a I E) RARY 
 
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 U N I VLRSITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 V.I
 
 r 
 
 m . N 

 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
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 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
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 IB R A 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 M B R A. 
 
 MRS. OLIPHANT, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 " CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD," " SALEM CHAPEL,' 
 " THE minister's WIFE," 
 
 &c. &c. 
 
 Sinion. — " Your tale, my friend, 
 
 Is made from nothing, and of nothings spun — 
 Foam on the oceaA, hoar-frost on the grass. 
 The gossamer thi-eads that s^Darkle in the sun 
 Patterned with morning dew— things that are born 
 And die, are come and gone, blossom and fade 
 Ere day mature has drawn one sober breath." 
 
 Philip. — "Tis so ; and so is life ; and so is youth ; 
 
 Foam, frost, and dew ; what would you ? Maidens call 
 
 That filmy gossamer the Virgin's threads, 
 
 And virgins' lives are woven of threads like those." 
 
 Tfie Two Poor Maidens. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON. 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1872. 
 
 The i ight of Tranxlalion i.i r nerved.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, 
 
 BLENHEIM HOUSE.
 
 Ok. • - 
 
 This book was written by the desire and at the 
 suggestion of a dear friend, to whom it would have been 
 dedicated had Providence permitted. But since then, all 
 suddenly and unawares, he has been called upon to take 
 that journey which every man must take. Upon the 
 grave which has reunited him to his sweet wife, who 
 went before, I lay this poor little soon-fading handful of 
 mortal flowers. H. B. and E. B., faithful friends, where- 
 soever you may be in His wide universe, God bless you, 
 dear and gentle souls ! 
 
 1 
 
 4
 
 MBR A. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 TTATHERINE COURTENAY was an only 
 -■-^ child, and a great heiress ; and both her 
 parents had died before she was able to form 
 any clear idea of them. She was brought up in 
 total ignorance of the natural life of childhood — 
 that world hemmed in by the dear faces of 
 father and mother, brother and sister, which 
 forms to most girls the introductory chapter 
 into life. She never knew it. She lived in 
 Langton-Courtenay — with her nurse first, and 
 then with her governess, the centre of a throng 
 of servants, in the immense desolate house. 
 Even in these relationships the lonely child did 
 not find the motherhood which lonely children 
 so often find in the care of some pitying, tender- 
 hearted stranger. Her guardian, who was her 
 VOL. I. B
 
 ^ OMBRA. 
 
 father's uncle, an old man of the world, was one 
 of those who distrust old servants, and accept 
 from their inferiors nothing more than can be 
 paid for. He had made up his mind from the 
 beginning that little Kate should not be eaten 
 up by locusts, as he said — that she should have 
 no kind of retainers about her, flattering her 
 vanity with unnecessary affection and ostenta- 
 tious zeal ; but only honest servants (as honest, 
 he would add, as they ever are), who expect- 
 ed nothing but the day's wages for the day's 
 work. To procure this, he allowed no one to 
 remain long with his ward. Her nurse was 
 changed half a dozen times during the period 
 in which she required such a guardian ; and her 
 govern,ess had shared the same fate. She had 
 never been allowed to attach herself to one 
 more than another. When any signs of feeling 
 made themselves apparent, Mr. Courtenay sent 
 forth his remorseless decree. " Kate shall never 
 be any woman's slave, nor any old servant's 
 victim, if I can help it," he said. He would 
 have liked, had that been practicable, to turn 
 her into a public school, and let her " find her 
 level," as boys do ; but as that was not prac-
 
 OMBRA. 6 
 
 ticable, he made sure, at least, that no senti- 
 mental influences should impair his nursling's 
 independence and vigour. Thus the allevia- 
 tions which natural sympathy and pity might 
 have given her, were lost to Kate. Her at- 
 tendants were afraid to love her; her often- 
 changed instructresses had to shut their hearts 
 against the appeal of compassion, as well as the 
 appeal made by the girl's natural attractiveness. 
 She had to be to them as princesses are but 
 rarely to their teachers and companions — a half- 
 mistress, half-pupil. An act of utter self-re- 
 nunciation was required of them before ever 
 they set foot in Langton-Courtenay. Mr. 
 Courtenay himself made the engagement, and 
 prescribed its terms. He paid very liberally ; 
 and he veiled his insolence under the garb of 
 perfect politeness. " I do not wish Miss Courte- 
 nay to make any friends out of her own class," 
 he would say. " I shall do my utmost to make 
 the temporary connection between my niece 
 
 and you advantageous to yourself, Miss . 
 
 But I must exact, on the other side, that there 
 shall be no sentimental bonds formed, no ever- 
 lasting friendships, no false relationship. I 
 
 B 2
 
 4 M B R A. 
 
 have seen the harm of such things, and suffered 
 from it. Therefore, if these should be your 
 ideas " 
 
 "You wanted a governess, I heard, and I 
 applied for the situation — I never thought of 
 anything more," said quickly, with some offence, 
 the irritated applicant. 
 
 " Precisely," said Mr. Courtenay. " With this 
 understanding everything may be decided at 
 once. I am happy to have met with a lady 
 who understands my meaning." And thus the 
 bargain would be made. But, as it is natural to 
 suppose, the ladies who were willing to take ser- 
 vice under these terms, were by. no means the 
 highest of their class. Sometimes it would 
 happen that Mr. Courtenay received a sharp 
 rebuff in these preliminary negotiations. " I 
 trust, of course, that I shall grow fond of my 
 pupil, and she of me," said one stouter-hearted 
 woman, for example. And the old Squire made 
 her a sarcastic bow. 
 
 " Quite unnecessary — wholly unnecessary, I 
 assure you," he said. 
 
 " Then there is nothing more to be said 
 about it," was the reply ; and this applicant —
 
 M B R A. 5 
 
 whose testimonials were so high, and were 
 from such *' good people " (meaning, of course, 
 from a succession of duchesses, countesses, and 
 families of renown), that Mr. Courtenay would, 
 he confessed, have given " any money " to 
 secure her services — got up with impatience, and 
 made him a curtsey which would, could she 
 have managed it, have been as sarcastic as his 
 bow, but which, as it turned out, was only an 
 agitated and awkward obeisance, tremulous 
 with generous rage : " such an arrangement 
 would be quite impossible to me." 
 
 And so poor Kate missed a woman who 
 might have been a kind of secondary mother to 
 the forlorn child, and acquired a mercenary 
 dragon instead, who loved nobody, and was 
 incapable of attracting love. 
 
 The consequences of this training were not, 
 perhaps, exactly such as might have been ex- 
 pected. Kate's high spirits and energetic tem- 
 per retained a certain ascendancy over her cir- 
 cumstances ; her faults were serious and deep- 
 rooted, but on the surface she had a gaieU du 
 cceur — an impulsive power of sympathy and ca- 
 pacity for interesting herself in other people.
 
 6 OMBRA. 
 
 which could not but be potent for good or evil 
 in her life. It developed, however, in the first 
 place, into a love of interference, and conse- 
 quently of gossip, which would have alarmed 
 anyone really concerned for her character and 
 happiness. She was kept from loving or from 
 being loved. She was arbitrarily fixed among 
 strangers, surrounded with faces which were 
 never permitted to become familiar, defrauded 
 of all the interests of afiection ; and her lively 
 mind avenged itself by a determination to 
 know everything and meddle with everything 
 within her reach. Kate at fifteen was not 
 mournful, despondent, or solitary, as might 
 have been looked for ; on the contrary, she was 
 the very type of activity, a little inquisitive 
 despot, the greatest gossip and busy-body 
 within a dozen miles of Langton-Courtenay. 
 The tendrils of her nature, which ought to have 
 clung firm and close around some natural 
 prop, trailed all abroad, and caught at every- 
 thing. Nothing was too paltry for her, and 
 nothing too grand. She had the audacity to 
 interfere in the matter of the lighted candles 
 on the altar, when the new High-Church Rector
 
 OMBRA. 7 
 
 of Langton first came into power; and she in- 
 terfered remorselessly to take away Widow 
 Budd's snufi*, when it was found out that the 
 reason she assigned for wanting it — the state 
 of her eyes — was a shameful pretence. Kate 
 did not shrink from either of these bold practi- 
 cal assaults upon the liberty of her subjects. 
 She would no doubt have inquired into the 
 Queen's habits, and counselled, if not required 
 some change in them, had that illustrious lady 
 paid a visit to Langton-Oourtenay. This was 
 how Nature managed itself for her especial 
 training. She could no more be made unsym- 
 pathetic, unenergetic, or deprived of her warm 
 interest in the world, than she could be made 
 sixty. But all these good qualities could be 
 turned into evil, and this was what her guardian 
 managed to do. It did not occur to him to 
 watch over her personally during her child- 
 hood, and therefore he was unconscious of the 
 exact progress of affairs. 
 
 Old Mr. Courtenay was totally unlike the child 
 whom he had undertaken to train. He did not 
 care a straw for his fellow-creatures ; they took 
 their way, and he took his, and there was an end
 
 8 M B R A. 
 
 of the matter. When any great calamity oc- 
 curred, he shrugged his shoulders, and comforted 
 himself with the reflection that it must be their 
 own fault. When, on the contrary, there was 
 joy and rejoicing, he took his share of the feast, 
 and reflected, with a smile, that wise men enjoy 
 the banquets which fools make. To put your- 
 self out of the way for anything that might 
 happen, seemed to him the strangest, the most 
 incomprehensible folly. And when he made up 
 his mind to save the young heiress of his house 
 from the locusts, and to keep her free from all 
 connections or associations which might be a 
 drag upon her in future times, he had been 
 honestly unconscious that he was doing wrong to 
 Nature. Love ! — what did she want with love ? 
 — what was the good of it? Mr. Courtenay 
 himself got on very well without any such 
 frivolous imaginary necessity, and so, of course, 
 would Kate. He was so confident in the wis- 
 dom, and even in the naturalness of his system, 
 that he did not even think it worth his while to 
 watch over its progress. Of course it would 
 come all right. Why should he trouble himself 
 about the details ? — to keep fast to this prin-
 
 M B R A. 9 
 
 ciple gave him quite enough trouble. Circum- 
 stances, however, had occurred which made it 
 expedient for him to visit Langton-Courtenay 
 when Kate completed her fifteenth year. New 
 people had appeared on the scene, who threat- 
 ened to be a greater trouble to him, and a 
 greater danger for Kate, than even the gover- 
 nesses ; and his sense of duty was strong enough 
 to move him, in thus far, at least, to personal 
 interference on his ward's behalf. 
 
 At fifteen Kate Courtenay was the very im- 
 personation of youthful beauty, vigour, and im- 
 petuous life. She seemed to dance as she 
 walked, to be eloquent and rhetorical when she 
 spoke, out of the mere exuberance of her being. 
 Her hair, which was full of colour, chestnut- 
 brown, still fell in negligent abundance about 
 her shoulders ; not in stiff curls, after the old 
 mode, nor crepe^ according to the new, but in one 
 undulating, careless flow. Though she was 
 still dressed in the sackcloth of the school-room, 
 there was an air of authoritative independence 
 about her, more imposing a great deal than was 
 that garb of complete womanhood, the " long 
 dress," to which she looked forward with awe
 
 10 OMBRA. 
 
 and hope. Her figure was full for her age, yet 
 so light, so well-formed, so free and rapid in 
 movement, that it had all the graceful effect of 
 the most girlish slenderness. Her voice was 
 slightly high-pitched — not soft and low, as is the 
 ideal woman's — and she talked for three people, 
 pouring forth her experiences, her recollections, 
 her questions and remarks, in a flood. It was 
 not quite ladylike, more than one unhappy in- 
 structress of Kate's youth had suggested ; but 
 there seemed no reason in the world why she 
 should pay any attention to such a suggestion. 
 " If it is natural for me to talk so, why should I 
 try to talk otherwise ? Why should I care what 
 people think ? You may. Miss Blank, because 
 they will find fault with you, and take away 
 your pupils, and that sort of thing ; but nobody 
 can do anything to me." This was Kate's 
 vindication of her voice, which rang through all 
 Langton-Courtenay clear as a bell, and sweet 
 enough to hear, but imperative, decisive, high- 
 pitched, and unceasing. When her uncle saw 
 her, his first sensation was one of pleasure. She 
 was waiting for hinr on the step before the front 
 door, the sunshine surrounding her with a golden
 
 OMBRA. 11 
 
 halo, made out of the stray golden luminous 
 threads in her hair. 
 
 " How do you do, uncle f she called out to 
 him as soon as he appeared. *' I am so glad you 
 have made up your mind to come at last. It is 
 always a change to have you here, and there are 
 so many things I want to talk of. You have 
 taken the fly from the station, I see, though the 
 carriage went for you half an hour ago. That is 
 what I am always telling you, Giles, you are con- 
 tinually half an hour too late. Uncle, mind how 
 you get down. That fly-horse is the most 
 vicious thing ! She'll go off when you have one 
 foot to the ground, if you don't mind. I told 
 old Mrs. Sayer to sell her, but these people 
 never will do what they are told. I am glad to 
 see you, Uncle Courtenay. How do you do ?" 
 
 " A little bewildered with my journey, Kate 
 — and to find you a young lady receiving your 
 guests, instead of a shy little girl running off 
 when you were spoken to." 
 
 " Was I ever shy ?" said Kate, with unfeigned 
 wonder. " What a very odd thing ! I don't 
 remember it. I thought I had always been as 
 I am now. Tell Mrs. Sayers, Tom, that I have
 
 12 OMBRA. 
 
 heard something I don't like about one of the 
 people at Glenhouse, and that I am coming 
 to speak to her to-morrow. Uncle, will you 
 have some tea, or wine, or anything, or shall I 
 take you to your room? Dinner is to be at 
 seven. I am so glad you have come to make a 
 change. I hate dinner at two. It suits Miss 
 Blank's digestion, but I am sure I hate it, and 
 now it shall be changed. Don't you think I am 
 quite grown up, Uncle Courtenay? I am as 
 tall as you." 
 
 He was little, dried-up, shrivelled — a small old 
 man ; and she a young Diana, with a bloom 
 which had still all the freshness of childhood. 
 Uncle Courtenay felt irritated when she measured 
 her elastic figure beside the stooping form of 
 his old age. 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes !" he said, pettishly. " Grown 
 up, indeed I I should think you were. But 
 stop this stream of talk, for heaven's sake, and 
 moderate your voice, and take me in somewhere. 
 I don't want to have your height discussed 
 among your servants, nor anything else I may 
 have to say." 
 
 "Oh I for that matter, I do not mind who
 
 OMBRA. 13 
 
 hears me talk," said Kate. " Why should 1 1 
 Nobody, of course, ever interferes with me. 
 Come into the library, uncle. It is nice and 
 cool this hot day. Did you see anyone in the 
 village as you came up? Did you notice if 
 there was anyone at the Kectory ? They are 
 curious people at the Rectory, and don't take 
 the trouble to make themselves at all agree- 
 able. Miss Blank thinks it very strange, 
 considering that I am the Lady of the Manor, 
 and have a right to their respect, and. ought to 
 be considered and obeyed. Don't you think, 
 uncle " 
 
 " Obeyed I" he said, with a laugh which was 
 half amusement, and half consternation. ** A 
 baby of fifteen is no more the Lady of the Manor 
 than Miss Blank is. You silly child, what do 
 you mean 1" 
 
 " I am not a child," said Kate, haughtily. " I 
 am quite aware of my position. I may not 
 be of age yet, but that does not make much 
 difference. However, if you are tired, uncle, as 
 I think you are by your face, I won't bore you 
 with that, though it is one of my grievances. 
 Should you like to be left alone till dinner ? If
 
 14 OMBRA. 
 
 you would let me advise you, I should say lie 
 down, and have some eau-de-Cologne on a 
 handkerchief, and perhaps a cup of tea. It is 
 the best thing for worry and headache." 
 " In Heaven's name, how do you know ?" 
 *' Perfectly well," said Kate, calmly. " I 
 have made people do it a hundred times, and it 
 has always succeeded. Perfect quiet, uncle, 
 and a wet handkerchief on your forehead, and 
 a cup of my special tea. I will tell Giles to 
 bring you one, and a bottle of eau de Cologne ; 
 and if you don't move till the dressing bell 
 rings, you will find yourself quite refreshed and 
 restored. Why, I have made people do it over 
 and over again, and I have never known it to 
 fail."
 
 15 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 1ITISS COURTENAY, of Langton-Courtenay, 
 -*-*■*- had scarcely ever in her life been promoted 
 before to the glories of a late dinner. She had 
 received no visitors, and the house was still 
 under school-room sway, as became her age, 
 consequently this was a great era to Kate. 
 She placed herself at the head of the table, with 
 a pride and delight which neither her cynical 
 old uncle nor her passive governess had the 
 least notion of. The occurrence was trifling to 
 them, but to her its importance was immense. 
 Miss Blank, who was troubled by fears of being 
 in the way — fears which her charge made no 
 effort to lighten — and whose digestion, besides, 
 was feeble, preferred to have the usual two 
 o'clock dinner, and to leave Kate alone to enter- 
 tain her uncle. This dinner had been the sub-
 
 16 OMBRA. 
 
 ject of Kate's thoughts for some days. She had 
 insisted on the production of all the plate which 
 the little household at Langton had been p^- 
 mitted to retain ; she had the table decked 
 with a profusion of flowers. She had not yet 
 discretion enough to know that a small table 
 would have been in better taste than the large 
 one, seated at opposite ends of which her 
 guardian and herself were as if miles apart. 
 They could not see each other for the flowers ; 
 they could scarcely hear each other for the 
 distance ; but Kate was happy. There was a 
 certain grown-up grandeur, even in the discom- 
 fort. As for Mr. Courtenay, he was extremely 
 impatient. " What a fool the girl nmst be I" he 
 said to himself; and went on to comment bit- 
 terly upon the popular fallacy which credits 
 women with intuitive good taste and social 
 sense, at least. When he made a remark upon 
 the long distance that separated them, Kate 
 cheerfully suggested that he should come up 
 beside her. She took away his breath by her 
 boldness; she deafened him with her talk. 
 Behind that veil of flowers which concealed her 
 young, bright figure, she poured forth the mono-
 
 M B R A. 17 
 
 logue of a rural gossip, never pausing to in- 
 quire if he knew or cared anything about the 
 objects of it. And of course Mr. Courtenay 
 neither knew nor cared. His own acquaintance 
 with the house of his father had ended long 
 before she was born, before her father had suc- 
 ceeded to the property ; and he never had been 
 interested in the common people who formed 
 Kate's world. Then it was very apparent to 
 Kate's uncle that the man who waited (and 
 waited very badly) grinned without conceal- 
 ment at his young mistress's talk ; and that Kate 
 herself was not indifferent to the fond of appre- 
 ciation thus secured to her. It would be impos- 
 sible to put into words the consternation which 
 filled him as he ate an indifferent dinner, and 
 listened to all this. He had succeeded so far 
 that no one governess nor maid had secured 
 dominion over the mind of the future sovereign 
 of Langton ; but at what a cost had he secured 
 it I " You seem to interest yourself a great 
 deal about all these people," he said at length. 
 
 " Yes, Uncle Courtenay, of course I do. I 
 have nobody else to take an interest in," said 
 Kate. " But the people at the Rectory are very 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 O M B R A. < 
 
 disagreeable. If the living should fall vacant 
 in my time, it certainly shall never go to one of 
 them. The second son, Herbert, whom they 
 call Bertie, is going in for the Church, and I 
 suppose they think he will succeed his father ; 
 but I am sure he never shall, if that happens in 
 my time. There are two daughters, Edith and 
 Minnie ; and I don't think Mrs. Hardwick can 
 be a good manager, for the girls are always so 
 badly dressed ; and you know, Uncle Courte- 
 nay, it is a very good living. I have felt 
 tempted a dozen times to say, ' Why don't you 
 clothe the girls better V If they had been 
 farmers, or anything of that sort, I should at 
 once " 
 
 " And how do the farmers like your inter- 
 ference, Kate ?" 
 
 " My interference, Uncle Courtenay I Why, 
 of course one must speak if one sees things 
 going wrong. But to return to the Hard- 
 wicks. I did write, you know, about the 
 candles on the altar " 
 
 " Why, Kate, I did not know how universal 
 you were," »gaid her uncle, half amused — " theo- 
 logical, too ?"
 
 * OMBRA. 19 
 
 " I don't know about theology ; but burning 
 candles in daylight, when there was not a bit 
 of darkness — not a fog, even — what is the good 
 of it? I thought I had a right to let Mr. Hard- 
 wick know. It is my parish and my tenantry, 
 and I do not mean to give them up. Isn't the^ 
 
 Queen the head of the Church ? — then, of course,/^ t.^^^ 
 I am the head of Langton-Courtenay, and it ig 
 flat rebellion on the Rector's part. What do 
 you mean, Uncle Courtenay ? — are you laughing 
 atmef 
 
 "Why, Kate, your theories take away my 
 breath," said Mr. Courtenay. " Don't you think 
 this is going a little too far ? You cannot be 
 head of the Church in Langton-Courtenay with- 
 out interfering with Her Majesty's prerogative. 
 She is over all the country, you know. You 
 don't claim the power of the sword, I hope, as 
 well " 
 
 " What is the power of the sword, uncle ? I 
 should claim anything that I thought belonged 
 to me," cried Kate. 
 
 " But you would not hold a court, I hope,' 
 and erect a gallows in the courtyard," said Mr. 
 Courtenay. " I suppose our ancestor, Sir Ber- 
 
 c 2
 
 20 OMBRA. 
 
 nard had the right, but I would not advise you 
 to claim it, my dear. Kate, now that the man is 
 gone, I must tell you that T think you have 
 been very impertinent to the Rector, and no- 
 thing but the fact that you are a baby, and 
 don't know what you're doing " 
 
 "A baby ! — and impertinent I — uncle I — 1 1 " 
 
 *' Yes, you — though you think yourself such a 
 great personage, you must learn to remember 
 that you are a child, my dear. I will make a 
 point of calling on the Rector to-morrow, and I 
 hope he will look over your nonsense. But re- 
 member there must be no more of it, Kate." 
 
 " Don't speak to me like that," she said, half 
 weeping. *' I will not be so spoken to. Uncle, 
 you are only my guardian, and it is I who am 
 the mistress here." 
 
 " You little fool I" he said, under his breath ; 
 and then a sudden twinge came over him — a 
 doubt whether he had been as wise as he 
 thought he had been in the training of this girl. 
 He was not the sort of man, so common in the 
 world, to whom cynicism in every other respect 
 is compatible with enthusiasm in respect to 
 himself. He was a universal cynic. He dis-
 
 OMBRA. 21 
 
 trusted himself as well as other people, and 
 consequently he did not shut his eyes to the 
 fact that a mistake had been made. While 
 Kate dried her eyes hastily, and tried her best 
 to maintain her dignity, and overcome those 
 temptations towards the hysterical which pre- 
 vented her from making an immediate reply, her 
 uncle was so candid as to stop short, as it were, 
 in his own course, and review a decision he had 
 just made. He had not known Kate when he 
 made it ; now that he saw her in all her force 
 and untamableness, with all those wonderful 
 ideas of her position, and determination to inter- 
 fere with everyone, he could not but think that it 
 might be wise to reconsider the question. What 
 should he do with this unmanageable girl ? — good 
 heavens I what could he do with her ? Whereas, 
 here was a new influence ofiering itself, wliich 
 perhaps might do all that was wanted. Mr. 
 Courtenay pondered while Kate recovered some 
 appearance of calm. She had never (she said 
 to herself) been so spoken to in her life. She 
 did not understand it — she would not submit 
 to it ! And when the hot mist of tears dried up 
 from her eyes, Kate looked from behind the
 
 22 M B R A. 
 
 flowers at Mr. Courtenay, with her heart beat- 
 ing high for the conflict, and yet felt daunted — 
 she could not tell how — and did not know what 
 to do. She would have liked to rush out of 
 the room, slamming the door behind her ; but 
 in that case she would have lost at once her 
 dignity and the strawberries, which are tempt- 
 ing at fifteen. She would not let him see that 
 he had beaten her ; and yet — how could she 
 begin the struggle ? — what could she say ? 
 She sat and peeped at him from behind the vase 
 of flowers which stood in the centre of the table, 
 and was silent for five whole minutes in her 
 bewilderment — perhaps longer than she ever 
 had been silent before in her life. Finally, it 
 Avas Mr. Courtenay who broke the silence — a 
 fact which of itself gave him a vast advantage 
 over her. 
 
 "Kate," he said, " I have listened to you for 
 a long time. I want you now to listen to me 
 for a little. You have heard of your aunt 
 Anderson? She is your mother's only sister. 
 She has been — I suppose you know 1 — for a long 
 time abroad." 
 
 " I don't know anything about her," said Kate,
 
 OMBRA. 23 
 
 pouting. This was not entirely true, for she 
 had heard just so much of this unknown rela- 
 tion as a few rare letters received from her 
 could tell — letters which left no pai'ticular im- 
 pression upon Kate's mind, except the fact that 
 her correspondent signed herself " Your affec- 
 tionate Aunt," and which had ceased for years. 
 Kate's mother had not been born on the Lang- 
 ton-Courtenay level. She had been the daugh- 
 ter of a solicitor, whose introduction into the 
 up-to-that-moment spotless pedigree of the 
 Courtenays lay very heavy on the heart of the 
 family. Kate knew this fact very well, and 
 it galled her. She might have forgiven her 
 mother, but she felt a visionary grudge against 
 her aunt, and why should she care to know any- 
 thing about her ? This sense of inferiority on the 
 part of her relation kept her silent, as well as the 
 warm and lively force of temper which dissuaded 
 her from showing any interest in a matter sug- 
 gested by her uncle. If she could but have kept 
 up so philosophical a way of thinking I But 
 the fact was, that no sooner had she answered 
 than her usual curiosity and human interest in 
 her fellow-creatures began to tug at Kate's heart.
 
 24 OMBRA. 
 
 What was he going to tell her about her aunt 
 Anderson? Who was she? What was she? 
 What manner of woman ? Was she poor, and 
 so capable of being made Kate's vassal ; or well 
 off, and likely to meet her niece on equal terms ? 
 She had to shut up her lips very tight, lest some 
 of these many questions should burst from them. 
 And if Uncle Courtenay had but known his ad- 
 vantage, and kept silent a little, she would have 
 almost gone on her knees to him for further in- 
 formation. But Mr. Courtenay did not under- 
 stand his advantage, and went on talking. 
 
 " Her husband was British Consul somewhere 
 or other in Italy. They have been all over the 
 Continent, in one place and another; but he 
 died a year ago, and now they have come home. 
 She wishes to see you, Kate. I have got a letter 
 from her — with a great deal of nonsense in it — 
 but that by the way. There is a great deal of 
 nonsense in all women's letters I She wants to 
 come here, I suppose ; but I don't choose that 
 she should come here." 
 
 "Why, Uncle Courtenay?" said Kate, for- 
 getting her wrath in the excitement of this 
 novelty. ^
 
 OMBRA. 25 
 
 " It is unnecessary to enter into my reasons. 
 When you are of age you can have whom you 
 please ; but in the meantime I don't intend that 
 this house should be a centre of meddling and 
 gossip for the whole neighbourhood. So the 
 aunt shan't come. But you can go and visit 
 her for a few weeks, if you choose, Kate." 
 
 " Why shouldn't my aunt come if I wish it f ' 
 cried Kate, furious. " Uncle Courtenay, 1 tell 
 you again you are only my guardian, and Lang- 
 ton-Courtenay belongs to me/" 
 
 "And I reply, my dear, that you are fifteen, 
 and nothing belongs to you," said the old man, 
 with a smile. " It is hard to repress so much 
 noble independence, but still that is the truth." 
 
 " You are a tyrant — you are a monster. Uncle 
 Courtenay I I won't submit to it I I will appeal 
 to some one. I will take it into my own hands." 
 
 "• The most sensible thing you can do, in the 
 meantime, is to retire to your own room, and 
 try to bring yourself back to common sense," 
 said Mr. Courtenay, contemptuously. " Not 
 another word, Kate. Where is your governess, 
 or your nurse, or whoever has charge of you ? 
 Little fool I do you think, because you rule over
 
 26 OMBRA. 
 
 a pack of obBequious servants, that you can 
 manage me." 
 
 '^ I will not be your slave ! I will never, never 
 be your slave !" cried Kate, springing to her feet, 
 and raising her flushed face over the flowers. 
 Her eyes blazed, her little rosy hand was 
 clenched so tight that the soft knuckles were 
 white. Her lips were apart, her breath burned, 
 her soul was on fire. Quite ready for a fight, 
 ready to meet any enemy that might come 
 against her — breathing fire and flame ! 
 
 " Pho I pho I child, don't be a fool I" said Mr. 
 Courtenay ; and he calmly rang the bell, and 
 ordered Giles to remove the wine to a small 
 table which stood in the window, where he re- 
 moved himself presently, without taking the 
 least notice of her. 
 
 Kate stood for a moment, like a young god- 
 dess of war, thunder-stricken by the calm of her 
 adversary ; and then rushed out, flinging down 
 her napkin, and dragging a corner of the table- 
 cloth, so as to upset the great dish of ruby 
 strawberries which she had not tasted. They 
 fell on the floor like a heavy shower, scattering 
 over all the carpet ; and Kate closed the door
 
 OMBRA. 27 
 
 after her with a thud which ran through the 
 whole house. She paused a moment in the 
 hall, irresolute. Poor untrained, unfriended 
 child, she had no one to go to, to seek comfort 
 from. She knew how Miss Blank would receive 
 her passion ; and she was too proud to acknow- 
 ledge to her maid, Maryanne, how she had 
 been beaten. She caught the broad-brimmed 
 garden-hat which hung in the hall, and a shawl 
 to wrap herself in, and rushed out, a forlorn, 
 solitary young creature, into the noble park 
 that was her own. There was not a child in 
 the village but had some one to fly to when it 
 had received a blow ; but Kate had no one — she 
 had to calm herself down, and bear her passion 
 and its consequences alone. She rushed across 
 the park, forgetting even that her uncle Courte- 
 nay could see her from the window, and un- 
 conscious of the chuckle with which he perceived 
 her discomfiture. " Little passionate idiot I" he 
 said to himself, as he sipped his wine. But 
 yet perhaps had he known what was to come 
 of it, Mr. Courtenay would not have been quite 
 so contented with himself. He had forgotten 
 all about the feelings and sufferings of her age,
 
 28 OMBRA. 
 
 if indeed he had ever known them. He did not 
 care a jot for the mortification and painful rage 
 with which he had filled her. ** Serve her 
 right I" he would have said. He was old him- 
 self, and far beyond the reach of such tempests ; 
 and he had no pity for them. But all the more 
 he thought with a sense of comfort of this Mrs. 
 Anderson, with her plebeian name, and senti- 
 mental anxiety about " the only child of a be- 
 loved sister." The beloved sister herself had 
 not been very welcome in Langton-Courtenay. 
 The Consul's widow should never be allowed to 
 enter here, that was very certain ; but, still, use 
 might be made of her to train this ungoverrnable 
 child.
 
 29 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "IT ATE COURTENAY rushed across the park 
 ^^ in a passion of mortilieation and childish 
 despair, and fled as fast as her swift feet could 
 carry her to a favourite spot — a little dell, 
 through which the tiniest of brooks ran trickling, 
 so hidden under the trees and copse that even 
 Summer never quite dried it up. There was a 
 little semi-artificial waterfall, just where the 
 brook descended into the depths of this little 
 dell. In Spring it was a wilderness of prim- 
 roses and violets ; and so long as wild flowers 
 would blow, they were always to be found in 
 this sunny nook. The only drawback was that 
 a footpath ran within sight of it, and that the 
 village had an often-contested right of way 
 skirting the bank. Kate had issued arbitrary 
 orders more than once that no one was to be
 
 30 OMBRA. 
 
 suffered to pass ; but the law was too strong 
 for Kate, as it had been for her grandfathers 
 before her ; and, on the whole, perhaps the oc- 
 casional passenger had paid for his intrusion by 
 the additional liveliness he had given to the 
 landscape. It was one of Kate's " tricks, " 
 her governess once went so far as to say, to 
 take her evening walk here, in order to detect 
 the parties of lovers with whom this footway 
 was a favourite resort. All this, however, was 
 absent from Kate's mind now. She rushed 
 through the trees and bushes, and threw her- 
 self on the sunny grass by the brookside ; and 
 at fifteen passion is not silent, as it endeavours 
 to be at a more advanced age. Kate did not 
 weep only, but cried, and sobbed, and made a 
 noise, so that some one passing by in the foot- 
 way on the other side of the bushes was arrested 
 by the sound, and drew near. 
 
 It is hard to hear sounds of weeping in a 
 warm Summer evening, when the air is sweet 
 with sounds of pleasure. There is something 
 incongruous in it, which wounds the listener. 
 The passenger in this case was young and 
 tender-hearted, and he was so far like Kate
 
 OMBRA. • 31 
 
 herself, that when he heard Bounds of trouble, 
 he felt that he had a right to interfere. He was 
 a clergyman's son, and in the course of training 
 to be a clergyman too. His immediate desti- 
 nation was, as soon as he should be old enough 
 to be ordained, the curacy of Langton-Courte- 
 nay, of which his father was Rector. Whether 
 he should eventually succeed his father was of 
 course in the hands of Providence and Miss 
 Courtenay ; he had not taken his degree yet, 
 and was at least two years off the time when 
 he could take orders ; but still the shadow 
 of his profession was upon him, and, in right of 
 that, Herbert Hardwick felt that it was his 
 business to interfere. 
 
 What he saw, when he looked through the 
 screen of trees, was the figure of a girl in a 
 light Summer dress, half seated, half lying on 
 the grass. Her head was bent down between her 
 hands; and even had this not been the case, it is 
 probable Bertie, who had scarcely seen Miss 
 Courtenay, would not have recognised her. Of 
 course, had he taken time to think, he must 
 have known at once that nobody except Kate, 
 or some visitor at the Hall, was likely to be
 
 32 OMBRA. 
 
 there ; but he never took time to think. It was 
 not his way. He stepped at once over the fence, 
 walking through the brushwood, and strode 
 across the brook without pause or hesitation. 
 
 " What is the matter ?" he said, in his boyish 
 promptitude. " Have you hurt yourself? — 
 have you lost your way ? — what is wrong ?" 
 
 For a moment she took no notice of him, 
 except to turn her back more completely on 
 him. Herbert had sisters, and he was not so 
 ceremonious to young womankind generally as 
 might otherwise have happened. He laid his 
 hand quite frankly on her shoulder, and knelt 
 down beside her on the grass. " No," he said, 
 with a certain authority, " my poor child, who- 
 ever you may be, I can't leave you to cry your 
 eyes out. What is the matter ? Look up and 
 tell me. Have you lost yourself? ♦If you will 
 tell me where you have come from, I will take 
 you home. Or have you hurt yourself? Now, 
 pray don't be cross, but answer, and let me 
 know what I can do." 
 
 Kate had almost got her weeping-fit over, 
 and surprise had wakened a new sentiment in 
 her mii^d. Surprise and curiosity, and the live-
 
 M B R A , 33 
 
 liest desire to know whose the voice was, and 
 whose the hand laid so lightly, yet with a cer- 
 tain authority, upon her shoulder. She made a 
 dash with her handkerchief across her face to 
 clear away the tears, and then she suddenly 
 turned round and confronted her comforter. 
 She looked up at him with tears hanging on 
 her eyelashes, and her face wet with them, yet 
 with all the soul of self-will which was natural 
 to her looking out of her eyes. 
 
 " Do you know," she said hastily, " that you 
 are trespassing ? This is private property, and 
 you have no right to be here." 
 
 The answer which Bertie Hardwick made to 
 this was, first, an astonished stare, and then a 
 burst of laughter. The sudden change from 
 sympathy and concern to amusement Avas so 
 great that it produced an explosion of merri- 
 ment which he could not restrain. He was a 
 handsome lad of twenty — blue-eyed, with brown 
 hair curling closely about his head, strongly 
 built, and full of life, though not gigantic in his 
 proportions. Even now, though he had heard 
 of the imperious little Lady of the Manor, it did 
 not occur to him to connect her with this 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 OMBRA. 
 
 stranger. He langlied with perfect heartiness 
 and abandon; she looking on quite gravely and 
 steadily, the while, assisting at the outburst — a 
 fact which did not diminish the amusing cha- 
 racter of the scene. 
 
 " I came to help you," he said. *' I hope you 
 will not give information. Nobody will know 
 I have trespassed unless you tell, and that 
 would be ungrateful ; for I thought there was 
 something the matter, and came to-be of use to 
 
 you." 
 
 " There is nothing the matter," said Kate, 
 very gravely, making a photograph of him with 
 the keen, inquisitive eyes, from which, by this 
 time, all tears were gone. 
 
 " I am glad to hear it," he said ; and then, 
 with another laugh — " I suppose you are tres- 
 passing too. Can I help you over the fence ? 
 — or is there anything that I can do ?" 
 
 " I am not trespassing — I am at home — I am 
 Miss Courtenay," said Kate, Avith infinite dig- 
 nity, rising from the grass. She stood thus 
 looking at him with the air of a queen defend- 
 ing her realm from invasion ; she felt, to tell 
 the truth, something like Helen Macgregor,
 
 OMBRA. 35 
 
 when she starts up suddenly, and demands of 
 the Sassenach how they dare to come into Mac- 
 gregor's country. But the young man was not 
 impressed : the muscles about his mouth quiver- 
 ed with suppressed laughter and the strenuous 
 effort to keep it down. He made her a bow — 
 the best he could under the circumstances — and 
 stood with the evening sunshine shining upon 
 his uncovered head and crisp curls, a very plea- 
 sant object to look upon, in an attitude of re- 
 spect which was half fun and half mockery, 
 though Kate did not find that out. 
 
 " Then I have been mistaken, and there is 
 nothing for it but to apologise, and take myself 
 ofi"," said Bertie. '^ I am very sorry, I am sure. 
 I thought something had gone wrong. To tell 
 the truth, I thought you were — crying." 
 
 " I was crying," said Kate. She did not in 
 the least want him to go. He was company — 
 he was novelty — he was something quite fresh, 
 and already had altogether driven away her 
 passion and her tears. Her heart quite leapt 
 up at this agreeable diversion. " I was crying, 
 and something had gone very wrong," she said 
 in a subdued tone, and with a gentle sigh. 
 
 D 2
 
 36 OMBRA. 
 
 *'I am very sorry," said Bertie. "I don't 
 suppose it is anything in which I could be of 
 use—?" 
 
 She looked at him again. " I think I know 
 who you are," she said. " You must be the 
 second son at the Rectory — the one whom 
 they call Bertie. At least I don't know who else 
 you could be." 
 
 " Yes, I am the one they call Bertie," he said, 
 laughing. *' Herbert Hardwick, at your service. 
 And I did not mean to trespass." 
 
 The laugh rang pleasantly through all the 
 echoes. It was infectious. Kate felt that, but 
 for her dignity, she would like to laugh too. 
 And yet it was a serious matter ; and to aid and 
 abet a trespasser, and at the same time " en- 
 courage " the Rectory people, was, she felt, a 
 thing which she ought not to do. But then it 
 had been real concern for herself, the Lady of 
 the Manor, which had been at the bottom of it ; 
 and that deserved to be considered on the other 
 side. 
 
 "I suppose not," she said, seriously. "In- 
 deed, I am very particular about it. I don't 
 see why you should laugh. I should not think
 
 OMBRA* 37 
 
 of going to walk in your grounds without leave, 
 and why should you in mine I But since you 
 are here, you must not go all that way back. 
 If you like to come with me, I will show you a 
 nearer way. Don't you think it is a very fine 
 park ? Were you ever in one like it before ?" 
 
 *' Yes," said Herbert, calmly, " a great many. 
 Langton-Courtenay is very nice, but it wants 
 size. The glades are pretty, and the trees are 
 charming, but everything is on a small scale." 
 
