A silence again. Ombra bent once more over her work, and her needle flew through it, working as if for a wager. The other Bertie, who was behind, had been moving about, in mere idleness, the books on Ombra’s writing-table. At him she suddenly looked up with a smile—
‘Please, Mr. Hardwick! all my poor papers and books which I have just been putting in order—don’t scatter them all over the table again.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, looking up. He had borne the air of the stage-confidant, till that moment, in Mr. Courtenay’s eyes, which were those of a connoisseur in such matters. But now his belief on this subject was shaken. When he glanced up and saw the look which was exchanged by the two, and the gloom with which Mr. Sugden was regarding both, a mist seemed to roll away from the scene. How different the girl’s aspect was now!—soft with a dewy brightness in her eyes, and a voice that trembled with some concealed agitation; and there was a glow upon Bertie’s face, which made him handsomer. ‘My cousins are breaking their hearts over your going,’ he said.
‘Oh, no fear of their hearts!’ said Ombra, lightly; ‘they will mend. If the Cottage is let, the new tenants will probably be gayer people than we are, and do more to amuse their neighbours. And if we come back——’
‘If?’ said the young man.
‘Nothing is certain, I suppose, in this world—or, at least, so people say.’
‘It is very true,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘It is seldom a young lady is so philosophical—but, as you say, if you come back in a year, the chances are you will find your place filled up, and your friends changed.’
Ombra turned upon him with sparks of fire suddenly flashing from her eyes. Philosopher, indeed!—say termagant, rather.
‘It is vile and wretched and horrible to say so!’ she cried; ‘but I suppose it is true.’
And all this time the tall Curate never took his eyes off the group, but stood still and listened and watched. Mr. Courtenay began to feel very uncomfortable. The scene was deadly real, and not as amusing as he had hoped.