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?