THE young countess was not easily broken down. If she was ever so
miserable for one hour, she was ready to be amused the next; and though
when left to herself she felt very desolate in the present, and much
afraid of the future, the least enlivenment brightened her up again into
more than her usual spirits. Even an entertaining bit in the history
that she was reading would give her so much amusement that she would
forget her disgrace in making remarks and asking questions, till Lady
Barbara gravely bade her not waste time, and decided that she had no
feeling.
It was not more easy to find a maid than a governess to Lady Barbara’s
mind, nor did she exert herself much in the matter, for, as Kate heard
her tell Mr. Mercer, she had decided that the present arrangement could
not last; and then something was asked about the Colonel and Mrs.
Umfraville; to which the answer was, “Oh no, quite impossible; she could
never be in a house with an invalid;” and then ensued something about the
Chancellor and an establishment, which, as usual, terrified Kate’s
imagination.
Indeed that night terrors were at their height, for Mrs. Bartley never
allowed dawdling, and with a severely respectful silence made the
undressing as brief an affair as possible, brushing her hair till her
head tingled all over, putting away the clothes with the utmost speed,
and carrying off the candle as soon as she had uttered her grim
“Good-night, my Lady,” leaving Kate to choose between her pet
terrors—either of the Lord Chancellor, or of the house on fire—or a very
fine new one, that someone would make away with her to make way for her
Uncle Giles and his son to come to her title. Somehow Lady Barbara had
contrived to make her exceedingly in awe of her Uncle Giles, the strict
stern soldier who was always implicitly obeyed, and who would be so
shocked at her. She wished she could hide somewhere when he was coming!
But there was one real good bright pleasure near, that would come before
her misfortunes; and that was the birthday to be spent at the Wardours’.
As to the present, Josephine had had the album in her pocket, and had
never restored it, and Kate had begun to feel a distaste to the whole
performance, to recollect its faults, and to be ashamed of the entire
affair; but that was no reason she should not be very happy with her
friends, who had promised to take her to the Zoological Gardens.
She had not seen them since her return to London; they were at Westbourne
Road, too far off for her to walk thither even if she had had anyone to
go with her, and though they had called, no one had seen them; but she
had had two or three notes, and had sent some “story pictures” by the
post. And the thoughts of that day of freedom and enjoyment of talking
to Alice, being petted by Mrs. Wardour and caressed by Sylvia, seemed to
bear her through all the dull morning walks, in which she was not only
attended by Bartley, but by the man-servant; all the lessons with her
aunt, and the still more dreary exercise which Lady Barbara took with her
in some of the parks in the afternoon. She counted the days to the 21st
whenever she woke in the morning; and at last Saturday was come, and it
would be Monday.
“Katharine,” said Lady Barbara at breakfast, “you had better finish your
drawing to-day; here is a note from Madame to say it will suit her best
to come on Monday instead of Tuesday.”
“Oh! but, Aunt Barbara, I am going to Westbourne Road on Monday.”
“Indeed! I was not aware of it.”
“Oh, it is Sylvia’s birthday! and I am going to the Zoological Gardens
with them.”
“And pray how came you to make this engagement without consulting me?”
“It was all settled at Bournemouth. I thought you knew! Did not Mrs.
Wardour ask your leave for me?”
“Mrs. Wardour said something about hoping to see you in London, but I
made no decided answer. I should not have allowed the intimacy there if
I had expected that the family would be living in London; and there is no
reason that it should continue. Constant intercourse would not be at all
desirable.”
“But may I not go on Monday?” said Kate, her eyes opening wide with
consternation.
“No, certainly not. You have not deserved that I should trust you; I do
not know whom you might meet there: and I cannot have you going about
with any chance person.”
“O Aunt Barbara! Aunt Barbara! I have promised!”
“Your promise can be of no effect without my consent.”
“But they will expect me. They will be so disappointed!”
“I cannot help that. They ought to have applied to me for my consent.”
