It was as the Vyners sat at breakfast the following morning, that the servant announced the arrival of an old countryman and a little girl, who had just come by the stage.
“Oh! may I go, papa, may I go and see her?” cried Ada, eagerly; but Sir Gervais had stooped across to whisper something to his wife, and the governess, deeming the moment favourable to exert her authority, moved away at once with her charge.
“The peasant child that we told you of, Sir Within,” said Lady Vyner, “has arrived, and it is a rare piece of fortune you are here, for we shall steal a travelling opinion out of you.”
“In what way may I hope to be of use?”
“In telling us what you think of her. I mean, of her temper, character, disposition; in short, how you, with that great tact you possess in reading people, interpret her.”
“You flatter me much, Lady Vyner; but any skill I may possess in these respects is rather applicable to people in our own rank of life, where conventionalities have a great share; now in hiding, now in disclosing traits of character. As to the simple child of nature, I suspect I shall find myself all at fault.”
“But you are a phrenologist, too?” said Sir Gervais.
“A believer, certainly, but no accomplished professor of the science.”
“I declare it is very nervous work to be in company with a magician, who reads one like an open volume,” said Georgina. “What do you say, Mr. M’Kinlay, if we take a walk in the garden, while these learned chemists perform their analyses?”
Mr. M’Kinlay’s eyes sparkled with delight, though he had to stammer out his excuses: He was going to start off for town; he must meet the “up mail” somewhere, and his conveyance was already waiting at the gate.
“Then I’ll stroll down the avenue with you,” said she, rising. “I’ll go for my bonnet.”
“Let me have the draft as early as you can, M’Kinlay,” whispered Sir Gervais, as he drew the lawyer into a window-recess. “I don’t think Luttrell will like acting with Grenfell, and I would ask my friend, Sir Within here, to be the other trustee.”
“No; he certainly did not seem to like Grenfell, though he owned he did not know him.”
“Then, as to his own boy, I’ll write to him myself; it will be more friendly. Of course, all these matters are between ourselves.”
“Of course.”
“I mean strictly so; because Lady Vyner’s family and the Luttrells have had some differences, years and years ago. Too long a story to tell you now, and scarcely worth telling at any time; however, it was one of those unfinished games—you understand—where each party accuses the other of unfair play, and there are no quarrels less reparable. I say this much simply to show you the need of all your caution, and how the name ‘Luttrell,’ must never escape you.”
Mr. M’Kinlay would like, to have declared at once that the imprudence had been committed, and that the warning had come too late; but it required more time than he then had at his disposal to show by what a mere slip it had occurred, and at the same time how innocuously the tidings had fallen. Lastly, there was his pride as a business man in the way—the same sort of infallibility which makes Popes and Bank cashiers a little less and more than all humanity—so he simply bowed and smiled, and muttered a something that implied a perfect acquiescence. And now he took his leave, Lady Vyner graciously hoping soon to see him again; and Sir Within, with a courtesy that had often delighted Arch-Duchesses, declaring the infinite pleasure it would afford him to see him at Dalradern, with which successes triumphant, he shook Vyner’s hand, and hastened out to meet Miss Courtenay.
It is a very strange thing to mark how certain men, trained and inured to emergencies of no mean order—the lawyer and the doctor, for instance—who can await with unshaken courage the moment in which duty will summon them to efforts on whose issue another’s life is hanging,—I say, it is a strange thing to mark how such men are unnerved and flurried by that small by-play of society which fine ladies go through without a sensation or an emotion. The little commonplace, attentions, the weak flatteries, the small coquetteries that are the every-day incidents of such a sphere, strike them as all full of a direct application, a peculiar significance, when addressed to themselves; and thus was it Mr. M’Kinlay issued forth, imbued with a strong conviction that he had just taken leave of a charming family, endowed with many graceful gifts, amongst which conspicuously shone the discernment they showed in understanding himself.
“I see it,” muttered he below his breath—“I see it before me. There will come a day when I shall cross this threshold on still safer grounds. When Sir Gervais will be Vyner, and even——”
“I trust I have not kept you waiting?” said the very sweetest of voices, as Miss Courtenay, drawing her shawl around her, came forward. “I sincerely hope I have not perilled your journey; but I went to fetch you a rose. Here it is. Is it not pretty? They are the true Japanese roses, but they have no odour.”
Mr. M’Kinlay was in ecstasy; he declared that the flower was perfection; there never was such grace of outline, such delicacy of colouring, such elegance of form; and he protested that there was a faint, a very faint, but delicious perfume also.
Georgina laughed, one of those sweet-ringing little laughs beauties practise—just as great pianists do those seemingly hap-hazard chords they throw off, as in careless mood they find themselves before a piano—and they now walked along, side by side, towards the gate.
“You don’t know in what a position of difficulty my indiscretion of yesterday evening has placed me, Miss Courtenay,” said he. “Here has been Sir Gervais enjoining me to the strictest secresy.”
“You may trust me to the fullest extent; and tell me, what was your business with Lutrell?”
“You shall know all. Indeed, I have no desire to keep secrets from you.” It was somewhat of a hazardous speech, particularly in the way it was uttered; but she received it with a very sweet smile, and he went on: “My journey had for its object to see this Mr. Luttrell, and induce him to accept a trusteeship to a deed.”
“For this child?”
“Yes; the same.”
“But she is his daughter, is she not?”
“No; he had but one child, the boy I spoke of.”
“Who told you so? Luttrell himself, perhaps, or some of his people. At all events, do you believe it?”
He was a good deal startled by the sharp, quick, peremptory tone she now spoke in, so like her wonted manner, but so widely unlike her late mood of captivating softness, and for a second or two he did not answer.
“Tell me frankly, do you believe it?” cried she.
