Ombra

by Mrs. Oliphant

‘But for that reason Mr. Sugden’s account is very interesting to me,’ said Ombra, giving him a still more encouraging look.

‘Dreadful little flirt!’ Mrs. Eldridge said to herself, and with virtuous resolution, went on—‘The boys, I suppose, will go too, on their way here. They are coming in Bertie’s new yacht this time. I am sure I wish yachts had never been invented. I suppose these two will keep me miserable about the children from the moment they reach Sandown pier.’

‘Which two?’ said Ombra. It was odd that she should have asked the question, for her attention had at once forsaken the Curate, and she knew exactly who was meant.

‘Oh! the Berties, of course. Did not you know they were coming?’ said Mrs. Eldridge. ‘I like the boys very well—but their yacht! Adieu to peace for me from the hour it arrives! I know I shall be put down by everybody, and my anxieties laughed at; and you girls will have your heads turned, and think of nothing else.’

‘The Berties!—are they coming?’ cried Kate, making a spring towards them. ‘I am so glad! When are they coming?—and what was that about a yacht? A yacht!—the very thing one wanted—the thing I have been sighing, dying for! Oh! you dear Mrs. Eldridge, tell me when they are coming. And do you think they will take us out every day?’

‘There!’ said the Rector’s wife, with the composure of despair. ‘I told you how it would be. Kate has lost her head already, and Ombra has no longer any interest in your expedition, Mr. Sugden. Are you fond of yachting too? Well, thank Providence you are strong, and must be a good swimmer, and won’t let the children be drowned, if anything happens. That is the only comfort I have had since I heard of it. They are coming to-morrow—we had a letter this morning—both together, as usual, and wasting their time in the same way. I disapprove of it very much, for my part. A thing which may do very well for Bertie Eldridge, with the family property, and title, and everything coming to him, is very unsuitable for Bertie Hardwick, who has nothing. But nobody will see it in that light but me.’

‘I must talk to him about it,’ said Kate, thoughtfully. Ombra did not say anything, but as the Rector’s wife remarked, she had no longer any interest in the Curate’s narrative. She was not uncivil, she listened to what he said afterwards, but it fell flat upon her, and she asked him if he knew the Berties, and if he did not think yachting would be extremely pleasant? It may be forgiven to him if we record that Mr. Sugden went home that night with a hatred of the Berties, which was anything but Christian-like. He (almost) wished the yacht might founder before it reached Sandown Bay; he wished they might be driven out to sea, and get sick of it, and abandon all thoughts of the Isle of Wight. Of course they were fresh-water sailors, who had never known what a gale was, he said contemptuously in his heart.

But nothing happened to the yacht. It arrived, and everything came true which Mrs. Eldridge had predicted. The young people in the village and neighbourhood lost their heads. There was nothing but voyages talked about, and expeditions here and there. They circumnavigated the island, they visited the Needles, they went to Spithead to see the fleet, they did everything which it was alarming and distressing for a mother to see her children do. And sometimes, which was the greatest wonder of all, she was wheedled into going with them herself. Sometimes it was Mrs. Anderson who was the chaperon of the merry party. The Berties themselves were unchanged. They were as much alike as ever, as inseparable, as friendly and pleasant. They even recommended themselves to the Curate, though he was very reluctant to be made a friend of against his will. As soon as they arrived, the wings of life seemed to be freer, the wheels rolled easier, everything went faster. The very sun seemed to shine more brightly. The whole talk of the little community at Shanklin was about the yacht and its masters. They met perpetually to discuss this subject. The croquet, the long walks, all the inland amusements, were intermitted. ‘Where shall we go to-morrow?’ they asked each other, and discussed the winds and the tides like ancient mariners. In the presence of this excitement, the gossip about Mr. Sugden died a natural death. The Curate was not less devoted to Ombra. He haunted her, if not night and day, at least by sea and land, which had become the most appropriate phraseology. He kept by her in every company; but as the Berties occupied all the front of the picture, there was no room in any one’s mind for the Curate. Even Mrs. Anderson forgot about him—she had something more important on her mind.

For that was Ombra’s day of triumph and universal victory. Sometimes such a moment comes even to girls who are not much distinguished either for their beauty or qualities of any kind—girls who sink into the second class immediately after, and carry with them a sore and puzzled consciousness of undeserved downfall. Ombra was at this height of youthful eminence now. The girls round her were all younger than she, not quite beyond the nursery, or, at least, the schoolroom. With Kate and Lucy Eldridge by her, she looked like a half-opened rose, in the perfection of bloom, beside two unclosed buds—or such, at least, was her aspect to the young men, who calmly considered the younger girls as sisters and playmates, but looked up to Ombra as the ideal maiden, the heroine of youthful fancy. Perhaps, had they been older, this fact might have been different; but at the age of the Berties sixteen was naught. As they were never apart, it was difficult to distinguish the sentiments of these young men, the one from the other. But the only conclusion to be drawn by the spectators was that both of them were at Ombra’s feet. They consulted her obsequiously about all their movements. They caught at every hint of her wishes with the eagerness of vassals longing to please their mistress. They vied with each other in arranging cloaks and cushions for her.

Their yacht was called the Shadow; no one knew why, except, indeed, its owners themselves, and Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. Eldridge, who made a shrewd guess. But this was a very different matter from the Curate’s untold love. The Rector’s wife, ready as she was to interfere, could say nothing about this. She would not, for the world, put such an idea into the girl’s head, she said. It was, no doubt, but a passing fancy, and could come to nothing; for Bertie Hardwick had nothing to marry on, and Bertie Eldridge would never be permitted to unite himself to Ombra Anderson, a girl without a penny, whose father had been nothing more than a Consul.