Kate settled down into her new life with an ease and facility which
nobody had expected. She wrote to her uncle that she was perfectly
happy; that she never could be sufficiently thankful to him for freeing
her from the yoke of Miss Blank, and placing her among people who were
fond of her. ‘Little fool!’ Mr. Courtenay muttered to himself. ‘They
have flattered her, I suppose.’ This was the easiest and most natural
explanation to one who knew, or thought he knew, human nature so well.
But Kate was not flattered, except by her aunt’s caressing ways and
habitual fondness. Nobody in the Cottage recognised her importance as
the heiress of Langton-Courtenay. Here she was no longer first, but
second--nay third, taking her place after her cousin, as nature
ordained. ‘Ombra and Kate,’ was the new form of her existence--first
Ombra, then the new-comer, the youngest of all. She was spoiled as a
younger child is spoiled, not in any other way. Mrs. Anderson’s theory
in education was indulgence. She did not believe in repression. She was
always caressing, always yielding. For one thing, it was less
troublesome than a continual struggle; but that was not her motive. She
took high ground. ‘What we have got to do is to ripen their young
minds,’ she said to the Rector’s wife, who objected to her as ‘much too
good,’ a reproach which Mrs. Anderson liked; ‘and it is sunshine that
ripens, not an east wind!’ This was almost the only imaginative speech
she had ever made in her life, and consequently she liked to repeat it.
‘Depend upon it, it is sunshine that ripens them, and not east wind!’
‘The sunshine ripens the wheat and the tares alike, as we are told in
Scripture,’ said Mrs. Eldridge, with professional seriousness.
‘That shows that Providence is of my way of thinking,’ said her
antagonist. ‘Why should one cross one’s children, and worry them? They
will have enough of that in their lives! Besides, I have practical proof
on my side. Look, at Ombra! There is a child that never was crossed
since she was born; and if I had scolded till I made myself ill, do you
think I could have improved upon _that_?’
Mrs. Eldridge stood still for a moment, not believing her ears. She had
daughters of her own, and to have Ombra set up as a model of excellence!
But she recovered herself speedily, and gave vent to her feelings in a
more courteous way.
‘Ah! it is easy to see you never had any boys,’ she said, with that
sense of superiority which the mother of both sections of humanity feels
over her who has produced but one. ‘Ombra, indeed!’ Mrs. Eldridge said,
within herself. And, indeed, it was a want of ‘proper feeling,’ on Mrs.
Anderson’s part, to set up so manifestly her own daughter above other
people’s. She felt it, and immediately did what she could to atone.
‘Boys, of course, are different,’ she said; ‘but I am sure you will
agree with me that a poor child who has never had any one to love her,
who has been brought up among servants, a girl who is motherless----’
‘Oh! poor child! I can only say you are too good--too good! With such a
troublesome disposition, too. I never could be half as good!’ cried the
Rector’s wife.
Thus Mrs. Anderson triumphed in the argument. And as it happened that
ripening under the sunshine was just what Kate wanted, the system
answered in the most perfect way, especially as a gently chilling
breeze, a kind of moral east wind, extremely subdued, but sufficiently
keen, came from Ombra, checking Kate’s irregularities, without seeming
to do so, and keeping her high spirit down. Ombra’s influence over her
cousin increased as time went on. She was Kate’s model of all that was
beautiful and sweet. The girl subdued herself with all her might, and
clipped and snipped at her own character, to bring it to the same mould
as that of her cousin. And as such worship cannot go long unnoted, Ombra
gradually grew aware of it, and softened under its influence. The
Cottage grew very harmonious and pleasant within doors. When Kate went
to bed, the mother and daughter would still linger and have little
conversations about her, conversations in which the one still defended
and the other attacked--or made a semblance of attacking--the new-comer;
but the acrid tone had gone out of Ombra’s remarks.
‘I don’t want to say a word against Kate,’ she would say, keeping up her
old _rôle_. ‘I think there is a great deal of good about her; but you
know we have no longer our house to ourselves.’