“I see no reason to disbelieve it,” was his reply.
“Is the boy older than this girl?” asked she, quickly.
“I should say so. Yes, certainly. I think so, at least.”
“And I am almost as certain he is not,” said she, in the same determined tone. “Now for another point. My brother Vyner is about to make a settlement on this girl; is it not so?”
“Yes; I have instructions to prepare a deed.”
“And do you believe—is it a thing that your experience warrants you to believe—that he contemplates this for the child of Heaven knows whom, found Heaven knows where? Tell me that!”
“It is strange, no doubt, and it surprised me greatly, and at first I couldn’t credit it.”
“Nor you don’t now! No, no, Mr. M’Kinlay, ‘don’t be a churl of your confidence. This girl is a Luttrell; confess it?”
“On my honour, I believe she is not.”
“Then I take it they are cleverer folk than I thought them, for they seem to have deceived you.”
“We shall not do it, Sir, in the time,” cried the postilion from his saddle, “unless we start at once.”
“Yes, yes, I am coming. If you would write to me, Miss Courtenay, any of your doubts—if you would allow me to write to you.”
“What for, Sir? I have no doubts. I don’t certainly see how all this came about; nor—not having Mr. Grenfell’s acquaintance, who was with my brother—am I likely to find out; but I know quite as much as I care to know.”
“You suspect—I see what you suspect,” said Mr. M’Kinlay, hoping by one clever dash to achieve the full measure of her confidence.
“What is it I suspect?” asked she, with an air of innocent curiosity.
“You suspect,” said he, slowly, while he looked intently into her eyes at the time—“you suspect that Sir Gervais means by adopting this child to make some sort of a reparation to Luttrell.”
“A what, Sir?” said she, opening her eyes to almost twice the usual size, while her nostrils dilated with passion. “What did you dare to mean by that word?”
“My dear Miss Courtenay, I am miserable, the most wretched of men, if I have offended you.”
“There’s eleven now striking, Sir, and we may as well send the horses back,” cried the postilion, sulkily.
“There, Sir, you hear what he says; pray don’t be late on my account. Good-by. I hope you’ll have no more disasters. Good-by.”
For a moment he thought to hasten after her, and try to make his peace; but great interests called him back to town, and, besides, he might in his confusion only make bad worse. It was a matter of much thought, and so, with a deep sigh, he stepped into the chaise and drove away, with a far heavier heart than he had carried from the porch of the cottage.
“I must have called a wrong witness,” muttered he, “there’s no doubt of it;shebelonged to ‘the other side.’”
205
When Georgina returned to the drawing-room, she found her sister seated on a sofa, with Sir Within beside her, and in front of them stood a girl, whose appearance certainly answered ill to the high-flown descriptions Sir Gervais had given them of her beauty.
With the evident intention of making a favourable first impression, her grandfather had dressed her up in some faded relics of Mrs. Luttrel’s wardrobe: a blue silk dress, flounced and trimmed, reaching to her feet, while a bonnet of some extinct shape shadowed her face and concealed her hair, and a pair of satin boots, so large that they curved up, Turkish fashion, towards the toes, gave her the look rather of some wandering circus performer, than of a peasant child.
“Je la trouve affreusement laide!” said Lady Vyner, as her sister came forward and examined herewith a quiet and steady stare through her eye-glass.
“She is certainly nothing like the sketch he made, and still less like the description he gave of her,” said Georgina, in French. “What do you say, Sir Within?”
“There is something—not exactly beauty—about her,” said he, in the same language, “but something that, cultivated and developed, might possibly be attractive. Her eyes have a strange colour in them: they are grey, but they are of that grey that gets a tinge of amethyst when excited.”
While they thus spoke, the girl had turned from one to the other, listening attentively, and as eagerly watching the expressions of the listeners’ faces, to gather what she might of their meaning.
“Your name is Kitty—Kitty O’Hara, I think?” said Lady Vyner. “A very good name, too, is O’Hara!”
“Yes, my Lady. There is an O’Hara lives at Craig-na-Manna, in his own castle.”
“Are you related to him?” asked Georgina, gravely.
“No, my Lady.”
“Distantly, perhaps, you might be?”
“Perhaps we might; at all events, he never said so!”
“And you think, probably, it was more for him to own the relationship than for you to claim it?”
The girl was silent, and looked thoughtful; and Lady Vyner said, “I don’t think she understood you, Georgy?”
“Yes I did, my Lady; but I didn’t know what to say.”
“At all events,” said Georgina, “you don’t call each other cousins.”
The child nodded.
“And yet, Kitty, if I don’t mistake greatly, you’d like well enough to have some grand relations—fine, rich people living in their own great castle?”
“Yes, I’d like that!” said the girl. And her cheek glowed, while her eyes deepened into the colour the old Baronet described.
“And if we were to be to you as these same cousins, Batty,” said Lady Vyner, good naturedly, “do you think you could love us, and be happy with us?”
The girl turned her head and surveyed the room with a quiet leisurely look, and, though it was full of objects new and strange, she did not let her gaze dwell too long on any one in particular; and, in a quiet, steady tone, said, “I’d like to live here!”
“Yes; but you have only answered half of her Ladyship’s question,” said Sir Within. “She asked, ‘Could you love her?’”
The girl turned her eyes full on Georgina, and, after a steady stare, she looked in Lady Vyner’s face, and said, “I could loveyou!” The emphasis plainly indicating what she meant.
“I think there can be very little mistake there,” said Georgina, in French. “I, at least, have not captivated her at first sight.”
“Ma foi, she is more savage than I thought her,” said Sir Within, in the same language.
“No,” said she, quickly catching, at the sound of the word, “I am not a savage!” And there was a fierce energy in the way she spoke actually startling.
