Kate’s life seemed to stop at this point. For a few days she did not
know what she did. She would have liked to give in, and be ill, but
dared not, lest her aunt (who did not love her) should be compromised.
Therefore she kept up, and walked and went to the parish and chattered
with Minnie Hardwick, and even tried her German, though this latter
attempt was not very successful.
‘My aunt was called away suddenly on business,’ she explained to Mrs.
Hardwick.
‘What! and left you alone--quite alone in that great house?’ cried Mrs.
Hardwick. ‘It is not possible! How lonely for you! But I suppose she
will only be gone for a few days?’
‘I scarcely know. It is business that has taken her away, and nobody can
answer for business,’ said Kate, with an attempt at a laugh. ‘But the
servants are very good, and I shall do very well. I am not afraid of
being alone.’
‘Not afraid, I daresay, but dreadfully solitary. It ought not to be,’
said Mrs. Hardwick, in a tone of reproof. And the thought passed through
her mind that she had never quite approved of Mrs. Anderson, who seemed
to know much more of Bertie than was at all desirable, and, no doubt,
had attempted to secure him for that pale girl of hers. ‘Though what any
gentleman could see in her, or how anyone could so much as look at her
while Kate Courtenay was by, I don’t understand,’ she said, after
discussing the question in private.
‘Oh, mamma! I think she is so sweet and pretty,’ said Edith. ‘But I am
sure Bertie does not like her. Bertie avoided her--he was scarcely
civil. I am sure if there is anyone that Bertie admires it is Kate.’
Mrs. Hardwick shook her head.
‘Bertie knows very well,’ she said, ‘that Miss Courtenay is out of his
reach--delightful as she is, and everything we could desire--except that
she is rather too rich; but that is no reason why he should go and throw
himself away on some girl without a penny. I don’t put any faith in his
avoiding Miss Anderson. When a young man _avoids_ a young woman it is
much the same as when he seeks her society. But, Minnie, run away and
look after your club books; you are too young yet to hear such matters
discussed.’
‘Edith is only a year older than I am,’ said Minnie, within herself,
‘but then she is almost a married lady.’ And with this she comforted her
heart, which was not without its private flutters too.
And Kate kept on her way, very bravely holding up her little flag of
resolution. She sat in the room which they had all occupied together,
and had coals heaped upon the two fires, and could not get warm. The
silence of the place made her sick and faint. She got up and walked
about, in the hope of hearing at least her own step, and could not on
the soft carpet. When she coughed, it seemed to ring all through the
house. She got frightened when she caught a glimpse of herself in the
great mirror, and thought it was a ghost. She sent to Westerton for all
the novels that were to be had, and these were a help to her; but still,
to sit in a quiet room, with yourself now and then seen passing through
the glass like a thief, and nothing audible but the ashes falling from
the grate, is a terrible experience for a girl. She heard herself
breathing; she heard her cough echo down all the long galleries. She had
her stable dog washed and brushed, and made fit for good society, in the
hope that he would take to the drawing-room, and live with her, and give
her some one to speak to. But, after all, he preferred the stables,
being only a mongrel, without birth or breeding. This rather overcame
Kate’s bravery; but only once did she thoroughly break down. It was the
day after her aunt left, and, with a sudden recollection of
companionship and solace still remaining, she had said to Maryanne, ‘Go
and call old Francesca.’ ‘Francesca, miss!--oh! bless you, she’s gone
with her lady,’ said Maryanne; and Kate, who had not expected this,
broke down all at once, and had a fit of crying.
‘Never mind--it is nothing. I thought they meant to leave Francesca,’
she said, incoherently. Thus it became evident to her that they were
gone, and gone for ever. And Kate went back to her melancholy solitude,
and took up her novel; but when she had read the first page, she
stopped, and began to think. She had done no wrong to anyone. If there
was wrong, it had been done to her. She had tried even to resist all
feelings of resentment, and to look as if she had forgotten the wrong
done her. Yet it was she who was being punished, as if she were the
criminal. Nobody anywhere, whatever harm they might have done, had been
punished so sorely. Solitary confinement!--was not that the worst of
all--the thing that drives people mad?
