All that Summer Mr. Sugden wandered about the world like a soul in pain.
He went everywhere, unable to settle in one place. Some obliging friend
had died, and left him a little money, and this was how he disposed of
it. His people at home disapproved much. They thought he ought to have
been happy in the other curacy which they had found him quite close to
his own parish, and should have invested his legacy, and perhaps looked
out for some nice girl with money, and married as soon as a handy living
fell vacant. This routine, however, did not commend itself to his mind.
He tore himself away from mothers’-meetings, and clothing-clubs, and
daily services; he went wandering, dissatisfied and unhappy, through the
world. He had been crossed in love. It is a thing people do not own to
readily, but still it is nothing to be ashamed of. And not only was it
the restlessness of unhappiness that moved him; a lingering hope was yet
in his mind that he might be of use to Ombra still. He went over the
route which the party had taken only a year before; he went to the Swiss
village where they had passed so long, and was easily able to glean some
information about the English ladies, and the one who was fond of the
Church. He went there after her, and knelt upon the white flags and
wondered what she had been thinking of, and prayed for her with his face
towards Madonna on the altar, with her gilt crown, and all her tall
artificial lilies.
Poor honest, broken-hearted lover! If she had been happy he would have
been half cured by this time; but she was not happy--or, at least, he
thought so, and his heart burned over her with regretful love and
anguish. Oh, if Providence had but given her to him, though unworthy,
how he would have shielded and kept her from all evil! He wandered on to
Florence, where he stayed for some time, with the same vain
idol-worship. He remained until the Autumn flood of tourists began to
arrive, and the English Church was opened. And it was here he acquired
the information which changed all his plans. The same young clergyman
who was a friend of Bertie Eldridge’s, and had known the party in
Florence, returned again that Winter, and officiated once more in the
Conventicle of the English visitors. And Mr. Sugden had known him, too,
at school or college; the two young clergymen grew intimate, and, one
day, all at once, without warning, the Curate had a secret confided to
him, which thrilled him through and through from head to heel. His
friend told him of all the importunities he had been subjected to, to
induce him to celebrate a marriage, and how he had consented, and how
his conscience had been uneasy ever since. ‘Was I wrong?’ he asked his
friend. ‘The young lady’s mother was there and consenting, and the
man--you know him--was of full age, and able to judge for himself; the
only thing was the secrecy--do you think I was wrong?’
Mr. Sugden gave no answer. He scarcely heard the words that were
addressed to him; a revolution had taken place in all his ideas. He had
not spent more than half his legacy, and he had half the Winter before
him, yet immediately he made up his mind to go home.
Two days after he started, and in a week was making his way down to
Langton-Courtenay, for no very intelligible reason. What his plea would
have been, had he been forced to give it, we cannot tell, but he did not
explain himself even to himself; he had a vague feeling that something
new had come into the story, and that Kate ought to be informed--an idea
quite vague, but obstinate. He went down, as he had gone before, to
Westerton, and there engaged a fly to take him to Langton. But, when he
arrived, he was startled to find the house lighted up, and all the
appearance of company. He did not know what to do. There was a
dinner-party, he was told, and he felt that he and his news, such as
they were, could not be obtruded into the midst of it. He was possessed
by his mission as by incipient madness. It seemed to him like a divine
message, which he was bound to deliver. He went back to the little inn
in the village, and dressed himself in evening clothes--for he had
brought his portmanteau on with him all the way, not having wits enough
left to leave it behind. And when it was late, he walked up the long
avenue to the Hall. He knew Kate well enough, he thought, to take so
much liberty with her--and then his news! What was it that made his news
seem so important to him? He could not tell.
Mr. Courtenay was at Langton, and so was Lady Caryisfort. The lady, who
should have been mentioned first, had stayed with Kate for a fortnight
on her first visit, and then, leaving her alone all the Summer, had gone
off upon other visits, promising a return in Autumn. It was October now,
and Mr. Courtenay too had at last found it convenient to pay his niece a
visit. He had brought with him some people for the shooting, men,
chiefly, of respectable age, with wives and daughters. The party was
highly respectable, but not very amusing, and, indeed, Lady Caryisfort
found it tedious; but such as it was, it was the first party of guests
which had ever been gathered under Kate’s roof, and she was excited and
anxious that everything should go off well. In six months more she would
be her own mistress, and the undue delays which had taken place in her
life were then to be all remedied.
‘You ought to have been introduced to the world at least two years ago,’
said Lady Caryisfort. ‘But never mind, my dear; it does not matter for
you, and next season will make up for everything. You have the bloom of
sixteen still, and you have Langton-Courtenay,’ the lady added, kissing
her.
To Kate there was little pleasure in this speech; but she swallowed it,
as she had learned to swallow a great many things.
‘I have Langton-Courtenay,’ she said to herself, with a smile of bitter
indignation--‘that makes up for everything. That I have nobody who cares
for me does not matter in comparison.’
But yet she was excited about her first party, and hoped with all her
heart it would go off well. There were several girls beside herself; but
there were only two young men--one a wealthy and formal young
diplomatist, the other a penniless cousin of Lady Caryisfort’s--‘too
penniless and too foolish even to try for an heiress,’ she had assured
Mr. Courtenay. The rest were old bachelors--Mr. Courtenay’s own
contemporaries, or the respectable married men above described. A most
safe party to surround an heiress, and not amusing, but still, as the
first means of exercising her hospitality in her own house, exciting to
Kate.
