This was the reason why Kate heard no more from Mr. Sugden. He knew, and yet he did not know. That which had been told him was very different from what he had expected to hear. He had gone to seek a deserted maiden, and he had found a wife. He had gone with some wild hope of being able to interpose on her behalf, ‘as her brother would have done,’ and bring her false lover back to her—when, lo! he found that he was intruding upon sacred domestic ground, upon the retreat of a wife whose husband was somewhere ready, no doubt, to defend her from all intrusion. This confounded him for the first moment. He went away, as we have said, without a word, asking no explanation. What right had he to any explanation? Probably Ombra herself, had she known what his mission and what his thoughts were, would have been furious at the impertinence. But her mother judged him more gently, and he, poor fellow, knew in his own soul how different his motives were from those of intrusion or impertinence.

When he came to the homely, lonely little house, where he found shelter in the midst of the night, he stopped there in utter languor, still confused by his discovery and his failure. But when he came to himself he was not satisfied. Next day, in the silence and loneliness of the mountains, he mused and pondered on this subject, which was never absent from his mind ten minutes together. He walked on and on upon the road he had traversed in the dark the night before, till he came to the point where it commanded the glen below, and where the descent to Loch Arroch began. He saw at his feet the silvery water gleaming, the loch, the far lines of the withdrawing village roofs, and that one under which she was. At the sight the Curate’s mournful heart yearned over the woman he loved. Why was she there alone, with only her mother, and she a wife? What was there that was not ‘exactly comfortable,’ as Mrs. Anderson had said?

The result of his musing was that he stayed in the little mountain change-house for some time. There was a desolate little loch near, lying, as in a nook, up at the foot of great Schehallion. And there he pretended to fish, and in the intervals of his sport, which was dreary enough, took long walks about the country, and, without being seen by them, found out a great deal about the two ladies. They were alone. The young lady’s husband was said to be ‘in foreign pairts.’ The good people had not heard what he was, but that business detained him somewhere, though it was hoped he would be back before the Autumn. ‘And I wish he may, for yon bonnie young creature’s sake!’ the friendly wife added, who told him this tale.

The name they told him she was called by was not a name he knew, which perplexed him. But when he remembered his own observations, and Kate’s story, he could not believe that any other lover could have come in. When Mr. Sugden had fully satisfied himself, and discovered all that was discoverable, he went back to England with the heat of a sudden purpose. He went to London, and he sought out Bertie Hardwick’s rooms. Bertie himself was whistling audibly as Mr. Sugden knocked at his door. He was packing his portmanteau, and stopped now and then to utter a mild oath over the things which would not pack in as they ought. He was going on a journey. Perhaps to her, Mr. Sugden thought; and, as he heard his whistle, and saw his levity, his blood boiled in his veins.

‘What, Sugden!’ cried Bertie. ‘Come in, old fellow, I am glad to see you. Why, you’ve been and left Shanklin! What did you do that for? The old place will not look like itself without you.’

‘There are other vacant places that will be felt more than mine,’ said the Curate, in a funereal voice, putting himself sadly on the nearest chair.

‘Oh! the ladies at the Cottage! To be sure, you are quite right. They must be a dreadful loss,’ said Bertie.

Mr. Sugden felt that he flushed and faltered, and these signs of guilt made it doubly clear.

‘It is odd enough,’ he said, with double meaning, ‘that we should talk of that, for I have just come from Scotland, from the Highlands, where, of all people in the world, I met suddenly with Miss Anderson and her mother.’

Bertie faced round upon him in the middle of his packing, which he had resumed, and said, ‘Well!’ in a querulous voice—a voice which already sounded like that of a man put on his defence.

‘Well!’ said the Curate—‘I don’t think it is well. She is not Miss Anderson now. But I see you know that. Mr. Hardwick, if you know anything of her husband, I think you should urge him not to leave her alone there. She looks—not very well. Poor Ombra!’ cried the Curate, warming into eloquence. ‘I have no right to call her by her name, but that I—I was fond of her too. I would have given my life for her! And she is like her name—she is like a shadow, that is ready to flit away.’

Bertie Hardwick listened with an agitated countenance—he grew red and pale, and began to pace about the room; but he made no answer—he was confused and startled by what his visitor said.

‘I daresay my confession does not interest you much,’ Mr. Sugden resumed. ‘I make it to show I have some right—to take an interest, at least. That woman for whom I would give my life, Mr. Hardwick, is pining there for a man who leaves her to pine—a man who must be neglecting her shamefully, for it cannot be long since he married her—a man who——’

‘And pray, Mr. Sugden,’ said Bertie, choking with apparent anger and agitation, ‘where did you obtain your knowledge of this man?’

‘Not from her,’ said the Curate; ‘but by chance—by the inquiries I made in my surprise. Mr. Hardwick, if you know who it is who is so happy, and so negligent of his happiness——’

‘Well?’

‘He has no right to stay away from her after this warning,’ cried the Curate, rising to his feet. ‘Do you understand what a thing it is for me to come and say so?—to one who is throwing away what I would give my life for? But she is above all. If he stays away from her, he will reproach himself for it all his life!’

And with these words he turned to go. He had said enough—his own eyes were beginning to burn and blaze. He felt that he might seize this false lover by the throat if he stayed longer. And he had at least done all he could for Ombra. He had said enough to move any man who was a man. He made a stride towards the door in his indignation; but Bertie Hardwick interrupted him, with his hand on his arm.

