WHEN Kate had left the train, she was still two miles from St. James’s;
and it was half-past three o’clock, so that she began to feel that she
had run away without her dinner, and that the beatings of her heart made
her knees ache, so that she had no strength to walk.
She thought her best measure would be to make her way to a pastry-cook’s
shop that looked straight down the street to the Grammar School, and
where it was rather a habit of the family to meet Charlie when they had
gone into the town on business, and wanted to walk out with him. He
would be out at four o’clock, and there would not be long to wait. So,
feeling shy, and even more guilty and frightened than on her first start,
Kate threaded the streets she knew so well, and almost gasping with
nervous alarm, popped up the steps into the shop, and began instantly
eating a bun, and gazing along the street. She really could not speak
till she had swallowed a few mouthfuls; and then she looked up to the
woman, and took courage to ask if the boys were out of school yet.
“Oh, no, Miss; not for a quarter of an hour yet.”
“Do you know if—if Master Charles Wardour is there to-day?” added Kate,
with a gulp.
“I don’t, Miss.” And the woman looked hard at her.
“Do you know if any of them—any of them from St. James’s, are in to-day?”
“No, Miss; I have not seen any of them, but very likely they may be. I
saw Mr. Wardour go by yesterday morning.”
So far they were all well, then; and Kate made her mind easier, and went
on eating like a hungry child till the great clock struck four; when she
hastily paid for her cakes and tarts, put on her gloves, and stood on the
step, half in and half out of the shop, staring down the street. Out
came the boys in a rush, making straight for the shop, and brushing past
Kate; she, half alarmed, half affronted, descended from her post, still
looking intently. Half a dozen more big fellows, eagerly talking, almost
tumbled over her, and looked as if she had no business there; she seemed
to be quite swept off the pavement into the street, and to be helpless in
the midst of a mob, dashing around her. They might begin to tease her in
a minute; and more terrified than at any moment of her journey, she was
almost ready to cry, when the tones of a well-known voice came on her ear
close to her—“I say, Will, you come and see my new terrier;” and before
the words were uttered, with a cry of, “Charlie, Charlie!” she was
clinging to a stout boy who had been passing without looking at her.
“Let go, I say. Who are you?” was the first rough greeting.
“O Charlie, Charlie!” almost sobbing, and still grasping his arm tight.
“Oh, I say!” and he stood with open mouth staring at her.
“O Charlie! take me home!”
“Yes, yes; come along!—Get off with you, fellows!” he added—turning round
upon the other boys, who were beginning to stare—and exclaimed, “It’s
nothing but our Kate!”
Oh! what a thrill there was in hearing those words; and the boys, who
were well-behaved and gentlemanly, were not inclined to molest her. So
she hurried on, holding Charles’s arm for several steps, till they were
out of the hubbub, when he turned again and stared, and again exclaimed,
“I say!” all that he could at present utter; and Kate looked at his ruddy
face and curly head, and dusty coat and inky collar, as if she would eat
him for very joy.
“I say!” and this time he really did say, “Where are the rest of them?”
“At home, aren’t they?”
“What, didn’t they bring you in?”
“Oh no!”
“Come, don’t make a tomfoolery of it; that’s enough. I shall have all
the fellows at me for your coming up in that way, you know. Why couldn’t
you shake hands like anyone else?”
“O Charlie, I couldn’t help it! Please let us go home!”
“Do you mean that you aren’t come from there?”
“No,” said Kate, half ashamed, but far more exultant, and hanging down
her head; “I came from London—I came by myself. My aunt wanted me to
tell a story, and—and I have run away. O Charlie! take me home!” and
with a fresh access of alarm, she again threw her arms round him, as if
to gain his protection from some enemy.
“Oh, I say!” again he cried, looking up the empty street and down again,
partly for the enemy, partly to avoid eyes; but he only beheld three
dirty children and an old woman, so he did not throw her off roughly.
“Ran away!” and he gave a great whistle.
“Yes, yes. My aunt shut me up because I would not tell a story,” said
Kate, really believing it herself. “Oh, let us get home, Charlie, do.”
“Very well, if you won’t throttle a man; and let me get Tony in here,” he
added, going on a little way towards a small inn stable-yard.