The dinner had gone off well enough. It was a good dinner, and even
Uncle Courtenay had been tolerably satisfied. The only thing that had
happened to discompose Kate was that she had seen Lady Caryisfort yawn
twice. But that was a thing scarcely to be guarded against. When the
ladies got back to the drawing-room she felt that the worst of her
labours were over, and that she might rest; but her surprise was great
when, half an hour later, she suddenly saw Mr. Sugden standing in a
corner behind her. He had come there as if by magic--like a ghost
starting up out of nothing. Kate rose to her feet suddenly with a little
cry, and went to him. What a good thing that it was a dull, steady-going
party, not curious, as livelier society is! She went up to him
hurriedly, holding out her hand.
‘Mr. Sugden! When did you come? I never saw you. Have you dropped
through from the skies?’
‘I ought to apologise,’ said the Curate, growing red.
‘Oh, never mind apologising! I know you have something to tell me!’
cried Kate.
‘But how can I tell you here? Yes, it is something--not bad news--oh,
not bad news--don’t think so. I came off at once without thinking. A
letter might have done as well; but I get confused, and don’t think till
too late----’
‘I am so sorry for you!’ cried Kate impulsively, holding out her hand to
him once more.
He took it, and then he dropped it, poor fellow! not knowing what else
to do. Kate’s hand was nothing to him, nor any woman’s, except the one
which was given into another man’s keeping. He was still dazed with his
journey, and all that had happened. His theory was that, as he had found
it out another way, he was clear of his promise to Mrs. Anderson; and
then he had to set a mistake right. How could he tell what harm that
mistake might do?
‘Your cousin--is married,’ he said.
‘Married!’ cried Kate. A slight shiver ran over her, a thrill that went
through her frame, and then died out, and left her quite steady and
calm. But, somehow, in that moment her colour, the bloom of sixteen, as
Lady Caryisfort called it, died away from her cheek. She stood with her
hands clasped, and her face raised, looking up to him. Of course it was
only what she felt must happen some day; she said to herself that she
had known it. There was nothing to be surprised about.
‘She was married last year, in Florence,’ the Curate resumed. And then
the thrill came back again, and so strongly that Kate shook as if with
cold. In a moment there rose up before her the group which she had met
at the doorway on the Lung-Arno, the group which moved so quickly, and
kept so close together, Ombra leaning on her husband’s arm. Yes, how
blind she had been! That was the explanation--at a glance she saw it
all. Oh! heaven and earth, how the universe reeled under her! He had
looked at herself, spoken to her, touched her hand as only he had ever
touched, and looked, and spoken--after that! The blood ebbed away from
Kate’s heart; but though the world spun and swam so in the uncertainty
of space, that she feared every moment to fall, or rather to be dashed
down by its swaying, she kept standing, to all appearance immovable,
before the tall Curate, with her hands clasped, and a smile upon her
pale face.
‘Kate!’ said some one behind her--‘Kate!’
She turned round. It was Lady Caryisfort who had called her. And what
was there more to be told? Now she knew all. Spigot was standing behind
her, with a yellow envelope upon a silver tray. A telegram--the first
one she had ever got in her life! No civility could hesitate before
such a letter as that. But for the news which she had just heard she
would have been frightened; but that preparation had steeled her. She
tore it open and read it eagerly. Then she raised a bewildered look to
Lady Caryisfort and Mr. Sugden, who were both close by her.
‘I don’t understand it,’ she said. She held it up to him, because he was
nearest. And then suddenly put up her hand to stop him, as he began to
read aloud. ‘Hush! Hush! Mrs. Hardwick is here,’ she said.
‘What is the matter?’ said Lady Caryisfort, rising to shield this group,
which began to attract the eyes of the party. ‘Kate, what is your
telegram about?’
Kate held it out to her without a word. The message it contained was
this: “_Sir Herbert Eldridge died here last night_.’”
‘Sir Herbert Eldridge?’ repeated Lady Caryisfort. ‘What is he to you,
Kate? What does it mean? Child, are you ill? You are like a ghost!’
‘He is nothing in the world to me,’ said Kate, rousing herself. ‘If I am
like a ghost it is because--oh! I am so cold!--because--it is so
strange! I never saw Sir Herbert Eldridge in my life. Mr. Sugden, what
do you think it means?’
She looked up and looked round for the Curate. He was gone. She gazed
all round her in consternation.
‘Where is he?’ she cried.
‘The gentleman you were talking to went out a minute ago. Who is he?
Kate, dear, don’t look so strange. Who was this man, and what did he
come to tell you about?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the girl, faintly, her eyes still seeking for him
round the room. ‘I don’t know where he came from, or where he has gone
to. I think he must have been a ghost.’
‘What was he telling you--you must know that at least?’
Kate made no reply. She pushed a chair towards the fireplace, and warmed
her trembling fingers. She crushed up the big yellow envelope in her
hand, under her laced handkerchief.
’“Sir Robert Eldridge died last night.” What is that to me! What have I
to do with it?’ she said.