Маргарет Олифант
Ombra
CHAPTER XXI
The 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! 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 angry to be pitied. I can’t bear it. Let me alone. It is all over. I wish never to speak of it more!’
‘But, Ombra–’
‘No more! Oh! mamma, why will you take such a cruel advantage? I cannot bear any more!’
Mrs. Anderson left her child, with a sigh. She went downstairs, and stood in the verandah, leaning on the rustic pillar to which the honeysuckle 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, nor the moonlight. A sudden storm had come into her mind. What was she to do? She was a woman not apt to take any decided step for herself. Since her husband’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 à deux, find it sadly difficult to put themselves in motion individually, without the mental support which is natural to them. And then Mrs. Anderson had been accustomed all her life to keep within the strict leading-strings of propriety. She had regulated her doings by those rules of decorum, those regulations as to what was ‘becoming,’ what ‘fitting her position,’ with which society simplifies but limits the proceedings of her votaries. These rules forbade any interference in such a matter as this. They forbade to her any direct action at all in a complication so difficult. 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 honeysuckle which breathed sweetness all about her, with the moonlight shining calm and sweet upon her face. The peacefullest place and moment; 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 mystery of her daughter’s disappearance. It was a ‘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 ill?’ he said, while he held her hand in greeting.
‘The sun has given her a headache. She has bad headaches sometimes,’ she answered, cheerfully; ‘but it is nothing—she will be better to-morrow. She has been so much more out doors lately, since this yachting began.’
‘That will not go on any longer,’ said the Curate, with a mixture of regret and satisfaction. After a moment the satisfaction predominated, 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 Providence!’ 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 anything. 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 earlier, if she had walked a little faster, if– But now they were out of sight, out of reach, perhaps for ever. Her vexation and disappointment 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 companion—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 saying, after awhile, ‘It is very sudden—they will be a great loss to all you young people; and I 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 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! have you heard what has happened? Oh! how is Ombra, Mrs. Anderson? Oh! we are all heart-broken! What shall we do without 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 don’t think it. They would never have concealed such a thing from us; though there was actually no time to explain. I had gone upstairs to take off my things, and all at once there was a cry, “The Berties are going!” “My dear boys, what is the matter?” I said; “is there anything wrong at either of your homes? I beg of you to let me know the worst!” 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 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.
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, however, was imperturbable. She sat near Mrs. Eldridge, and talked to her with easy cheerfulness 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 disturbed in her soul, and very anxious that the meal should come to an end.
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 question 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. Anderson, with the greatest wonderment. ‘Indeed, I am sure I 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 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! you are so very good–’
‘No, not good,’ he said, anxiously—‘don’t say that—good to myself—if you will but believe 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?—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 in, 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 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. Anderson 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 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 unhappy. 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.’
CHAPTER XXII
Mrs. 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 because it was new or unexpected, but with that wonder which moves the elder mind at the sight 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. Anderson 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 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 darling, 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?’ 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?’ 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 derisively, 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! 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 sufferer. Vanquished now by her daughter’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 had divined. She approached Ombra solemnly, holding out two fingers at her.
‘I make the horns,’ said Francesca; ‘I advance 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 grieving 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 so, perhaps? No, I am bolder than my dear padrona. I do not care sixpence if I break your heart. You are ice, you are stone, you are worse than all the winters and the frosts! Signorina Ghiaccia, you haf done it now!’
‘Francesca, go away! You have no right to speak to me so. What have I done?’
‘Done!’ cried Francesca, ‘done!—all the evil things you can do. You have driven all away from you who cared for you. Figure to yourself that a little ship went away from the golf last night, and the two young signorini in 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 Tramontana, ze wind from ze ice-mountains! 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!’
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 little uncovered head, with its knot of scanty hair twisted tightly up behind, 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 Francesca 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, flashing from her eyes—‘there vill komm a day when 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! 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. Mademoiselle will be sorry then,’ said Francesca, regaining her composure, and making a vindictive courtesy. She smiled at the tremendous 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, impressively. ‘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 bébé 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 interference on Francesca’s part; the only difference was that no such grave crisis had ever happened before. She was aware that, in milder cases, her own caressing and indulgent ways had been powerfully aided by the decided action of Francesca, 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 to accept 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. But oh, Kate, for heaven’s sake, take no notice, not a word! Don’t look even as if you supposed– ’
‘Of course not, auntie,’ said Kate, with momentary indignation that she should be supposed capable of such unwomanly want of comprehension. 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?’
‘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 which had been on Ombra’s face, brightened. All was perhaps not over yet.
Thus after this interruption of their tranquillity 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 jealousy and by love. The Curate was not deceived by her smiles, by her expressions of content with the restored quietness, by her eagerness 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 companions.
‘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 find Mrs. Anderson, whom he gently beguiled into a corner.
‘You remember what I said,’ he would whisper to her earnestly—‘if you want my 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 do?’ 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 aunt’s vague statement, whether it was Ombra that was in the wrong, or the Berties, or if it was both the Berties, or which it was. There were so many complications in the question, that it was very difficult to come to any conclusion about it. But she held fast by her conviction that they must come back to Shanklin—it was inevitable that they must come back.