“Oh, don’t go,” cried Kate, who, once more protected, could not bear to
be left alone a moment; but Charlie plunged into the yard, and came back
not only with the pony, but with a plaid, and presently managed to mount
Kate upon the saddle, throwing the plaid round her so as to hide the
short garments and long scarlet stockings, that were not adapted for
riding, all with a boy’s rough and tender care for the propriety of his
sister’s appearance.
“There, that will do,” said he, holding the bridle. “So you found it
poor fun being My Lady, and all that.”
“Oh! it was awful, Charlie! You little know, in your peaceful
retirement, what are the miseries of the great.”
“Come, Kate, don’t talk bosh out of your books. What did they do to you?
They didn’t lick you, did they?”
“No, no; nonsense,” said Kate, rather affronted; “but they wanted to make
me forget all that I cared for, and they really did shut me up because I
said I would not write a falsehood to please them! They did, Charlie!”
and her eyes shone.
“Well, I always knew they must be a couple of horrid old owls,” began
Charlie.
“Oh! I didn’t mean Aunt Jane,” said Kate, feeling a little compunction.
“Ah!” with a start and scream, “who is coming?” as she heard steps behind
them.
“You little donkey, you’ll be off! Who should it be but Armyn?”
For Armyn generally overtook his brother on a Saturday, and walked home
with him for the Sunday.
Charles hailed him with a loud “Hollo, Armyn! What d’ye think I’ve got
here?”
“Kate! Why, how d’ye do! Why, they never told me you were coming to see
us.”
“They didn’t know,” whispered Kate.
“She’s run away, like a jolly brick!” said Charlie, patting the pony
vehemently as he made this most inappropriate comparison.
“Run away! You don’t mean it!” cried Armyn, standing still and aghast,
so much shocked that her elevation turned into shame; and Charles
answered for her—
“Yes, to be sure she did, when they locked her up because she wouldn’t
tell lies to please them. How did you get out, Kittens? What jolly good
fun it must have been!”
“Is this so, Kate?” said Armyn, laying his hand on the bridle; and his
displeasure roused her spirit of self-defence, and likewise a sense of
ill-usage.
“To be sure it is,” she said, raising her head indignantly. “I would not
be made to tell fashionable falsehoods; and so—and so I came home, for
Papa to protect me:” and if she had not had to take care to steady
herself on her saddle, she would have burst out sobbing with vexation at
Armyn’s manner.
“And no one knew you were coming?” said he.
“No, of course not; I slipped out while they were all in confabulation in
Aunt Jane’s room, and they were sure not to find me gone till dinner
time, and if they are very cross, not then.”
“You go on, Charlie,” said Armyn, restoring the bridle to his brother;
“I’ll overtake you by the time you get home.”
“What are you going to do?” cried boy and girl with one voice.
“Well, I suppose it is fair to tell you,” said Armyn. “I must go and
telegraph what is become of you.”
There was a howl and a shriek at this. They would come after her and
take her away, when she only wanted to be hid and kept safe; it was a
cruel shame, and Charles was ready to fly at his brother and pommel him;
indeed, Armyn had to hold him by one shoulder, and say in the voice that
meant that he would be minded, “Steady, boy I—I’m very sorry, my little
Katie; it’s a melancholy matter, but you must have left those poor old
ladies in a dreadful state of alarm about you, and they ought not to be
kept in it!”
“Oh! but Armyn, Armyn, do only get home, and see what Papa says.”
“I am certain what he will say, and it would only be the trouble of
sending someone in, and keeping the poor women in a fright all the
longer. Besides, depend on it, the way to have them sending down after
you would be to say nothing. Now, if they hear you are safe, you are
pretty secure of spending to-morrow at least with us. Let me go, Kate;
it must be done. I cannot help it.”
Even while he spoke, the kind way of crossing her will was so like home,
that it gave a sort of happiness, and she felt she could not resist; so
she gave a sigh, and he turned back.
How much of the joy and hope of her journey had he not carried away with
him! His manner of treating her exploit made her even doubt how his
father might receive it; and yet the sight of old scenes, and the
presence of Charlie, was such exceeding delight, that it seemed to kill
off all unpleasant fears or anticipations; and all the way home it was
one happy chatter of inquiries for everyone, of bits of home news, and
exclamations at the sight of some well-known tree, or the outline of a
house remembered for some adventure; the darker the twilight the happier
her tongue. The dull suburb, all little pert square red-brick houses,
with slated roofs and fine names, in the sloppiness of a grey November
day, was dear to Kate; every little shop window with the light streaming
out was like a friend; and she anxiously gazed into the rough parties out
for their Saturday purchases, intending to nod to anyone she might know,
but it was too dark for recognitions; and when at length they passed the
dark outline of the church, she was silent, her heart again bouncing as
if it would beat away her breath and senses. The windows were dark; it
was a sign that Evening Service was just over. The children turned in at
the gate, just as Armyn overtook them. He lifted Kate off her pony. She
could not have stood, but she could run, and she flew to the
drawing-room. No one was there; perhaps she was glad. She knew the
cousins would be dressing for tea, and in another moment she had torn
open Sylvia’s door.
