‘Ah! Lady Caryisfort is very kind,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with a tone, however, in which there was neither delight nor gratitude; and then she put her arm round her niece, and leaned upon her. ‘Ah!’ she said again, ‘I can see how it will be! They will wean you away from me. You who have never given me a moment’s uneasiness, who have been such a good child to me! I suppose it must be so—and I ought not to complain.’
‘But, auntie,’ said Kate, bewildered, ‘nobody tries to take me from you—nobody wants me, that I know of—even you——’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘even I. I know. And I shall have to put up with that too. Oh! Kate, I know more than one of us will live to regret this day;—but nobody so much as I.’
‘I don’t understand you. Auntie, you are over-tired. You ought to be asleep.’
‘You will understand me some time,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘and then you will recollect what I said. But don’t ask me any questions, dear. Good-night.’
Good night! She had been just as happy as any of the party, Kate reflected, half an hour before, and her voice had been audible from the door, full of pleasantness and the melody of content. Was the change a fiction, got up for her own benefit, or was there something mysterious lying under it all? Kate could not tell, but it may be supposed how heart-sick and weary she was when such an idea as that her dearest friend had put on a semblance to deceive her, could have entered her mind. She was very, very much ashamed of it, when she woke in the middle of the night, and it all came back to her. But what was she to think? It was the first mystery Kate had encountered, and she did not know how to deal with it. It made her very uneasy and unhappy, and shook her faith in everything. She lay awake for half an hour pondering it; and that was as much to Kate as a week of sleepless nights would have been to many, for up to this time she had no need to wake o’ nights, nor anything to weigh upon her thoughts when she woke.
Next morning, however, dissipated these mists, as morning does so often. Ombra was very gay and bright, and much more affectionate and caressing than usual. Kate and she, indeed, seemed to have changed places—the shadow had turned into sunshine. It was Ombra who led the talk, who rippled over into laughter, who petted her cousin and her mother, and was the soul of everything. All Kate’s doubts and difficulties fled before the unaccustomed tenderness of Ombra’s looks and words. She had no defence against this unexpected means of subjugation, and for some time she even forgot that no explanation at all was given to her of the events of the previous day. It had been ‘a pleasant day,’ ‘a delightful day,’ the walk had been perfect, ‘and everything else,’ Ombra had said at breakfast, ‘except that you were not with us, Kate.’
‘And that we could not help,’ said Mrs. Anderson, into whose face a shade of anxiety had crept. But she was not as she had been in that mysterious moment on the previous night. There was no distress about her. She had nearly as much happiness in her eyes as that which ran over and overflowed in Ombra’s. Had Kate dreamed that last five minutes, and its perplexing appearances? But Mrs. Anderson made no explanations any more than Ombra. They chatted about the day’s entertainment, their hosts, and many things which Kate could only half understand, but they did not say, ‘We are so happy because of this or that.’ Through all this affectionateness and tenderness this one blank remained, and Kate could not forget it. They told her nothing. She was left isolated, separated, outside of some magic circle in which they stood.
The young men joined them very early, earlier even than usual; and then this sense of separation became stronger and stronger in Kate’s mind. Would they never have done talking of yesterday? The only thing that refreshed her spirit a little was when she announced the engagement Lady Caryisfort had made—‘for us all,’ Kate said, feeling a little conscious, and pleasantly so, that she herself was, in this case, certainly to be the principal figure—to visit the Buoncompagni palace. Bertie Hardwick roused up immediately at the mention of this.
‘Palace indeed!’ he said. ‘It is a miserable old house, all mildewed and moth-eaten! What should we do there?’