at once broken up—even she—and still more Ombra, her daughter, who was fanciful, and of a somewhat jealous and contradictory temper, fond of her own way, and of full freedom to carry her fancies out.
Mrs. Anderson, let us say at once, was neither a hypocrite nor a fool, and never, during their whole intercourse, regarded her heiress-niece as a means of drawing advantage to herself, or in a mercenary way. She was a warm-hearted, kind, and just woman; but she had her faults. The chief of these was a very excess of virtue. Her whole soul was set upon not being good only, but appearing so. She could not bear the idea of being deficient in any decorum, in any sentiment which society demanded. No one could have grieved more sincerely than she did for her husband; but a bitterer pang even than that caused her by natural sorrow would have gone through her heart, had she been tempted to smile through her tears a day sooner than public opinion warranted a widow to smile. In every position—even that in which she felt most truly—a sense of what society expected from her was always in her mind. This code of unwritten law went deeper with her even than nature. She had truly longed and yearned over Kate, in her kind heart, from the moment she had reached England; and had she followed her natural instincts, would have rushed at once to Langton-Courtenay, to see the child who was all that remained of a sister whom she had loved. But the world, in that case, would have said that she meant to establish herself at Langton-Courtenay, and that her affection for her niece was feigned or mercenary.
‘Let her alone, then,’ Ombra said. ‘Why should we trouble ourselves? If her friends think we are not good enough for her, let her alone. Why should she think herself better than we?’
‘My love, she is very young,’ said Mrs. Anderson; ‘and, besides, if I took no notice at all of Catherine’s only child, what would people suppose? It would be thought either that I had a guilty conscience in respect to the Courtenays, or that I had been repulsed. Nobody would believe that we had simply let her alone, as you say; and, besides, I am longing to see Kate with all my heart.
‘What does it matter what people say?’ said Ombra. ‘I do not see what any one has to do with our private affairs.’
‘That is a great delusion,’ said Mrs. Anderson, shaking her head; ‘every one has to do with every one else’s private affairs. If you do not wish to lay yourself open to remark, you will always keep this in mind. And our position is very trying, between your cousin’s wealth and our love for her–’
‘I don’t think I have very much love for her, mamma.’
‘My dear child, don’t let any one but me hear you say so. She ought to be like a sister to you,’ said Mrs. Anderson.
And Ombra let the discussion drop, and permitted her mother, in this respect, to have her own way. But she was not in any respect of her mother’s way of thinking. Her temptation was to hate and despise the opinion of society just in proportion to the reverence for it which she had been bred in: a result usual enough with clear-sighted and impetuous young persons, conscious of the defects of their parents. Ombra was a pretty, gentle, soft-mannered girl in outward appearance; but a certain almost fierce independence and determination to guide her own course as she herself pleased, was in her heart. She would not be influenced, as her mother had been, by other people’s ideas. She thought, with some recent writers, that the doctrine of self-sacrifice, as taught specially to women, was altogether false, vain, and miserable. She felt that she herself ought to be first in her home and sphere; and she did not feel disposed even to share with, much less to yield to, the rich cousin whom she had never seen. She shrugged her shoulders over Mrs. Anderson’s letter to Kate, but she did not interfere further, until Mr. Courtenay’s astounding proposal arrived, fluttering the household as a hawk would flutter the dovecots. At the first reading, it drove Ombra frantic. It was impossible, out of the question, not to be thought of for a moment! In this small house, with their two maids, in the quiet of Shanklin, what were they to do with a self-important girl, a creature, no doubt, bred from her cradle to a consciousness of her own greatness, and who wanted all sorts of masters and advantages? Mrs. Anderson knew how to manage her daughter, and for the moment she allowed her to have her way, and pour forth her indignation. The letter came by the early post; and it was only when they were seated at tea in the evening that she brought forward the other side of the question.
‘What you say is all very true, Ombra; but we have two spare bedrooms—there would still be one left for a friend, even if we took in poor dear little Kate.’
‘Poor Kate! Why is she poor? She could buy us over and over,’ said Ombra, in her indignation.
‘Buy what?’ said her clever mother—‘our love?’
‘Mamma, please don’t speak any nonsense about love!’ said Ombra, hastily. ‘I can’t love people at a moment’s notice; because a girl whom I never saw happens to be the child of my aunt, whom I never saw–’
‘Then suppose we leave you out,’ said her mother. ‘She is the child of my sister, whom I knew well, and was very fond of—that alters the question so far as I am concerned.’
‘Oh! of course, mamma,’ said Ombra, with darkened brows, ‘I do not pretend to do more than give my opinion. It is for you to say how it is to be.’
‘Do you think I can make a decision without you?’ said the mother, pathetically. ‘You must try to look at it more reasonably, my dear. Next to you, Kate is the creature most near to me in the world—next to me. Now, listen, Ombra; she is your nearest relation. Think what it will be to have a friend and a sister if anything should happen to me. The house is small, but we cannot truly say that we have not room for a little girl of fifteen in it. And then think of her loneliness—not a soul to care for her, except that old Mr. Courtenay–’
‘Oh! that is nonsense; she must have some one to care for her, or else she must be intensely disagreeable,’ said Ombra. ‘Mamma, remember what I say—if we take her in, we shall repent it all our lives.’
‘Nothing of the sort, my dear,’ said Mrs. Anderson, eagerly following up this softened opposition. ‘Why she is only fifteen—a mere child!—we can mould her as we will. And then, my dearest child, though heaven knows it is not interest I am thinking of, still it will be a great advantage; our income will be doubled. I must say Mr. Courtenay is very liberal, if nothing else. We shall be able to do many things that we could not do otherwise. Why, Ombra, you look as if you thought I meant to rob your cousin–’
‘I would not use a penny of her allowance—it should be all spent upon herself!’ cried the girl, flushing with indignant passion. ‘Our income doubled! Mamma, what can you be thinking of? Do you suppose I could endure to be a morsel the better for that Kate?’
‘You are a little fool, and there is no talking to you,’ said Mrs. Anderson, with natural impatience; and for half an hour they did not speak to each other. This, however, could not last very long, for providentially, as Mrs. Anderson said, one of the Rectory girls came in at the time when it was usual for the ladies to take their morning walk, and she would not for all the Isle of Wight have permitted Elsie to see that her child and she were not on their usual terms. When Elsie had left them, a slight relapse was threatened, but they were then walking together along the cliff, with one of the loveliest of landscapes before them—the sun setting, the ruddy glory lighting up Sandown Bay, and all the earth and sea watching that last crisis and climax of the day.
‘Oh! there is the true daffodil sky!’ Ombra exclaimed, in spite of herself, and the breach was healed. It was she herself who resumed the subject some time later, when they turned towards home. ‘I do not see,’ she said abruptly, ‘what we could do about masters for that girl, if she were to come here. To have them down from town would be ruinous, and to be constantly going up to town with her—to you, who so hate the ferry—would be dreadful!’
‘My love,