 *' On a small scale I" Kate cried, half choking 
 with indignation. This unparalleled presump- 
 tion took away even her voice. 
 
 " Yes, decidedly small. How many acres are 
 there in it ? My uncle, Sir Herbert Eldridge, has 
 five hundred acres in his. I am called after him, 
 and I have been a great deal with him, you know. 
 That is why I think your park so small. But it 
 is very pretty 1" said Herbert, condescendingly, 
 with a sense of the humour of the situation. 
 As for Kate, she was crushed. She looked up 
 at him first in a blaze of disdain, intending to 
 do battle for her own, but the number of acres 
 in Sir Herbert Eldridge's park made an end of 
 Kate.
 
 38 OMBRA. 
 
 " I tho-ught you were going to be a clergyman," 
 she said. 
 
 " So I am, I suppose ; but what then ?" 
 
 "Oh! I thought— I didn't know," cried 
 Kate. " I supposed perhaps you were not very 
 well off. But if you have such a rich uncle, 
 with such a beautiful park " 
 
 " I don't know what that has to do with it," 
 said Bertie, with a mischievous light in his eyes. 
 '•' We are not so very poor. We have dinners 
 three or four times a week, and bread and cheese 
 on the other days. A great many people are 
 worse off than that." 
 
 "If you mean to laugh at me," said Kate, 
 stopping short, with an angry gesture, " I think 
 you had better turn back again. I am not a 
 person to be made fun of." And then instantly 
 the water rushed to her eyes, for she was as 
 susceptible as any child is to ridicule. The 
 young man checked himself on the verge of 
 laughter, and apologized. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said. " I did not 
 mean to make myself disagreeable. Besides, T 
 don't think you are quite well. I hope you will 
 let me walk with you as far as the Hall."
 
 OMBRA. 39 
 
 *'OhI no," said Kate. But the suppressed 
 tears, which had come to her eyes out of rage 
 and indignation, suddenly grew blinding with 
 self-pity, and recollection of her hard fate. " Oh ! 
 you can't think how unhappy I am," she said 
 suddenly clasping her hands together — and a big 
 tear came with a rush down her innocent nose, 
 and fell, throwing up a little shower of salt spray 
 from the concussion, upon her ungloved hand. 
 This startled her, and her sense of dignity once 
 more awoke; but she struggled with difficulty 
 against her desire for sympathy. " I ought not 
 to talk to a stranger," she said ; " but, oh ! you 
 can't think how disagreeable Uncle Courtenay 
 can make himself, though he looks so nice. 
 And Miss Blank does not mind if I were dead 
 and buried ! Oh !" This exclamation was called 
 forth by another great blot of dew from her 
 eyes, which once more dashed and broke upon 
 her hand, as a wave does on a rock. Kate 
 looked at it with a silent concern which absorbed 
 her. Her own tears ! What was there in the 
 world more touching or more sad? 
 
 "I am so sorry," said Bertie Hardwick, 
 moved by compassion. " Was that what you
 
 40 M B R A * 
 
 were crying for? You should come to the 
 Rectorj, to my mother, who always sets every- 
 body right." 
 
 " Your mother would not care to see me," 
 said Kate, looking at him wistfully. " She does 
 not like me — she thinks I am your enemy. 
 People should consider, Mr. Bertie — they should 
 consider my position — " 
 
 "Yes, you poor little thing," said Bertie, 
 with the utmost sympathy ; " that is quite true — 
 you have neither father nor mother to keep you 
 right — people ought to make allowance for 
 that." 
 
 To describe Kate's consternation at this 
 speech would be impossible. She a poor little 
 thing ! — she without any one to set her right ! 
 Was the boy mad? She was so stunned for 
 the moment that she could make no reply — 
 so many new emotions overwhelmed her. To 
 make the discovery that Bertie Hardwick was 
 nice, that he had an uncle with a park larger 
 than the park at Langton-Courtenay ; to learn 
 that Langton-Courtenay was " small," and that 
 she herself was a poor little thing. '* What 
 next ? " Kate asked herself. For all this had
 
 OMBRA. 41 
 
 come to her knowledge in the course of half an 
 hour. If life was to bring a succession of such 
 surprises, how strange, how very strange it 
 must be I 
 
 " And I do wish you knew my mother," he 
 went on innocently, not having the least idea 
 that Kate's silence arose from the fact that she 
 was dumb with indignation ; " she has the gift 
 of understanding everybody. Isn't it a pity 
 that you should not know us. Miss Courtenay ? 
 My little sister Minnie, is about your age, I 
 should think." 
 
 " It is not my fault I don't know you," burst 
 forth Kate ; " it is because you have not behaved 
 properly to me — because your father would not 
 pay any attention. Is it right for a clergyman 
 to set a bad example, and teach people to 
 rebel? He never even took any notice of my 
 letter, though I am the natural head of the 
 parish — " 
 
 " You poor child !" cried Bertie ; and then he 
 laughed. 
 
 Kate could not bear it — this was worse than 
 her uncle Courtenay. She stood still for a 
 moment, and looked at him with things un-
 
 42 M B R A. 
 
 speakable in her eyes ; and then she turned 
 round, and rushed off across the green sward to 
 the Hall, leaving him bewildered and amazed 
 in the middle of the park, this time most evi- 
 dently a trespasser, not even knowing his way 
 back. He called after her, but received no 
 answer ; he stood and gazed round him in his 
 consternation. Finally he laughed, though this 
 time it was at himself, thus left in the lurch. 
 But Kate was not aware of that fact. She 
 heard the laugh, and it gave her wings ; she 
 fled to her melancholy home, where there was 
 nobody to comfort her, choking wdth sobs and 
 rage. Oh ! how forlorn she was ! — oh I how 
 insulted, despised, trodden upon by everybody, 
 she who w^as the lawful lady of the land ! He 
 would go and tell the Rectory girls, and to- 
 gether they would laugh at her. Kate would 
 have sent a thunderbolt on the Rectory, or fire 
 from Heaven, if she could.
 
 43 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 TTATE rushed upstairs to her own room when 
 -^^ she reached the Hall ; she was wild with 
 mortification and the sense of downfall. It 
 was the first time she had come into collision 
 with her fellow-creatures of a class equal to her 
 own. Servants and poor people in the village 
 had been impertinent to her ere now ; but these 
 were accidents, which Kate treated with the 
 contempt they deserved, and which she could 
 punish by the withdrawal of privileges and 
 presents. She could scold, and did so soundly ; 
 and she could punish. But she could neither 
 scold nor punish in the present case. Her 
 uncle Courtenay would only look at her in that 
 exasperating way, with that cool smile on his 
 face, as if she were a kitten ; and this new 
 being, with whom already she felt herself so
 
 44 M B R A . 
 
 well acquainted — Bertie would laugh, and be 
 kind, and sorry for her. " Poor child I — poor 
 little thing !" These were the words he had 
 dared to use. '* Oh I" Kate thought, " I would 
 
 like to kill him ! I would like to " And then 
 
 she asked herself what would he say at home ? 
 and writhed on the bed on which she had 
 thrown herself in inextinguishable shame. They 
 would laugh at her ; they would make fun of 
 her. "Oh I I would like to kill myself!" cried 
 Kate, in her thoughts. She cried her eyes out 
 in the silence of her room. There was no Bertie 
 to come there with sympathetic eyes to ask 
 what she was doing. Miss Blank did not care ; 
 neither did any one in the house — not even her 
 own maid, who was always about her, and to 
 whom she would talk for hours together. 
 Kate buried her head in her pillow, and tried 
 to picture to herself the aspect of the Rectory. 
 There would be the mother — who, Bertie said, 
 understood everybody — seated somewhere near 
 the table ; and Edith and Minnie in the room — 
 one of them, perhaps, doing worsted-work, one 
 at the piano, or copying music, or drawing, as 
 young ladies do in novels. Now and then, no
 
 M B RA. 45 
 
 doubt, Mrs. Hardwick would give them little 
 orders ; she would say, perhaps, " Play me one 
 of the Lieder, Minnie," or "that little air of 
 Mozart's." And she would say something about 
 her work to Edith. Involuntarily that picture 
 rose before lonely Kate. She seemed to see them 
 seated there, with the windows open, and sweet 
 scents coming in from the garden. She heard the 
 voices murmuring, and a soft little strain, andante 
 pianissimo, tinkling like the soft flow of a stream 
 through the pleasant place. Oh I how pleasant 
 it must be — even though she did not like the 
 Rectory people, though Mr. Hardwick had been 
 so rebellious, though they did not believe in 
 her (Kate's) natural headship of Church and 
 State in Langton-Courtenay. 
 
 She sobbed as she lay and dreamed, and de- 
 veloped her new imagination. She had won- 
 dered, half angrily, half wistfully, about the Rec- 
 tory people before, but Bertie seemed to give a 
 certain reality to them. He was the brother 
 of the girl whom Kate had so often inspected 
 with keen eyes, but did not know ; and he said 
 " Mamma " to that unknown Mrs. Hardwick. 
 " Mamma I" What a curious word it was, when
 
 46 OMBRA. 
 
 you came to think of it ! Not so serious, nor 
 full of meaning as mother was, but soft and 
 caressing — as of some one who would always 
 feel fur you, always put her arm round you, say 
 " dear " to you, ask what was the matter ? Miss 
 Blank never asked what was the matter ! She 
 took it for granted that Kate was cross, that it 
 was " her own fault," or, as the very kindest 
 hypothesis, that she had a headache, which Avas 
 not in Kate's way. 
 
 She lay sobbing, as I have said; but sobbing 
 softly, as her emotion wore itself out, without 
 tears. Her eyes were red, and her temples 
 throbbed a little. She was worn out; she would 
 not rouse herself and go downstairs to tempt 
 another conflict with her uncle, as, had it 
 not been for this last event, she would have 
 felt disposed to do. And yet, poor child, she 
 wanted her tea. Dinner had not been a satis- 
 factory meal, and Kate could not help saying to 
 herself that if Minnie and Edith had been suffer- 
 ing as she was, their mamma would have come 
 to them in the dark, and kissed them, and 
 bathed their hot foreheads, and brought them 
 cups of tea. But there was no one to bring a
 
 OMBRA. 47 
 
 cup of tea, without being asked, to a girl who 
 had no mother. Kate had but to ring her bell, 
 and she could have had whatever she pleased ; 
 but what did that matter ? No one came near 
 her, as it happened. The governess and her 
 maid both supposed her to be with her uncle, 
 and it was only when Maryanne came in at 
 nine o'clock to- prepare her young mistress's 
 hair-brushes and dressing-gown, that the young 
 mistress was found, to Maryanne's consterna- 
 tion, stretched on her bed, with a face as white 
 as her dress, and eyes surrounded with red 
 rings. And in the dark, of all things in the 
 world, in a place like Langton-Courtenay, where 
 it was well known the Blue Lady walked, and 
 turned folks to stone ! At the first glance 
 Maryanne felt certain that the Bhie Lady only 
 could be responsible for the condition in which 
 her young mistress was found. ' 
 
 " Oh ! miss,*' she cried, " and why didn't you 
 ring the bell?" 
 
 " It did not matter," said Kate, reproachful 
 and proud. 
 
 "Lying there all in the dark — and it don't 
 matter I Oh ! miss,, I know as you ain't timor-
 
 48 OMBRA. 
 
 some like me, but if you was once to see some- 
 thing " 
 
 *' Hold your tongue I" said Kate, peremptorily. 
 " See somf;thing I The thing is, in this house, 
 that one never sees anything I One might die, 
 and it never would be known. You don't care 
 enough for one to come and look if one is dead 
 or alive." 
 
 "Oh! missl" 
 
 " Don't say ' Oh ! miss I' to me," cried Kate, 
 indignantly, " or pretend — Go and fetch me 
 some tea. That is the only thing you can do. 
 You don't forget your own tea, or anything else 
 you want ; but when I am out of sorts, or have 
 a — headache " 
 
 Kate had no headache, except such as her 
 crying had made ; but it was the staple malady, 
 the thing that did duty for everything in Miss 
 Blank's vocabulary, and her pupil naturally fol- 
 lowed her example, to this extent, at least. 
 
 " Have you got a headache, miss ? I'll tell 
 Miss Blank — I'll go and fetch the housekeeper." 
 
 " If you do, I will ask Uncle Courtenay to 
 send you away to-morrow !" cried Kate. ** Go 
 and fetch me some tea,"
 
 M B R A. 40 
 
 But the tea which she had to order for herself 
 was very different, she felt sure, from the tea 
 that Edith Hardwick's niother would have car- 
 ried upstairs to her unasked. It was tea made 
 by Maryanne, who was not very careful if the 
 kettle was boiling, and who had filled a large 
 teapot full of water, in order to get this one 
 cup. It was very hot and very washy, and 
 made Kate angry. She sent away Maryanne 
 in a fit of indignation, and did her own hair for 
 the night, and made herself very uncomfortable. 
 How different it must be with Edith and Minnie ! 
 If Kate had only known it, however, Edith and 
 Minnie, had they conducted themselves as she 
 was doing, would have been metaphorically 
 whipped and put to bed. 
 
 In the morning she came down with pale 
 cheeks, but no one took any notice. Uncle 
 Courtenay was reading his paper, and had other 
 things to think of ; and Miss Blank intended to 
 ask what her pupil had been doing with herself 
 when they should be alone together in the 
 school-room. They ate their meal in a solemn 
 silence, broken only now and then by a remark 
 from Miss Blank, which was scarcely less 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 OMBRA. 
 
 solemn. Uncle Courtenay took no notice — he 
 read his paper, which veiled him even from his 
 companions' eyes. At last, Miss Blank, having 
 finished her breakfast, made a sign to Kate 
 that it was time to rise ; and then Kate took 
 courage. 
 
 "Uncle Com'tenay," she said very softly, 
 " you said you were going to call — at — the 
 Rectory ?" 
 
 Uncle Courtenay looked at her round the 
 corner of his paper. " Well," he said, " what 
 of that ? Of course 1 shall call at the Rectory / 
 — after what you have told me, I have no 
 choice." 
 
 " Then please — may I go with you ?" said 
 Kate. She cast down her eyes demurely as she 
 spoke, and consequently did not see the in- 
 quiring glance that he cast at her ; but she saw, 
 under her eyelashes, that he had laid down his 
 paper ; and this evidence of commotion was a 
 comfort to her soul. 
 
 " Go with me I" he said. " Not to give the 
 Rector any further impertinence, I hope ?" 
 
 Kate's eyes flashed, but she restrained her- 
 self. " I have never been impertinent to any
 
 OMBRA. 51 
 
 one, uncle. If I mistook what I had a right to, 
 was that my fault ? I am willing to make it 
 up, if they are ; and I can go alone if I mayn't 
 go with you." 
 
 " Oh I you can go with me if you choose," 
 said Mr. Courtenay, ungraciously ; and then he 
 took up his paper. But he was not so un- 
 gracious as he appeared ; he was rather glad, 
 on the whole, to have this opportunity of talk- 
 ing to her, and to see that (as he thought) his 
 reproof of the previous night had produced so 
 immediate an effect. He said to himself, cheer- 
 fully, " Come, the child is not so ungovernable 
 after all ;" and was pleased, involuntarily, by 
 the success of his operation. He was pleased, 
 too, with her appearance when she was dressed, 
 and ready to accompany him. She was subdued 
 in tone, and less talkative a great deal than she 
 had been the day before. He took it for granted 
 that it was his influence that had done this — 
 " Another proof," he said to himself, " how ex- 
 pedient it is to show that you are master, and 
 will stand no nonsense." He had been so 
 despairing about her the night before, and saw 
 such a vista of troubles before him in the six 
 
 UNiVERSITY OF \Wmv,
 
 52 OMBRA. 
 
 years of guardian ship that remained, that this 
 docility made him at once complacent and tri- 
 umphant now. 
 
 " I don't want to be hard upon you, Kate," 
 he said ; " but you must recollect that at pre- 
 sent, in the eye of the law, you are a child, 
 and have no right to interfere with any- 
 thing — neither parish, nor estate, nor even 
 house." 
 
 " But it is all mine. Uncle Courtenay." 
 " That has nothing to do with it," said 
 her guardian, promptly. "The deer in the 
 park have about as much right to meddle as 
 
 you." 
 
 " Is our park small ?" said Kate. *' Do you 
 know Sir Herbert Eldridge, Uncle Courtenay? 
 Where does he live ? — and has he a very fine 
 place ? I can't believe that there are five hun- 
 dred acres in his park ; and I don't know how 
 many there are in ours. I don't understand 
 measuring one's own places. What does it 
 matter an acre or two ? I am sure there is 
 no park so nice as Langton-Courtenay under 
 the sun,'*
 
 OMBRA. 53 
 
 " What is all this about parks ? You take 
 away my breath," said Mr. Courtenay, in dis- 
 may. 
 
 **OhI nothing," said Kate; "only that I 
 heard a person say — when 1 was out last night 
 I met one of the Rectory people, Uncle Courte- 
 nay — it is partly for that I want to go — his 
 sister, he says, is the same age as T " 
 
 " His sister I — it was a he, then ?" said Mr. 
 Courtenay, with that prompt suspiciousness 
 which is natural to the guardian of an heiress. 
 
 " It was Bertie, the second son — of course it 
 was a he. A girl could not have jumped over 
 the fence — one might scramble, you know, but 
 one couldn't jump it with one's petticoats. He 
 told me one or two things — about his family." 
 
 " But why did he jump over the fence 1 And 
 what do you know about him? Do you talk 
 to everybody that comes in your way — about 
 his family?" cried Mr. Courtenay, with return- 
 ing dismay. 
 
 "Of course I do, Uncle Courtenay,"- said 
 Kate, looking full at him. "You may say 1 
 have no right to interfere, but I have always
 
 54 OMBRA. 
 
 known that Langton was to be mine, and I 
 have always taken an interest in — everybody. 
 Why, it was my duty. What else could I 
 do?" 
 
 " I should prefer that you did almost any- 
 thing else," said Mr. Courtenay, hastily ; and 
 then he stopped short, feeling that it was in- 
 cautious to betray his reasons, or suggest to 
 the lively imagination of this perverse young 
 woman that there was danger in Bertie Hard- 
 wick and his talk. " The danger's self were 
 lure alone," he said to himself, and plunged, in 
 his dismay, into another subject. " Do you 
 remember what I said to you last night about 
 your aunt Anderson ? " he said. " Shouldn't 
 you like to go and see her, Kate ? She has a 
 daughter of your own age, an only child. They 
 have been abroad all their lives, and, I daresay, 
 speak a dozen languages — that sort of people 
 generally do. I think it would be a right thing 
 to visit her — " 
 
 " If it would be a right thing to visit her. 
 Uncle Courtenay, it would be still righter to ask 
 her to come here."
 
 OMBRA. 55 
 
 " But that I forbid, my dear," said the old 
 man. 
 
 Then there was a pause. Kate was greatly- 
 tempted to lose her temper, but, on the whole, 
 experience taught her that losing one's temper 
 seldom does much good, and she restrained her- 
 self. She tried a different mode of attack. 
 
 " Uncle Courtenay," she said, pathetically, 
 " is it because you don't want anyone to love 
 me that nobody is ever allowed to stay here V 
 
 " When you are older, Kate, you will see 
 what I mean," said Mr. Courtenay. " I don't 
 wish you to enter the world with any yoke on 
 your neck. I mean you to be fi-ee. You will 
 thank me afterwards, when you see how you 
 have been saved from a tribe of locusts — from a 
 household of dependents — " 
 
 Kate stopped and gazed at him with a curi- 
 ous, semi-comprehension. She put her head a 
 little on one side, and looked up to him with 
 her bright eyes. " Dependents !" she said — 
 " dependents, uncle I Miss Blank tells me I 
 have a great number of dependents, but I am 
 sure they don't care for me."
 
 56 M B R A. 
 
 '' They never do," said Mr. Courtenay — this 
 was, he thought, the one grand experience 
 which he had won from life.
 
 57 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 HERTIE HARDWICK was on the lawn in 
 ^ front of the Rectory when the two visit- 
 ors approached. The Rectory was a pretty, 
 old-fashioned house, large and qnaint, with 
 old picturesque wings and gables, and a front 
 much covered with climbing plants. Kate had 
 always been rather proud of it, as one of the 
 ornaments of her estate. She looked at it al- 
 most as she looked at the pretty west gate of 
 her park, where the lodge was so commodious 
 and so pleasant, coveted by all the poor people 
 on the estate. It was by Kate's grace and fa- 
 vour that the west lodge was given to one or 
 another, and so would it be with the Rectory. 
 She looked upon the one in much the same 
 light as the other. It would be hard to tell 
 what magnetic chord of sympathies had moved
 
 58 OMBRA. 
 
 Bertie Hardwick to some knowledge of what 
 his young acquaintance was about to do ; but 
 it is certain that he was there, pretending to 
 play croquet with his sisters, and keeping a 
 very keen eye upon the bit of road which was 
 visible through the break in the high laurel 
 hedge. He had been amused, and indeed some- 
 what touched and interested, in spite of himself, 
 on the previous night ; and somehow he had a 
 feeling that she would come. When he caught 
 a glimpse of her, he threw down the croquet 
 mallet, as if it hurt him, and cried out — " Edith, 
 run and tell mamma she is coming. I felt quite 
 sure she would." 
 
 " Who is coming?" cried the two girls. 
 
 ** Oh, don't chatter and ask questions — rush 
 and tell mamma I" cried Bertie ; and he himself, 
 without thinking of it, went forward to open 
 the garden door. It was a trial of Kate's steadi- 
 ness to meet him thus, but she did so with 
 wide-open eyes and a certain serious courage. 
 " You saw me at a disadvantage, but I don't 
 mind," Kate's serious eyes were saying ; and 
 as she took the matter very gravely indeed, it 
 was she who had the best of it now. Bertie,
 
 0MB RA. 59 
 
 in spite of himself, felt confused as he met her 
 look ; he grew red, and was ashamed of his own 
 foolish impulse to go and open the door. 
 
 "This is Mr. Bertie Hardwick, uncle," said 
 Kate, gravely ; "and this, Mr. Bertie, is my 
 uncle Courtenay — whom I told you of, " she 
 added, with a little sigh. 
 
 Her uncle Courtenay — whom she was obliged 
 to obey, and over whom neither her impetuosity 
 nor her melancholy had the least power. She 
 shook her head to herself, as it were, over her 
 sad fate, and by this movement placed once 
 more in great danger the gravity of poor Bertie, 
 who was afraid to laugh or otherwise miscon- 
 duct himself under the eyes of Mr. Courtenay. 
 fle led the visitors into the drawing-room, 
 through the open windows ; and it is impos- 
 sible to tell what a relief it was to him when he 
 saw his mother coming to the rescue. And 
 then they all sat down ; Kate as near Mrs. 
 Hardwick as she could manage to establish her- 
 self. Kate did not understand the shyness with 
 which Minnie and Edith, half withdrawn on the 
 other side of their mother, looked at her. 
 
 "I am not a wild beast," she said to her-
 
 60 M B R A. 
 
 self. " I wonder do they think I will bite ? " 
 
 " Did you tell them about last night f she 
 said, turning quickly to Bertie ; for Mrs. Hard- 
 wick, instead of talking to her, the Lady of the 
 Manor, as Kate felt she ought to have done, 
 gave her attention to Mr. Courtenay instead. 
 
 " I told them I had met you, Miss Courtenay," 
 said Bertie. 
 
 " And did they laugh ? Did you make fun of 
 me? Why do they look at me so strangely?" 
 cried Kate, growing red ; " I am not a wild 
 beast." 
 
 "You forget that you and my father have 
 quarrelled," said Bertie ; '* and the girls natu- 
 rally take his side." 
 
 " Oh I is it that ?" cried Kate, clearing up a 
 little. She gave a quick glance at him, with a 
 misgiving as to whether he was entirely serious. 
 But Bertie kept his oountenance. "For that 
 matter, I have come to say that I did not mean 
 anything wrong ; perhaps I made a mistake. 
 Uncle Courtenay says that, till I am of age, I 
 have no power ; and if the Rector pleases — oh ! 
 there is the Rector — I ought to speak for my- 
 self."
 
 OMBRA. 61 
 
 She rose as Mr. Hardwick came up to her. 
 Her sense of her owu importance gave a certain 
 dignity to her young figure, which was springy 
 and stately, like that of a young Diana. She 
 threw back the flood of chestnut hair that 
 streamed over her shoulders, and looked straight 
 at him with her bright, well-opened eyes. 
 Altogether she looked a creature of a different 
 species from Edith and Minnie, who kept close 
 together, looking at her with wonder, and a 
 mixture of admiration and repugnance. 
 
 '^ Isn't it bold of her to speak to papa like 
 that ?" Minnie whispered to Edith. 
 
 " But she is going to ask his pardon," Edith 
 whispered back to Minnie. " Oh ! hush, and 
 hear what she says." 
 
 As for Bertie, he looked on with a strange feel- 
 ing that it was he who had introduced this new 
 figure into the domestic circle, and with a little 
 anxiety of proprietorship hoped that she would 
 make a good impression. She was his novelty, 
 his property — and she was, there could be no 
 doubt, a very great novelty indeed. 
 
 *' Mr. Hardwick, please," said Kate, redden- 
 ing, yet confronting him with her head very
 
 62 OMBRA. 
 
 erect, and her eyes very open, " I find that I 
 made a mistake. Uncle Courtenay tells me I 
 had no right at my age to interfere. I shall 
 not be of age for six years, and don't you think 
 it would be best to be friendly — till then ? If 
 you are willing, I should be glad. I thought I 
 had a right — but I understand now that it was 
 all a mistake." 
 
 Mr. Hardwick looked round upon the com- 
 pany, questioning and puzzled. He was a tall 
 man, spare, but of a large frame, with deep-set 
 blue eyes looking out of a somewhat brown 
 face. His eyes looked like a bit of sky, which 
 had strayed somehow into that brown, ruddy 
 framework. They were the same colour as his 
 son's, Bertie's ; but Bertie's youthful counte- 
 nance was still white and red, and the contrast 
 was not so great. The Rector's face was very 
 grave when in repose, and its expression had 
 almost daunted Kate ; but gradually he caught 
 the joke (which was intended to be so profoundly 
 serious) and lighted up. He had looked at his 
 wife first, with a man's natural instinct, asking 
 an explanation ; and perhaps the suppressed 
 laughter in Mrs. Hardwick's eyes was what gave
 
 OMBRA. 63 
 
 him the clue. He made the little Lady of the 
 Manor a profound bow.. *'Let us understand 
 each other, Miss Courtenay," he said, with mock 
 solemnity — " are we to be friendly only till you 
 come of age ? Six years is a long time. But 
 if after that hostilities are to be resumed " 
 
 '' When I am of age of course I must do my 
 duty," said Kate. 
 
 She was so serious, standing there in the 
 midst of them, grave as twenty judges, that 
 nobody could venture to laugh. Uncle Courte- 
 nay, who was getting impatient, and who had 
 no feeling either of chivalry or admiration for 
 his troublesome ward, uttered a hasty exclama- 
 tion ; but the Rector took her hand, and shook 
 it, with a smile which at once conciliated his 
 two girls, who were looking on. 
 
 " That is just the feeling you ought to have," 
 he said. *' I see we shall be capital friends — 
 I mean for six years; and then whatever you see 
 to be your duty — Is it a bargain ? I am de- 
 lighted to accept these terms." 
 
 " And I am very glad," said Kate, sedately. 
 She sat down again when he released her hand 
 — giving her head a little shake, as was cus-
 
 64 0MB RA. 
 
 tomary with her, and looked round with a cer- 
 tain majestic composure on the Httle assembly. 
 As for Bertie, though he could not conceal from 
 himself the fact that his father and mother were 
 much amused, he still felt very proud of his 
 young lady. He went up to her, and stood be- 
 hind her chair, and made signs to his mother 
 that she was to talk ; which Mrs. Hardwick did 
 to such good purpose that Kate, who wanted 
 little encouragement, and to whom a friendly 
 face was sweet, soon stood fully self-revealed 
 to her new acquaintances. They took her out 
 upon the lawn, and instructed her in croquet, 
 and grew familiar with her ; and, before half an 
 hour had passed, Minnie and Edith, one on each 
 side, were hanging about her, half in amaze- 
 ment, half in admiration. She was younger 
 than both, for even Minnie, the little one, was 
 sixteen ; but then neither of them was a great 
 lady — neither the head and mistress of her own 
 house. 
 
 " Isn't it dreadfully dreary for you to live in 
 that great house all by yourself?" said Edith. 
 They were so continually together, and so apt to 
 take up each other'ssentiments,onerepeatingand
 
 OMBRA. 65 
 
 continuing what the other had said, that they 
 could scarcely get through a question except 
 jointly. So that Minnie now added her voice, 
 running into her sister's. ** It must be so dull, 
 unless your governess is very nice indeed." 
 
 "My governess — Miss Blank?" said Kate. 
 '' I never thought whether she was nice or not. 
 I have had so many. One comes for a year, 
 and then another, and then another. I never 
 could make out why they liked to change so 
 often. Uncle Courtenay thinks it is best." 
 
 " Oh I our governess stayed for years and 
 years," said Edith ; added Minnie, " We were 
 nearly as fond of her as of mamma." 
 
 " But then I suppose," said Kate, with a little 
 sigh, " she was fond of you ?" 
 
 *' Why, of course," cried the two girls to- 
 gether. " How could she help it, when she had 
 known us all our lives V 
 
 •' You think a great deal of yourselves," said 
 Kate, with dreary scorn, " to think people must 
 be fond of you I If you were like me you 
 would know better. I never fancy anything of 
 the kind. If they do what I tell them, that is all 
 I ask. You are very different from me. You 
 VOL. 1. F
 
 66 M B R A. 
 
 have father, and mother, and brothers, and all 
 sorts of things. But I have nobody, except 
 Uncle Courtenay — and I am sure 1 should be 
 very glad to make you a present of him." 
 
 " Have you not even an aunt ?" said Minnie, 
 with big round eyes of "wonder. '* Nor a cousin?" 
 said Edith, equally surprised. 
 
 "No — that is, oh! yes, I have one of each — 
 Uncle Courtenay was talking of them as we 
 came here — but I never saw them. I don't know 
 anything about them," said Kate. 
 
 "What curious people, not to come to see 
 you !" " And what a pity you don't know them !" 
 said the sisters. 
 
 "And how curiously you talk," said uncom- 
 promising Kate; "both together. Please, is 
 there only one of you, or are there two of you ? 
 I suppose it is talking in the same voice, and 
 being dressed alike." 
 
 "We are considered alike," said Edith, the 
 eldest, with an air of suppressed offence. As 
 for Minnie, she was too indignant to make any 
 reply. 
 
 "And so you are alike," said Kate; "and a 
 little like your brother, too ; but he speaks for
 
 M B R A . 67 
 
 himself. I don't object to people being alike ; 
 bnt I shonld try very hard to make you talk 
 like two people, not like one, and not always to 
 hang together and dress the same, if you were 
 with me." 
 
 Upon this there was a dead pause. The 
 Rectory girls were good girls, but not quite 
 prepared to stand an assault like this. Minnie, 
 who had a quick temper, and who had been 
 taught that it was indispensable to keep it 
 down, shut her lips tight, and resisted the temp- 
 tation to be angry. Edith, who was more 
 placid, gazed at the young censor with wonder. 
 What a strange girl ! 
 
 " Because," said Kate, endeavouring to be 
 explanatory, " your voices have just the same 
 sound, ^ and you are just the same height, and 
 your blue frocks are even made the same. Are 
 there so many girls in the world," she said 
 suddenly, with a pensive appeal to human na- 
 ture in general, " that people can afford to throw 
 them away, and make two into one V 
 
 Deep silence followed. Mrs. Hardwick had 
 been called away, and Bertie was talking to 
 the gardener at the other end of the lawn. 
 
 f2
 
 68 OMBRA. 
 
 This was the first unfortunate result of leaving 
 the girls to themselves. They walked on a 
 little, the two sisters falling a step behind in 
 their discomfiture. ** How dare she speak to 
 us so ?" Minnie whispered through her teeth. 
 " Dare I — she is our guest !" said Edith, who 
 had a high sense of decorum. A minute after, 
 Kate perceived that something was amiss. 
 She turned round upon them, and gazed into 
 their faces with serious scrutiny. " Are you 
 angry f ' she said — '* have I said anything 
 wrong V 
 
 " Oh ! not angry," said Edith. " I suppose, 
 since you look surprised, you don't — mean — 
 any harm." 
 
 " I ? — mean harm ? Oh ! Mr. Bertie," cried 
 
 Kate, " come here quick — quick ! — and explain 
 to them. You know me. What have I done 
 to make them angry ? One may surely say 
 what one thinks." 
 
 "I don't know that it is good to say all one 
 thinks," said Edith, who taught in the Sunday- 
 schools, and who was considered very thought- 
 ful and judicious — '' at least, when it is likely 
 to hurt other people's feelings."
 
 M B R A. 69 
 
 " Not when it is true f said the remorseless 
 Kate. 
 
 And then the whole group came to a pause, 
 Bertie standing open-mouthed, most anxious to 
 preserve the peace, but not knowing how. It 
 was the judicious Edith who brought the crisis 
 to a close by acting upon one of the maxims 
 with which she was familiar as a teacher of 
 youth. 
 
 " Should you like to walk round the gar- 
 den f she said, changing the subject with an 
 adroitness which was very satisfactory to her- 
 self, '* or come back into the drawing-room ? 
 There is not much to see in our little place, 
 after your beautiful gardens at Langton-Cour- 
 tenay ; but still, if you would like to walk 
 round— ;-or perhaps you would prefer to go in 
 and join mamma f 
 
 " My uncle must be ready to go now," said 
 Kate, with responsive quickness, and she 
 stalked in before them through the open win- 
 dow. As good luck would have it, Mr. Cour- 
 tenay was just rising to take his leave. Kate 
 followed him out, much subdued, in one sense, 
 though all in arms in another. The girls were
 
 70 M B R A. 
 
 not nearly so nice as she thouglit they would be 
 — reality was not equal to anticipation — and to 
 think they should have quarrelled with her the 
 very first time for nothing ! This was the view 
 of the matter which occurred to Kate.
 
 71 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 T CANNOT undertake to say how it was, but 
 -*- it is certain that Bertie Hardwick met Kate 
 next day, as she took her walk into the village, 
 accompanied by Miss Blank. At the sight of 
 him, that lady's countenance clouded over; but 
 Kate was glad, and the young man took no 
 notice of Miss Blank's looks. As it happened, 
 the conversation between the governess and 
 her pupil had flagged — it often flagged. The 
 conversation between Kate and Miss Blank 
 consisted generally of a host of bewildering 
 questions on the one side, and as few answers 
 as could be managed on the other. Miss Blank 
 no doubt had aflFairs of her own to think of; 
 and then Kate's questions were of everything 
 in heaven and earth, and might have troubled 
 even a wise counsellor. Mr. Courtenay was 
 still at Langton, but had sent out his niece for
 
 72 OMBRA. 
 
 her usual walk — a thing by which she felt hu- 
 miliated — and she had met with a rebuff in the 
 village in consequence of some interference. 
 She was in low spirits, and Miss Blank did not 
 mind. Accordingly, Bertie was a relief and 
 comfort to her, more than can be described. 
 
 " Why don't your sisters like me ?" said Kate. 
 ^'I wonder, Mr. Bertie, why people don't like 
 me ? If they would let me, I should like to be 
 friends ; but you saw they would not." 
 
 *' I don't think — perhaps — that they quite 
 
 understood " 
 
 " But it is so easy to understand," said Kate, 
 with a little impatient sigh. She shook her 
 head, and tossed back her shining hair, which 
 made an aureole round her. " Don't let us 
 speak of it," she said; "but you understood 
 from the very first?" 
 
 Bertie was pleased, he could not have told 
 why. The fact was, he, too, had been ex- 
 tremely puzzled at first ; but now, after three 
 meetings, he felt himself an old friend and 
 privileged interpreter of the strange girl whom 
 his sisters were so indignant with, and who 
 certainly was a more important personage at
 
 OMBRA. 73 
 
 Langton-Courtenaythan any other fifteen-year- 
 old girl in England. Both Mr. Hardwick and 
 Bertie had to some extent made themselves 
 Kate's champions, moved thereto by that strange 
 predisposition to take the side of a feminine 
 stranger (at least, when she is young and plea- 
 sant) against the women of their own honse, 
 which almost all men are moved by. Women 
 take their father's, their husband's, their bro- 
 ther's side through thick and thin, with a natu- 
 ral certainty that their own must be in the 
 right ; but men invariably take it for granted 
 that their own must be wrong. Thus, not only 
 Bertie, who might be moved by other argu- 
 mentSj'but even Mr. Hardwick, secretly believed 
 that " the girls " had taken offence foolishly, 
 and maintained the cause of Kate. 
 
 " They have seen nothing out of their own 
 sphere," their brother said, apologetically — 
 " they don't know much — they are very much 
 petted and spoiled at home." 
 
 " Ah !" said Kate, feeling as if a chilly douche 
 had suddenly been administered in her face. 
 She drew a long, half-sobbing breath, and then 
 she said, with a pathetic tone in her voice,
 
 74 OMBRA. 
 
 " Oh ! I wonder why people don't like me !" 
 
 *• You are wrong, Miss Courtenay — I am sure 
 you are wrong," said Bertie, warmly. "Not 
 like you ! — that must be their stupidity alone. 
 And I can't believe, even, that any one is so 
 stupid. You must be making a mistake." 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Bertie, how can you say so ? Why, 
 your sisters!" cried Kate, returning to the charge. 
 
 " But it is not that they — don't like you," said 
 Bertie. *' How could you think it? It is only 
 a misunderstanding — a — a — want of know- 
 ing " 
 
 " You are trying to save my feelings," said 
 Kate ; *' but never mind my feelings. No, Mr. 
 Bertie, it is quite true. I do not want to de- 
 ceive myself — people do not like me." These 
 words she produced singly, as if they had been 
 so many stones thrown at the world. " Oh ! 
 please don't say anything — perhaps it is my 
 fate ; perhaps I am never to be any better. But 
 that is how it is — people don't like me ; I am 
 sure I don't know why." 
 
 ** Miss Courtenay — " Bertie began, with great 
 earnestness ; but just then the man of all work 
 from the Rectory, who was butler, and footman,
 
 OMBRA. 75 
 
 and valet, and everything combined, made his 
 appearance at the corner, beckoning to him ; 
 and as the servant was sent by his father, he 
 had no alternative but to go away. When he 
 was out of sight, Kate, whose eyes had followed 
 him as far as he was visible, breathed forth a 
 gentle sigh, and was going on quietly upon her 
 way, silent, until the mood should seize her to 
 chatter once more, when an event occurred that 
 had never been known till now to happen at 
 Langton — the governess, who was generally 
 blank as her name, opened her mouth and spoke. 
 
 " Miss Courtenay," she said, for she was not 
 even sufficiently interested in her pupil to care 
 to speak to her by her Christian name — " Miss 
 Courtenay, if this sort of thing continues, I shall 
 have to go away." 
 
 Kate, who was not much less startled than Ba- 
 laam was on a similar occasion, stopped short, and 
 turned round with a face of consternation upon 
 her companion. ** If what continues V she said. 
 
 " This," said Miss Blank — '* this meeting of 
 young men, and walking with them. It is hard 
 enough to have to manage you; but if this goes 
 on, I shall speak to Mr. Courtenay. I never
 
 76 OMBRA. 
 
 was compromised before, and I don't mean to be 
 so now." 
 
 Kate was so utterly unconscious of the mean- 
 ing of all this, that she simply stared in dismay. 
 " Compromised !" she said, with big eyes of 
 astonishment ; " I don't know what you mean. 
 What is it that must not g<'^ ^^^ '^ Miss Blank, 
 I hope you hav^e not had a sunstroke, or some- 
 thing that makes people talk without knowing 
 what they say.'' 
 
