Ombra

by Mrs. Oliphant

‘Oh! please, aunt, don’t think of doing so any more,’ cried Kate, stung to the heart. ‘Don’t deprive yourself of anything that is pleasant, for me. I am very well. I am quite happy. I don’t require anything more than I have here. Go, and take Ombra, and never mind me.’

And the poor child had great difficulty in refraining from tears. Indeed, but for the fact that it would have looked like crying for a lost pleasure, which Kate, who was stung by a very different feeling, despised, she would not have been able to restrain herself. As it was, her voice trembled, and her cheeks burned.

‘Kate, I don’t think you are quite just to me,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘You know very well that neither in love, nor in anything else, have I made a difference between Ombra and you. But in this one thing I must throw myself upon your generosity, dear. When I say your generosity, Kate, I mean that you should put the best interpretation on what I say, not the worst.’

‘I did not mean to put any interpretation,’ said Kate, drawn two ways, and ashamed now of her anger. ‘Why should you explain to me, auntie, or make a business of it? Say you are going somewhere to-morrow, and you think it best I should not go. That is enough. Why should you say a word more?’

‘Because I wanted to treat you like a woman, not like a child, and to tell you the reason,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘But we will say no more about it, as those boys are coming. I do hope, however, that you understand me, Kate.’

Kate could make no answer, as ‘the boys’ appeared at this moment; but she said to herself sadly, ‘No, I don’t understand—I can’t tell what it means,’ with a confused pain which was very hard to bear. It was the first time she had been shaken in her perfect faith in the two people who had brought her to life, as she said. She did not rush into the middle of the talk, as had once been her practice, but sat, chilled, in her corner, wondering what had come over her. For it was not only that the others were changed—a change had come upon herself also. She was chilled; she could not tell how. Instead of taking the initiative, as she used to do, in the gay and frank freshness which everybody had believed to be the very essence of her character, she sat still, and waited to be called, to be appealed to. Even when she became herself conscious of this, and tried to shake it off, she could not succeed. She was bound as in chains; she could not get free.

And when the next morning came, and Kate, with a dull amaze which she could not overcome, saw the party go off with the usual escort, the only difference being that Lady Barker occupied her own usual place, her feelings were not to be described. She watched them from the balcony while they got into the carriage, and arranged themselves gaily. She looked down upon them and laughed too, and bade them enjoy themselves. She met the wistful look in Mrs. Anderson’s eyes with a smile, and, recovering her courage for the moment, made it understood that she meant to pass an extremely pleasant day by herself. But when they drove away, Kate went in, and covered her eyes with her hands. It was not the pleasure, whatever that might be; but why was she left behind? What had she done that they wanted her no longer?—that they found her in the way? It was the first slight she had ever had to bear, and it went to her very heart.

It was a lovely bright morning in December. Lovely mornings in December are rare in England; but even in England there comes now and then a winter day which is a delight and luxury, when the sky is blue, crisper, profounder than summer, when the sun is resplendent, pouring over everything the most lavish and overwhelming light; when the atmosphere is still as old age is when it is beautiful—stilled, chastened, subdued, with no possibility of uneasy winds or movement of life; but all quietness, and now and then one last leaf fluttering down from the uppermost boughs. Such a morning in Florence is divine. The great old houses stand up, expanding, as it were, erecting their old heads gratefully into the sun and blueness of the sphere; the old towers rise, poising themselves, light as birds, yet strong as giants, in that magical atmosphere. The sun-lovers throng to the bright side of the way, and bask and laugh and grow warm and glad. And in the distance the circling hills stand round about the plain, and smile from all their heights in fellow-feeling with the warm and comforted world below. One little girl, left alone in a sunny room on the Lung-Arno in such a morning, with nothing but her half-abandoned tasks to amuse her, nobody to speak to, nothing to think of but a vague wrong done to herself, which she does not understand, is not in a cheerful position, though everything about her is so cheerful; and Kate’s heart sank down—down to her very slippers.

‘I don’t understand why you shouldn’t come,’ said some one, bursting in suddenly. ‘Oh! I beg your pardon; I did not mean to be so abrupt.’

For Kate had been crying. She dashed away her tears with an indignant hand, and looked at Bertie with defiance. Then the natural reaction came to her assistance. He looked so scared and embarrassed standing there, with his hat in his hand, breathless with haste, and full of compunction. She laughed in spite of herself.