Sylvia, who was brushing her hair, turned round. She stared—as if she
had seen a ghost. Then the two children held out their arms, and rushed
together with a wild scream that echoed through the house, and brought
Mary flying out of her room to see who was hurt! and to find, rolling on
her sister’s bed, a thing that seemed to have two bodies and two faces
glued together, four legs, and all its arms and hands wound round and
round.
“Sylvia! What is it? Who is it? What is she doing to you?” began Mary;
but before the words were out of her mouth, the thing had flown at her
neck, and pulled her down too; and the grasp and the clinging and the
kisses told her long before she had room or eyes or voice to know the
creature by. A sort of sobbing out of each name between them was all
that was heard at first.
At last, just as Mary was beginning to say, “My own own Katie! how did
you come—” Mr. Wardour’s voice on the stairs called “Mary!”
“Have you seen him, my dear?”
“No;” but Kate was afraid now she had heard his voice, for it was grave.
“Mary!” And Mary went. Kate sat up, holding Sylvia’s hand.
They heard him ask, “Is Kate there?”
“Yes.” And then there were lower voices that Kate could not hear, and
which therefore alarmed her; and Sylvia, puzzled and frightened, sat
holding her hand, listening silently.
Presently Mr. Wardour came in; and his look was graver than his tone; but
it was so pitying, that in a moment Kate flew to his breast, and as he
held her in his arms she cried, “O Papa! Papa! I have found you again!
you will not turn me away.”
“I must do whatever may be right, my dear child,” said Mr. Wardour,
holding her close, so that she felt his deep love, though it was not an
undoubting welcome. “I will hear all about it when you have rested, and
then I may know what is best to be done.”
“Oh! keep me, keep me, Papa.”
“You will be here to-morrow at least,” he said, disengaging himself from
her. “This is a terrible proceeding of yours, Kate, but it is no time
for talking of it; and as your aunts know where you are, nothing more can
be done at present; so we will wait to understand it till you are rested
and composed.”
He went away; and Kate remained sobered and confused, and Mary stood
looking at her, sad and perplexed.
“O Kate! Kate!” she said, “what have you been doing?”
“What is the matter? Are not you glad?” cried Sylvia; and the squeeze of
her hand restored Kate’s spirits so much that she broke forth with her
story, told in her own way, of persecution and escape, as she had wrought
herself up to believe in it; and Sylvia clung to her, with flushed cheeks
and ardent eyes, resenting every injury that her darling detailed,
triumphing in her resistance, and undoubting that here she would be
received and sheltered from all; while Mary, distressed and grieved, and
cautioned by her father to take care not to show sympathy that might be
mischievous, was carried along in spite of herself to admire and pity her
child, and burn with indignation at such ill-treatment, almost in despair
at the idea that the child must be sent back again, yet still not
discarding that trust common to all Mr. Wardour’s children, that “Papa
would do _anything_ to hinder a temptation.”
And so, with eager words and tender hands, Kate was made ready for the
evening meal, and went down, clinging on one side to Mary, on the other
to Sylvia—a matter of no small difficulty on the narrow staircase, and
almost leading to a general avalanche of young ladies, all upon the head
of little Lily, who was running up to greet and be greeted, and was
almost devoured by Kate when at length they did get safe downstairs.
It was a somewhat quiet, grave meal; Mr. Wardour looked so sad and
serious, that all felt that it would not do to indulge in joyous chatter,
and the little girls especially were awed; though through all there was a
tender kindness in his voice and look, whenever he did but offer a slice
of bread to his little guest, such as made her feel what was home and
what was love—“like a shower of rain after a parched desert” as she said
to herself; and she squeezed Sylvia’s hand under the table whenever she
could.