 " I will not take any impertinence from you, 
 Miss Oourtenay," said Miss Blank, going red 
 with wrath. " Ask why people don't like you, 
 indeed ! — you should ask me, instead of asking 
 a gentleman, fishing for compliments ! Til tell 
 you why people don't like you. It is because 
 you are always interfering — thrusting yourself 
 into things you have no business with — taking 
 things upon you that no child has a right to 
 meddle with. That is why people hate you — " 
 
 " Hate me !" cried Kate, who, for her part, 
 had grown pale with horror. 
 
 " Yes, hate you — that is the word. Do you 
 think anyone would put up with such a life 
 who could help it ? You are an heiress, and
 
 OMBRA. 77 
 
 people are obliged to miud you ; but if you had 
 been a poor girl, you would have known the 
 difference. Nobody would have put up with 
 you then ; you would have been beaten, or 
 starved, or done something to. It is only your 
 money that gives you the power to trample 
 others under your feet." 
 
 Kate was appalled by this address. It stupe- 
 fied her, in the first place, that Miss Blank 
 should have taken the initiative, and launched 
 forth into speech, as it were, on her own ac- 
 count ; and the assault took away the girl's 
 breath. She felt as one might feel who had 
 been suddenly saluted with a shower of blows 
 from an utterly unsuspected adversary. She 
 did not know whether to fight or flee. She 
 walked along mechanically by her assailant's 
 side, and gasped for breath. Her eyes grew 
 large and round with wonder. She listened in 
 amaze, not able to believe her ears. 
 
 " But I won't be kept quiet any longer," said 
 Miss Blank — " I will speak. Why should I get 
 myself into trouble for you? I will go to Mr. 
 Courtenay, when we get back, and I will tell 
 him it is impossible to go on like this. It was
 
 78 OMBRA. 
 
 bad enough before. You were trouble enough 
 from the first day I ever set eyes on you ; but I 
 have always said to myself, when that com- 
 mences, I will go away. My character is above 
 everything, and all the gold in England would 
 not tempt me to stay." 
 
 Kate listened to all this with a bewilderment 
 that took from her the power of speech. What 
 did the woman mean ? — was she " in a pas- 
 sion," as, indeed, other governesses, to Kate*8 
 knowledge, had been ; or was she mad ? It 
 must be a simstroke, she decided at last. They 
 had been walking in the sun, and Miss Blank's 
 bonnet was too thin, being made of flimsy tulle. 
 Her brain must be affected. Kate resolved 
 heroically that she would not aggravate the 
 sufferer by any response, but would send for 
 the housekeeper as soon as they got back, and 
 place Miss Blank in her hands. People in her 
 sad condition must not be contradicted. She 
 quickened her steps, discussing with herself 
 whether a dark room and ice to the forehead 
 would be enough, or whether it would be ne- 
 cessary to cut off all her hair, or even shave 
 her head. This pre-occupation about Miss
 
 OMBRA. i\) 
 
 Blank's welfare shielded the girl for some 
 time against the fiery, stinging arrows which 
 were being thrown at her ; but this immunity- 
 did not last, for the way was long, and Miss 
 Blank, having once broken out, put no further 
 restraint upon herself. It was clear now that 
 her only hope was in laying Kate prostrate, 
 leaving no spirit nor power of resistance in her. 
 By degrees the sharp words began to get ad- 
 mittance at the girl's tingling ears. She was 
 beaten down by the storm of opposition. Was 
 it possible? — could it be true? Did people 
 hate her ? Her imagination began to work as 
 these burning missiles flew at her. Miss Blank 
 had been her companion for a year, and hated 
 her ! Uncle Courtenay was her own uncle — 
 her nearest relative — and he, too, hated her I 
 The girls at the Rectory, who looked so gentle, 
 had turned against her. Oh ! why, why was 
 it ? By degrees a profound discouragement 
 seized upon the poor child. Miss Blank was 
 eloquent ; she had a flow of words such as had 
 never come to her before. She poured forth 
 torrents of bitterness as she walked, and Kate 
 was beaten down by the storm. By the time
 
 80 M B R A. 
 
 they reached home she had forgotten all about 
 the sunstroke, and shaving Miss Blank's head, 
 and thought of nothing but getting free — getting 
 into the silence — being alone. Maryanne put a 
 letter into her hand as she ran upstairs; but 
 what did she care for a letter I Everybody 
 hated her — if it were not that she was an heiress 
 everybody would abandon her — and she had not 
 one friend to go to, no one whom she could ask 
 to help her in all the dreary world. She was 
 too far gone for weeping. She sat down before 
 her dressing-table and looked into the glass with 
 miserable, dilated eyes. " I am just like other 
 people," Kate said to herself; " there is no mark 
 upon me. Cain was marked ; but that was be- 
 cause he was a murderer; and I never killed any- 
 body, I never did any harm to anybody, that 
 I know of. I am only just a gir], like other 
 girls. Oh I I suppose I am dreadfully wicked I 
 But then everybody is wicked — the Bible says 
 so ; and how am I worse than all the rest ? I 
 don't hate anyone," said Kate, aloud, and very 
 slowly. Her poor little mouth quivered, her 
 eyes filled, and right upon the letter on her 
 table there fell one great blob of a tear. This
 
 M B R A. 81 
 
 roused Ler in the midst of her distress. To 
 Kate — as to every human being of her age — it 
 seemed possible that something new, something 
 wonderful might be in any letter. She took 
 it up and tore it open. She was longing for 
 comfort, longing for kindness, as she had never 
 done in her life. 
 
 The letter which we are about to transcribe 
 was not a very wise one, perhaps not even alto- 
 gether to be Severn by as true — but it opened an 
 entire new world to poor Kate. 
 
 " My dearest unknown darling Niece, 
 
 " You can't remember me, for I have 
 never seen you since you were a tiny, tiny baby 
 in long clothes ; and you have had nobody about 
 you to remind you that you had any relations 
 on your mother's side. You have never an- 
 swered my letters even, dear, though I don't 
 for a moment blame you, or suppose it is your 
 fault. But now that I am in England, darling, 
 we must not allow ourselves to be divided by 
 unfortunate feelings that may exist between 
 different sides of the family. I must see you, 
 my dear only sister's only darling child I I have 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 OMBRA. 
 
 but one child, too, my Ombra, and she is as 
 anxious as I am. I have written to your 
 guardian, asking if he will let you come and see 
 us. I do not wish to go to your grand house, 
 which was always thought too fine for us, but 
 I must see you, my darling child ; and if Mr. 
 Courtenay will not let you come to us, my 
 Ombra and I will come to Langton-Courtenay, 
 to the village, where we shall no doubt find 
 lodgings somewhere — I don't mind how humble 
 they are, so long as 1 can see you. My heart 
 yearns to take you in my arms, to give you a 
 hundred kisses, my own niece, my dear mother- 
 less child. Send me one little word by your 
 own haod, and don't reject the love that is 
 offered you, my dearest Kate. Ombra sends 
 you her dear love, and thinks of you, not as a 
 cousin, but as a sister ; and I, who have the 
 best right, long for nothing so much as to be a 
 mother to you ! Come to us, my sweet child, 
 if your uncle will let you ; but, in the meantime, 
 write to me, that I may know you a little even 
 before we meet". With warmest love, my darling 
 niece, your most affectionate aunt and, if you 
 will let her be so, mother, " Jane ANDERSON."
 
 OMBRA. 83 
 
 Now poor Kate had only two or three times 
 in her whole Hfe received a letter before. Since, 
 as she said, she had " grown up," she had not 
 heard from her aunt, who had written her, she 
 recollected, one or two baby epistles, printed in 
 large letters, in her childhood. Her poor little 
 soul was still convulsed with the first great, open 
 undisguised shock of unkindness, when this 
 other great event came upon her. It was also 
 a shock in its way. It made such a tempest in 
 her being as conflicting winds make out at sea. 
 The one had driven her down to the depths, 
 the other dashed her up, up to a dizzy height. 
 8he felt dazed, insensible, proud, triumphant, 
 and happy, all at once. Here was somebody of 
 her own, somebody of her very own — something 
 like the mother at the Rectory. Something 
 new, close, certain — her own ! 
 
 She dashed the tears from her eyes with a 
 handkerchief, seized upon her letter, her dear 
 letter, and rushed downstairs to the library, 
 where Uncle Courtenay sat in state, the judge, 
 and final tribunal for all appeals. 
 
 g2
 
 84 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 II I R. COURTENAY was in the libraiy at 
 ^'-^ Langton, tranquilly pursuing some part 
 of the business which had brought him thither, 
 when Miss Blank and her charge returned from 
 their walk. His chief object, it is true, in this 
 visit to the house of his fathers, had been to look 
 after his ward ; but there had been other busi- 
 ness to do — leases to renew, timber to cut down, 
 cottages to build ; a multiplicity of small mat- 
 ters, which required his personal attention. 
 These were straightforward, and did not trouble 
 him as the others did ; and the fact was that he 
 felt much relieved by the absence of the young 
 feminine problem, which it was so hard upon 
 him, at his age, and with his habits, to be bur- 
 dened with. He had dismissed her even out of 
 his mind, and was getting through the less
 
 OMBRA. 85 
 
 difficult matters steadily, with a grateful sense 
 that here at least he had nothing in hand that 
 was beyond his power. It was shady in the 
 Langton library, cool, and very quiet ; whereas 
 outside there was one blaze of sunshine, and the 
 day was hot. Mr. Courtenay was comfortable 
 — perhaps for the first time since his arrival. 
 He was satisfied with his present occupation, 
 and for the moment had dismissed his other 
 cares. 
 
 This was the pleasant position of affairs when 
 Aliss Blank rushed in upon him, with indigna- 
 tion in her countenance. There was something 
 more than indignation — there was the flush of 
 heat produced by her walk> and her unusual 
 outburst of temper, and the dust, and a little 
 dishevelment inseparable from wrath. She 
 scarcely took time to knock at the door. She 
 was a person who had been recommended to 
 hira as imperturbable in temper and languid in 
 disposition — the last in the world to make any 
 fuss ; consequently he stared upon her now with 
 absolute consternation, and even a little alarm. 
 
 ** Compose yourself, Miss Blank — take time 
 to speak. Has anything happened to Kate ?"
 
 86 M B RA. 
 
 He was quite capable of hearing with com- 
 posure anything that might have happened to 
 Kate — anything short of positive injury, in- 
 deed, which would have freed him of her, would 
 have been tidings of joy. 
 
 " 1 have come to say, sir," said Miss Blank, 
 " that there are some things a lady cannot be 
 expected to put up with. I have always felt 
 the time must come when I could not put up 
 with Miss Courtenay. I am not an ill-tempered 
 person, I hope — " 
 
 " Quite the reverse, I have always heard," 
 said Mr. Courtenay, politely, but with a sigh. 
 
 " Thank you, sir. I believe I have always 
 been considered to have a good temper ; but 1 
 have said to myself, since ever I came here, 
 'Miss Courtenay is bad enough now — she is 
 trial enough to any lady's feelings now.' I am 
 sorry to have to say it if it hurts youi" feelings, 
 Mr. Courtenay, but your niece is — she is — it is 
 really almost impossible for a lady who has a 
 respect for herself, and does not wish to be 
 hurried into exhibitions of temper, to say what 
 Miss Kate is." 
 
 " Pray compose yourself, Miss Blank. Take a
 
 OMBRA. 87 
 
 seat. From my own observation," said Mr. 
 Courtenay, " I am aware my niece must be 
 troublesome at times." 
 
 " Troublesome !" said Miss Blank — " at times I 
 That shows, sir, how little you know. About 
 her troublesomeness I can't trust myself to 
 speak ; nor is it necessary at the present mo- 
 ment. But I have always said to myself, 
 * When tJmt time comes, I will go at once.' And 
 it appears to me, Mr. Courtenay, that though 
 premature, that time has come." 
 
 " What time, for Heaven's sake ?" said the 
 perplexed guardian. 
 
 "Mr. Courtenay, you know what she is as 
 well as I do. It is not for any personal reason, 
 though I am aware many people think her 
 pretty ; but it is not that. She is an heiress, 
 she will have a nice property, and a great deal 
 of money, therefore it is quite natural that it 
 should be premature." 
 
 "Miss Blank, you would do me an infinite 
 favour if you would speak plainly. What is it 
 that is premature ?" 
 
 Miss Blank had taken a seat, and she had 
 loosed the strings of her bonnet. Her ideas of
 
 88 M B R A. 
 
 decorum had indeed been so far overcome by 
 her excitement, that even under Mr. Courtenay's 
 eye she had begun to fan herself with her hand- 
 kerchief. She made a pause in this occupation, 
 and pressed her handkerchief to her face, as ex- 
 pressive of confusion ; and from the other side 
 of this shield she answered, " Oh ! that I should 
 have to speak to a gentleman of such things I 
 If you demand a distinct answer, I must tell 
 you. It is lovers, Mr. Courtenay." 
 
 " Lovers I'* he said, involuntarily, with a laugh 
 of relief. 
 
 " You may laugh, but it is no laughing mat- 
 ter," said Miss Blank. " Oh I if you had known, 
 as I do by experience, what it is to manage 
 girls ! Do you know what a girl is, Mr. Courte- 
 nay 1 — the most aggravating, trying, unmanage- 
 able, untamable " 
 
 " My dear Miss Blank," said Mr. Courtenay, 
 seriously, *' I presume that you were once one of 
 these untamable creatures yourself." 
 
 *' Ah !" said the governess, with a long- 
 drawn breath. It had not occurred to her, and, 
 curiously enough, now that it was suggested, 
 the idea seemed rather to flatter her than other-
 
 OMBRA. 89 
 
 wise. She shook her head ; but she was soft- 
 ened. " Perhaps I should not have said all 
 girls," she resumed. " I was very strictly 
 brought up, and never allowed to take such 
 folly into my head. But to return to our sub- 
 ject, Mr. Oourtenay. I must beg your attention 
 to this — it has been my principle through life, 
 I have never departed from it yet, and I cannot 
 now — When lovers appear, 1 have always made 
 it known among my friends — I go." 
 
 " I have no doubt it is an admirable princi- 
 ple," said Mr. Courtenay. " But in the present 
 case let us come to particulars. Who are the 
 lovers r 
 
 " One of the young gentlemen at the Rec- 
 tory," answered Miss Blank, promptly; and 
 then for the first time she felt that she had pro- 
 duced an effect. 
 
 Mr. Courtenay made no reply — he put down 
 his pen, which he had been holding all this time 
 in his hand ; his face clouded over ; he pushed 
 his paper away from him, and puckered his lips 
 and his forehead. This time, without doubt, 
 she had produced an effect. 
 
 " I must beg you accordingly, Mr. Courtenay,
 
 90 OMBRA. 
 
 to accept my resignation," said Miss Blank. " I 
 have always kept up a good connection, and 
 never suffered myself to be compromised, and I 
 don't mean to begin now. This day month, sir, 
 if you please — if in the meantime you^are suited 
 with another lady in my place " 
 
 "Miss Blank, don't you think this is some- 
 thing like forsaking your post ? Is it not un- 
 generous to desert my niece when she has so 
 much need of your protection? Do you not 
 feel — " Mr. Courtenay had commenced, un- 
 awares. 
 
 " Sir," said Miss Blank, with dignity, " when 
 I was engaged, it was specially agreed that this 
 was to be no matter of feelings. I have specially 
 watched over my feelings, that they might not 
 get any way involved. I am sure you must 
 recollect the terms of my engagement as well 
 as I." 
 
 Mr. Courtenay did recollect them, and felt he 
 had made a false step ; and then the diflSculties 
 of his position rushed upon his bewildered 
 sight. He did not know girls as Miss Blank 
 did, who had spent many a weary year in 
 wrestling with them ; but he knew enough to
 
 OMBRA. 91 
 
 understand that, if a girl in her natural state 
 was liard to manage, a girl with a lover must 
 be worse. And what was he to do if left alone, 
 and unaided, to rule and quiet such an ap- 
 palling creature? fie drew in his lips, and con- 
 tracted his forehead, until his face was about 
 half its usual size. It gave him a little relief 
 when the idea suddenly struck him that Miss 
 Blank's hypothesis might not be built on suffi- 
 cient foundation. Women were always think- 
 ing of lovers — or, at least, not knowing any- 
 thing precisely about women, so Mr. Courtenay 
 had heard. 
 
 "Let us hope, at least,'* he said, "that your 
 alarming suggestion has been hastily made. 
 Will you tell me what foundation you have for 
 connecting Kate's name with — with anything of 
 the kind ? She is only fifteen — she is not old 
 enough." 
 
 " I thought I had said distinctly, Mr. Courte- 
 nay, that I considered it to be premature ? " 
 
 '* Yes, yes, certainly — you said so — but 
 
 Perhaps, Miss Blank, you will kindly favour me 
 with the facts " 
 
 At this point another hurried knock came to
 
 92 OMBRA. 
 
 the door. And once more, without waiting for 
 an answer, Kate, all tears and trouble, her face 
 flushed like Miss Blank's, her hair astray, and 
 an open letter in her hand, came rushing into 
 the room. Two agitated female creatures in one 
 hour, rushing into the private sanctuary of the 
 most particular of bachelors ! Mr. Courtenay 
 commended her, though she was his nearest re- 
 lation, to all the infernal gods. 
 
 " What is the matter now ?" he cried, sharply. 
 " Why do you burst in uninvited when I am 
 busy ? Kate, you seem to be trying every way 
 to irritate and annoy me. What is it now ?" 
 
 "Uncle," cried Kate, breathlessly, "I have 
 just got a letter, and I want to ask you — never 
 mind her I — may I go to my aunt Anderson's ? 
 She is willing to have me, and it will save you 
 heaps of trouble I Oh I please. Uncle Courtenay, 
 please never mind anything else! May I 
 gof 
 
 " May you go — to your aunt Anderson ? 
 Why, here is certainly a new arrangement of 
 the board ! " said Mr. Courtenay. He said the 
 last words mockingly, and he fixed his eyes on 
 Kate as if she had been a natural curiosity —
 
 OMBRA. 93 
 
 which, indeed, in a great degree, she was to him. 
 
 " Yes — to my aunt Anderson. You spoke of 
 her yourself — you know you did. You said she 
 must not come here ; and she does not want to 
 come here. I don't think she would come if she 
 was asked ; but she says I am to go to her. 
 Uncle Courtenay, in a little while I shall be able 
 to do what I like, and go where I like — " 
 
 '* Not for six years, my dear," said Mr. Courte- 
 nay, with a smile. 
 
 Kate stamped her foot in her passion. 
 
 " If I were to write to the Lord Chancellor, I 
 am sure he would let me I" she cried. 
 
 " But you are not a ward in Chancery — you 
 are my ward," said Mr. Courtenay, blandly. 
 
 *' Then I will run away I" cried Kate, once 
 more stamping her foot. " I will not stay here. 
 I hate Langton-Courtenay, and everybody that 
 is unkind, and the people who hate me. I tell 
 you I hate them, Uncle Courtenay I I will run 
 away I" 
 
 " I don't doubt it, for one," said Miss Blank, 
 quietly ; " but with whom, Miss Kate, I should 
 like to know ? I daresay your plans are all laid." 
 
 Mr. Courtenay did not see the blank stare of sur-
 
 94 OMBRA. 
 
 prise with which Kate, all innocent of the meaning 
 which was conveyed to his ear by these words, 
 surveyed her adversary. His own better-in- 
 structed mind was moved by it to positive ex- 
 citement. Even if Miss Blank had been prema- 
 ture in her suggestion, still there could be little 
 doubt that lovers were a danger from which 
 Kate could not be kept absolutely safe. And 
 there were sons at the Rectory, one of whom, a 
 good-looking young fellow of twenty, he had 
 himself seen coming forward with a look of 
 delighted recognition. Danger I Why, it was 
 almost more than danger ; it seemed a cer- 
 tainty of evil — if not now, why, then, next 
 year, or the year after I Mr. Courtenay, like 
 most old men of the world, felt an instinctive 
 distrust of, and repugnance to, parsons. And a 
 young parson was proverbially on the outlook 
 for heiresses, and almost considered it a duty 
 to provide for himself by marriage. All this 
 ran through his disturbed mind as these two 
 troublesome feminine personages before him 
 waited each for her answer. " Confound women ! 
 They are more trouble than they are worth, a 
 hundred times over !" the old bachelor said to 
 himself.
 
 95 
 
 CHAPTER YIIL 
 
 MR. COURTENAY was much too true to his 
 ■^^^ instincts, however, to satisfy these two ap- 
 plicants, or to commit himself by any decision 
 on the spot. He dismissed Miss Blank with the 
 formal courtesy which he employed towards his 
 inferiors, begging her to wait until to-morrow, 
 when he should have reflected upon the prob- 
 lem she had laid before him. And he sent away 
 Kate with much less ceremony, bidding her 
 hold her tongue, and leave the room and leave 
 things alone which she did not understand. 
 He would not listen to the angry response 
 which rose to her lips ; and Kate had a melan- 
 choly night in consequence, aggravated by the 
 miserable sensation that she had been snubbed 
 in presence of Miss Blank, who was quite ready 
 to take advantage of her discomfiture. When
 
 96 OMBRA. 
 
 Kate's guardian, however, was left alone to 
 think, it is probable that his own reflections 
 were not delightful. He was not a man apt to 
 take himself to task, nor give way to self-ex- 
 amination, but still it was sufficiently apparent 
 to him that his plan had not succeeded as he 
 had hoped in Kate's case. What he had hoped 
 for had been to produce a quiet, calm girl, who 
 would do what she was told, whose expecta- 
 tions and wishes would be on a subdued scale, 
 and who would be reasonable enough to feel 
 that his judgment was supreme in all matters. 
 Almost all men at one time or another of their 
 lives entertain the idea of " moulding" a model 
 woman. Mr. Courtenay's ideal was not high — 
 all he wanted was submissiveness, manageable- 
 ness, quiet manners, and a total absence of the 
 sentimental and emotional. The girl might 
 have been permitted to be clever, to be a good 
 musician, or a good artist, or a great student, 
 if she chose, though such peculiarities always 
 detract more or less from the air of good 
 society which ought to distinguish a lady ; but 
 still Mr. Courtenay prided himself upon being 
 tolerant, and he would not have interfered in
 
 OMBRA. y? 
 
 such a case. But that this ward of his, this 
 representative of his family should choose to be 
 an individual being with a very strong will and 
 marked characteristics of her own, exasperated 
 the old man of the world. ** Most women have 
 no character at all," he repeated to himself, 
 raising his eyebrows in a wondering appeal to 
 Providence. Had the happy period when that 
 aphorism was true, departed along with all the 
 other manifestations of the age of Gold? — or 
 was it still true, and was it the fault of Provi- 
 dence, to punish him for his sins, that his share 
 of womankind should be so perverse? This 
 was a question which it was difficult to make 
 out ; but he was rather inclined to chafe at 
 Providence, which really does interfere so un- 
 justifiably often, when things would go very 
 well if they were left to themselves. The 
 longer he thought of it, the more disgusted did 
 he become — at once with Miss Blank and with 
 her charge. What a cold-hearted wretch the 
 woman must be I How strange that she should 
 not at least " take an interest " in the girl ! To 
 be sure he had made it a special point in her 
 engagement that she should not take an in- 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 OMBRA. 
 
 terest. He was right in doing so, he felt sure ; 
 but, still, here was an unforeseen crisis, at which 
 it would have been very important to have 
 lighted on some one who would not be bound 
 by a mere bargain. The girl was an unmanage- 
 able little fool, determined to have her own way 
 at all risks ; and the law would not permit him 
 to shut her up, and keep her in the absolute 
 subjection of a prison. She must have every 
 advantage, forsooth — freedom and society, and 
 Heavenknows what besides; education as much 
 as if she were going to earn her living as a 
 governess ; and even that crowning horror, 
 Lovers, when the time came. Yes, there was no 
 law in the realm forbidding an heiress to have 
 lovers. Miss Blank might resign, not wishing 
 to compromise herself; but he, the unhappy 
 guardian, could not resign. It was not illegal 
 for a young man to speak to Kate — any idle 
 fellow, with an introduction, might chatter to 
 her, and drive her protectors frantic, and yet 
 could not be put into prison for it. And there 
 could be little doubt that, simply to spite her 
 guardian, after she had worried him to death 
 in every other way, she would fall in love.
 
 OMBRA. 99 
 
 She would do it, as sure as fate ; and even if 
 she met with opposition she was a girl quite 
 capable of eloping with her lover, giving un- 
 bounded trouble, and probably throwing some 
 lasting stigma on herself and her name. It 
 was premature, as Miss Blank said; but Miss 
 Blank was a person of experience, learned in 
 the ways of girls, and doubtless knew what she 
 was saying. She had declined to have any- 
 thing further to do with Kate ; she had declared 
 her own sway and '* lovers " to be quite incom- 
 patible. But Mr. Courtenay could not give a 
 month's warning, and what was he to do ? 
 
 If there was but anybody to be found who 
 would " take an interest " in the girl ! This 
 idea flashed unconsciously through his mind, 
 and he did not even realize that in wishing for 
 this, in perceiving its necessity, he was stultify- 
 ing all the previous exertions of his guardian- 
 ship. Theories are all very well, but it is 
 astonishing how ready men are to drop them in 
 an emergency. Mr. Courtenay was in a dread- 
 ful emergency at present, and he prayed to his 
 gods for some one to "take an interest" in this 
 girl. Her aunt Anderson J The suggestion 
 
 h2
 
 100 OMBRA. 
 
 was so very convenient, it was so delightfully 
 ready a way of escape out of his troubles, that 
 he felt it necessary to pull himself up, and look 
 at it fully. It is not to be supposed that it was 
 a pleasant or grateful suggestion in itself. Had 
 he been in no trouble about Kate, he would 
 have at once, and sternly, declined all invita- 
 tions (he would have said interference) on the 
 part of her mother's family. The late Mr. 
 Courtenay had made a very foolish marriage, a 
 marriage quite beneath his position ; and the 
 sister of the late Mrs. Courtenay had been dis- 
 couraged in all her many attempts to see any- 
 thing of the orphan Kate. Fortunately she 
 had not been much in England, and, until the 
 present, these attempts had all been made when 
 Kate was a baby. Had the young lady of 
 Langton-Courtenay been at all manageable, they 
 would have been equally discouraged now. But 
 the very name of Mrs. Anderson, at this crisis, 
 breathed across Mr. Courtenay's tribulations like 
 the sweet south across a bed of violets. It was 
 such a temptation to him as he did not know 
 how to withstand. Her mother's family ! They 
 had no right, certainly, to any share of the good
 
 OMBRA. 101 
 
 things, which were entirely on the Courtenay 
 side ; but certainly they had a right to their 
 share of the trouble. This trouble he had borne 
 for fifteen years, and had not murmured. Of 
 course, in the very nature of things, it was their 
 turn now. 
 
 Mr. Courtenay reflected very deeply on this 
 subject, looking at it in all its details. Fortu- 
 nately there were but few remnants of her 
 mother's family. Mrs. Anderson was the widow 
 of a Consul, who had spent almost all his life 
 abroad. She had a pension, a little property, 
 and an only daughter, a little older than Kate. 
 There were but two of them. If they turned 
 out to be of that locust tribe which Mr. Courte^ 
 nay so feared and hated, they could at least be 
 bought off" cheaply, when they had served their 
 purpose. The daughter, no doubt, would marry, 
 and the mother could be bought off. Mr. 
 Courtenay did not enter into any discussion 
 with himself as to the probabilities of carrying 
 out this scheme of buying off. At this moment 
 he did not care to dwell upon any difficulties. 
 In the meantime, he had the one great difficulty, 
 Kate herself, to get settled somehow ; and any-
 
 102 31 BR A. 
 
 thing which might happen six years hence was 
 so much less pressing. By that time a great 
 many things unforeseen might have happened ; 
 and Mr. Courtenay did not choose to make so 
 long an excursion into the unknown. What 
 was he to do with her now ? Was he to be 
 compelled to stay in the country, to give up all 
 his pleasures and comforts, and the habits of his 
 life, in order to guard and watch over this girl ? 
 — or should she be given over, for the time, to 
 the guardianship of her mother's family ? This 
 was the real question he had to decide. 
 
 And by degrees he came to think more and 
 more cordially of Mrs. Anderson — more cordi- 
 ally, and, at the same time, contemptuously. 
 What a fool she must be, to offer voluntarily to 
 take all this trouble ! No doubt she expected 
 to make her own advantage out of it ; but Mr. 
 Courtenay, with a grim smile upon his counten- 
 ance, felt that he himself was quite capable of 
 taking care of that. He might employ her, but 
 he would take care that her devotion should be 
 disinterested. She would be better than a 
 governess at this crisis of Kate's history ! She 
 woiUd be a natural duenna and inspectress of
 
 OMBRA. 103 
 
 morals, as well as the superiDtendent of educa- 
 tion ; and it should, of course, be fully impressed 
 upon her that it was for her interest to dis- 
 courage lovers, and keep the external world at 
 arm's length. The very place of her residence 
 was favourable. She had settled in the Isle of 
 Wight, a long way from Langton-Courtenay, 
 and happily so far from town that it would not 
 be possible to run up and down and appeal to 
 him at any moment. He thought of thi^ all 
 night, and it was the first subject that returned 
 to his thoughts in the morning. Mrs. Anderson, 
 or unlimited w^orry, trouble, and annoyance — 
 banishment to the country, severance from all 
 delights. Then let it be Mrs. Anderson I he 
 said to himself, with a sigh. It was hard upon 
 him to have such a decision to make, and yet it 
 was satisfactory to feel that he had decided for 
 the best. He went down to breakfast with a 
 certain solemn composure, as of a man who was 
 doing right and making a sacrifice. It would be 
 the salvation of his personal comfort, and to se- 
 cure that, at all costs, was fundamentally and 
 eternally right ; but it was a sacrifice at once of 
 pride and of principle, and he felt that he had a
 
 104 OMBRA. 
 
 right to the honours of martyrdom on that 
 Roqre. 
 
 After breakfast he called his ward into the 
 library, with a polite little speech of apology to 
 Miss Blank. " If you will permit me the plea- 
 sure of a few words with you at twelve o'clock, 
 I think we may settle that little matter," he 
 said, with the greatest suavity ; leaving upon 
 that lady's mind the impression that Kate was 
 to be bound hand and foot, and delivered over 
 into her hands — which, as Miss Blank had no 
 desire, could she avoid it, to leave the comfort 
 of Langton-Courtenay, was very satisfactory to 
 her ; and then he withdrew into the library 
 with the victim. 
 
 " Now, Kate," he said, sitting down, " I am 
 going to speak to you very seriously," 
 
 " You have been doing nothing but speak to 
 me seriously ever since you came," said Kate, 
 pouting. " 1 wish you would not give yourself 
 so much trouble, Uncle Courtenay. All I want 
 is just yes or no." 
 
 " But a great deal depends on the yes or the 
 no. Look here, Kate, I am willing to let you 
 go — oh ! pray don't clap your hands too soon I
 
 M B R A. 105 
 
 — I am willing to let you go, on conditions, and 
 the conditions are rather serious. You had 
 better not decide until you hear " 
 
 " I am sure I shall not mind them," said im- 
 petuous Kate, before whose eyes there instantly 
 rose up a prospect of a new world, all full of 
 freshness, and novelty, and interest. Mind ! — 
 she would not have minded fire and water to 
 get at an existence which should ])e altogether 
 new. 
 
 " Listen, however," said Mr. Courtenay. " My 
 conditions are very grave. If you go to Mrs. 
 Anderson, Kate " 
 
 " Of course I shall go, if you will let me, 
 Uncle Courtenay." 
 
 " If you go," said Mr. Courtenay, with a wave 
 of his hand deprecating interruption, " it must 
 not be for a visit only — you must go to stay." 
 
 " To stay !" 
 
 Kate's eyes, which grew round with the 
 strain of wonder, interest, and excitement, and 
 which kindled, and brightened, and shone, re- 
 flecting like a mirror the shades of feeling that 
 passed through her mind, were a eight to 
 see.
 
 106 OMBRA. 
 
 " If you go," he continued, " and if Mrs. An- 
 derson is content to receive you, it must be for 
 the remainder of your minority. I have had a 
 great deal of trouble with your education, and 
 now it is just that your mother's family should 
 take their share. Hear me out, Kate. Your 
 aunt, of course, should have an allowance 
 for your maintenance, and you could have as 
 many masters and governesses, and all the rest, 
 as were necessary ; but if you go out of my 
 hands, you go not for six weeks, but for six 
 years, Kate." 
 
 Kate had been going to speak half-a-dozen 
 times, but now, having controlled herself so 
 long, she paused with a certain mixture of feel- 
 ings. Her delight was certainly toned down. 
 To go and come — to be now Queen ofLangton, 
 and now her aunt's amused and petted guest, 
 had been her own dream of felicity. This was 
 a different matter, there could be no doubt. It 
 would be the old story — if not the monotony of 
 Langton, which she knew, the monotony of 
 Shanklin, which she did not know. Various 
 clouds passed over the firmament which had 
 looked so smiling. Perhaps it was possible her
 
 X 
 
 OMBRA. 107 
 
 Aunt Ancler8on and Ombra might not turn out 
 desirable companions for six years — perhaps 
 she might regret her native place, her suprem- 
 acy over the cottagers, whom she sometimes 
 exasperated. The cloud thickened, dropped 
 lower. " Should I never be allowed to come 
 back ? — not even to see Langton, Uncle Cour- 
 tenay V she asked in a subdued voice. 
 
 " Langton, in that case, ought to be let or 
 shut up." 
 
 "Let ! — to other people ! — to strangers. Uncle 
 Courtenay ! — our house !" 
 
 " Well, you foolish child, are we such very 
 superior clay that we cannot let our house ? 
 Why, the best people in England do it. The 
 Duke of Brentford does it. You have not quite 
 his pretensions, and he does not mind." 
 
 " But I have quite his pretensions," cried 
 Kate — " more ! — and so have you, uncle. What 
 is he more than a gentleman ? and we are gen- 
 tlemen, I hope. Besides, a Duke has a vulgar 
 sort of grandeur with his title — you know he 
 has — and can do what he pleases ; but we must 
 act as gentlefolks. Oh ! Uncle Courtenay, not 
 that !"
 
 108 OMBRA. 
 
 *' Pshaw I" was all that Mr. Courtenay replied. 
 He was not open to sentimental considerations, 
 especially when money was concerned ; but, 
 still, he had so much natural prejudice remain- 
 ing in him for the race and honour of Langton- 
 Courtenay, that he thought no worse of his 
 troublesome ward for what she had said. He 
 would of course pay no manner of attention to 
 it ; but still, on the whole, he liked her so to 
 
 "Let us waive the question," he resumed. 
 " No, not to Langton-Courtenay — I don't choose 
 you should return here, if you quit it. But 
 there might be change of air, once a year or so, 
 to other places." 
 
 " Oh I might we go and travel ? — might we 
 go," cried Kate, looking up to him with shining 
 eyes and eager looks, and lips apart, like an 
 angelic petitioner, " abroad ?" 
 
 She said this last word with such a fulness 
 and roundness of sound, as it would be im- 
 possible, even in capitals, to convey through 
 the medium of print, 
 
 " Well," he said, with a smile, " probably that 
 splendour and delight might be permitted to be
 
 OMBRA. 109 
 
 — if you could afford it off your allowance, being 
 always understood." 
 
 " Oh I of course we could afford it," said 
 Kate. " Uncle, I consent at once — I will write 
 to my Aunt Anderson at once. I wish she was 
 not called Anderson — it sounds so common — 
 like the groom in the village. Uncle Courte- 
 nay, when can I start! To-morrow? Now, 
 why should you shake your head ? I have very 
 few things to pack ; and to-morrow is just as 
 good as any other day." 
 
 " Quite as good, I have no doubt ; and so is 
 to-morrow week," said Mr. Courtenay. " In 
 the first place, you must take till to-morrow to 
 decide." 
 
 " But when I have decided already ! " said 
 Kate. 
 
 " To-morrow at this time bring me your final 
 answer. There, now run away — not another 
 word." 
 
 Kate went away, somewhat indignant; and 
 for the next twenty-four hours did nothing but 
 plan tours to all the beautiful places she" had 
 ever heard or read about. Her deliberations as 
 to the scheme in general were all swallowed up
 
 110 OMBRA. 
 
 in this. " I will take them to Switzerland ; I 
 will take them to Italy. We shall travel four 
 or five months in every year; and see every- 
 thing and hear everything, and enjoy every- 
 thing," she said to herself, clapping her hands, 
 as it were, under her breath. For she was 
 generous in her way ; she was quite clear on 
 the point that it was she who must " take " her 
 aunt and cousin everywhere, and make every- 
 thing agreeable for them. Perhaps there was 
 in this a sense of superiority which satisfied that 
 craving for power and influence which belonged 
 to her nature ; but still, notwithstanding her 
 defective education, it was never in Kate's mind 
 to keep any enjoyment to herself.
 
 Ill 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 TJEFORE foui' and twenty hours had passed, 
 -■^ a certain premonition of approaching 
 change had stolen into the air at Langton- 
 Gourtenay. Miss Blank, too, had been received 
 by Mr. Courtenay in a private audience, where 
 he treated her with the courtesy due fi-om one 
 crowned head to another; but, nevertheless, 
 gave her fully to understand that her reign was 
 over. This took her all the more by surprise, 
 that she had expected quite the reverse, from 
 his words and looks in the morning ; and it was 
 perhaps an exclamation which burst from her 
 as she withdrew, amazed and indignant, to her 
 own room, which betrayed the possibilities of 
 the future to the household. Miss Blank was 
 not prone to exclamations, nor to betraying 
 herself in any way; but to have your resigna-
 
 112 OMBRA. 
 
 tion blandly accepted, when yon expected to be 
 implored, almost with tears, to retain your post, 
 is an experience likely to overcome the compo- 
 sure of any one The exclamation itself was 
 of the plaintc . character — it was, " Oh I I 
 like his politeness — I like that !" These words 
 were heard by a passing housemaid : and not 
 only were the words heard, but the flushed 
 cheek, the indignant step, the ah' of injury were 
 noted with all that keenness and intelligence 
 which the domestic mind reserves for the study 
 of the secrets of those above them. " She's got 
 the sack like the rest," was Jane's remark to 
 herself; and she spread it through the house. 
 The intimation produced a mild interest, but no 
 excitement. But when late in the afternoon 
 Maryanne came rushing downstairs, open- 
 mouthed, to report some unwary words which 
 had di'opped from her young mistress, the feel- 
 ings of the household acquired immediate in- 
 tensity. It was a suspecting place, and a poor 
 sort of place, where there never were any great 
 doings; but still Langton-Courtenay was a 
 comfortable place, and when Maryanne, with 
 that perverted keenness of apprehension already
 
 OMBRA. 113 
 
 noticed, which made her so much ' ore clever 
 in divining her mistress's scheme than doing 
 her mistress's work, had put te's broken 
 words together, a universal a] took posses- 
 
 sion of the house. The housemaid, and the 
 kitchenmaid, and the individual who served in 
 the capacity of man-of-all-work, shook in their 
 shoes. Mrs. Cook, however, who was house- 
 keeper as well, shook out her ample skirts, and 
 declared that she did not mind. ** A house can't 
 take care of itself," she said, with noble confi- 
 dence ; *' and they ain't that clever to know 
 how to get on without me." The gardener, 
 also, was easy in his mind, secure in the fact 
 that " the ' place ' must be kep' up ;" but a 
 thrill of tremulous expectation ran through all 
 those who were liable to be sent away. 
 
