Ombra

Mr. Courtenay reflected very deeply on this subject, looking at it in all its details. Fortunately there were but few remnants of her mother’s family. Mrs. Anderson was the widow of a Consul, who had spent almost all his life abroad. She had a pension, a little property, and an only daughter, a little older than Kate. There were but two of them. If they turned out to be of that locust tribe which Mr. Courtenay so feared and hated, they could at least be bought off cheaply, when they had served their purpose. The daughter, no doubt, would marry, and the mother could be bought off. Mr. Courtenay did not enter into any discussion with himself as to the probabilities of carrying out this scheme of buying off. At this moment he did not care to dwell upon any difficulties. In the meantime, he had the one great difficulty, Kate herself, to get settled somehow; and anything which might happen six years hence was so much less pressing. By that time a great many things unforeseen might have happened; and Mr. Courtenay did not choose to make so long an excursion into the unknown. What was he to do with her now? Was he to be compelled to stay in the country, to give up all his pleasures and comforts, and the habits of his life, in order to guard and watch over this girl?—or should she be given over, for the time, to the guardianship of her mother’s family? This was the real question he had to decide.

And by degrees he came to think more and more cordially of Mrs. Anderson—more cordially, and, at the same time, contemptuously. What a fool she must be, to offer voluntarily to take all this trouble! No doubt she expected to make her own advantage out of it; but Mr. Courtenay, with a grim smile upon his countenance, felt that he himself was quite capable of taking care of that. He might employ her, but he would take care that her devotion should be disinterested. She would be better than a governess at this crisis of Kate’s history! She would be a natural duenna and inspectress of morals, as well as the superintendent of education; and it should, of course, be fully impressed upon her that it was for her interest to discourage lovers, and keep the external world at arm’s length. The very place of her residence was favourable. She had settled in the Isle of Wight, a long way from Langton-Courtenay, and happily so far from town that it would not be possible to run up and down and appeal to him at any moment. He thought of this all night, and it was the first subject that returned to his thoughts in the morning. Mrs. Anderson, or unlimited worry, trouble, and annoyance—banishment to the country, severance from all delights. Then let it be Mrs. Anderson! he said to himself, with a sigh. It was hard upon him to have such a decision to make, and yet it was satisfactory to feel that he had decided for the best. He went down to breakfast with a certain solemn composure, as of a man who was doing right and making a sacrifice. It would be the salvation of his personal comfort, and to secure that, at all costs, was fundamentally and eternally right; but it was a sacrifice at once of pride and of principle, and he felt that he had a right to the honours of martyrdom on that score.

After breakfast he called his ward into the library, with a polite little speech of apology to Miss Blank. ‘If you will permit me the pleasure of a few words with you at twelve o’clock, I think we may settle that little matter,’ he said, with the greatest suavity; leaving upon that lady’s mind the impression that Kate was to be bound hand and foot, and delivered over into her hands—which, as Miss Blank had no desire, could she avoid it, to leave the comfort of Langton-Courtenay, was very satisfactory to her; and then he withdrew into the library with the victim.

‘Now, Kate,’ he said, sitting down, ‘I am going to speak to you very seriously.’

‘You have been doing nothing but speak to me seriously ever since you came,’ said Kate, pouting. ‘I wish you would not give yourself so much trouble, Uncle Courtenay. All I want is just yes or no.’

‘But a great deal depends on the yes or the no. Look here, Kate, I am willing to let you go—oh! pray don’t clap your hands too soon!—I am willing to let you go, on conditions, and the conditions are rather serious. You had better not decide until you hear–’

‘I am sure I shall not mind them,’ said impetuous Kate, before whose eyes there instantly rose up a prospect of a new world, all full of freshness, and novelty, and interest. Mind!—she would not have minded fire and water to get at an existence which should be altogether new.

‘Listen, however,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘My conditions are very grave. If you go to Mrs. Anderson, Kate–’

‘Of course I shall go, if you will let me, Uncle Courtenay.’

‘If you go,’ said Mr. Courtenay, with a wave of his hand deprecating interruption, ‘it must not be for a visit only—you must go to stay.’

‘To stay!’