‘Could we enjoy our house to ourselves, Ombra, knowing that poor child
to have no home?’ said Mrs. Anderson, with feeling.
‘Well, mamma, the poor child has a great many advantages over us,’ said
Ombra, hesitating. ‘I should like to have had her on a visit; but to be
always between you and me----’
‘No one can be between you and me, my child.’
‘That is true, perhaps. But then our little house, our quiet life all to
ourselves.’
‘That was a dream, my dear--that was a mere dream of your own. People in
our position cannot have a life all to ourselves. We have our duties to
society; and I have my duty to you, Ombra. Do you think I could be so
selfish as to keep you altogether to myself, and never let you see the
world, or have your chance of choosing some one who will take care of
you better than I can?’
‘Please don’t,’ said Ombra. ‘I am quite content with you; and there is
not much at Shanklin that can be called society or the world.’
‘The world is everywhere,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with dignity. ‘I am not
one of those who confine the term to a certain class. Your papa was but
a Consul, but I have seen many an ambassador who was very inferior to
him. Shanklin is a very nice place, Ombra; and the society, what there
is, is very nice also. I like my neighbours very much--they are not
lords and ladies, but they are well-bred, and some of them are
well-born.’
‘I don’t suppose we are among that number,’ said Ombra, with a momentary
laugh. This was one of her pet perversities, said out of sheer
opposition; for though she thrust the fact forward, she did not like it
herself.
‘I think you are mistaken,’ said her mother, with a flush upon her face.
‘Your papa had very good connections in Scotland; and my father’s
family, though it was not equal to the Courtenays, which my sister
married into, was one of the most respectable in the county. You are not
like Kate--you have not the pedigree which belongs to a house which has
landed property; but you need not look down upon your forefathers for
all that.’
‘I do not look down upon them. I only wish not to stand up upon them,
mamma, for they are not strong enough to bear me, I fear,’ Ombra said,
with a little forced laugh.
‘I don’t like joking on such subjects,’ said Mrs. Anderson. ‘But to
return to Kate. She admires you very, very much, my darling--I don’t
wonder at that----’
‘Silly child!’ said Ombra, in a much softened tone.
‘It shows her sense, I think; but it throws all the greater a
responsibility on you. Oh! my dear love, could you and I, who are so
happy together, dare to shut our hearts against that poor desolate
child?’
Once more Ombra slightly, very slightly shrugged her shoulders; but she
answered--
‘I am sure I have no wish to shut my heart against her, mamma.’
‘For my part,’ said Mrs. Anderson, ‘I feel I cannot pet her too much, or
be too indulgent to her, to make up to her for fifteen years spent among
strangers, with nobody to love.’
‘How odd that she should have found nobody to love!’ said Ombra, turning
away. She herself was, as she believed, ‘not demonstrative,’ not
‘effusive.’ She was one of the many persons who think that people who do
not express any feeling at all, must necessarily have more real feeling
than those who disclose it--a curious idea, quite frequent in the world;
and she rather prided herself upon her own reserve. Yet, reserved as she
was, she, Ombra, had always found people to love her, and why not Kate?
This was the thought that passed through her mind as she gave up the
subject; but still she had grown reconciled to her cousin, had begun to
like her, and to be gratified by her eager, girlish homage. Kate’s
admiration spoke in every look and word, in her abject submission to
Ombra’s opinion, her concurrence in all that Ombra said, her imitation
of everything she did. Ombra was a good musician, and Kate, who had no
great faculty that way, got up and practised every morning, waking the
early echoes, and getting anything but blessings from her idol, whose
bed was exactly above the piano on the next floor. Ombra was a great
linguist, by dint of her many travels, and Kate sent unlimited orders
for dictionaries and grammars to her uncle, and began to learn verbs
with enthusiasm. She had all the masters who came from London to Miss
Story’s quiet establishment, men whose hours were golden, and whom
nobody but an heiress could have entertained in such profusion; and she
applied herself with the greatest diligence to such branches of study as
were favoured by Ombra, putting her own private tastes aside for them
with an enthusiasm only possible to first love. Perhaps Kate’s
enthusiasm was all the greater because of the slow and rather grudging
approbation which her efforts to please elicited. Mrs. Anderson was
always pleased, always ready to commend and admire; but Ombra was very
difficult. She made little allowance for any weakness, and demanded
absolute perfection, as mentors at the age of seventeen generally do;
and Kate hung on her very breath. Thus she took instinctively the best
way to please the only one in the house who had set up any resistance to
her. Over the rest Kate had an easy victory. It was Ombra who, all
unawares, and not by any virtue of hers, exercised the best control and
influence possible over the head-strong, self-opinioned girl. She was
head-strong enough herself, and very imperfect, but that did not affect
her all-potent visionary sway.