 These fears were very speedily justified. In 
 as short a time as the post permitted, Mr. 
 Courtenay received an efi'usive and enthusiastic 
 answer from Mrs. Anderson, to whom he had 
 written very curtly, making his proposal. This 
 proposal was that she should receive Kate, not 
 as a visitor, but permanently, until she attained 
 her majority, giving her what educational ad- 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 OMBRA. 
 
 vantages were within her reach, getting masters 
 for her, and everything that was needful ; and, 
 in short, taking entire charge of her. " Circum- 
 stances prevent me from doing this myself," he 
 wrote ; " and, of course, a lady is better fitted 
 to take charge of a girl at Kate's troublesome 
 age than I can be." And then he entered upon 
 the subject of money. Kate would have an 
 allowance of five hundred pounds a year. It 
 was ridiculously large for a child like his niece, 
 he thought to himself; but parsimony was not 
 Mr. Courtenay's weakness. For this she was 
 to have everything a girl could require, with the 
 exception of society, which her guardian for- 
 bade. " It is not my wish that she should be 
 introduced to the world till she is of age, and I 
 prefer to choose the time and the way my- 
 self," he said. With these conditions and in- 
 structions, Kate was to go, if her aunt wished 
 it, to the Cottage. 
 
 Mrs. Anderson's letter, as we have said, was 
 enthusiastic. She asked, was she really to have 
 her dearest sister's only child under her care ? 
 and appealed to heaven and earth to testify 
 that her delight was unspeakable. She said
 
 OMBRA. 115 
 
 that her desire could only be the welfare, in 
 every point, of " our darling niece !" That 
 nobody could be more anxious than she was to 
 see her grow up the image of her sweet mother, 
 " which, in my mind, means an example of 
 every virtue and every grace!" She declared 
 that were she rich enough to give Kate all the 
 advantages she ought to have, she would prove 
 to Mr. Courtenay her perfect disinterestedness 
 by refusing to accept any money with the dear 
 child. But, for Kate's own sake, she must 
 accept it ; adding that the provision seemed 
 to be both ample and liberal. Mrs. Anderson 
 went on to say that masters of every kind came 
 to a famous school in her neighboiu-hood, and 
 that Mr. Courtenay might be quite sure of 
 darling Kate's having every advantage. As for 
 society, there was none, and he need be under 
 no apprehension on that subject. She herself 
 lived the quietest of lives, though of course she 
 understood that, when Mr. Courtenay said so- 
 ciety, he did not mean that she was to be inter- 
 dicted from having a friend now and then to tea. 
 This was the utmost extent of her dissipations, 
 and she understood, as a matter of course, that 
 
 I 2
 
 116 OMBRA. 
 
 he did not refer to anything of that description. 
 She would come herself to London, she said, to 
 receive from his hands " our darling niece," and 
 he could perhaps then enter into further details 
 as to anything he specially wished in reference 
 to a subject on which their common interest was 
 so great. Mr. Courtenay coughed very much 
 over this letter — it gave him an irritation in his 
 throat. " The woman is a humbug as well as 
 a fool !" he said to himself. But yet the ques- 
 tion was — humbug or no humbug — was she the 
 best person to free him of the charge of Kate ? 
 And, however he might resist, his judgment told 
 him that this was the case. 
 
 The Rectory people came to return the visit 
 of Mr. and Miss Courtenay while the house was 
 in this confusion and commotion. They made 
 a most decorous call at the proper hour, and in 
 just the proper number — Mr. and Mrs. Hardwick, 
 and one daughter. Kate had fallen from the 
 momentary popularity which she had attained 
 on her first appearance at the Rectory. She 
 w^as now " that interfering, disagreeable thing," 
 to the two girls. Nevertheless, as was right, 
 in consideration of Miss Courtenay 's age, Edith,
 
 M B R A. 117 
 
 the sensible one, accompanied her mother. 
 
 " I am the best one to go," said Edith to her 
 mother. " For Minnie, I am sure, would lose her 
 temper, and it is much best not to throw her into 
 temptation." 
 
 ** You must be quite sure you can resist the 
 temptation yourself," said Mrs. Hardwick, who 
 had brought up her children very well indeed, 
 and had early taught them to identify and 
 struggle against their specially besetting sins. 
 
 " You know, mamma, though I am sure I am 
 a great deal worse in other things, this kind of 
 temptation is not my danger," said Edith ; and 
 with this satisfactory arrangement, the party 
 took its way to the Hall. 
 
 Kate, in the flutter of joyous excitement which 
 attended the new change in her fortunes, was 
 quite a new creature — not the same who had 
 called at the Rectory, and surprised and offend- 
 ed them. She had forgotten all about her own 
 naughtinesss. She seized upon Edith, and drew 
 her into a corner, eager for a listener. 
 
 " Oh ! do you know I am going away f she 
 said. " Have you ever been away from home ? 
 Have you been abroad ? Did you ever go to
 
 118 OMBRA. 
 
 live among people whom you never saw before? 
 That is what I am going to do." 
 
 " Oh ! I am so sorry for you !" said Edith, 
 glad, as she afterwards explained to her mo- 
 ther, to be able to say something which should 
 at once be amiable and true. 
 
 *' Sorry !" said Kate — " oh ! don't be sorry. 
 1 am very glad. I am going to my aunt, who 
 is fond of me, though I never saw her. Going 
 to people who are fond of you is different " 
 
 " Are you fond of her *?" said Edith. 
 
 " I never saw her," said Kate, opening her 
 eyes. 
 
 Here was an opportunity to be instructive 
 such as seldom occurred, even in the schools, 
 where Miss Edith's gift was known. The young 
 sage laid her hand upon Kate's, who was con- 
 siderably surprised by the unlooked-for affec- 
 tionateness. '* I am older than you," said 
 Edith — " I am quite grown up. You will not 
 mind my speaking to you ? Oh ! do you know, 
 dear, what is the best way to make people fond 
 of you?" 
 '* No." 
 "To love them," said Edith, with fervour
 
 M B R A. ' 119 
 
 Kate looked at her with calm, reflective, fully- 
 opened eyes. 
 
 " If you can," she said — *' but then how can 
 youl Besides, it is their business to begin; they 
 are older ; they ought to know more about it — 
 to be more in the way ; Uncle Courtenay, for in- 
 stance — I am sure you are very good — a great 
 deal better than I am ; but could you be fond 
 of him?" 
 
 " If he was my uncle — if it was my duty," 
 said Edith. 
 
 " Oh I I don't know about duty," said Kate, 
 shaking back her abundant locks. The idea 
 did not at all commend itself to her mind. " It 
 is one's duty to learn lessons," she went on, 
 *' and keep one's temper, and not to talk 
 too much, and that sort of thing ; but to be 
 
 fond of people However, never mind ; we 
 
 can talk of that another time. We are going 
 on Monday, and I never was out of Langton- 
 Courtenay for a single night in all my life 
 before." 
 
 " Poor child I — what a trial for you I" said 
 Edith. 
 
 At this moment Mrs. Hardwick struck in —
 
 120 OMBRA. 
 
 " After the first is over, I am sure you will like 
 it very much," she said. " It will be such a 
 change. Of course it is always trying to leave 
 home for the first time." 
 
 " Trying I" cried Kate ; and she rose up in 
 the very restlessness of delight, with her eyes 
 shining, and her hair streaming behind her. 
 But what was the use of discussing it? Of 
 course they could not understand. It was 
 easier to show them over the house and the 
 grounds than to explain her feelings to them. 
 And both Mrs. Hardwick and Edith were deep- 
 ly impressed by the splendour of Langton- 
 Courtenay. They gave little glances at Kate 
 of mingled surprise and admiration. After all, 
 they felt, the possessor of such a place — the 
 owner of the lands which stretched out as far 
 as they could see — ought to be excused if she 
 was a little different from other girls. " What 
 a temptation it must be !" Edith whispered to 
 her mother ; and it pleased Mrs. Hardwick to 
 see how tolerant of other people's difficulties 
 her child was. Kate grew quite excited by 
 their admiration. She rushed over all the 
 house, leading them into a hundred quaint cor-
 
 OMBRA. 121 
 
 Tiers. " I shall fill it from top to bottom when 
 I am of age," she said. *' All those funny bed- 
 rooms have been so dreadfully quiet and lonely 
 since ever I was born ; but it shall be gay when 
 my time comes." 
 
 " Oh I hush, my dear," said pious Mrs. Hard- 
 wick — " don't make so sure of the future, when 
 we don't know what a day or an hour may 
 bring forth." 
 
 " Well," said Kate, holding her position 
 stoutly, " if anything happens, of course there 
 is an end of it ; but if nothing happens — if I 
 live, and all that — oh I I just wish I was one- 
 and-twenty, to show you what I should do !" 
 
 " Do you think it will make you happy to be 
 so gay V said Edith, but with a certain wistful 
 inquiry in her eyes, which was not like her old 
 superiority. 
 
 " Oh ! my dear children, hush !" repeated her 
 mother — " don't talk like this. In the first 
 place, gaiety is nothing — it is good neither for 
 body nor soul ; and besides, I cannot let you 
 chatter so about the future. You will forgive 
 me, my dear Miss Courtenay, for I am an old- 
 fashioned person ; but when we think how little
 
 122 OMBRA. 
 
 we know about the future ; — and your life will be 
 an important one — a lesson and an example to so 
 many. We ought to try to make ourselves of use 
 to our fellow-creatures — and you must endeavour 
 that the example should be a good one." 
 
 " Fancy me an example I" said Kate, half to 
 herself; and then she was silent, with a philo- 
 sophy beyond her years. She did not attempt 
 to argue ; she had wit enough to see that it 
 would be useless, and to pass on to another 
 subject. But as she ran along the corridor, and 
 into all the rooms, the thought of what she 
 would make of them, when she came back, went 
 like wine through her thrilling veins. She was 
 glad to go away — far more glad than anyone 
 could imagine who had never lived the grey, 
 monotonous routine of such an existence, un- 
 cheered by companions, unwarmed by love. But 
 she would also be glad to come back — glad to 
 enter splendidly, a young queen among her court. 
 Her head was almost turned by this sublime 
 idea. She would come back with new friends, 
 new principles, new laws ; she would be Queen 
 absolute, without partner or help ; she would 
 be the lawgiver, redresser of wrongs. Her su-
 
 M B R A. 123 
 
 premacy would be beneficent as the reign of an 
 ideal sovereign ; but she would be supreme ! 
 
 When her visitors left, she stood on the thres- 
 hold of her oAvn house, looking with shining 
 eyes into that grand future. The shadows had 
 all faded from her mind. She had almost forgot- 
 ten, in the excitement of her new plans, all about 
 Miss Blank's sharp words, and the people who 
 hated her. It would have surprised her had 
 anyone called that old figment to her recollec- 
 tion. Hate ! there was nothing like it in that 
 future. There was power and beneficence, and 
 mirth and brightness. There was everything 
 that was gay, everything that was beautiful ; 
 smiles, and bright looks, and wit, and unbound- 
 ed novelty ; and herself the dispenser of every- 
 thing pleasant, herself always supreme I This 
 was the dream of the future which framed itself 
 in Kate Courtenay's thoughts.
 
 12 i 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ITTHILE all this agitation was going on over 
 ' ' Kate's fate on one side, it is not to be 
 supposed that there was no excitement on the 
 other. Her two relations, the mother and 
 daughter to whom she was about to be confided, 
 were nearly as much disturbed as Kate herself 
 by the prospect of receiving her. It might, in- 
 deed, be said to have disturbed them more, for 
 it affected their entire life. They had lately re- 
 turned to England, and settled down, after a 
 wandering life, in a house of their own. They 
 were not rich, but they had enough. They were 
 not humble, but accustomed to think very well 
 of themselves ; and the fact was that, though 
 Mrs. Anderson had, for many reasons, accepted 
 Mr. Courtenay's proposal with enthusiasm, even 
 she felt that the ideal seclusion she had been 
 dreaming of was at once broken up — even she —
 
 OMBRA. 125 
 
 and still more Ombra, her daughter, who was 
 fanciful, and of a somewhat jealous and contra- 
 dictory temper, fond of her own way, and of 
 full freedom to carry her fancies out. 
 
 Mrs. Anderson, let us say at once, was neither 
 a hypocrite nor a fool, and never, during their 
 whole intercourse, regarded her heiress-niece as 
 a means of drawing advantage to herself, or in 
 a mercenary way. She was a warm-hearted, 
 kind, and just woman ; but she had her faults. 
 The chief of these was a very excess of virtue. 
 Her whole soul was set upon not being 
 good only, but appearing so. She could not 
 bear the idea of being deficient in any decorum, 
 in any sentiment which society demanded. No 
 one could have grieved more sincerely than she 
 did for her husband ; but a bitterer pang even 
 than that caused her by natural sorrow would 
 have gone through her heart, had she been 
 tempted to smile through her tears a day sooner 
 than public opinion warranted a widow to smile. 
 In every position — even that in which she felt 
 most truly — a sense of what society expected 
 from her was always in her mind. This code of 
 unwritten law went deeper with her even than
 
 126 OMBRA. 
 
 nature. She had truly longed and yearned over 
 Kate, in her kind heart, from the moment she 
 had reached England; and had she followed her 
 natural insticts, would have rushed at once to 
 Langton-Courtenay, to see the child who was 
 all that remained of a sister whom she had loved. 
 But the world, in that case, would have said 
 that she meant to establish herself at Langton- 
 Courtenay, and that her affection for her niece 
 was feigned or mercenary. 
 
 " Let her alone, then," Ombra said. " Why 
 should we trouble ourselves 1 If her friends 
 think we are not good enough for her, let her 
 alone. Why should she think herself better 
 than we ? " 
 
 " My love, she is very young," said Mrs. Ander- 
 son ; " and, besides, if I took no notice at all of 
 Catherine's only child, what would people sup- 
 pose? It would be thought either that I had a 
 guilty conscience in respect to the Courtenays, 
 or that I had been repulsed. Nobody would 
 believe that we had simply let her alone, as you 
 say ; and, besides, I am longing to see Kate 
 with all my heart." 
 
 " What does it matter what people say '?" said
 
 OMBRA. 127 
 
 Ombra. "I do not see what any one has to do 
 with our private affairs." 
 
 " That is a great delusion," said Mrs. Ander- 
 son, shaking her head ; " every one has to do 
 with every one else's private affairs. If you do 
 not wish to lay yourself open to remark, you 
 will always keep this in mind. And our posi- 
 tion is very trying, between your cousin's wealth 
 and our love for her " 
 
 " I don't think I have very much love for her, 
 mamma." 
 
 ** My dear child, don't let any one but me hear 
 you say so. She ought to be like a sister to 
 you," said Mrs. Anderson. 
 
 And Ombra let the discussion drop, and per- 
 mitted her mother, in this respect, to have her 
 own w^ay. But she was not in any respect of 
 her mother's way of thinking. Her temptation 
 was to hate and despise the opinion of society 
 just in proportion to the reverence for it which 
 she had been bred in ; a result usual enough 
 with clear-sighted and impetuous young per- 
 sons, conscious of the defects of their parents. 
 Ombra was a pretty, gentle, soft-mannered girl 
 in outward appearance ; but a certain almost
 
 128 OMBRA. 
 
 fierce independence and determination to guide 
 her own course as she herself pleased, was in 
 her heart. She would not be influenced, as her 
 mother had been, by other people's ideas. She 
 thought, with some recent writers, that the 
 doctrine of self-sacrifice, as taught specially to 
 women, was altogether false, vain, and miser- 
 able. She felt that she herself ought to be first 
 in her home and sphere ; and she did not feel 
 disposed even to share with, much less to yield 
 to, the rich cousin w^hom she had never seen. 
 She shrugged her shoulders over Mrs. Ander- 
 son's letter to Kate, but she did not interfere 
 further, until Mr. Courtenay's astounding pro- 
 posal arrived, fluttering the household as a hawk 
 would flutter the dovecots. At the first reading, 
 it drove Ombra frantic. It was impossible, out 
 of the question, not to be thought of for a mo- 
 ment I In this small house, with their two 
 maids, in the quiet of Shanklin, what were they 
 to do with a self-important girl, a creature, no 
 doubt, bred from her cradle to a consciousness 
 of her own greatness, and Avho wanted all sorts 
 of masters and advantages ? Mrs. Anderson 
 knew how to manage her daughter, and for the
 
 OMBRA. 129 
 
 moment she allowed her to have her way, and 
 pour forth her indignation. The letter came by 
 the early post ; and it was only when they 
 were seated at tea in the evening that she 
 brought forward the other side of the question. 
 
 " What you say is all very true, Ombra ; but 
 we have two spare bedrooms — there would still 
 be one left for a friend, even if we took in poor 
 dear little Kate." 
 
 *' Poor Kate I Why is she poor ? She could 
 buy us over and over," said Ombra, in her indig- 
 nation. 
 
 " Buy what ?" said her clever mother — " our 
 love?" 
 
 " Mamma, please don't speak any nonsense 
 about love I" said Ombra, hastily. " I can't 
 love people at a moment's notice; because a 
 girl whom I never saw happens to be the child 
 of my aunt, whom I never saw " 
 
 " Then suppose we leave you out," said her 
 mother. " She is the child of my sister, whom 
 I knew well, and was very fond of — that alters 
 the question so far as I am concerned." 
 
 " Oh ! of course, mamma," said Ombra, with 
 darkened brows, " I do not pretend to do more 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 OMBRA. 
 
 than give my opinion. It is for you to say haw 
 it is to be." 
 
 " Do you think I can make a decision without 
 you? " said the mother, pathetically. " You must 
 try to look at it more reasonably, my dear. Next 
 to you, Kate is the creature most near to me in 
 the world — next to me. Now, listen, Ombra ; 
 she is your nearest relation. Think what it will 
 be to have a friend and sister if anything should 
 happen to me. The house is small, but we can- 
 not truly say that we have not room for a little 
 girl of fifteen in it. And then think of her lone- 
 liness — not a soul to care for her, except that 
 old Mr. Courtenay " 
 
 " Oh ! that is nonsense ; she must have some 
 one to care for her, or else she must be intensely 
 disagreeable," said Ombra. "Mamma, remem- 
 ber what I say — if we take her in, we shall re- 
 pent it all our lives." 
 
 " Nothing of the sort, my dear," said Mrs. 
 Anderson, eagerly following up this softened 
 opposition. " Why, she is only fifteen — a mere 
 child I — we can mould her as we will. And 
 then, my dearest child, though heaven knows it 
 is not interest I am thinking of, still it will be
 
 OMBRA. 131 
 
 a gi-eat advantage ; our income will be doubled. 
 I must say Mr. Courtenay is very liberal, if no- 
 thing else. We shall be able to do many things 
 that we could not do otherwise. Why, Ombra, 
 you look as if you thought I meant to rob your 
 
 " I would not use a penny of her allowance — 
 it should be all spent upon herself!" cried the 
 girl, flushing AAdth indignant passion. " Our 
 income doubled I Mamma, what can you be 
 thinking of? Do you suppose I could endure 
 to be a morsel the better for that Kate?" 
 
 " You are a little fool, and there is no talking 
 to you," said Mrs. Anderson, with natural impa- 
 tience ; and for half an hour they did not speak 
 to each other. This, however, could not last 
 very long, for providentially, as Mrs. Anderson 
 said, one of the Rectory girls came in at the 
 time when it was usual for the ladies to take 
 their morning walk, and she would not for all 
 the Isle of Wight have permitted Elsie to see 
 that her child and she were not on their usual 
 terms. When Elsie had left them, a slight re- 
 lapse was threatened, but they were then walk- 
 ing together along the cliiF, with one of the 
 
 k2
 
 132 OMBRA. 
 
 loveliest of landscapes before them — the sun 
 setting, the ruddy glory lighting up Sandown 
 Bay, and all the earth and sea watching that 
 last crisis and climax of the day. 
 
 " Oh ! there is the true daffodil sky !" Ombra 
 exclaimed, in spite of herself, and the breach 
 was healed. It was she herself who resumed 
 the subject some time later, when they turned 
 towards home. ** I do not see," she said 
 abruptly, " what we could do about masters for 
 that girl, if she were to come here. To have 
 them down from town would be ruinous, and to 
 be constantly going up to town with her — to 
 you, who so hate the ferry — would be dreadful !" 
 
 "My love, you forget Miss Story's school, 
 where they have all the best masters," said Mrs. 
 Anderson, mildly. 
 
 " You could not send her to school." 
 
 " But they would come to us, my dear. Of 
 course they would be very glad to come to us 
 for a little more money, and I should gladly 
 take the opportunity for your music, Ombra. I 
 thought of that. I wish everything could be 
 settled as easily. If you only saw the matter 
 as I do "
 
 OMBRA. 133 
 
 " There is another thing," said Ombra, hastily, 
 " which does not matter to me, for I hate so- 
 ciety ; but if she is to be kept like a nun, and 
 never to see anyone " 
 
 Mrs. Anderson smiled serenely. " My love, 
 who is there to see ? — the Rectory children and 
 a few ladies — people whom we ask to tea. Of 
 course, I would not think of taking her to balls 
 or even dinner-parties ; but then, I never go to 
 dinner-parties — there is no one to ask us ; and 
 as for balls, Ombra, you know what you said 
 about that nice ball at Ryde." 
 
 " T hate them !" said Ombra, vehemently. " I 
 hope I shall never be forced to go to another in 
 all my life." 
 
 ** Then that question is settled very easily," 
 said Mrs. Anderson, without allowing any signs 
 of triumph to appear in her face. And next 
 day she wrote to Mr. Courtenay, as has been 
 described. When she wrote about " our darling 
 niece," the tears were in her eyes. She meant 
 it with all her heart ; but, at the same time, it 
 was the right thing to say, and to be anxious 
 and eager to receive the orphan were the right 
 sentiments to entertain. "It is the most
 
 134 OMBRA. 
 
 proper arrangement," she said afterwards to 
 the Rector's wife, who was her nearest neigh- 
 bour. " Of course her mother's sister is her 
 most natural guardian. The property is far 
 best in Mr. Courtenay's hands ; but the child 
 herself " 
 
 " Poor child 1" said Mrs. Eldridge, looking at 
 her own children, who were many, and thinking 
 within herself that to trust them to anyone, 
 even an aunt 
 
 " Yes, poor child !" cried Mrs. Anderson, with 
 the tears in her eyes ; " and my Catherine would 
 have made such a mother I But we must do 
 what we can to make it up to her. She will 
 have some one at least to love her here." 
 
 " I am sure you will be — good to her," said 
 the Rector's wife, looking wistfully, in her pity, 
 into the face of the woman who, to her simple 
 mind, did protest too much. Mrs. Eldridge felt, 
 as many a straightforward person does, that 
 her neighbour's extreme propriety, and regard 
 for what was befitting and " expected of her," 
 was the mask of insincerity. She did not 
 understand the existence of true feeling be-, 
 neath all that careful exterior. But she was
 
 OMBRA. 135 
 
 puzzled and touched for the moment by the 
 tears in her companion's eyes. 
 
 ** You can't get up tears, you know, when you 
 will," she said to her husband, when they dis- 
 cussed poor Kate's prospects of happiness in her 
 aunt's house, that same night. 
 
 " I can't," said the Rector, ** nor you ; but one 
 has heard of crocodile tears I" 
 
 " Oh I Fred, no— not so bad as that !" 
 
 But still both these good people distrusted Mrs. 
 Anderson, through her very anxiety to do right, 
 and show that she was doing it. They were 
 afraid of her excess of virtue. The exaggera- 
 tion of the true seemed to them false. And they 
 even doubted the amount of Kate's allowance, 
 because of the aunt's frankness in telling them 
 of it. They thought her intention was to raise 
 her own and her niece's importance, and calcu- 
 lated among themselves what the real sum was 
 likely to be. Poor Mrs. Anderson ! everybody 
 was unjust to her — even her daughter — on this 
 point. 
 
 But it was with no sense of this general dis- 
 trust, but, on the contrary, with the most genial 
 sense of having done everything that could be
 
 136 OMBRA. 
 
 required of her, that she left home on a sunny 
 June morning, with her heart beating quicker 
 than usual in her breast, to bring home her 
 charge. Her heart was beating partly out of 
 excitement to see Kate, and partly out of 
 anxiety about the crossing from Hyde, which she 
 hated. The sea looked calm, from Sandown, 
 but Mrs. Anderson knew, by long experience, 
 that the treacherous sea has a way of looking 
 calm until you have trusted yourself to its ten- 
 der mercies. This thought, along with her 
 eagerness to see her sister's child, made her 
 heart beat.
 
 137 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 R. COURTENAY had stipulated that Kate 
 was to be met by her aunt, not at his 
 house, but at the railway, and to continue her 
 journey at once. His house, he said, was shut 
 up ; but his real reason was reluctance to estab- 
 lish any precedent or pretext for other invasions. 
 Kate started in the very highest spirits, scarcely 
 able to contain herself, running over with talk 
 and laughter, making a perpetual comment upon 
 all that passed before her. Even Miss Blank's 
 sinister congratulations, when she took leave of 
 the little travelling party, " I am sure I wish you 
 joy, sir, and I wish Mrs. Anderson joy I" did not 
 damp Kate's spirits. " I shall tell my aunt. Miss 
 Blank, and I am sure she will be much obliged 
 to you," the girl said, as she took her seat in the 
 carriage. And Maryanne, who, red and excited, 
 was seated by her, tittered in sympathy.
 
 138 M B R A. 
 
 When Mr. Courtenay hid himself behind a 
 newspaper, it was on Maryanne that Kate pour- 
 ed forth the tide of her excitement. "Isn't 
 it delightful !" she said, a hundred times over. 
 "■Oh I yes, miss ; but father and mother !" Mary- 
 anne answered, with a sob. Kate contemplated 
 her gravely for twenty seconds. Here was a 
 difference, a distinction, which she did not un- 
 derstand. But before the minute was half over 
 her thoughts had gone abroad again in a con- 
 fusion of expectancy and pleasure. She leant 
 half out of the window, casting eager glances 
 upon the people who were waiting the arrival 
 of the train at the station. The first figure upon 
 which she set her eyes was that of a squat old 
 woman in a red and yellow shawl. " Oh ! can 
 that be my aunt ?" Kate said to herself, with 
 dismay. The next was a white-haired, sub- 
 stantial old lady, old enough to be Mrs. Ander- 
 son's mother. " This is she I She is nice I I 
 shall be fond of her !" cried Kate to^ herself. 
 When the white-haired lady found some one 
 else, Kate's heart sank. Oh ! where was the 
 new guardian ? . 
 
 " Miss Kate I oh ! please, Miss Kate I" said
 
 OMBRA. 139 
 
 Maryanne ; and turning sharply round, Kate 
 found herself in somebody's arms. She had not 
 time to see who it was ; she felt only a warm 
 darkness surround her, the pressure of some- 
 thing which held her close, and a voice murmur- 
 ing, " My da'i'ling child I my Catherine's child I'* 
 murmuring and purring over her. Kate had 
 time to think, '' Oh I how tall she is I Oh I how 
 warm I Oh I how funny I" before she was let 
 loose and kissed — which latter process allowed 
 her to see a tall woman, not in the least like the 
 white-haired grandmother whom she had fixed 
 upon — a woman not old, with hair of Kate's own 
 colour, smiles on her face, and tears in her eyes. 
 
 *' Let me look at you, my sweet ! I should 
 have known you anywhere. You are so like 
 your darling mother !" said the new aunt. And 
 then she wept ; and then she said, " Is it you ? 
 Is it really you, my Kate ?" And all this took 
 place at the station, with Uncle Courtenay 
 sneering hard by, and strangers looking on. 
 
 "Yes, aunt, of course it is nae," said Kate, 
 who scorned grammar ; " who should it be ? I 
 came expressly to meet you ; and Uncle Courte- 
 nay is there, who will tell you it is all right."
 
 140 OMBRA. 
 
 " Dearest! as if I had any need of your uncle 
 Courtenay," said Mrs. Anderson ; and she kissed 
 her over again, and cried once more, most honest 
 but inappropriate tears. 
 
 *' Are you sorry ?" cried Kate, in surprise ; 
 " because I am glad, very glad to see you. I 
 could not cry for anything — I am as happy as 
 I can be." 
 
 " You darling !" said Mrs. Anderson. " But 
 you are right, it is too public here. I must take 
 you away to have some luncheon, too, my pre- 
 cious child. There is no time to lose. Oh I 
 Kate, Kate, to think I should have you at last, 
 after so many years !" 
 
 " I hope you will be pleased with me now, 
 aunt," said Kate, a little alarm mingling with 
 her surprise. Was she worth all this fuss ? It 
 was fuss ; but Kate had no constitutional objec- 
 tion to fuss, and it was pleasant, on the whole. 
 After all the snubbing she had gone through, it 
 was balm to her to be received so warmly ; even 
 though the cynicism which she had been trained 
 into was moved by a certain sense of the ludi- 
 crous, too. 
 
 "Kate says well," said old Mr. Courtenay.
 
 OMBRA. 141 
 
 " I hope you will be pleased with her, now you 
 have her. To some of us she has been a suffi- 
 ciently troublesome child ; but I trust in your 
 hands — your more skilful hands " 
 
 " I am not afraid," said Mrs. Anderson, with 
 a very suave smile; "and even if she were 
 troublesome, I should be glad to have her. But 
 we start directly ; and the child must have some 
 luncheon. Will you join us, or must we say 
 good-bye? for we shall not be at home till after 
 dinner, and at present Kate must have some- 
 thing to eat ?" 
 
 " I have an engagement," said Mr. Courtenay, 
 hastily. What I he lunch at a railway station 
 with a girl of fifteen and this unknown woman, 
 who, by the way, was rather handsome after her 
 fashion! What a fool she must be to think 
 of such a thing I He bowed himself off very 
 politely, with an assurance that now his mind 
 was easy about his ward. She must write to 
 him, he said, and let him know in a few days 
 how she liked Shanklin ; but in the meantime 
 he was compelled to hurry away. 
 
 When Kate felt herself thus stranded as it were 
 upon an utterly lonely and unknown shore, in
 
 142 OMBRA. 
 
 the hands of a woman she had never seen 
 before, and the last familiar face withdrawn, 
 there ran a little pain, a little thrill, half of ex- 
 citement, half of dismay, in her heart. She 
 clutched at Maryanne, who stood behind her ; 
 she examined once again, with keen eyes, the 
 new guide of her life. This was novelty in- 
 deed ! — but novelty so sharp and sudden that 
 it took away her breath. Mrs. Anderson's tone 
 had been very different to her uncle from what 
 it was to herself. What did this mean ? Kate 
 was bewildered, half frightened, stunned by 
 the change, and she could not make it out. 
 
 " My dear, I am sure your uncle has a great 
 many engagements," said Mrs. Anderson ; " gen- 
 tlemen who are in society have so many claims 
 upon them, especially at this time of the year ; 
 or perhaps he thought it kindest to let us make 
 friends by ourselves. Of course he must be 
 very fond of you, dear ; and I must always be 
 grateful for his good opinion : without that he 
 would not have trusted his treasure in my hands." 
 
 " Aunt Anderson," said Kate, hastily, " please 
 don't make a mistake. I am sure I am no trea- 
 sure at all to him, but only a trouble and a
 
 OMBRA. 143 
 
 nuisance. You must not think so well of me as 
 that. He thought me a great trouble, and he 
 was very glad to get rid of me. I know this is 
 true." 
 
 Mrs. Anderson only smiled. She put her arm 
 through the girl's, aud led her away. " We 
 will not discuss the question, my darling, for 
 you must have something to eat. When did 
 you leave Langton ? Our train starts at two — 
 we have not much time to lose. Are you 
 hungry ? Oh I Kate, how glad I am to have 
 you! How very glad I am! You have your 
 mother's very eyes." 
 
 " Then don't cry, aunt, if you are glad." 
 
 "It is because I am glad, you silly child. 
 Come in here, and give me one good kiss. And 
 now, dear, we will have a little cold chicken^ 
 and get settled in the carriage before the crowd 
 comes." 
 
 And how different was the second part of 
 this journey! Mrs. Anderson got no news- 
 paper — she sat opposite to Kate, and smiled at 
 all she said. She told her the names of the 
 places they were passing ; she was alive to every 
 light and shade that passed over her young,
 
 144 OMBRA. 
 
 changeable face. Then Kate fell silent all at 
 once, and began to think, and cast many a fur- 
 tive look at her new-found relation ; at last she 
 said, in a low voice, and with a certain anxiety, 
 
 "Aunt, is it possible that I could remenaber 
 mamma?" 
 
 " Ah I no, Kate ; she died just when you were 
 born." 
 
 " Then did I ever see you before 1" 
 
 " Never since you were a little baby — never 
 that you could knowv" 
 
 " It is very strange," the girl said, half to 
 herself; "but I surely know some face like 
 yours. Ah I could it be that T' She stopped, 
 and her face flushed up to her hair. 
 
 " Could it be what, dear ?" 
 
 Then Kate laughed out — the softest, most 
 musical, tender little laugh that ever came from 
 her lips. " I know," she said — " it is myself!" 
 
 Mrs. Anderson blushed, too, with sudden 
 pleasure. It was a positive happiness to her, 
 penetrating beneath all her little proprieties 
 and pretensions. She took the girFs hands, 
 and bending forward, looked at her in the face ; 
 and it was true — they were as like as if they
 
 OMBRA. 145 
 
 had been mother and daughter — though the 
 elder had toned down, and lost that glory of 
 complexion, that brightness of intelligence ; and 
 the younger was brighter, quicker, more intelli- 
 gent than her predecessor had ever been. This 
 made at once the sweetest, most pleasant link 
 between them ; it bound them together by Na- 
 ture's warm and visible bond. They were both 
 proud of this tie, which could be seen in their 
 faces, which they could not throw off nor cast 
 away. 
 
 But after the ferry was crossed — when they 
 were drawing near Shanklin — a silence fell 
 upon both. Kate, with a quite new-born timidi- 
 ty, was shy of inquiring about her cousin ; and 
 Mrs. Anderson was too doubtful of Ombra's 
 mood to say more of her than she could help. 
 She longed to be able to say, " Ombra will be 
 sure to meet us," but did not dare. And Ombra 
 did not meet them ; she was not to be seen, 
 even, as they walked up to the house. It was 
 a pretty cottage, embowered in luxuriant leaf- 
 age, just under the shelter of the cliff, and 
 looking out over its own lawn, and a thread of 
 quiet road, and the slopes of the Undercliff, 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 OMBRA. 
 
 upon the distant sea. There was, however, no 
 one at the door, no one at any of the windows, 
 no trace that they were expected, and Mrs. 
 Anderson's heart was wrung by the sight. 
 Naturally she grew at once more prodigal of 
 her welcomes and caresses. *' How glad I am 
 to see you here, my darling Kate ! This is 
 your home, dear child. As long as I live, 
 whenever you may want it, my humble house 
 will be yours from this day — always remember 
 that; and welcome, my darKng — welcome 
 home ! " 
 
 Kate accepted the kisses, but her thoughts 
 were far away. Where was the other who 
 should have given her a welcome too ? All the 
 girl's eager soul rushed upon this new track. 
 Did Ombra object to her ? — why was not she 
 here ? Ombra's mother, though she said no- 
 thing, had given many anxious glances round 
 her, which were not lost upon Kate's keen per- 
 ceptions ? Could Ombra object to the intruder ? 
 After all her aunt's effusions, this was a new 
 idea to Kate. 
 
 The door was thrown open by a little woman 
 in a curious lieaddress, made out of a coloured
 
 M B R A. 147 
 
 handkerchief, whose appearance filled Kate 
 with amazement, and whose burst of greeting 
 she could not for the first moment understand. 
 Kate's eyes went over her shoulder to a com- 
 monplace English housemaid behind with a 
 sense of relief. " Oh ! how the young lady is 
 welcome !" cried old Francesca. " How she is 
 as the light to our eyes ! — and how like our 
 padrona — how like ! Come in — come in ; your 
 chamber is ready, little angel. Oh ! how bella, 
 bella our lady must have been at that age !" 
 
 *' ^ush, Francesca ; do not put nonsense into 
 the child's head," said Mrs. Anderson, still look 
 ing anxiously round. 
 
 " I judge from what 1 see," said the old 
 woman ; and then she added, in answer to a 
 question from her mistress's eyes, "MeessOmbra 
 has the bad head again. It was I that made 
 her put herself to bed. I made the room dark, 
 and gave her the tea, as madam herself does it, 
 otherwise she would be here to kiss this new 
 angel, and bid her the welcome. Come in, 
 come in, carissima; come up, I will show you 
 the chamber. Ah ! our signorina has not been 
 
 l2
 
 148 OMBRA. 
 
 able to keep still when she heard you, though she 
 has the bad head, the very bad head." 
 
 And then there appeared to Kate, coming 
 downstairs, the slight figure of a girl in a black 
 dress — a girl whom, at the first moment, she 
 thought younger than herself. Ombra was not 
 at all like her mother — she was like her name, a 
 shadowy creature, with no light about her — not 
 even in the doubtful face, pale and fair, which 
 her cousin gazed upon so curiously. She said 
 nothing till she had come up to them, and did 
 not quicken her pace in the least, though they 
 were all gazing at her. To fill up this pause, 
 Mrs. Anderson, who was a great deal more 
 energetic and more impressionable than her 
 daughter, rushed to her across the little hall. 
 
 " My darling, are you ill ? I know only that 
 could have prevented you from coming to meet 
 your cousin. Here she is, Ombra mia ; here we 
 have her at last — my sweet Kate ! Now love 
 each other, girls ; be as your mothers were ; 
 open your hearts to each other. Oh ! my dear 
 children, if you but knew how I love you 
 both !" 
 
 And Mrs. Anderson cried while the two stood
 
 M B R A. 141) 
 
 holding each other's hands, looking at each 
 other — on Kate's side with violent curiosity; on 
 Ombra's apparently with indifference. The mo- 
 ther had to do all the emotion that was neces- 
 sary, with an impulse which was partly love, 
 and partly vexation, and partly a hope to 
 kindle in them the feelings that became the 
 occasion. 
 
 *' How do you do ? I am glad to see you. I 
 hope you will like Shanklin," said chilly Ombra. 
 
 " Thanks," said Kate ; and they dropped each 
 other's hands ; while poor Mrs. Anderson wept 
 unavailing tears, and old Francesca, in sym- 
 pathy, fluttered about the new "little angel," 
 taking off her cloak, and uttering aloud her 
 admiration and delight. It was a strange be- 
 ginning to Kate's new life. 
 
 " I wonder, I wonder — " the new comer said to 
 herself when she was safely housed for the night, 
 and alone. Kate had seated herself at the 
 window, from whence a gleam of moon and sky 
 was visible, half veiled in clouds. She was in 
 her dressing-gown, and with her hair all over 
 her shoulders, was a pretty figure to behold, 
 had there been any one to see. " I wonder, 1
 
 150 OMBRA. 
 
 wonder ! " she said to herself. But she could not 
 have put into words what her wonderings 
 were. There was only in them an indefinite 
 sense that something not quite apparent had 
 run on beneath the surface in this welcome of 
 hers. She could not tell what it was — why her 
 aunt should have wept; why Ombra should 
 have been so different. Was it the ready tears 
 of the one that chilled the other? Kate was 
 not clear enough on the subject to ask herself 
 this question. She only wondered, feeling there 
 was something more than met the eye. But, 
 on the whole, the child was happy — she had 
 been kissed and blessed when she came up- 
 stairs ; she seemed to be surrounded with an 
 atmosphere of love and care. There was no- 
 body (except Ombra) indifferent — everybody 
 cared ; all were interested. She wondered — 
 but at fifteen one does not demand an answer 
 to all the indefinite wonderings which arise in 
 one's heart ; and, despite of Ombra, Kate's 
 heart was lighter than it had ever been (she 
 thought) in all her life. Everything was strange, 
 new, unknown to her, yet it was home. And 
 this is a paradox which is always sweet.
 
 151 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 rpHERE was something that might almost 
 **- have been called a quarrel downstairs that 
 night over the new arrival. Ombra was cross, 
 and her mother was displeased ; but Mrs. Ander- 
 son had far too strong a sense of propriety to 
 suffer herself to scold. When she said " I am 
 disappointed in you, Ombra. I have seldom 
 been more wounded than when I came to the 
 door, and did not find you," she had done all 
 that occurred to her in the way of reproof. 
 
