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.