A FORTNIGHT had passed, and had seemed nearly as long as a year, since
Kate’s return from Oldburgh, when one afternoon, when she was lazily
turning over the leaves of a story-book that she knew so well by heart
that she could go over it in the twilight, she began to gather from her
aunt’s words that somebody was coming.
They never told her anything direct; but by listening a little more
attentively to what they were saying, she found out that a letter—no, a
telegram—had come while she was at her lessons; that Aunt Barbara had
been taking rooms at a hotel; that she was insisting that Jane should not
imagine they would come to-night—they would not come till the last train,
and then neither of them would be equal—
“Poor dear Emily! But could we not just drive to the hotel and meet
them? It will be so dreary for them.”
“You go out at night! and for such a meeting! when you ought to be
keeping yourself as quiet as possible! No, depend upon it they will
prefer getting in quietly, and resting to-night; and Giles, perhaps, will
step in to breakfast in the morning.”
“And then you will bring him up to me at once! I wonder if the boy is
much altered!”
Throb! throb! throb! went Kate’s heart! So the terrible stern uncle was
in England, and this was the time for her to be given up to the Lord
Chancellor and all his myrmidons (a word that always came into her head
when she was in a fright). She had never loved Aunt Jane so well; she
almost loved Aunt Barbara, and began to think of clinging to her with an
eloquent speech, pleading to be spared from the Lord Chancellor!
To-morrow morning—that was a respite!
There was a sound of wheels. Lady Jane started.
“They are giving a party next door,” said Lady Barbara.
But the bell rang.
“Only a parcel coming home,” said Lady Barbara. “Pray do not be nervous,
Jane.”
But the red colour was higher in Barbara’s own cheeks, as there were
steps on the stairs; and in quite a triumphant voice the butler
announced, as he opened the door, “Colonel and Mrs. Umfraville!”
Kate stood up, and backed. It was Aunt Barbara’s straight, handsome,
terrible face, and with a great black moustache to make it worse. She
saw that, and it was all she feared! She was glad the sofa was between
them!
There was a lady besides all black bonnet and cloak; and there was a
confusion of sounds, a little half sobbing of Aunt Jane’s; but the other
sister and the brother were quite steady and grave. It was his keen dark
eye, sparkling like some wild animal’s in the firelight, as Kate thought,
which spied her out; and his deep grave voice said, “My little niece,” as
he held out his hand.
“Come and speak to your uncle, Katharine,” said Lady Barbara; and not
only had she to put her hand into that great firm one, but her forehead
was scrubbed by his moustache. She had never been kissed by a moustache
before, and she shuddered as if it had been on a panther’s lip.
But then he said, “There, Emily;” and she found herself folded up in such
arms as had never been round her before, with the very sweetest of kisses
on her cheeks, the very kindest of eyes, full of moisture, gazing at her
as if they had been hungry for her. Even when the embrace was over, the
hand still held hers; and as she stood by the new aunt, a thought crossed
her that had never come before, “I wonder if my mamma was like this!”
There was some explanation of how the travellers had come on, &c., and it
was settled that they were to stay to dinner; after which Mrs. Umfraville
went away with Lady Barbara to take off her bonnet.
Colonel Umfraville came and sat down by his sister on the sofa, and said,
“Well Jane, how have you been?”
“Oh! much as usual:” and then there was a silence, till she moved a
little nearer to him, put her hand on his arm, looked up in his face with
swimming eyes, and said, “O Giles! Giles!”
He took her hand, and bent over her, saying, in the same grave steady
voice, “Do not grieve for us, Jane. We have a great deal to be thankful
for, and we shall do very well.”
It made that loving tender-hearted Aunt Jane break quite down, cling to
him and sob, “O Giles—those dear noble boys—how little we thought—and
dear Caergwent too—and you away from home!”
