IN a very few days, Kate had been settled into the ways of the household
in Bruton Street; and found one day so like another, that she sometimes
asked herself whether she had not been living there years instead of
days.
She was always to be ready by half-past seven. Her French maid,
Josephine, used to come in at seven, and wash and dress her quietly, for
if there were any noise Aunt Barbara would knock and be displeased. Aunt
Barbara rose long before that time, but she feared lest Aunt Jane should
be disturbed in her morning’s sleep; and Kate thought she had the ears of
a dragon for the least sound of voice or laugh.
At half-past seven, Kate met Mrs. Lacy in the school-room, read the
Psalms and Second Lesson, and learnt some answers to questions on the
Catechism, to be repeated to Lady Barbara on a Sunday. For so far from
playing at cards in a bird-of-paradise turban all Sunday, the aunts were
quite as particular about these things as Mr. Wardour—more inconveniently
so, the countess thought; for he always let her answer his examinations
out of her own head, and never gave her answers to learn by heart;
“Answers that I know before quite well,” said Kate, “only not made
tiresome with fine words.”
“That is not a right way of talking, Lady Caergwent,” gravely said Mrs.
Lacy; and Kate gave herself an ill-tempered wriggle, and felt cross and
rebellious.
It was a trial; but if Kate had taken it humbly, she would have found
that even the stiff hard words and set phrases gave accuracy to her
ideas; and the learning of the texts quoted would have been clear gain,
if she had been in a meeker spirit.
This done, Mrs. Lacy gave her a music-lesson. This was grievous work,
for the question was not how the learning should be managed, but whether
the thing should be learnt at all.
Kate had struggled hard against it. She informed her aunts that Mary had
tried to teach her for six weeks in vain, and that she had had a bad mark
every day; that Papa had said it was all nonsense, and that talents could
not be forced; and that Armyn said she had no more ear than an old
pea-hen.
To which Lady Barbara had gravely answered, that Mr. Wardour could decide
as he pleased while Katharine was under his charge, but that it would be
highly improper that she should not learn the accomplishments of her
station.
“Only I can’t learn,” said Kate, half desperate; “you will see that it is
no use, Aunt Barbara.”
“I shall do my duty, Katharine,” was all the answer she obtained; and she
pinched her chair with suppressed passion.
Lady Barbara was right in saying that it was her duty to see that the
child under her charge learnt what is usually expected of ladies; and
though Kate could never acquire music enough to give pleasure to others,
yet the training and discipline were likely not only to improve her ear
and untamed voice, but to be good for her whole character—that is, if she
had made a good use of them. But in these times, being usually already
out of temper with the difficult answers of the Catechism questions, and
obliged to keep in her pettish feelings towards what concerned sacred
things, she let all out in the music lesson, and with her murmurs and her
inattention, her yawns and her blunders, rendered herself infinitely more
dull and unmusical than nature had made her, and was a grievous torment
to poor Mrs. Lacy, and her patient, “One, two, three—now, my dear.”
Kate thought it was Mrs. Lacy who tormented her! I wonder which was the
worse to the other! At any rate, Mrs. Lacy’s heavy eyes looked heavier,
and she moved as though wearied out for the whole day by the time the
clock struck nine, and released them; whilst her pupil, who never was
cross long together, took a hop, skip, and jump, to the dining-room, and
was as fresh as ever in the eager hope that the post would bring a letter
from home.
Lady Barbara read prayers in the dining-room at nine, and there
breakfasted with Kate and Mrs. Lacy, sending up a tray to Lady Jane in
her bed-room. Those were apt to be grave breakfasts; not like the merry
mornings at home, when chatter used to go on in half whispers between the
younger ones, with laughs, breaking out in sudden gusts, till a little
over-loudness brought one of Mary’s good-natured “Hushes,” usually
answered with, “O Mary, such fun!”
It was Lady Barbara’s time for asking about all the lessons of the day
before; and though these were usually fairly done, and Mrs. Lacy was
always a kind reporter, it was rather awful; and what was worse, were the
strictures on deportment. For it must be confessed, that Lady Caergwent,
though neatly and prettily made, with delicate little feet and hands, and
a strong upright back, was a remarkably awkward child; and the more she
was lectured, the more ungraceful she made herself—partly from thinking
about it, and from fright making her abrupt, partly from being provoked.
She had never been so ungainly at Oldburgh; she never was half so awkward
in the school-room, as she would be while taking her cup of tea from Lady
Barbara, or handing the butter to her governess. And was it not wretched
to be ordered to do it again, and again, and again, (each time worse than
the last—the fingers more crooked, the elbow more stuck out, the shoulder
more forward than before), when there was a letter in Sylvia’s writing
lying on the table unopened?
