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CHAPTER XXIV. A QUIET TALK IN A GARDEN

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.

CHAPTER XXV. THE TWO PUPILS

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.”