Kate’s eyes, which grew round with the strain of wonder, interest, and excitement, and which kindled, and brightened, and shone, reflecting like a mirror the shades of feeling that passed through her mind, were a sight to see.

‘If you go,’ he continued, ‘and if Mrs. Anderson is content to receive you, it must be for the remainder of your minority. I have had a great deal of trouble with your education, and now it is just that your mother’s family should take their share. Hear me out, Kate. Your aunt, of course, should have an allowance for your maintenance, and you could have as many masters and governesses, and all the rest, as were necessary; but if you go out of my hands, you go not for six weeks, but for six years, Kate.’

Kate had been going to speak half a dozen times, but now, having controlled herself so long, she paused with a certain mixture of feelings. Her delight was certainly toned down. To go and come—to be now Queen of Langton, and now her aunt’s amused and petted guest, had been her own dream of felicity. This was a different matter, there could be no doubt. It would be the old story—if not the monotony of Langton, which she knew, the monotony of Shanklin, which she did not know. Various clouds passed over the firmament which had looked so smiling. Perhaps it was possible her Aunt Anderson and Ombra might not turn out desirable companions for six years—perhaps she might regret her native place, her supremacy over the cottagers, whom she sometimes exasperated. The cloud thickened, dropped lower. ‘Should I never be allowed to come back?—not even to see Langton, Uncle Courtenay?’ she asked in a subdued voice.

‘Langton, in that case, ought to be let or shut up.’

‘Let!—to other people!—to strangers, Uncle Courtenay!—our house!’

‘Well, you foolish child, are we such very superior clay that we cannot let our house? Why, the best people in England do it. The Duke of Brentford does it. You have not quite his pretensions, and he does not mind.’

‘But I have quite his pretensions,’ cried Kate—‘more!—and so have you, uncle. What is he more than a gentleman? and we are gentlemen, I hope. Besides, a Duke has a vulgar sort of grandeur with his title—you know he has—and can do what he pleases; but we must act as gentlefolks. Oh! Uncle Courtenay, not that!’

‘Pshaw!’ was all that Mr. Courtenay replied. He was not open to sentimental considerations, especially when money was concerned; but, still, he had so much natural prejudice remaining in him for the race and honour of Langton-Courtenay, that he thought no worse of his troublesome ward for what she had said. He would of course pay no manner of attention to it; but still, on the whole, he liked her so to speak.

‘Let us waive the question,’ he resumed. ‘No, not to Langton-Courtenay—I don’t choose you should return here, if you quit it. But there might be change of air, once a year or so, to other places.’

‘Oh! might we go and travel?—might we go,’ cried Kate, looking up to him with shining eyes and eager looks, and lips apart, like an angelic petitioner, ‘abroad?’

She said this last word with such a fulness and roundness of sound, as it would be impossible, even in capitals, to convey through the medium of print.

‘Well,’ he said, with a smile, ‘probably that splendour and delight might be permitted to be—if you could afford it off your allowance, being always understood.’

‘Oh! of course we could afford it,’ said Kate. ‘Uncle, I consent at once—I will write to my Aunt Anderson at once. I wish she was not called Anderson—it sounds so common—like the groom in the village. Uncle Courtenay, when can I start? To-morrow? Now, why should you shake your head? I have very few things to pack; and to-morrow is just as good as any other day.’

‘Quite as good, I have no doubt; and so is to-morrow week,’ said Mr. Courtenay. ‘In the first place, you must take till to-morrow to decide.’

‘But when I have decided already!’ said Kate.

‘To-morrow at this time bring me your final answer. There, now run away—not another word.’

Kate went away, somewhat indignant; and for the next twenty-four hours did nothing but plan tours to all the beautiful places she had ever heard or read about. Her deliberations as to the scheme in general were all swallowed up in this. ‘I will take them to Switzerland; I will take them to Italy. We shall travel four or five months in every year; and see everything and hear everything, and enjoy everything,’ she said to herself, clapping her hands, as it were, under her breath. For she was generous in her way; she was quite clear on the point that it was she who must ‘take’ her aunt and cousin everywhere, and make everything agreeable for them. Perhaps there was in this a sense of superiority which satisfied that craving for power and influence which belonged to her nature; but still, notwithstanding her defective education, it was never in Kate’s mind to keep any enjoyment to herself.