And whereas it had been the fashion at St. James’s Parsonage to compare
Kate’s handing her plate to a chimpanzee asking for nuts, it was hard
that in Bruton Street these manners should be attributed to the barbarous
country in which she had grown up! But that, though Kate did not know
it, was very much her own fault. She could never be found fault with but
she answered again. She had been scarcely broken of replying and
justifying herself, even to Mr. Wardour, and had often argued with Mary
till he came in and put a sudden sharp stop to it; and now she usually
defended herself with “Papa says—” or “Mary says—” and though she really
thought she spoke the truth, she made them say such odd things, that it
was no wonder Lady Barbara thought they had very queer notions of
education, and that her niece had nothing to do but to unlearn their
lessons. Thus:
“Katharine, easy-chairs were not meant for little girls to lounge in.”
“Oh, Papa says he doesn’t want one always to sit upright and stupid.”
So Lady Barbara was left to suppose that Mr. Wardour’s model attitude for
young ladies was sitting upon one leg in an easy-chair, with the other
foot dangling, the forehead against the back, and the arm of the chair
used as a desk! How was she to know that this only meant that he had
once had the misfortune to express his disapproval of the high-backed
long-legged school-room chairs formerly in fashion? In fact, Kate could
hardly be forbidden anything without her replying that Papa or Mary
_always_ let her do it; till at last she was ordered, very decidedly,
never again to quote Mr. and Miss Wardour, and especially not to call him
Papa.
Kate’s eyes flashed at this; and she was so angry, that no words would
come but a passionate stammering “I can’t—I can’t leave off; I won’t!”
Lady Barbara looked stern and grave. “You must be taught what is
suitable to your position, Lady Caergwent; and until you have learnt to
feel it yourself, I shall request Mrs. Lacy to give you an additional
lesson every time you call Mr. Wardour by that name.”
Aunt Barbara’s low slow way of speaking when in great displeasure was a
terrific thing, and so was the set look of her handsome mouth and eyes.
Kate burst into a violent fit of crying, and was sent away in dire
disgrace. When she had spent her tears and sobs, she began to think over
her aunt’s cruelty and ingratitude, and the wickedness of trying to make
her ungrateful too; and she composed a thrilling speech, as she called
it—“Lady Barbara Umfraville, when the orphan was poor and neglected, my
Uncle Wardour was a true father to me. You may tear me with wild horses
ere I will cease to give him the title of— No; and I will call him
papa—no, father—with my last breath!”
What the countess might have done if Lady Barbara had torn her with wild
horses must remain uncertain. It is quite certain that the mere fixing
of those great dark eyes was sufficient to cut off Pa—at its first
syllable, and turn it into a faltering “my uncle;” and that, though
Kate’s heart was very sore and angry, she never, except once or twice
when the word slipped out by chance, incurred the penalty, though she
would have respected herself more if she had been brave enough to bear
something for the sake of showing her love to Mr. Wardour.
And the fact was, that self-justification and carelessness of exact
correctness of truth had brought all this upon her, and given her aunt
this bad opinion of her friends!
But this is going a long way from the description of Kate’s days in
Bruton Street.
After breakfast, she was sent out with Mrs. Lacy for a walk. If she had
a letter from home, she read it while Josephine dressed her as if she had
been a doll; or else she had a story book in hand, and was usually lost
in it when Mrs. Lacy looked into her room to see if she were ready.
To walk along the dull street, and pace round and round the gardens in
Berkeley Square, was not so entertaining as morning games in the garden
with Sylvia; and these were times of feeling very like a prisoner. Other
children in the gardens seemed to be friends, and played together; but
this the aunts had forbidden her, and she could only look on, and think
of Sylvia and Charlie, and feel as if one real game of play would do her
all the good in the world.
To be sure she could talk to Mrs. Lacy, and tell her about Sylvia, and
deliver opinions upon the characters in her histories and stories; but it
often happened that the low grave “Yes, my dear,” showed by the very tone
that her governess had heard not a word; and at the best, it was dreary
work to look up and discourse to nothing but the black crape veil that
Mrs. Lacy always kept down.
“I cannot think why I should have a governess in affliction; it is very
hard upon me!” said Kate to herself.
Why did she never bethink herself how hard the afflictions were upon Mrs.
Lacy, and what good it would have done her if her pupil had tried to be
like a gentle little daughter to her, instead of merely striving for all
the fun she could get?
The lesson time followed. Kate first repeated what she had learnt the
day before; and then had a French master two days in the week; on two
more, one for arithmetic and geography; and on the other two, a drawing
master. She liked these lessons, and did well in all, as soon as she
left off citing Mary Wardour’s pronunciations, and ways of doing sums.
