THE Sunday at Oldburgh was not spent as Kate would have had it. It
dawned upon her in the midst of horrid dreams, ending by wakening to an
overpowering sick headache, the consequence of the agitations and alarms
of the previous day, and the long fast, appeased by the contents of the
pastry-cook’s shop, with the journey and the excitement of the
meeting—altogether quite sufficient to produce such a miserable feeling
of indisposition, that if Kate could have thought at all of anything but
present wretchedness, she would have feared that she was really carrying
out the likeness to Cardinal Wolsey by laying her bones among them.
That it was not quite so bad as that, might be inferred from her having
no doctor but Mary Wardour, who attended to her most assiduously from her
first moans at four o’clock in the morning, till her dropping off to
sleep about noon; when the valiant Mary, in the absence of everyone at
church, took upon herself to pen a note, to catch the early Sunday post,
on her own responsibility, to Lady Barbara Umfraville, to say that her
little cousin was so unwell that it would be impossible to carry out the
promise of bringing her home on Monday, which Mr. Wardour had written on
Saturday night.
Sleep considerably repaired her little ladyship; and when she had
awakened, and supped up a bason of beef-tea, toast and all, with
considerable appetite, she was so much herself again, that there was no
reason that anyone should be kept at home to attend to her. Mary’s
absence was extremely inconvenient, as she was organist and leader of the
choir.
“So, Katie dear,” she said, when she saw her patient on her legs again,
making friends with the last new kitten of the old cat, “you will not
mind being left alone, will you? It is only for the Litany and
catechising, you know.”
Kate looked blank, and longed to ask that Sylvia might stay with her, but
did not venture; knowing that she was not ill enough for it to be a
necessity, and that no one in that house was ever kept from church,
except for some real and sufficient cause.
But the silly thoughts that passed through the little head in the hour of
solitude would fill two or three volumes. In the first place, she was
affronted. They made very little of her, considering who she was, and
how she had come to see them at all risks, and how ill she had been!
They would hardly have treated a little village child so negligently as
their visitor, the Countess—
Then her heart smote her. She remembered Mary’s tender and assiduous
nursing all the morning, and how she had already stayed from service and
Sunday school; and she recollected her honour for her friends for not
valuing her for her rank; and in that mood she looked out the Psalms and
Lessons, which she had not been able to read in the morning, and when she
had finished them, began to examine the book-case in search of a new, or
else a very dear old, Sunday book.
But then something went “crack,”—or else it was Kate’s fancy—for she
started as if it had been a cannon-ball; and though she sat with her book
in her lap by the fire in Mary’s room, all the dear old furniture and
pictures round her, her head was weaving an unheard-of imagination, about
robbers coming in rifling everything—coming up the stairs—creak, creak,
was that their step?—she held her breath, and her eyes dilated—seizing
her for the sake of her watch! What article there would be in the
paper—“Melancholy disappearance of the youthful Countess of Caergwent.”
Then Aunt Barbara would be sorry she had treated her so cruelly; then
Mary would know she ought not to have abandoned the child who had thrown
herself on her protection.
That was the way Lady Caergwent spent her hour. She had been kidnapped
and murdered a good many times before; there was a buzz in the street,
her senses came back, and she sprang out on the stairs to meet her
cousins, calling herself quite well again. And then they had a very
peaceful, pleasant time; she was one of them again, when, as of old, Mr.
Wardour came into the drawing-room, and she stood up with Charles,
Sylvia, and little Lily, who was now old enough for the Catechism, and
then the Collect, and a hymn. Yes, she had Collect and hymn ready too,
and some of the Gospel; Aunt Barbara always heard her say them on Sunday,
besides some very difficult questions, not at all like what Mr. Wardour
asked out of his own head.
Kate was a little afraid he would make his teaching turn on submitting to
rulers; it was an Epistle that would have given him a good opportunity,
for it was the Fourth Epiphany Sunday, brought in at the end of the
Sundays after Trinity. If he made his teaching personal, something
within her wondered if she could bear it, and was ready to turn angry and
defiant. But no such thing; what he talked to them about was the gentle
Presence that hushed the waves and winds in outward nature, and calmed
the wild spiritual torments of the possessed; and how all fears and
terrors, all foolish fancies and passionate tempers, will be softened
into peace when the thought of Him rises in the heart.