“My dear child,” said he, gently, “I did not call you so.”
“And if he had,” interposed Miss Courtenay, “gentlemen are not accustomed to be rebuked by such as you!”
The girl’s face grew scarlet; she clenched her hands together, and the joints cracked as the fingers strained and twisted in her grasp.
“You have much to learn, Kitty,” said Lady Vyner; “but if you are a good child, gentle and obedient, we will try and teach you.”
The child curtseyed her thanks.
“Take off that odious bonnet, Georgy, and let us see her better.”
The girl stared with amazement at hearing her head-dress so criticised, and followed it with her eyes wistfully.
“Yes; she is much better now.”
“What splendid hair!” said Sir Within, in French.
“You have got pretty hair, he says,” said Georgina.
“This is prettier,” said the child, as she lifted the amber beads of her necklace and displayed them proudly.
“They are very pretty too, and real amber.”
“Amber and gold,” said the girl, proudly.
“Now she looks like the picture of her,” said Lady Vyner, in French; “she positively is pretty. The horrid dress disfigured her altogether.”
Sir Gervais entered the room hastily at this moment, and whispered a few words in his wife’s ear, concluding aloud: “Let her go to Ada; she is in the garden. You can go this way, Kitty,” said he, opening one of the French windows; “cross over the grass to that little wooden gate yonder, and the path will bring you to the garden. You’ll find a young lady there, who would like to know you.”
“May I have my bonnet?” asked she, wistfully.
“No; go without it. You’ll be freer!”
“I must ask you to let me show you this old man. He has submitted me to a cross-examination so sharp and searching for the last half-hour, that I really want a little rest.”
Whatever absurdity the pretension of dress had thrown around the girl, nothing of the same kind was observable in the appearance of the old man, who, in his long coat of bluish grey frieze, and with his snow-white hair falling on his shoulders, stood before them. His air, too, was thoroughly respectful; but neither abashed by the presence in which he found himself, nor, stranger still for an Irish peasant, at all excited to any show, of curiosity by the rich objects about.
“Well, Malone,” said Vyner, with the frank familiar tone that so well became him, “I believe we have now gone over everything that we have to say to each other, and, at all events, as you will stop here today——”
“No, your honour; with your honour’s leave, I’ll go off now. It’s best for the child, and, indeed, for myself!” And a heavy sigh followed the last word.
“You are afraid, then, she will fret after you,” said Georgina, fixing a full and steady gaze on the old man’s face.
“She might, my Lady,” said he, calmly.
“Nothing more natural; who would blame her?” broke in Lady Vyner. “But might it not be as well for you to wait and see how she likes her new life here?”
“She is sure to like it, my Lady.”
“I suspect she is!” said Georgina, quickly. And the old man turned and looked at her with a keen, sharp glance; it almost seemed to ask, “How do you know this?”
Vyner broke the somewhat awkward pause that ensued, by saying, “As I shall be your landlord, Malone, in a few days, you will have many opportunities of communicating with me, and I am sure, until your granddaughter can write with her own hand, either of these ladies will be kind enough to send you news of her.”
The old man made a gesture of gratitude, and stood still without speaking. At length he sighed deeply, and seemed engaged in some process of recollection, for he counted over to himself something, marking each event on his fingers.
“I do think, Malone,” said Vyner, with much kindness of voice and manner, “it would be well to remain here to-day at least. You yourself will go back more satisfied as you see in what sort of place and with what people you have left your child.”
“No, thank your honour; I’ll go this morning. It is best. There’s only one thing more I have to say, but to be sure it’s the great one of all.”
“Then it is a matter of money,” said Georgina, in a low tone; but low as it was the old fellow, who often affected deafness, caught it at once, and with a look of great resentment fixed his eyes on her.
“I half suspect,” said Vyner, “we have not forgotten anything. I have told you how she will be treated and looked on, how educated and cared for.”
“And how dressed,” added Lady Vyner.
“I have, so far as I know, too, provided for the contingency of her wishing to return home again, or for such a wish on the part of her friends; and I have satisfied you that her opinions in matters of religion shall be respected, and that she shall have, whenever it is possible, the advantage of conferring with a priest of her own Church. Now, do you remember anything else we ought to take into account?”
“Yes, your honour,” said the old man, resolutely. “I want to know, if it was to happen, from any rayson, that your honour or the ladies wished to send her back again, after she was, maybe, two years or three years here, when she was accustomed to be treated like a lady, and felt like one—I want to know where she’s to go, or who to?”
“There is much good sense in that question,” said Sir Within, in French; and he now arose to look closer at the old countryman.
“I think, Malone, we have already provided for that.”
“No, your honour. You said how it would be if Kitty wanted to go back herself, or if I sent for her; and how, too, it would be if, when she was grown up and fit to be married, that she ought to have consent from your honour, or the guardians that your honour wud give her in charge to. But now I want to know how it would be if, after the child was used to fine ways of livin’, she was to be sent away—without any fault of hers, maybe, but just because—no matter for what rayson”—here his eyes glanced rapidly at Georgina—“I’d like to ax, what’s to become of her then?”
“I scarcely think we can go so far as to provide for every casualty in life; but it will perhaps satisfy you to know that she’ll have two guardians to watch over her interests. One of them is this gentleman here.”
“And who’s the other?” asked Malone, curiously.
“The other? The other is not yet formally declared, but you will be fully satisfied with him, that much I guarantee.”
Malone did not give much attention to this speech, his whole interest seeming now to concentrate in the person of him who was to be the girl’s guardian.
“Is your honour married?” asked he at length of Sir Within.
“I have not that happiness,” said the old diplomatist, with a grace of manner that he might have displayed to a sovereign.