CHAPTER IX

Before four-and-twenty hours had passed, a certain premonition of approaching change had stolen into the air at Langton-Courtenay. Miss Blank, too, had been received by Mr. Courtenay in a private audience, where he treated her with the courtesy due from one crowned head to another; but, nevertheless, gave her fully to understand that her reign was over. This took her all the more by surprise, that she had expected quite the reverse, from his words and looks in the morning; and it was perhaps an exclamation which burst from her as she withdrew, amazed and indignant, to her own room, which betrayed the possibilities of the future to the household. Miss Blank was not prone to exclamations, nor to betraying herself in any way; but to have your resignation blandly accepted, when you expected to be implored, almost with tears, to retain your post, is an experience likely to overcome the composure of any one. The exclamation itself was of the plainest character—it was, ‘Oh! I like his politeness—I like that!’ These words were heard by a passing housemaid; and not only were the words heard, but the flushed cheek, the indignant step, the air of injury were noted with all that keenness and intelligence which the domestic mind reserves for the study of the secrets of those above them. ‘She’s got the sack like the rest,’ was Jane’s remark to herself; and she spread it through the house. The intimation produced a mild interest, but no excitement. But when late in the afternoon Maryanne came rushing downstairs, open-mouthed, to report some unwary words which had dropped from her young mistress, the feelings of the household acquired immediate intensity. It was a suspecting place, and a poor sort of place, where there never were any great doings; but still Langton-Courtenay was a comfortable place, and when Maryanne, with that perverted keenness of apprehension already noticed, which made her so much more clever in divining her mistress’s schemes than doing her mistress’s work, had put Kate’s broken words together, a universal alarm took possession of the house. The housemaid, and the kitchenmaid, and the individual who served in the capacity of man-of-all-work, shook in their shoes. Mrs. Cook, however, who was housekeeper as well, shook out her ample skirts, and declared that she did not mind. ‘A house can’t take care of itself,’ she said, with noble confidence; ‘and they ain’t that clever to know now to get on without me.’ The gardener, also, was easy in his mind, secure in the fact that ‘the “place,” must be kep’ up;’ but a thrill of tremulous expectation ran through all those who were liable to be sent away.

These fears were very speedily justified. In as short a time as the post permitted, Mr. Courtenay received an effusive and enthusiastic answer from Mrs. Anderson, to whom he had written very curtly, making his proposal. This proposal was that she should receive Kate, not as a visitor, but permanently, until she attained her majority, giving her what educational advantages were within her reach, getting masters for her, and everything that was needful; and, in short, taking entire charge of her. ‘Circumstances prevent me from doing this myself,’ he wrote; ‘and, of course, a lady is better fitted to take charge of a girl at Kate’s troublesome age than I can be.’ And then he entered upon the subject of money. Kate would have an allowance of five hundred pounds a year. It was ridiculously large for a child like his niece, he thought to himself; but parsimony was not Mr. Courtenay’s weakness. For this she was to have everything a girl could require, with the exception of society, which her guardian forbade. ‘It is not my wish that she should be introduced to the world till she is of age, and I prefer to choose the time and the way myself,’ he said. With these conditions and instructions, Kate was to go, if her aunt wished it, to the Cottage.

