Ombra

‘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?

CHAPTER XXVII

Long after Kate’s little bedchamber had fallen into darkness, the light still twinkled in the windows of the Cottage drawing-room. The lamp was still alight at midnight, and Ombra and her mother sat together, with the marks of tears on their cheeks, still talking, discussing, going over their difficulties.

‘I could bear him to go away,’ Ombra had said, in her passion; ‘I could bear never to see him again. Sometimes I think I should be glad. Oh! I am ashamed—ashamed to the bottom of my heart to care for one who perhaps cares no longer for me! if he would only go away; or if I could run away, and never more see him again! It is not that, mamma—it is not that. It is my own fault that I am unhappy. After what he said to me, to see him with—her! Yes, though I should die with shame, I will tell you the truth. He comes and looks at me as if I were a naughty child, and then he goes and smiles and talks to her—after all he said. Oh! it is temper, mamma, vile temper and jealousy, and I don’t know what! I hate her then, and him; and I detest myself. I could kill myself, so much am I ashamed!’

‘Ombra! Ombra! my darling, don’t speak so!—it is so unlike you!’

‘Yes,’ she said, with a certain scorn, ‘it is so unlike me that I was appalled at myself when I found it out. But what do you know about me, mother? How can you tell I might not be capable of anything that is bad, if I were only tempted, as well as this?’

‘My darling! my darling!’ said the mother, in her consternation, not knowing what to say.

‘Yes,’ the girl went on, ‘your darling, whom you have brought up out of the reach of evil, who was always so gentle, and so quiet, and so good. I know—I remember how I have heard people speak of me. I was called Ombra because I was such a shadowy, still creature, too gentle to make a noise. Oh! how often I have heard that I was good; until I was tempted. If I were tempted to murder anybody, perhaps I should be capable of it. I feel half like it sometimes now.’

Mrs. Anderson laid her hand peremptorily on her daughter’s arm.

‘This is monstrous!’ she said. ‘Ombra, you have talked yourself into a state of excitement. I will not be sorry for you any longer. It is mere madness, and it must be brought to a close.’

‘It is not madness!’ she cried—‘I wish it were. I sometimes hope it will come to be. It is temper!—temper! and I hate it! And I cannot struggle against it. Every time he goes near her—every time she speaks to him! Oh! it must be some devil, do you think—like the devils in the Bible—that has got possession of me?’

‘Ombra, you are ill—you must go to bed,’ said her mother. ‘Why do you shake your head? You will wear yourself into a fever; and what is to become of me? Think a little of me. I have troubles, too, though they are not like yours. Try to turn your mind, dear, from what vexes you, and sympathise with me. Think what an unpleasant surprise to me to see that disagreeable old man; and that he should have come to-day, of all days; and the interview I shall have to undergo to-morrow–’

‘Mamma,’ said Ombra, with reproof in her tone, ‘how strange it is that you should think of such trifles. What is he to you? A man whom you care nothing for—whom we have nothing to do with.’

‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with eyes steadily fixed upon her daughter, ‘I have told you before it is for Kate’s sake.’

‘Oh! Kate!’ Ombra made a gesture of impatience. In her present mood, she could not bear her cousin’s name. But her mother had been thinking over many things during this long afternoon, which had been so gay, and dragged so heavily. She had considered the whole situation, and had made up her mind, so far as it was practicable, to a certain course of action. Neither for love’s sake, nor for many other considerations, could she spare Kate. Even Ombra’s feelings must yield, though she had been so indiscreet even as to contemplate the idea of sacrificing Kate for Ombra’s feelings. But now she had thought better of it, and had made up her mind to take it for granted that Ombra too could only feel as a sister to Kate.

‘Ombra, you are warped and unhappy just now; you don’t do justice either to your cousin or yourself. But even at this moment, surely you cannot have thrown aside everything; you cannot be devoid of all natural feeling for Kate.’

‘I have no natural feeling,’ she said, hoarsely. ‘Have not I told you so? I would not allow myself to say it till you put it into my head. But, mamma, it is true. I want her out of my way. Oh! you need not look so horrified; you thought so yourself this morning. From the first, I felt she was in my way. She deranged all our plans—she came between you and me. Let her go! she is richer than we are, and better off. Why should she stay here, interfering with our life? Let her go! I want her out of my way!’

