THE days passed very slowly with Kate, until the moment when she was to
go to London and take her state upon her, as she thought. Till that
should come to pass, she could not feel herself really a countess. She
did not find herself any taller or grander; Charlie teased her rather
more instead of less and she did not think either Mr. Wardour or Mary or
Armyn thought half enough of her dignity: they did not scruple to set her
down when she talked too loud, and looked sad instead of pleased when she
chattered about the fine things she should do. Mr. and Mrs. Brown, to be
sure, came to wish her good-bye; but they were so respectful, and took
such pains that she should walk first, that she grew shy and sheepish,
and did not like it at all.
She thought ease and dignity would come by nature when she was once in
London; and she made so certain of soon seeing Sylvia again, that she did
not much concern herself about the parting with her; while she was rather
displeased with Mary for looking grave, and not making more of her, and
trying to tell her that all might not be as delightful as she expected.
She little knew that Mary was grieved at her eagerness to leave her happy
home, and never guessed at the kind sister’s fears for her happiness.
She set it all down to what she was wont to call crossness. If Mary had
really been a cross or selfish person, all she would have thought of
would have been that now there would not be so many rents to mend after
Kate’s cobbling attempts, nor so many shrill shrieking laughs to disturb
Papa writing his sermon, nor so much difficulty in keeping any room in
the house tidy, nor so much pinching in the housekeeping. Instead of
that, Mary only thought whether Barbara and Lady Jane would make her
little Kate happy and good. She was sure they were proud, hard, cold
people; and her father had many talks with her, to try to comfort her
about them.
Mr. Wardour told her that Kate’s grandfather had been such a grief and
shame to the family, that it was no wonder they had not liked to be
friendly with those he had left behind him. There had been help given to
educate the son, and some notice had been taken of him, but always very
distant; and he had been thought very foolish for marrying when he was
very young, and very ill off. At the time of his death, his uncle,
Colonel Umfraville, had been very kind, and had consulted earnestly with
Mr. Wardour what was best for the little orphan; but had then explained
that he and his wife could not take charge of her, because his regiment
was going to India, and she could not go there with them; and that his
sisters were prevented from undertaking the care of so young a child by
the bad health of the elder, who almost owed her life to the tender
nursing of the younger. And as Mrs. Wardour was only eager to keep to
herself all that was left of her only sister, and had a nursery of her
own, it had been most natural that Kate should remain at St. James’s
Parsonage; and Mr. Wardour had full reason to believe that, had there
been any need, or if he had asked for help, the aunts would have gladly
given it. He knew them to be worthy and religious women; and he told
Mary that he thought it very likely that they might deal better with
Kate’s character than he had been able to do. Mary knew she herself had
made mistakes, but she could not be humble for her father, or think any
place more improving than under his roof.
And Kate meanwhile had her own views. And when all the good-byes were
over, and she sat by the window of the railway carriage, watching the
fields rush by, reduced to silence, because “Papa” had told her he could
not hear her voice, and had made a peremptory sign to her when she
screamed her loudest, and caused their fellow-travellers to look up
amazed, she wove a web in her brain something like this:—“I know what my
aunts will be like: they will be just like ladies in a book. They will
be dreadfully fashionable! Let me see—Aunt Barbara will have a turban on
her head, and a bird of paradise, like the bad old lady in Armyn’s book
that Mary took away from me; and they will do nothing all day long but
try on flounced gowns, and count their jewels, and go out to balls and
operas—and they will want me to do the same—and play at cards all Sunday!
‘Lady Caergwent,’ they will say, ‘it is becoming to your position!’ And
then the young countess presented a remarkable contrast in her ingenuous
simplicity,” continued Kate, not quite knowing whether she was making a
story or thinking of herself—for indeed she did not feel as if she were
herself, but somebody in a story. “Her waving hair was only confined by
an azure ribbon, (Kate loved a fine word when Charlie did not hear it to
laugh at her;) and her dress was of the simplest muslin, with one diamond
aigrette of priceless value!”