She was crying quite violently, so as to be shaken by the sobs; and her
brother stood over her, saying a kind word or two now and then, to try to
soothe her; while Kate remained a little way off, with her black eyes
wide open, thinking her uncle’s face was almost displeased—at any rate,
very rigid. He looked up at Kate, and signed towards a scent-bottle on
the table. Kate gave it; and then, as if the movement had filled her
with a panic, she darted out of the room, and flew up to the bedrooms,
crying out, “Aunt Barbara, Aunt Jane is crying so terribly!”
“She will have one of her attacks! Oh!” began Lady Barbara, catching up
a bottle of salvolatile.
“Had we not better leave her and Giles to one another?” said the tones
that Kate liked so much.
“Oh! my dear, you don’t know what these attacks are!” and away hurried
Lady Barbara.
The bonnet was off now, leaving only a little plain net cap under it,
round the calm gentle face. There was a great look of sadness, and the
eyelids were heavy and drooping; but there was something that put Kate in
mind of a mother dove in the softness of the large tender embrace, and
the full sweet caressing tone. What a pity that such an aunt must know
that she was an ill-behaved child, a misfortune to her lineage! She
stood leaning against the door, very awkward and conscious. Mrs.
Umfraville turned round, after smoothing her hair at the glass, smiled,
and said, “I thought I should find you here, my little niece. You are
Kate, I think.”
“I used to be, but my aunts here call me Katharine.”
“Is this your little room?” said Mrs. Umfraville, as they came out. The
fact was, that she thought the sisters might be happier with their
brother if she delayed a little; so she came into Kate’s room, and was
beginning to look at her books, when Lady Barbara came hurrying up again.
“She is composed now, Emily. Oh! it is all right; I did not know where
Katharine might be.”
Kate’s colour glowed. She could not bear that this sweet Aunt Emily
should guess that she was a state prisoner, kept in constant view.
Lady Jane was quiet again, and nothing more that could overthrow her
spirits passed all the evening; there was only a little murmur of talk,
generally going on chiefly between Lady Barbara and Mrs. Umfraville,
though occasionally the others put in a word. The Colonel sat most of
the time with his set, serious face, and his eye fixed as if he was not
attending, though sometimes Kate found the quick keen brilliance of his
look bent full upon her, so as to terrify her by its suddenness, and make
her hardly know what she was saying or doing.
The worst moments were at dinner. She was, in the first place, sure that
those dark questioning eyes had decided that there must be some sad cause
for her not being trusted to drink her tea elsewhere; and then, in the
pause after the first course, the eyes came again, and he said, and to
her, “I hope your good relations the Wardours are well.”
“Quite well—thank you,” faltered Kate.
“When did you see them last?”
“A—a fortnight ago—” began Kate.
“Mr. Wardour came up to London for a few hours,” said Lady Barbara,
looking at Kate as if she meant to plunge her below the floor; at least,
so the child imagined.
The sense that this was not the whole truth made her especially
miserable; and all the rest of the evening was one misery of
embarrassment, when her limbs did not seem to be her own, but as if
somebody else was sitting at her little table, walking upstairs, and
doing her work. Even Mrs. Umfraville’s kind ways could not restore her;
she only hung her head and mumbled when she was asked to show her work,
and did not so much as know what was to become of her piece of
cross-stitch when it was finished.
There was some inquiry after the De la Poers; and Mrs. Umfraville asked
if she had found some playfellows among their daughters.
“Yes,” faintly said Kate; and with another flush of colour, thought of
having been told, that if Lady de la Poer knew what she had done, she
would never be allowed to play with them again, and therefore that she
never durst attempt it.
“They were very nice children,” said Mrs. Umfraville.
“Remarkably nice children,” returned Lady Barbara, in a tone that again
cut Kate to the heart.
Bed-time came; and she would have been glad of it, but that all the time
she was going to sleep there was the Lord Chancellor to think of, and the
uncle and aunt with the statue faces dragging her before him.
