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.