Indeed, she had more lively conversation with her French master, who was
a very good-natured old man, than with anyone else, except Josephine; and
she liked writing French letters for him to correct, making them be from
the imaginary little girls whom she was so fond of drawing, and sending
them to Sylvia.
After the master was gone, Kate prepared for him for the next day, and
did a little Italian reading with Mrs. Lacy; after which followed reading
of history, and needle-work. Lady Barbara was very particular that she
should learn to work well, and was a good deal shocked at her very poor
performances. “She had thought that plain needle-work, at least, would
be taught in a clergyman’s family.”
“Mary tried to teach me; but she says all my fingers are thumbs.”
And so poor Mrs. Lacy found them.
Mrs. Lacy and her pupil dined at the ladies’ luncheon; and this was
pleasanter than the breakfast, from the presence of Aunt Jane, whose kiss
of greeting was a comforting cheering moment, and who always was so much
distressed and hurt at the sight of her sister’s displeasure, that Aunt
Barbara seldom reproved before her. She always had a kind word to say;
Mrs. Lacy seemed brighter and less oppressed in the sound of her voice;
everyone was more at ease; and when speaking to her, or waiting upon her,
Lady Barbara was no longer stern in manner nor dry in voice. The meal
was not lively; there was nothing like the talk about parish matters, nor
the jokes that she was used to; and though she was helped first, and
ceremoniously waited on, she might not speak unless she was spoken to;
and was it not very cruel, first to make everything so dull that no one
could help yawning, and then to treat a yawn as a dire offence?
The length of the luncheon was a great infliction, because all the time
from that to three o’clock was her own. It was a poor remnant of the
entire afternoons which she and Sylvia had usually disposed of much as
they pleased; and even what there was of it, was not to be spent in the
way for which the young limbs longed. No one was likely to play at blind
man’s buff and hare and hounds in that house; and even her poor attempt
at throwing her gloves or a pen-wiper against the wall, and catching them
in the rebound, and her scampers up-stairs two steps at once, and runs
down with a leap down the last four steps, were summarily stopped, as
unladylike, and too noisy for Aunt Jane. Kate did get a private run and
leap whenever she could, but never with a safe conscience; and that
spoilt the pleasure, or made it guilty and alarmed.
All she could do really in peace was reading or drawing, or writing
letters to Sylvia. Nobody had interfered with any of these occupations,
though Kate knew that none of them were perfectly agreeable to Aunt
Barbara, who had been heard to speak of children’s reading far too many
silly story-books now-a-days, and had declared that the child would cramp
her hand for writing or good drawing with that nonsense.
However, Lady Jane had several times submitted most complacently to have
a whole long history in pictures explained to her, smiling very kindly,
but not apparently much the wiser. And one, at least, of the old visions
of wealth was fulfilled, for Kate’s pocket-money enabled her to keep
herself in story-books and unlimited white paper, as well as to set up a
paint-box with real good colours. But somehow, a new tale every week had
not half the zest that stories had when a fresh book only came into the
house by rare and much prized chances; and though the paper was smooth,
and the blue and red lovely, it was not half so nice to draw and paint as
with Sylvia helping, and the remains of Mary’s rubbings for making
illuminations; nay, Lily spoiling everything, and Armyn and Charlie
laughing at her were now remembered as ingredients in her pleasure; and
she would hardly have had the heart to go on drawing but that she could
still send her pictorial stories to Sylvia, and receive remarks on them.
There were no more Lady Ethelindas in flounces in Kate’s drawings now;
her heroines were always clergymen’s daughters, or those of colonists
cutting down trees and making the butter.
At three o’clock the carriage came to the door; and on Mondays and
Thursdays took Lady Caergwent and her governess to a mistress who taught
dancing and calisthenic exercises, and to whom her aunts trusted to make
her a little more like a countess than she was at present. Those were
poor Kate’s black days of the week; when her feet were pinched, and her
arms turned the wrong way, as it seemed to her; and she was in perpetual
disgrace. And oh, that polite disgrace! Those wishes that her Ladyship
would assume a more aristocratic deportment, were so infinitely worse
than a good scolding! Nothing could make it more dreadful, except Aunt
Barbara’s coming in at the end to see how she was getting on.
The aunts, when Lady Jane was well enough, used to take their drive while
the dancing lesson was in progress, and send the carriage afterwards to
bring their niece home. On the other days of the week, when it was fine,
the carriage set Mrs. Lacy and Kate down in Hyde Park for their walk,
while the aunts drove about; and this, after the first novelty, was
nearly as dull as the morning walk. The quiet decorous pacing along was
very tiresome after skipping in the lanes at home; and once, when Mrs.
Lacy had let her run freely in Kensington Gardens, Lady Barbara was much
displeased with her, and said Lady Caergwent was too old for such habits.