Sunday was the next day, and the uncle and aunt were not seen till after
the afternoon service, when they came to dinner, and much such an evening
as the former one passed; but towards the end of it Mrs. Umfraville said,
“Now, Barbara, I have a favour to ask. Will you let this child spend the
day with me to-morrow? Giles will be out, and I shall be very glad to
have her for my companion.”
Kate’s eyes glistened, and she thought of stern Proserpine.
“My dear Emily, you do not know what you ask. She will be far too much
for you.”
“I’ll take care of that,” said Mrs. Umfraville, smiling.
“And I don’t know about trusting her. I cannot go out, and Jane cannot
spare Bartley so early.”
“I will come and fetch her,” said the Colonel.
“And bring her back too. I will send the carriage in the evening, but do
not let her come without you,” said Lady Barbara earnestly.
Had they told, or would they tell after she was gone to bed? Kate
thought Aunt Barbara was a woman of her word, but did not quite trust
her. Consent was given; but would not that stern soldier destroy all the
pleasure? And people in sorrow too! Kate thought of Mrs. Lacy, and had
no very bright anticipations of her day; yet a holiday was something, and
to be out of Aunt Barbara’s way a great deal more.
She had not been long dressed when there was a ring at the bell, and,
before she had begun to expect him, the tall man with the dark lip and
grey hair stood in her schoolroom. She gave such a start, that he asked,
“Did you not expect me so soon?”
“I did not think you would come till after breakfast: but—”
And with an impulse of running away from his dread presence, she darted
off to put on her hat, but was arrested on the way by Lady Barbara, at
her bedroom door.
“Uncle Giles is come for me,” she said, and would have rushed on, but her
aunt detained her to say, “Recollect, Katharine, that wildness and
impetuosity, at all times unbecoming, are particularly so where there is
affliction. If consideration for others will not influence you, bear in
mind that on the impression you make on your uncle and aunt, it depends
whether I shall be obliged to tell all that I would willingly forget.”
Kate’s heart swelled, and without speaking she entered her own room,
thinking how hard it was to have even the pleasure of hoping for ease and
enjoyment taken away.
When she came down, she found her aunt—as she believed—warning her uncle
against her being left to herself; and then came, “If she should be too
much for Emily, only send a note, and Bartley or I will come to fetch her
home.”
“She wants him to think me a little wild beast!” thought Kate; but her
uncle answered, “Emily always knows how to deal with children.
Good-bye.”
“To deal with children! What did that mean?” thought the Countess, as
she stepped along by the side of her uncle, not venturing to speak, and
feeling almost as shy and bewildered as when she was on the world alone.
He did not speak, but when they came to a crossing of a main street, he
took her by the hand; and there was something protecting and comfortable
in the feel, so that she did not let go; and presently, as she walked on,
she felt the fingers close on hers with such a quick tight squeeze, that
she looked up in a fright and met the dark eye turned on her quite soft
and glistening. She did not guess how he was thinking of little clasping
hands that had held there before; and he only said something rather
hurriedly about avoiding some coals that were being taken in through a
round hole in the pavement.
Soon they were at the hotel; and Mrs. Umfraville came out of her room
with that greeting which Kate liked so much, helped her to take off her
cloak and smooth her hair, and then set her down to breakfast.
It was a silent meal to Kate. Her uncle and aunt had letters to read,
and things to consult about that she did not understand; but all the time
there was a kind watch kept up that she had what she liked; and Aunt
Emily’s voice was so much like the deep notes of the wood-pigeons round
Oldburgh, that she did not care how long she listened to it, even if it
had been talking Hindostanee!
As soon as breakfast was over, the Colonel took up his hat and went out;
and Mrs. Umfraville said, turning to Kate, “Now, my dear, I have
something for you to help me in; I want to unpack some things that I have
brought home.”
“Oh, I shall like that!” said Kate, feeling as if a weight was gone with
the grave uncle.