“Perhaps,” said Kate hopefully, “Mrs. Wardour will write to-day. If she
does, will you let me go?”
“No, Katharine. While you are under my charge, I am accountable for you,
and I will not send you into society I know nothing about. Let me hear
no more of this, but write a note excusing yourself, and we will let the
coachman take it to the post.”
Kate was thoroughly enraged, and forgot even her fears. “I sha’n’t
excuse myself,” she said; “I shall say you will not let me go.”
“You will write a proper and gentlewoman-like note,” said Lady Barbara
quietly, “so as not to give needless offence.”
“I shall say,” exclaimed Kate more loudly, “that I can’t go because you
won’t let me go near old friends.”
“Go into the schoolroom, and write a proper note, Katharine; I shall come
presently, and see what you have said,” repeated Lady Barbara, commanding
her own temper with some difficulty.
Kate flung away into the schoolroom, muttering, and in a tumult of
exceeding disappointment, anger, and despair, too furious even to cry,
and dashing about the room, calling Aunt Barbara after every horrible
heroine she could think of, and pitying herself and her friends, till the
thought of Sylvia’s disappointment stung her beyond all bearing. She was
still rushing hither and thither, inflaming her passion, when her aunt
opened the door.
“Where is the note?” she said quietly.
“I have not done it.”
“Sit down then this instant, and write,” said Lady Barbara, with her
Diana face and cool way, the most terrible of all.
Kate sulkily obeyed, but as she seated herself, muttered, “I shall say
you won’t let me go near them.”
“Write as I tell you.—My dear Mrs. Wardour—”
“There.”
“I fear you may be expecting to see me on Monday—”
“I don’t fear; I know she is.”
“Write—I fear you may be expecting me on Monday, as something passed on
the subject at Bournemouth; and in order to prevent inconvenience, I
write to say that it will not be in my power to call on that day, as my
aunt had made a previous engagement for me.”
“I am sure I sha’n’t say that!” cried Kate, breaking out of all bounds in
her indignation.
“Recollect yourself, Lady Caergwent,” said Lady Barbara calmly.
“It is not true!” cried Kate passionately, jumping up from her seat.
“You had not made an engagement for me! I won’t write it! I won’t write
lies, and you sha’n’t make me.”
“I do not allow such words or such a manner in speaking to me,” said Lady
Barbara, not in the least above her usual low voice; and her calmness
made Kate the more furious, and jump and dance round with passion,
repeating, “I’ll never write lies, nor tell lies, for you or anyone; you
may kill me, but I won’t!”
“That is enough exposure of yourself, Lady Caergwent,” said her aunt.
“When you have come to your senses, and choose to apologize for insulting
me, and show me the letter written as I desire, you may come to me.”
And away walked Lady Barbara, as cool and unmoved apparently as if she
had been made of cast iron; though within she was as sorry, and hardly
less angry, than the poor frantic child she left.
Kate did not fly about now. She was very indignant, but she was proud of
herself too; she had spoken as if she had been in a book, and she
believed herself persecuted for adhering to old friends, and refusing to
adopt fashionable falsehoods, such as she had read of. She was a heroine
in her own eyes, and that made her inclined to magnify all the
persecution and cruelty. They wanted to shut her up from the friends of
her childhood, to force her to be false and fashionable; they had made
her naughtier and naughtier ever since she came there; they were teaching
her to tell falsehoods now, and to give up the Wardours. She would never
never do it! Helpless girl as she was, she would be as brave as the
knights and earls her ancestors, and stand up for the truth. But what
would they do at her! Oh! could she bear Aunt Barbara’s dreadful set
Diana face again, and not write as she was told!
The poor weak little heart shrank with terror as she only looked at Aunt
Barbara’s chair—not much like the Sir Giles de Umfraville she had thought
of just now. “And I’m naughty now; I did betray my trust: I’m much
naughtier than I was. Oh, if Papa was but here!” And then a light
darted into Kate’s eye, and a smile came on her lip. “Why should not I
go home? Papa would have me again; I know he would! He would die rather
than leave his child Kate to be made wicked, and forced to tell lies!
