaps he had grown -just a little disgusted with his cousin, who saw everything from his own -point of view, and could not enter into the feelings and anxieties of a -poorer man.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! bother! All will come right in the end,’ he would say, when his -cousin pointed out to him the impossibility for himself of the -situation, so far as he himself was concerned.</p> - -<p>‘How can it come right for me?’ Hardwick had asked.</p> - -<p>‘How you do worry!’ said Bertie Eldridge. ‘Haven’t we always shared -everything? And why shouldn’t we go on doing so? I may be kept out of -it, of course, for years and years, but not for ever. Hang it, Bertie, -you know all must come right in the end; and haven’t we shared -everything all our lives?’</p> - -<p>This is a sort of speech which it is very difficult to answer. It is so -much easier for the richer man to feel benevolent and liberal than for -the poorer man to understand his ground of gratitude in such a -partnership. Bertie Eldridge, had, no doubt, shared many of his luxuries -with his cousin. He had shared his yacht for instance—a delight which -Bertie Hardwick could by no means have procured himself—but, while -doing this, he had drawn the other into such waste of time and money as -he never could have been tempted to otherwise. Bertie Hardwick<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a>{332}</span> knew -that had he not ‘shared everything’ with his cousin he would have been a -wealthier man: and how then could he be grateful for that community of -goods which the other Bertie was so lavishly conscious of?</p> - -<p>‘He can have spent nothing while we were together,’ the latter was -always saying. ‘He must have saved, in short, out of the allowance my -uncle gives him.’</p> - -<p>Bertie Hardwick knew that the case was very different, but he could not -be so ungenerous as to insist upon this in face of his cousin’s -delightful sense of liberality. He held his tongue, and this silence did -not make him more amiable. In short, the partnership had been broken, as -partnerships of the kind are generally broken, with a little discomfort -on both sides.</p> - -<p>Bertie Eldridge continued his pleasant, idle life—did what he liked, -and went where he liked, though, perhaps, with less freedom than of old; -while Bertie Hardwick retired to Pump Court and worked—as the other -said—night and day. He was hard at work one of those Spring afternoons -which Kate spent down at Langton. His impulse towards labour was new, -and, as yet, it had many things to struggle against. He had not been -brought up to work; he had been an out-of-door lad, fond of any pursuit -that implied open air and exercise. Most young men are so brought up -now-a-days, whether it is the best training for them or not; and since -he took his degree, which had not been accompanied by any distinction, -he had been yachting, travelling, amusing himself—none of which things -are favourable to work in Pump Court, upon a bright April afternoon. His -window was open, and the very air coming in tantalized and tempted him. -It plucked at his hair; it disordered his papers; it even blew the book -close which he was bending over. ‘Confound the wind!’ said Bertie. But, -somehow, he could not shut the window. How fresh it blew! even off the -questionable Thames, reminding the solitary student of walks and rides -through the budding woods; of the first days of the boating season; of -all the delights of the opening year; confound the wind! He opened his -book, and went at it again with a valorous and manful heart, a heart -full of anxieties, yet with hope in it too, and, what is almost better -than hope—determination. The book was very dry, but Bertie applied to -it that rule which is so good in war—so good in play—capital for -cricket and football, in the hunting-field, and wherever daring and -patience are alike necessary—<i>he would not be beat</i>! It is, perhaps, -rather a novel doctrine to apply to a book about conveyancing—or, at -least, such a use of it was novel to Bertie. But it answered all the -same.</p> - -<p>And it was just as he was getting the mastery of his own mind, and -forgetting, for the moment, the fascinations of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a>{333}</span> sunshine and the -errant breeze, that some one came upstairs with a resounding hasty -footstep and knocked at his door. ‘It’s Bertie,’ he said to himself, -with a sigh, and opened to the new-comer. Now he was beat, but not by -the book—by fate, and the evil angels—not by any fault of his own.</p> - -<p>Bertie Eldridge came in, bringing a gust of fresh air with him. He -seated himself on his cousin’s table, scorning the chairs. His brow was -a little clouded, though he was like one of the butterflies who toil -not, neither do they spin.</p> - -<p>‘By Jove! to see you there grinding night and day, makes a man open his -eyes—you that were no better than other people. What do you think -you’ll ever make of it, old fellow? Not the Woolsack, mind you—I give -in to you a great deal, but you’re not clever enough for that.’</p> - -<p>‘I never thought I was,’ said the other, laughing, but not with -pleasure; and then there was a pause, and I leave it to the reader to -judge which were the different interlocutors in the dialogue which -follows, for to continue writing ‘Bertie,’ and ‘the other Bertie,’ is -more than human patience can bear.</p> - -<p>‘You said you had something to say to me—out with it! I have a hundred -things to do. You never were so busy in your life as I am. Indeed, I -don’t suppose you know what being occupied means.’</p> - -<p>‘Of course it is the old subject I want to talk of. What could it be -else! What is to be done? You know everything that has happened as well -as I do. Busy! If you knew what my reflections are early and late, -waking and sleeping——’</p> - -<p>‘I think I can form an idea. Has something new occurred—or is it the -old question, the eternal old business, which you never thought of, -unfortunately, till it was too late?’