AFTER that first visit, Kate did see something of the De la Poers, but
not more than enough to keep her in a constant ferment with the uncertain
possibility, and the longing for the meetings.
The advances came from them; Lady Barbara said very truly, that she could
not be responsible for making so naughty a child as her niece the
companion of any well-regulated children; she was sure that their mother
could not wish it, since nice and good as they naturally were, this
unlucky Katharine seemed to infect them with her own spirit of riot and
turbulence whenever they came near her.
There was no forwarding of the attempts to make appointments for walks in
the Park, though really very little harm had ever come of them, guarded
by the two governesses, and by Lady Fanny’s decided ideas of propriety.
That Kate embarked in long stories, and in their excitement raised her
voice, was all that could be said against her on those occasions, and
Mrs. Lacy forbore to say it.
Once, indeed, Kate was allowed to ask her friends to tea; but that proved
a disastrous affair. Fanny was prevented from coming; and in the absence
of her quiet elder-sisterly care, the spirits of Grace and Adelaide were
so excited by Kate’s drollery, that they were past all check from Mary,
and drew her along with them into a state of frantic fun and mad pranks.
They were full of merriment all tea time, even in the presence of the two
governesses; and when that was over, and Kate showed “the bracket,” they
began to grow almost ungovernable in their spirit of frolic and fun: they
went into Kate’s room, resolved upon being desert travellers, set up an
umbrella hung round with cloaks for a tent, made camels of chairs, and
finding those tardy, attempted riding on each other—with what results to
Aunt Jane’s ears below may be imagined—dressed up wild Arabs in
bournouses of shawls, and made muskets of parasols, charging desperately,
and shrieking for attack, defence, “for triumph or despair,” as Kate
observed, in one of her magnificent quotations. Finally, the endangered
traveller, namely Grace, rushed down the stairs headlong, with the two
Arabs clattering after him, banging with their muskets, and shouting
their war-cry the whole height of the house.
The ladies in the drawing-room had borne a good deal; but Aunt Jane was
by this time looking meekly distracted; and Lady Barbara sallying out,
met the Arab Sheikh with his white frock over his head, descending the
stairs in the rear, calling to his tribe in his sweet voice not to be so
noisy—but not seeing before him through the said bournouse, he had very
nearly struck Lady Barbara with his parasol before he saw her.
No one could be more courteous or full of apologies than the said Sheikh,
who was in fact a good deal shocked at his unruly tribe, and quite
acquiesced in the request that they would all come and sit quiet in the
drawing-room, and play at some suitable game there.
It would have been a relief to Mary to have them thus disposed of safely;
and Adelaide would have obeyed; but the other two had been worked up to a
state of wildness, such as befalls little girls who have let themselves
out of the control of their better sense.
They did not see why they should sit up stupid in the drawing-room; “Mary
was as cross as Lady Barbara herself to propose it,” said Grace,
unfortunately just as the lady herself was on the stairs to enforce her
desire, in her gravely courteous voice; whereupon Kate, half tired and
wholly excited, burst out into a violent passionate fit of crying and
sobbing, declaring that it was very hard, that whenever she had ever so
little pleasure, Aunt Barbara always grudged it to her.
None of them had ever heard anything like it; to the little De la Poers
she seemed like one beside herself, and Grace clung to Mary, and Adelaide
to Miss Oswald, almost frightened at the screams and sobs that Kate
really could not have stopped if she would. Lady Jane came to the head
of the stairs, pale and trembling, begging to know who was hurt; and Mrs.
Lacy tried gentle reasoning and persuading, but she might as well have
spoken to the storm beating against the house.
Lady Barbara sternly ordered her off to her room; but the child did not
stir—indeed, she could not, except that she rocked herself to and fro in
her paroxysms of sobbing, which seemed to get worse and worse every
moment. It was Miss Oswald at last, who, being more used to little girls
and their naughtiness than any of the others, saw the right moment at
last, and said, as she knelt down by her, half kindly, half severely, “My
dear, you had better let me take you up-stairs. I will help you: and you
are only shocking everyone here.”
