[35] I had long refrained from admiring anything in the shop windows. Nevertheless, I was endowed with a white chiffon parasol, an opera cloak, three pairs of scarlet silk stockings, an exquisite silk and lace petticoat—I who so sadly wanted everyday gloves and boots. I wanted them subsequently for a considerable period. Remonstrance only brought tears, and at last I came to the conclusion that such outbursts were ungovernable impulses of Emma’s inborn, long-nurtured generosity; that the disease was incurable, and these occasional attacks afforded her relief from an ever-pressing, maddening desire to lavish money! [36] [36] My own mother had made a runaway match with my father, was sternly disowned by all her relatives, and cut off without even the proverbial shilling. She died when I was a month old, and I was subsequently sent to England. There I was received by two maiden ladies, “who took entire charge of children from India, their arrangements being those of a family, and not of a school”—vide the prospectus. With these good people I spent ten very happy—I may add, luxurious—years. It was an establishment solely suited to the children of the wealthy, and my father discharged all expenses with liberal and punctual hand. He held an excellent appointment at the court of the native prince, and had married, eight years after my mother’s death, pretty, penniless Miss Burke, who happened to be on a visit to friends in his neighborhood. Her enemies [37]declared that Miss Burke was an empty-headed, flighty little fool—vain, delicate, and wildly extravagant; and that my father—who really required some one to manage his affairs, and curb his expensive tastes—would have been far wiser had he selected instead one of the excellent Miss Primmers—the Reverend Jeremiah Primmer’s well-brought-up missionary daughters—and that such a match as he contemplated was madness, so far as improvidence and waste went—a mixture of oil and flame. Nevertheless, in spite of these prophets, who prophesied evil things, my father and his vivacious young Irish wife were excessively happy. They were both given to hospitality, were both easy-going and open-handed; they liked India, Indian ways, and Indian friends. He only returned once to England to see me, and she but rarely, to refurbish her [38]wardrobe—and pay me flying visits. Then she loaded me with gifts, treats, and caresses, and was so young, so pretty, and so merry, that she embodied my idea of a charming elder sister. I never, somehow, identified her as my stepmother—whom I mentally sketched as the old,
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