</p> - -<p>‘It is no business of yours to taunt me, nor is it a friend’s office. I -am driven to my wit’s ends. For anything I can see, things may go on as -they are for a dozen years.’</p> - -<p>‘Everybody must have felt so from the beginning. How you could be so -mad, both she and you; you most, in one way, for you knew the world -better; she most, in another, for it is of more importance to a woman.’</p> - -<p>‘Shut up, Bertie. I won’t have any re-discussion of that question. The -thing is, what is to be done now? I was such a fool as to write to her -about going down to Langton, at my father’s desire; and now I dare not -go, or she will go frantic. Besides, she says it must be acknowledged -before long: she must do it, if I can’t.’</p> - -<p>‘Good God!’</p> - -<p>‘What is there to be horrified about? It was all natural. The thing is, -what is to be done? If she would keep quiet, all would be right. I am -sure her mother could manage everything.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334"></a>{334}</span> One place is as good as -another to live in. Don’t look at me like that. I am distracted—going -mad—and you won’t give me any help.’</p> - -<p>‘The question is, what help can I give?’</p> - -<p>‘It is easy enough—as easy as daylight. If I were to go, it would only -make us both miserable, and lead to imprudences. I know it would. But if -you will do it for me——’</p> - -<p>‘Do you love her, Bertie?’</p> - -<p>‘Love her! Good heavens! after all the sacrifices I have made! Look at -me, as I am, and ask me if I love her! But what can I do? If I speak now -we are all ruined; but if she could only be persuaded to wait—only to -wait, perhaps for a few days, or a few months——’</p> - -<p>‘Or a few years! And to wait for what? How can you expect any good to -come to you, when you build everything upon your——’</p> - -<p>‘Shut up, I tell you! Is it my fault? He ought to treat me differently. -I never would have entertained such a thought, but for—— Bertie, -listen to me. Will you go? They will hear reason from you.’</p> - -<p>‘They ought not to hear reason. It is a cowardly shame! Yes, I don’t -mind your angry looks—it is a shame! You and I have been too long -together to mince matters between ourselves. I tell you I never knew -anything more cowardly and wretched. It is a shame—a——’</p> - -<p>‘The question is, not what you think of it,’ said the other sullenly, -‘but will you go?’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose I must,’ was the reply.</p> - -<p>When the visitor left, half an hour later, after more conversation of -this same strain, can it be wondered at if Bertie Hardwick’s studies -were no longer so steady as they had been? He shut up his books at last, -and went out and walked towards the river. It was black and glistening, -and very full with the Spring rains. The tide was coming up—the river -was crowded with vessels of all kinds. Bertie walked to Chelsea, and got -a boat there, and went up to Richmond with the tide. But he did not go -to the ‘Star and Garter,’ where his cousin was dining with a brilliant -party. He walked back again to his chambers, turning over in his tired -brain a hundred anxieties. And that night he did sit up at work, and for -half an hour had recourse to the wet towel. Not because he was working -day and night, but because these anxieties had eaten the very heart out -of his working day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335"></a>{335}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXII" id="CHAPTER_LXII"></a>CHAPTER LXII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">From</span> Pump Court, in the Temple, it is a long way to the banks of a -little loch in Scotland, surrounded by hills, covered with heather, and -populous with grouse—that is, of course, in the season. The grouse in -this early Summer were but babies, chirping among the big roots of the -ling, like barndoor chickens; the heather was not purple but only -greening over through the grey husks of last year’s bloom. The gorse -blossoms were forming; the birch-trees shaking out their folded leaves a -little more and more day by day against the sky, which was sometimes so -blue, and sometimes so leaden. At that time of the year, or at any -other, it is lovely at Loch Arroch. Seated on the high bank behind the -little inn, on the soft grass, which is as green as emeralds, but soft -as velvet, you can count ten different slopes of hills surrounding the -gleaming water, which receives them all impartially; ten distinct -ridges, all as various as so many sportsmen, distinct in stature and -character—from the kindly birch-crowned heads in front here, away to -the solemn distant altitudes, folded in snow-plaids or cloud-mantles, -and sometimes in glorious sheen of sunset robes, that dazzle you—which -fill up the circle far away. The distant giants are cleft into three -peaks, and stand still to have their crowns and garments changed, with a -benign patience, greeting you across the loch. There are no tourists, -and few strangers, except the fishermen, who spend their days not -thinking of you or of the beauties of nature, tossed in heavy cobbles -upon the stormy loch, or wading up to their waist in ice-cold pools of -the river. The river dashes along its wild channel through the glen, -working through rocks, and leaping precipitous corners, shrouding -itself, like a coy girl, with the birchen tresses which stream over it, -till it comes to another loch—a big silvery clasp upon its foaming -chain. Among these woods and waters man is still enough; but Nature is -full of commotion. She sings about all the hillsides in a hundred burns, -with delicatest treble; she makes her own bass under the riven rocks, -among the foam of the greater streams; she mutters over your head with -deep, sonorous melancholy utterance in the great<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336"></a>{336}</span> pine-trees, and -twitters in the leaflets of the birch. Lovely birks!