IN the little bustle of preparation which ensued, there was, of course, a good deal of dressmaking to do, and Miss Richardson, the dressmaker from the village, who was Mr. Sugden’s landlady, was almost a resident at the Cottage for the following week. She set out every morning in her close black bonnet and black shawl, with her little parcel of properties—including the last fashion book, done up in a very tight roll. She helped Maryanne, and she helped Francesca, who was more difficult to deal with; and she was helped in her turn by the young ladies themselves, who did not disdain the task. It was very pleasant to Miss Richardson, who was a person of refined tastes, to find herself in such refined society. She was never tired remarking what a pleasure it was to talk to ladies who could understand you, and who were not proud, and took an interest in their fellow creatures; and it was during this busy week that Kate acquired that absolute knowledge of Miss Richardson’s private history with which she enlightened her friends at a later period. She sat and sewed and talked in the little parlour which served for Kate’s studies, and for many other miscellaneous purposes; and it was there, in the midst of all the litter of dressmaking, that Mrs. Anderson and the girls took their afternoon tea, and that even Mrs. Eldridge and some other intimate friends were occasionally introduced. Mrs. Eldridge knew Miss Richardson intimately, as was natural, and liked to hear from her all that was going on in the village; but the dressmaker’s private affairs were not of much interest to the Rector’s wife—it required a lively and universal human interest like Kate’s to enter into such details.
It was only on the last evening of her labours, however, that Miss Richardson made so bold as to volunteer a little private communication to Mrs. Anderson. The girls had gone out into the garden, after a busy day. All was quiet in the soft April evening; even Mr. Sugden had not come that night. They were all alone, feeling a little excited by the coming departure, a little wearied with their many occupations, a little sad at the thought of leaving the familiar place. At least, such were Mrs. Anderson’s feelings, as she stood in the verandah looking out. It was a little more than twilight, and less than night. Ombra was standing in a corner of the low garden wall, looking out upon the sea. Kate was not visible—a certain wistfulness, sadness, farewell feeling, seemed about in the very air. What may have happened before we come back? Mrs. Anderson sighed softly, with this thought in her mind. But she was not unhappy. There was enough excitement in the new step about to be taken to keep all darker shades of feeling in suspense. ‘If I might make so bold, ma’am,’ said Miss Richardson, suddenly, by her side.
Mrs. Anderson started, but composed herself immediately. ‘Surely,’ she said, with her habitual deference to other people’s wishes. The dressmaker coughed, cleared her throat, and made two or three inarticulate beginnings. At length she burst forth—
‘The comfort of speaking to a real lady is, as she don’t mistake your meaning, nor bring it up against you after. I’m not one as interferes in a general way. I do think, Mrs. Anderson, ma’am, as I’m well enough known in Shanklin to take upon me to say that. But my heart does bleed for my poor young gentleman; and I must say, even if you should be angry, whatever he is to do, when you and the young ladies go away, is more than I can tell. When I saw his face this morning, though he’s a clergyman, and as good as gold, the thing as came into my head—and I give you my word for it, ma’am—was as he’d do himself some harm.’
‘You mean Mr. Sugden? I do not understand this at all,’ said Mrs. Anderson, who had found time to collect herself. ‘Why should he do himself any harm? You mean he will work too much, and make himself ill?’
‘No, ma’am,’ said Miss Richardson, with dignity. ‘I don’t apologise for saying it, for you’ve eyes, ma’am, and can see as well as me what’s been a-going on. He’s been here, ma’am, spending the evenings, take one week with another, five nights out of the seven—and now you and the young ladies is going away. And Miss Ombra—but I don’t speak to one as can’t take notice, and see how things is going as well as me.’
‘Miss Richardson, I think we all ought to be very careful how we talk of a young man, and a clergyman. I have been very glad to see him here. I have always thought it was good for a young man to have a family circle open to him. But if any gossip has got up about the young ladies, it is perfectly without foundation. I should not have expected from you——’
‘Oh! Mrs. Anderson, ma’am!’ cried the dressmaker, carried away by her feelings. ‘Talk to me of gossip, when I was speaking as a friend! an ’umble friend, I don’t say different, but still one that takes a deep interest. Foundation or no foundation, ma’am, that poor young gentleman is a-breaking of his heart. I see it before I heard the news. I said to myself, “Miss Ombra’s been and refused him;” and then I heard you and the young ladies were going away. Whether he’s spoken, and been refused, or whether he haven’t had the courage to speak, it ain’t for me to guess; but oh! Mrs. Anderson, ma’am, speak a word of comfort to the poor young gentleman! My heart is in it. I can’t stop, even if I make you angry. I’m not one to gossip, and, when I’m trusted, wild horses won’t drag a word out of me; but I make bold to speak to you—though you’re a lady, and I work for my bread—as one woman to another, ma’am. If you hadn’t been a real lady, I wouldn’t have dared to a-done it. Oh, if you’d but give him a word of good advice! such as we can’t have everything we want; and there’s a deal of good left, even though Miss Ombra won’t have him; and he oughtn’t to be ungrateful to God, and that. He’d take it from you. Oh! ma’am, if you’d give him a word of good advice!’
Miss Richardson wept while she spoke; and at length her emotion affected her companion.
‘You are a good soul,’ said Mrs. Anderson, holding out her hand; ‘you are a kind creature. I will always think better of you for this. But you must not say a word about Miss Ombra. He has never spoken to me; and till a man speaks, you know, a lady has no right to take such a thing for granted. But I will not forget what you have said; and I will speak to him, if I can find an opportunity—if he will give me the least excuse for doing it. He will miss us, I am sure.’