Perhaps he’ll hide me! Oh, if I could go to school with the children at
home in disguise, and let Uncle Giles be Earl of Caergwent if he likes!
I’ve had enough of grandeur! I’ll come as Cardinal Wolsey did, when he
said he was come to lay his bones among them—and Sylvia and Mary, and
Charlie and Armyn—oh, I must go where someone will be kind to me again!
Can I really, though? Why not?” and her heart beat violently. “Yes,
yes; nothing would happen to me; I know how to manage! If I can only get
there, they will hide me from Aunt Barbara and the Lord Chancellor; and
even if I had to go back, I should have had one kiss of them all.
Perhaps if I don’t go now I shall never see them again!”
With thoughts something like these, Kate, moving dreamily, as if she were
not sure that it was herself or not, opened her little writing-case, took
out her purse, and counted the money. There was a sovereign and some
silver; more than enough, as she well knew. Then she took out of a
chiffoniere her worked travelling bag, and threw in a few favourite
books; then stood and gasped, and opened the door to peep out. The
coachman was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for orders, so she drew
in her head, looked at her watch, and considered whether her room would
be clear of the housemaids. If she could once get safely out of the
house she would not be missed till her dinner time, and perhaps then
might be supposed sullen, and left alone. She was in a state of great
fright, starting violently at every sound; but the scheme having once
occurred to her, it seemed as if St. James’s Parsonage was pulling her
harder and harder every minute; she wondered if there were really such
things as heart-strings; if there were, hers must be fastened very tight
round Sylvia.
At last she ventured out, and flew up to her own room more swiftly than
ever she had darted before! She moved about quietly, and perceived by
the sounds in the next room that Mrs. Bartley was dressing Aunt Jane, and
Aunt Barbara reading a letter to her. This was surely a good moment; but
she knew she must dress herself neatly, and not look scared, if she did
not mean to be suspected and stopped; and she managed to get quietly into
her little shaggy coat, her black hat and feather and warm gloves—even
her boots were remembered—and then whispering to herself, “It can’t be
wrong to get away from being made to tell stories! I’m going to Papa!”
she softly opened the door, went on tip-toe past Lady’s Jane’s door; then
after the first flight of stairs, rushed like the wind, unseen by anyone,
got the street door open, pulled it by its outside handle, and heard it
shut!
It was done now! She was on the wide world—in the street! She could not
have got in again without knocking, ringing, and making her attempt
known; and she was far more terrified at the thought of Lady Barbara’s
stern face and horror at her proceedings than even at the long journey
alone.
Every step was a little bit nearer Sylvia, Mary, and Papa—it made her
heart bound in the midst of its frightened throbs—every step was farther
away from Aunt Barbara, and she could hardly help setting off in a run.
It was a foggy day, when it was not so easy to see far, but she longed to
be out of Bruton Street, where she might be known; yet when beyond the
quiet familiar houses, the sense of being alone, left to herself, began
to get very alarming, and she could hardly control herself to walk like a
rational person to the cab-stand in Davies Street.
Nobody remarked her; she was a tall girl for her age, and in her sober
dark dress, with her little bag, might be taken for a tradesman’s
daughter going to school, even if anyone had been out who had time to
look at her. Trembling, she saw a cabman make a sign to her, and stood
waiting for him, jumped in as he opened his door, and felt as if she had
found a refuge for the time upon the dirty red plush cushions and the
straw. “To the Waterloo Station,” said she, with as much indifference
and self-possession as she could manage. The man touched his hat, and
rattled off: he perhaps wondering if this were a young runaway, and if he
should get anything by telling where she was gone; she working herself
into a terrible fright for fear he should be going to drive round and
round London, get her into some horrible den of iniquity, and murder her
for the sake of her money, her watch, and her clothes. Did not cabmen
always do such things? She had quite decided how she would call a
policeman, and either die like an Umfraville or offer a ransom of “untold
gold,” and had gone through all possible catastrophes long before she
found herself really safe at the railway station, and the man letting her
out, and looking for his money.