—sweetest of all -the trees of the mountains! Never were such haunts for fairies, or for -mountain girls as agile and as fair as those sweet birchen woods. ‘Stern -and wild,’ do you say? And surely we say it, for so Sir Walter said -before us. But what an exquisite idea was that of Nature—what a sweet, -fantastic conceit, just like her wayward wealth of resource, to clothe -the slopes of those rude hills with the Lady of the Woods! She must have -laughed with pleasure, like a child, but with tears of exquisite poet -satisfaction in her eyes, when she first saw the wonderful result. And -as for you poor people who have never seen Highland loch or river shine -through the airy foliage, the white-stemmed grace and lightness of a -birch-wood, we are sorry for you, but we will not insult your ignorance; -for, soft in your ear, the celebrated Mr. Cook, and all his satellites -who make up tours in the holiday season, have never, Heaven be praised! -heard of Loch Arroch; and long may it be before the British tourist -finds out that tranquil spot.</p> - -<p>I cannot tell how Mrs. Anderson and her daughter found it out. The last -Consul, it is true, had been from Perthshire, but that of itself gave -them little information. They had gone to Edinburgh first, and then, -feeling that scarcely sufficiently out of the way, had gone further -north, until at last Kinloch-Arroch received them; and they stayed -there, they could not tell why, partly because the people looked so -kind. The note which Kate received on her birthday had no date, and the -post-mark on it was of a distant place, that no distinct clue might be -given to their retreat; but Ombra always believed, though without the -slightest ground for it, that this note of her mother’s, like all her -other injudicious kindnesses to Kate, had done harm, and been the means -of betraying them. For it was true that they were now in a kind of -hiding, these two women, fearing to be recognised, not wishing to see -any one, for reasons which need not be dwelt upon here. They had left -Langton-Courtenay with a miserable sense of friendlessness and -loneliness, and yet it had been in some respects a relief to them to get -away; and the stillness of Loch Arroch, its absolute seclusion, and the -kind faces of the people they found there, all concurred in making them -decide upon this as their resting-place. They were to stay all the -summer, and already they were known to everybody round. Old Francesca -had already achieved a great <i>succès</i> in the Perthshire village. The -people declared that they understood her much better than if she had -been ‘ane o’ thae mincing English.’ She was supposed to be French, and -Scotland still remembers that France was once her auld and kind alley. -The women in their white mutches wondered a little, it is true, at the -little old Italian’s capless head, and knot of scanty hair; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337"></a>{337}</span> her -kind little brown face, and her clever rapid ways, took them by storm. -When she spoke Italian to her mistress they gathered round her in -admiration. ‘Losh! did you ever hear the like o’ that?’ they cried, with -hearty laughs, half restrained by politeness—though half of them spoke -Gaelic, and saw nothing wonderful in that achievement.</p> - -<p>Ombra, the discontented and unhappy, had never in her life before been -so gentle and so sweet. She was not happy still, but for the moment she -was penitent, and subdued and at peace, and the admiration and the -interest of their humble neighbours pleased her. Mrs. Anderson had given -a description of her daughter to the kind landlady of the little inn, -which did not tally with the circumstances which the reader knows; but -probably she had her own reasons for that, and the tale was such as -filled everybody with sympathy. ‘You maunna be doon-hearted, my bonnie -lamb,’ the old woman would say to her; and Ombra would blush with -painful emotion, and yet would be in her heart touched and consoled by -the homely sympathy. Ah! if those kind people had but known how much -harder her burden really was! But yet to know how kindly all these poor -stranger folk felt towards them was pleasant to the two women, and they -clung together closer than ever in the enforced quiet. They were very -anxious, restless, and miserable, and yet for a little while they were -as nearly happy as two women could be. This is a paradox which some -women will understand, but which I cannot pause to explain.</p> - -<p>Things were going on in this quiet way, and it was the end of May, a -season when as yet few even of the fishers who frequent that spot by -nature, and none of the wise wanderers who have discovered Loch Arroch -had begun to arrive, when one evening a very tall man, strong and heavy, -trudged round the corner into the village, with his knapsack over his -shoulders. He was walking through the Highlands alone at this early -period of the year. He put his knapsack down on the bench outside the -door, and came into the little hall, decorated with glazed cases, in -which stuffed trout of gigantic proportions still seemed to swim among -the green, green river weeds, to ask kind Mrs. Macdonald, the landlady, -if she could put him up. He was ‘a soft-spoken gentleman,’ courteous, -such as Highlanders love, and there was a look of sadness about him -which moved the mistress of the ‘Macdonald Arms.’ But all at once, while -he was talking to her, he started wildly, made a dart at the stair, -which Francesca at that moment was leisurely ascending, and upset, as he -passed, little Duncan, Mrs. Macdonald’s favourite grandchild.</p> - -<p>‘The man’s gane gyte!’ said the landlady.</p> - -<p>Francesca for her part took no notice of the stranger. If she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338"></a>{338}</span> saw him, -she either did not recognise him, or thought it expedient to ignore him. -She went on, carrying high in front of her a tray full of newly-ironed -fine linen, her own work, which she was carrying from the kitchen. The -stranger stood at the foot of the stairs and watched her, with his face -lifted to the light, which streamed from a long window opposite. There -was an expression in his countenance (Mrs. Macdonald said afterwards) -which was like a picture. He had found what he sought!