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.