“There it is again,” sighed Malone; “she’ll have nowhere to go to if she’s turned out. Has his honour a house near this?”
“Yes. I shall be happy to show it to you,” said Sir Within, politely.
“I declare, Malone, if I’m ever in want of a guardian, I’ll look you up. I never heard of your equal in foresight,” said Georgina, laughing.
“Wouldn’t I need to be, my Lady? Who has the child to look to barrin’ myself? And maybe, then, she wouldn’t have even me. I’m seventy-eight last April; and his honour there isn’t very young either.”
“Trop vrai, ma foi,” said Sir Within, trying to laugh gaily, but reddening to his forehead as he turned away.
“You must have more patience than I, Gervais, to prolong this discussion,” said Georgina, angrily. “I vow I’d anticipate the old man’s objection, and pack them off both together this very morning.”
Every syllable of this was overheard by Malone, though he affected not to hear it, and stood a perfect picture of immobility.
Sir Gervais, who up to this was rather amused by the casuistical turn of the peasant’s mind, now seemed rather to lose temper, and said, “Such an arrangement as we contemplated, Malone, requires a little exercise of good faith on both sides; if you believe that you cannot extend that trust in us so far as we expect from you, I really think the best and easiest way would be to do as this young lady says—end our contract at once.”
Not in the least startled by the peremptory tone which Vyner had now for the first time used towards him, the old man folded his hands with an air of resignation, and stood without uttering a word.
“Did you hear what Sir Gerrais said to you?” asked Georgina, after a pause of some seconds. “Yes, my Lady.”
“And what answer have you to make?” asked she again, more imperatively.
“‘Tis your Ladyship is right,” began Malone, in a voice greatly subdued, and with almost a slight whining intonation through it; “‘tis your Ladyship is right. His honour is too good and too patient with me. But what am I but a poor ignorant labourin’ man, that never had any edication nor larnin’ at all? And if I be thinkin’ of more than I ought, it’s because I know no better.”
“Well, what will you do?” said Vyner, hastily, for there was a servility in the man’s manner that revolted him, and he was impatient to conclude.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, if your honour lets me,” said Malone, resolutely, “I’ll go and speak to Kitty. She’s cute enough, young as she is, and whatever she says I’ll abide by.”
“Do so; take your own way altogether, my good man; and be assured that whichever decision you come to will not in any degree affect our future dealings together.”
“That is, your honour won’t turn me out of my houldin’.”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“He never suspected you would,” said Georgina, but in a very cautious whisper, which this time escaped Malone.
“I’ll not be ten minutes, your honour,” said he, as he moved towards the door.
“Take as much time as you please.”
“He’ll not part with her, I see that,” said Lady Vyner, as the man withdrew.
Georgina gave a saucy laugh, and said, “He never so much as dreamed of taking her away; his whole mind was bent upon a hard bargain; and now that he has got the best terms he could, he’ll close the contract.”
“You don’t believe too implicitly in humanity,” said Sir Within, smiling.
“I believe in men only when they are gentlemen,” said she; and there was a very gracious glance as she spoke, which totally effaced all unpleasant memory of the past.
Much as the magnificence and comfort in-doors had astonished Malone, he was far more captivated by the beauty of the garden. Here were a vast variety of objects which he could thoroughly appreciate. The luxuriant vegetation, the fruit-trees bending under their fruit, the proffusion of rare and rich flowers, the trim order of the whole, that neatness which the inexperienced eye has seldom beheld, nor can, even when seeing, credit, struck him at every step; and then there were plants utterly new and strange to him—pines and pomegranates, and enormous gourds, streaked and variegated in gorgeous colours, and over and through all a certain pervading odour that distilled a sense of drowsy enjoyment very captivating. Never, perhaps, in his whole life, had he so fully brought home to him the glorious prerogative of wealth, that marvellous power that culls from life, one by one, every attribute that is pleasure-giving, and surrounds daily existence with whatever can charm or beguile.
When he heard from the gardener that Sir Gervais seldom or never came there, he almost started, and some vague and shadowy doubt shot across his mind that rich men might not be so triumphantly blessed as he had just believed them.
“Sure,” he muttered, “if he doesn’t see this he can’t enjoy it, and if he sees it so often that he doesn’t mind, it’s the same thing. I wondher, now, would that be possible, and would there ever come a time to myself when I wouldn’t think this was Paradise.”
He was musing in this wise, when a merry burst of childish laughter startled him, and at the same instant a little girl bounded over a melon-frame and ran towards him. He drew aside, and took off his hat with respectful deference, when suddenly the child stopped, and burst into a ringing laugh, as she said, “Why, grandfather, don’t you know me?”
Nor even then did he know her, such a marvellous change had been wrought in her by one of Ada’s dresses, and a blue ribbon that fastened her hair behind, and fell floating down her back with the rich golden tresses.
“Sure it isn’t Kitty?” cried he, shading his eyes with his hand.
“And why wouldn’t it be Kitty?” replied she, tartly, and piqued that her own attractions were not above all adventitious aid. “Is it a white frock makes me so grand that ye wouldn’t know me again?”
“May I never,” cried he, “but I thought you was a young lady.”
“Well, and what’s the differ, I wonder? If I look like one, couldn’t I be one?”
“Ay, and do it well, too!” said he, while his eyes glistened with a look of triumph. “Come here, Kitty, darlin’,” said he, taking her hand, and leading her along at his side, “I want to spake a word to you. Now, Kitty, though you’re only a child, as one may say, you’ve more wit in your head nor many a grown woman, and if you hadn’t, it’s the heavy heart I’d have this day leavin’ you among strangers.”