There was no sight-seeing. Kate had told Lady Jane how much she wished
to see the Zoological Gardens and British Museum, and had been answered
that some day when she was very good Aunt Barbara would take her there;
but the day never came, though whenever Kate had been in no particular
scrape for a little while, she hoped it was coming. Though certainly
days without scrapes were not many: the loud tones, the screams of
laughing that betrayed her undignified play with Josephine, the
attitudes, the skipping and jumping like the gambols of a calf, the
wonderful tendency of her clothes to get into mischief—all were
continually bringing trouble upon her.
If a splash of mud was in the street, it always came on her stockings;
her meals left reminiscences on all her newest dresses; her hat was
always blowing off; and her skirts curiously entangled themselves in
rails and balusters, caught upon nails, and tore into ribbons; and though
all the repairs fell to Josephine’s lot, and the purchase of new garments
was no such difficulty as of old, Aunt Barbara was even more severe on
such mishaps than Mary, who had all the trouble and expense of them.
After the walk, Kate had lessons to learn for the next day—poetry, dates,
grammar, and the like; and after them came her tea; and then her evening
toilette, when, as the aunts were out of hearing, she refreshed herself
with play and chatter with Josephine. She was supposed to talk French to
her; but it was very odd sort of French, and Josephine did not insist on
its being better. She was very good-natured, and thought “Miladi” had a
dull life; so she allowed a good many things that a more thoughtful
person would have known to be inconsistent with obedience to Lady
Barbara.
When dressed, Kate had to descend to the drawing-room, and there await
her aunts coming up from dinner. She generally had a book of her own, or
else she read bits of those lying on the tables, till Lady Barbara caught
her, and in spite of her protest that at home she might always read any
book on the table ordered her never to touch any without express
permission.
Sometimes the aunts worked; sometimes Lady Barbara played and sang. They
wanted Kate to sit up as they did with fancy work, and she had a bunch of
flowers in Berlin wool which she was supposed to be grounding; but she
much disliked it, and seldom set three stitches when her aunts’ eyes were
not upon her. Lady Jane was a great worker, and tried to teach her some
pretty stitches; but though she began by liking to sit by the soft gentle
aunt, she was so clumsy a pupil, that Lady Barbara declared that her
sister must not be worried, and put a stop to the lessons. So Kate
sometimes read, or dawdled over her grounding; or when Aunt Barbara was
singing, she would nestle up to her other aunt, and go off into some
dreamy fancy of growing up, getting home to the Wardours, or having them
to live with her at her own home; or even of a great revolution, in
which, after the pattern of the French nobility, she should have to
maintain Aunt Jane by the labour of her hands! What was to become of
Aunt Barbara was uncertain; perhaps she was to be in prison, and Kate to
bring food to her in a little basket every day; or else she was to run
away: but Aunt Jane was to live in a nice little lodging, with no one to
wait on her but her dear little niece, who was to paint beautiful screens
for her livelihood, and make her coffee with her own hands. Poor Lady
Jane!
Bed-time came at last—horrible bed-time, with all its terrors! At first
Kate persuaded Josephine and her light to stay till sleep came to put an
end to them; but Lady Barbara came up one evening, declared that a girl
of eleven years old must not be permitted in such childish nonsense, and
ordered Josephine to go down at once, and always to put out the candle as
soon as Lady Caergwent was in bed.
Lady Barbara would hardly have done so if she had known how much
suffering she caused; but she had always been too sensible to know what
the misery of fancies could be, nor how the silly little brain imagined
everything possible and impossible; sometimes that thieves were breaking
in—sometimes that the house was on fire—sometimes that she should be
smothered with pillows, like the princes in the Tower, for the sake of
her title—sometimes that the Gunpowder Plot would be acted under the
house!
Most often of all it was a thought that was not foolish and unreal like
the rest. It was the thought that the Last Judgment might be about to
begin. But Kate did not use that thought as it was meant to be used when
we are bidden to “watch.” If she had done so, she would have striven
every morning to “live this day as if the last.” But she never thought
of it in the morning, nor made it a guide to her actions; or else she
would have dreaded it less. And at night it did not make her particular
about obedience. It only made her want to keep Josephine; as if
Josephine and a candle could protect her from that Day and Hour! And if
the moment had come, would she not have been safer trying to endure
hardness for the sake of obedience—with the holy verses Mr. Wardour had
taught her on her lips, alone with her God and her good angel—than trying
to forget all in idle chatter with her maid, and contrary to known
commands, detaining her by foolish excuses?
It is true that Kate did not feel as if obedience to Lady Barbara was the
same duty as obedience to “Papa.” Perhaps it was not in the nature of
things that she should; but no one can habitually practise petty
disobedience to one “placed in authority over” her, without hurting the
whole disposition.