ARRANGEMENTS.
With every pulse tumultuously throbbing, Kate closed her door, and
sat down to attempt the disentanglement of the wild agitation and
confusion into which all her thoughts and anticipations had been thrown
by this dreadful outburst from her cousin. Never since the day that
Winter had first intimated to her his opinion of the state of their
affairs, had she experienced the same sudden sense of insecurity and
desolation. Then she had had a full and sufficient object, round which
to rally her energies and her courage; then she had had clear-headed
and warm-hearted friends to advise and to uphold her. Now the one only
friend, who was all that was left to her of the past, seemed suddenly
rent from her by the most cruel and injurious suspicions, and a great
gulf fixed between them. For Lady Desmond's last words--"Guilty or
innocent, we can never be the same to each other again"--rung in her
ears like an ill omened prophecy. Yet her own immediate suffering was
almost lost sight of in her deep compassion for, and sympathy with, her
cousin.
She had anticipated a wild outbreak of indignant sorrow when Lady
Desmond should first hear the terrible solution of his mysterious
conduct, with which Lord Effingham had astonished the real object of
his affections. But that she should be accused of deliberate treachery,
of such complete and constant dissimulation, had never entered into her
heart to conceive. A warm flush of indignant color rose to her brow as
she thought of the injustice, and she murmured, almost aloud--
"She should have known me better. She who knew my childhood; how dare
she think me so inferior to herself? She must, when she is calmer,
acknowledge her error."
Then Kate recalled to her memory the whole scene, and wondered, in
vain, how her cousin had been informed of Lord Effingham's presence,
and the purpose of his strange visit. Continued thought suggested that
she must have overheard what had taken place. Yet, if so, she must
have heard Kate's utter rejection of him--this was a painful enigma.
How--how was she to clear herself? She knew not from what source Lady
Desmond's impression arose, and she was utterly ignorant in what way
she should proceed to free her cousin's mind from the injurious doubts
which had taken possession of it; for her indignation was soon merged
in tender pity and compassion for her wretched relative.
"Unhappy Georgy," she exclaimed, "not content with the real injury
and mortification you have sustained, you torture yourself doubly by
believing me--me, to whom you acted more than a sister's--a mother's
part--so false, so worthless; but how am I to justify myself? to
convince you?"
Then rose up, in formidable array, the gossip of servants, and worse,
_dear friends_, to be met and silenced, and the anxious desire to
save her cousin's name from the flattering comments of the rather
unmerciful, though well-bred _coterie_, amongst whom they were placed.
Above all the predominant idea in poor Kate's mind was that her
interval of repose was at an end--that the only home to which she had
a shadow of claim was rent from her--that to remain the recipient of
benefits from an estranged benefactress, was impossible--that she
was indeed desolate. Mingling with all this, was the memory of her
grandfather's implicit trust, his unwearied tenderness--that it had
gone from her life _for ever_.
Yes, she must go--she must seek some other home--she must earn one. And
nurse--her curiosity must be baffled. And time was stealing fast away
while she thought so painfully and ineffectually; something must be
done; and at once, she rose with a fervent ejaculation--"God guide me
for the best," and sat down to write to Lady Desmond.
As she opened her desk, the recollection of the happy letter she had
that morning despatched to Winter flashed across her mind.
"And when shall I hear from him again?" she thought--a glance at her
watch. "Ah, post-hour is long past; and what else could I write without
betraying Georgy? and she must be my first consideration. Would to
Heaven Mr. Winter was in England; but it is in vain to wish."
And overpowered by her complete isolation, she threw herself on her
knees beside her bed, and, hiding her face in the clothes, gave way to
the thick coming sobs that shook her frame, and ceased only when they
had exhausted the power to express such emotion.
At length she arose, calmed by this outburst, and restored to more
faith than she had hitherto felt by the unspoken prayer, in which she
had silently laid the grief she was incapable of uttering before the
All-seeing and Mighty Spirit, who alone witnessed her sorrow, pressing
her hand against her forehead, as if to condense her thoughts, she
wrote:
"I must see and speak to you. Have you not thought, in the silence
of the last few hours, of a thousand indications that I am not the
base wretch you fancied me. Remember, we have shared the same home,
where the very soul of honour presided. Look into your own heart, see
how far that has impressed you, and judge me by yourself. I never
overcame, although I tried, the secret repugnance with which Lord
Effingham inspired me--an instinct which his conduct this day has
justified; and until this day, I had not the remotest idea of his
preference for me. Be just, Georgina, my own dear cousin. Oh, with
what true, what unbroken affection I write these words. You cannot
doubt me.
