‘Not a parson? That is odd, for the elder son, I know, has gone to the Bar. I suppose he has relations here? Kate and he have met before?’
‘Yes.’
It was all that Ombra could say; but in her heart she added, ‘Always Kate—Kate knew him—Kate has met him! Is there nobody, then, but Kate in the world to be considered. They think so too.’
The old man, for the first time, had a little pity. He asked no more questions, seeing that she was past all power of answering them; and half in sympathy, half in curiosity, drew his chair back a little, and left the new-comers room to approach. When they did so, after some minutes, Ombra’s feverish colour suddenly forsook her cheeks, and she grew very pale. Bertie Eldridge was the first to speak. He came up with a little air of deprecation and humility, which Mr. Courtenay, not knowing the fin mot of the enigma, did not understand.
‘I am so sorry to hear you are going away,’ he said. ‘Is it not very sudden, Miss Anderson? You did not speak of it on Wednesday, I think.’
‘Did I see you on Wednesday?’ said Ombra. ‘Oh! I beg your pardon, I know you were here; but I did not think we had any talk.’
‘A little, I believe,’ said the young man, colouring. His self-possession seemed to fail him, which was amazing to Mr. Courtenay, for the young men of the period do not often fail in self-possession. He got confused, spoke low, and faltered something about knowing he had no right to be told.
‘No,’ she replied, with nervous colour and a flash of sudden pride; ‘out of our own little cottage I do not know anyone who has a right to be consulted—or cares either,’ she added, in an undertone.
‘Miss Anderson, you cannot think that!’
‘Ah, but I do!’ Then there was a little pause; and after some moments, Ombra resumed: ‘Kate’s movements are important to many people. She will be a great lady, and entitled to have her comings and goings recorded in the newspapers; but we have no such claim upon the public interest. It does not matter to any one, so far as I know, whether we go or stay.’