Mrs. Umfraville rang, and asked to have a certain box brought in. Such a
box, all smelling of choice Indian wood; the very shavings that stuffed
it were delightful! And what an unpacking! It was like nothing but the
Indian stall at the Baker Street Bazaar! There were two beautiful large
ivory work-boxes, inlaid with stripes and circles of tiny mosaic; and
there were even more delicious little boxes of soft fragrant sandal wood,
and a set of chessmen in ivory. The kings were riding on elephants, with
canopies over their heads, and ladders to climb up by; and each elephant
had a tiger in his trunk. Then the queens were not queens, but grand
viziers, because the queen is nobody in the East: and each had a lesser
elephant; the bishops were men riding on still smaller elephants; the
castles had camels, the knights horses; and the pawns were little
foot-soldiers, the white ones with guns, as being European troops, the
red ones with bows and arrows. Kate was perfectly delighted with these
men, and looked at and admired them one by one, longing to play a game
with them. Then there was one of those wonderful clusters of Chinese
ivory balls, all loose, one within the other, carved in different
patterns of network, and there were shells spotted and pink-mouthed,
card-cases, red shining boxes, queer Indian dolls; figures in all manner
of costumes, in gorgeous colours, painted upon shining transparent talc
or on soft rice-paper. There was no describing how charming the sight
was, nor how Kate dwelt upon each article; and how pleasantly her aunt
explained what it was intended for, and where it came from, answering all
questions in the nicest, kindest way. When all the wool and shavings had
been pinched, and the curled-up toes of the slippers explored, so as to
make sure that no tiny shell nor ivory carving lurked unseen, the room
looked like a museum; and Mrs. Umfraville said, “Most of these things
were meant for our home friends: there is an Indian scarf and a Cashmere
shawl for your two aunts, and I believe the chessmen are for Lord de la
Poer.”
“O Aunt Emily, I should so like to play one game with them before they
go!”
“I will have one with you, if you can be very careful of their tender
points,” said Mrs. Umfraville, without one of the objections that Kate
had expected; “but first I want you to help me about some of the other
things. Your uncle meant one of the work-boxes for you!”
“O Aunt Emily, how delightful! I really will work, with such a dear
beautiful box!” cried Kate, opening it, and again peeping into all its
little holes and contrivances. “Here is the very place for a dormouse to
sleep in! And who is the other for?”
“For Fanny de la Poer, who is his godchild.”
“Oh, I am so glad! Fanny always has such nice pretty work about!”
“And now I want you to help me to choose the other presents. There;
these,” pointing to a scarf and a muslin dress adorned with the wings of
diamond beetles, “are for some young cousins of my own; but you will be
able best to choose what the other De la Poers and your cousins at
Oldburgh would like best.”
“My cousins at Oldburgh!” cried Kate. “May they have some of these
pretty things?” And as her aunt answered “We hope they will,” Kate flew
at her, and hugged her quite tight round the throat; then, when Mrs.
Umfraville undid the clasp, and returned the kiss, she went like an
India-rubber ball with a backward bound, put her hands together over her
head, and gasped out, “Oh, thank you, thank you!”
“My dear, don’t go quite mad. You will jump into that calabash, and then
it won’t be fit for anybody. Are you so very glad?”
“Oh! so glad! Pretty things do come so seldom to Oldburgh!”
“Well, we thought you might like to send Miss Wardour this shawl.”
It was a beautiful heavy shawl of the soft wool of the Cashmere goats;
really of every kind of brilliant hue, but so dexterously blended
together, that the whole looked dark and sober. But Kate did not look
with favour on the shawl.
“A shawl is so stupid,” she said. “If you please, I had rather Mary had
the work-box.”
“But the work-box is for Lady Fanny.”
“Oh! but I meant my own,” said Kate earnestly. “If you only knew what a
pity it is to give nice things to me; they always get into such a mess.