“Don’t fret about that, grandfather; it’s an elegant fine place to be in. Wait till I show you the dairy, that’s grander inside than ever I seen a house in Ireland; and if you saw the cowhouse, the beasts has straps with buckles round their necks, and boords under their feet, just like Christians, only betther.”
“A long sight betther nor Christians!” muttered he, half savagely. Then recovering, he went on: “You see, here’s how it is. ‘Twas out of a ‘conceit’—a sort of fancy—they took you, and out of the same, my honey, they may leave you some fine mornin’ when you’ve got ways that would be hard to give up, and used to twenty things you couldn’t do without; and I was tellin’ them that, and askin’ how it would be if that day was to come?”
“Ah,” cried she, with an impatient toss of her head, “I wish you hadn’t put such thoughts into their heads at all. Sure, ain’t I here now? Haven’t they tuk me away from my home, and where would I go if they turned me out? You want to make it asy for them, grandfather, isn’t that it?”
“Faix, I believe you’re right, Kitty.”
“Sure, I know I am. And why would they send me away if I didn’t displase them, and you’ll see that I’ll not do that.”
“Are you sure and certain of that?”
“As sure as I’m here. Don’t fret about it, grandfather.”
“Ay, but darlin’, what will plase one wouldn’t, may be, be plasin’ to another; there’s the mistress and her sister—and they’re not a bit like each other—and there’s the master and that ould man with the goold chain round his neck—he’s your guardian.”
“Oh, is he?” cried she; “see what he gave me—he took it off his watch-chain. He said, ‘There’s a little sweetheart for you.’” And she drew from her bosom her handkerchief, in which she had carefully rolled up a small figure of a man in armour, of fine gold and delicate workmanship. “And the little girl here—Ada, they call her—tells me that he is far richer than her papa, and has a house ten times grander.”
“That’s lucky, anyhow,” said the old man, musing. “Well, honey, when I found that I couldn’t do any better, I said I’d go and talk to yourself, and see whether you were set upon stayin’ with all your heart, or if you’d like to go back again.”
“Is it back to Derryvaragh?”
“Yes; where else?”
“Catch me at it, Peter Malone, that’s all! Catch me goin’ to eat potatoes and lie on straw, work in the fields and go barefoot, when I can be a lady, and have everything I can think of.”
“I wonder will ye ever larn it?”
“Larn what?”
“To be a lady—I mane a raal lady—that nobody, no matter how cute they were, could find you out.”
“Give me two years, Peter Malone, just two years—maybe not so much, but I’d like to be sure—and if I don’t, I’ll promise you to go back to. Derryvaragh, and never lave it again.”
“Faix, I think you’d win!”
“Sure, I know it.”
And there was a fierce energy in her look that said far more than her words.
“Oh, Kitty, darlin’, I wondher will I live to see it?”
Apparently, this consummation was not which held chief sway over her mind, for she was now busy making a wreath of flowers for her head.
“Won’t the gardener be angry, darlin’, at your pluckin’ the roses and the big pinks?”
“Let him, if he dare. Miss Ada told him a while ago that I was to go everywhere, and take anything just like herself; and I can eat the fruit, the apples, and the pears, and the grapes that you see there, but I wouldn’t because Ada didn’t,” said she, gravely.
“You’ll do, Kitty—you’ll do,” said the old man; and his eyes swam with tears of affection and joy.
“You begin to think so now, grandfather,” said she, archly.
“And so I may go in now and tell them that you’ll stay.”
“You may go in, Peter Malone, and tell them that I won’t go, and that’s better.”
The old man stepped back, and, turning her round full in front of him, stood in wondering admiration of her for some seconds.
“Well?” said she, pertly, as if interrogating his opinion of her—“well?”
But his emotion was too strong for words, and the heavy tears coursed after each other down his wrinkled cheeks.
“It’s harder for me to leave you, Kitty, darlin’, than I thought it would be, and I know, too, I’ll feel it worse when I go back.”
“No you won’t, grandfather,” said she, caressingly. “You’ll be thinking of me and the fine life I’m leadin’ here, and the fine times that’s before me.”
“Do you think so, honey?” asked he, in a half-sobbing tone—“do you think so?”
“I know it, grandfather—I know it, so don’t cry any more; and, whenever your heart is low, just think of what’s coming. That’s what I do. I always begin to think of what’s coming!”
“And when that time comes, Kitty ‘Alannah,’ will you ever renumber yer ould grandfather, who won’t be to ‘the fore’ to see it?”
“And why won’t he be?”
“Because, darlin’, I’m nigh eighty years of age, and I can’t expect to see above a year or two, at farthest. Come here, and give me a kiss, ma Cushleen! and cut off a bit of your hair for me to have as a keepsake, and put next my heart in my coffin.”
“No, grandfather; take this, it will do as well”—and she handed him the little golden trinket—“for I can’t cut my hair, after hearin’ the gentlemen sayin’ how beautiful it is!”
The old man, however, motioned away the gift with one hand, while he drew the other across his eyes.
“Is there anything you think of now, Kitty,” said he, with an effort to appear calm, “for I must be goin’?”
“Give my love to them all beyant,” said she, gravely, “and say if there’s a thing I could do for them, I’ll do it, but don’t let them be comin’ after me!”
A sickly paleness spread over the old man’s face, and his lips trembled as he muttered, “No fear of that! They’ll not trouble you! Good-by!” And he stooped and kissed her.
When he had walked a few paces away, he turned, and, with hands fervently clasped above his head, uttered a blessing in Irish.
“God speed you, grandfather, and send you safe home!” cried she. And, skipping over a flower-bed, was lost to his view, though he could hear her happy voice as she went away singing.
“The devil a doubt of it,” muttered the old man, “them’s the ones that bate the world; and, if she doesn’t come in first in the race, by my soule, it isn’t the weight of her heart will keep her back!”
