Ombra

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.