Ombra

‘I suppose Kate’s guardian must have come to fetch her away. What a loss she will be to the Andersons!’ whispered a neighbouring matron, full of interest, in Mrs. Eldridge’s ear.

‘One never can tell,’ said that thoughtful woman. ‘Kate is quite grown up now, and with two girls, you never know when one may come in the other’s way.’

This was so oracular a sentence, that it was difficult to pick up the conversation after it; but after a while, the other went on—

‘Let us take a little walk, and see what the girls are about. I understand Kate is a great heiress—she is eighteen now, is she not? Perhaps she is of age at eighteen.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so!’ said Mrs. Eldridge. ‘The Courtenays don’t do that sort of thing; they are staunch old Tories, and keep up all the old traditions. But still Mr. Courtenay might think it best; and perhaps, from every point of view, it might be best. She has been very happy here; but still these kind of arrangements seldom last.’

‘Ah, yes!’ said the other, ‘there is no such dreadful responsibility as bringing up other people’s children. Sooner or later it is sure to bring dispeace.’

‘And a girl is never so well anywhere,’ added Mrs. Eldridge, ‘as in her father’s house.’

Thus far the elder chorus. The young ones said to each other, with a flutter of confused excitement and sympathy, ‘Oh, what an old ogre Kate’s guardian looks!’ ‘Has he come to carry her off, I wonder?’ ‘Will he eat her up if he does?’ ‘Is she fond of him?’ Will she go to live with him when she leaves the Cottage?’ ‘How she stands talking and laughing to the two Berties, without ever knowing he is here!’

Mrs. Anderson interrupted all this by a word. ‘Lucy,’ she said, to the eldest of the Rector’s girls, ‘call Kate to me, dear. Her uncle is here, and wants her; say she must come at once.’

‘Oh, it is her uncle!’ Lucy whispered to the group that surrounded her.

‘It is her uncle,’ the chorus went on. ‘Well, but he is an old ogre all the same!’ ‘Oh, look at Kate’s face!’ ‘How surprised she is!’ ‘She is glad!’ ‘Oh, no, she doesn’t like it!’ ‘She prefers talking nonsense to the Berties!’ ‘Don’t talk so—Kate never flirts!’ ‘Oh, doesn’t she flirt?’ ‘But you may be sure the old uncle will not stand that!’

Mr. Courtenay followed the movements of the young messenger with his eyes. He had received Mrs. Anderson’s explanations smilingly, and begged her not to think of him.

‘Pray, don’t suppose I have come to quarter myself upon you,’ he said. ‘I have rooms at the hotel. Don’t let me distract your attention from your guests. I should like only to have two minutes’ talk with Kate.’ And he stood, urbane and cynical, and looked round him, wondering whether Kate’s money was paying for the entertainment, and setting down every young man he saw as a fortune-hunter. They had all clustered together like ravens, to feed upon her, he thought. ‘This will never do—this will never do,’ he said to himself. How he had supposed his niece to be living, it would be difficult to say; most likely he had never attempted to form any imagination at all on the subject; but to see her thus surrounded by other young people, the centre of admiration and observation, startled him exceedingly.

It was not, however, till Lucy went up to her that he quite identified Kate. There she stood, smiling, glowing, a radiant, tall, well-developed figure, with the two young men standing by. It required but little exercise of fancy to believe that both of them were under Kate’s sway. Ombra thought so, looking on darkly from her corner; and it was not surprising that Mr. Courtenay should think so too. He stood petrified, while she turned round, with a flush of genial light on her face. She was glad to see him, though he had not much deserved it. She would have been glad to see any one who had come to her with the charm of novelty. With a little exclamation of pleasant wonder, she turned round, and made a bound towards him—her step, her figure, her whole aspect light as a bird on the wing. She left the young men without a word of explanation, in her old eager, impetuous way, and rushed upon him. Before he had roused himself up from his watch of her, she was by his side, putting out both her hands, holding up her peach-cheek to be kissed. Kate!—was it Kate? She was not only tall, fair, and woman grown—that was inevitable—but some other change had come over her, which Mr. Courtenay could not understand. She was a full-grown human creature, meeting him, as it were, on the same level; but there was another change less natural and more confusing, which Mr. Courtenay could make nothing of. An air of celestial childhood, such as had never been seen in Kate Courtenay, of Langton, breathed about her now. She was younger as well as older; she was what he never could have made her, what no hireling could ever have made her. She was a young creature, with natural relationships, filling a natural place in the earth, obeying, submitting, influencing, giving and receiving, loving and being loved. Mr. Courtenay, poor limited old man, did not know what it meant; but he saw the change, and he was startled. Was it—could it be Kate?

‘I am so glad to see you, Uncle Courtenay. So you have really, truly come? I am very glad to see you. It feels so natural—it is like being back again at Langton. Have you spoken to auntie? How surprised she must have been! We only got your letter this morning; and I never supposed you would come so soon. If we had known, we would not have had all those people, and I should have gone to meet you. But never mind, uncle, it can’t be helped. To-morrow we shall have you all to ourselves.’

‘I am delighted to find you are so glad to see me,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘I scarcely thought you would remember me. But as for the enjoyment of my society, that you can have at once, Kate, notwithstanding your party. Take me round the garden, or somewhere. The others, you know, are nothing to me; but I want to have some talk with you, Kate.’

‘I don’t know what my aunt will think,’ said Kate, somewhat discomfited. ‘Ombra is not very well to-day, and I have to take her place among the people.’

‘But you must come with me in the meantime. I want to talk to you.’

She lifted upon him for a moment a countenance which reminded him of the unmanageable child of Langton-Courtenay. But after this she turned round, consulted her aunt by a glance, and was back by his side instantly, with all her new youthfulness and grace.

‘Come along, then,’ she said, gaily. ‘There is not much to show you, uncle—everything is so small; but such as it is, you shall have all the benefit. Come along, you shall see everything—kitchen-garden and all.’

And in another minute she had taken his arm, and was walking by his side along the garden path, elastic and buoyant, slim and tall—as tall as he was, which was not saying much, for the great Courtenays were not lofty of stature; and Kate’s mother’s family had that advantage. The blooming face she turned to him was on a level with his own; he could no longer look down upon it. She was woman grown, a creature no longer capable of being ordered about at any one’s pleasure. Could this be the little wilful busybody, the crazy little princess, full of her own grandeur, the meddling little gossip, Kate?

CHAPTER XXVI

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.