Kate wondered if she should be able to think of that next time she was
going to work herself into an agony.
But at present all was like a precious dream, to be enjoyed as slowly as
the moments could be persuaded to pass. Out came the dear old Dutch
Bible History, with pictures of everything—pictures that they had looked
at every Sunday since they could walk, and could have described with
their eyes shut; and now Kate was to feast her eyes once again upon them,
and hear how many little Lily knew; and a pretty sight it was, that tiny
child, with her fat hands clasped behind her so as not to be tempted to
put a finger on the print, going so happily and thoroughly through all
the creatures that came to Adam to be named, and showing the whole
procession into the Ark, and, her favourite of all, the Angels coming
down to Jacob.
Then came tea; and then Kate was pronounced, to her great delight, well
enough for Evening Service. The Evening Service she always thought a
treat, with the lighted church, and the choicest singing—the only singing
that had ever taken hold of Kate’s tuneless ear, and that seemed to come
home to her. At least, to-night it came home as it had never done
before; it seemed to touch some tender spot in her heart, and when she
thought how dear it was, and how little she had cared about it, and how
glad she had been to go away, she found the candles dancing in a green
mist, and great drops came down upon the Prayer-book in her hand.
Then it could not be true that she had no feeling. She was crying—the
first time she had ever known herself cry except for pain or at reproof;
and she was really so far pleased, that she made no attempt to stop the
great tears that came trickling down at each familiar note, at each
thought how long it had been since she had heard them. She cried all
church time; for whenever she tried to attend to the prayers, the very
sound of the voice she loved so well set her off again; and Sylvia,
tenderly laying a hand on her by way of sympathy, made her weep the more,
though still so softly and gently that it was like a strange sort of
happiness—almost better than joy and merriment. And then the sermon—upon
the text, “Peace, be still,”—was on the same thought on which her uncle
had talked to the children: not that she followed it much; the very words
“peace” and “be still,” seemed to be enough to touch, soften, and
dissolve her into those sweet comfortable tears.
Perhaps they partly came from the weakening of the morning’s
indisposition; at any rate, when she moved, after the Blessing, holding
the pitying Sylvia’s hand, she found that she was very much tired, her
eyelids were swollen and aching, and in fact she was fit for nothing but
bed, where Mary and Sylvia laid her; and she slept, and slept in
dreamless soundness, till she was waked by Mary’s getting up in the
morning, and found herself perfectly well.
“And now, Sylvia,” she said, as they went downstairs hand-in-hand, “let
us put it all out of our heads, and try and think all day that it is just
one of our old times, and that I am your old Kate. Let me do my lessons
and go into school, and have some fun, and quite forget all that is
horrid.”
But there was something to come before this happy return to old times.
As soon as breakfast was over Mr Wardour said, “Now, Kate, I want you.”
And then she knew what was coming; and somehow, she did not feel exactly
the same about her exploit and its causes by broad daylight, now that she
was cool. Perhaps she would have been glad to hang back; yet on the
whole, she had a great deal to say to “Papa,” and it was a relief, though
rather terrific, to find herself alone with him in the study.
“Now, Kate,” said he again, with his arm round her, as she stood by him,
“will you tell me what led you to this very sad and strange proceeding?”
Kate hung her head, and ran her fingers along the mouldings of his chair.
“Why was it, my dear?” asked Mr. Wardour.
“It was—” and she grew bolder at the sound of her own voice, and more
confident in the goodness of her cause—“it was because Aunt Barbara said
I must write what was not true, and—and I’ll never tell a
falsehood—never, for no one!” and her eyes flashed.
“Gently, Kate,” he said, laying his hand upon hers; “I don’t want to know
what you never _will_ do, only what you have done. What was this
falsehood?”
“Why, Papa, the other Sylvia—Sylvia Joanna, you know—has her birthday
to-day, and we settled at Bournemouth that I should spend the day with
her; and on Saturday, when Aunt Barbara heard of it, she said she did not
want me to be intimate there, and that I must not go, and told me to
write a note to say she had made a previous engagement for me.”
“And do you know that she had not done so?”
“O Papa! she could not; for when I said I would not write a lie, she
never said it was true.”