Now, Mary always has her things so nice; and she works so beautifully;
she has never let Lily wear a stitch but of her setting; and she always
wished for a box like this. One of her friends at school had a little
one; and she used to say, when we played at roe’s egg, that she wanted
nothing but an ivory work-box; and she has nothing but an old blue one,
with the steel turned black!”
“We must hear what your uncle says, for you must know that he meant the
box for you.”
“It isn’t that I don’t care for it,” said Kate, with a sudden glistening
in her eyes; “it is because I do care for it so very much that I want
Mary to have it.”
“I know it is, my dear;” and her aunt kissed her; “but we must think
about it a little. Perhaps Mary would not think an Indian shawl quite so
stupid as you do.”
“Mary isn’t a nasty vain conceited girl!” cried Kate indignantly. “She
always looks nice; but I heard Papa say her dress did not cost much more
than Sylvia’s and mine, because she never tore anything, and took such
care!”
“Well, we will see,” said Mrs. Umfraville, perhaps not entirely convinced
that the shawl would not be a greater prize to the thrifty girl than Kate
perceived.
Kate meanwhile had sprung unmolested on a beautiful sandalwood case for
Sylvia, and a set of rice-paper pictures for Lily; and the appropriating
other treasures to the De la Poers, packing them up, and directing them,
accompanied with explanations of their habits and tastes, lasted till so
late, that after the litter was cleared away there was only time for one
game at chess with the grand pieces; and in truth the honour of using
them was greater than the pleasure. They covered up the board, so that
there was no seeing the squares, and it was necessary to be most
inconveniently cautious in lifting them. They were made to be looked at,
not played with; and yet, wonderful to relate, Kate did not do one of the
delicate things a mischief!
Was it that she was really grown more handy, or was it that with this
gentle aunt she was quite at her ease, yet too much subdued to be
careless and rough?
The luncheon came; and after it, she drove with her aunt first to a few
shops, and then to take up the Colonel, who had been with his lawyer.
Kate quaked a little inwardly, lest it should be about the Lord
Chancellor, and tried to frame a question on the subject to her aunt; but
even the most chattering little girls know what it is to have their lips
sealed by an odd sort of reserve upon the very matters that make them
most uneasy; and just because her wild imagination had been thinking that
perhaps this was all a plot to waylay her into the Lord Chancellor’s
clutches, she could not utter a word on the matter, while they drove
through the quiet squares where lawyers live.
Mrs. Umfraville, however, soon put that out of her head by talking to her
about the Wardours, and setting open the flood gates of her eloquence
about Sylvia. So delightful was it to have a listener, that Kate did not
grow impatient, long as they waited at the lawyer’s door in the dull
square, and indeed was sorry when the Colonel made his appearance. He
just said to her that he hoped she was not tired of waiting; and as she
replied with a frightened little “No, thank you,” began telling his wife
something that Kate soon perceived belonged to his own concerns, not to
hers; so she left off trying to gather the meaning in the rumble of the
wheels, and looked out of window, for she could never be quite at ease
when she felt that those eyes might be upon her.
On coming back to the hotel, Mrs. Umfraville found a note on the table
for her: she read it, gave it to her husband, and said, “I had better go
directly.”
“Will it not be too much? Can you?” he said very low; and there was the
same repressed twitching of the muscles of his face, as Kate had seen
when he was left with his sister Jane.
“Oh yes!” she said fervently; “I shall like it. And it is her only
chance; you see she goes to-morrow.”
The carriage was ordered again, and Mrs. Umfraville explained to Kate
that the note was from a poor invalid lady whose son was in their own
regiment in India, that she was longing to hear about him, and was going
out of town the next day.
“And what shall I give you to amuse yourself with, my dear?” asked Mrs.
Umfraville. “I am afraid we have hardly a book that will suit you.”