Kate had not the most remote notion what an aigrette might be, but she
thought it would sound well for a countess; and she went on musing very
pleasantly on the amiable simplicity of the countess, and the speech that
was to cure the aunts of playing at cards on a Sunday, wearing turbans,
and all other enormities, and lead them to live in the country, giving a
continual course of school feasts, and surprising meritorious families
with gifts of cows. She only wished she had a pencil to draw it all to
show Sylvia, provided Sylvia would know her cows from her tables.
After more vain attempts at chatter, and various stops at stations, Mr.
Wardour bought a story-book for her; and thus brought her to a most happy
state of silent content, which lasted till the house roofs of London
began to rise on either side of the railway.
Among the carriages that were waiting at the terminus was a small
brougham, very neat and shiny; and a servant came up and touched his hat,
opening the door for Kate, who was told to sit there while the servant
and Mr. Wardour looked for the luggage. She was a little disappointed.
She had once seen a carriage go by with four horses, and a single one did
not seem at all worthy of her; but she had two chapters more of her story
to read, and was so eager to see the end of it, that Mr. Wardour could
hardly persuade her to look out and see the Thames when she passed over
it, nor the Houses of Parliament and the towers of Westminster Abbey.
At last, while passing through the brighter and more crowded streets,
Kate having satisfied herself what had become of the personages of her
story, looked up, and saw nothing but dull houses of blackened cream
colour; and presently found the carriage stopping at the door of one.
“Is it here, Papa?” she said, suddenly seized with fright.
“Yes,” he said, “this is Bruton Street;” and he looked at her anxiously
as the door was opened and the steps were let down. She took tight hold
of his hand. Whatever she had been in her day-dreams, she was only his
own little frightened Kate now; and she tried to shrink behind him as the
footman preceded them up the stairs, and opening the door,
announced—“Lady Caergwent and Mr. Wardour!”
Two ladies rose up, and came forward to meet her. She felt herself
kissed by both, and heard greetings, but did not know what to say, and
stood up by Mr. Wardour, hanging down her head, and trying to stand upon
one foot with the other, as she always did when she was shy and awkward.
“Sit down, my dear,” said one of the ladies, making a place for her on
the sofa. But Kate only laid hold of a chair, pulled it as close to Mr.
Wardour as possible, and sat down on the extreme corner of it, feeling
for a rail on which to set her feet, and failing to find one, twining her
ankles round the leg of the chair. She knew very well that this was not
pretty; but she never could recollect what was pretty behaviour when she
was shy. She was a very different little girl in a day-dream and out of
one. And when one of the aunts asked her if she were tired, all she
could do was to give a foolish sort of smile, and say, “N—no.”
Then she had a perception that Papa was looking reprovingly at her; so
she wriggled her legs away from that of the chair, twisted them together
in the middle, and said something meant for “No, thank you;” but of which
nothing was to be heard but “q,” apparently proceeding out of the brim of
her broad hat, so low did the young countess, in her amiable simplicity,
hold her head.
“She is shy!” said one of the ladies to the other; and they let her alone
a little, and began to talk to Mr. Wardour about the journey, and various
other things, to which Kate did not greatly listen. She began to let her
eyes come out from under her hat brim, and satisfied herself that the
aunts certainly did not wear either turbans or birds of paradise, but
looked quite as like other people as she felt herself, in spite of her
title.
Indeed, one aunt had nothing on her head at all but a little black velvet
and lace, not much more than Mary sometimes wore, and the other only a
very light cap. Kate thought great-aunts must be as old at least as Mrs.
Brown, and was much astonished to see that these ladies had no air of age
about them. The one who sat on the sofa had a plump, smooth, pretty,
pink and white face, very soft and pleasant to look at, though an older
person than Kate would have perceived that the youthful delicacy of the
complexion showed that she had been carefully shut up and sheltered from
all exposure and exertion, and that the quiet innocent look of the small
features was that of a person who had never had to use her goodness more
actively than a little baby. Kate was sure that this was aunt Jane, and
that she should get on well with her, though that slow way of speaking
was rather wearisome.