</p> - -<p>‘That is old Francesca,’ he said, coming back to her, ‘Mrs. Anderson’s -maid. Then, of course, Mrs. Anderson is here.’</p> - -<p>‘Ou ay, sir, the leddies are here,’ said Mrs. Macdonald—‘maybe they are -expecting you? There was something said a while ago about a gentleman—a -brother, or some near friend to the young goodman.’</p> - -<p>‘The young goodman?’</p> - -<p>‘Ou ay, sir—him that’s in India, puir gentleman!—at sic a time, too, -when he would far rather be at hame. But ye’ll gang up the stair? -Kath’rin, take the gentleman up the stair—he’s come to visit the -leddies—and put him into No. 10 next door. Being so near the leddies, I -never put no man there that I dinna ken something aboot. You’ll find -Loch Arroch air, sir, has done the young mistress good.’</p> - -<p>The stranger followed upstairs, with a startled sense of other wonders -to come; and thus it happened that, without warning, Mr. Sugden suddenly -walked into the room where Ombra lay on a sofa by the fireside, with her -mother sitting by. Both the ladies started up in dismay. They were so -bewildered that neither could speak for a moment. The blood rushed to -Ombra’s face in an overpowering blush. He thought he had never seen her -look so beautiful, so strange—he did not know how; and her look of -bewildered inquiry and suspicion suddenly showed him what he had never -thought of till that moment—that he had no right to pry into their -privacy—to hunt her, as it were, into a corner—to pursue her here.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Sugden!’ Mrs. Anderson cried in dismay; and then she recovered her -prudence, and held out her hand to him, coming between him and Ombra. -‘What a very curious meeting this is!—what an unexpected pleasure! Of -all places in the world, to meet a Shanklin friend at Loch Arroch! -Ombra, do not disturb yourself, dear; we need not stand on ceremony with -such an old friend as Mr. Sugden. My poor child has a dreadful cold.’</p> - -<p>And then he took her hand into his own—Ombra’s hand—which he used to -sit and watch as she worked—the whitest, softest hand. It felt so small -now, like a shadow, and the flush, had gone from her face. He seemed to -see nothing but those eyes, watching him with fear and suspicion—eyes -which distrusted him, and reminded him that he had no business here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339"></a>{339}</span></p> - -<p>And he sat down by the sofa, and talked ordinary talk, and told them of -Shanklin, which he had left. He had been making a pedestrian tour in -Scotland. Yes, it was early, but he did not mind the weather, and the -time suited him. It was a surprise to him to see Francesca, but he had -heard that Mrs. Anderson had left Langton-Courtenay——</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she said, briefly, without explanation; and added—‘We were -travelling, like you, when Ombra fell in love with this place. You must -have seen it to perfection if you walked down the glen to-day—the -Glencoe Hills were glorious to-day. Which is your next stage? I am -afraid Mrs. Macdonald has scarcely room——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! yes, she has given me a room for to-night,’ he said; and he saw the -mother and daughter look at each other, and said to himself, in an agony -of humiliation, what a fool he had been—what an intrusive, impertinent -fool!</p> - -<p>When he took his leave, Mrs. Anderson went after him to the door; she -asked, with trepidation in her voice, how long he meant to stay. This -was too much for the poor fellow; he led the way along the passage to -the staircase window, lest Ombra should hear through the half-open door.</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Anderson,’ he said hoarsely, ‘once you promised me if she should -ever want a brother’s help or a brother’s care—not that it is what I -could have wished——’</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Sugden, this is ridiculous; I can take care of my own child. You -have no right to come and hunt us out, when you know—when you can see -that we wish—to be private.’ Then, with a sudden change, she -added—‘Oh, you are very good—I am sure you are very good, but she -wants for nothing. Dear Mr. Sugden, if you care for her or me, go away.</p> - -<p>‘I will go away to-morrow,’ he said, with a deep sigh of disappointment -and resignation.</p> - -<p>She looked out anxiously at the sky. It was clouding over; night was -coming on—there was no possibility of sending him away that night.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Sugden,’ she said, wringing her hands, ‘when a gentleman thrusts -himself into anyone’s secrets he is bound not to betray them. You will -hear news here, which I did not wish to be known at present—Ombra is -married.’</p> - -<p>‘Married!’ he said, with a groan, which he could not restrain.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, her husband is not able to be with her. We are waiting till he can -join us—till he can make it public. You have found this out against our -will; you must give me your word not to betray us.’</p> - -<p>‘Why should I betray you?’ he said; ‘to whom? I came, not knowing. Since -ever I knew her I have been her slave, you know. I will be so now. Is -she—happy, at least?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340"></a>{340}</span></p> - -<p>‘She is very happy,’ said Mrs. Anderson; and then her courage failed -her, and she cried. She did not burst into tears—such an expression -does not apply to women of her age. The tears which were, somehow, near -the surface, fell suddenly, leaving no traces. ‘Everything is not -so—comfortable as might be wished,’ she said, ‘but, so far as <i>that</i> -goes, she is happy.’</p> - -<p>‘May I come again?’ he said. His face had grown very long and pale; he -looked like a man who had just come back from a funeral. ‘Or would you -rather I went away at once?’