 " But I had a headache, mamma." 
 
 " We must speak to the doctor about your 
 headaches," said Mrs. Anderson ; and Ombra, 
 with something like suUenness, went to bed. 
 
 But she was not to escape so easily. Old 
 Francesca had been Ombra's nurse. She was 
 not so very old, but had aged, as peasant women 
 of her nation do. She was a Tuscan born, with
 
 152 OMBRA. 
 
 the shrill and high-pitched voice natural to her 
 district, and she had followed the fortunes of the 
 Andersons all over the world, from the time of 
 her nursling's birth. She was, in consequence, 
 a most faithful servant and friend, knowing no 
 interests but those of her mistress, but at the 
 same time a most uncompromising monitor. 
 Ombra knew what was in store for her, as soon 
 as she discovered Francesca, with her back 
 turned, folding up the dress she had woi-n in 
 the morning. The chances are that Ombra would 
 have fled, had she been able to do so noiselessly, 
 but she had already betrayed herself by closing 
 the door. 
 
 " Francesca," she said, affecting an ease which 
 she did not feel, "are you still here? Are you 
 not in bed ? You will tire yourself out. Never 
 mind those things. I will put them away my- 
 self." 
 
 " The things might be indifferent to me," said 
 Francesca, turning round upon her, " but you 
 are not. My young lady, I have a great deal to 
 say to you." 
 
 This conversation was chiefly in Italian, both 
 the interlocutors changing, as pleased them,
 
 M B R A. 153 
 
 from one language to another ; but as it is un- 
 necessary to cumber the page with italics, or 
 the reader's mind with two languages, I will 
 take the liberty of putting it in English, though 
 in so doing I may wrong Francesca's phrases. 
 When her old nurse addressed her thus, Ombra 
 trembled — half in reality because she was a 
 chilly being, and half by way of rousing her com- 
 panion's sympathy. But Francesca was ruthless. 
 
 " You have the cold, I perceive," she said, 
 " and deserve to have it. Seems to me that if 
 you thought sometimes of putting a little 
 warmth in your heart, instead of covering 
 upon your body, that would answer better. 
 What has the little cousin done, Dio mio, to 
 make you as if you had been for a night on the 
 mountains ? I look to see the big ice-drop 
 hanging from your fingers, and the snow-flakes 
 in your hair ! You have the cold ! — bah ! you 
 are the cold! — it is in you! — it freezes ! I, whose 
 blood is in your veins, I stretch out my hand 
 to get warm, and I chill, I freeze, I die I" 
 
 " I am Ombra," said the girl, with a smile, 
 " you know ; how can I warm you, Francesca ? 
 It is not my nature."
 
 154 M B RA. ^ 
 
 "Are you not, then, God's making, becall^e 
 they have given you a foolish name?" cried 
 Francesca. " The Ombra I love, she is the 
 Ombra that is cool, that is sweet, that brings 
 life when one comes out of a blazing sun. You 
 say the sun does not blaze here ; but what is 
 here^ after all? A piece of the world which 
 God made ! When you were little, Santissima 
 Madonna ! you were sweet as an olive orchard ; 
 but now you are sombre and dark, like a pine- 
 wood on the Apennines. I will call you 
 ' Ghiaccia,'* not Ombra any more." 
 
 "It was not my fault. You are unjust. I 
 had a headache. You said so yourself." 
 
 " Ah, disgraziata ! I said it to shield you. 
 You have brought upon my conscience a great 
 big — what you call fib. I hope my good priest 
 will not say it was a lie !" 
 
 "I did not ask you to do it," cried Ombra. *'And 
 then there Avas mamma, crying over that girl as 
 if there never had been anything like her before!" 
 
 " The dear lady I she did it as I did, to cover 
 your coldness — your look of ice. Can we bear that 
 the world should see what a snow-maiden we 
 * Ice.
 
 OMBRA. 155 
 
 have between iis ? We did it for yonr sake, 
 ungrateful one, that no one should see '' 
 
 " I wish you would let me alone," said Ombra ; 
 and though she was seventeen — two years older 
 than Kate — and had a high sense of her dignity, 
 she began to cry. " If you only would be true, 
 I should not mind ; but you have so much effu- 
 sion-— you say more than you mean, both mam- 
 ma and you." 
 
 " Seems to me that it is better to be too kind 
 than too cold," said Francesca, indignantly. 
 " And this poor little angel, the orphan, the 
 child of the Madonna — ah ! you have not that 
 thought in your icy Protestant ; but among us 
 Christians every orphan is Madonna's child. 
 How could I love the holiest mother, if I did 
 not love her child 1 Bah ! you know better, 
 but you will not allow it. Is it best, tell me, to 
 wound the poverina with your too little, or to 
 make her warm and glad with our too mooch ? 
 — even if it were the too mooch," said Fran- 
 cesca, half apologetically; "though there is 
 nothing that is too mooch, if it is permitted me 
 to say it, for the motherless one — the orphan — 
 the Madonna's child 1"
 
 156 OMBRA. 
 
 Ombra made no reply ; she shrugged her 
 shoulders, and began to let down her hair out 
 of its bands — the worst of the storm was over. 
 
 But Francesca had reserved herself for one 
 parting blaze. ''And know you, my young 
 lady, what will come to you, if thus you pro- 
 ceed in your life ?" she said. " When one wan- 
 ders too mooch on the snowy mountains, one 
 falls into an ice-pit, and one dies. It will so come 
 to you. You will grow colder and colder, cold- 
 er and colder. When it is for your good to be 
 warm, you will be ice ; you will not be able 
 more to help yourself. You will make love 
 freeze up like the water in the torrent ; you 
 will lay it in a tomb of snow, you will build the 
 ice-monument over it, and then all you can do 
 will be vain — it will live no more. Signorina 
 Ghiaccia, if thus you go on, this is what will 
 come to you." 
 
 And with this parting address, Francesca 
 darted forth, not disdaining, like a mere mortal 
 and English domestic, to shut the door with 
 some violence. Ombra had her cry out by her- 
 self, while Kate sat wondering in the next 
 room. The elder girl asked herself, was it
 
 OMBRA. 157 
 
 true ? — was she really a snow-maiden, or was 
 it some mysterious influence from her name that 
 threw this shade over her, and made her so 
 contradictory and burdensome even to herself? 
 For Ombra was not aware that she had been 
 christened by a much more sober name. She 
 stood as Jane Catherine in the books of the 
 Leghorn chaplain — a conjunction of respectable 
 appellatives which could not have any sinister 
 influence. I doubt, however, whether she would 
 have taken any comfort from this fact ; for it 
 was pleasant to think of herself as born under 
 some wayward star — a shadowy creature, unlike 
 common flesh and blood, half Italian, half spirit. 
 " How can I help it ?" she said to herself. The 
 people about her did not understand her — not 
 even her mother and Francesca. They put the 
 commonplace flesh-and-blood girl on a level 
 with her — this Kate, with half-red hair, with 
 shallow, bright eyes, with all that red and 
 white that people rave about in foolish books. 
 " Kate will be the heroine wherever we go," 
 she said, with a smile, which had more pain 
 than pleasure in it. She was a little jealous, a 
 little cross, disturbed in her fanciful soul ; and
 
 158 OMBRA. 
 
 yet she was Dot heartless and cold, as people 
 thought. The accusation wounded her, and 
 haunted her as if with premonitions of re- 
 proaches to come. It was not hard to bear 
 from Francesca, who was her devoted slave ; 
 but it occurred dimly to Ombra, as if in pro- 
 phecy, that the time would come when she 
 should hear the same words from other voices. 
 Not Ombra-Ghiaccia ! Was it possible ? Could 
 that fear ever come true ? 
 
 Mrs. Anderson, for her part, was less easy 
 about this change in her household than she 
 would allow. When she was alone, the smiles 
 went off her countenance. Kate, though she 
 had been so glad to see her, though the likeness 
 to herself had made so immediate a bond be- 
 tween them, was evidently enough not the kind 
 of girl who could be easily managed, or who 
 was likely to settle down quietly into domestic 
 peace and order. She had the makings of a 
 great lady in her, an independent, high-spirited 
 princess, to whom it was not necessary to con- 
 sider the rules which are made for humbler 
 maidens. Already she had told her aunt what 
 she meant to do at Langton when she went back;
 
 OMBRA. 159 
 
 already she had inquired with lively curiosity 
 all about Shaukhn. Mrs. Anderson thought of 
 her two critics at the Rectory, who, she knew 
 by instinct, were ready to pick holes in her, and 
 be hard upon her " foreign ways," and trembled 
 for her niece's probable vagaries. It was "a 
 great responsibility," a "trying position," for 
 herself. Many a " trying position " she had 
 been in already, the difficulties of which she had 
 surmounted triumphantly. She could only hope 
 that " proper feeling," " proper respect " for the 
 usages of society, would bring her once more 
 safely through. When Francesca darted in 
 upon her, fresh from the lecture she had de- 
 livered, Mrs. Anderson's disturbed look at once 
 betrayed her. 
 
 "My lady looks as she used to look when 
 the big letters came, saying Go," said Francesca ; 
 " but, courage, Signora mia, the big letters come 
 no more." 
 
 " No ; nor he who received them, Francesca," 
 said the mistress, sadly. "But it was not that 
 I was thinking of — it was my new care, my new 
 responsibility." , 
 
 " Bah !" cried Francesca ; " my lady will par-
 
 160 OMBRA. 
 
 don me, I did not mean to be rude. Ah ! if mv 
 lady was but a Christian like us other Itahans ! 
 Why, there never came an orphan into a kind 
 house, but she brought a blessing. The dear 
 Madonna will never let trouble come to you 
 from her child ; and, besides, the little angel is 
 exactly like you. Just so must my lady have 
 looked at her age — beautiful as the day." 
 
 " Ah ! Francesca, you are partial," said Mrs. 
 Anderson, with, however, a returning smile. 
 " I never was so pretty as Kate," 
 
 "My lady will pardon me," said Francesca, 
 with quiet gravity ; " in my eyes, senza compli- 
 menti, there is no one so beautiful as my lady 
 even now." 
 
 This statement was much too serious and 
 superior to compliment-making, to be answered, 
 especially as Francesca turned at once to the 
 window, to close the shutters, and make all safe 
 for the night.
 
 161 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 1 fRS. ANDERSON'S house was situated in one 
 -*-'-'■ of those nests of warmth and verdure 
 which are characteristic of the Isle of Wight. 
 There was a white cliff behind, partially veiled 
 with turf and bushes, the remains of an ancient 
 landslip. The green slope which formed its 
 base, and which, in Spring, was carpeted with 
 wild-flowers, descended into the sheltered sunny 
 garden, which made a fringe of flowers and 
 greenness round the cqttage. On that side 
 there was no need of fence or boundary. A 
 wild little rustic flight of steps led upward to 
 the winding mountain-path which led to the 
 brow of the cliff, and the cliff itself thiis became 
 the property of the little house. Both cottage 
 and garden were small, but the one was a mass 
 of flowers, and the airy brightness and light- 
 ness of the other made up for its tiny size- 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 M B RA. 
 
 The windows of the little drawiDg-room opened 
 into the rustic verandah, all garlanded with 
 climbing plants ; and though the view was not 
 very great, nothing but flowers and verdure, a 
 bit of quiet road, a glimpse of blue sea, yet 
 from the cliff there was a noble prospect — all 
 Sandown Bay, with its white promontory, and 
 the wide stretch of water, sometimes blue as 
 sapphire, though grey enough when the wind 
 brought it in, in huge rollers upon the strand. 
 The sight, and sound, and scent of the sea were 
 all alike new to Kate. The murmur in her ears 
 day and night, now soft, like the hu-ush of a 
 mother to a child, now thundering like artillery, 
 now gay as laughter, delighted the young soul 
 which was athirst for novelty. Here was some- 
 thing which was always new. There was no 
 limit to her enjoyment of the sea. She liked it 
 when wild and when- calm, and whatever might 
 be its vagaries, and in all her trials of temper, 
 which occurred now and then, fled to it for 
 soothing. The w^hole place, indeed, seemed to 
 be made especially for Kate. It suited her to 
 climb steep places, to run down slopes, to be 
 always going up or down, with continual move-
 
 OMBRA. 163 
 
 ment of her blood and stir of her spu'its. She de- 
 clared aloud that this was what she had wanted 
 all her life — not flat parks and flowers, but the 
 rising waves to pursue her when she ventured 
 too close to them, the falling tide to open up 
 sweet pools and mysteries, and penetrate her 
 with the wholesome breath of the salt, delight- 
 ful beach. 
 
 " I don't know how I have lived all this time 
 away from it. I must have been born for the 
 seaside !" she cried, as she walked on the sands 
 with her two companions. 
 
 Ombra, for her part, shrugged her shoulders, 
 and drew her shawl closer. She had already 
 decided that Kate was one of the race of ex- 
 travagant'talkers, who say more than they feel. 
 
 " The sea is very nice," said Mrs. Anderson, 
 who in this respect was not so enthusiastic as 
 Kate. 
 
 " Very nice I Oh I aunt, it is simply delight- 
 ful ! Whenever I am troublesome — as I know 1 
 shall be — just send me out here. I may talk all 
 the nonsense I like — it will never tire the sea." 
 
 "Do you talk a great deal of nonsense, 
 Kate r 
 
 m2
 
 164 OMBRA. 
 
 " I am afraid I do/' said the girl, with peni- 
 tence. " Not that I mean it ; but what is one 
 to do? Miss Blank, my last governess, never 
 talked at all, when she could help it, and silence 
 is terrible — anything is better than that ; and 
 she said I chattered, and was always interfer- 
 ing. What could I do ? One must be occupied 
 about something !" 
 
 " But are you fond of interfering, dear ?" 
 " Auntie I" said Kate, throwing back her hair, 
 " if I tell you the very worst of myself, you will 
 not give me up, or send me away ? Thanks ! 
 It is enough for me to be sure of that. Well, 
 perhaps I am, a little — I mean I like to be 
 doing something, or talking about something. 
 I like to have something even to think about. 
 You can't think of Mangnall's questions, now, can 
 you 1 — or Mrs. Markham ? The village people 
 used to be a great deal more interesting. I 
 used to like to hear all that was going on, and 
 give them my advice. Well, I suppose it was 
 not very good advice. But I was not a nobody 
 there to be laughed at, you know, auntie — I was 
 the chief person in the place !"
 
 OMBRA. 165 
 
 Here Orabra laughed, and it hurt Kate's 
 feelings. 
 
 " When I am old enough, I shall be able to 
 do as I please in Langton-Courtenay," she said. 
 
 " Certainly, my love," said Mrs. Anderson, 
 interposing; "and I hope, in the meantime, 
 dear, you will think a great deal of your 
 responsibilities, and all that is necessary to 
 make you fill such a trying position as you 
 ought." 
 
 *' Trying I" said Kate, with some surprise ; 
 ** do you think it will be trying ? I shall like 
 it better than anything. Poor old people, 1 
 must try to make it up to them, for perhaps I 
 rather bothered them sometimes, to tell the 
 truth. I am not like you and Ombra, so gentle 
 and nice. And, then, I had never seen people 
 behave as I suppose they ought." 
 
 " I am glad you think we behave as we ought, 
 Kate." 
 
 " Oh ! auntie ; but then there is something 
 about Ombra that makes me ashamed of my- 
 self. She is never noisy, nor dreadful, like me. 
 She touches things so softly, and speaks so 
 gently. Isn't she lovely, aunt ?"
 
 166 M B RA. 
 
 " She is lovely to me," said Mrs. Anderson, 
 with a glow of pleasure. " And I am so glad 
 you like your cousin, Kate." 
 
 "Like her! I never saw any one half so 
 beautiful. She looks such a lady. She is so 
 dainty, and so soft, and so nice. Could I ever 
 grow like that? Ah! auntie, you shake your 
 head — I don't mean so pretty, only a little more 
 like her, a little less like a " 
 
 " My dear child !" said the gratified mother, 
 giving Kate a hug, though it was out of doors. 
 And at that moment, Ombra, who had been in 
 advance, turned round, and saw the hasty em- 
 brace, and shrugged her pretty shoulders, as 
 her habit was. 
 
 "Mamma, I wish very much you would keep 
 these bursts of affection till you get home," said 
 Ombra. " The Eldridges are coming down the 
 cliff." 
 
 " Oh ! who are the Eldridges ? I know some 
 people called Eldridge," said Kate — " at least, I 
 don't know them, but I have heard " 
 
 " Hush ! they will hear, too, if you don't 
 mind," said Ombra. And Kate was silent. She 
 was changing rapidly, even in these few days.
 
 M B R A. 167 
 
 Ombra, who snubbed her, "who was not gracious 
 to her, who gave her no caresses, had, without 
 knowing it, attained unbounded empire over 
 her cousin. Kate had fallen in love with her, 
 as girls so often do with one older than them- 
 selves. The difference in this case was scarcely 
 enough to justify the sudden passion ; but 
 Ombra looked older than she was, and was so 
 very different a being from Kate, that her 
 gravity took the effect of years. Already this 
 entirely unconscious influence had done more 
 for Kate than all the educational processes she 
 had gone through. It woke the woman, the 
 gentlewoman, in the child, who had done, in her 
 brief day, so many troublesome things. Ombra 
 suddenly had taken the ideal place in her 
 mind — she had been elevated, all unwitting of 
 the honour, to the shrine in Kate's heart. 
 Everything in her seemed perfection to the 
 girl — even her name, her little semi-reproofs, 
 her gentle coldness. "If I could but be like 
 Ombra, not blurting things out, not saying 
 more than I mean, not carried away by every- 
 thing that interests me," she said, self-reproach- 
 fully, with rising compunction and shame for
 
 1G8 OMBRA. 
 
 all her past crimes. She had never seen the 
 enormity of them as ehe did now. She set 
 up Ombra, and worshipped her in every par- 
 ticular, with the enthusiasm of a fanatic. She 
 tried to curb her once bounding steps into some 
 resemblance to the other's languid pace; and 
 drove herself and Maryanne frantic by vain 
 endeavours to smoothe her rich crisp chestnut 
 hair into the similitude of Ombra's shadowy, 
 dusky locks. This sudden worship was inde- 
 pendent of all reason. Mrs. Anderson herself 
 was utterly taken by surprise by it, and Ombi-a 
 had not as yet a suspicion of the fact ; but it 
 had already begun to work upon Kate. 
 
 It was not in her, however, to make the ac- 
 quaintance of this group of new people without 
 a little stir in her pulses — all the more as Mrs. 
 Eldridge came up to herself with special cordi- 
 ality. 
 
 " I am sure this is Miss Courtenay," she said. 
 "I have heard of you from my nephew and 
 nieces at Langton-Courtenay. They told me 
 you were coming to the Island. I hope you 
 will like it, and think it as pretty as I do. You 
 are most welcome, I am sure, to Shanklin."
 
 OMBRA. 109 
 
 " Are you their aunt at Langton-Courtenay ?" 
 said Kate, with eyes which grew round with 
 excitement and pleasure. *' Oh I how very 
 odd I 1 did not think anybody knew me here." 
 
 " I am aunt to the boys and girls," said Mrs. 
 Eldridge. " Mrs. Hard wick is my husband's 
 sister. We must be like old friends, for the 
 Hardwicks' sake." 
 
 " But the Hardwicks are not old friends to 
 me," said Kate, with a child's unnecessary con- 
 scientiousness of explanation. " Bertie I know, 
 but I have only seen the others twice." 
 
 " Oh I that does not matter," said the Rector's 
 wife ; " you must come and see me all the 
 same." And then she turned to Mrs. Anderson, 
 and began to talk of the parish. Kate stood 
 by and listened with wondering eyes as they 
 discussed the poor folk, and their ways and 
 their doings. They did not interfere in her 
 way; but perhaps their way was not much 
 better, on the whole, than Kate's. She had 
 been very interfering, there was no doubt ; but 
 then she had interfered with everybody, rich 
 and poor alike, and made no invidious distinc- 
 tion. She stood and listened wondering, while
 
 170 OMBRA. 
 
 the Rector added his contribution about the 
 mothers' meetings, and the undue expectations 
 entertained by the old women at the alms- 
 houses. " We must guard against any foolish 
 partiality, or making pets of them," Mr. El- 
 dridge said ; and his wife added that Mr. Aston, 
 in the next parish, had quite spoiled his poor 
 people. " He is a bachelor ; he has nobody to 
 keep him straight, and he believes all their 
 stories. They know they have only to send 
 to the Vicarage to get whatever they require. 
 When one of them comes into our parish, we 
 don't know what to do with her," she said, 
 shaking her head. Kate was too much occu- 
 pied in listening to all this to perceive that 
 Ombra shrugged her shoulders. Her interest 
 in the new people kept her silent, as they re- 
 ascended the cliff, and strolled towards the Cot- 
 tage ; and it was not till the Rector and his 
 wife had turned homewards, once more cordial- 
 ly shaking hands with her, and renewing their 
 invitation, that she found her voice. 
 
 " Oh ! auntie, how very strange — how funny !" 
 she said. " To think I should meet the Eld ridges 
 here !"
 
 OMBRA. 171 
 
 " Why not the Eldridges ? — have you any 
 objection to them ?" said Mrs. Anderson. 
 
 " Oh, no I — I suppose not." (Kate put aside 
 with an effort that audacity of Sir Herbert 
 Eldridge, and false assumption about the size 
 of his park.) " But it is so curious to meet di- 
 rectly, as soon as I arriv^e, people whom I have 
 heard of " 
 
 " Indeed, my dear Kate, it is not at all won- 
 derful," said her aunt, didactically. " The world 
 is not nearly such a big place as you sup- 
 pose. If you should ever travel as much as we 
 have done (which heaven forbid !), you would 
 find that you were always meeting people you 
 knew, in the most unlikely places. Once, at 
 Smyrna, when Mr. Anderson was there, a gen- 
 tleman came on business, quite by chance, who 
 was the son of one of my most intimate friends 
 in my youth. Another time I met a companion 
 of my childhood, whom I had lost sight of since 
 we were at school, going up Vesuvius. Our 
 chaplain at Cadiz turned out to be a distant 
 connection of my husband's, though we knew 
 nothing of him before. Such things are always 
 happening. The world looks very big, and
 
 172 M B RA. 
 
 you feel as if you must lose yourself in it ; but, 
 on the contrary, wherever one goes, one falls 
 upon people one knows." 
 
 "But yet it is so strange about the Hard- 
 wicks," said Kate, persisting ; " they are the 
 only people I ever went to see — whom I was 
 allowed to know." 
 
 " How very pleasant ! " said Mrs. Anderson. 
 "Now I shall be quite easy in my mind. Your 
 uncle must have approved of them, in that case, 
 so I may allow you to associate with the Eld- 
 ridges freely. How very nice, my love, that it 
 should be so !" 
 
 Kate made no reply to this speech. She was 
 not, to tell the truth, quite clear that her uncle 
 approved. He had not cared to hear about 
 Bertie Hardwick ; he had frowned at the men- 
 tion of him. "And Bertie is the nicest — he is 
 the only one I care for," said Kate to herself-; 
 but she said nothing audibly on the subject. 
 To her, notwithstanding her aunt's philosophy, 
 it seemed very strange indeed that Bertie Hard- 
 wick's relatives should be the first to meet her 
 in this new world.
 
 173 
 
 CHxlPTER XIV. 
 
 TTATE settled down into her new life with an 
 -"-^ ease and facility which nobody had ex- 
 pected. She wrote to her uncle that she was 
 perfectly happy ; that she never could be suf- 
 ficiently thankful to him for freeing her from 
 the yoke of Miss Blank, and placing her among 
 people who were fond of her. " Little fool !" 
 Mr. Courtenay muttered to himself. *' They 
 have flattered her, I suppose." This was the 
 easiest and most natural explanation to one who 
 knew, or thought he knew, human nature so well. 
 But Kate was not flattered, except by her 
 aunt's caressing ways and habitual fondness. 
 Nobody in the Cottage recognized her import- 
 ance as the heiress of Langton-Courtenay. 
 Here she was no longer first, but second — nay, 
 third, taking her place after her cousin, as 
 nature ordained. " Ombra and Kate," was the
 
 17^ OMBRA. 
 
 new form of her existence — first Ombra, then 
 the new-comer, the youngest of all. She was 
 spoiled as a younger child is spoiled, not in any 
 other way. Mrs. Anderson's theory in educa- 
 tion was indulgence. She did not believe in 
 repression. She was always caressing, always 
 yielding. For one thing, it was less trouble- 
 some than a continual struggle ; but that was 
 not her motive. She took high ground. 
 *' Wh^t we have got to do is to ripen their 
 young minds," she said to the Rector's wife, 
 who objected to her as *' much too good," a re- 
 proach which Mrs. Anderson liked ; " and it is 
 sunshine that ripens, not an east wind!" This 
 was almost the only imaginative speech she 
 had ever made in her life, and consequently 
 she liked to repeat it. "Depend upon it, it 
 is sunshine that ripens them, and not east 
 wind ! " 
 
 " The sunshine ripens the wheat and the 
 tares alike, as we are told in Scripture," said 
 Mrs. Eldridge, with professional seriousness. 
 
 " That shows that Providence is of my way of 
 thinking," said her antagonist. " Why should 
 one cross one's children, and worry them ? They
 
 OMBRA. 175 
 
 will have enough of that in their lives ! Besides, 
 I have practical proof on my side. Look at 
 Ombra ! There is a child that never was crossed 
 since she was born ; and if I had scolded till I 
 made myself ill, do you think I could have im- 
 proved upon that V 
 
 Mrs. Eld ridge stood still for a moment, not be- 
 lieving her ears. She had daughters of her own, 
 and to have Ombra set up as a model of excel- 
 lence ! But she recovered herself speedily, and 
 gave vent to her feelings in a more courteous 
 way. 
 
 " Ah ! it is easy to see you never had any 
 boys," she said, with that sense of superiority 
 which the mother of both sections of humanity 
 feels over her who has produced but one. 
 "Ombra, indeed!" Mrs. Eldridge said, within 
 herself. And, indeed, it was a want of *' proper 
 feeling," on Mrs. Anderson's part, to set up so 
 manifestly her own daughter above other peo- 
 ple's. She felt it, and imaiediately did what she 
 could to atone. 
 
 " Boys, of course, are different," she said ; 
 " but I am sure you will agree with me that a 
 poor child who has never had anyone to love
 
 176 OMBRA. 
 
 her, who has been brought up among servants, 
 a girl who is motherless " 
 
 " Oh I poor child ! I can only say you are 
 too good — too good I With such a troublesome 
 disposition, too. I never could be half as good I" 
 cried the Rector's wife. » 
 
 ThusMrs.Anderson triumphed in the argument. 
 And as it happened that ripening under the sun- 
 shine was just what Kate wanted, the system 
 answered in the most perfect way, especially as 
 a gently chilling breeze, a kind of moral east- 
 wind, extremely subdued, but sufficiently keen, 
 came from Ombra, checking Kate's irregularities, 
 without seeming to do so, and keeping her high 
 spirit down. Ombra's influence over her cousin 
 increased as time went on. She was Kate's model 
 of all that was beautiful and sweet. The girl sub- 
 dued herself with all her might, and clipped and 
 snipped at her own character, to bring it to the 
 same mould as that of her cousin. And as such 
 worship cannot go long unnoted, Ombra gradu- 
 ally grew aware of it, and softened under its 
 influence. The Cottage grew very harmonious 
 and pleasant within doors. When Kate went 
 to bed, the mother and daughter would still
 
 OMBRA. 177 
 
 linger, and have little conversations about her, 
 conversations in which the one still defended 
 and the other attacked — or made a semblance of 
 attacking — the new-comer; but the acrid tone 
 had gone out of Ombra's remarks. 
 
 " I don't want to say a word against Kate," 
 she would say, keeping up her old role. *' I 
 think there is a great deal of good about her ; 
 but you know we have no longer our house to 
 ourselves." 
 
 "Could we enjoy our house to ourselves, 
 Ombra, knowing that poor child to have no 
 home ?" said Mrs. Anderson, with feeling. 
 
 "Well, mamma, the poor child has a great 
 many advantages over us," said Ombra, hesi- 
 tating. " I should like to have had her on a 
 visit; but to be always between you and 
 me " 
 
 " No one can be between you and me, my 
 child." 
 
 " That is true, perhaps. But then our little 
 house, our quiet life all to ourselves." 
 
 " That was a dream, my dear — that was a 
 mere dream of your own. People in our posi- 
 tion cannot have a life all to ourselves. We 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 OMBRA. 
 
 have our duties to society ; and I have my duty 
 to you, Ombra. Do you think I could be bo 
 selfish as to keep you altogether to myself, 
 and never let you see the world, or have your 
 chance of choosing some one who will take care 
 of you better than I can ? " 
 
 "Please don't," said Ombra. "I am quite 
 content with you; and there is not much at 
 Shanklin that can be called society or the 
 world." 
 
 " The world is everywhere," said Mrs. Ander- 
 son, with dignity. " I am not one of those who 
 confine the term to a certain class. Your papa 
 was but a Consul, but I have seen many an 
 ambassador who was very inferior to him. 
 Shanklin is a very nice place, Ombra ; and the 
 society, what there is, is very nice also. 1 like 
 my neighbours very much — they are not lords 
 and ladies, but they are well-bred, and some of 
 them are well-born." 
 
 " I don't suppose we are among that number," 
 said Ombra, with a momentary laugh. This 
 was one of her pet perversities, said out of 
 sheer opposition; for though she thrust the 
 fact forward, she did not like it herself.
 
 OMBRA. 179 
 
 " I think you are mistaken," said her mother, 
 with a flush upon her face. *' Your papa had 
 very good connexions in Scotland ; and my 
 father's family, though it was not equal to the 
 Com^tenays, which my sister married into, was 
 one of the most respectable in the county. 
 You are not like Kate — you have not the pedi- 
 gree which belongs to a house which has landed 
 property ; but you need not look down upon 
 your forefathers for all that." 
 
 " I do not look down upon them. I only 
 wish not to stand up upon thfem, mamma, for they 
 are not strong enough to bear me, I fear," Ombra 
 said, with a little forced laugh. 
 
 " 1 don't like joking on such subjects," said 
 Mrs. Anderson. " But to return to Kate. She 
 admires you very, very much, my darling — I 
 don't wonder at that — " 
 
 " Silly child !" said Ombra, in a much softened 
 tone. 
 
 " It shows her sense, 1 think ; but it throws 
 all the greater a responsibility on you. Oh ! 
 my dear love, could you and I, who are so 
 happy together, dare to shut our hearts against 
 that poor desolate child ?" 
 
 n2
 
 180 OMBRA. 
 
 Once more Ombra slightly, very slightly 
 shrugged her shoulders ; but she answered, 
 
 "1 am sure 1 have no wish to shut my heart 
 against her, mamma." 
 
 " For my part," said Mrs. Anderson, " I feel I 
 cannot pet her too much, or be too indulgent to 
 her, to make up to her for fifteen years spent 
 among strangers, with nobody to love." 
 
 "How odd that she should have found no- 
 body to love ! " said Ombra, turning away. She 
 herself was, as she believed, " not demonstra- 
 tive," not " efiusive." She was one of the many 
 persons who think that people who do not ex- 
 press any feeling at all, must necessarily have 
 more real feeling than those who disclose it — a 
 curious idea, quite frequent in the world ; and 
 she rather prided herself upon her own reserve. 
 Yet, reserved as she was, she, Ombra, had 
 always found people to love her, and why not 
 Kate ? This was the thought that passed 
 through her mind as she gave up the subject ; 
 but still she had grown reconciled to her cousin, 
 had begun to like her, and to be gratified by her 
 eager, girlish homage. Kate's admiration spoke 
 in every look and word, in her abject submis-
 
 OMBRA. 181 
 
 sion to Ombra's opinion, her concurrence in all 
 that Ombra said, her imitation of everything she 
 did. Ombra was a good musician, and Kate, 
 who had no great faculty that way, got up and 
 practised every morning, waking the early 
 echoes, and getting anything but blessings 
 from her idol, whose bed was exactly above the 
 piano on the next floor. Ombra was a great 
 linguist, by dint of her many travels, and Kate 
 sent unlimited orders for dictionaries and gram- 
 mars to her uncle, and began to learn verbs 
 with enthusiasm. She had all the masters who 
 came from London to Miss Story's quiet estab- 
 lishment, men whose hours were golden, and 
 whom nobody but an heiress could have enter- 
 tained in such profusion ; and she applied her- 
 self with the greatest diligence to such branches 
 of study as were favoured by Ombra, putting 
 her own private tastes aside for them with an 
 enthusiasm only possible to first love. Perhaps 
 Kate's enthusiasm was all the greater because of 
 the slow and rather grudging approbation which 
 her efforts to please elicited. Mrs. Anderson 
 was always pleased, always ready to commend 
 and admire ; but Ombra was very difficult. She
 
 182 OMBRA. 
 
 made little allowance for any weakness, and 
 4emanded absolute perfection, as mentors at 
 tlie age of seventeen generally do ; and Kate 
 hung on her very breath. Thus she took in- 
 stinctively the best way to please the only one 
 in the house who had set up any resistance to 
 her. Over the rest Kate had an easy victory. 
 It was Ombra who, all unawares, and not by 
 any virtue of hers, exercised the best control 
 and influence possible over the head-strong, 
 self-opinioned girl. She was head-strong enough 
 herself, and very imperfect, but that did not 
 affect her all-potent visionary sway. 
 
 And nothing could be more regular, nothing 
 more quiet and monotonous, than the routine of 
 life in the Cottage. The coming of the masters 
 was the event in it ; and that was a mild kind 
 of event, causing little enthusiasm. They 
 breakfasted, worked, walked, and dined, and 
 then rose next morning to do the same thing 
 over again. Notwithstanding Mrs. Anderson's 
 talk about her duty to society, there were very 
 few claims made upon her. She was not much 
 called upon to fulfil these duties. Sometimes 
 the ladies went out to the Rectory to tea ;
 
 OMBRA. 183 
 
 sometimes, indeed, Mrs. Anderson and Ombra 
 dined there ; but on these occasions Kate was 
 left at home, as too young for such an intoxi- 
 cating pleasure. ** And, besides, my darling, I 
 promised your uncle," Mrs. Anderson would say. 
 But Kate was always of the party when it was 
 tea. There were other neighbours who gave 
 similar entertainments ; and before a year had 
 passed, Kate had tasted the bread and butter of 
 all the houses in the parish which Mrs. Anderson 
 thought worthy of her friendship. But only to 
 tea ; " I made that condition with Mr. Courtenay, 
 and I must hold by it, though my heart is broken 
 to leave you behind. If you knew how trying 
 it was, my dearest child I" she would say with 
 melancholy tones, as she stepped out, with a 
 shawl over her evening toilette ; but these were 
 very rare occurrences indeed. And Kate went 
 to the teas, and was happy. 
 
 How happy she was ! When she was tired 
 of the drawing-room (as happened sometimes), 
 she would rush away to an odd little room 
 under the leads, which was Francesca's work- 
 room and oratory, where the other maids were 
 never permitted to enter, but which had been
 
 184 OMBRA. 
 
 made free to Mees Katta. Francesca was not 
 like English servants, holding jealously by one 
 special metier. She was cook, and she was 
 housekeeper, but, at the same time, she was 
 Mrs. Anderson's private milliner, making her 
 dresses ; and the personal attendant of both 
 mother and daughter. Even Jane, the house- 
 maid, scorned her for this versatility; but 
 Francesca took no notice of the scorn. She 
 was not born to confine herself within such 
 narrow limits as an English kitchen afforded 
 her; and she took compensation for her un- 
 usual labours. She lectured Ombra, as we 
 have seen; she interfered in a great many 
 things which were not her business ; she gave 
 her advice freely to her mistress ; she was one 
 of the household, not less interested than the 
 mistress herself. And when Kate arrived, 
 Francesca added another branch of occupation 
 to the others ; or, rather, she revived an art 
 which she had once exercised with great ap- 
 plause, but which had fallen into disuse since 
 Ombra ceased to be a child. She became the 
 minstrel, the improvisatore, the ancient chroni- 
 cler, the muse of the new-comer. When Kate
 
 OMBRA. 185 
 
 felt the afternoon growing languid she snatched 
 up a piece of work, and flew up the stairs to 
 Francesca's retreat. " Tell me something," she 
 would say ; and, sitting at the old woman's 
 feet, would forget her work, and her dulness, 
 and everything in heaven and earth, in the 
 entrancement of a tale. These were not fairy- 
 tales, but bits of those stories, more strange than 
 fairy-tales, which still haunt the old houses of 
 Italy. Francesca's tales were without end. She 
 would begin upon a family pedigree, and work 
 her way up or down through a few generations, 
 without missing a stitch in her work, or drop- 
 ping a thread in her story. She filled Kate's 
 head with counts and barons, and gloomy 
 castles and great palaces. It was an amuse- 
 ment which combined the delight of gossip and 
 the delight of novel-reading in one. 
 
 And thus Kate's life ran on, as noiseless, as 
 simple as the growth of a lily or a rose, with 
 nothing but sunshine all about, warming her, 
 ripening her, as her new guardian said, bring- 
 ing slowly on, day by day, the moment of blos- 
 soming, the time of the perfect flower.
 
 .86 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 TT was Summer when Kate arrived at the 
 -*- Cottage, and it was not till the Easter 
 after that any disturbing influences came into 
 the quiet scene. Easter was so late that year 
 that it was almost Summer again. The rich 
 slopes of the landslip were covered with starry 
 primroses, and those violets which have their 
 own blue-eyed beauty only to surround them, 
 and want the sweetness of their rarer sisters. 
 The landslip is a kind of fairyland at that en- 
 chanted moment. Everything is coming — the 
 hawthorn, the wild roses, all the flowers of early 
 Summer, are, as it were, on tiptoe, waiting for 
 the hour of their call ; and the primroses have 
 eome, and are crowding everywhere, turning 
 the darkest corners into gardens of delight. 
 Then there is the sea, now matchless blue, now
 
 OMBRA. 187 
 
 veiled with mists, framing in every headland 
 and jutting cliff, without any margin of beach 
 to break its full tone of colour ; and above, the 
 new-budded trees, the verdure that grows and 
 opens every day, the specks of white houses 
 everywhere, dotted all over the heights. Spring, 
 wl^ich makes everything and everyone gay, 
 which brings even to the sorrowful a touch of 
 that reaction of nature that makes pain sorer for 
 the moment, yet marks the new springing of 
 life — fancy what it was to the sixteen-year-old 
 girl, now first emancipated, among people who 
 loved her, never judged her harshly, nor fretted 
 her life with uncalled-for opposition ! 
 
 Kate felt as if the primroses were a crowd of 
 playmates, suddenly come to her out of the 
 bountiful heart of nature. She gathered baskets 
 full every day, and yet they never decreased. 
 She passed her mornings in delicious idleness 
 making them into enormous bouquets, which 
 gave the Cottage something of the same aspect 
 as the slopes outside. She had a taste for this 
 frivolous but delightful occupation. I am free 
 to confess that to spend hours putting primroses 
 and violets together, in the biggest flat dishes
 
 188 OMBRA. 
 
 which the Cottage could produce, was an ex- 
 tremely frivolous occupation ; most likely she 
 would have been a great deal better employed 
 in improving her mind, in learning verbs, or 
 practising exercises, or doing something useful. 
 But youth has a great deal of leisure, and this 
 bright fresh girl, in the bright little hall of the 
 Cottage, arranging her flowers in the Spring 
 sunshine, made a very pretty picture. She put 
 the primroses in, with their natural leaves about 
 them, with sweet bunches of blue violets to 
 heighten the effect, touching them as if she 
 loved them ; and, as she did it, she sang as the 
 birds do, running on with unconscious music, 
 and sweetness, and gladness. It was Spring 
 with her as with them. Nothing was as yet 
 required of her but to bloom and grow, and 
 make earth fairer. And she did this unawares 
 and was as happy over her vast, simple bouquet, 
 and took as much sweet thought how to arrange 
 it, as if that had been the great aim of life. 
 She was one with her flowers, and both to- 
 gether they belonged to Spring — the Spring of 
 the year, the Spring of life, the sweet time 
 which comes but once, and never lasts too long.
 