The other aunt, who was talking the most, was quite as slim as Mary, and
had a bright dark complexion, so that if Kate had not seen some shades of
grey in her black hair, it would have been hard to believe her old at
all. She had a face that put Kate in mind of a picture of a beautiful
lady in a book at home—the eyes, forehead, nose, and shape of the chin,
were so finely made; and yet there was something in them that made the
little girl afraid, and feel as if the plaster cast of Diana’s head on
the study mantelpiece had got a pair of dark eyes, and was looking very
hard at her; and there was a sort of dry sound in her voice that was
uncomfortable to hear.
Then Kate took a survey of the room, which was very prettily furnished,
with quantities of beautiful work of all kinds, and little tables and
brackets covered with little devices in china and curiosities under
glass, and had flowers standing in the windows; and by the time she had
finished trying to make out the subject of a print on the walls, she
heard some words that made her think that her aunts were talking of her
new governess, and she opened her ears to hear, “So we thought it would
be an excellent arrangement for her, poor thing!” and “Papa” answering,
“I hope Kate may try to be a kind considerate pupil.” Then seeing by
Kate’s eyes that her attention had been astray, or that she had not
understood Lady Barbara’s words, he turned to her, saying, “Did you not
hear what your aunt was telling me?”
“No, Papa.”
“She was telling me about the lady who will teach you. She has had great
afflictions. She has lost her husband, and is obliged to go out as
governess, that she may be able to send her sons to school. So, Kate,
you must think of this, and try to give her as little trouble as
possible.”
It would have been much nicer if Kate would have looked up readily, and
said something kind and friendly; but the fit of awkwardness had come
over her again, and with it a thought so selfish, that it can hardly be
called otherwise than naughty—namely, that grown-up people in trouble
were very tiresome, and never let young ones have any fun.
“Shall I take you to see Mrs. Lacy, my dear?” said Lady Barbara, rising.
And as Kate took hold of Mr. Wardour’s hand, she added, “You will see Mr.
Wardour again after dinner. You had better dress, and have some meat for
your tea, with Mrs. Lacy, and then come into the drawing-room.”
This was a stroke upon Kate. She who had dined with the rest of the
world ever since she could remember—she, now that she was a countess, to
be made to drink tea up-stairs like a baby, and lose all that time of
Papa’s company! She swelled with displeasure: but Aunt Barbara did not
look like a person whose orders could be questioned, and “Papa” said not
a word in her favour. Possibly the specimen of manners she had just
given had not led either him or Lady Barbara to think her fit for a late
dinner.
Lady Barbara first took her up-stairs, and showed her a little long
narrow bed-room, with a pretty pink-curtained bed in it.
“This will be your room, my dear,” she said. “I am sorry we have not a
larger one to offer you; but it opens into mine, as you see, and my
sister’s is just beyond. Our maid will dress you for a few days, when I
hope to engage one for you.”
Here was something like promotion! Kate dearly loved to have herself
taken off her own hands, and not to be reproved by Mary for untidiness,
or roughly set to rights by Lily’s nurse. She actually exclaimed, “Oh,
thank you!” And her aunt waited till the hat and cloak had been taken
off and the chestnut hair smoothed, looked at her attentively, and said,
“Yes, you are like the family.”
“I’m very like my own papa,” said Kate, growing a little bolder, but
still speaking with her head on one side, which was her way when she said
anything sentimental.
“I dare say you are,” answered her aunt, with the dry sound. “Are you
ready now? I will show you the way. The house is very small,” continued
Lady Barbara, as they went down the stairs to the ground floor; “and this
must be your school-room for the present.”
It was the room under the back drawing-room; and in it was a lady in a
widow’s cap, sitting at work. “Here is your little Pupil—Lady
Caergwent—Mrs. Lacy,” said Lady Barbara. “I hope you will find her a
good child. She will drink tea with you, and then dress, and afterwards
I hope, we shall see you with her in the drawing-room.”
Mrs. Lacy bowed, without any answer in words, only she took Kate’s hand
and kissed her. Lady Barbara left them, and there was a little pause.