</p> - -<p>She gave another look at the sky, which had cleared; night was more -distant than it had seemed ten minutes ago. And Mrs. Anderson did not -think that it was selfishness on her part to think of her daughter -first. She gave him her hand and pressed his, and said—</p> - -<p>‘You are the kindest, the best friend. Oh, for her sake, go!’</p> - -<p>And he went away with a heavy heart, striding over the dark unknown -hills. It was long past midnight before he got shelter—but what did -that matter? He would have done much more joyfully for her sake. But his -last hope seemed gone as he went along that mountain way. He had hoped -always to serve her sometime or other, and now he could serve her no -more!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341"></a>{341}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXIII" id="CHAPTER_LXIII"></a>CHAPTER LXIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">This</span> was the reason why Kate heard no more from Mr. Sugden. He knew, and -yet he did not know. That which had been told him was very different -from what he had expected to hear. He had gone to seek a deserted -maiden, and he had found a wife. He had gone with some wild hope of -being able to interpose on her behalf, ‘as her brother would have done,’ -and bring her false lover back to her—when, lo! he found that he was -intruding upon sacred domestic ground, upon the retreat of a wife whose -husband was somewhere ready, no doubt, to defend her from all intrusion. -This confounded him for the first moment. He went away, as we have said, -without a word, asking no explanation. What right had he to any -explanation? Probably Ombra herself, had she known what his mission and -what his thoughts were, would have been furious at the impertinence. But -her mother judged him more gently, and he, poor fellow, knew in his own -soul how different his motives were from those of intrusion or -impertinence.</p> - -<p>When he came to the homely, lonely little house, where he found shelter -in the midst of the night, he stopped there in utter languor, still -confused by his discovery and his failure. But when he came to himself -he was not satisfied. Next day, in the silence and loneliness of the -mountains, he mused and pondered on this subject, which was never absent -from his mind ten minutes together. He walked on and on upon the road he -had traversed in the dark the night before, till he came to the point -where it commanded the glen below, and where the descent to Loch Arroch -began. He saw at his feet the silvery water gleaming, the loch, the far -lines of the withdrawing village roofs, and that one under which she -was. At the sight the Curate’s mournful heart yearned over the woman he -loved. Why was she there alone, with only her mother, and she a wife? -What was there that was not ‘exactly comfortable,’ as Mrs. Anderson had -said?</p> - -<p>The result of his musing was that he stayed in the little mountain -change-house for some time. There was a desolate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342"></a>{342}</span> little loch near, -lying, as in a nook, up at the foot of great Schehallion. And there he -pretended to fish, and in the intervals of his sport, which was dreary -enough, took long walks about the country, and, without being seen by -them, found out a great deal about the two ladies. They were alone. The -young lady’s husband was said to be ‘in foreign pairts.’ The good people -had not heard what he was, but that business detained him somewhere, -though it was hoped he would be back before the Autumn. ‘And I wish he -may, for yon bonnie young creature’s sake!’ the friendly wife added, who -told him this tale.</p> - -<p>The name they told him she was called by was not a name he knew, which -perplexed him. But when he remembered his own observations, and Kate’s -story, he could not believe that any other lover could have come in. -When Mr. Sugden had fully satisfied himself, and discovered all that was -discoverable, he went back to England with the heat of a sudden purpose. -He went to London, and he sought out Bertie Hardwick’s rooms. Bertie -himself was whistling audibly as Mr. Sugden knocked at his door. He was -packing his portmanteau, and stopped now and then to utter a mild oath -over the things which would not pack in as they ought. He was going on a -journey. Perhaps to her, Mr. Sugden thought; and, as he heard his -whistle, and saw his levity, his blood boiled in his veins.</p> - -<p>‘What, Sugden!’ cried Bertie. ‘Come in, old fellow, I am glad to see -you. Why, you’ve been and left Shanklin! What did you do that for? The -old place will not look like itself without you.’</p> - -<p>‘There are other vacant places that will be felt more than mine,’ said -the Curate, in a funereal voice, putting himself sadly on the nearest -chair.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! the ladies at the Cottage! To be sure, you are quite right. They -must be a dreadful loss,’ said Bertie.</p> - -<p>Mr. Sugden felt that he flushed and faltered, and these signs of guilt -made it doubly clear.</p> - -<p>‘It is odd enough,’ he said, with double meaning, ‘that we should talk -of that, for I have just come from Scotland, from the Highlands, where, -of all people in the world, I met suddenly with Miss Anderson and her -mother.’</p> - -<p>Bertie faced round upon him in the middle of his packing, which he had -resumed, and said, ‘Well!’ in a querulous voice—a voice which already -sounded like that of a man put on his defence.</p> - -<p>‘Well!’ said the Curate—‘I don’t think it is well. She is not Miss -Anderson now. But I see you know that. Mr. Hardwick, if you know -anything of her husband, I think you should urge him not to leave her -alone there. She looks—not very well. Poor Ombra!’ cried the Curate, -warming into eloquence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343"></a>{343}</span> ‘I have no right to call her by her name, but -that I—I was fond of her too. I would have given my life for her! And -she is like her name—she is like a shadow, that is ready to flit away.’</p> - -<p>Bertie Hardwick listened with an agitated countenance—he grew red and -pale, and began to pace about the room; but he made no answer—he was -confused and startled by what his visitor said.