Then Mr. Courtenay wrote in a state of great fret and annoyance. What
did Mrs. Anderson mean by leaving him in the lurch just then, she and
her daughter? She had not even given him an address, that he might write
to her and remonstrate (he had intended to supersede her in Spring, to
be sure, but he did not think it necessary to mention that); and here he
was in town, shut up with a threatening of bronchitis, and it was as
much as his life was worth to travel now. Couldn’t she get some one to
stay with her, or get along somehow until Lady Caryisfort came home?
Kate wrote him a brave little letter, saying that of course she could
get on--that he need not be at all troubled about her--that she was
quite happy, and should prefer being left as she was. When she had
written it, she lay down on the rug before the fire, and had a cry, and
then came to herself, and sent to ask if Minnie Hardwick might spend the
evening with her. Minnie’s report brought her mother up next morning,
who found that Kate had a bad cold, and sent for the doctor, and kept
her in bed; and all the fuss of this little illness--though Kate
believed she hated fuss--did her good. Her own room was pleasanter than
the drawing-room. It was natural to be alone there; and as she lay on
the sofa, and was read to by Minnie, there seemed at times a possibility
that life might mend. And next day and the next, though she recovered,
this companionship went on. Minnie was not very wise, but she chattered
about everything in heaven and earth. She talked of her brother--a
subject in which Kate could not help taking an interest, which was half
anger, half something else. She asked a hundred questions about
Florence--
‘Did you really see a great deal of Bertie? How funny that he should not
have told us! Men are so odd!’ cried Minnie. ‘If it had been I, I should
have raved about you for ever and ever!’
‘Because you are silly and--warm-hearted,’ said Kate, with a sigh. ‘Yes,
I think we saw them pretty often.’
‘Why do you say _them_?’
‘Why?--because the two were always together! We never expected to see
one without the other.’
‘Like your cousin and you,’ said innocent Minnie. And then she laughed.
‘Why do you laugh?’ said Kate.
‘Oh! nothing--an idea that came into my head. I have heard of two
sisters marrying two brothers, but never of two pair of cousins--it
would be funny.’
‘But altogether out of the question, as it happens,’ said Kate, growing
stately all at once.
‘Oh! don’t be angry. I did not mean anything. Was Bertie very attentive
to Miss Anderson in Florence? We wonder sometimes. For I am sure he
avoided her here; and mamma says she puts no faith in a gentleman
avoiding a lady. It is as bad as--what do _you_ think?--unless you would
rather not say,’ added Minnie, shyly; ‘or if you think I oughtn’t to
ask----’
‘I don’t know anything about Mr. Bertie Hardwick’s feelings,’ said Kate.
And then she added, with a little sadness which she could not quite
conceal, ‘Nor about anybody, Minnie. Don’t ask me, please. I am not
clever enough to find things out; and nobody ever confides in me.’
‘I am sure I should confide in you first of all!’ cried Minnie, with
enthusiasm. ‘Oh! when I recollect how much we used to be frightened for
you, and what a funny girl we thought you; and then to think I should
know you so well now, and have got so--fond of you--may I say so?’ said
the little girl, who was proud of her post.
Kate made no answer for a full minute, and then she said,
‘Minnie, you are younger than I am, a great deal younger----’
‘I am eighteen,’ said Minnie, mortified.
‘But I am nineteen and a half, and very, very old for my age. At your
age one does not know which is the real thing and which is the
shadow--there are so many shadows in this world; and sometimes you take
them for truth, and when you find it out it is hard.’
Minnie followed this dark saying with a puzzled little face.
‘Yes,’ she said, perplexed, ‘like Narcissus, you mean, and the dog that
dropped the bone. No, I don’t mean that--that is too--too--common-place.
Oh! did you ever see Bertie Eldridge’s yacht? I think I heard he had it
at the Isle of Wight. It was called the _Shadow_. Oh! I would give
anything to have a sail in a yacht!’