"I must see you--there is much for us to arrange--and at once; we must
guard ourselves from the animadversions of the people about us; let me
see you; tell me why--tell me what suggested the terrible reproaches
with which you overwhelmed me? I have ever loved you--ever linked you
with all that is dearest and most sacred in my memory. Oh, judge me by
your own heart, and say could a stranger, a man known but yesterday,
of whose previous conduct, selfish, petty, unmanly, as it was, I was
fully aware; could he make me so utterly forget my holiest memories,
my deepest obligations, my loyalty to my sex, my faith to you! in much
you are my superior; but I am as true to you as you are to yourself."
She read this over, felt dissatisfied with it, yet despairing of
writing anything that could please her more, hastily added--"I wait
your reply," signed her name, and, unlocking her door, stole lightly
to Lady Desmond's, she knocked, and, after a short delay, Lady Desmond
asked, in a constrained voice--
"Is that Louise? I have a dreadful headache, and am lying down--I
cannot be disturbed."
"It is not Louise--I have a note for you." Another pause, and the door
was unlocked. Lady Desmond, still in her carriage dress, put out her
hand, silently took the note, and closed the door.
Kate again returned to her own room and to her troubled thoughts,
thankful for nurse's absence, unusual at that hour, and feeling
somewhat relieved by having put things _en train_ for an interview with
her cousin; her natural fortitude, of which she possessed so much,
began to rise out of the terrible wreck of pleasant things which had
weighed it down, and to consider the future with greater clearness,
when Louise entered about an hour after the delivery of the note to
Lady Desmond, and close upon their usual dinner hour.
"Miladi's love, and she is not at all well; she wish to see
_Mademoiselle sur l'instant_."
Kate would have faced the most deadly peril with far less tremor than
her really much-loved cousin; she felt, however, that the message
sounded friendly, little imagining that "Miladi's love" was an addition
of Louise's, who never could conceive one to Miss Vernon unprefaced by
some such sugary prefix. Kate found Lady Desmond lying on the sofa,
looking deadly pale and exhausted; she held the note in her hand.
"You are right," she exclaimed abruptly, as Kate shut the door and
stood before her; "we have much to arrange, for inaction is torture."
Her voice sounded deep and broken, different from its usual harmonious
refinement. She rose and paced the room. "Your note has raised a
thousand recollections which range themselves on your side, Kate. I
must, I dare not doubt you; there would be no confidence left to me on
earth if I did!--let us mention it no more. No!" motioning Kate back,
as she sprang to throw her arms round her at these words--"I am in no
mood for tenderness. Whether intentionally or not you have inflicted
terrible sufferings upon me. I repeat, I cannot doubt you--it would
be too revolting--I could not endure such a double trial. I may be
very wrong, but I cannot look upon you as I did, not yet at least; and
your question, how I acquired the accursed knowledge, I will never
answer, and you must never ask again: he need not have enhanced his
love for you by his triumph over me!" She muttered these words between
her teeth, glancing darkly at Kate. "I sent for you," she resumed
hurriedly, "for your note reminded me of what was due to myself. We
must subdue ourselves, and act our part for the audience of Hampton
Court. I have thought of a plausible tale; attend to me; learn your
part, and remember you owe me the reparation of performing it well. I
am not well. God knows that is true! I have received news that compels
me to leave for Ireland as soon as I can. We will endure each other
for a week, Kate. I little thought I could ever speak so to you. My
own dear Kate, come--yet, no, no! I cannot embrace you. Oh! I am most
miserable, to be debarred in this wretchedness from the only sympathy
that could have soothed me."
"But you have it," answered Kate, in accents of the softest, deepest
tenderness.