</p> - -<p>‘I daresay my confession does not interest you much,’ Mr. Sugden -resumed. ‘I make it to show I have some right—to take an interest, at -least. That woman for whom I would give my life, Mr. Hardwick, is pining -there for a man who leaves her to pine—a man who must be neglecting her -shamefully, for it cannot be long since he married her—a man who——’</p> - -<p>‘And pray, Mr. Sugden,’ said Bertie, choking with apparent anger and -agitation, ‘where did you obtain your knowledge of this man?’</p> - -<p>‘Not from her,’ said the Curate; ‘but by chance—by the inquiries I made -in my surprise. Mr. Hardwick, if you know who it is who is so happy, and -so negligent of his happiness——’</p> - -<p>‘Well?’</p> - -<p>‘He has no right to stay away from her after this warning,’ cried the -Curate, rising to his feet. ‘Do you understand what a thing it is for me -to come and say so?—to one who is throwing away what I would give my -life for? But she is above all. If he stays away from her, he will -reproach himself for it all his life!’</p> - -<p>And with these words he turned to go. He had said enough—his own eyes -were beginning to burn and blaze. He felt that he might seize this false -lover by the throat if he stayed longer. And he had at least done all he -could for Ombra. He had said enough to move any man who was a man. He -made a stride towards the door in his indignation; but Bertie Hardwick -interrupted him, with his hand on his arm.</p> - -<p>‘Sugden,’ he said, with a voice full of emotion, ‘I am not so bad as you -think me; but I am not so good as you are. The man you speak of shall -hear your warning. But there is one thing I have a right to ask. What -you learnt by chance, you will not make any use of—not to her cousin, -for instance, who knows nothing. You will respect her secret there?’</p> - -<p>‘I do not know that I ought to do so, but I promised her mother,’ said -the Curate, sternly. ‘Good morning, Mr. Hardwick. I hope you will act at -once on what you have heard.’</p> - -<p>‘Won’t you shake hands?’ said Bertie.</p> - -<p>The Curate was deeply prejudiced against him—hated him in his levity -and carelessness, amusing himself while she was suffering. But when he -looked into Bertie’s face, his enmity melted. Was this the man who had -done her—and him—so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344"></a>{344}</span> much wrong? He put out his hand with reluctance, -moved against his will.</p> - -<p>‘Do you deserve it?’ he said, in his deep voice.</p> - -<p>‘Yes—so far as honesty goes,’ said the young man, with a broken, -agitated laugh.</p> - -<p>The Curate went away, wondering and unhappy. Was he so guilty, that -open-faced youth, who seemed yet too near boyhood to be an accomplished -deceiver?—or was there still more in the mystery than met the eye?</p> - -<p>This was how Kate got no news. She looked for it for many a day. As the -Summer ripened and went on, a hungry thirst for information of one kind -or another possessed her. Her aunt’s birthday letter had been a few -tender words only—words which were humble, too, and sad. ‘Poor Ombra,’ -she had said, ‘was pretty well.’ Poor Ombra!—why <i>poor</i> Ombra? Kate -asked herself the question with sudden fits of anxiety, which she could -not explain to herself; and she began to watch for the post with almost -feverish eagerness. But the suspense lasted so long, that the keenness -of the edge wore off again, and no news ever came.</p> - -<p>In July, however, Lady Caryisfort came, having lingered on her way from -Italy till it became too late to keep the engagement she had made with -Mr. Courtenay for Kate’s first season in town. She was so kind as to go -to Langton-Courtenay instead, on what she called a long visit.</p> - -<p>‘Your uncle has to find out, like other people, that he will only find -aid ready made to his hand when he doesn’t want it,’ she said—‘that is -the moment when everything becomes easy. I might have been of use to -him, I know, two months ago, and accordingly my private affairs detained -me, and it is only now, you see, that I am here.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t see why you should have hurried for my uncle,’ said Kate; ‘he -has never come to see me, though he has promised twenty times. But you -are welcome always, whenever you please.’</p> - -<p>‘Thanks, dear,’ said Lady Caryisfort, who was languid after her journey. -‘He will come now, when you don’t want him. And so the aunt and the -cousin are gone, Kate? You must tell me why. I heard, after you left -Florence, that Miss Anderson had flirted abominably with both these -young men—behind your back, my poor darling, when you were with me, I -suppose; though I always thought that young Eldridge would have suited -you precisely—two nice properties, nice families—everything that was -nice. But an ideal match like that never comes to pass. They tell me she -was called <i>la demoiselle à deux cavaliers</i>. Don’t look shocked. Of -course, it could only be a flirtation; there could be nothing wrong in -it. But, you dear little innocent, is this all new to you?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345"></a>{345}</span></p> - -<p>‘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—’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘Of you!’ Kate’s consternation was extreme.</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘And are you?’ she asked, in a low tone, after that pause.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘But I don’t want to be married,’ cried Kate.</p> - -<p>‘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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346"></a>{346}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXIV" id="CHAPTER_LXIV"></a>CHAPTER LXIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">All</span> that 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.</p> - -<p>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 Bertie<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347"></a>{347}</span> Eldridge’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?’