Kate looked at her governess, and her heart sank, for it was the very
saddest face she had ever seen—the eyes looked soft and gentle, but as if
they had wept till they could weep no longer; and when the question was
asked, “Are you tired, my dear?” it was in a sunk tone, trying to be
cheerful but the sadder for that very reason. Poor lady! it was only
that morning that she had parted with her son, and had gone away from the
home where she had lived with her husband and children.
Kate was almost distressed; yet she felt more at her ease than with her
aunts, and answered, “Not at all, thank you,” in her natural tone.
“Was it a long journey?”
Kate had been silent so long, that her tongue was ready for exertion; and
she began to chatter forth all the events of the journey, without heeding
much whether she were listened to or not, till having come to the end of
her breath, she saw that Mrs. Lacy was leaning back in her chair, her
eyes fixed as if her attention had gone away. Kate thereupon roamed
round the room, peeped from the window and saw that it looked into a dull
black-looking narrow garden, and then studied the things in the room.
There was a piano, at which she shook her head. Mary had tried to teach
her music; but after a daily fret for six weeks, Mr. Wardour had said it
was waste of time and temper for both; and Kate was delighted. Then she
came to a book-case; and there the aunts had kindly placed the books of
their own younger days, some of which she had never seen before. When
she had once begun on the “Rival Crusoes,” she gave Mrs. Lacy no more
trouble, except to rouse her from it to drink her tea, and then go and be
dressed.
The maid managed the white muslin so as to make her look very nice; but
before she had gone half way down-stairs, there was a voice behind—“My
Lady! my Lady!”
She did not turn, not remembering that she herself must be meant; and the
maid, running after her, caught her rather sharply, and showed her her
own hand, all black and grimed.
“How tiresome!” cried she. “Why, I only just washed it!”
“Yes, my Lady; but you took hold of the balusters all the way down. And
your forehead! Bless me! what would Lady Barbara say?”
For Kate had been trying to peep through the balusters into the hall
below, and had of course painted her brow with London blacks. She made
one of her little impatient gestures, and thought she was very hardly
used—dirt stuck upon her, and brambles tore her like no one else.
She got safely down this time, and went into the drawing-room with Mrs.
Lacy, there taking a voyage of discovery among the pretty things, knowing
she must not touch, but asking endless questions, some of which Mrs. Lacy
answered in her sad indifferent way, others she could not answer, and
Kate was rather vexed at her not seeming to care to know. Kate had not
yet any notion of caring for other people’s spirits and feelings; she
never knew what to do for them, and so tried to forget all about them.
The aunts came in, and with them Mr. Wardour. She was glad to run up to
him, and drag him to look at a group in white Parian under a glass, that
had delighted her very much. She knew it was Jupiter’s Eagle; but who
was feeding it? “Ganymede,” said Mr. Wardour; and Kate, who always liked
mythological stories, went on most eagerly talking about the legend of
the youth who was borne away to be the cup-bearer of the gods. It was a
thing to make her forget about the aunts and everybody else; and Mr.
Wardour helped her out, as he generally did when her talk was neither
foolish nor ill-timed but he checked her when he thought she was running
on too long, and went himself to talk to Mrs. Lacy, while Kate was
obliged to come to her aunts, and stood nearest to Lady Jane, of whom she
was least afraid.
“You seem quite at home with all the heathen gods, my dear,” said Lady
Jane; “how come you to know them so well?”
“In Charlie’s lesson-books, you know,” said Kate; and seeing that her
aunt did not know, she went on to say, “there are notes and explanations.
And there is a Homer—an English one, you know; and we play at it.”
“We seem to have quite a learned lady here!” said aunt Barbara, in the
voice Kate did not like. “Do you learn music?”
“No; I haven’t got any ear; and I hate it!”
“Oh!” said Lady Barbara drily; and Kate seeing Mr. Wardour’s eyes fixed
on her rather anxiously, recollected that hate was not a proper word, and
fell into confusion.
“And drawing?” said her aunt.