 M B R A. 189 
 
 She was thus employed one morning when 
 steps came through the garden, steps which she 
 did not much heed. For one thing, she but half 
 heard them, being occupied with her " work," as 
 she called it, and her song, and having no fear 
 that anything unwelcome would appear at that 
 sunny, open door. No one could come who 
 did not know everybody in the little house, 
 who was not friendly, and smiling, and kind, 
 whose hand would not be held out in pleasant 
 familiarity. Here were no trespassers, no stran- 
 gers. Therefore Kate heard the steps as though 
 she heard them not, and did not even pause to 
 ask herself who was coming. She was roused, 
 but then only with the mildest expectation, 
 when a shadow fell across her bit of sunshine. 
 She looked up with her song still on her lip, 
 and her hands full of flowers. She stopped 
 singing. " Oh ! Bertie !" she cried, half to her- 
 self, and made an eager step forward. But then 
 suddenly she paused, — she dropped her flowers. 
 Curiosity, wonder, amazement came over her 
 face. She went on slowly to the door, gazing, 
 and questioning with her eyes. 
 
 " Are there two of you V she said gravely.
 
 190 OMBRA. 
 
 " I heard that Bertie Hardwick was coming. 
 Oh I which is you 1 Stop — don't tell me. I am 
 not going to be mystified. I can find it out for 
 myself." 
 
 There 'were two young men standing in 
 the hall, who laughed and blushed as they 
 stood submitting to her inspection ; but Kate 
 was perfectly serious. She stood and look- 
 ed at them with an unmoved and somewhat 
 anxious countenance. A certain symbolical 
 gravity and earnestness w^as in her face ; but 
 there was indeed occasion to hesitate. The two 
 who stood before her seemed at the first glance 
 identical. They had the same eyes, the same 
 curling brown hair, the same features, the same 
 figure. Gradually, however, the uncertainty 
 cleared away from Kate's face. 
 
 " It must be you," she said, still very seri- 
 ously. " You are not quite so tall, and I think 
 I remember your eyes. You must be Bertie, I 
 am sure." 
 
 "We are both Bertie," said the young man, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Ah I but you must be my Bertie ; I am certain 
 of it," said Kate. Not a gleam of maiden con-
 
 OMBRA. 191 
 
 sciousness was in her ; she said it with all sim- 
 plicity and seriousness. She did not understand 
 the colour that came to one Bertie's face or the 
 smile that flashed over the other ; and she held 
 out her hand to the one whom she had selected. 
 " I am so glad to see you. Come in, and tell 
 me all about Langton. Dear old Langton ! 
 Though you were so disagreeable about the size 
 of the park' '* 
 
 " I will never be disagreeable again." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense 1" cried Kate, interrupting 
 him. "As if one could stop being anything 
 that is natural ! My aunt is somewhere about, 
 and Ombra is in the drawing-room. Come in. 
 Perhaps, though, you had better tell me who 
 
 this — other — gentleman Why, Mr. Bertie, 
 
 I am not quite sure, after all, which is the other 
 and which is you !" 
 
 " This is my cousin, Bertie Eldridge," said her 
 old friend. "You will soon know the differ- 
 ence. You remember what an exemplary char- 
 acter I am, and he is quite the reverse. I am 
 always getting into trouble on his account." 
 
 " Miss Courtenay will soon know better than 
 to believe you," said the other ; at which Kate 
 started and clapped her hands.
 
 192 OMBRA. 
 
 *' Oh 1 I know now that is not your voice. 
 Ombra, please, here are two gentlemen — " 
 
 This is how the two cousins were introduced 
 into the Cottage. They had been there before 
 separately ; but neither Mrs. Anderson nor her 
 daughter knew how slight was the acquaint- 
 ance which entitled Kate to qualify one of the 
 new-comers as " my Bertie." They were both 
 young, not much over twenty, and their like- 
 ness was wonderful ; it was, however, a likeness 
 which diminished as they talked, for their ex- 
 pression was as different as their voices. Kate 
 had no hesitation in appropriating the one she 
 knew. 
 
 " Tell me about Langton," she said — " all 
 about it. I have heard nothing for nearly a 
 year. Oh I don't laugh. I know the house 
 stands just where it used to stand, and no one 
 dares to cut down the trees. But itself — Don't 
 you know what Langton means to me ?" 
 
 " Home V said Bertie Hardwick, but with a 
 little doubt in his tone. 
 
 " Home !" repeated Kate ; and then she, too, 
 paused perplexed. " Not exactly home, for 
 there is no one there I care for — much. Oh !
 
 M B R A. 193 
 
 but can't you understand ? It is not home ; I 
 am much happier here ; but, in a kind of a way, 
 it is me !" 
 
 Bertie Hard wick was puzzled, and he was 
 dazzled too. His first meeting with her had 
 made no small impression upon him ; and now 
 Kate was almost a full-grown woman, and the 
 brightness about her dazzled his eyes. 
 
 •' It cannot be you now," he said. " It is — 
 let." 
 
 Kate gave a fierce little cry, and clenched her 
 hands. 
 
 "Oh I Uncle Courtenay, I wish I could just 
 kill you !" she said, half to herself. 
 
 " It is let, for four or five years, to the only 
 kind of people who can afford to have great 
 houses now — to Mr. Donkin, who has a large 
 — shop in town." 
 
 Kate moaned again, but then recovered her- 
 self. 
 
 " I don't see that it matters much about the 
 shop. I think, if I were obliged to work, I 
 should not mind keeping a shop. It would be 
 such fun I But, oh I if Uncle Courtenay were 
 only here I " 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 OMBRA. 
 
 '* It is better not. There might be bloodshed, 
 and you would regret it after," said Bertie, 
 gravely. 
 
 " Don't laugh at me ; I mean it. And, if you 
 won't tell me anything about Langton, tell me 
 about yourself. Who is he'? What does he 
 mean by being so like you ? He is different 
 
 when he talks ; but at the first glance Why 
 
 do you allow any one to be so like you, Mr. 
 Bertie? If he is not nice, as you said " 
 
 " I did not mean you to believe me," said 
 Bertie. " He is the best fellow going. I wish 
 I were half as good, or half as clever. He is my 
 cousin, and just like my brother. Why, I am 
 proud of being like him. We are taken for 
 each other every day." 
 
 "/should not like it," said Kate. "Ombra 
 and I are not like each other, though we are 
 cousins too. Do you know Ombra? I think 
 there never was anyone like her ; but, on the 
 whole, I think it is best to be two people, not 
 one. Are you still at Oxford? — and is he at 
 Oxford ? Mr. Bertie, if I were you, I don't think 
 I should be a clergyman."
 
 OMBRA. 195 
 
 *' Why ?" said Bertie, who, unfortunately for 
 himself, was much of her mind. 
 
 " You might not get a living, you know," said 
 Kate. 
 
 This she said conscientiously, to prepare him 
 for the fact that he Avas not to have Langton- 
 Courtenay ; but his laugh disconcerted her, and 
 immediately brought before her eyes the other 
 idea that his objectionable uncle, who had a 
 park larger than Langton, might have a living 
 too. She coloured high, having begun to find 
 out, by means of her education in the Cottage, 
 when she had committed herself. 
 
 " Or," she went on, with all the calmness she 
 could command, '•' when you had a living you 
 
 might not like it. The Rector here Oh ! of 
 
 course he must be your uncle too. He is very 
 good, I am sure, and very nice," said Kate, 
 floundering, and feeling that she was getting 
 deeper and deeper into the mire ; ** but it is so 
 strange to hear him talk. The old women in 
 the almshouses, and the poor people, and all 
 that, and mothers' meetings — Of course, it 
 must be very right and very good ; but, Mr. 
 Bertie, nothing but mothers' meetings, and old 
 
 2
 
 196 OMBRA. 
 
 women in almshouses, for all your life " 
 
 " I suppose he has something more than 
 tliat," said Bertie, half affronted, half amused. 
 
 " I suppose so — or, at least, I hope so," said 
 Kate. *'Do you know what a mothers' meeting 
 is ? But to go to Oxford, you know, for that — ! 
 If I were you, I would be something else. 
 There must be a great many other things that 
 you could be. Soldiers are not much good in 
 time of peace, and lawyers have to tell so many 
 lies — or, at least, so people say in books. I will 
 tell you what I should advise, Mr. Bertie. Doc- 
 tors are of real use in the world — I would be a 
 doctor, if I were you." 
 
 " But I should not at all like to be a doctor," 
 said Bertie. *' Of all trades in the world, that 
 is the last I should choose. Talk of mothers' 
 meetings ! a doctor is at every fool's command, 
 
 to run here and there ; and besides 1 think. 
 
 Miss Courteuay, you have made a mistake." 
 
 " I am only saying what I would do if it was 
 me," said Kate, softly folding her hands. " I 
 would rather be a doctor than any of the other 
 things. And you ought to decide, Mr. Bertie ; 
 you will not be a boy much longer. You have
 
 OMBRA. 197 
 
 got something here," and she put up her hand 
 to her own soft chin, and stroked it gently, 
 " which you did not have the last time I saw 
 you. You are ahuost — a man." 
 
 This for Bertie to hear, who was one-and- 
 twenty, and an Oxford man — who had felt him- 
 self full grown both in frame and intellect for 
 these two years past ! He was wroth — his 
 cheek burned, and his eye flashed. But, fortu- 
 nately, Mrs. Anderson interposed, and drew her 
 chair tow^ards them, putting an end to the tete- 
 a-tete, Mrs. Anderson was somewhat disturbed, 
 for her part. Here were two young men — 
 two birds of prey — intruding upon the stillness 
 which surrounded the nest in which she had 
 hidden an heiress. What was she to do ? Was 
 it safe to permit them to come, fluttering, per- 
 haps, the nestling ? or did stern duty demand 
 of her to close her doors, and shut out every 
 chance of evil ? As soon as she perceived that 
 the conversation between Kate and her Bertie 
 was special and private, she trembled and inter- 
 posed. She asked the young man all about his 
 family, his sisters, his studies — anything she 
 could think of — and so kept her heiress, as she
 
 198 M B R A. 
 
 imagined, safe, and the wild beast at bay. 
 
 " You are sure your uncle approved of the 
 Hardwicks as friends for you, Kate V she said 
 that evening, when the visit had been talked 
 over in full family conclave. Mrs. Anderson 
 might make what pretence she pleased that 
 they were only ordinary visitors, but the two 
 Berties had made a commotion much greater 
 than the Rector and his wife did, or even the 
 schoolboy and schoolgirl Eldridges, noisy and 
 tumultuous as their visits often were. 
 
 " He made me go to the Rectory with him," 
 said Kate, very demurely. " It was not my 
 doing at all ; he wanted me to go." 
 
 And, after that, what could there be to say ?
 
 199 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 rpHE two Berties came again next day — they 
 -*- came with their cousins, and they came 
 without them. They joined the party from the 
 Cottage in their walks, with an intuitive know- 
 ledge w^here they were going, which was quite 
 extraordinary. They got up croquet-parties 
 and picnics; they w^ere always in attendance 
 upon the two girls. Mrs. Anderson had many 
 a thought on the subject, and wondered much 
 what her duty was in such a very trying emer- 
 gency; but there- were two things that con- 
 soled her — the first that it was Ombra who was 
 the chief object of the two young men's admi- 
 ration ; and the second, that they could not 
 possibly stay long. Ombra was their first ob- 
 ject. She assured herself of this with a warm 
 and pleasant glow at her heart, though she was
 
 200 OMBRA. 
 
 not a raatch-makiDg mother, nor at all desirous 
 of "marrying off," and "getting rid of" her 
 only child. Besides, the young men were too 
 young for anything serious — not very long out 
 of their teens ; lads still under strict parental 
 observation and guidance ; they v^ere too young 
 to make matrimonial proposals to any one, or 
 to carry such proposals out. But, nevertheless, 
 it was pleasant to Mrs. Anderson to feel that 
 Ombra was their first object, and that her 
 " bairn " was " respected like the lave.*' " Thank 
 Heaven, Kate's money has nothing to do with 
 it," she said to herself; and where was the use 
 of sending away two handsome young men, 
 whom the girls liked, and who were a change 
 to them ? Besides, they were going away so 
 soon — in a fortnight — no harm could possibly 
 come. 
 
 So Mrs. Anderson tolerated them, invited 
 them, gave them luncheon sometimes, and often 
 tea, till they became as familiar about the house 
 as the young Eldridges were, or any other near 
 neighbours. And the girls did not have theii* 
 heads at all turned by the new cavaliers, who 
 were so assiduous in their attentions. Ombra
 
 OMBRA. 201 
 
 gently ridiculed them both, hitting them with 
 dainty little arrows of scorn, smiling at their 
 boyish ways, their impetuosity and self-opinion. 
 Kate, on the contrary, took them up very 
 gravely, with a motherly, not to say grand- 
 motherly interest in their future, giving to him 
 whom she called her old friend the very best of 
 good advice. Mrs. Anderson herself was much 
 amused by this new development of her charge's 
 powers. She said to herself, a dozen times in 
 a day, how ridiculous it was to suppose that 
 boys and girls could not be in each other's 
 company without falling in love. Why, here 
 were two pairs contioually in each other's com- 
 pany, and without the faintest shadow of any 
 such folly to disturb them ! Perhaps a sense 
 that it was to her own perfect good manage- 
 ment that this was owing, increased her satis- 
 faction. She "kept her eye on them," never 
 officiously, never demonstratively, but in the 
 most vigilant way ; and a certain gentle com- 
 placency mingled with her content. Had she 
 left them to roam about as they pleased with- 
 out her, then indeed trouble might have been 
 looked for : but Mrs. Anderson was heroic, and
 
 202 OMBRA. 
 
 put aside her 'own ease, and was their com- 
 panion everywhere. At the same time (but 
 this was done with the utmost caution) she took 
 a Httle pains to find out all about Sir Herbert 
 Eldridge, the father of one of the Berties — his 
 county, and the amount of his property, and all 
 the information that was possible. She breathed 
 not a word of this to any one — not even to 
 Ombra ; but she put Bertie Eldridge on her 
 daughter's side of the table at tea; and per- 
 haps showed him a little preference, for her 
 own part, a preference, however so slight, 
 so undiscernible to the vulgar eye, that 
 neither of the young men found it out. She 
 was very good to them, quite irrespective of 
 their family, or the difference in their prospects ; 
 and she missed them much when they went 
 away. For go away they did, at the end of 
 their fortnight, leaving the girls rather dull, and 
 somewhat satirical. It was the first invasion of 
 the kind that had been made into their life. 
 The boys at the Rectory were still nothing but 
 boys ; and men did not abound in the neigh- 
 bourhood. Even Ombra was slightly misan- 
 thropical when the Berties went away.
 
 OMBRA. 203 
 
 *' What it is to be a boy I" she said ; *' they 
 go where they like, these two, and arrange 
 their lives as they please. What a fuss every- 
 body makes about them ; and yet they are 
 common-place enough. If they were girls like 
 us, how little any one would care " 
 
 " My dear, Mr. Eldridge will be a great landed 
 proprietor, and have a great deal in his power," 
 said Mrs. Anderson. 
 
 *' Because he happens to have been born Sir 
 Herbert's son ; no thanks to Aim," said Ombra, 
 with disdain. " And most likely, when he is a 
 great landed proprietor he will do nothing worth 
 noticing. The other is more interesting to me ; 
 he at least has his own way to make." 
 
 " I wonder what poor Bertie will do ?" said 
 Kate, with her grandmother air. "I should 
 not like to see him a clergyman. What Ombra 
 says is very true, auntie. When one is a great 
 Squire, you know, one can't help one's self; 
 one's life is all settled before one is born. But 
 
 when one can choose what to be ! For my 
 
 part," said Kate, with great gravity, " I am 
 anxious about Bertie, too. I gave him all the
 
 204 OMBRA. 
 
 advice I co-uld — but I am not sure that he is the 
 sort of boy to take advice." 
 
 " He is older than you are, my love, and per- 
 haps he may think he knows better," said Mrs. 
 Anderson, with a smile. 
 
 *' But that would be a mistake," said Kate. 
 *' Boys have so many things to do, they have 
 no time to think. And then they don't consider 
 things as we do ; and besides — " But here 
 Kate paused, doubting the wisdom of further 
 explanations. What she had meant . to say 
 was that, having no thinking to do for herself, 
 her own position being settled and established 
 beyond the reach of fate, she had the more time 
 to give to the concerns of her neighbours. But 
 it occurred to her that Ombra had scorned Ber- 
 tie Eldridge's position, and might scorn hers 
 also, and she held her peace. 
 
 " Besides, there is always a fuss made about 
 them, as if they were better than other people. 
 Don't let us talk of them any more ; I am sick 
 of the subject," said Ombra, withdrawing into a 
 book. The others made no objection ; they 
 acquiesced with a calmness which perhaps 
 scarcely satisfied Ombra. Mrs. Anderson de-
 
 OMBRA. 205 
 
 clared openly that she missed the visitors much; 
 and Kate avowed, without hesitation, that the 
 boys Avere fun, and she was sorry that they 
 were gone. But the chances are that it was 
 Ombra who missed them most, though she pro- 
 fessed to be rather glad than otherwise. 
 ** They were a nuisance, interrupting one what- 
 ever one was doing. Boys at that age always 
 are a nuisance," she said, with an air of seve- 
 rity, and she returned to all her occupations 
 with an immense deal of seriousness. 
 
 But this disturbance of their quiet affected her 
 in reality much more than it affected her com- 
 panions — the very earnestness of her resumed 
 duties testified to this. She was on the edge 
 of personal life, wondering and already longing 
 to taste its excitements and troubles; and every- 
 thing that disturbed the peaceful routine felt like 
 that life which was surely coming, and stirred 
 her pulses. It was like the first creeping up of 
 the tide about the boat which is destined to live 
 upon the waves ; not enough yet to float the 
 little vessel off from the stays which hold it, 
 but enough to rock and stir it with prophetic 
 sensation of the fuller flood to come.
 
 206 M B R A. 
 
 Ombra was "viewy," to use a word which has 
 become well-nigh obsolete. She was full of 
 opiuioDS and speculations, which she called 
 thought ; a little temper, a good deal of uncon- 
 scious egotism, and a reflective disposition, 
 united to make her what is called, a " thought- 
 ful girl." She mused upon herself, and upon 
 the few varieties of human life she knew, and 
 upon the world, and all its accidents and mis- 
 understandings, as she had seen them, and upon 
 the subjects which she read about. But part- 
 ly her youth, and partly her character, made 
 her thoughts like the observations of a traveller 
 newly entered into a strange country, and feel- 
 ing himself capable, as superficial travellers 
 often are, to lay bare its character, and fathom 
 all its problems at a glance. Other people 
 were, to this young philosopher, as foreigners are 
 to the inexperienced traveller. She was very 
 curious about them, and marked their external 
 peculiarities with sufficient quickness; but she had 
 not imagination enough to feel for them or with 
 them, or to see their life from their own point 
 of view. Her own standing-point was the only
 
 OMBRA. 207 
 
 one in the world to her. She could judge 
 others only by herself. 
 
 Curiously enough, however, with this want of 
 sympathetic imagination there was combined a 
 a good deal of fancy. Ombra had written little 
 stories from her earliest youth. She had a lite- 
 rary turn. At this period of her life, when she 
 was nearly eighteen, and the world was full of 
 wonders and delightful mysteries to her, she 
 WTote a great deal, sometimes in verse, some- 
 times in prose, and now and then asked herself 
 whether it was not genius which inspired her. 
 Some of her poems, as she called them, had 
 been printed in little religious magazines and 
 newspapers — for Ombra's muse was as yet 
 highly religious. She had every reason to be- 
 lieve herself one of the stars that shine unseen 
 — a creature superior to the ordinary run of 
 humanity. She read more than anyone she 
 knew, and thought, or believed that she thought, 
 deeply on a great many subjects. And one of 
 these subjects naturally was that of the position 
 of women. She was girl enough, and had 
 enough of nature in her, to enjoy the momen-
 
 208 OMBRA. 
 
 tary brightness of the firmament which the 
 two Berties had brought. She liked the 
 movement and commotion as much as the 
 others did — the walks, the little parties, the ex- 
 peditions, and even the games ; and she felt the 
 absence of these little excitements when they 
 came to an end. And thereupon she set herself 
 to reflect upon them. She carried her little 
 portfolio up to a rustic seat which had been 
 made on the cliff, sheltered by some ledges of 
 rock, and covered with flowers and bushes, and 
 set herself to think. And here her thoughts 
 took that turn which is so natural, yet so 
 hackneyed and conventional. No one would, 
 in reality, have been less disposed than Om- 
 bra to give up a woman's — a lady's privi- 
 leges. To go forth into the world unattend- 
 ed, without the shield and guard of honour, 
 which her semi-foreign education made doubly 
 necessary to her, would have seemed to the 
 girl the utmost misery of desolation. She 
 would have resented the need as a wrong done 
 her by fate. But nevertheless she sat up in her 
 rocky bower, and looked over the blue sea, and 
 the white headlands, and said to herself, bitter-
 
 M B R A. 209 
 
 ly, what a different lot had fallen to these two 
 Berties from that which was her own. They 
 could go where they liked, society imposed no 
 restraints upon them ; when they were tired of 
 one place, they could pass on to another. Heaven 
 and earth was moved for their education, to 
 make everything known to them, to rifle all the 
 old treasure-houses, to communicate to them 
 every discovery which human wisdom had ever 
 made. And for what slight creatures were all 
 these pains taken ; boys upon whom she looked 
 down in the fuller development of her woman- 
 hood, feeling them ever so much younger than 
 she was, less serious in their ideas, less able to 
 do anything w^orth living for I It seemed to 
 Ombra, at that moment, that there was in her- 
 self a power such as none of " these boys " had 
 a conception of — genius, the divinest thing in 
 humanity ! But that which would have been 
 fostered and cultivated in them, would be 
 quenched, or at least hampered and kept down 
 in her. " For I am only a woman I" said Ombra, 
 Avith a swelling heart. 
 
 All this was perfectly natural ; and, at the 
 same time, it was quite conventional. It was a 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 OMBRA. 
 
 little overflow of that depression after a feast, 
 that reaction of excitement, which makes every 
 human creature blaspheme in one way or other. 
 The sound of Kate's voice, singing as she came 
 up the little path to the cliff, made her cousin 
 angry, in this state of her mind and nerves. 
 Here was a girl no better than the boys, a crea- 
 ture without thought, who neither desired a high 
 destiny, nor could understand what it meant. 
 
 " How careless you are, Kate !" she cried, in 
 the impulse of the moment. " Always singing, 
 or some nonsense — and you know you can't 
 sing ! If I were as young as you are, I would 
 not lose my time as you do ! Do you never 
 think?" 
 
 " Yes," said Kate, with a meekness she never 
 showed but to Ombra, " a great deal sometimes. 
 But I can't on such a morning. There seems 
 nothing in all the world but sunshine and prim- 
 roses, and the air is so sweet I Come up to the 
 top of the cliff, and try how far you can see. I 
 think I can make out that big ship that kept 
 firing so the other day. Ombra, if you don't 
 mind, I shall be first at the top !" 
 
 " As if I cared who was first at the top !
 
 OMBRA. 211 
 
 Oil I Kate, Kate, you are as frivolous as — as — 
 the silly creatures in novels — or as these boys 
 themselves I" 
 
 " The boys were very good boys I" said Kate. 
 " If they are silly, they can't help it. Of course 
 they were not as clever as you — no one is; and 
 Bertie, you know — little Bertie, my Bertie — 
 ought to think more of what he is going to do. 
 But they were very nice, as boys go. We can't 
 expect them to be like us. Ombra, do come 
 and try a run for the top." 
 
 " What a foolish child you are I" said Ombra, suf- 
 fering her portfolio to be taken out of her hands ; 
 and then her youth vindicated itself, and she 
 started off like a young fawn up the little path. 
 Kate could have won the race had she tried, 
 but was too loyal to outstrip her princess. And 
 thus the cobwebs were blown away from the 
 young thinker's brain. 
 
 p2
 
 212 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 TT will be seen, however, that, though Kate's 
 -■- interpretation of the imperfections of 
 " the boys " was more genial than that of 
 Ombra, yet that still there was a certain con- 
 descension in her remarks, and sense that 
 she herself was older, graver, and of much 
 more serious stuff altogether than the late visi- 
 tors. Her instinct for interference, which had 
 been in abeyance since she came to the Cottage, 
 sprung up into full force the moment these in- 
 ferior creatures came within her reach. She 
 felt that it was her natural mission, the work 
 for which she was qualified, to set, and keep 
 them right. This she had been quite unable to 
 feel herself entitled to do in the Cottage. Mrs. 
 Anderson's indulgence and tenderness, and 
 Ombra's superiority, had silenced even her
 
 M B R A. 213 
 
 lively spirit. She could not tender her advice 
 to them, much as she might have desired to do 
 so. But Bertie Hardwick was a bit of Lang- 
 ton, one of her own people, a natural-born sub- 
 ject, for whose advantage all her powers were 
 called forth. She thought a great deal about 
 his future, and did not hesitate to say so. She 
 spoke of it to Mr. Eldridge, electrifying the ex- 
 cellent Rector. 
 
 " What a trouble boys must be !" she said, 
 when she ran in with some message from her 
 aunt, and found the whole party gathered at 
 luncheon. There were ten Eldridges, so that 
 the party was a large one ; and as the holidays 
 were not yet over, Tom and Herbert, the two 
 eldest, had not returned to school. 
 
 ** They are a trouble, in the holidays," said 
 Mrs. Eldridge, with a sigh ; and then she looked 
 at Lucy, her eldest girl, who was in disgrace, 
 and added seriously, *' but not more than girls. 
 One expects girls to know better. To see a 
 great creature of fifteen, nearly in long dresses, 
 romping like a Tom-boy, is enough to break 
 one's heart." 
 
 '* But I was thinking of the future," said Kate
 
 214 OMBRA. 
 
 and she too gave a little sigh, as meaDing that 
 the question was a very serious one indeed. 
 
 The Rector smiled, but Mrs. Eldridge did not 
 join him. Somehow Kate's position, which the 
 Rector's wife was fond of talking of, gave her 
 a certain solemnity, which made up for her want 
 of age and experience in that excellent woman's 
 eyes. 
 
 " As for us," Kate continued very gravely, 
 *' either we marry or we don't, and that settles 
 
 the question ; but boys that have to work 
 
 Oh ! when I think what a trouble they are, it 
 makes me quite sad." 
 
 " Poor Kate 1" said the laughing Rector ; 
 ** but you have not any boys of your own yet, 
 which must simplify the matter." 
 
 " No," said Kate gravely, " not quite of my 
 own ; but if you consider the interest I take in 
 Langton, and all that I have to do with it, you 
 will see that it does not make much difference. 
 There is Bertie Hardwick, for instance, Mr. 
 Eldridge " 
 
 The Rector interrupted her with a hearty 
 outburst of laughter. 
 
 " Is Bertie Hardwick one of the boys whom
 
 OMBRA. 215 
 
 you regard as almost your own ? " he said. 
 " Well," Kate answered stoutly, " of course I 
 take a great interest in him. I am anxious about 
 what he is to be. I don't think he ought to go 
 into the Church ; I have thought a great deal 
 about it, and I don't think that would be the 
 best thing for him. Mr. Eldridge, why do you 
 
 laugh r 
 
 "Be quiet, dear," said his wife, knitting her 
 brows at him significantly. Mrs. Eldridge had 
 not a lively sense of humour; and she had 
 pricked up her ears at Bertie Hardwick's name. 
 Already many a time had she regretted bitterly 
 that her own Herbert (she would not have him 
 called Bertie, like the rest) was not old enough 
 to aspire to the heiress. And, as that could not be 
 mended, the mention of Bertie Hardwick's name 
 stirred her into a state of excitement. She was 
 not a mercenary woman, neither had it ever oc- 
 curred to her to set up as a matchmaker ; " but," 
 as she said, " when a thing stares you in the 
 
 face " And then it would be so much for 
 
 Kate's good. 
 
 " You ought not to laugh," said Kate, with 
 gentle and mild reproof, ** for I mean what I
 
 216 OMBRA. 
 
 say. He could not live the kind of life that 
 you live, Mr. Eldridge. I ouppose you did not 
 like it yourself when you were young ? " 
 
 **My dear child, you go too far — you go too 
 fast," cried the Rector, alarmed. " Who said I 
 did not like it when I was young ? Miss Kate, 
 though I laugh, you must not forget that I 
 think my work the wost important work in the 
 world." 
 
 " Oh I yes, to be sure," said Kate ; " of course 
 one knows — but then when you were young — 
 And Bertie is quite young — he is not much more 
 than a boy ; I cannot see how he is to bear it — 
 the almshouses, and the old women, and the 
 mothers' meetings." 
 
 " You must not talk, my child, of things you 
 don't understand," said the Rector, quite re- 
 covered from his laughter. He had ten pairs 
 of eyes turned upon him, ten minds, to which 
 it had never occurred to inquire whether there 
 was anything more important in the world than 
 mothers' meetings. Perhaps had he allowed 
 himself to utter freely his own opinions, he 
 might have agreed with Kate that these details 
 of his profession occupied too prominent a place
 
 OMBRA. 217 
 
 in it. But he was not at liberty then to enter 
 upon any such question. He had to preserve 
 his own importance, and that of his office, in 
 presence of his family. The wrinkles of laughter 
 all faded from the corners of his mouth. He 
 put up his hand gravely, as if to put her aside 
 from this sacred ark which she was touching 
 with profane hands. 
 
 "Kate talks nonsense sometimes, as most 
 young persons do," said Mrs.Eldridge, interfering. 
 " But at present it is you who don't understand 
 what she is saying — or, at least, what she means 
 is something quite different. She means that 
 Bertie Hardwick would not like such a laborious 
 life as yours; and, indeed, what she says is 
 quite true ; and if you had known all at once 
 what you were coming to, all the toil and 
 fatigues — Ah ! I don't like to think of it. Yes, 
 Kate, a clergyman's life is a very trying life, 
 especially when a man is so conscientious as my 
 husband. There are four mothers' meetings iu 
 different parts of the parish ; and there is the 
 penny club, and the Christmas clothing, and 
 the schools, not to speak df two services every 
 Sunday, and two on Wednesdays and Fridays ;
 
 218 OMBRA. 
 
 and a curate, who really does not do half so 
 much as he ought. I do not want to say any- 
 thing against Mr. Sugden, but he does pay very 
 little attention to the almshouses ; and as for 
 the infant-school " 
 
 " My dear, the children are present," said the 
 Rector. 
 
 " I am very well aware of that, Fred ; but 
 they have ears and eyes as well as the rest of 
 us. After all, the infant-school and the Sun- 
 day-schools are not very much to be left to one ; 
 and there are only ten old people in the alms- 
 houses. And, I must say, my dear, consider- 
 ing that Mr. Sugden is able to walk a hun- 
 dred miles a day, I do believe, when he has an 
 object " 
 
 " Hush I hush !" said the Rector, ** we must 
 not enter into personal discussions. He is 
 fresh from University life, and has not quite 
 settled down as yet to his work. Univer- 
 sity life is very different, as I have often 
 told you. It takes a man some time to get 
 accustomed to change his habits and ways of 
 thinking. Sugden is rather lazy, I must say — 
 he does not mean it, but he is a little careless.
 
 OMBRA. 219 
 
 Did I tell you that he had forgotten to put 
 down Farmer Thompson's name in the Easter 
 list? It was a trifle, you know — it really was 
 not of any consequence ; but, still, he forgot all 
 about it. It is the negligent spirit, not the thing 
 itself, that troubles me." 
 
 " A trifle I" said Mrs. Eldridge, indignantly ; 
 and they entered so deeply into the history of 
 this ofience, that Kate, whose attention had 
 been wandering, had to state her errand, and 
 finish her luncheon without further reference to 
 Bertie. But her curiosity was roused; and 
 when, some time after, she met Mr. Sugden, the 
 curate, it was not in her to refrain from further 
 inquiries. This time she was walking with her 
 aunt and cousin, and could not have everything 
 her own way; but the curate was only too well 
 pleased to join the little party. He was a young 
 man, tall and strong, looking, as Mrs. Rector 
 said, as if he could walk a hundred miles a day ; 
 and his manner was not that of one who would 
 be guilty of indolence. He was glad to join 
 the party from the Cottage, because he was one 
 of those who had been partially enslaved by 
 Ombra — partially, for he was prudent, and
 
 220 OMBRA. 
 
 knew that falling in love was not a pastime to 
 be indulged in by a curate ; but yet sufficiently 
 to be roused by the sight of her into sudden 
 anxiety, to look and show himself at his best. 
 
 " Ask him to tea, auntie, please," said Kate, 
 whispering, as the Curate divided the party, 
 securing himself a place by the side of Ombra. 
 Mrs. Anderson looked at the girl with amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "I have no objection," she said, wondering. 
 " But why f ' 
 
 " Oh ! never mind why — to please me," said 
 the girl. Mrs. Anderson was not in the habit 
 of putting herself into opposition ; and besides, 
 the little languor and vacancy caused by the 
 departure of the Berties had not yet quite 
 passed away. She gave the invitation with a 
 smile and a whispered injunction. " But you 
 must promise not to become one of the young 
 ladies who worship curates, Kate." 
 
 " Me !" said Kate, with indignation, and with- 
 out grammar ; and she gazed at the big figure 
 before her with a certain friendly contempt. 
 Mr. Sugden lived a dull life, and he was glad
 
 OMBRA. 221 
 
 to meet with the pretty Ombra, to walk by 
 her side, and talk to her, or hear her talk, and 
 even to be invited to tea. His fall from the life 
 of Oxford to the life of this little rural parish 
 had been sudden, and it had been almost more 
 than the poor young fellow's head could bear. 
 One day surrounded by young life and energy, 
 and all the merriment and commotion of a large 
 community, where there was much intellectual 
 stir, to which his mind, fortunately for himself, 
 responded but faintly, and a great deal of ex- 
 ternal activity, into which he had entered with 
 all his heart ; and the next day to be dropped 
 into the grey, immovable atmosphere of rural 
 existence — the almshouses, the infant-schools, 
 and Farmer Thompson! The young man had not 
 recovered it. Life had grown strange to him, 
 as it seems after a sudden and bewildering fall. 
 And it never occurred to anybody what a great 
 change it was, except the Rector, who thought 
 it rather sinful that he could not make up his 
 mind to it at once. Therefore, though he had 
 a chop indifferently cooked waiting for him at 
 home, he abandoned it gladly for Mrs. Ander-
 
 222 OMBRA. 
 
 son's bread and butter. Ombra was very pretty, 
 and it was a variety in the monotonous tenor of 
 his life. 
 
 When they had returned to the Cottage, and 
 had seated themselves to the simple and lady- 
 like meal, which did not much content his vigor- 
 ous young appetite, Mr. Sugden began to be 
 drawn out without quite understanding the 
 process. The scene and circumstances were 
 quite new to him. There was a feminine per- 
 fume about the place which subdued and fasci- 
 nated him. Everything was pleasant to look 
 at — even the mother, who was still a handsome 
 woman ; and a certain charm stole over the 
 Curate, though the bread and butter was scarce»- 
 ly a satisfactory meal. 
 
 •* I hope you like Shanklin ?" Mrs. Anderson 
 said, as she poured him out his tea. 
 
 "Of course Mr. Sugden must say he does, 
 whether or not," said Ombra. " Fancy having 
 the courage to say that one does not like 
 Shanklin before the people who are devoted to 
 it ! But speak frankly, please, for I am not de- 
 voted to it. I think it is dull ; it is too pretty, 
 like a scene at the opera. Whenever you turn
 
 OMBRA. 223 
 
 a corner, you come upon a picture you have 
 seen at some exhibition. I should like to hang 
 it up on the wall, but not to live in it. Now, 
 Mr. Sugden, you can speak your mind." 
 
 " I never was at an exhibition," said Kate, 
 " nor at the opera. I never saw such a lovely 
 place, and you know you don't mean it, Ombra 
 — you, who are never tired of sketching or writ- 
 ing poetry about it." 
 
 " Does Miss Anderson write poetry ?" said 
 the Curate, somewhat startled. He was fright- 
 ened, like most men, by such a discovery. It 
 froze the words on his lips. 
 
 *' No, no — she only amuses herself," said the 
 mother, who knew what the effect of such an 
 announcement was likely to be ; upon which 
 the poor Curate drew breath. 
 
 " Shanklin is a very pretty place," he said. 
 " Perhaps 1 am not so used to pretty places as 
 T ought to be. I come from the Fens myself. 
 It is hilly here, and there is a great deal of sea ; 
 but I don't think," he added, with a little out- 
 burst, and a painful consciousness that he had 
 not been eloquent — " I don't think there is very 
 much to do."
 
 224 OMBRA. 
 
 " Except the infant-schools and the alms- 
 houses," said Kate. 
 
 *' Good Lord I" said the poor young man, 
 driven to his wits' end ; and then he grew very 
 red, and coughed violently, to cover, if possible, 
 the ejaculation into which he had been betrayed. 
 Then he did his best to correct himself, and put 
 on a professional tone. *' There is always the 
 work of the parish for me," he said, trying to 
 look assured and comfortable ; " but I was 
 rather thinking of you ladies ; unless you are 
 fond of yachting — but I suppose everybody is 
 who lives in the Isle of Wight t" 
 
 " Not me," said Mrs. Anderson. " I do not 
 like it, and I would not trust my girls, even if 
 they had a chance, which they have not. Oh ! 
 no; we content ourselves with a very quiet life. 
 They have their studies, and we do what we 
 can in the parish. I assure you a school-feast 
 is quite a great event." 
 
 Mr. Sugden shuddered; he could not help it ; 
 he had not been brought up to it ; he had been 
 trained to a lively life, full of variety, and 
 amusement, and exercise. He tried to say 
 faintly that he was sure a quiet life was the
 
 OMBRA. 225 
 
 best, but the words nearly choked him. It was 
 now henceforward his role to say that sort of 
 thing ; and how was he to do it, poor young 
 muscular, untamed man I He gasped and 
 drank a cup of hot tea, which he did not want, 
 and which made him very uncomfortable. Tea 
 and bread and butter, and a school-feast by way 
 of excitement I This was what a man was 
 brought to, when he took upon himself the office 
 of a priest. 
 
 "Mr. Sugden, please tell me," said Kate, " for 
 I want to know — is it a very great change after 
 Oxford to come to such a place as this T' 
 
 " Lord !" cried the poor Curate again. A 
 groan burst from him in spite of himself. It 
 was as if she had asked him if the change was 
 great from the top of an Alpine peak to the 
 bottom of a crevasse. "I hope you'll excuse 
 me," he said, with a burning blush, turning to 
 Mrs. Anderson, and wiping the moisture from 
 his forehead. " It was such an awfully rapid 
 change for me ; I have not had time to get used 
 to it. I come out with words I ought not to 
 use, and feel inclined to do ever so many things 
 I oughtn't to db — I know I oughtn't ; but, then, 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 OMBRA. 
 
 use, you know, is second nature, and I have not 
 had time to get out of it. If you knew how 
 awfully sorry I was " 
 
 " There is nothing to be awfully sorry about," 
 said Mrs. Anderson, with a smile. But she 
 changed the conversation, and she was rather 
 severe upon her guest when he went away. • " It 
 is clear that such a young man has no business 
 in the Church," she said, with a sharpness quite 
 unusual to her. " How can he ever be a good 
 clergyman, when his heart is so little in it 1 I 
 do not approve of that sort of thing at all." 
 