Ah! that was called the _Shadow_ too. Kate felt for a moment as if she
had found something out; but it was a delusion, an idea which she could
not identify--a Will-o’-the-Wisp, which looked like something, and was
nothing. ‘I have a shadow too,’ she murmured, half to herself. But
before Minnie’s wondering eyes and tongue could ask what it meant,
Spigot came solemnly to the door. He had to peer into the darkness to
see his young mistress on the sofa.
‘If you please, Miss Courtenay,’ he said, ‘there is a gentleman
downstairs wishes to see you; and he won’t take no answer as I can
offer. He says if you hear his name----’
‘What is his name?’ cried Kate. She did not know what she expected, but
it made her heart beat. She sat up, on her sofa, throwing off her wraps,
notwithstanding Minnie’s remonstrances. Who could it be?--or rather,
what?
‘The Reverend Mr. Sugden, Miss,’ said Mr. Spigot.
‘Mr. Sugden!’ She said the name two or three times over before she could
remember. Then she rose, and directed Spigot to light the candles. She
did not know how it was, but new vigour somehow seemed to come into her
veins.
‘Minnie,’ she said, ‘this is a gentleman who knows my aunt. He has come,
I suppose, about her business. I want you to stay just now; but if I put
up my hand so, will you run upstairs and wait for me in my room? Take
the book. You will be a true little friend if you will do this.’
‘Leave you alone!--with a gentleman!’ said Minnie. ‘But then of course
he must be an old gentleman, as he has come about business,’ she said to
herself; and added hastily, ‘Of course I will. And if you don’t put up
your hand--so--must I stay?’
‘I am sure to put it up,’ said Kate.
The room by this time was light and bright, and Spigot’s solemn step was
heard once more approaching. Kate placed herself in a large chair. She
looked as imposing and dignified as she could, poor child!--the solitary
mistress of her own house. But how strange it was to see the tall figure
come in--the watchful, wistful face she remembered so well! He held out
his large hand, in which her little one was drowned, just as he used to
do. He glanced round him in the same way, as if Ombra might be somewhere
about in the corners. His Shadow too! Kate could not doubt that. But
when she gave Minnie her instructions, she had taken it for granted
that there would have been certain preliminaries to the
conversation--inquiries about herself, or information about what she was
doing. But Mr. Sugden was full of excitement and anxiety. He took her
small hand into his big one, which swallowed it up, as we have said, and
he held it, as some men hold a button.
‘I hear they have left you,’ he said. ‘Tell me, is it true?’
‘Yes,’ said Kate, too much startled to give her signal, ‘they have left
me.’
‘And you don’t know where they have gone?’
She remembered now, and Minnie disappeared, curious beyond all
description. Then Kate withdrew her hand from that mighty grasp.
‘I don’t know where they have gone. Have you heard anything of them, Mr.
Sugden? Have you brought me, perhaps, a message?’
He shook his head.
‘I heard it all vaguely, only vaguely; but you know how I used to feel,
Miss Kate. I feel the same still. Though it is not what I should have
wished--I am ready to be a brother to her. Will you tell me all that has
passed since you went away?’
‘All that has passed?’
‘If you will, Miss Kate--as you would be kind to one who does not care
very much what happens to him! You are kind, I know--and you love her!’
The tears came to Kate’s eyes. She grew warm and red all over, throwing
off, as it were, in a moment, the palsy of cold and misery that had come
over her.
‘Yes,’ she said suddenly, ‘I love her,’ and cried. Mr. Sugden looked on,
not knowing why.
Kate felt herself changed as in a moment; she felt--nay, she was herself
again. What did it matter whether they loved her?--she loved them. That
was, after all, what she had most to do with. She dried her tears, and
she told her story, straight off, like a tale she had been taught,
missing nothing. And he drank it all in to the end, not missing a word.
When she had finished he sat silent, with a sombre countenance, and not
a syllable was spoken between them for ten minutes at least. Then he
said aloud, as if not talking, but thinking,
‘The question is which?’ Then he raised his eyes and looked at her.
‘Which?’ he repeated.
Kate grew pale again, and felt a choking in her throat. She bowed her
head, as if she were accepting her fate.
‘Mr. Bertie Hardwick!’ she said.