“Was that what you said to your aunt?”
“Yes,”—and Kate hung her head—“I was in a passion.”
“Then, Kate, I do not wonder that Lady Barbara insisted on obedience,
instead of condescending to argue with a child who could be so insolent.”
“But, Papa,” said Kate, abashed for a moment, then getting eager, “she
does tell fashionable falsehoods; she says she is not at home when she
is, and—”
“Stay, Kate; it is not for you to judge of grown people’s doings.
Neither I nor Mary would like to use that form of denying ourselves; but
it is usually understood to mean only not ready to receive visitors. In
the same way, this previous engagement was evidently meant to make the
refusal less discourteous, and you were not even certain it did not
exist.”
“My Italian mistress did want to come on Monday,” faltered Kate, “but it
was not ‘previous.’”
“Then, Kate, who was it that went beside the mark in letting us believe
that Lady Barbara locked you up to make you tell falsehoods?”
“Indeed, Papa, I did not say locked—Charlie and Sylvia said that.”
“But did you correct them?”
“O Papa, I did not mean it! But I am naughty now! I always am naughty,
so much worse than I used to be at home. Indeed I am, and I never do get
into a good vein now. O Papa, Papa, can’t you get me out of it all? If
you could only take me home again! I don’t think my aunts want to keep
me—they say I am so bad and horrid, and that I make Aunt Jane ill. Oh,
take me back, Papa!”
He did take her on his knee, and held her close to him. “I wish I could,
my dear,” he said; “I should like to have you again! but it cannot be.
It is a different state of life that has been appointed for you; and you
would not be allowed to make your home with me, with no older a person
than Mary to manage for you. If your aunt had not been taken from us,
then—” and Kate ventured to put her arm round his neck—“then this would
have been your natural home; but as things are with us, I could not make
my house such as would suit the requirements of those who arrange for
you. And, my poor child, I fear we let the very faults spring up that
are your sorrow now.”
“Oh no, no, Papa, you helped me! Aunt Barbara only makes me—oh! may I
say?—hate her! for indeed there is no helping it! I can’t be good
there.”
“What is it? What do you mean, my dear? What is your difficulty? And I
will try to help you.”
Poor Kate found it not at all easy to explain when she came to
particulars. “Always cross,” was the clearest idea in her mind; “never
pleased with her, never liking anything she did—not punishing, but much
worse.” She had not made out her case, she knew; but she could only
murmur again, “It all went wrong, and I was very unhappy.”
Mr. Wardour sighed from the bottom of his heart; he was very sorrowful,
too, for the child that was as his own. And then he went back and
thought of his early college friend, and of his own wife who had so
fondled the little orphan—all that was left of her sister. It was
grievous to him to put that child away from him when she came clinging to
him, and saying she was unhappy, and led into faults.
“It will be better when your uncle comes home,” he began.
“Oh no, Papa, indeed it will not. Uncle Giles is more stern than Aunt
Barbara. Aunt Jane says it used to make her quite unhappy to see how
sharp he was with poor Giles and Frank.”
“I never saw him in his own family,” said Mr. Wardour thoughtfully; “but
this I know, Kate, that your father looked up to him, young as he then
was, more than to anyone; that he was the only person among them all who
ever concerned himself about you or your mother; and that on the two
occasions when I saw him, I thought him very like your father.”
“I had rather he was like you, Papa,” sighed Kate. “Oh, if I was but
your child!” she added, led on by a little involuntary pressure of his
encircling arm.
“Don’t let us talk of what is not, but of what is,” said Mr. Wardour;
“let us try to look on things in their right light. It has been the will
of Heaven to call you, my little girl, to a station where you will, if
you live, have many people’s welfare depending on you, and your example
will be of weight with many. You must go through training for it, and
strict training may be the best for you. Indeed, it must be the best, or
it would not have been permitted to befall you.”
“But it does not make me good, it makes me naughty.”
“No, Kate; nothing, nobody can make you naughty; nothing is strong enough
to do that.”
Kate knew what he meant, and hung her head.
“My dear, I do believe that you feel forlorn and dreary, and miss the
affection you have had among us; but have you ever thought of the Friend
who is closest of all to us, and who is especially kind to a fatherless
child?”