"I will not have your pity," resuming her troubled walk. "I will not
have that Devil sneer at my credulity. I will wait and see before I
take you to my arms again. Yes, we must part for a time. I could not
bear the alternate affection for, and doubt of you, which sweep across
my mind. I will see if he cannot yet prevail on you to overcome that
repugnance which--pah! repugnance to _him_! Well, Kate, do not mind me;
I cannot speak coherently; remember we have a part to play for a while
together, then separately; and where--where can you go? I am selfish--I
hate myself; but for a short time we will separate; and Kate, you will
not disdain--you will not forget it is my duty to provide for you. I
promised your grandfather!--and, oh! heavens, how am I fulfilling the
guardianship I undertook! But you will command all that your lightest
fancy may prompt. I am rich, and after a while we will be together."
"Georgy," said Kate, with calmness inexpressibly sad, "I see you do not
yet believe me, but in time you must; till then we need not embitter
each other's lives. When you leave this for Ireland, I will go to
Mrs. Storey; she has often invited me; from that I can write to you.
The Winters will be home ere long, and when, in God's good time, you
_know_ that I never deceived or betrayed you, we will meet again. I
have enough for every present want, and you must not think me so much
beneath yourself that I would accept the charity of her who thinks me
unworthy. There is only one favour I must ask--it is to help me in
keeping nurse--my poor dear nurse--(the only one who still loves and
trusts Kate Vernon)--in the dark as regards this unhappy breach; it
would break her heart if she knew of it--"
"I will do as you desire; but, Kate, you must allow me----"
"Hush!" said Kate, with a slight but inexpressibly dignified gesture of
rejection, that compelled Lady Desmond to silence. "I am most anxious
about nurse; I cannot take her with me, and I feel her to be a friend
too dear, too closely associated with all I love, to part from as I
would a common servant;" and the swelling of Kate's heart at the idea
of breaking this last link choked her utterance.
"She shall come with me--she shall stay with me," said Lady Desmond
eagerly, "until you join me again; it is natural that you should accept
Mrs. Storey's invitation, still more so that you should not crowd
her establishment unnecessarily. Nurse will surely not object to a
separation for a few weeks, she will not think it strange."
"Leave nurse to me," said Kate, anxious to relieve her cousin's mind of
the slight uneasiness which inflected her voice; "she will be difficult
to manage, but you may trust me with _her_."
"There is nothing to be managed," said Lady Desmond, with cold hauteur.
"But we have agreed to endeavour to avoid any gossip that might arise
from ----; though why should I fear any. You will write to Mrs.
Storey, and see nurse, and to-morrow----." Lady Desmond paused, gazed
stedfastly at vacancy, and then drawing a long breath, continued, in a
tone of intense resolution, "To-morrow I shall receive those people as
usual."
"Oh, impossible," cried Kate, in genuine anxiety that her cousin should
not overtask her strength.
"Why impossible, Miss Vernon?" asked Lady Desmond, in a constrained
voice. "Does your 'instinctive repugnance' to Lord Effingham permit
so high an estimate of his fascinating powers, that you imagine
self-esteem and self-respect rendered incapable of acting under his
indifference; you little know me. I tell you, if he presents himself
here to-morrow evening, neither of you shall see the slightest change
in my manner--neither of you shall see a trace of the torture--"
"Georgy, dear Georgy," cried Kate, whose candid mind revolted from
the strange constraint forced on it by her cousin, "be just to me, be
merciful to yourself, I know it is agony to doubt me."
"God knows it is," she returned, "but at present I cannot trust you or
any one, my soul is embittered; time only can show me the truth; and
restore me to myself--to you. Kate, if you have deceived me; no! you
could not! there is no falsehood in that face! Oh that I could read
your heart; _if_ you have deceived me, God forgive you, if not, bear
with me, pardon me."
Her voice sank to the softest, tenderest accents, "Remember, I never
had the holy love for father or mother to fill and soften my heart; to
teach it true affection; to plant in it a pure unselfish principle,
a sacrificing spirit whereby to test the seeming passion offered
to me. _You_ have known this, you have this invaluable touchstone,
this unerring balance wherewith to weigh the false jewels which
hollow-hearted men of the world offer, in exchange for real gems, fresh
truth and warm devotion. Yes you may have weighed his and found them
wanting; but you could never love him, as I do, as I did; we are alike,
as substance and shadow, there is not a change of his countenance, an
inflection of his voice that I cannot read; shame shame to speak so!
and I have known so little happiness, I have sought my whole life for
some unknown treasure to catch the first glimpse of it as it was lost
to me for ever."