“Well, Malone!” cried Sir Gervais, as they met at the garden-gate, “have you been able to make up your mind?”
“Yes, your honour; Kitty says she’ll stay.” Sir Gervais paused for a moment, then said:
“Because we have been talking the matter over amongst ourselves, Malone, and we have thought that, as possibly your expectations might be greater than were likely to be realised, our best way might be to make you some compensation for all the trouble we have given you, and part the same good friends that we met. I therefore came to say, that if you like your present holding, that little farm——”
“No, your honour, no,” broke he in, eagerly; “her heart’s in the place now, and it would be as much as her life’s worth to tear her away from it.”
“If that be so, there’s no more to be said; but remember, that we gave you a choice, and you took it.”
“What does he mean to do?” asked Georgina, as she now came up the path.
“To leave her here,” answered Vyner.
“Of course. I never had a doubt of it. My good man, I’m much mistaken if your granddaughter and I will not understand each other very quickly. What do you think?”
“It is little trouble it will give your Ladyship to know all that’s inside a poor ignorant little child like that!” said he, with an intense servility of manner. “But her heart is true, and her conscience clean, and I’m lavin’ you as good a child as ever broke bread this day!”
“So that if the tree doesn’t bear the fruit it ought, the blame will lie with the gardener; isn’t that what you mean?” asked she, keenly.
“God help me! I’m only a poor man, and your Ladyship is too hard on me,” said he, uncovering his snow-white head, and bowing deeply and humbly.
“After all,” whispered she in Vyner’s ear, “there has really been nothing determined about the matter in dispute. None of us know what is to be done, if the contingency he spoke of should arise.”
They walked away, arm in arm, in close conference together, but when they returned, after a half-hour or so, to the place, Malone was gone. The porter said he had come to the lodge for his bundle, wished him a good-by, and departed.
Days went over, and the time arrived for the Vyners to leave their Welsh cottage and take up their abode for the winter in their more commodious old family house, when a letter came from Rome stating that Lady Vyner’s mother, Mrs. Courtenay, was very ill there, and begging to see her daughters as soon as might be.
After considerable debate, it was resolved that the children should be left behind with the governess, Sir Within pledging himself to watch over them most attentively, and send constant reports of Ada to her family. Mademoiselle Heinzleman had already spoken very favourably of Kitty, or Kate, as she was henceforth to be called; not only of her disposition and temper, but of her capacity and her intense desire to learn, and the Vyners now deemed her presence a most fortunate event. Nor were they so far wrong. Ada was in every quality of gentleness and obedience all that the most anxious love could ask: she had the traits—very distinctive traits are they, too—of those who have been from earliest infancy only conversant with one school of manners, and that the best. All the examples she had seen were such as teach habits of deference, the wish to oblige, the readiness to postpone self-interest, and a general disposition to please without obtrusiveness—ways which spread a very enjoyable atmosphere over daily life, and gild the current of existence to those with whom the stream runs smoothly.
She was a very pretty child too. She had eyes of deep blue, which seemed deeper for their long black lashes; her hair was of that rich auburn which sets off a fair skin to greatest advantage; her profile was almost faultless in regularity, and so would have been her full face if an over-shortness of the upper lip had not marred the effect by giving a habit of slightly separating the lips when silent, and thus imparting a look of weakness to her features which the well-formed brow and forehead contradicted.
She was clever, but more timid than clever, and with such a distrust of her ability as to make her abashed at the slightest demand upon it. This timidity had been deepened by solitude—she being an only child—into something like melancholy, and her temperament when Kate O’Hara first came was certainly sad-coloured.
It was like the working of a charm, the change which now came over her whole nature. Not merely that emulation had taken the place of indolence, and zeal usurped the post of apathy, but she became active, lively, and energetic. The occupations which had used to weary became interesting, and instead of the lassitude that had weighed her down she seemed to feel a zest and enjoyment in the mere fact of existence. And it is probably the very nearest approach to happiness of which our life here below is capable, when the sunshine of the outer world is felt within our own hearts, and we are glad with the gladness of all around us.
Mademoiselle Heinzleman’s great test of all goodness was assiduity. In her appreciation all the cardinal virtues resolved themselves into industry, and she was inclined to believe that heaven itself might be achieved by early rising and hard work. If she was greatly gratified, then, at the change produced in her pupil, she was proportionately grateful to the cause of it. But Kate had other qualities which soon attracted the governess and drew her towards her. She possessed that intense thirst for knowledge, so marked a trait in the Irish peasant-nature. She had that sense of power so associated with acquirement as the strongest feature in her character, and in this way she had not—at least she seemed not to have—a predilection for this study or for that; all was new, fascinating, and engaging.
It was as with Aladdin in the mine, all were gems, and she gathered without thinking of their value; so did she pursue with the same eagerness whatever was to be learned. What will not industry, with even moderate capacity, achieve? But hers were faculties of a high order; she had a rapid perception, considerable reasoning power, and a good memory; but above all was the ability she possessed of concentrating her whole thoughts upon the matter before her.
She delighted, too, in praise; not the common eulogy that she had learned this or that well, but such praise as pointed to some future eminence as the price of all this labour; and when her governess told her of a time when she would be so glad to possess this acquirement, or to have mastered that difficulty, she would draw herself up, and with head erect and flashing eye, look a perfect picture of gratified pride.