“I can’t—I can’t feel it—Papa, I can’t. And then, why was it made so
that I must go away from you and all?”
“You will see some day, though you cannot see now, my dear. If you use
it rightly, you will feel the benefit. Meantime, you must take it on
trust, just as you do my love for you, though I am going to carry you
back.”
“Yes; but I can feel you loving me.”
“My dear child, it only depends on yourself to feel your Heavenly Father
loving you. If you will set yourself to pray with your heart, and think
of His goodness to you, and ask Him for help and solace in all your
present vexatious and difficulties, never mind how small, you _will_
become conscious of his tender pity and love to you.”
“Ah! but I am not good!”
“But He can make you so, Kate. Your have been wearied by religious
teaching hitherto, have you not?”
“Except when it was pretty and like poetry,” whispered Kate.
“Put your heart to your prayers now, Kate. Look in the Psalms for verses
to suit your loneliness; recollect that you meet us in spirit when you
use the same Prayers, read the same Lessons, and think of each other.
Or, better still, carry your troubles to Him; and when you _have_ felt
His help, you will know what that is far better than I can tell you.”
Kate only answered with a long breath; not feeling as if she could
understand such comfort, but with a resolve to try.
“And now,” said Mr. Wardour, “I must take you home to-morrow, and I will
speak for you to Lady Barbara, and try to obtain her forgiveness; but,
Kate, I do not think you quite understand what a shocking proceeding this
was of yours.”
“I know it was wrong to fancy _that_, and say _that_ about Aunt Barbara.
I’ll tell her so,” said Kate, with a trembling voice.
“Yes, that will be right; but it was this—this expedition that I meant.”
“It was coming to you, Papa!”
“Yes, Kate; but did you think what an outrageous act it was? There is
something particularly grievous in a little girl, or a woman of any age,
casting off restraint, and setting out in the world unprotected and
contrary to authority. Do you know, it frightened me so much, that till
I saw more of you I did not like you to be left alone with Sylvia.”
The deep red colour flushed all over Kate’s face and neck in her angry
shame and confusion, burning darker and more crimson, so that Mr. Wardour
was very sorry for her, and added, “I am obliged to say this, because you
ought to know that it is both very wrong in itself, and will be regarded
by other people as more terrible than what you are repenting of more.
So, if you do find yourself distrusted and in disgrace, you must not
think it unjust and cruel, but try to submit patiently, and learn not to
be reckless and imprudent. My poor child, I wish you could have so come
to us that we might have been happier together. Perhaps you will some
day; and in the meantime, if you have any troubles, or want to know
anything, you may always write to me.”
“Writing is not speaking,” said Kate ruefully.
“No; but it comes nearer to it as people get older. Now go, my dear; I
am busy, and you had better make the most of your time with your
cousins.”
Kate’s heart was unburthened now; and though there was much alarm, pain,
and grief, in anticipation, yet she felt more comfortable in herself than
she had done for months. “Papa” had never been so tender with her, and
she knew that he had forgiven her. She stept back to the drawing-room,
very gentle and subdued, and tried to carry out her plans of living one
of her old days, by beginning with sharing the lessons as usual, and then
going out with her cousins to visit the school, and see some of the
parishioners. It was very nice and pleasant; she was as quiet and loving
as possible, and threw herself into all the dear old home matters. It
was as if for a little while Katharine was driven out of Katharine, and a
very sweet little maiden left instead—thinking about other things and
people instead of herself, and full of affection and warmth. The
improvement that the half year’s discipline had made in her bearing and
manners was visible now; her uncouth abrupt ways were softened, though
still she felt that the naturally gentle and graceful Sylvia would have
made a better countess than she did.
They spent the evening in little tastes of all their favourite
drawing-room games, just for the sake of having tried them once more; and
Papa himself came in and took a share—a very rare treat;—and he always
thought of such admirable things in “Twenty questions,” and made “What’s
my thought like?” more full of fun than anyone.
It was a very happy evening—one of the most happy that Kate had ever
passed. She knew _how_ to enjoy her friends now, and how precious they
were to her; and she was just so much tamed by the morning’s
conversation, and by the dread of the future, as not to be betrayed into
dangerously high spirits. That loving, pitying way of Mary’s, and her
own Sylvia’s exceeding pleasure in having her, were delightful; and all
through she felt the difference between the real genuine love that she
could rest on, and the mere habit of fondling of the other Sylvia.