Kate had a great mind to ask to go and sit in the carriage, rather than
remain alone with the terrible black moustache; but she was afraid of the
Colonel’s mentioning Aunt Barbara’s orders that she was not to be let out
of sight. “If you please,” she said, “if I might write to Sylvia.”
Her aunt kindly established her at a little table, with a leathern
writing-case, and her uncle mended a pen for her. Then her aunt went
away, and he sat down to his own letters.
Kate durst not speak to him, but she watched him under her eyelashes, and
noticed how he presently laid down his pen, and gave a long, heavy, sad
sigh, such as she had never heard when his wife was present; then sat
musing, looking fixedly at the grey window; till, rousing himself with
another such sigh, he seemed to force himself to go on writing, but
paused again, as if he were so wearied and oppressed that he could hardly
bear it.
It gave Kate a great awe of him, partly because a little girl in a book
would have gone up, slid her hand into his, and kissed him; but she could
nearly as soon have slid her hand into a lion’s; and she was right, it
would have been very obtrusive.
Some little time had passed before there was an opening of the door, and
the announcement, “Lord de la Poer.”
Up started Kate, but she was quite lost in the greeting of the two
friends; Lord de la Poer, with his eyes full of tears, wringing his
friend’s hand, hardly able to speak, but just saying, “Dear Giles, I am
glad to have you at home. How is she?”
“Wonderfully well,” said the Colonel, with the calm voice but the
twitching face. “She is gone to see Mrs. Ducie, the mother of a lad in
my regiment, who was wounded at the same time as Giles, and whom she
nursed with him.”
“Is not it very trying?”
“Nothing that is a kindness ever is trying to Emily,” he said, and his
voice did tremble this time.
Kate had quietly re-seated herself in her chair. She felt that it was no
moment to thrust herself in; nor did she feel herself aggrieved, even
though unnoticed by such a favourite friend. Something in the whole
spirit of the day had made her only sensible that she was a little girl,
and quite forgot that she was a Countess.
The friends were much too intent on one another to think of her, as she
sat in the recess of the window, their backs to her. They drew their
chairs close to the fire, and began to talk, bending down together; and
Kate felt sure, that as her uncle at least knew she was there, she need
not interrupt. Besides, what they spoke of was what she had longed to
hear, and would never have dared to ask. Lord de la Poer had been like a
father to his friend’s two sons when they were left in England; and now
the Colonel was telling him—as, perhaps, he could have told no one
else—about their brave spirit, and especially of Giles’s patience and
resolution through his lingering illness; how he had been entirely
unselfish in entreating that anything might happen rather than that his
father should resign his post; but though longing to be with his parents,
and desponding as to his chance of recovery, had resigned himself in
patience to whatever might be thought right; and how through the last
sudden accession of illness brought on by the journey, his sole thought
had been for his parents.
“And she has borne up!” said Lord de la Poer.
“As _he_ truly said, ‘As long as she has anyone to care for, she will
never break down.’ Luckily, I was entirely knocked up for a few days
just at first; and coming home we had a poor young woman on board very
ill, and Emily nursed her day and night.”
“And now you will bring her to Fanny and me to take care of.”
“Thank you—another time. But, old fellow, I don’t know whether we either
of us could stand your house full of children yet. Emily would be always
among them, and think she liked it; but I knew how it would be. It was
just so when I took her to a kind friend of ours after the little girls
were taken; she had the children constantly with her, but I never saw her
so ill as she was afterwards.”
“Reaction! Well, whenever you please; you shall have your rooms to
yourselves, and only see us when you like. But I don’t mean to press
you; only, what are you going to do next?”
“I can hardly tell. There are business matters of our own, and about
poor James’s little girl, to keep us here a little while.” (“Who is
that?” thought Kate.)
“Then you must go into our house. I was in hopes it might be so, and
told the housekeeper to make ready.”
“Thank you; if Emily— We will see, when she comes in I want to make up
my mind about that child. Have you seen much of her?”
Kate began to think honour required her to come forward, but her heart
throbbed with fright.