 " But, auntie, perhaps he did not want to go 
 into the Church," said Kate ; and she felt more 
 and more certain that it was not the thing for 
 Bertie Hardwick, and that he never would take 
 such a step, except in defiance of her valuable 
 advice.
 
 227 
 
 CHAPTEK XVIII. 
 
 piRCUMSTANCES after this threw Mr. Sug- 
 ^ den a great deal in their way. He lived 
 in a superior sort of cottage in the village, a 
 cottage which had once been the village doc- 
 tor's, and had been given up by him only when 
 be built that house on the Undercliff, which still 
 shone so white and new araon gits half-grown trees. 
 It must be understood that it was the Shankhn of 
 the past of which we speak — not the little semi- 
 urban place with lines of new villas, which now 
 bears that name. The mistress of the house was 
 the dressmaker of the district as well, and much 
 became known about her lodger by her means. 
 She was a person who had seen better days, and 
 who had taken up dressmaking at first only for 
 her own amusement, she informed her customers, 
 and consequently she had very high manners, 
 
 q2
 
 228 OMBRA. 
 
 and a great deal of gentility, and frightened her 
 humble neighbours. Her house had two stories, 
 and was very respectable. It could not help 
 having a great tree of jessamine all over one 
 side, and a honeysuckle clinging about the porch, 
 for such decorations are inevitable in the Isle of 
 Wight; but still there were no more flowers 
 than were absolutely necessary, and that of 
 itself was a distinction. The upper floor was 
 Mr. Sugden's. He had two windows in his 
 sitting-room, and one in his bedroom, which 
 commanded the street and all that was going 
 on there ; and it was the opinion of the Rector's 
 wife that no man could desire more cheerful 
 rooms. He saw everybody who went or came 
 from the Rectory. He could moralize as much 
 as he pleased upon the sad numbers who fre- 
 quented the " Red Lion." He could see the 
 wheelwright's shop, and the smithy, and I don't 
 know how many more besides. From the same 
 window he could even catch a glimpse of the 
 rare tourists or passing travellers who came 
 to see the Chine. And what more would the 
 young man have? 
 
 Miss Richardson, the dressmaker, had many
 
 OMBRA. 229 
 
 little jobs to do for Kate. Sometimes she took 
 it into her head to have a dress made "isi|' more 
 rapidly than Maryanne's leisurely fingers could 
 do it ; sometimes she saw a fashion-book in 
 Miss Richardson's window to which she took a 
 sudden fancy ; so that there was a great deal of 
 intercourse kept up between the dressmaker's 
 house and the Cottage. This did not mean 
 that Kate was much addicted to dress, or extra- 
 vagant in that point ; but she was fanciful and 
 fond of changes — and Maryanne, having very 
 little to do, became capable of doing less and 
 less every day. Old Francesca made all Mrs. 
 Anderson's gowns and most of Ombra's, besides 
 her other work ; but Maryanne, a free-born 
 Briton, was not to be bound to any such slavery. 
 And thus it happened that Miss Richardson went 
 often to the Cottage. She wore what was 
 then called a cottage-bonnet, surrounding, with a 
 border of clean quilted net, her prim but pleasant 
 face, and a black merino dress with white collar 
 and cuffs ; she looked, in short, very much as a 
 novice Sister would look now ; but England was 
 very Protestant at that moment, and there were 
 no Sisters in Miss Richardson's day.
 
 230 OMBRA. 
 
 "My young gentleman is getting a little 
 better used to things, thank you, ma'am," said 
 MissRichardson. " Since he has been a little more 
 taken out of an evening, you and other ladies 
 inviting him to tea, you can't think what a 
 load is lifted off my mind. The way he used 
 to walk about at first, crushing over my head 
 till I thought the house would come down ! 
 They all feel it a bit, ma'am, do my gentlemen. 
 The last one was a sensible man, and fond of 
 readin,g , but they ain't all fond of reading — 
 more's the pity ! I've been out in the world 
 myself, and I know how cold it strikes coming 
 right into the country like this." 
 
 " But he has his parish work," said Mrs. 
 Anderson, with a little severity. 
 
 " That is what Mrs. Eldridge says ; but, bless 
 you, what's his parish work to a young gentle- 
 man like that, fresh from college? He don't 
 know what to say to the folks — he don't know 
 what to do with them. Bless your heart," said 
 Miss Richardson, warming into excitement, 
 " what should he know about a poor woman's 
 troubles with her family — or a man's, either, for 
 that part ? He just puts his hand in his pocket ;
 
 OMBRA. 231 
 
 that's all he does. ' I'm sure I'm very sorry for 
 you. and here's half-a-crown,' he says. It's 
 natural. I'd have done it myself when I was 
 as young, before I knew the world, if I'd had 
 the half-crown ; and he won't have it long, if he 
 goes on like this." 
 
 "It is very kind of him, and very nice of 
 him," said Kate. 
 
 " Yes, Miss, it's kind in meaning, but it don't 
 do any good. It's just a way of getting rid of 
 them, the same as sending them off altogether. 
 There ain't one gentleman in a thousand that 
 understands poor folks. Give them a bit of 
 money, and get quit of them ; that's what young 
 men think ; but poor folks want something dif- 
 ferent. I've nothing to say against Greek and 
 Latin ; they're all very fine, I don't doubt, but 
 they don't tell you how to manage a parish. 
 You can't, you know, unless you've seen life a 
 bit, and understand folk's ways, and how things 
 strike them. Turn round, if you please. Miss, 
 till I fit it under the arm. It's just like as if 
 Miss Ombra there should think she could make 
 a dress, because she can draw a pretty figure. 
 You think you could. Miss ? — then just you try.
 
 232 OMBRA. 
 
 that's all I have got to say. The gentlemen 
 think like you. They read their books, and 
 they think they understand folk's hearts, but 
 they don't, any more than you know how to 
 gore a skirt. Miss Kate, if you don't keep still, 
 I can't get on. The scissors will snip you, and 
 it would be a thousand pities to snip such a 
 nice white neck. Now turn round, please, and 
 show the ladies. There's something that fits, 
 I'm proud to think. I've practised my trade in 
 town and all about ; I haven't taken it out of 
 books. Though you can draw beautiful. Miss 
 Ombra, you couldn't make a fit like that." 
 
 Miss Richardson resumed, with pins in her 
 mouth when she had turned Kate round and 
 round, " There's nobody I pity in all the world, 
 ma'am, as I pity those young gentlemen. They're 
 very nice, as a rule ; they speak civil, and don't 
 give more trouble than they can help. Toss their 
 boots about the room, and smoke their cigars, 
 and make a mess — that's to be looked for ; but 
 civil and nice-spoken, and don't give trouble 
 when they think of it. But, bless your heart, 
 if I had plenty to live on, and no work to do 
 but to look out of my window and take walks,
 
 OMBRA. 233 
 
 and smoke my cigar, I'd kill myself, that's what 
 I'd do ! Well, there's the schools and things ; but 
 he can't be poking among the babies more than 
 half an horn- or so now and then ; and I ask yon, 
 ladies, as folks with some sense, what is that 
 young gentleman to do in a mothers' meeting t 
 No, ma'am, ask him to tea if you'd be his friend, 
 and give him a little interest in his life. They 
 didn't ought to send young gentlemen like that 
 into small country parishes. And if he falls in 
 love with one of your young ladies, ma'am, none 
 the worse." 
 
 " But suppose my young ladies would have 
 nothing to say to him ?" said Mrs. Anderson, 
 smiling upon her child, for whom, surely, she 
 might expe(;t a higher fate. As for Kate, the 
 heiress, the prize, such a thing was not to be 
 thought of. But Kate was only a child ; she did 
 not occur to the mother, who even in her heiress- 
 ship saw nothing which could counterbalance 
 the superior attractions of Ombra. 
 
 Miss Richardson took the pins out of her 
 mouth, and turned Kate round again, and nod- 
 ded half a dozen times in succession her know- 
 ing head.
 
 234 OMBRA. 
 
 " Never mind, ma'am," she said, " never mind, 
 — none the worse, say I. Them young gentle- 
 men ought to learn that they can't have the 
 first they fancy. Does 'em- good. Men are 
 all a deal too confident now-a-days — though 
 I've seen the time I But just you ask him to 
 tea, ma'am, if you'd stand his friend, and leave 
 it to the young ladies to rouse him up. Better 
 folks than him has had their hearts broken, and 
 done 'em good !" 
 
 It was not Avith these bloodthirsty intentions 
 that Mrs. Anderson adopted the dressmaker's 
 advice ; but, notwithstanding, it came about 
 that Mr. Sugden was asked a great many times 
 to tea. He began to grow familiar about the 
 house, as the Berties had been ; to have his 
 corner, where he always sat ; to escort them in 
 their walks. And it cannot be denied that this 
 mild addition to the interests of life roused him 
 much more than the Almshouses and the Infant 
 Schools. He wrote home, to his paternal house 
 in the Fens, that he was beginning, now he 
 knew it better, as his mother had prophesied, to 
 take a great deal more interest in the parish ; 
 that there were some nice people in it, and that
 
 OMBRA. 235 
 
 it was a privilege, after all, to live in such a 
 lovely spot I This was the greatest relief to 
 the miDd of his mother, who was afraid, at the 
 first, that the boy was not happy. " Thank 
 heaven, he has found out now that a life de- 
 voted to the service of his Maker is a happy 
 life I" that pious woman said, in the fulness of 
 her heart ; not knowing, alas I that it was devo- 
 tion to Ombra which had brightened his heavy 
 existence. 
 
 He fell in love gradually, before the eyes of 
 the older people, who looked on with more 
 amusement than any graver feeling; and, with 
 a natural malice, everybody urged it on — from 
 Kate, who gave up her seat by her cousin's to 
 the Curate, up to Mr. Eldridge himself, who 
 would praise Ombra's beauty, and applaud her 
 cleverness with a twinkle in his eye, till the 
 gratified young man felt ready to go through 
 fire and water for his chief. The only spec- 
 tators who were serious in the contemplation 
 of this little tragi-cpmedy were Mrs. Anderson 
 and Mrs. Eldridge, of whom one was alarmed, 
 and the other disapproving. Mrs. x4nderson 
 uttered little words of warning from time to
 
 236' OMBRA. 
 
 time, and did all she could to keep the two 
 apart ; but then her anxiety was all for her 
 daughter, who perhaps was the sole person in 
 the parish unaware of the fact of Mr. Sugden's 
 devotion to her. When she had made quite 
 sure of this, I am afraid she was not very solicit- 
 ous about the Curate's possible heartbreak. He 
 was a natural victim ; it was scarcely likely 
 that he could escape that heartbreak sooner or 
 later, and in the meantime he was happy. 
 
 " What can I do V she said to the Rector's 
 wife. " I cannot forbid him my house ; and we 
 have never given him any encouragement — in 
 that way. What can I do ? " 
 
 *' If Ombra does not care for him, I think she 
 is behaving very badly," said Mrs. Eldridge. 
 " I should speak to her, if I were in your place. 
 I never would allow my Lucy to treat any man 
 so. Of course, if she means to accej^t him, it is 
 a different matter; but I should certainly speak, 
 to Ombra, if I were in your place." 
 
 *' The child has not an idea of anything of the 
 kind," said Mrs. Anderson, faltering. '* Why 
 should I disturb her unconsciousness?" 
 
 *' Oh !" said Mrs. Eldridge, ironically, " I am
 
 OMBRA. 237 
 
 8ure I beg your pardon. I don't, for my part, 
 understand the unconsciousness of a girl of 
 nineteen !" 
 
 " Not quite nineteen," said Ombra's mother, 
 with a certain humility. 
 
 " A girl old enough to be married," said the 
 other, vehemently. " I was married myself at 
 eighteen and a half. I don't understand it, 
 and I don't approve of it. If she doesn't know, 
 she ought to know ; and unless she means to 
 accept him, I shall always say she has treated 
 him very badly. I would speak to her, if it 
 were I, before another day had passed." 
 
 Mrs. Anderson was an impressionable woman, 
 and though she resented her neighbour's inter- 
 ference, she acted upon her advice. She took 
 Ombra into her arms that evening, when they 
 were alone, in the favourite hour of talk which 
 they enjoyed after Kate had gone to bed. 
 
 " My darling !" she said, " I want to speak to 
 you. Mr. Sugden has taken to coming very 
 often — we are never free of him. Perhaps it 
 would be better not to let him come quite so 
 much." 
 
 " I don't see how we can help it," said Ombra,
 
 238 OMBRA. 
 
 calmly ; " he is dull, he likes it ; and I am sure 
 he is very inoffensive. I do not mind him at 
 all, for my part." 
 
 " Yes, dear," said Mrs. Anderson, faltering ; 
 " but then, perhaps, he may mind you." 
 
 *' In that case he would stop away," said 
 Ombra, with perfect unconcern. 
 
 "You don't understand me, dear. Perhaps 
 he thinks of you too much ; perhaps he is coming 
 too often, for his own good." 
 
 " Thinks of me — too much I" said Ombra, 
 with wide-opened eyes ; and then a passing 
 blush came over her face, and she laughed. 
 " He is very careful not to show any signs of 
 it, then," she said. " Mamma, this is not your 
 idea. Mrs. Eldridge has put it into your head." 
 
 '* Well, my darling, but if it were true " 
 
 " Why, then, send him away," said Ombra, 
 laughing. " But how very silly ! Should not 
 I have found it out if he cared for me ? If he is 
 in love with any one, it is with you." 
 
 And after this what could the mother do 1
 
 239 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 OMBRA was a young woman, as we have said, 
 full of fancy, but without any sympathetic 
 imagination. She had made a picture to her- 
 self — as was inevitable — of what the lover would 
 be like when he first approached her. It was a 
 fancy sketch entirely, not even founded upon 
 observation of others. She had said to herself 
 that love would speak in his eyes, as clearly as 
 any tongue could reveal it ; she had pictured 
 to herself the kind of chivalrous devotion which 
 belongs to the age of romance — or, at least, 
 which is taken for granted as having belonged 
 to it. And as she was a girl who did not 
 talk very much, or enter into any exposition of 
 her feelings, she had cherished the ideal very 
 deeply in her mind, and thought over it a great 
 deal. She could not understand any type of
 
 240 M B R A. 
 
 love but this one ; and consequently poor Mr. 
 Sugden, who did not possess expressive eyes, 
 and could not have talked with them to save 
 his life, was very far from coming up to her 
 ideal. When her mother made this suggestion, 
 Ombra thought over it seriously, and thought 
 over him who was the subject of it, and laughed 
 within herself at the want of perception which 
 associated Mr. Sugden and love together. 
 " Poor dear mamma," she said in her heart, " it 
 is so long since she had anything to do with it, 
 she has forgotten what it looks like." And all 
 that day she kept laughing to herself over this 
 strange mistake ; for Ombra had this other pecu- 
 liarity of self-contained people, that she did not 
 care much for the opinion of others. What she 
 made out for herself, she believed in, but not 
 much else. Mr. Sugden was very good, she 
 thought — kind to everybody, and kind to her- 
 self, always willing to be of service ; but to 
 speak of him and love in the same breath ! He 
 was at the Cottage that same evening, and she 
 watched him with a little amused curiosity. 
 Kate gave up the seat next to her to the Curate, 
 and Ombra smiled secretly, saying to herself
 
 OMBRA. 241 
 
 that Kate and her mother were in a conspiracy 
 against her. And the Curate looked at her with 
 dull, light blue eyes, which were dazzled and 
 abashed, not made expressive and eloquent by 
 feeling. He approached awkwardly, with a kind 
 of terror. He directed his conversation chiefly 
 to Mrs. Anderson ; and did not address herself 
 directly for a whole half hour at least. The 
 thing seemed simply comical to Ombra. *' Come 
 here, Mr. Sugden," she said, when she changed 
 her seat after tea, calling him after her, " and 
 tell me all about yesterday, and what you saw 
 and what you did." She did this with a little 
 bravado, to show the spectators she did not 
 care ; but caught a meaning glance from Mrs. 
 Eldridge, and blushed, in spite of herself. So, 
 then, Mrs. Eldridge thought so too ! How foolish 
 people are I " Here is a seat for you^ Mr. Sug- 
 den," said Ombra, in defiance. And the Curate, 
 in a state of perfect bliss, went after her, to tell 
 her of an expedition which she cared nothing in 
 the world about. Heaven knows what more 
 besides the poor young fellow might have told 
 her, for he was deceived by her manner, as the 
 others were, and believed in his soul that, if 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 OMBRA. 
 
 never before, she had given him actual " en- 
 couragement " to-night. But the Rector's wife 
 came to the rescue, for she was a virtuous wo- 
 man, who could not see harm done before her 
 very eyes without an attempt to interfere. 
 
 " I hope you see what you are doing," she 
 whispered severely in Ombra's ear before she 
 sat down, and fixed her eyes upon her with all 
 the solemnity of a judge. 
 
 " Oh ! surely, dear Mrs. Eldridge — I want to 
 hear about this expedition to the fleet," said 
 Ombra. " Pray, Mr. Sugden, begin." 
 
 Poor fellow I the Curate was not eloquent, 
 and to feel his Rectoress beside him, noting all 
 his words, took away from liim what little fa- 
 culty he had. He began his stumbling, uncom- 
 fortable story, while Ombra sat sweetly in her 
 corner, and smiled and knitted. He could look 
 at her when she was not looking at him ; and 
 she, in defiance of all absurd theories, was kind 
 to him, and listened, and encouraged him to go 
 on. 
 
 "Yes. I daresay nothing particular occurred," 
 Mrs. Eldridge said at last, with some impatience. 
 " You went over the Royal Sovereign^ as every-
 
 OMBRA. 243 
 
 body does. I don't wonder you are at a loss 
 for words to describe it. Tt is a fine sight, but 
 dreadfully hackneyed. I wonder very much, 
 Ombra, you never were there." 
 
 " But for that reason Mr. Sugden's account is 
 very interesting to me," said Ombra, giving him 
 a still more encouraging look. 
 
 " Dreadful little flirt I" Mrs. Eldridge said to , 
 herself, arid with virtuous resolution, went on — 
 " The boys, I suppose, will go too, on their 
 way here. They are coming in Bertie's new 
 yacht this time. I am sure I wish yachts had 
 never been invented. I suppose these two will 
 keep me miserable about the children from the 
 moment they reach Sandown pier." 
 
 " Which two ?" said Ombra. It was odd that 
 she should have asked the question, for her at- 
 tention had at once forsaken the Curate, and 
 she kneAv exactly who was meant. 
 
 *' Oh ! the Berties, of course. Did not you 
 know they were coming f said Mrs. Eldridge. 
 " I like the boys very well — but their yacht ! 
 Adieu to peace for me from the hour it arrives ! 
 I know I shall be put down by everybody, and 
 my anxieties laughed at ; and you girls will 
 
 r2
 
 244 OMBRA. 
 
 have your heads turned, and think of nothing 
 else." 
 
 " The Berties I — are they coming ?" cried 
 Kate, making a spring towards them. " I am 
 so glad I When are they coming ? — and what 
 was that about a yacht ? A yacht I — the very 
 thing one wanted — the thing I have been 
 sighing, dying for I Oh I you dear Mrs. Eld- 
 ridge, tell me when they are coming.* And do 
 you think they will take us out every day ?" 
 
 " There I" said the Rector's wife, with the 
 composure of despair. " I told you how it 
 would be. Kate has lost her head already, 
 and Ombra has no longer any interest in your 
 expedition, Mr. Sugden. Are you fond of yacht- 
 ing too ? Well, thank Providence you are 
 strong, and must be a good swimmer, and 
 won't let the children be drowned, if anything 
 happens. That i^ the only comfort I have had 
 since I heard of it. They are coming to-mor- 
 row — we had a letter this morning — both toge- 
 ther, as usual, and wasting their time in the 
 same way. I disapprove of it very much, for 
 my part. A thing which may do very well for 
 Bertie Eldridge, with the family property, and
 
 OMBRA. 245 
 
 title, and everything coming to him, is very un- 
 suitable for Bertie Hardwick, who has nothing. 
 But nobody will see it in that light but me." 
 
 "I must talk to him about it,'' said Kate, 
 thoughtfully. Ombra did not say anything, but, 
 as the Rector's wife remarked, she had no longer 
 any interest in the Curate's narrative. She was 
 not uncivil ; she listened to what he said after- 
 wards, but it fell flat upon her, and she asked 
 him if he knew the Berties, and if he did not 
 think yachting would be extremely pleasant ? 
 It may be forgiven to him if we record that Mr. 
 Sugden went home that night with a hatred of 
 the Berties, which was anything but Christian- 
 like. He (almost) wished the yacht might 
 founder before it reached Sandown Bay ; he 
 wished they might be driven out to sea, and 
 get sick of it, and abandon all thoughts of the 
 Isle of Wight. Of course they were fresh-water 
 sailors, who had never known what a gale was, 
 he said contemptuously in his heart. 
 
 But nothing happened to the yacht. It ar- 
 rived, and everything came true which Mrs. El- 
 dridge had predicted. The young people in 
 the village and neighbourhood lost their heads.
 
 246 OMBRA. 
 
 There was nothing but voyages talked about, 
 and expeditions here and there. They circum- 
 navigated the island, they visited the Needles, 
 they went to Spithead to see the fleet, they did 
 everything which it was alarming and distress- 
 ing for a mother to see her children do. And 
 sometimes, which was the greatest wonder of 
 all, she was wheedled into going with them 
 herself. Sometimes it was Mrs. Anderson w^ho 
 was the chaperon of the merry party. The 
 Berties themselves were unchanged. They 
 were as much alike as ever, as inseparable, 
 as friendly and pleasant. They even recom- 
 mended themselves to the Curate, though he 
 was very reluctant to be made a friend of 
 against his will. As soon as they arrived, the 
 wings of life seemed to be freer, the wheels 
 rolled easier, everything went faster. The very 
 sun seemed to shine more brightly. The whole 
 talk of the little community at Shanklin was 
 about the yacht and its masters. They met 
 perpetually to discuss this subject. The cro- 
 quet, the long walks, all the inland amusements, 
 were intermitted. " Where shall we go to- 
 morrow ?" they asked each other, and discussed
 
 OMBRA. 247 
 
 the ^vinds and the tides like ancient mariners. 
 In the presence of this excitement, the gossip 
 about Mr. Sugden died a natural death. The 
 Curate was not less devoted to Orabra. He 
 haunted her, if not night and day, at least by 
 sea and land, which had become the most ap- 
 propriate phraseology. He kept by her in every 
 company; but as the Berties occupied all the front 
 of the picture, there was no room in any one's 
 mind for the Curate. Even Mrs. A.nderson for- 
 got about him — she had something more import- 
 ant on her mind. 
 
 For that was Ombra's day of triumph and 
 universal victory. Sometimes such a moment 
 comes even to girls who are not much dis- 
 tinguished either for their beauty or qualities 
 of any kind — girls who sink into the second 
 class immediately after, and carry with them a 
 sore and puzzled consciousness of undeserved 
 downfall. Ombra was at this height of youth- 
 ful eminence now. The girls round her were 
 all younger than she, not quite beyond the 
 nursery, or, at least, the school-room. With 
 Kate and Lucy Eldridge by her, she looked like 
 a half-opened rose, in the perfection of bloom,
 
 '24:8 OMBRA. 
 
 beside two un wooed buds — or such, at least, was 
 her aspect to the young men, who calmly con- 
 sidered the younger girls as sisters and play- 
 mates, but looked up to Ombra as the ideal 
 maiden, the heroine of youthful fancy. Perhaps, 
 had they been older, this fact might have been 
 different ; but at the age of the Berties sixteen 
 was naught. As they were never apart, it 
 was difficult to distinguish the sentiments of 
 these young men, the one from the other. But 
 the only conclusion to be drawn by the spec- 
 tators was that both of them were at Ombra's 
 feet. They consulted her obsequiously about 
 all their movements. They caught at every hint 
 of her wishes with the eagerness of vassals long- 
 ing to please their mistress. They vied with 
 each other in arranging cloaks and cushions for 
 her. 
 
 Their yacht was called the Shadow; no one 
 knew why, except, indeed, its owners them- 
 selves, and Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. Eldridge, 
 who made a shrewd guess. But this was a 
 very different matter from the Curate's untold 
 love. The Rector's wife, ready as she was to 
 interfere, could say nothing about this. She
 
 OMBRA. 249 
 
 would not, for the world, put such au idea into 
 the girl's head, she said. It was, no doubt, but 
 a passing fancy, and could come to nothing; 
 for Bertie Hardwick had nothing to marry on, 
 and Bertie Eldridge would never be permitted 
 to unite himself to Ombra Anderson, a girl with- 
 out a penny, whose father had been nothing 
 more than a Consul. 
 
 " The best thing we can wish for her is that 
 they may soon go away ; and I, for one, will 
 never ask them again," said Mrs. Eldridge, with 
 deep concern in her voice. The Rector thought 
 less of it, as was natural to a man. He laughed 
 at the whole business. 
 
 '* If you can't tell which is the lover, the love 
 can't be very dangerous," he said. Thus totally 
 ignoring, as his wife felt, the worst difficulty 
 of all. 
 
 *' It might be both," she said solemnly ; " and 
 if it is only one, the other is aiding and abetting. 
 It is true I can't tell which it is ; but if I were 
 Maria, or if I were Annie " 
 
 " Thank Heaven you are neither," said the 
 Rector; "and with ten children of our own, 
 and your nervousness in respect to them, I think
 
 250 OMBRA. 
 
 you have plenty on your shoulders, without 
 taking up either Annie's or Maria's share." 
 
 " I am a mother, and I can't help feeling for 
 other mothers," said Mrs. Eldridge, who gave 
 herself a great deal of trouble unnecessarily in 
 this way. But she did not feel for Ombra's 
 mother in these perplexing circumstances. She 
 was angry with Ombra. It was the girl's fault, 
 she felt, that she was thus dangerous to other 
 women's boys. Why should she, a creature of 
 no account, turn the heads of the young men ? 
 " She is not very pretty, even — not half so 
 pretty as her cousin will be, who is worth 
 thinking of," she said, in her vexation. Any 
 young man would have been fully justified in 
 falling in love with Kate. But Ombra, who was 
 nobody ! It was too bad, she felt ; it was a 
 spite of fate I 
 
 As for Mrs. Anderson, she, warn^ed by the 
 failure of her former suggestions, said nothing 
 to her child of the possibilities that seemed to 
 be dawning upon her ; but she thought the 
 more. She watched the Berties with eyes 
 which, being more deeply interested, were keen- 
 er and clearer than anybody else's eyes ; and'
 
 OMBRA. 251 
 
 she drew her own conclusions with a heart that 
 beat high, and sometimes would flutter, like a 
 girl's, in her breast. 
 
 Ombra accepted very graciously all the hom- 
 age paid to her. She felt the better and the 
 happier for it, whatever her opinion as to its 
 origin might be. She began to talk more, 
 being confident of the applause of the audience. 
 In a hundred little subtle ways she was influ- 
 enced by it, brightened, and stimulated. Did 
 she know why ? Would she choose as she 
 ' ought ? Was it some superficial satisfaction 
 with the admiration she was receiving that 
 moved her, or some dawning of deeper feeling? 
 Mrs. Anderson watched her child with the deep- 
 est anxiety, but she could not answer these 
 questions. The merest stranger knew as much 
 as she did what Ombra would do or say.
 
 252 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 rpHINGS went on in this way for some weeks, 
 ^ while the Shadow lay in Sandown Bay, or 
 cruised about the sunny sea. There was so 
 much to do during this period, that none of 
 the young people, at least, had much time to 
 think. They were constantly together, always 
 engaged with some project of pleasure, chatter- 
 ing and planning new opportunities to chatter 
 and enjoy themselves once more ; and the drama 
 that was going on among them was but par- 
 tially perceived by themselves, the actors in it. 
 Some little share of personal feeling had awak- 
 ened in Kate during these gay weeks. She had 
 become sensible, with a certain twinge of morti- 
 fication, that three or four different times 
 when she had talked to Bertie Hardwick, " my 
 Bertie,'' his attention had wandered from her.
 
 OMBRA. 253 
 
 It was a new sensation, and it would be vain to 
 conceal that she did not like it. He had smiled 
 vacantly at her, and given a vague, murmuring 
 answer, with his eyes turned towards the spot 
 where Ombra was ; and he had left her at the 
 first possible opportunity. This filled Kate 
 with consternation and a certain horror. It 
 was very strange. She stood aghast, and 
 looked at him ; and so little interest did he take 
 in the matter that he never observed her won- 
 dering, bewildered looks. The pang of morti- 
 fication was sharp, and Kate had to gulp 
 it down, her pride preventing her from 
 showing what she felt. But after awhile her 
 natural buoyancy regained the mastery. Of 
 course it was natural he should like Ombra 
 best — Ombra was beautiful, Ombra was the 
 queen of the moment — Kate's own queen, 
 though she had been momentarily unwilling to 
 let her have everything. '* It is natural," she 
 said to herself, with philosophy — " quite natu- 
 ral. What a fool I was to think anything 
 else ! Of course he must care more for Ombra 
 than for me ; but I shall not give him the chance 
 again." This vengeful threat, .however, floated
 
 254 OMBRA. 
 
 out of her im vindictive mind. She forgot all 
 about it, and did give him the chance ; and 
 once more he answered her vaguely, with his 
 face turned towards her cousin. This was too 
 much for Kate's patience. "Mr. Bertie," she 
 said, " go to Ombra if you please — no one wishes 
 to detain you ; but she takes no interest in you 
 — to save yourself trouble, you may as well 
 know that ; she takes no interest in boys — or 
 in you." 
 
 Upon which Bertie started, and woke up 
 from his abstraction, and made a hundred apolo- 
 gies. Kate turned round in the midst of them 
 and left him ; she was angry, and felt herself en- 
 titled to be so. To admire Ombra was all very 
 well ; but to neglect herself, to neglect civility, 
 to make apologies ! She went off affronted, 
 determined never to believe in boys more. There 
 was no jealousy of her cousin in her mind ; Kate 
 recognised, with perfect composure and good 
 sense, that it was Ombra's day. Her own was 
 to come. She was not out of short frocks yet, 
 though she was over sixteen, and to expect to 
 have vassals as Ombra had would be ridiculous. 
 She had no fault to hnd with that, but she had
 
 OMBRA. 255 
 
 a right, she felt, to expect that her privilege as 
 old friend and feudal suzeraine should be re- 
 spected ; whereas, even her good advice w^as all 
 thrown back upon her, and she had so much 
 good advice to offer ! 
 
 Kate reflected very deeply that morning on 
 the nature of the sentiment called love. She 
 had means of judging, having looked on while 
 Mr. Sugden made himself look very ridiculous ; 
 and now the Berties were repeating the process. 
 Both of them ? She asked herself the question 
 as Mrs. Eldridge had done. It made them look 
 foolish, and it made them selfisli ; careless of 
 other people, and especially of herself. It was 
 hard ; it was an injury that her own old friend 
 should be thus negligent, and thus apologise ! 
 Kate felt that if he had taken her into his con- 
 fidence, if he had said, 'I am in love with Om- 
 bra — I can't think of anything else,' she would 
 have understood him, and all would have been 
 well. But boys were such strange creatures, so 
 wanting in perception ; and she resolved that, if 
 ever this sort of thing happened to her, she 
 would make a difference. She would not per- 
 mit this foolish absorption. She would say
 
 256 OMBRA. 
 
 plainly, " If you neglect your other friends, if 
 you make yourselves look foolish for me, I will 
 have nothing to do with you. Behave as if you 
 had some sense, and do me credit. Do you think 
 1 want fools to be in love with me ?" This was 
 what Kate made up her mind she would say, 
 when it came to be her turn. 
 
 This gay period, however, came to a strange- 
 ly abrupt and mysterious end. The party had 
 come home one evening, joyous as usual. They 
 had gone round to Ryde in the morning to a 
 regatta ; the day had been perfect, the sea as 
 calm as was compatible with the breeze they 
 wanted, and all had gone well. Mrs. Eldridge 
 herself had accompanied them, and on the 
 whole, though certain tremors had crossed her 
 at one critical moment, when the wind seemed 
 to be rising, these tremors were happily quieted, 
 and she had, " on the whole," as she cautiously 
 stated, enjoyed the expedition. It was to be 
 wound up, as most of these evenings had been, 
 by a supper at the Rectory. Mrs. Anderson 
 was in her own room, arranging her di'ess in 
 order to join the sailors in this concluding feast. 
 She had been watching a young moon rise into
 
 OMBRA. 257 
 
 the twilight sky, and rejoicing in the beauty of 
 the scene, for her children's sake. Her heart 
 was warm with the thought that Ombra was 
 happy ; that she was the queen of the party, de- 
 ferred to, petted, admired, nay — or the mother's 
 instinct deceived her — worshipped by some. 
 These thoughts diffused a soft glow of happi- 
 ness over her mind. Ombra was happy, she was 
 thought of as she ought to be, honoured as she 
 deserved, loved ; there was the brightest pros- 
 pect opening up before her, and her mother, 
 though she had spent the long day alone, felt 
 a soft radiance of reflected light about her, 
 which was to her what the moon was in the 
 sky. It was a warm, soft, balmy Summer even- 
 ing ; the world seemed almost to hold its breath 
 in the mere happiness of being, as if a move- 
 ment, a sigh, would have broken the spell. 
 Mrs. Anderson put up her hair (which was still 
 pretty hair, and worth the trouble^, and ar- 
 ranged her ribbons, and was about to draw 
 round her the light shawl which Francesca had 
 dropped on her shoulders, when all at once she 
 saw Ombra coming through the garden alone. 
 Ombra alone ! with her head drooped, and a 
 ; VOL. I. s
 
 258 OMBRA. 
 
 haze of something sad and mysterious about 
 her, which perhaps the mother's eyes, perhaps 
 the mere alarm of fancy, discerned at once. 
 Mrs. Anderson gave a little cry. She dropped 
 the shawl from her, and flew downstairs. The 
 child was ill, or something had happened. A 
 hundred wild ideas ran through her head in 
 half a second. Kate had been drowned — Ombra 
 had escaped from a wreck — the Berties I She 
 was almost surprised to see that her daughter 
 was not drenched with sea-water, when she 
 rushed to her, and took her in her arms. 
 
 "What is the matter, Ombra? Something 
 has happened. But you are safe, my darling 
 child !" 
 
 "Don't," said Ombra, withdrawing herself 
 almost pettishly from her mother's arms. " No- 
 thing has happened. I — only was — tired ; and 
 I came home." 
 
 She sat down on one of the rustic seats under 
 the verandah, and turned away her head. The 
 moon shone upon her, on the pretty outline of 
 her arm, on which she leant, and the averted 
 head. She had not escaped from a shipwreck.
 
 OMBRA. 259 
 
 Had she anything to say which she dared not 
 tell ? Was it about Kate ? 
 
 " Ombra, dear, what is it ? I know there is 
 something. Kate f 
 
 *' Kate ? Kate is well enough. What should 
 Kate have to do with it f ' cried the girl, with 
 impatient scorn ; and then she suddenly turned 
 and hid her face on her mother's arm. *' Oh I I 
 am so unhappy I — my heart is like to break ! I 
 want to see no one — no one but you again !" 
 
 ** What is it, my darling ? Tell me what it 
 is." Mrs. Anderson knelt down beside her child. 
 She drew her into her arms. She put her soft 
 hand on Ombra's cheek, drawing it close to her 
 own, and concealing it by the fond artifice. 
 " Tell me," she whispered. 
 
 But Ombra did not say anything. She lay still 
 and sobbed softly, as it were under her breath. 
 And there her mother knelt supporting her, her 
 own eyes full of tears, and her heart of wonder. 
 Ombra, who had been this morning the happiest 
 of all the happy ! Dark, impossible shadows 
 crept through Mrs. Anderson's mind. She grew 
 sick with suspense. 
 
 " I cannot tell you here," said Ombra, re- 
 
 s 2
 
 260 OMBRA. 
 
 covering a little. " Come in. Take me up- 
 stairs, mamma. Nobody has done it ; it is my 
 own fault." 
 
 They went up to the little white room open- 
 ing from her mother's, where Ombra slept. The 
 red shawl was still lying on the floor, where it 
 had fallen from Mrs. Anderson's shoulders. Her 
 little box of trinkets was open, her gloves on 
 the table, and the moonlight, with a soft inqui- 
 sition, whitening the brown air of the twilight, 
 stole in by the side of the glass in which the 
 two figures were dimly reflected. 
 
 " Do I look like a ghost ?" said Ombra, taking 
 oif her hat. She was very pale ; she looked 
 like one of those creatures, half demons, half 
 spirits, which poets see about the streams and 
 woods. Never had she been so shadowy, so 
 like her name ; but there was a mist of consterna- 
 tion, of alarm, of trouble, about her. She was 
 scared as well as heartbroken, like one who had 
 seen some vision, and had been robbed of all her 
 happiness thereby. " Mamma," she said, lean- 
 ing upon her mother, but looking in the glass 
 all the time, " this is the end of everything. I 
 will be as patient as I can, and not vex you
 
 OMBRA. 261 
 
 more than I can help ; but it is all over. I do 
 not care to live any more, and it is my own 
 fault." 
 
 " Ombra, have some pity on me ! Tell me, 
 for heaven's sake, what you mean." 
 
 Then Ombra withdrew from her support, and 
 began to take off her little ornaments^ — the neck- 
 lace she wore, according to the fashion of the 
 time, the little black velvet bracelets, the brooch 
 at her throat. 
 
 " It has all happened since sunset," she said, 
 as she nervously undid the clasps. '* He was 
 beside me on the deck — he has been beside me 
 all day. Oh ! can't you tell without having it 
 put into words?" 
 
 " I cannot tell what could make you miser- 
 able," said her mother, with some impatience. 
 " Ombra, if I could be angry with you " 
 
 " No, no," she said, deprecating. " Then you 
 did not see it any more than I ? So I am not 
 so much, so very much to blame. Oh ! mamma, 
 he told me he — loved me — wanted me to — to — 
 be married to him. Oh ! when I think of all he 
 said " 
 
 " But, dear," said Mrs. Anderson, recovering
 
 262 OMBRA. 
 
 in a moment, " there is nothing so very dreadful 
 in this. I knew he Would tell you so one day 
 or other. I have seen it coming for a long 
 time—" 
 
 ** And you never told me — you never so much 
 as tried to help me to see ! You would not take 
 
 the trouble to save your child from — from 
 
 Oh ! I will never forgive you, mamma I" 
 
 " Ombra !" Mrs. Anderson was struck with 
 such absolute consternation that she could not 
 say another word. 
 
 " I refused him," said the girl, suddenly, turn- 
 ing away with a quiver in her voice. 
 
 *' You refused him ?" 
 
 '* What could I do else 1 I did not know 
 what he was going to say. I never thought he 
 cared. Can one see into another's heart ? I was 
 so — taken by surprise. I was so — frightened — 
 he should see. And then, oh I the look he gave 
 me ! Oh I mother ! mother ! it is all over I 
 Everything ha^ come to an end I I shall never 
 be happy any more I" 
 
 " What does it mean t" cried the bewildered 
 
 mother. " You — refused him ; and yet you 
 
 Ombra^ — this is beyond making a mystery of.
 
 OMBRA. 263 
 
 Tell me in plain words what you mean.'* 
 
 " Then it is this, in plain words," said Ombra, 
 rousing up, with a hot flush on her cheek. " I 
 was determined he should not see I cared, and 
 I never thought he did ; and when he spoke to 
 me, I refused. That is all, in plain words. 
 I did not know what I was doing. Oh t 
 mamma, you might be sorry for me, and not 
 speak to me so ! I did not believe him — I did 
 nof understand him; not till after " 
 
 ** My dear child, this is mere folly," said her 
 mother. " If it is only a rnisunderstanding — 
 and you love each other " 
 
 " It is no misunderstanding. I made it very 
 plain to him — oh ! very plain ! I said we were 
 just to be the same as usual. That he was to 
 come to see us — and all that ! Mother — let me 
 lie down. I am so faint. I think I shall die ! " 
 
 " But, Ombra, listen to me. I can't let things 
 remain like this. It is a misunderstanding — a 
 mistake even. I will speak to him." 
 
