Маргарет Олифант
Ombra
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?