And at last the dark, burning eyes were suffused with the blessed
refreshment of tears; but Lady Desmond's were always stormy tears; and
Kate stole nearer to her in the tenderest most loving sympathy for that
poor, proud, wounded heart--yet silently, for she feared the sound of
her voice might recall her cousin's suspicions, and she would spurn her
from her--kneeling at her feet and kissing the hand that hung down in
inactivity bespeaking the language of despair.
At last Lady Desmond pressed the hand that held hers so lovingly, and
drawing Kate slightly to her, muttered in tones more like her own than
Kate had yet heard, "leave me now, while I feel I have wronged you, ask
me no more at present," and grateful even for these words Kate slowly
retired.
The next evening did indeed display the wonderful strength which pride
can lend a mortified spirit, never had Lady Desmond played the part of
a gracious graceful hostess to greater perfection; the only difference
which Kate's watchful eye could detect, was a slight increase of
animation in her manner, and of brilliancy in her conversation; just
enough to lead careless observers to imagine that she enjoyed the
prospect of her intended visit to Ireland, which with many politely
expressed regrets she announced to her company.
The evening glided on with more than usual agreeability, to the
guests at least; the only grave faces present were Miss Vernon's and
Colonel Dashwood's, he seemed quite upset by the intelligence of
their approaching departure, and joined but little in the noisy and
probably sincere regrets of the rest. Burton was there, he had not
been a frequent guest, having been generally quartered with another
detachment. "I regret to find that you are going to leave this place,
Miss Vernon, just as I am about to take up my abode in it," said Burton
during the loudest notes of a bravura sung by Miss Meredyth, "I have
heard so much, yet I seem doomed to see so little of you."
"I did not know I was so famous," replied Kate, absently.
"Nor am I the only one, 'left lamenting,' by this sudden flight; look
at Dashwood! then we all fear that Miss Vernon will not return from
Ireland," said Burton.
Kate, whose attention was fixed upon the opening door answered by a
smile so palpably _distrait_, that Burton, fancying he guessed the
secret of her watchfulness, smiled too as he thought of the sincere
affection with which she had inspired his absent friend, and said
to himself, "She would be a happier woman following Fred. on a
baggage waggon, than riding over the world in that _roué_ Effingham's
coronetted carriage. She does not think so at present however, _ainsi
va le monde_."
Here the song ended, and Miss Vernon was called on to play; she thought
sadly of her yesterday's practice and its unhappy termination, and
it required no small effort of self command to take her place at the
piano; she played mechanically, and without her usual soul-touching
expression.
"Pray Lady Desmond," she heard Mrs. Meredyth ask, "can you give me any
account of my nephew Effingham; will he be here this evening?"
"I really do not know," replied Lady Desmond in wonderfully natural,
unconstrained tones, "Miss Vernon, I fancy, saw him last; did Lord
Effingham say he would come here this evening, Kate?"
"He said nothing, that is, I do not remember," replied Kate, confused
and astonished at the coolness of this appeal. Lady Desmond glanced
at her one speaking look that roused her to instant self-possession,
though it made her heart beat.
"I am told, Lord Effingham started this morning for the Isle of Wight,"
said Colonel Dashwood with a gravity unusual for him. "Hauton was
over at Richmond and heard it there, something about his new yacht I
believe, they said he will return next week."
"_Figurez vous_," cried the second Miss Meredyth whose style was
foreign and fantastic, "my cousin's dismay when he returns and finds
Lady Desmond flown."
"Perhaps it will be no great surprise to him," said Colonel Dashwood in
a low voice to Kate.
"Yes, I am sure it will," she replied.
Lady Desmond invited the whole party, then assembled, to meet again,
on the Wednesday evening following at her house; her last evening she
said, as she intended starting on Thursday for London to Ireland.
"Kate," she observed carelessly to one or two of her latest guests
"is not half so true an Irishwoman as I am; she will not, I believe,
accompany me at once, but lingers for a few weeks with some friends in
town."