Kate did let her take her up-stairs, though at every step there was a
pause, a sob, a struggle; but a gentle hand on her shoulder, and firm
persuasive voice in her ear, moved her gradually onwards, till the little
pink room was gained; and there she threw herself on her bed in another
agony of wild subs, unaware of Miss Oswald’s parley at the door with Lady
Barbara and Mrs. Lacy, and her entreaty that the patient might be left to
her, which they were nothing loth to do.
When Kate recovered her speech, she poured out a wild and very naughty
torrent, about being the most unhappy girl in the world; the aunts were
always unkind to her; she never got any pleasure; she could not bear
being a countess; she only wanted to go back to her old home, to Papa and
Mary and Sylvia; and nobody would help her.
Miss Oswald treated the poor child almost as if she had been a little out
of her mind, let her say it all between her sobs, and did not try to
argue with her, but waited till the talking and the sobbing had fairly
tried her out; and by that time the hour had come at which the little
visitors were to go home. The governess rose up, and said she must go,
asking in a quiet tone, as if all that had been said were mere mad folly,
whether Lady Caergwent would come down with her, and tell her aunts she
was sorry for the disturbance she had made.
Kate shrank from showing such a spectacle as her swollen, tear-stained,
red-marbled visage. She was thoroughly sorry, and greatly ashamed; and
she only gasped out, “I can’t, I can’t; don’t let me see anyone.”
“Then I will wish Mary and her sisters good-bye for you.”
“Yes, please.” Kate had no words for more of her sorrow and shame.
“And shall I say anything to your aunt for you?”
“I—I don’t know; only don’t let anyone come up.”
“Then shall I tell Lady Barbara you are too much tired out now for
talking, but that you will tell her in the morning how sorry you are?”
“Well, yes,” said Kate rather grudgingly. “Oh, must you go?”
“I am afraid I must, my dear. Their mamma does not like Addie and Grace
to be kept up later than their usual bed-time.”
“I wish you could stay. I wish you were my governess,” said Kate,
clinging to her, and receiving her kind, friendly, pitying kiss.
And when the door had shut upon her, Kate’s tears began to drop again at
the thought that it was very hard that the little De la Poers, who had
father, mother, and each other, should likewise have such a nice
governess, while she had only poor sad dull Mrs. Lacy.
Had Kate only known what an unselfish little girl and Mrs. Lacy might
have been to each other!
However, the first thing she could now think of was to avoid being seen
or spoken to by anyone that night; and for this purpose she hastily
undressed herself, bundled-up her hair as best she might, as in former
days, said her prayers, and tumbled into bed, drawing the clothes over
her head, resolved to give no sign of being awake, come who might.
Her shame was real, and very great. Such violent crying fits had
overtaken her in past times, but had been thought to be outgrown. She
well recollected the last. It was just after the death of her aunt, Mrs.
Wardour, just when the strange stillness of sorrow in the house was
beginning to lessen, and the children had forgotten themselves, and burst
out into noise and merriment, till they grew unrestrained and
quarrelsome; Charlie had offended Kate, she had struck him, and Mary
coming on them, grieved and hurt at their conduct at such a time, had
punished Kate for the blow, but missed perception of Charlie’s offence;
and the notion of injustice had caused the shrieking cries and violent
sobs that had brought Mr. Wardour from the study in grave sorrowful
severity.
What she had heard afterwards from him about not making poor Mary’s task
harder, and what she had heard from Mary about not paining him, had
really restrained her; and she had thought such outbreaks passed by among
the baby faults she had left behind, and was the more grieved and ashamed
in consequence. She felt it a real exposure: she remembered her young
friends’ surprised and frightened eyes, and not only had no doubt their
mother would really think her too naughty to be their playfellow, but
almost wished that it might be so—she could never, never bear to see them
again.
She heard the street door close after them, she heard the carriage drive
away; she felt half relieved; but then she hid her face in the pillow,
and cried more quietly, but more bitterly.
Then some one knocked; she would not answer. Then came a voice, saying,
“Katharine.” It was Aunt Barbara’s, but it was rather wavering. She
would not answer, so the door was opened, and the steps, scarcely audible
in the rustling of the silk, came in; and Kate felt that her aunt was
looking at her, wondered whether she had better put out her head, ask
pardon, and have it over, but was afraid; and presently heard the moiré
antique go sweeping away again.
