Маргарет Олифант
Ombra
CHAPTER XI
Mr. 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 establish 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!’ 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.
When Mr. Courtenay hid himself behind a newspaper, it was on Maryanne that Kate poured forth the tide of her excitement. ‘Isn’t it delightful!’ she said, a hundred times over. ‘Oh! yes, miss; but father and mother!’ Maryanne answered, with a sob. Kate contemplated her gravely for twenty seconds. Here was a difference, a distinction, which she did not understand. But before the minute was half over her thoughts had gone abroad again in a confusion 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, substantial old lady, old enough to be Mrs. Anderson’s mother. ‘This is she! She is nice! 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! oh! please, Miss Kate!’ said 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 something which held her close, and a voice murmuring, ‘My darling child! my Catherine’s child!’ murmuring and purring over her. Kate had time to think, ‘Oh! how tall she is! Oh! how warm! Oh! how funny!’ 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 me,’ said Kate, who scorned grammar; ‘who should it be? I came expressly to meet you; and Uncle Courtenay is there, who will tell you it is all right.’
‘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 precious child. There is no time to lose. Oh! 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 objection 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 ludicrous, too.
‘Kate says well,’ said old Mr. Courtenay. ‘I hope you will be pleased with her, now you have her. To some of us she has been a sufficiently 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 something to eat?’
‘I have an engagement,’ said Mr. Courtenay, hastily. What! 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! 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 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 excitement, 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 indeed!—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; ‘gentlemen 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 treasure at all to him, but only a trouble and a 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, and 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! 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 newspaper—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, changeable face. Then Kate fell silent all at once, and began to think, and cast many a furtive 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 remember mamma?’
‘Ah! no, Kate; she died just when you were born.’
‘Then did I ever see you before?’
‘Never since you were a little baby—never that you could know.’
‘It is very strange,’ the girl said half to herself; ‘but I surely know some face like yours. Ah! could it be that?’ 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 girl’s hands, and bending forward, looked at her in the face; and it was true—they were as like as if they 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 intelligent than her predecessor had ever been. This made at once the sweetest, most pleasant link between them; it bound them together by Nature’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 timidity, 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 leafage, 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, 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 darling,—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 nothing, had given many anxious glances round her, which were not lost upon Kate’s keen perceptions? 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 headdress, made out of a coloured 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 commonplace 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!’
‘Hush, Francesca; do not put nonsense into the child’s head,’ said Mrs. Anderson, still looking anxiously round.
‘I judge from what I see,’ said the old woman; and then she added, in answer to a question from her mistress’s eyes, ‘Meess Ombra 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 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 holding each other’s hands, looking at each other—on Kate’s side with violent curiosity; on Ombra’s apparently with indifference. The mother had to do all the emotion that was necessary, 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 sympathy, fluttered about the new ‘little angel,’ taking off her cloak, and uttering aloud her admiration and delight. It was a strange beginning 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, I 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 upstairs; she seemed to be surrounded with an atmosphere of love and care. There was nobody (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.
CHAPTER XII
There 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. Anderson 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 sullenness, 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 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 worn 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 myself.’
‘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, from one language to another; but as it is unnecessary 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 companion’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 am Ombra,’ said the girl, with a smile, ‘you know; how can I warm you, Francesca? It is not my nature.’
‘Are you not, then, God’s making, because 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,’1 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 was mamma, crying over that girl as if there never had been anything like her before!’
‘The dear lady! 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 have between us? We did it for your 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 effusion—you say more than you mean, both mamma 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? 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 Francesca, 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!’
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 proceed in your life?’ she said. ‘When one wanders 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, colder 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 herself, while Kate sat wondering in the next room. The elder girl asked herself, was it 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 yet she was not heartless and cold, as people thought. The accusation wounded her, and haunted her as if with premonitions of reproaches to come. It was not hard to bear from Francesca, who was her devoted slave; but it occurred dimly to Ombra, as if in prophecy, 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 between 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 consider 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; already she had inquired with lively curiosity all about Shanklin. 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 delivered, 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 pardon me, I did not mean to be rude. Ah! if my lady was but a Christian like us other Italians! 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 complimenti, 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.