Kate felt the tears rise to her eyes at hearing the separation so
deplored, so dreaded by her, thus indifferently announced by her
cousin, and she stood silent and dejected by the piano.
After they were left alone, Lady Desmond threw herself into an arm
chair and covering her face with her hands groaned aloud, then looking
up, after a moment's silence, she showed a countenance so changed, so
haggard, now that the strong curb of her will over her secret emotions
was relaxed, that Miss Vernon absolutely started with surprise.
"Have you written to Mrs. Storey?"
"Yes."
"Have you spoken to nurse?"
"No; I thought it best to defer that until I got an answer."
"As you choose."
She rose slowly, and walked to the door, then turning, said--
"I have accepted every invitation offered to me--we have not an evening
disengaged; but if you feel bored by them, or wish, for any reason, to
remain at home, do not think yourself obliged to accompany me." She
bowed, then again pausing. "You look wearied, Kate, would you like
nurse to sleep in your room?"
"No."
"Solitude is best for both, I believe."
And she left the room gloomily, darkly.
Kate felt relieved when she was gone, and retired quickly. To pray to
God, to think long and painfully, to count the night-watches, and, at
last, to sink into a sound, sweet sleep, and charming but indistinct
dreams of her cousin clasping her to her heart, and entreating
forgiveness for the wrong she had done her.
"Is it very late, nurse?" she asked, on opening her eyes the following
morning, and seeing her faithful friend standing by the bed-side.
"No, agrah, not to say late; but me lady is aitin' her breakfast up in
her own room, an' I wanted to rouse ye up to have a word wid ye, afore
she was callin' fur ye. Will ye have a little taste iv toast an' a cup
iv tay quite an' aisy up here?"
"Yes, thank you, nurse, I should like it very much. I will ring
presently."
Mrs. O'Toole re-appeared with a most tempting round of buttered toast,
a tiny tea-pot, and a capacious cup, and placed them before her
nurseling.
"There, ait a bit, jewil; an' tell me what's the manin' iv this
scrimmige iv movin' all iv a suddin'?"
"I thought you were aware that Lady Desmond intended going to Ireland
when we left this?"
"To be sure, I did--but sure, isn't it mighty suddint? an' are we to be
off body an' bones on Thursday next?"
"Yes, nurse, I believe so."
"An' now, Miss Kate, agrah, will ye tell me, is it a weddin' we're
goin' to have, or what, fur I feel that somethin' quare's goin' on!"
"Oh, there is nothing the matter, nurse. I believe," she continued,
after a short pause, during which she summoned all her resolution to
speak easily and unconstrained, "that is, I think I must stay for a few
weeks with Mrs. Storey."
"What, not go wid us at wanst to Ireland!" ejaculated Mrs. O'Toole,
holding the tea-pot, from which she was in the act of replenishing her
nurseling's cup, still suspended, in sheer amazement. "What's that for?
sure, yer not goin' to send me off wid me lady! if yer not comin' wid
us now, sure. I'll have to come for ye; ye can't travel be yerself; an'
I'd betther stay wid ye."
"But Mrs. Storey has not room, I fear," said Kate, falteringly.
"I don't want to be behoulden to her fur her room; sure, I could get a
place convanient for meself; there's lashins iv poor places good enough
for the likes iv me about Bayswather to stop in; what would ye do
widout me?"
"What indeed!" echoed Kate, throwing herself into nurse's arms; and
worn out by the long constraint she had laboured under, she burst into
an irrepressible flood of tears, while Mrs. O'Toole hushed and soothed
her, as in her childish days.
"There now, hush, darlint; tell me what it vexes ye?"
"I am so afraid you will think me ungrateful and selfish, dear nurse,"
began Kate, in broken accents, interrupted by sobs. "You see I am
particularly anxious to stay in London for a while; and if--if I was
richer, and could pay for your lodgings, and all that, do you think I
could ever part with you, even for a short season, dearest, kindest
friend; but I am not; and I will not let you waste the little you have
on my account. No, you will go with Lady Desmond to Ireland, as she
wishes, till I join her."
Mrs. O'Toole seemed plunged in thought, and rolled her arms in her
apron, a favourite attitude with her, indicative of deep reflection.