</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348"></a>{348}</span> had 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.</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>To Kate there was little pleasure in this speech; but she swallowed it, -as she had learned to swallow a great many things.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Sugden! When did you come? I never saw you. Have you dropped -through from the skies?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349"></a>{349}</span></p> - -<p>‘I ought to apologise,’ said the Curate, growing red.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, never mind apologising! I know you have something to tell me!’ -cried Kate.</p> - -<p>‘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——’</p> - -<p>‘I am so sorry for you!’ cried Kate impulsively, holding out her hand to -him once more.</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>‘Your cousin—is married,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘Kate!’ said some one behind her—‘Kate!’</p> - -<p>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 got<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350"></a>{350}</span> in 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.</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘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?’</p> - -<p>Kate held it out to her without a word. The message it contained was -this: “<i>Sir Herbert Eldridge died here last night</i>.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>‘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!’</p> - -<p>‘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?’</p> - -<p>She looked up and looked round for the Curate. He was gone. She gazed -all round her in consternation.</p> - -<p>‘Where is he?’ she cried.</p> - -<p>‘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?’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘What was he telling you—you must know that at least?’</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>’“Sir Robert Eldridge died last night.” What is that to me! What have I -to do with it?’ she said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351"></a>{351}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXV" id="CHAPTER_LXV"></a>CHAPTER LXV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> reason 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.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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 brilliant <i>début</i> which 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.</p> - -<p>‘He is an old friend, from where we lived in the Isle of Wight,’ the -girl explained.</p> - -<p>‘But old friends from the Isle of Wight don’t turn up everywhere like -this. Did he come about Sir Herbert Eldridge?’</p> - -<p>‘He knows nothing about Sir Herbert Eldridge. He came to tell me -about—my cousin.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! your cousin! <i>La demoiselle aux deux chevaliers</i>,’ said Lady -Caryisfort. ‘And did he bring you news of her?’</p> - -<p>‘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 all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352"></a>{352}</span> before, but he was not aware of that. He -meant it very kindly.’</p> - -<p>‘Did he come on purpose, dear?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I suppose so, the good fellow,’ said Kate, gracefully.</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>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—<i>that</i> she 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.</p> - -<p>Unconnected with this, but still somehow connected with it, was the -extraordinary message she had received. On examining<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353"></a>{353}</span> it 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.</p> - -<p>‘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?’</p> - -<p>‘Were you very fond of your uncle, Minnie?’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354"></a>{354}</span> 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!’</p> - -<p>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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘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 Kate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355"></a>{355}</span> of Bertie -Eldridge, who had always been her favourite of the two cousins.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Bertie Hardwick is not going into the Church; he is reading for the -bar,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356"></a>{356}</span> 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?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357"></a>{357}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXVI" id="CHAPTER_LXVI"></a>CHAPTER LXVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> is 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.</p> - -<p>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 more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358"></a>{358}</span> -difficult 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘Lady Caryisfort,’ said Kate, faltering, ‘I wonder if I might tell you -something which I have very much at heart?’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘You have something on your mind too!’ cried Kate, clasping her hands.</p> - -<p>‘Naturally—a great deal more than you can possibly have,’ said her -friend, laughing. ‘But, come, Kate, you have the <i>pas</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359"></a>{359}</span> Proceed—your -secret has the right of priority; and then I will tell you -mine—perhaps—if it is not too great a bore.’</p> - -<p>‘Mine is not about myself,’ said Kate. ‘If it had been about myself, I -should have told you long ago—it is about—Ombra.’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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!’