The knowledge that all depended on herself, and that any signs of alarm
would bring on inquiry, made her able to speak and act so reasonably,
that she felt like one in a dream. With better fortune than she could
have hoped for, a train was going to start in a quarter of an hour; and
the station clerk was much too busy and too much hurried to remark how
scared were her eyes, and how trembling her voice, as she asked at his
pigeon-hole for “A first-class ticket to Oldburgh, if you please,”
offered the sovereign in payment, swept up the change, and crept out to
the platform.
A carriage had “Oldburgh” marked on it; she tried to open the door, but
could not reach the handle; then fancied a stout porter who came up with
his key must be some messenger of the Lord Chancellor come to catch her,
and was very much relieved when he only said, “Where for, Miss?” and on
her answer, “Oldburgh,” opened the door for her, and held her bag while
she tripped up the steps. “Any luggage, Miss?” “No, thank you.” He
shot one inquiring glance after her, but hastened away; and she settled
herself in the very farthest corner of the carriage, and lived in an
agony for the train to set off before her flight should be detected.
Once off, she did not care; she should be sure of at least seeing Sylvia,
and telling her uncle her troubles. She had one great start, when the
door was opened, and a gentleman peered in; but it was merely to see if
there was room, for she heard him say, “Only a child,” and in came a lady
and two gentlemen, who at least filled up the window so that nobody could
see her, while they talked a great deal to someone on the platform. And
then after some bell-ringing, whistling, sailing backwards and forwards,
and stopping, they were fairly off—getting away from the roofs of
London—seeing the sky clear of smoke and fog—getting nearer home every
moment; and Countess Kate relaxed her shy, frightened, drawn-up attitude,
gave a long breath, felt that the deed was done, and began to dwell on
the delight with which she should be greeted at home, and think how to
surprise them all!
There was plenty of time for thinking and planning and dreaming, some few
possible things, but a great many more most impossible ones. Perhaps the
queerest notion of all was her plan for being disguised like a
school-child all day, and always noticed for her distinguished appearance
by ladies who came to see the school, or overheard talking French to
Sylvia; and then in the midst of her exceeding anxiety not to be
detected, she could not help looking at her travelling companions, and
wondering if they guessed with what a grand personage they had the honour
to be travelling! Only a child, indeed! What would they think if they
knew? And the little goose held her pocket-handkerchief in her hand,
feeling as if it would be like a story if they happened to wonder at the
coronet embroidered in the corner; and when she took out a story-book,
she would have liked that the fly-leaf should just carelessly reveal the
Caergwent written upon it. She did not know that selfishness had thrown
out the branch of self-consequence.
However, nothing came of it; they had a great deal too much to say to
each other to notice the little figure in the corner; and she had time to
read a good deal, settle a great many fine speeches, get into many a
fright lest there should be an accident, and finally grow very impatient,
alarmed, and agitated before the last station but one was passed, and she
began to know the cut of the hedgerow-trees, and the shape of the
hills—to feel as if the cattle and sheep in the fields were old friends,
and to feel herself at home.
Oldburgh Station! They were stopping at last, and she was on her feet,
pressing to the window between the strangers. One of the gentlemen
kindly made signs to the porter to let her out, and asked if she had any
baggage, or anyone to meet her. She thanked him by a smile and shake of
the head; she could not speak for the beating of her heart; she felt
almost as much upon the world as when the door in Bruton Street had shut
behind her; and besides, a terrible wild fancy had seized her—suppose,
just suppose, they were all gone away, or ill, or someone dead! Perhaps
she felt it would serve her right, and that was the reason she was in
such terror.