Mr. Wardour spoke to her very little. He said he had seen Colonel
Umfraville’s name in the _Gazette_, and asked about his coming home; and
when she had answered that the time and speed of the journey were to
depend on Giles’s health, he turned from her to Armyn, and began talking
to him about some public matters that seemed very dull to Kate; and one
little foolish voice within her said, “He is not like Mrs. George
Wardour, he forgets what I am;” but there was a wiser, more loving voice
to answer, “Dear Papa, he thinks of me as myself; he is no respecter of
persons. Oh, I hope he is not angry with me!”
When tea was over Mr. Wardour stood up, and said, “I shall wish you
children good-night now; I have to read with John Bailey for his
Confirmation, and to prepare for to-morrow;—and you, Kate, must go to bed
early.—Mary, she had better sleep with you.”
This was rather a blank, for sleeping with Sylvia again had been Kate’s
dream of felicity; yet this was almost lost in the sweetness of once more
coming in turn for the precious kiss and good-night, in the midst of
which she faltered, “O Papa, don’t be angry with me!”
“I am not angry, Katie,” he said gently; “I am very sorry. You have done
a thing that nothing can justify, and that may do you much future harm;
and I cannot receive you as if you had come properly. I do not know what
excuse there was for you, and I cannot attend to you to-night; indeed, I
do not think you could tell me rightly; but another time we will talk it
all over, and I will try to help you. Now good-night, my dear child.”
Those words of his, “I will try to help you,” were to Kate like a promise
of certain rescue from all her troubles; and, elastic ball that her
nature was, no sooner was his anxious face out of sight, and she secure
that he was not angry, than up bounded her spirits again. She began
wondering why Papa thought she could not tell him properly, and forthwith
began to give what she intended for a full and particular history of all
that she had gone through.
It was a happy party round the fire; Kate and Sylvia both together in the
large arm-chair, and Lily upon one of its arms; Charles in various odd
attitudes before the fire; Armyn at the table with his book, half
reading, half listening; Mary with her work; and Kate pouring out her
story, making herself her own heroine, and describing her adventures, her
way of life, and all her varieties of miseries, in the most glowing
colours. How she did rattle on! It would be a great deal too much to
tell; indeed it would be longer than this whole story!
Sylvia and Charlie took it all in, pitied, wondered, and were indignant,
with all their hearts; indeed Charlie was once heard to wish he could
only get that horrid old witch near the horse-pond; and when Kate talked
of her Diana face, he declared that he should get the old brute of a cat
into the field, and set all the boys to stone her.
Little Lily listened, not sure whether it was not all what she called “a
made-up story only for prettiness;” and Mary, sitting over her work, was
puzzled, and saw that her father was right in saying that Kate could not
at present give an accurate account of herself. Mary knew her
truthfulness, and that she would not have said what she knew to be
invention; but those black eyes, glowing like little hot coals, and those
burning cheeks, as well as the loud, squeaky key of the voice, all showed
that she had worked herself up into a state of excitement, such as not to
know what was invented by an exaggerating memory. Besides, it could not
be all true; it did not agree; the ill-treatment was not consistent with
the grandeur. For Kate had taken to talking very big, as if she was an
immensely important personage, receiving much respect wherever she went;
and though Armyn once or twice tried putting in a sober matter-of-fact
question for the fun of disconcerting her, she was too mad to care or
understand what he said.
“Oh no! she never was allowed to do anything for herself. That was quite
a rule, and very tiresome it was.”
“Like the King of Spain, you can’t move your chair away from the fire
without the proper attendant.”
“I never do put on coals or wood there!”
“There may be several reasons for that,” said Armyn, recollecting how
nearly Kate had once burnt the house down.
“Oh, I assure you it would not do for me,” said Kate. “If it were not so
inconvenient in that little house, I should have my own man-servant to
attend to my fire, and walk out behind me. Indeed, now Perkins always
does walk behind me, and it is such a bore.”
And what was the consequence of all this wild chatter? When Mary had
seen the hot-faced eager child into bed, she came down to her brother in
the drawing-room with her eyes brimful of tears, saying, “Poor dear
child! I am afraid she is very much spoilt!”
“Don’t make up your mind to-night,” said Armyn. “She is slightly insane
as yet! Never mind, Mary; her heart is in the right place, if her head
is turned a little.”
“It is very much turned indeed,” said Mary. “How wise it was of Papa not
to let Sylvia sleep with her! What will he do with her? Oh dear!”