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>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——</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360"></a>{360}</span></p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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!——</p> - -<p>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 not <i>him</i>, who has brought you here?’</p> - -<p>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?’</p> - -<p>No one but Ombra ever knew that Kate would have fallen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361"></a>{361}</span> but 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.</p> - -<p>‘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?’</p> - -<p>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?</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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?’</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘But, Kate, come to your room,’ said Ombra, ‘where <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362"></a>{362}</span>mamma is waiting; -and one secret more——’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXVII" id="CHAPTER_LXVII"></a>CHAPTER LXVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Anderson</span> was 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 take <i>this</i>, 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!’</p> - -<p>‘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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363"></a>{363}</span> The -poor mother had not acknowledged it to herself but she wanted those arms -round her—she wanted her other child.</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ she said, but in a whisper, ‘my darling! I can never, never tell -you how I have wanted you!’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, my lady,’ cried Maryanne, full of awe.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘Look at him, Kate!—look at him! Mamma will keep—you can have her -afterwards. Look at my boy!’</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364"></a>{364}</span> seen 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>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 remembering<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365"></a>{365}</span> that 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.</p> - -<p>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 him <i>now</i>.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘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!’</p> - -<p>Mr. Courtenay shrugged his shoulders, and made a grimace.</p> - -<p>‘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 she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366"></a>{366}</span> ought 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘An apology!—to me!’</p> - -<p>‘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——’</p> - -<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_367" id="page_367"></a>{367}</span></p> - -<p>‘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!’</p> - -<p>‘And was that all?’ he said. ‘Was it only the concealment you thought me -incapable of?’</p> - -<p>‘The concealment was the only thing wicked about it, I suppose,’ said -Kate, ‘now that it has turned out all right.’</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘Nay,’ he said, almost sharply, ‘there was more than that. You knew I -did not love Ombra—you knew she was nothing to me.’</p> - -<p>‘I did not—know—anything about it,’ faltered Kate.</p> - -<p>‘How can you say so? Do you mean that you have ever doubted for a -moment—that you have not <i>known</i>—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.’</p> - -<p>‘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?’</p> - -<p>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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_368" id="page_368"></a>{368}</span></p> - -<p>‘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.</p> - -<p>‘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——’</p> - -<p>‘What would you do?’ said Kate, softly, ‘if you saw the same sight again -now?’</p> - -<p>‘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.’</p> - -<p>‘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——’</p> - -<p>‘What then?—what then, Kate?’</p> - -<p>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.’</p> - -<p>‘Kate, my darling, are you mad?—are you out of your senses?’</p> - -<p>‘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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_369" id="page_369"></a>{369}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_LXVIII" id="CHAPTER_LXVIII"></a>CHAPTER LXVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> is 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?</p> - -<p>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 John<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_370" id="page_370"></a>{370}</span> -drew 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>‘Is it for this I have watched over you so carefully?’ he cried, half -frantic.</p> - -<p>‘Have you watched over me, so carefully?’ said Kate, looking at him with -her bright eyes.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_371" id="page_371"></a>{371}</span> 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p>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 home<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_372" id="page_372"></a>{372}</span> gradually 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.</p> - -<p>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.</p> - -<p class="c">W. H. Smith & Son, Printers, London, W.C.</p> - -<div class="footnotes"><p class="cb">FOOTNOTE:</p> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> Ice.</p></div> - -</div> -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ombra, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OMBRA *** - -***** This file should be named 53583-h.htm or 53583-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/5/8/53583/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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