 " Then you shall never see me more 1" cried 
 Ombra, rising up, as it seemed, to twice her usual 
 height. " Mother, you would not shame me ! If 
 you do I will go away. I will never speak to you
 
 264 OMBRA. 
 
 again. I will kill myself rather I Promise you 
 will not say one word." 
 
 " J will say nothing to — to shame you, as you 
 call it." 
 
 " Promise you will not say one word." 
 
 " Ombra, I must act according to my sense of 
 my duty. I will be very careful — '' 
 
 " If you do not want to drive me mad, you 
 will promise. The day you speak to him of this, 
 I will go away. You shall never, never see me 
 more I" 
 
 And the promise had to be made.
 
 265 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 npHE promise was made, and Ombra lay down 
 *- in her little white bed, silent, no longer 
 making a complaint. She turned her face to 
 the wall, and begged her mother to leave her. 
 
 " Don't say any more. Please take no notice. 
 Oh ! mamma, if you love me, don't say any 
 more," she had said. *' If I could have helped 
 it, I would not have told you. It was because 
 — when I found out " 
 
 " Oh I Ombra, surely it was best to tell me — 
 surely you would not have kept this from your 
 mother?" 
 
 *' I don't know," she said. " If you speak of 
 it again, I shall think it was not for the best. 
 Oh ! mother, go away. It makes me angi-y to 
 be pitied. I can't bear it. Let me alone. It
 
 266 OMBRA. 
 
 is all over. I wish never to speak of it more !" 
 
 " But, Ombra " 
 
 " No rQore ! Oh I mamma, why will you take 
 such a cruel advantage? I cannot bear any 
 more I" 
 
 Mrs. Anderson left her child, with a sigh. 
 She went downstairs, and stood in the verandah, 
 leaning on the rustic pillar to which the honey- 
 suckle hung. The daylight had altogether crept 
 away, the moon was mistress of the sky ; but 
 she no longer thought of the sky, nor of the 
 lovely, serene night, n.or the moonlight. A sud- 
 den storm had come into her mind. What was 
 she to do 1 She was a woman not apt to take 
 any decided step for herself. Since her hus- 
 band's death, she had taken counsel with her 
 daughter on everything that passed in their life. 
 I do not mean to imply that she had been moved 
 only by Ombra's action, or was without individual 
 energy of her own ; but those who have thought, 
 planned, and acted always h deux, find it sadly 
 difficult to put themselves in motion individu- 
 ally, without the mental support which is natu- 
 ral to them. And then Mrs. Anderson had been 
 accustomed all her life to keep within the strict
 
 OMBRA. 267 
 
 leading-strings of propriety. She had regu- 
 lated her doings by those rules of decorum, those 
 regulations as to what was •* becoming," what 
 '* fitting her position," with which society sim- 
 plifies but limits the proceedings of her vo- 
 taries. These rules forbade any interference in 
 such a matter as this. They forbade to her 
 any direct action at all in a complication so dif- 
 ficult. That she might work indirectly no 
 doubt was quite possible, and would be perfectly 
 legitimate — if she could ; but how ? 
 
 She stood leaning upon the mass of honey- 
 suckle which breathed sweetness all about her, 
 with the moonlight shining calm and sweet 
 upon her face. The peacefulest place and mo- 
 ment ; the most absolute repose and quietness 
 about her — a scene from which conflict and 
 pain seemed altogether shut out ; and yet 
 how much perplexity, how much vexation and 
 distress were there. By-and-by, however, she 
 woke up to the fact that she had no right to be 
 where she was — that she ought at that moment 
 to be at the Rectory, keeping up appearances, 
 and explaining rather than adding to the mys- 
 tery of her daughter's disappearance. It was a
 
 268 OMBRA. 
 
 "trying" thing to do, but Mrs. Anderson all 
 her life had maintained rigidly the principle of 
 keeping up appearances, and had gone through 
 many a trying moment in consequence. She 
 sighed ; but she went meekly upstairs, and got 
 the shawl which still lay on the floor, and 
 wrapped it round her, and went away alone, 
 bidding old Francesca watch over Ombra. She 
 went down the still, rural road in the moonlight, 
 still working at her tangled skein of thoughts. 
 If he had but had the good sense to speak to her 
 first, in the old-fashioned way — if he would but 
 have the good sense to come and openly speak 
 to her now, and give her a legitimate opening to 
 interfere. She walked slowly, and she started 
 at every sound, wondering if perhaps it might 
 be him hanging about, on the chance of seeing 
 some one. When at last she did see a figure 
 approaching, her heart leaped to her mouth ; 
 but it was not the figure she looked for. It 
 was Mr. Sugden, the tall curate, hanging about 
 anxiously on the road. 
 
 "Is Miss Anderson illf he said, while he 
 held her hand in greeting. 
 
 " The sun has given her a headache. She
 
 OMBRA. 269 
 
 has bad headaches sometimes," she answered, 
 cheerfully; "but it is nothing — she will be 
 better to-morrow. She has been so much more 
 out of doors lately, since this yachting began." 
 
 *' That will not go on any longer," said the 
 Curate, with a mixture of regret and satisfac- 
 tion. After a moment the satisfaction pre- 
 dominated, and he drew a long breath, thinking 
 to himself of all that had been, of all that the 
 yacht had made an end of. ** Thank Provi- 
 dence I" he added softly ; and then louder, " our 
 two friends are going, or gone. A letter was 
 waiting them with bad news — or, at least, with 
 news of some description, which called them 
 off. I wonder you did not meet them going 
 back to the pier. As the wind is favourable, 
 they thought the best way was to cross in the 
 yacht. They did not stop even to eat any- 
 thing. I am surprised you did not meet them." 
 
 Mrs. Anderson's heart gave a leap, and then 
 seemed to stop beating. If she had met them, 
 he would have spoken, and all might have been 
 well. If she had but started five minutes 
 earher, if she had walked a little faster, if — 
 But now they were out of sight, out of reach,
 
 270 OMBRA. 
 
 perhaps for ever. Her vexation and disap- 
 pointment were so keen that tears came to her 
 eyes in the darkness. Yes, in her heart she had 
 felt sure that she could do something, that he 
 would speak to her, that she might be able to 
 speak to him ; but now all was over, as Ombra 
 said. She could not make any reply to her com- 
 panion — she was past talking; and, besides, it did 
 not seem to be necessary to make any effort to 
 keep up appearances with the Curate. Men were 
 all obtuse ; and he was not specially clever, but 
 rather the reverse. He never would notice, nor 
 think that this departure was anything to her. 
 She walked on by his side in silence, only say- 
 ing, after awhile, " It is very sudden — they will 
 be a great loss to all you young people ; and 1 
 hope it was not illness, or any trouble in the 
 family—" 
 
 But she did not hear what answer was made 
 to her — she took no further notice of him/her 
 head began to buzz, and there was a singing in 
 her ears, because of the multiplicity of her 
 thoughts. She recalled herself, with an effort, 
 when the Rectory doors were pushed open 
 by her companion, and she found herself in
 
 OMBRA. 271 
 
 the midst of a large party, all seated round 
 the great table, all full of the news of the 
 evening, interspersed with inquiries about the 
 absent. 
 
 " Oh I have you heard what has happened I 
 Oh I how is Ombra, Mrs. Anderson ? Oh I we 
 are all heart-broken I What shall we do with- 
 out them ?" rose the chorus. 
 
 Mrs. Anderson smiled her smile of greeting, 
 and put on a proper look of concern for the 
 loss of the Berties, and was cheerful about her 
 daughter. She behaved herself as a model 
 woman in the circumstances would behave, and 
 she believed, and with some justice, that she 
 had quite succeeded. She succeeded with the 
 greater part of the party, no doubt ; but there 
 were two who looked at her with doubtful 
 eyes — the Curate, about whom she had taken 
 no precautions ; and Kate, who knew every line 
 of her face. 
 
 " I hope it is not illness nor trouble in the 
 family," Mrs. Anderson repeated, allowing a 
 look of gentle anxiety to come over her face. 
 
 " No, I hope not," said Mrs. Eldridge ; " though 
 I am a little anxious, I allow. But no, really I
 
 272 OMBRA. 
 
 doD't think it. They would never have con- 
 cealed such a thing from us ; though there was 
 actually no time to explain. I had gone up- 
 stairs to take off my things, and all at once 
 there was a cry, ' The Berties are going !' ' My 
 dear boys, what is the matter f I said ; " is there 
 anything wrong at either of your homes? I 
 beg of you to let me know the worst I' And then 
 one of them called to me from the bottom of the 
 stairs, that it was nothing — it was only that they 
 must go to meet some one — one of their young' 
 men's engagements, I suppose. He said they 
 would come back ; but I tell the children that 
 is nonsense ; while they were here they might 
 be persuaded to stay, but once gone, they will 
 never come back this season. Ah I I have only 
 too much reason to know boys' ways." 
 
 " But they looked dreadfully cast down, 
 mamma — as if they had had bad news," said 
 Lucy Eldridge,' who, foreseeing the end of a 
 great deal of unusual liberty, felt very much 
 cast down herself. 
 
 *' Bertie Hardwick looked as if he had seen a 
 ghost," said another. 
 
 " No, it was Bertie Eldridge," cried a third.
 
 OMBRA. 273 
 
 Kate looked from her end of the table at her 
 aunt's face, and said nothing ; and a deep red 
 glow came upon Mr. Sugden's cheeks. These 
 two young people had each formed a theory in 
 haste, from the very few facts they knew, and 
 both were quite wrong ; but that fact did not 
 diminish the energy with which they cherished 
 each their special notion. Mrs. Anderson, how- 
 ever, was imperturbable. She sat near Mrs. 
 Eldridge, and talked to her with easy cheer- 
 fulness about the day's expedition, and all that 
 had been going on. She lamented the end of 
 the gaiety, but remarked, with a smile, that 
 perhaps the girls had had enough. " I saw this 
 morning that Ombra was tired out. I wanted 
 her not to go, but of course it was natural she 
 should wish to go ; and the consequence is, one 
 of her racking headaches," she said. 
 
 With the gravest of faces, Kate listened. She 
 had heard nothing of Ombra's headache till that 
 moment ; still, of course, the conversation which 
 Mrs. Anderson reported might have taken place 
 in her absence ; but — Kate was very much dis- 
 turbed in her soul, and very anxious that the 
 meal should come to an end. 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 OMBRA. 
 
 The moon had almost disappeared when the 
 company dispersed. Kate rushed to her aunt, 
 and took her hand, and whispered in her ear ; 
 but a sudden perception of a tall figure on Mrs. 
 Anderson's other hand stopped her. *' What do 
 you say, Kate ?" cried her aunt ; but the ques- 
 tion could not be repeated. Mr. Sugden marched 
 by their side all the way — he could not have very 
 well told why — in case he should be wanted, he 
 said to himself; but he did not even attempt 
 to explain to himself how he could be wanted. 
 He felt stern, determined, ready to do anything 
 or everything. Kate's presence hampered him, 
 as his hampered her. He would have liked to 
 say something more distinct than he could now 
 permit himself to do. 
 
 " I wish you would believe," he said, suddenly, 
 bending over Mrs. Anderson in the darkness, 
 "that I am always at your service, ready to 
 do anything you want." 
 
 " You are very, very kind," said Mrs. Ander- 
 son, with the greatest wonderment. " Indeed, I 
 am sure 1 should not have hesitated to ask you, 
 had I been in any trouble," she added, gently. 
 
 But Mr. Sugden was too much in earnest to
 
 OMBRA. 275 
 
 be embarrassed by the gentle denial she made 
 of any necessity for his help. 
 
 " At any time, in any circumstances," he said, 
 hoarsely. " Mrs. Anderson, I do not say this 
 is what I would choose — but if your daughter 
 should have need of a — of one who would serve 
 her — like a brother — I do not say it is what I 
 would choose " 
 
 ** My dear Mr. Sugden I you are so very 
 good " 
 
 " No, not good," he said, anxiously — " don't 
 say that — good to myself — if you will but be- 
 lieve me. I would forget everything else." 
 
 " You may be sure, should I feel myself in 
 need, you will be the first I shall go to," said Mrs. 
 Anderson, graciously. (" What can he mean 1 
 — what fancy can he have taken into his head ?" 
 she was saying, with much perplexity, all the 
 time to herself.) "I. cannot ask you to come 
 inj Mr. Sugden — we must keep everything quiet 
 for Ombra ; but I hope we shall see you soon." 
 
 And she dismissed him, accepting graciously 
 all his indistinct and eager offers of service. 
 *'He is very good ; but I don't know what he is 
 thinking of," she said rather drearily as she 
 
 T 2
 
 276 OMBRA. 
 
 turned to go in. Kate was still clinging to her, 
 and Kate, though it was not necessary to keep 
 up appearances with her, had better, Mrs. An- 
 derson thought, be'kept in the dark too, as much 
 as was possible. " I am going to Ombra," she 
 said. " Good night, my dear child. Go to bed." 
 
 "Auntie, stop a minute. Oh! auntie, take 
 me into your confidence. I love her, and you 
 too. I will never say a word, or let any one 
 see that I know. Oh ! Auntie — Ombra — has 
 she gone with them ? — has she — run — away ? " 
 
 " Ombra — run away !" cried Mrs. Anderson, 
 throwing her niece's arm from her. "Child, 
 how dare you ? Do you mean to insult both 
 her and me?" 
 
 Kate stood abashed, drawn back to a little 
 distance, tears coming to her eyes. 
 
 " I did not mean any harm," she said, 
 humbly. 
 
 " Not mean any harm ! But you thought my 
 child — my Ombra — had run away !" 
 
 " Oh ! forgive me," said Kate. " I know now 
 how absurd it was ; but — I thought — she might 
 be — in love. People do it — at least in books. 
 Don't be angry with me, auntie. I thought so
 
 OMBRA. 277 
 
 because of your face. Then what is the matter ? 
 Oh ! do tell me ; no one shall ever know from 
 me." 
 
 Mrs. Anderson was worn out. She suffered 
 Kate's supporting arm to steal round her. She 
 leant her head upon the girl's shoulder. 
 
 '* I can't tell you, dear," she said, with a sob. 
 *' She has mistaken her feelings ; she is — very 
 unhappy. You must be very, very kind and 
 good to her, and never let her see you know 
 anything. Oh ! Kate, my darling is very un- 
 happy. She thinks she has broken her heart." 
 
 "Then I know!" cried Kate, stamping her 
 foot upon the gravel, and feeling as Mr. Sugden 
 did. " Oh ! I will go after them and bring them 
 back ! It is their fault."
 
 278 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 llf RS. ANDERSON awaited her daughter's 
 -^"-*- awakening next morning with an anxiety 
 which was indescribable. She wondered even 
 at the deep sleep into which Ombra fell after 
 the agitation of the night — wondered, not be- 
 cause it was new or unexpected, but with that 
 wonder which moves the elder mind at the 
 eight of youth in all its vagaries, capable of 
 such wild emotion at one moment, sinking into 
 profound repose at another. But, after all, 
 Ombra had been for some time awake, ere her 
 watchful mother observed. When Mrs. Ander- 
 son looked at her, she was lying with her 
 mouth closely shut and her eyes open, gazing 
 fixedly at the light, pale as the morning itself, 
 which was misty, and rainy, and wan, after the
 
 OMBRA. 279 
 
 brightness of last night. Her look was so fixed 
 and her lips so firmly shut, that her mother grew 
 alarmed. 
 
 " Ombra !" she said softly — " Ombra, my dar- 
 ling, my poor child !" 
 
 Ombra turned round sharply, fixing her eyes 
 now on her mother's face as she had fixed them 
 on the light. 
 
 ** What is it f she said. " Why are you up 
 so early ? I am not ill, am I ?" and looked at 
 her with a kind of menace, forbidding, as it 
 were, any reference to what was past. 
 
 "I hope not, dear," said Mrs. Anderson. 
 " You have too much courage and good sense, 
 my darling, to be ill." 
 
 "Do courage and good sense keep one from 
 being ill V said Ombra, with something like a 
 sneer ; and then she said, " Please, mamma, go 
 away. I want to get up." 
 
 "Not yet, dear. Keep still a little longer. 
 You are not able to get up yet," said poor Mrs. 
 Anderson, trembling for the news which would 
 meet her when she came into the outer world 
 again. What strange change was it that had 
 come upon Ombra ? She looked almost deris-
 
 280 OMBRA. 
 
 ively, almost threateningly into her mother's 
 face. 
 
 " One would think I had had a fever, or that 
 some great misfortune had happened to me," 
 she said ; " but I am not aware of it. Leave me 
 alone, please. I have a thousand things to do. 
 I want to get up. Mother, for Heaven's sake 
 don't look at me so ! You will drive me wild I 
 My nerves cannot stand it ; nor — nor my 
 temper," said Ombra, with a shrill in her 
 voice which had never been heard there 
 before. " Mamma, if you have ' any pity, go 
 away." 
 
 " If my lady will permit, I will attend Mees 
 Ombra," said old Francesca, coming in with a 
 look of ominous significance. And poor Mrs. 
 Anderson was worn out — she had been up half 
 the night, and during the other half she did 
 not sleep, though Ombra slept, who was the 
 chief sufierer. Vanquished now by her daugh- 
 ter's unfilial looks, she stole away, and cried by 
 herself for a few moments in a corner, which 
 did her good, and relieved her heart. 
 
 But Francesca advanced to the bedside with 
 intentions far different from any her mistress
 
 OMBRA. 281 
 
 had divined. She approached Ombra solemnly, 
 holding out two fingers at her. 
 
 *' I make the horns," said Francesca ; " I ad- 
 vance not to you again, Mademoiselle, without 
 making the horns. Either you are an ice- 
 maiden, as I said, and make enchantments, or 
 you have the evil eye " 
 
 " Oh ! be quiet, please, and leave me alone. 
 I want to get up. I don't want to be talked to. 
 Mamma leaves me when I ask her, and why 
 should not you ?" 
 
 "Because, Mademoiselle," said Francesca, 
 with elaborate politeness, "my lady has fear of 
 gi'ieving her child ; but for me I have not fear. 
 Figure to yourself that I have made you like the 
 child of my bosom for eighteen — nineteen year 
 — and shall I stand by now, and see you drive 
 love from you, drive life from you ? You think 
 80, perhaps? No, I am bolder than my dear 
 padrona. I do not care six-pence if I break 
 yom- heart. You are ice, you are stone, you 
 are worse than all the winters and the frosts ! 
 Signorina Ghiaccia, you haf done it now I" 
 
 " Francesca, go away ! You have no right to 
 speak to me so. Whai have I done ?"
 
 282 M BR A. 
 
 "Done!" cried Francesca, "done! — all the evil 
 tliing8 you can do. You have driven all away 
 from you who cared for you. Figure to your- 
 self that a little ship went away from the golf 
 last night, and the two young signorini ia- it. 
 You will say to me that it is not you who have 
 done it ; but I believe you not. Who but you, 
 Mees Ombra, Mees Ice and Snow ? And so you 
 will do with all till you are left alone, lone in 
 the world — I know it. You turn to ze wall, 
 you cry, you think you make me cry too, but 
 no, Francesca will speak ze trutt to you, if none 
 else. Last night, as soon as you come home, 
 ze little ship go away — cacciato — what you call 
 dreaven away — dreaven away, like by ze Tra- 
 montana, ze wind from ze ice-mountains I That 
 is you. Already I haf said it. You are Ghiaccia 
 — you will leave yourself lone, lone in ze world, 
 wizout one zing to lof I" 
 
 Francesca's English grew more and more 
 broken as she rose into fervour. She stood 
 now by Ombra's bedside, with all the eloquence 
 of indignation in her words, and looks, and 
 gestures ; her Httle uncovered head, with its 
 knot of scanty hair twisted tightly up behind,
 
 OMBRA. 283 
 
 nodding and quivering ; her brown little hands 
 gesticulating ; her foot patting the floor ; her 
 black eyes flashing. Ombra had turned to the 
 wall, as she said. She could discomfit her 
 gentle mother, but she could not put down 
 Francesca. And then this news which Fran- 
 cesca brought her went like a stone to the 
 depths of her heart. 
 
 "But I will tell you vat vill komm," she 
 went on, with sparks of fire, as it seemed, flash- 
 ing from her eyes — *• there vill komm a day 
 w^hen the ice will melt, like ze torrents in ze 
 mountains. There will be a rush, and a flow, 
 and a swirl, and then the avalanche I The ice 
 will become water — it will run down, it will 
 flood ze contree; but it will not do good to 
 nobody, Mademoiselle. They will be gone the 
 persons who would have loved. All will be 
 over. Ze melting and ze flowing will be too 
 late — it will be like the torrents in May, all will 
 go with it, ze home, ze friends, ze comfort that 
 you love, you English. All will go. Made- 
 moiselle will be sorry then," said Francesca, 
 regaining her composure, and making a vin- 
 dictive courtesy. She smiled at the tremendous
 
 284 OMBRA. 
 
 picture she was conscious of having drawn, with 
 a certain complacency. She had beaten down 
 with her fierce storm of words the white figure 
 which lay turned away from her with hidden 
 face. But Francesca's heart did not melt. 
 "Now I have told you ze trutt," she said, im- 
 pressively. *' Ze bath, and all things is ready, if 
 Mademoiselle wishes to get up now." 
 
 "What have you been saying to my child, 
 Francesca ?" said Mrs. Anderson, who met her 
 as she left the room, looking very grave, and 
 with red eyes. 
 
 " Nozing but ze trutt," said Francesca, with 
 returning excitement ; " vich nobody will say 
 but me — for I lof her — I lof her ! She is my 
 bebe too. Madame will please go downstairs, 
 and have her breakfast," she added, calmly. 
 " Mees Ombra is getting up — there is nothing 
 more to say. She will come down in quarter 
 of an hour, and all will be as usual. It will be 
 better that Madame says nothing more." 
 
 Mrs. Anderson was not unused to such inter- 
 ference on Francesca's part ; the only difference 
 was that no such grave crisis had ever happened 
 before. She was aware that, in milder cases.
 
 OMBRA. 285 
 
 her own caressing and indulgent ways had been 
 powerfully aided by the decided action of Fran- 
 cesca, and her determination to speak *' ze 
 trutt," as she called it, without being moved by 
 Ombra's indignation, or even by her tears. 
 Her mistress, though too proud to appeal to her 
 for aid,had been but too glad toaccept it ere now. 
 But this was such an emergency as had never 
 happened before, and she stood doubtful, unable 
 to make up her mind what she should do, at 
 the door of Ombra's room, until the sounds 
 within made it apparent that Ombra had really 
 got up, and that there was, for the moment^ 
 nothing further to be done. She went away 
 half disconsolate, half relieved, to the bright 
 little dining-room below, where the pretty 
 breakfast-table was spread, with flowers on it, 
 and sunshine straying in through the network 
 of honeysuckles and roses. Kate was at her 
 favourite occupation, arranging flowers in the 
 hall, but singing under her breath, lest she 
 should disturb her cousin. 
 
 " How is Ombra ?" she whispered, as if the 
 sound of a voice would be injurious to her. 
 
 " She is better, dear ; I think much better.
 
 286 ' OMBRA. 
 
 But oh, Kate, for heaven's sake, take no notice, 
 not a word I Don't look even as if you sup- 
 posed " 
 
 " Of course not, auntie," said Kate, with mo- 
 mentary indignation that she should be sup- 
 posed capable of such unwomanly want of com- 
 prehension. They were seated quite cheerfully 
 at breakfast when Ombra appeared. She gave 
 them a suspicious look to discover if they had 
 been talking of her — if Kate knew anything ; but 
 Kate (she thanked heaven), knew better than 
 to betray herself. She asked after her cousin's 
 headache, on the contrary, in the most easy and 
 natural way ; she talked (very little) of the 
 events of the preceding day. She propounded 
 a plan of her own for that afternoon, which was 
 to drive along the coast to a point which Ombra 
 had wished to make a sketch of. " It will be 
 the very thing for to-day," said Kate. " The 
 rain is over, and the sun is shining ; but it is 
 too misty for sea-views, and we must be content 
 with the land." 
 
 " Is it true," said Ombra, looking her mother 
 in the face, " that the yacht went away last 
 night?"
 
 OMBRA. 287 
 
 " Oh yes," cried Kate, taking the subject out 
 of Mrs. Anderson's hands, " quite true. They 
 found letters at the railway calling them off — 
 or, at least, so they said. Some of us thought 
 it was your fault for going away, but my 
 opinion is that they did it abruptly to keep up 
 our interest. One cannot go on yachting for 
 ever and ever ; for my part, I was beginning to 
 get tired. Whereas, if they come back again, 
 after a month or so, it will all be as fresh as 
 ever." 
 
 " Are they coming back ?" 
 
 " Yes," said, boldly, the undaunted Kate. 
 
 Mrs. Anderson spoke not a word; she sat and 
 trembled, pitying her child to the bottom of 
 her heart — longing to take her into her arms, 
 to speak consolation to her, but not daring. 
 The mother, who would have tried if she could 
 to get the moon for Ombra, had to stand 
 aside, and let Francesca "tell ze trutt," and 
 Kate give the consolation. Some women 
 would have resented the interference, but she 
 was heroic, and kept silence. The audacious 
 little fib which Kate had told so gayly, had 
 already done its work ; the cloud of dull quiet
 
 288 OMBRA. 
 
 which had been on Ombra's face, brightened. 
 All was perhaps not over yet. 
 
 Thus after this interruption of their tran- 
 quillity they fell back into the old dull routine. 
 Mr. Sugden was once more master of the field. 
 Ombra kept herself so entirely in subjection, 
 that nobody out of the Cottage guessed what 
 crisis she had passed through, except this one 
 observer, whose eyes were quickened by jeal- 
 ousy and by love. The Curate was not de- 
 ceived by her smiles, by her expressions of con- 
 tent with the restored quietness, by her eager- 
 ness to return to all their old occupations. He 
 watched her with anxious eyes, noting all her 
 little caprices, noting the paleness which would 
 come over her, the wistful gaze over the sea, 
 which sometimes abstracted her from her com- 
 panions. 
 
 " She is not happy, as she used to be — she is 
 only making-believe, like the angel she is, to 
 keep us from being wretched," he said to Kate. 
 
 " Mr. Sugden, you talk great nonsense ; there 
 is nothing the matter with my cousin," Kate 
 would reply. On which Mr. Sugden sighed 
 heavily and shook his head, and went off to
 
 OMBRA. 289 
 
 find Mrs. Anderson, whom be gently beguiled 
 into a corner. 
 
 *' You remember what I said," he would whis- 
 per to her earnestly — " if you want ray services 
 in any way. It is not what I would have 
 wished ; but think of me as her — brother ; let 
 me act for *you, as her brother would, if there 
 is any need for it. Remember, you promised 
 
 that you would " 
 
 "What does the man want me to bid him 
 dof Mrs. Anderson would ask in perplexity, 
 talking the matter over with Kate — a relief 
 which she sometimes permitted herself; for 
 Ombra forbade all reference to the subject, and 
 she could not shut up her anxieties entirely in 
 her own heart. But Kate could throw no light 
 on the subject. Kate herself was not at all 
 clear what had happened. She could not make 
 quite sure, from her f»unt's vague statement, 
 whether it was Ombra lliat was in the wrong, 
 or the Berties, or if it was both the Berties, or 
 which it was. There were so many comphca- 
 tions in the question, that it was very difficult 
 to come to any conclusion about it. But she 
 
 VOL. I. y
 
 290 
 
 M B R A. 
 
 held fast by her conviction that they must come 
 back to Shanklin— it was inevitable that they 
 must come back.
 
 291 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 TT'ATE was so far a true prophet that the 
 •^^ Berties did return, but not till Christmas, 
 and then only for a few days. For the first 
 time during the Autumn and early Winter, time 
 hung heavy upon the hands of the little house- 
 hold. Their innocent routine of life, which had 
 supported them so pleasantly hitherto, supply- 
 ing a course of gentle duties and necessities, 
 broke down now, no one could tell why. Rou- 
 tine is one of the pleasantest stays of monoton- 
 ous life, so long as no agitating influence has 
 come into it. It makes existence more support- 
 able to millions of people who have ceased to be 
 excited by the vicissitudes of life, or who have 
 not yet left the pleasant creeks and bays of 
 youth for the more agitated and stormy sea : 
 
 u2
 
 292 OMBRA. 
 
 but when that first interruption has come, with- 
 out bringing either satisfaction or happiness 
 with it, the bond of routine becomes terrible. 
 All the succession of duties and pleasures which 
 had seemed to her as the course of nature a 
 few months before — as unchangeable as the suc- 
 cession of day and night, and as necessary — 
 became now a burden to Ombra, under which 
 her nerves, her temper, her very life gave way^ 
 She asked herself, and often asked the others, 
 why they should do the same things every 
 day ? — what was the good of it ? The studies 
 which she shared with her cousin, the little cha- 
 rities they did — visits to this poor woman or the 
 other, expeditions with the small round basket, 
 w4iich held a bit of chicken, or some jelly, or 
 a pudding for a sick pensioner ; the walks they 
 took for exercise, their sketchings and practis- 
 ings, and all the graceful details of their inno- 
 cent life — what was the good of them ? " The 
 poor people don't want our puddings and things. 
 I daresay they throw them away when we are 
 gone," said Ombra. " They don't want to be 
 interfered wdth — I should not, if I were in their 
 place ; and if w^e go on sketching till the end
 
 OMBRA. 293 
 
 of time, we never shall make a tolerable picture 
 — yon could buy a better for five shillings ; and 
 the poorest pianist in a concert-room would play 
 better than we could, though we spent half the 
 day practising. What is the good of it ? Oh I 
 if you only knew how sick I am of it all !" 
 
 "But, dear, you could not sit idle all day — 
 you could not read all day. You must do 
 something," said poor Mrs. Anderson, not know- 
 ing how to meet this terrible criticism, " for your 
 own sake." 
 
 " For my own sake I" said Ombra. " Ah ! 
 that is just what makes it so dreadful, so dis- 
 gusting I I am to go on with all this mass of 
 nonsense for my own sake. Not that it is, or 
 ever will be, of use to anyone ; not that there is 
 any need to do it, or any good in doing it ; but 
 for my own sake ! Oh I mamma, don't you see 
 what a satire it is ? No man, nobody who criti- 
 cises women, ever said worse than you have 
 just said. We are so useless to the world, so 
 little wanted by the world, that we are obliged 
 to furbish up little silly, senseless occupations, 
 simply to keep us from yawning ourselves to 
 death — for our own sakes !"
 
 294 OMBRA. 
 
 "Indeed, Ombra, I do not understand what 
 yon mean, or what you would have," Mrs. 
 Anderson would answer, all but crying, the 
 vexation of being unable to answer categorically, 
 increasing her distress at her daughter's contra- 
 dictoriness ; for, to be sure, when you anatomiz- 
 ed all these simple habits of life, what Ombra said 
 was true enough. The music and the drawing 
 w^ere done for occupation rather than for re- 
 sults. The visits to the poor did but little 
 practical service, though the whole routine had 
 made up a pleasant life, gently busy, and full of 
 kindly interchanges. 
 
 Mrs. Anderson felt that she herself had not 
 been a useless member of society, or one whose 
 withdrawal would have made no difference to the 
 world ; but in what words was she to say so ? 
 She was partially affronted, vexed, and dis- 
 tressed. Even when she reflected on the sub- 
 ject, she did not know in what words to reply 
 to her argumentative child. She could justify 
 her own existence to herself — for was not she 
 the head and centre of this house, upon whom 
 five other persons depended for comfort and 
 guidance. " Five persons," Mrs. Anderson said
 
 OMBRA. 295 
 
 to herself. " Even Ombra — what would she do 
 without me ? And Kate would have no home, 
 if I were not here to make one for her; and 
 those maids who eat our bread !" All this she 
 repeated to herself, feeling that she was not, 
 even now, without use in the world ; but how 
 could she have said it to her daughter ? Pro- 
 bably Ombra would have answered that the 
 whole household might be swept off the face 
 of the earth without harm to anyone — that 
 there was no use in them ; — a proposition which 
 it was impossible either to refute or to accept. 
 
 Thus the household had changed its charac- 
 ter, no one knew how. When Kate arranged the 
 last winterly bouquets of chrysanthemums and 
 Autumnal leaves in the flat dishes which she had 
 once filled with primroses, her sentiments were 
 almost as different as the season. She was 
 nipped by a subtle cold more pentrating than 
 that which blew about the Cottage in the 
 November winds, and tried to get entrance 
 through the closed windows. She was made 
 uncomfortable in all her habits, unsettled in her 
 youthful opinions. Sometimes a refreshing little 
 breeze of impatience crossed her mind, but gene-
 
 296 OMBRA. 
 
 rally she was depressed by the change, without 
 well knowiDg why. 
 
 " If we are all as useless as Ombra says, it 
 would be better to be a cook or a housemaid ; 
 but then the cook and the housemaid are of use 
 only to help us useless creatures, so they are 
 no good either !" This was the style of reason- 
 ing which Ombra's vagaries brought into fashion. 
 But these vagaries probably never would have 
 occurred at all. had not something happened to 
 Ombra which disturbed the whole edifice of her 
 young life. Had she accepted the love which 
 was offered to her, no doubt every circumstance 
 around her would have worn a sweet perfection 
 and appropriatuess to her eyes; or had she been 
 utterly fancy-free, and untouched by the new 
 thing which had been so suddenly thrust upon 
 her, the pleasant routine might have continued, 
 and all things gone on as before. But the light 
 of a new life had gleamed upon Ombra, and 
 foolishly, hastily, she had put it away from her. 
 She had put it away — but she could not forget 
 that sudden and rapid gleam which had lighted 
 up the whole landscape. When she looked out 
 over that landscape now, the distances were
 
 0MB RA. 297 
 
 blurred, the foreground had grown vague and 
 dim with mists, the old sober light which dwelt 
 there had gone for ever, following that sudden, 
 evanescent, momentary gleam. What was the 
 good ? Once, for a n;oment, what seemed to be 
 the better, the best, had shone upon her. It 
 fled, and even the homelier good fled with it. 
 Blankness, futility, an existence which meant 
 nothing, and could come to nothing, was what 
 remained to her now. 
 
 So Ombra thought ; perhaps a girl of higher 
 mind, or more generous heart, would not have 
 done so — but it is hard to take a wide or generous 
 view of life at nineteen, when one thinks one 
 has throw^n away all that makes existence most 
 sweet. The loss ; the terrible disappointment ; 
 the sense of folly and guilt — for was it not all 
 her own fault? — made such a mixture of bitter- 
 ness to Ombra as it is difficult to describe. If 
 she had been simply " crossed in love," as 
 people say, there would have been some solace 
 possible ; there would have been the visionary 
 fidelity, the melancholy delight of resignation, 
 or even self-sacrifice ; but here there was no- 
 thing to comfort her — it was herself only who
 
 298 OMBRA. 
 
 was to blame, and that in so ridiculous and 
 childish a way. Therefore, every time she 
 thought of it (and she thought of it for ever), 
 the reflection made her heart sick with eelf-dis- 
 gust, and cast her down into despair. The tide 
 had come to her, as it comes always in the affairs 
 of men, but she had not caught it, and now 
 was left ashore, a maiden wreck upon the 
 beach, for ever and ever. So Ombra thought — 
 and this thought in her was to all the house- 
 hold as though a cloud hung over it. Mrs. 
 Anderson was miserable, and Kate depressed, 
 she could not tell why. 
 
 " We are getting as dull as the old women 
 in the almshouses," the latter said, one day, 
 with a sigh. And then, after a pause — " a 
 great deal duller, for they chatter about every- 
 thing or nothing. They are cheery old souls ; 
 they look as if they had expected it all their 
 lives, and liked it now they are there." 
 
 " And so they did, I suppose. Not expected 
 it, but hoped for it, and were anxious about it, 
 and used all the influence they could get to be 
 elected. Of course they looked forward to it 
 as the very best thing that could happen — "
 
 OMBRA. 299 
 
 " To live in the almshouses ?" said Kate, 
 with looks aghast. " Look forward to it I Oh, 
 auntie, what a terrible idea I" 
 
 "My dear," Mrs. Anderson said, somewhat 
 subdued, *' their expectations and ours are dif- 
 ferent." 
 
 " That means," said Ombra, " that most of 
 us have not even almshouses to look forward to ; 
 nothing but futility, past and present — caring 
 for nothing and desiring nothing." 
 
 " Ombra, I do not know what you will say 
 next," cried the poor mother, baffled and vexed, 
 and ready to burst into tears. Her child 
 plagued her to the last verge of a mother's pati- 
 ence, setting her on edge in a hundred ways. 
 And Kate looked on with open eyes, and some- 
 times shared her aunt's impatience ; but chiefly, 
 as she still admired and adored Ombra, allowed 
 that young woman's painful mania to oppress 
 her, and was melancholy for company. I do 
 not suppose, however, that Kate's melancholy 
 was of a painful nature, or did her much harm. 
 And, besides her mother, the person who suf- 
 fered most through Ombra was poor Mr. Sug- 
 deo, who watched her till his eyes grew large
 
 300 OMBRA. 
 
 and hollow in bis honest countenance ; till his 
 very soul glowed with indignation against the 
 Bei'ties. The determination to find out which 
 it was who had ruined her happiness, and to 
 seek him out even at the end of the world, 
 and exact a terrible punishment, grew stronger 
 and stronger in him during those dreary days 
 of Winter. *' As if I were her brother ; though, 
 God knows, that is not what I would have 
 wished," the Curate said to himself. This was 
 his theory of the matter. He gave up with a 
 sad heart the hope of being able to move her 
 now to love himself. He would never vex her 
 even, with his hopeless love, he decided ; never 
 weary her with bootless protestations ; never 
 injure the confidential position he had gained 
 by asking more than could ever be given to 
 him ; but one day he would find out which was 
 the culprit, and then Ombra should be avenged. 
 Gleams of excitement began to shoot across 
 the tranquil cheeriness of the Winter, when 
 it was known that the two were coming 
 again ; and then other changes occurred, which 
 made a diversion which was anything but 
 agreeable in the Cottage. Ombra said nothing
 
 OMBRA. 301 
 
 to anyone abont her feelings, but she became 
 irritable, impatient, and imreasonable, as only 
 those whose nerves are kept in a state of pain- 
 ful agitation can be. The Berties stayed but a 
 few days ; they made one call at the Cottage, 
 which was formal and constrained, and they 
 were present one evening at the Rectory to 
 meet the old yachting-party, which had been so 
 merry and so friendly in the Summer. But it 
 was merry no longer. The two young men 
 seemed to have lost their gaiety ; they had 
 gone in for work, they said, both in a breath, 
 with a forced laugh, by way of apology for 
 themselves. They said little to anyone, and 
 next to nothing to Ombra, who sat in a corner 
 all the evening, and furtively watched them, 
 reddening and growing pale as they moved 
 about from one to another. The day after 
 they left she had almost a quarrel with her 
 mother and cousin, to such a pitch had her irri- 
 tability reached ; and then, for the first time, 
 she burst into wild tears, and repented and re- 
 proached herself, till Mrs. Anderson and Kate 
 cried their eyes out, in pitiful and wonder- 
 ing sympathy. But poor Ombra never quite
 
 302 OMBRA. 
 
 recovered herself after this outburst. She gave 
 herself up, and no longer made a stand against 
 the sourd irritation and misery that consumed 
 her. It affected her health, after a time, and 
 filled the house with anxiety, and depression, 
 and pain. And thus the Winter went by, and 
 Spring came, and Kate Court enay, developing 
 unawares, like her favourite primroses, blossom- 
 ed into the flowery season, and completed her 
 eighteenth year. 
 
 EIO) or THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON: PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSB.
 
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