‘Sugden,’ he said, with a voice full of emotion, ‘I am not so bad as you think me; but I am not so good as you are. The man you speak of shall hear your warning. But there is one thing I have a right to ask. What you learnt by chance, you will not make any use of—not to her cousin, for instance, who knows nothing. You will respect her secret there?’

‘I do not know that I ought to do so, but I promised her mother,’ said the Curate, sternly. ‘Good morning, Mr. Hardwick. I hope you will act at once on what you have heard.’

‘Won’t you shake hands?’ said Bertie.

The Curate was deeply prejudiced against him—hated him in his levity and carelessness, amusing himself while she was suffering. But when he looked into Bertie’s face, his enmity melted. Was this the man who had done her—and him—so much wrong? He put out his hand with reluctance, moved against his will.

‘Do you deserve it?’ he said, in his deep voice.

‘Yes—so far as honesty goes,’ said the young man, with a broken, agitated laugh.

The Curate went away, wondering and unhappy. Was he so guilty, that open-faced youth, who seemed yet too near boyhood to be an accomplished deceiver?—or was there still more in the mystery than met the eye?

This was how Kate got no news. She looked for it for many a day. As the Summer ripened and went on, a hungry thirst for information of one kind or another possessed her. Her aunt’s birthday letter had been a few tender words only—words which were humble, too, and sad. ‘Poor Ombra,’ she had said, ‘was pretty well.’ Poor Ombra!—why poor Ombra? Kate asked herself the question with sudden fits of anxiety, which she could not explain to herself; and she began to watch for the post with almost feverish eagerness. But the suspense lasted so long, that the keenness of the edge wore off again, and no news ever came.

In July, however, Lady Caryisfort came, having lingered on her way from Italy till it became too late to keep the engagement she had made with Mr. Courtenay for Kate’s first season in town. She was so kind as to go to Langton-Courtenay instead, on what she called a long visit.

‘Your uncle has to find out, like other people, that he will only find aid ready made to his hand when he doesn’t want it,’ she said—‘that is the moment when everything becomes easy. I might have been of use to him, I know, two months ago, and accordingly my private affairs detained me, and it is only now, you see, that I am here.’

‘I don’t see why you should have hurried for my uncle,’ said Kate; ‘he has never come to see me, though he has promised twenty times. But you are welcome always, whenever you please.’

‘Thanks, dear,’ said Lady Caryisfort, who was languid after her journey. ‘He will come now, when you don’t want him. And so the aunt and the cousin are gone, Kate? You must tell me why. I heard, after you left Florence, that Miss Anderson had flirted abominably with both these young men—behind your back, my poor darling, when you were with me, I suppose; though I always thought that young Eldridge would have suited you precisely—two nice properties, nice families—everything that was nice. But an ideal match like that never comes to pass. They tell me she was called la demoiselle À deux cavaliers. Don’t look shocked. Of course, it could only be a flirtation; there could be nothing wrong in it. But, you dear little innocent, is this all new to you?’

‘Mr. Hardwick and Mr. Eldridge used to go with us to a great many places; they were old friends,’ said Kate, with her cheeks and forehead dyed crimson in a moment; ‘but why people should say such disagreeable things—’

‘People always say disagreeable things,’ said Lady Caryisfort; ‘it is the only occupation which is pursued anywhere. But as you did not hear about your cousin, I am glad to think you cannot have heard of me.’

‘Of you!’ Kate’s consternation was extreme.

‘They were so good as to say I was going to marry Antonio Buoncompagni,’ said Lady Caryisfort, calmly, smoothing away an invisible wrinkle from her glove. But she did not look up, and Kate’s renewed blush and start were lost upon her—or perhaps not quite lost. There was a silence for a minute after; for the tone, as well as the announcement, took Kate altogether by surprise.

‘And are you?’ she asked, in a low tone, after that pause.

‘I don’t think it,’ said Lady Caryisfort, slowly. ‘The worst is, that he took it into his head himself—why, heaven knows! for I am—let me see—three, four, five years, at least, older than he is. I think he felt that you had jilted him, Kate. No, it would be too much of a bore. He is very good-natured, to be sure, and too polite to interfere; but still, I don’t think—Besides, you know, it would be utterly ridiculous. How could I call Elena Strozzi aunt? In the meantime, my Kate—my little heiress—I think I had better stay here and marry you.’

‘But I don’t want to be married,’ cried Kate.

‘The very reason why you will be,’ said her new guardian, laughing. But the girl stole shyly away, and got a book, and prepared to read to Lady Caryisfort. She was fond of being read to, and Kate shrank with a repugnance shared by many girls from this sort of talk; and, indeed, I am not sure that she was pleased with the news. It helped to reproduce that impression in her mind which so many other incidents had led to. She had always remembered with a certain amount of gratitude poor Antonio’s last appearance at the railway, with the violets in his coat, and the tender, respectful farewell he waved to her. And all the time he had been thinking of Lady Caryisfort! What a strange world it was, in which everything went on in this bewildering, treacherous way! Was there nobody living who was quite true, quite real, meaning all he or she said? She began to think not, and her very brain reeled under the discovery. Her path was full of shadows, which threatened and circled round her. Oh! Ombra, shadow of shadows, where was she? and where had disappeared with her all that tender, bright life, in which Kate believed everybody, and dreamt of nothing but sincerity and truth? It seemed to have gone for ever, to return no more.