‘Ombra!’ said Mrs. Anderson, rising majestically from her chair. She was so near breaking down altogether, and forgetting every other consideration for her child’s pleasure, that it was necessary to her to be very majestic. ‘Ombra, I should have thought that proper feeling alone– Yes, proper feeling! a sense of what was fit and becoming in our position, and in hers. You turn away—you will not listen. Well, then, it is for me to act. It goes to my heart to feel myself alone like this, having to oppose my own child. But, since it must be so, since you compel me to act by myself, I tell you plainly, Ombra, I will not give up Kate. She is alone in the world; she is my only sister’s only child; she is–’

Ombra put her hands to her ears in petulance and anger.

‘I know,’ she cried; ‘spare me the rest. I know all her description, and what she is to me.’

‘She is five hundred a year,’ said Mrs. Anderson, secretly in her heart, with a heavy sigh, for she was ashamed to acknowledge to herself that this fact would come into the foreground. ‘I will not give the poor child up,’ she said, with a voice that faltered. Bitter to her in every way was this controversy, almost the first in which she had ever resisted Ombra. Though she looked majestic in conscious virtue, what a pained and faltering heart it was which she concealed under that resolute aspect! She put away the books and work-basket from the table, and lighted the candles, and screwed down the lamp with indescribable inward tremors. If she considered Ombra alone in the matter, and Ombra was habitually, invariably her first object, she would be compelled to abandon Kate, whom she loved—and loved truly!—and five hundred a year would be taken out of their housekeeping at once.

Poor Mrs. Anderson! she was not mercenary, she was fond of her niece, but she knew how much comfort, how much modest importance, how much ease of mind, was in five hundred a year. When she settled in the Cottage at first, she had made up her mind and arranged all her plans on the basis of her own small income, and had anxiously determined to ‘make it do,’ knowing that the task would be difficult enough. But Kate’s advent had changed all that. She had brought relief from many petty cares, as well as many comforts and elegancies with her. They could have done without them before she came, but now what a difference this withdrawal would make! Ombra herself would feel it. ‘Ombra would miss her cousin a great deal more than she supposes,’ Mrs. Anderson said to herself, as she went upstairs; ‘and, as for me, how I should miss her!’ She went into Kate’s room that night with a sense in her heart that she had something to make up to Kate. She had wronged her in thinking of the five hundred a year; but, for all that, she loved her. She stole into the small white chamber very softly, and kissed the sleeping face with most motherly fondness. Was it her fault that two sets of feelings—two different motives—influenced her? The shadow of Kate’s future wealth, of the splendour and power to come, stood by the side of the little white bed in which lay a single individual of that species of God’s creation which appeals most forcibly to all tender sympathies—an innocent, unsuspecting girl; and the shadow of worldly disinterestedness came into the room with the kind-hearted woman, who would have been good to any motherless child, and loved this one with all her heart. And it is so difficult to discriminate the shadow from the reality; the false from the true.

Mr. Courtenay came to the Cottage next morning, and had a solemn and long interview with Mrs. Anderson. Kate watched about the door, and hovered in the passages, hoping to be called in. She would have given a great deal to be able to listen at the keyhole, but reluctantly yielded to honour, which forbade such an indulgence. When she saw her uncle go away without asking for her, her heart sank; and still more did her heart sink when she perceived the solemn aspect with which her aunt came into the drawing-room. Mrs. Anderson was very solemn and stately, as majestic as she had been the night before, but there was relief and comfort in her eyes. She looked at the two girls as she came in with a smile of tenderness which looked almost like pleasure. Ombra was writing at the little table in the window—some of her poetry, no doubt. Kate, in a most restless state, had been dancing about from her needlework to her music, and from that to three or four books, which lay open, one here and one there, as she had thrown them down. When her aunt came in she stopped suddenly in the middle of the room, with a yellow magazine in her hand, almost too breathless to ask a question; while Mrs. Anderson seated herself at the table, as if in a pulpit, brimful of something to say.

‘What is it, auntie?’ cried Kate.

‘My dear children, both of you,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘I have something very important to say to you. You may have supposed, Kate, that I did not appreciate your excellent uncle; but now that I know his real goodness of heart, and the admirable feeling he has shown—Ombra, do give up your writing for a moment. Kate, your uncle is anxious to give us all a holiday—he wishes me to take you abroad.’

‘Abroad!’ cried both the girls together, one in a shrill tone, as of bewilderment and desperation, one joyous as delight could make it. Mrs. Anderson expanded gradually, and nodded her head.