“O Sylvia,” she said, as they walked upstairs, hand in hand, pausing on
every stop to make it longer, “how could I be so glad to go away before?”
“We didn’t know,” said Sylvia.
“No,” as they crept up another step; “Sylvia, will you always think of me
just here on this step, as you go up to bed?”
“Yes,” said Sylvia, “that I will. And, Katie, would it be wrong just to
whisper a little prayer then that you might be good and happy?”
“It couldn’t be wrong, Sylvia; only couldn’t you just ask, too, for me to
come home?”
“I don’t know,” said Sylvia thoughtfully, pausing a long time on the
step. “You see we know it is sure to be God’s will that you should be
good and happy; but if it was not for you to come home, we might be like
Balaam, you know, if we asked it too much, and it might come about in
some terrible way.”
“I didn’t think of that,” said Kate. And the two little girls parted
gravely and peacefully; Kate somehow feeling as if, though grievous
things were before her, the good little kind Sylvia’s hearty prayers must
obtain some good for her.
There is no use in telling how sad the parting was when Mr. Wardour and
the little Countess set out for London again. Mary had begged hard to go
too, thinking that she could plead for Kate better than anyone else; but
Mr. Wardour thought Lady Barbara more likely to be angered than softened
by their clinging to their former charge; and besides, it was too great
an expense.
He had no doubt of Lady Barbara’s displeasure from the tone of the note
that morning received, coldly thanking him and Miss Wardour for their
intelligence, and his promise to restore Lady Caergwent on Tuesday. She
was sorry to trouble him to bring the child back; she would have come
herself, but that her sister was exceedingly unwell, from the alarm
coming at a time of great family affliction. If Lady Caergwent were not
able to return on Tuesday, she would send down her own maid to bring her
home on Wednesday. The letter was civility itself; but it was plain that
Lady Barbara thought Kate’s illness no better than the “previous
engagement,” in the note that never was written.
What was the family affliction? Kate could not guess, but was inclined
to imagine privately that Aunt Barbara was magnifying Uncle Giles’s
return without being a General into a family affliction, on purpose to
aggravate her offence. However, in the train, Mr. Wardour, who had been
looking at the Supplement of the _Times_, lent to him by a
fellow-traveller, touched her, and made her read—
“On the 11th, at Alexandria, in his 23rd year, Lieutenant Giles de la
Poer Umfraville, of the 109th regiment; eldest, and last survivor of the
children of the Honourable Giles Umfraville, late Lieutenant-Colonel of
the 109th regiment.”
Kate knew she ought to be very sorry, and greatly pity the bereaved
father and mother; but, somehow, she could not help dwelling most upon
the certainty that everyone would be much more hard upon her, and cast up
this trouble to her, as if she had known of it, and run away on purpose
to make it worse. It must have been this that they were talking about in
Aunt Jane’s room, and this must have made them so slow to detect her
flight.
In due time the train arrived, a cab was taken, and Kate, beginning to
tremble with fright, sat by Mr. Wardour, and held his coat as if clinging
to him as long as she could was a comfort. Sometimes she wished the cab
would go faster, so that it might be over; sometimes—especially when the
streets became only too well known to her—she wished that they would
stretch out and out for ever, that she might still be sitting by Papa,
holding his coat. It seemed as if that would be happiness enough for
life!
Here was Bruton Street; here the door that on Saturday had shut behind
her! It was only too soon open, and Kate kept her eyes on the ground,
ashamed that even the butler should see her. She hung back, waiting till
Mr. Wardour had paid the cabman; but there was no spinning it out, she
had to walk upstairs, her only comfort being that her hand was in his.
No one was in the drawing-room; but before long Lady Barbara came in.
Kate durst not look up at her, but was sure, from the tone of her voice,
that she must have her very sternest face; and there was something to
make one shiver in the rustle of her silk dress as she curtsied to Mr.
Wardour.
“I have brought home my little niece,” he said, drawing Kate forward;
“and I think I may truly say, that she is very sorry for what has
passed.”