‘Oh! miss you, ma’am!’ cried Miss Richardson; ‘all the parish will miss you, and me among the first, as you’ve always been so good to; but as for my poor young gentleman, what I’m afraid of is as he’ll do himself some harm.’
‘Hush! my daughter is coming!’ said Mrs. Anderson; and she added, in a louder tone, ‘I will see that you have everything you want to-morrow; and you must try to give us two days more. I think two days will be enough, Ombra, with everybody helping a little. Good night. To-morrow, when you come, you must make us all work.’
‘Thank you very kindly, ma’am,’ said the dressmaker, with a curtsey; ‘and good night.’
‘What was she talking to you about, mamma?’ said Ombra’s languid voice, in the soft evening gloom; not that she cared to know—the words came mechanically to her lips.
‘About the trimming of your travelling dress, my dear,’ said her mother, calmly, with that virtuous composure which accompanies so many gentle fibs. (‘And so she was, though not just now,’ Mrs. Anderson added to herself, in self-exculpation.)
And then Kate joined them, and they went indoors and lit the lamp. Mr. Sugden had been taking a long walk, that night. Some one was sick at the other end of the parish, to whom the Rector had sent him; and he was glad. The invalid was six miles off, and he had walked there and back. But every piece of work, alas! comes to an end, and so did this; and he found himself in front of the Cottage, he could not tell how, just after this soft domestic light began to shine under the verandah, as under an eyelid. He stood and looked at it, poor fellow! with a sick and sore heart. A few nights more, and that lamp would be lit no longer; and the light of his life would be gone out. He stood and looked at it in a rapture of love and pain. There was no one to see him; but if there had been a hundred, he would not have known nor cared, so lost was he in this absorbing passion and anguish. He had not the heart to go in, though the times were so few that he would see her again. He went away, with his head bent on his breast, saying to himself that if she had been happy he could have borne it; but she was not happy; and he ground his teeth, and cursed the Berties, those two butterflies, those two fools, in his heart!
There was one, however, who saw him, and that was Francesca, who was cutting some salad in the corner of the kitchen-garden, in the faint light which preceded the rising of the moon. The old woman looked over the wall, and saw him, and was sorry. ‘The villains!’ she said to herself. But though she was sorry, she laughed softly as she went in, as people will, while the world lasts, laugh at such miseries. Francesca was sorry for the young man—so sorry, even, that she forgot that he was a priest, and, therefore, a terrible sinner in thinking such thoughts; but she was not displeased with Ombra this time. This was natural. ‘What is the good of being young and beautiful if one has not a few victims?’ she said to herself. ‘Time passes fast enough and then it is all over, and the man has it his own way. If nostra Ombra did no more harm than that!’ And, on the whole, Francesca went in with the salad for her ladies’ supper rather exhilarated than otherwise by the sight of the hopeless lover. It was the woman’s revenge upon man for a great deal that he makes her suffer; and in the abstract women are seldom sorry for such natural victims.
Next evening, however, Mr. Sugden took heart, and went to the Cottage, and there spent a few hours of very sweet wretchedness, Ombra being unusually good to him—and to the Curate she always was good. After the simple supper had been eaten, and Francesca’s salad, Mrs. Anderson contrived that both the girls should be called away to try on their travelling-dresses, at which Miss Richardson and Maryanne were working with passion. The window was open; the night was warm, and the moon had risen over the sea. Mrs. Anderson stepped out upon the verandah with the Curate, and they exchanged a few sentences on the beauty of the night, such as were consistent with the occasion; then she broke off the unreal, and took up the true. ‘Mr. Sugden,’ she said, ‘I wanted to speak to you. It seems vain to take such a thing for granted, but I am afraid you will miss us when we go away.’
‘Miss you!’ he cried; and then tears came into the poor fellow’s eyes, and into his voice, and he took her hand with despairing gratitude. ‘Thanks for giving me a chance to speak,’ he said—‘it is like yourself. Miss you!—I feel as if life would cease altogether after Monday—it won’t, I suppose, and most things will go on as usual; but I cannot think it—everything will be over for me.’
‘You must not think so,’ she said; ‘it will be hard upon you at first, but you will find things will arrange themselves better than you expect—other habits will come in instead of this. No, indeed I am not unkind, but I know life better than you do. But for that, you know, we could not go on living, with all the changes that happen to us. We should be killed at the first blow.’
‘And so I shall be killed,’ he said, turning from her with heavier gloom than before, and angry with the consolation. ‘Oh! not bodily, I suppose. One can go on and do one’s work all the same; and one good thing is, it will be of importance to nobody but myself.’
‘Don’t say so,’ said kind Mrs. Anderson, with tears in her eyes. ‘Oh! my dear boy—if you will let me call you so—think what your visionary loss is in comparison with so many losses that people have to bear every day.’
‘It is no visionary loss to me,’ he said, bitterly. ‘But if she were happy, I should not mind. I could bear it, if all were well with her. I hope I am not such a wretch as to think of myself in comparison. Don’t think I am too stupid to see how kind you are to me; but there is one thing—only one that could give me real comfort. Promise that, if the circumstances are ever such as to call for a brother’s interference, you will send for me. It is not what I would have wished, God knows!—not what I would have wished—but I will be a brother to her, if she needs a brother. Promise. There are some things which a man can do best, and if she is wronged, if her brother could set things right——’
‘Dear Mr. Sugden, I don’t understand you,’ said Mrs. Anderson, faltering.
‘But you will, if such a time should come? You will remember that you have promised. I will say good night now. I can’t go in again after this and see her without making a fool of myself, and it is best she should keep some confidence in me. Good night.’
Had she fulfilled Miss Richardson’s commission?—or had she pledged herself to appeal to him instead, in some incomprehensible contingency? Mrs. Anderson looked after him bewildered, and did not know.