And nothing could be more regular, nothing more quiet and monotonous,
than the routine of life in the Cottage. The coming of the masters was
the event in it; and that was a mild kind of event, causing little
enthusiasm. They breakfasted, worked, walked, and dined, and then rose
next morning to do the same thing over again. Notwithstanding Mrs.
Anderson’s talk about her duty to society, there were very few claims
made upon her. She was not much called upon to fulfil these duties.
Sometimes the ladies went out to the Rectory to tea; sometimes, indeed,
Mrs. Anderson and Ombra dined there; but on these occasions Kate was
left at home, as too young for such an intoxicating pleasure. ‘And,
besides, my darling, I promised your uncle,’ Mrs. Anderson would say.
But Kate was always of the party when it was tea. There were other
neighbours who gave similar entertainments; and before a year had
passed, Kate had tasted the bread and butter of all the houses in the
parish which Mrs. Anderson thought worthy of her friendship. But only to
tea; ‘I made that condition with Mr. Courtenay, and I must hold by it,
though my heart is broken to leave you behind. If you knew how trying it
was, my dearest child!’ she would say with melancholy tones, as she
stepped out, with a shawl over her evening toilet; but these were very
rare occurrences indeed. And Kate went to the teas, and was happy.
How happy she was! When she was tired of the drawing-room (as happened
sometimes), she would rush away to an odd little room under the leads,
which was Francesca’s work-room and oratory, where the other maids were
never permitted to enter, but which had been made free to Mees Katta.
Francesca was not like English servants, holding jealously by one
special _metier_. She was cook, and she was housekeeper, but, at the
same time, she was Mrs. Anderson’s private milliner, making her dresses;
and the personal attendant of both mother and daughter. Even Jane, the
housemaid, scorned her for this versatility; but Francesca took no
notice of the scorn. She was not born to confine herself within such
narrow limits as an English kitchen afforded her; and she took
compensation for her unusual labours. She lectured Ombra, as we have
seen; she interfered in a great many things which were not her business;
she gave her advice freely to her mistress; she was one of the
household, not less interested than the mistress herself. And when Kate
arrived, Francesca added another branch of occupation to the others; or,
rather, she revived an art which she had once exercised with great
applause, but which had fallen into disuse since Ombra ceased to be a
child. She became the minstrel, the improvisatore, the ancient
chronicler, the muse of the new-comer. When Kate felt the afternoon
growing languid she snatched up a piece of work, and flew up the stairs
to Francesca’s retreat. ‘Tell me something,’ she would say; and,
sitting at the old woman’s feet, would forget her work, and her dulness,
and everything in heaven and earth, in the entrancement of a tale. These
were not fairy-tales, but bits of those stories, more strange than
fairy-tales, which still haunt the old houses of Italy. Francesca’s
tales were without end. She would begin upon a family pedigree, and work
her way up or down through a few generations, without missing a stitch
in her work, or dropping a thread in her story. She filled Kate’s head
with counts and barons, and gloomy castles and great palaces. It was an
amusement which combined the delight of gossip and the delight of
novel-reading in one.
And thus Kate’s life ran on, as noiseless, as simple as the growth of a
lily or a rose, with nothing but sunshine all about, warming her,
ripening her, as her new guardian said, bringing slowly on, day by day,
the moment of blossoming, the time of the perfect flower.