There was a pause; Kate knew the terrible black eyes were upon her, but
she felt, besides, the longing to speak out the truth, and a sense that
with Papa by her side she had courage to do so.
“I am sorry, Aunt Barbara,” she said; “I was very self-willed; I ought
not to have fancied things, nor said you used me ill, and wanted me to
tell stories.”
Kate’s heart was lighter; though it beat so terribly as she said those
words. She knew that they pleased _one_ of the two who were present, and
she knew they were right.
“It is well you should be so far sensible of your misconduct,” said Lady
Barbara; but her voice was as dry and hard as ever, and Mr. Wardour
added, “She is sincerely sorry; it is from her voluntary confession that
I know how much trouble she has given you; and I think, if you will
kindly forgive her, that you will find her less self-willed in future.”
And he shoved Kate a little forward, squeezing her hand, and trying to
withdraw his own. She perceived that he meant that she ought to ask
pardon; and though it went against her more than her first speech had
done, she contrived to say, “I do beg pardon, Aunt Barbara; I will try to
do better.”
“My pardon is one thing, Katharine,” said Lady Barbara. “If your sorrow
is real, of course I forgive you;” and she took Kate’s right-hand—the
left was still holding by the fingers’ ends to Mr. Wardour. “But the
consequences of such behaviour are another consideration. My personal
pardon cannot, and ought not, to avert them—as I am sure you must
perceive, Mr. Wardour,” she added, as the frightened child retreated upon
him. Those consequences of Aunt Barbara’s were fearful things! Mr.
Wardour said something, to which Kate scarcely attended in her alarm, and
her aunt went on—
“For Lady Caergwent’s own sake, I shall endeavour to keep this most
unfortunate step as much a secret as possible. I believe that scarcely
anyone beyond this house is aware of it; and I hope that your family will
perceive the necessity of being equally cautious.”
Mr. Wardour bowed, and assented.
“But,” added Lady Barbara, “it has made it quite impossible for my sister
and myself to continue to take the charge of her. My sister’s health has
suffered from the constant noise and restlessness of a child in the
house: the anxiety and responsibility are far too much for her; and in
addition to this, she had such severe nervous seizures from the alarm of
my niece’s elopement, that nothing would induce me to subject her to a
recurrence of such agitation. We must receive the child for the present,
of course; but as soon as my brother returns, and can attend to business,
the matter must be referred to the Lord Chancellor, and an establishment
formed, with a lady at the head, who may have authority and experience to
deal with such an ungovernable nature.”
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Wardour, “under these circumstances it might be
convenient for me to take her home again for the present.”
Kate quivered with hope; but that was far too good to be true; Lady
Barbara gave a horrid little cough, and there was a sound almost of
offence in her “Thank you, you are very kind, but that would be quite out
of the question. I am at present responsible for my niece.”
“I thought, perhaps,” said Mr. Wardour, as an excuse for the offer, “that
as Lady Jane is so unwell, and Colonel Umfraville in so much affliction,
it might be a relief to part with her at present.”
“Thank you,” again said Lady Barbara, as stiffly as if her throat were
lined with whalebone; “no inconvenience can interfere with my duty.”
Mr. Wardour knew there was no use in saying any more, and inquired after
Lady Jane. She had, it appeared, been very ill on Saturday evening, and
had not since left her room. Mr. Wardour then said that Kate had not
been aware, till a few hours ago, of the death of her cousin, and
inquired anxiously after the father and mother; but Lady Barbara would
not do more than answer direct questions, and only said that her nephew
had been too much weakened to bear the journey, and had sunk suddenly at
Alexandria, and that his father was, she feared, very unwell. She could
not tell how soon he was likely to be in England. Then she thanked Mr.
Wardour for having brought Lady Caergwent home, and offered him some
luncheon; but in such a grave grand way, that it was plain that she did
not want him to eat it, and, feeling that he could do no more good, he
kissed poor Kate and wished Lady Barbara good-bye.
Poor Kate stood, drooping, too much constrained by dismay even to try to
cling to him, or run after him to the foot of the stairs.
“Now, Katharine,” said her aunt, “come up with me to your Aunt Jane’s
room. She has been so much distressed about you, that she will not be
easy till she has seen you.”