It would have been difficult for a teacher not to feel pride in such a pupil. It was such a reflected triumph to see how rapidly she could master every task, how easily she met every difficulty; and so it was that the governess, in her report, though laying all due stress on Ada’s charming traits of disposition and temper, speaking actually with affection of her guileless, gentle nature, grew almost rapturous when she spoke of Kate’s capacity and progress. She went into the theme with ardour, and was carried away by it much more than she knew or imagined. It was a sort of defence of herself she was making, all unconsciously—a defence of her system, which, as applied to Ada, had not been always a success. This correspondence was invariably carried on with Miss Courtenay, who, for some time, contented herself with merely dwelling on what related to her niece, and only passingly, if at all, spoke of Kate.
At last, pushed, as it were, by Mademoiselle Heinzleman’s insistance, and vexed at a pertinacity which no silence could repress, she wrote a letter, so full of reprimand that the governess was actually overwhelmed as she read it.
“I have your four last letters before me,” wrote she, “and it would be difficult for a stranger on reading them to declare which of the two pupils under your care was your especial charge, and which a merely adventitious element. Not so if the question were to be, Which of the two engrossed all your interest and engaged all your sympathy? We read, it is true, of dear Ada’s temper, her kindness, her generosity, and her gentleness—traits which we all recognise, and many of which, we surmise, must have been sorely tried, but of which you can speak with a most fitting and scholastic moderation. Far otherwise, however, does your pen run on when Kate O’Hara is the theme. You are not, perhaps, aware that you are actually eloquent on thia subject. You never weary of telling us of her marvellous progress; how she already begins to speak French; how she imitates those mysterious pothooks your countrymen persist in using as writing; how she plays her scales, and what a talent she has for drawing. Do you forget the while that these are very secondary matters of interest to us all here? Do you forget that in her companionship with my niece our whole object was the spring which might be derived from her healthy peasant-nature and light-heartedness? To convert this child into a miracle of accomplishment could serve no purpose of ours, and assuredly would conduce to no advantage of her own. On this latter point you have only to ask yourself, What will become of all these attainments when she goes back—as she will go back—to her life of poverty and privation? Will her piano make her better company for the pig? Will her French reconcile her to the miseries of a mud cabin?
“She is the child of a poor cottier, a creature so humble that even here in this benighted State we have nothing his equal in indigence; and she will one day or other have to go back to the condition that my brother, with I fear a very mistaken kindness, took her from. You will see, therefore, how misjudging is the interest you are now bestowing. It is, however, the injustice to my niece which more nearly concerns me; and with this object I inform you that if I am not satisfied as to the total change in your system, I shall certainly be prepared to recommend to my brother one of two courses: a change in Ada’s governess, or the dismissal of Ada’s companion. It is but fair to you to say I prefer the latter.
“Remember, my dear Mademoiselle Heinzleman, this is a purely confidential communication. I have not confided to my sister either my fears or my hopes. The experiment was one I did not augur well from. It has turned out even worse than I expected. Indeed, if Ada was not the very best and sweetest of natures, she could not but resent the unfair preference shown to one so inferior to her in all but those traits which win favour from a schoolmistress. My mother’s health precludes all hope of our soon returning to England; indeed, we have even thought of sending for Ada to come here, and it is the dread of this climate, so pernicious to young people, offers the chief obstacle to the plan. Meanwhile, I feel forced to write what I have done, and to lay before you in all sincerity my complaint and its remedy.
“Evening.
“I have re-read your letter, and it seems to me that you might very judiciously remark yourself to Sir Gervais on the inexpediency of any continuance of Kate O’Hara’s presence. Her genius, soaring as it does above poor Ada’s, makes all emulation impossible. The pilot balloon, that is so soon out of sight, can offer no guidance—don’t forget that! Suppose you said to my brother that there was no longer any necessity to continue the stimulus of emulation—that it might become a rivalry—perhaps worse. Say something—anything of this kind—only send her home again, not forgetting the while that you can do now without injury what, later on, will cost a cruelty.
“I can feel for the pain a teacher may experience in parting with a prize pupil, whose proficiency might one day become a triumph; but remember, my dear Mademoiselle, that poor, dear, simple Ada, to whom genius is denied, is, or ought to be, your first care here, and that the gifted peasant-girl might turn out to have other qualities of a firework besides the brilliancy.
“I will, so fer as in me lies, relieve you from some of the embarrassments that the course I advise might provoke. I will request my brother to desire Mr. M’Kinlay to run down and pay you a few hours’ visit, and you can easily explain the situation to him, and suggest what I here point out as the remedy.
“Of course, it is needless to repeat this letter is strictly and essentially confidential, and not to be imparted to any one.
“I might have counselled you to have taken the advice of Sir Within Wardle, of whose kindness and attention we are most sensible, if you had not told me of the extraordinary ‘influence’—it is your own word, Mademoiselle, or I should not even have ventured to use it in such connexion—‘the influence’ this young girl exercises over Sir Within. As the observation so completely passes my power of comprehension, for I really—and I hope without needless stupidity—cannot understand how a girl of her class, bringing up, and age—age, above all—could exert what you designate as ‘influence’—I must beg you will be more explicit in your next.
“You are perfectly right in refusing all presents for either of the girls, and I should have thought Sir Within had more tact than to proffer them. I am also very much against you going to Dalradern Castle for Christmas, though Sir Gervais, up to this, does not agree with me. If this girl should not be sent away before the new year, I think you might advantageously remark to my brother that the visit would be a great interruption to all study, and a serious breach of that home discipline it has been your object to impose. And now, my dear Mademoiselle, accept all I have here said not only in your confidence, but in your friendship, and even where I appear to you nervously alive to small perils, give me credit for having thought and reflected much over them before I inflicted on you this long letter.
“Discourage your prodigy, check her influence, and believe me, very sincerely your friend,
“Georgina Courtenay.
“P.S.—What can Sir W. mean by passing his winter in the Welsh mountains, after giving orders to have his villa near Genoa prepared for his reception? Find out this, particularly if there be a secret in it.”