And then the foolish child heartily wished she had spoken, and was seized
with desperate fears of the morrow, more of the shame of hearing of her
tears than of any punishment. Why had she not been braver?
After a time came a light, and Josephine moving about quietly, and
putting away the clothes that had been left on the floor. Kate was not
afraid of her, but her caressing consolations and pity would have only
added to the miserable sense of shame; so there was no sign, no symptom
of being awake, though it was certain that before Josephine went away,
the candle was held so as to cast a light over all that was visible of
the face. Kate could not help hearing the low muttering of the
Frenchwoman, who was always apt to talk to herself: “Asleep! Ah, yes!
She sleeps profoundly. How ugly _la petite_ has made herself! What
cries! Ah, she is like Miladi her aunt! a demon of a temper!”
Kate restrained herself till the door was shut again, and then rolled
over and over, till she had made a strange entanglement of her
bed-clothes, and brought her passion to an end by making a mummy of
herself, bound hand and foot, snapping with her month all the time, as if
she longed to bite.
“O you horrible Frenchwoman! You are a flatterer, a base flatterer; such
as always haunt the great! I hate it all. I a demon of a temper? I
like Aunt Barbara? Oh, you wretch! I’ll tell Aunt Barbara a to-morrow,
and get you sent away!”
Those were some of Kate’s fierce angry thoughts in her first vexation;
but with all her faults, she was not a child who ever nourished rancour
or malice; and though she had been extremely wounded at first, yet she
quickly forgave.
By the time she had smoothed out her sheet, and settled matters between
it and her blanket, she had begun to think more coolly. “No, no, I
won’t. It would be horribly dishonourable and all that to tell Aunt
Barbara. Josephine was only thinking out loud; and she can’t help what
she thinks. I was very naughty; no wonder she thought so. Only next
time she pets me, I will say to her, ‘You cannot deceive me, Josephine; I
like the plain truth better than honeyed words.’”
And now that Kate had arrived at the composition of a fine speech that
would never be made, it was plain that her mind was pretty well composed.
That little bit of forgiveness, though it had not even cost an effort,
had been softening, soothing, refreshing; it had brought peacefulness;
and Kate lay, not absolutely asleep, but half dreaming, in the summer
twilight, in the soft undefined fancies of one tired out with agitation.
She was partly roused by the various sounds in the house, but not
startled—the light nights of summer always diminished her alarms; and she
heard the clocks strike, and the bell ring for prayers, the doors open
and shut, all mixed in with her hazy fancies. At last came the silken
rustlings up the stairs again, and the openings of bed-room doors close
to her.
Kate must have gone quite to sleep, for she did not know when the door
was opened, and how the soft voices had come in that she heard over her.
“Poor little dear! How she has tossed her bed about! I wonder if we
could set the clothes straight without wakening her.”
How very sweet and gentle Aunt Jane’s voice was in that low cautious
whisper.
Some one—and Kate knew the peculiar sound of Mrs. Lacy’s crape—was moving
the bed-clothes as gently as she could.
“Poor little dear!” again said Lady Jane; “it is very sad to see a child
who has cried herself to sleep. I do wish we could manage her better.
Do you think the child is happy?” she ended by asking in a wistful voice.
“She has very high spirits,” was the answer.
“Ah, yes! her impetuosity; it is her misfortune, poor child! Barbara is
so calm and resolute, that—that—” Was Lady Jane really going to regret
anything in her sister? She did not say it, however; but Kate heard her
sigh, and add, “Ah, well! if I were stronger, perhaps we could make her
happier; but I am so nervous. I must try not to look distressed when her
spirits do break out, for perhaps it is only natural. And I am so sorry
to have brought all this on her, and spoilt those poor children’s
pleasure!”
Lady Jane bent over the child, and Kate reared herself up on a sudden,
threw her arms round her neck, and whispered, “Aunt Jane, dear Aunt Jane,
I’ll try never to frighten you again! I am so sorry.”
“There, there; have I waked you? Don’t, my dear; your aunt will hear.
Go to sleep again. Yes, do.”
But Aunt Jane was kissing and fondling all the time; and the end of this
sad naughty evening was, that Kate went to sleep with more softness,
love, and repentance in her heart, than there had been since her coming
to Bruton Street.