“Not so much as I could wish. It is an intelligent little monkey, and
our girls were delighted with her; but I believe Barbara thinks me a
corrupter of youth, for she discountenances us.”
“Ah! one of the last times I was alone with Giles, he said, smiling,
‘That little girl in Bruton Street will be just what Mamma wants;’ and I
know Emily has never ceased to want to get hold of the motherless thing
ever since Mrs. Wardour’s death. I know it would be the greatest comfort
to Emily, but I only doubted taking the child away from my sisters. I
thought it would be such a happy thing to have Jane’s kind heart drawn
out; and if Barbara had forgiven the old sore, and used her real
admirable good sense affectionately, it would have been like new life to
them. Besides, it must make a great difference to their income. But is
it possible that it can be the old prejudice, De la Poer? Barbara
evidently dislikes the poor child, and treats her like a state prisoner!”
Honour prevailed entirely above fear and curiosity. Out flew Kate, to
the exceeding amaze and discomfiture of the two gentlemen. “No, no,
Uncle Giles; it is—it is because I ran away! Aunt Barbara said she would
not tell, for if you knew it, you would—you would despise me;—and you,”
looking at Lord de la Poer, “would never let me play with Grace and Addy
again!”
She covered her face with her hands—it was all burning red; and she was
nearly rushing off, but she felt herself lifted tenderly upon a knee, and
an arm round her. She thought it her old friend; but behold, it was her
uncle’s voice that said, in the softest gentlest way, “My dear, I never
despise where I meet with truth. Tell me how it was; or had you rather
tell your Aunt Emily?”
“I’ll tell you,” said Kate, all her fears softened by his touch. “Oh no!
please don’t go, Lord de la Poer; I do want you to know, for I couldn’t
have played with Grace and Adelaide on false pretences!” And encouraged
by her uncle’s tender pressure, she murmured out, “I ran away—I did—I
went home!”
“To Oldburgh!”
“Yes—yes! It was very wrong; Papa—Uncle Wardour, I mean—made me see it
was.”
“And what made you do it?” said her uncle kindly. “Do not be afraid to
tell me.”
“It was because I was angry. Aunt Barbara would not let me go to the
other Wardours, and wanted me to write a—what I thought—a fashionable
falsehood; and when I said it was a lie,” (if possible, Kate here became
deeper crimson than she was before,) “she sent me to my room till I would
beg her pardon, and write the note. So—so I got out of the house, and
took a cab, and went home by the train. I didn’t know it was so very
dreadful a thing, or indeed I would not.”
And Kate hid her burning face on her uncle’s breast, and was considerably
startled by what she heard next, from the Marquis.
“Hm! All I have to say is, that if Barbara had the keeping of me, I
should run away at the end of a week.”
“Probably!” and Lord de la Poer saw, what Kate did not, the first shadow
of a smile on the face of his friend, as he pressed his arm round the
still trembling girl; “but, you see, Barbara justly thinks you corrupt
youth.—My little girl, you must not let _him_ make you think lightly of
this—”
“Oh, no, I never could! Papa was so shocked!” and she was again covered
with confusion at the thought.
“But,” added her uncle, “it is not as if you had not gone to older and
better friends than any you have ever had, my poor child. I am afraid
you have been much tried, and have not had a happy life since you left
Oldburgh.”
“I have always been naughty,” said Kate.
“Then we must try if your Aunt Emily can help you to be good. Will you
try to be as like her own child to her as you can, Katharine?”
“And to you,” actually whispered Kate; for somehow at that moment she
cared much more for the stern uncle than the gentle aunt.
He lifted her up and kissed her, but set her down again with the sigh
that told how little she could make up to him for the son he had left in
Egypt. Yet, perhaps that sigh made Kate long with more fervent love for
some way of being so very good and affectionate as quite to make him
happy, than if he had received her demonstration as if satisfied by it.