“No; but I want to—”
“Oh!” again said Lady Barbara, looking at Kate’s fingers, which in her
awkwardness she was apparently dislocating in a method peculiar to
herself.
However, it was soon over, for it was already later than Kate’s home
bed-time; she bade everyone good-night, and was soon waited on by Mrs.
Bartley, the maid, in her own luxurious little room.
But luxurious as it was, Kate for the first time thoroughly missed home.
The boarded floor, the old crib, the deal table, would have been welcome,
if only Sylvia had been there. She had never gone to bed without Sylvia
in her life. And now she thought with a pang that Sylvia was longing for
her, and looking at her empty crib, thinking too, it might be, that Kate
had cared more for her grandeur than for the parting.
Not only was it sorrowful to be lonely, but also Kate was one of the
silly little girls, to whom the first quarter of an hour in bed was a
time of fright. Sylvia had no fears, and always accounted for the odd
noises and strange sights that terrified her companion. She never
believed that the house was on fire, even though the moon made very
bright sparkles; she always said the sounds were the servants, the wind,
or the mice; and never would allow that thieves would steal little girls,
or anything belonging to themselves. Or if she were fast asleep, her
very presence gave a feeling of protection.
But when the preparations were very nearly over, and Kate began to think
of the strange room, and the roar of carriages in the streets sounded so
unnatural, her heart failed her, and the fear of being alone quite
overpowered her dread of the grave staid Mrs. Bartley, far more of being
thought a silly little girl.
“Please please, Mrs. Bartley,” she said in a trembling voice, “are you
going away?”
“Yes, my Lady; I am going down to supper, when I have placed my Lady
Jane’s and my Lady Barbara’s things.”
“Then please—please,” said Kate, in her most humble and insinuating
voice, “do leave the door open while you are doing it.”
“Very well, my Lady,” was the answer, in a tone just like that in which
Lady Barbara said “Oh!”
And the door stayed open; but Kate could not sleep. There seemed to be
the rattle and bump of the train going on in her bed; the gas-lights in
the streets below came in unnaturally, and the noises were much more
frightful and unaccountable than any she had ever heard at home. Her
eyes spread with fright, instead of closing in sleep; then came the
longing yearning for Sylvia, and tears grew hot in them; and by the time
Mrs. Bartley had finished her preparations, and gone down, her distress
had grown so unbearable, that she absolutely began sobbing aloud, and
screaming, “Papa!” She knew he would be very angry, and that she should
hear that such folly was shameful in a girl of her age; but any anger
would be better than this dreadful loneliness. She screamed louder and
louder; and she grew half frightened, half relieved, when she heard his
step, and a buzz of voices on the stairs; and then there he was, standing
by her, and saying gravely, “What is the matter, Kate?”
“O Papa, Papa, I want—I want Sylvia!—I am afraid!” Then she held her
breath, and cowered under the clothes, ready for a scolding; but it was
not his angry voice. “Poor child!” he said quietly and sadly. “You must
put away this childishness, my dear. You know that you are not really
alone, even in a strange place.”
“No, no, Papa; but I am afraid—I cannot bear it!”
“Have you said the verse that helps you to bear it, Katie?”
“I could not say it without Sylvia.”
She heard him sigh; and then he said, “You must try another night, my
Katie, and think of Sylvia saying it at home in her own room. You will
meet her prayers in that way. Now let me hear you say it.”
Kate repeated, but half choked with sobs, “I lay me down in peace,” and
the rest of the calm words, with which she had been taught to lay herself
in bed; but at the end she cried, “O Papa, don’t go!”
“I must go, my dear: I cannot stay away from your aunts. But I will tell
you what to do to-night, and other nights when I shall be away: say to
yourself the ninety-first Psalm. I think you know it—‘Whoso abideth
under the defence of the Most High—’”
“I think I do know it.”
“Try to say it to yourself, and then the place will seem less dreary,
because you will feel Who is with you. I will look in once more before I
go away, and I think you will be asleep.”
And though Kate tried to stay awake for him, asleep she was.