Mrs. Anderson’s letter, as we have said, was enthusiastic. She asked, was she really to have her dearest sister’s only child under her care? and appealed to heaven and earth to testify that her delight was unspeakable. She said that her desire could only be the welfare, in every point, of ‘our darling niece!’ That nobody could be more anxious than she was to see her grow up the image of her sweet mother, ‘which, in my mind, means an example of every virtue and every grace!’ She declared that were she rich enough to give Kate all the advantages she ought to have, she would prove to Mr. Courtenay her perfect disinterestedness by refusing to accept any money with the dear child. But, for Kate’s own sake, she must accept it; adding that the provision seemed to be both ample and liberal. Mrs. Anderson went on to say that masters of every kind came to a famous school in her neighbourhood, and that Mr. Courtenay might be quite sure of darling Kate’s having every advantage. As for society, there was none, and he need be under no apprehension on that subject. She herself lived the quietest of lives, though of course she understood that, when Mr. Courtenay said society, he did not mean that she was to be interdicted from having a friend now and then to tea. This was the utmost extent of her dissipations, and she understood, as a matter of course, that he did not refer to anything of that description. She would come herself to London, she said, to receive from his hands ‘our darling niece,’ and he could perhaps then enter into further details as to anything he specially wished in reference to a subject on which their common interest was so great. Mr. Courtenay coughed very much over this letter—it gave him an irritation in his throat. ‘The woman is a humbug as well as a fool!’ he said to himself. But yet the question was—humbug or no humbug—was she the best person to free him of the charge of Kate? And, however he might resist, his judgment told him that this was the case.

The Rectory people came to return the visit of Mr. and Miss Courtenay while the house was in this confusion and commotion. They made a most decorous call at the proper hour, and in just the proper number—Mr. and Mrs. Hardwick, and one daughter. Kate had fallen from the momentary popularity which she had attained on her first appearance at the Rectory. She was now ‘that interfering, disagreeable thing,’ to the two girls. Nevertheless, as was right, in consideration of Miss Courtenay’s age, Edith, the sensible one, accompanied her mother.

‘I am the best one to go,’ said Edith to her mother. ‘For Minnie, I am sure, would lose her temper, and it is much best not to throw her into temptation.’

‘You must be quite sure you can resist the temptation yourself,’ said Mrs. Hardwick, who had brought up her children very well indeed, and had early taught them to identify and struggle against their specially besetting sins.

‘You know, mamma, though I am sure I am a great deal worse in other things, this kind of temptation is not my danger,’ said Edith; and with this satisfactory arrangement, the party took its way to the Hall.

Kate, in the flutter of joyous excitement which attended the new change in her fortunes, was quite a new creature—not the same who had called at the Rectory, and surprised and offended them. She had forgotten all about her own naughtiness. She seized upon Edith, and drew her into a corner, eager for a listener.

‘Oh! do you know I am going away?’ she said. ‘Have you ever been away from home? Have you been abroad? Did you ever go to live among people whom you never saw before? That is what I am going to do.’

‘Oh! I am so sorry for you!’ said Edith, glad, as she afterwards explained to her mother, to be able to say something which should at once be amiable and true.

‘Sorry!’ said Kate—‘oh! don’t be sorry. I am very glad. I am going to my aunt, who is fond of me, though I never saw her. Going to people who are fond of you is different–’

‘Are you fond of her?’ said Edith.

‘I never saw her,’ said Kate, opening her eyes.

Here was an opportunity to be instructive such as seldom occurred, even in the schools where Miss Edith’s gift was known. The young sage laid her hand upon Kate’s, who was considerably surprised by the unlooked-for affectionateness. ‘I am older than you,’ said Edith—‘I am quite grown up. You will not mind my speaking to you? Oh! do you know, dear, what is the best way to make people fond of you?’

‘No.’

‘To love them,’ said Edith, with fervour. Kate looked at her with calm, reflective, fully-opened eyes.

‘If you can,’ she said—‘but then how can you? Besides, it is their business to begin; they are older; they ought to know more about it—to be more in the way; Uncle Courtenay, for instance– I am sure you are very good—a great deal better than I am; but could you be fond of him?’

‘If he was my uncle—if it was my duty,’ said Edith.

‘Oh! I don’t know about duty,’ said Kate, shaking back her abundant locks. The idea did not all commend itself to her mind. ‘It is one’s duty to learn lessons,’ she went on, ‘and keep one’s temper, and not to talk too much, and that sort of thing; but to be fond of people– However, never mind; we can talk of that another time. We are going on Monday, and I never was out of Langton-Courtenay for a single night in all my life before.’

‘Poor child!—what a trial for you!’ said Edith.

At this moment Mrs. Hardwick struck in—‘After the first is over, I am sure you will like it very much,’ she said. ‘It will be such a change. Of course it is always trying to leave home for the first time.’