Mademoiselle Heinzleman received this letter as she was taking her half-hour’s walk in the garden after breakfast—one of the very few recreations she indulged in—while her pupils prepared their books and papers for the day.
Anything like remonstrance was so totally new to her, that she read the letter with a mingled amazement and anger, and, though she read and re-read, in the hope of finding her first impression was an exaggerated one, the truth was that each perusal only deepened the impression, and made the pain more intense.
It was not that her German pride only was wounded, but her dignity as a teacher—just as national an instinct as the pride of birth—and she muttered very mysterious gutturals to herself, as she went, about resigning her trust and retiring. This was, perhaps, too rash a step; at least, it required time to think of. Two hundred a year, and a position surrounded with many advantages! The other alternative was easier to send away Kate. A pity, perhaps, but, after all, as Miss Courtenay said, possibly a mercy. Who could tell? Mr. M’Kinlay might help her by his counsel. She liked him, and thought well of him. Kate, that was making such progress—that could already make out some of Schiller’s ballads! What a pity it was! And to think of her touch on the piano, so firm and yet so delicate! How tenderly she let the notes drop in one of those simple melodies from Spohr she was learning! Ach Gott! and what taste in drawing!
Again she opened the letter, and at the last page muttered to herself: “I don’t remember that I said ‘influence.’ I’m almost sure I said that she interested Sir Within. I know I meant to say that she pleased him; that he was delighted to hear her sing her little Lied, dance her Tarantella, or her wild Irish jig, or listen to some of those strange legends, which she tells with a blended seriousness and drollery that is quite captivating. At all events, if I said ‘influence,’ I can correct the word, and say that Sir Within comes over to see us two or three times a week, and it is plain enough that it is little Kate’s gaiety attracts him. What sorrow to the dear children if they are not to pass their Christmas at the Castle!”
A light, elastic step on the gravel startled her. It was Kate who was coming; not the Kate we once saw in the old ruins of St. Finbar, but a young lady, with an air calm and collected, with some conscious sense of power, her head high, her look assured, her step firm even in its lightness.
“Sir Within is in the drawing-room, Mademoiselle,” said she, with a slight curtsey, as she stood before her. “He says that this is St. Gudule’s day, and a holiday everywhere, and he hopes you will be kind enough to take us over to the Castle for dinner.”
“Nein! No,” said she, peremptorily. “‘Wir haben keine solche Heilige,’ I mean,” said she, correcting the harsh speech. “These saints are not in our calendar. I will speak to him myself. You may stay in the garden for a quarter of an hour. I will send Ada to you.”
While the young girl fell back, abashed at the refusal, and even more by the manner with which it was done, the governess smoothed her brow as well as she might to meet the distinguished visitor, but in so doing, as she drew her handkerchief from her pocket, she dropped the letter she had been reading on the walk.
“I wonder why she is so cross with me?” said Kate, as she looked after her; “if there’s a secret in it, I must learn it.”
While Kate O’Hara sauntered carelessly along her foot struck the letter, and it fell open. She stooped and picked it up, and was at once struck by the peculiar odour of jasmine on the paper, which was a favourite with Miss Courtenay. She turned to the address, “Mademoiselle de Heinzleman”—the de, too, was a courtesy Miss Courtenay affected—and so Kate stood still contemplating the document, and weighing it in her hand, as she muttered, “It does really feel heavy enough to be mischievous.” Her training had taught her to respect as inviolable the letter of another; she had over and over marked the deference paid to a seal, and seen even Ada’s letters from her playfellows handed to her unbroken, and she knew that to transgress in such a matter ranked in morals with a falsehood. She had no thought, then, of any dereliction, when in placing the fallen pages together within the envelope, her eye caught the words “Kitty O’Hara,” and lower down, “child of a poor cottier.” The temptation, stimulated by a passion fell as strong as curiosity, mastered her, and carrying away the letter into a secluded alley, she read it from end to end. There was much to gratify her vanity in it; there was the admission—and from no favouring witness either—that she had capacity of a high order, and a zeal to master whatever she desired to learn. But far above the pleasure these words afforded was the last paragraph, that which spoke of her “influence” over Sir Within Wardle. “Could this really be true? Had the little attentions he showed her a deeper significance? Did he really interest himself for her? Was it her lonely, friendless condition touched him? Was it that the same feeling, so harshly expressed by Miss Courtenay, the revulsion that yet awaited her, that moved him?” There was an ecstasy in the thought that filled her whole heart with joy. Sir Within was very rich—a great personage, too. The Vyners themselves spoke of him always with a certain deference. What a triumph if she had won him over to befriend her!
These thoughts flew quickly through her mind, and as quickly she bethought her of the letter, and what was now to be done with it. She would have liked much to keep it, to have it by her to read and re-read, and study, and weigh. This was of course impossible. To take it to Mademoiselle would be to incur the risk of her suspecting she had read it. In an instant, she determined to lay it back again where she had found it, on the walk, and let chance determine what became of it. Her resolution was scarcely carried out, when she heard Mademoiselle Heinzleman’s voice calling her.
“I have dropped a letter, Kate. I have mislaid it, or it has fallen out of my pocket. Come and help me to look for it,” said she, in deep confusion.
“Is this it, Mademoiselle?” said Kitty, artlessly, as she picked it up from the gravel.
“How lucky—how very fortunate!” exclaimed she, eagerly, as she clutched it. “There, you may have your holiday to-day, Kate. Go and tell Ada I shall not ask her to learn those verses; or wait”—she suddenly remembered that Sir Within was still in the drawing-room—“wait here, and I’ll tell her myself.”
Kate bowed, and smiled her thanks, and, once again alone, sat down to ruminate an her fortune.