Kate followed meekly; and found Aunt Jane sitting by the fire in her own
room, looking flushed, hot, and trembling. She held out her arms, and
Kate ran into them; but neither of them dared to speak, and Lady Barbara
stood up, saying, “She says she is very sorry, and thus we may forgive
her; as I know you do all the suffering you have undergone on her
account.”
Lady Jane held the child tighter, and Kate returned her kisses with all
her might; but the other aunt said, “That will do. She must not be too
much for you again.” And they let go as if a cold wind had blown between
them.
“Did Mr. Wardour bring her home?” asked Lady Jane.
“Yes; and was kind enough to propose taking her back again,” was the
answer, with a sneer, that made Kate feel desperately angry, though she
did not understand it.
In truth, Lady Barbara was greatly displeased with the Wardours. She had
always been led to think her niece’s faults the effect of their
management; and she now imagined that there had been some encouragement
of the child’s discontent to make her run away; and that if they had been
sufficiently shocked and concerned, the truant would have been brought
home much sooner. It all came of her having allowed her niece to
associate with those children at Bournemouth. She would be more careful
for the future.
Careful, indeed, she was! She had come to think of her niece as a sort
of small wild beast that must never be let out of sight of some
trustworthy person, lest she should fly away again.
A daily governess, an elderly person, very grave and silent, came in
directly after breakfast, walked with the Countess, and heard the
lessons; and after her departure, Kate was always to be in the room with
her aunts, and never was allowed to sit in the schoolroom and amuse
herself alone; but her tea was brought into the dining-room while her
aunts were at dinner, and morning, noon, and night, she knew that she was
being watched.
It was very bitter to her. It seemed to take all the spirit away from
her, as if she did not care for books, lessons, or anything else.
Sometimes her heart burnt with hot indignation, and she would squeeze her
hands together, or wring round her handkerchief in a sort of misery; but
it never got beyond that; she never broke out, for she was depressed by
what was still worse, the sense of shame. Lady Barbara had not said many
words, but had made her feel, in spite of having forgiven her, that she
had done a thing that would be a disgrace to her for ever; a thing that
would make people think twice before they allowed their children to
associate with her; and that put her below the level of other girls. The
very pain that Lady Barbara took to hush it up, her fears lest it should
come to the ears of the De la Poers, her hopes that it _might_ not be
necessary to reveal it to her brother, assisted to weigh down Kate with a
sense of the heinousness of what she had done, and sunk her so that she
had no inclination to complain of the watchfulness around her. And Aunt
Jane’s sorrowful kindness went to her heart.
“How _could_ you do it, my dear?” she said, in such a wonderful wistful
tone, when Kate was alone with her.
Kate hung her head. She could not think now.
“It is so sad,” added Lady Jane; “I hoped we might have gone on so nicely
together. And now I hope your Uncle Giles will not hear of it. He would
be so shocked, and never trust you again.”
“_You_ will trust me, when I have been good a long time, Aunt Jane?”
“My dear, I would trust you any time, you know; but then that’s no use.
I can’t judge; and your Aunt Barbara says, after such lawlessness, you
need very experienced training to root out old associations.”
Perhaps the aunts were more shocked than was quite needful and treated
Kate as if she had been older and known better what she was doing; but
they were sincere in their horror at her offence; and once she even heard
Lady Barbara saying to Mr. Mercer that there seemed to be a doom on the
family—in the loss of the promising young man—and—
The words were not spoken, but Kate knew that she was this greatest of
all misfortunes to the family.
Poor child! In the midst of all this, there was one comfort. She had
not put aside what Mr. Wardour had told her about the Comforter she could
always have. She _did_ say her prayers as she had never said them
before, and she looked out in the Psalms and Lessons for comforting
verses. She knew she had done very wrong, and she asked with all the
strength of her heart to be forgiven, and made less unhappy, and that
people might be kinder to her. Sometimes she thought no help was coming,
and that her prayers did no good, but she went on; and then, perhaps, she
got a kind little caress from Lady Jane, or Mr. Mercer spoke
good-naturedly to her, or Lady Barbara granted her some little favour,
and she felt as if there was hope and things were getting better; and she
took courage all the more to pray that Uncle Giles might not be very hard
upon her, nor the Lord Chancellor very cruel.