"But will ye come back?" she asked, at last, with a keen glance, "an'
whin? there's somethin's throublin' ye, jewil, though ye'll not spake
out, an' me heart's oneasy; sure, ye wouldn't let me go from ye, if ye
wern't manin' to come back to me; sure, ye wouldn't thrate me that a
way, me own child?"
"God knows," cried Kate, "it is hard enough to part with you, although
I most firmly purpose to be with you ere long; but to say good bye in
earnest would be death to me."
"An' why need ye stay wid thim Storeys that arn't yer aiquils at all?
Ah! where's the use of sthrivin' to decave me. Have you an' me lady
fell out, asthore?"
This question was put with a concentration of anxiety and curiosity
which might have raised a smile to the lips of a casual observer, but
which only served to fill up the measure of Kate's perplexities--her
equally balanced cares--not to betray her cousin, and not to wound
nurse, placing her in a double difficulty.
"No, no! quarrel with my dear, kind Georgy! Never, I trust; but, in
short, dearest nurse," she continued, with great earnestness, "it
would be a source of the greatest comfort to me, to know that you were
safe and free from every want, in an establishment such as hers. I am
powerless to afford any aid or protection to my oldest, truest friend,"
pursued Kate, large tears weighing down her eyelashes. "And after years
of faithful, constant, self-devoted service, I must owe to another the
shelter I cannot give you. Ah! it is a hard fate!"
She hid her face on nurse's shoulder.
"Och! don't be talking that away, jewil!" ejaculated Mrs. O'Toole.
"Sure, haven't I a power iv money I got in yer sarvice that Misther
Winter put into the bank fur me? I'll do what iver mee sweet child
likes; but faith! I don't want shelther from any one. I'm not past mee
work yet, And if ye will have me go from ye, I'll just stop wid me lady
fur three weeks or a month; an' at the ind of that time, if yer not
comin' to us, I'll come fur ye. Sure, yer in the right iv it not to let
Lady Desmond get too accustomed to ye; faith, it's sick she'd be if an
angel from Heaven afther a bit; it's well fur her the masther (the Lord
rest his sowl,) wasn't that sort."
"Dear nurse," said Kate, raising her tearful face, and speaking in
broken accents, "why will you distress me by assuming a severe tone
towards my kind cousin; she is all that the most exacting could wish.
Oh! I have many difficulties before me. How! how! can I part with you?"
"An' why do ye ask me to lave ye?"
"It must be so," she returned, with more decision than she had yet
shown. "And, I will not deceive you, my own, dear nurse--it may be some
months before we meet again."
"Och! where are ye goin' to stop bee yerself, Miss Kate? What
mischief's brewin' at all? An' what would the masther say if he could
look down on us to see me goin' off in pace and plinty, and you
wandherin' through the world alone? Sure, I'd see his sperrit, it
couldn't rest in Heaven itself, if you wasn't rightly attended to."
"God forbid he should feel distress about me," sighed Kate. "He is at
last free from sin and sorrow--that is my great consolation! But my
plans are very simple. After being with Mrs. Storey for a while, I
shall probably go to some other friends, and move about; so you see you
could not exactly come with me. Then, when Mr. and Mrs. Winter return,
which, I trust, they will do before October, they know and value you,
and will gladly let me have you; or, probably, before I go to stay
with them, I may join my cousin; in either event, we shall be together;
and so far as a weak mortal can purpose, I resolve to separate from you
no more. Can you consent to this?"
Nurse, resting her elbows on her knees, and covering her face in her
hands, rocked herself in silence for a few moments, then with a deep
sigh, almost a groan, said--
"I see it's no use talkin', I must go from you--and I'll nivir hear the
thruth if what's goin' on! Och, I little thought I'd iver be parted
from mee own child--the core iv mee heart ye wor--ye nivir slept a
night from ondher the same roof wid me but wan, and that was the time
ye met the Captin, and I'll nivir believe but that'll turn out luck
yet! so I'll do yer biddin', agra! and sure the masther 'ill see it's
only yez own word would part us; an' look here, avourneen, I'll always
keep the price if mee journey by me, and the wind iv a word will bring
me to ye any day--remimber that!"
"I will remember, nurse. Ah! dearest, kindest, hold me to your
heart--close--there is none other beats so truly for your Kate--none
loves her so well, now grandpapa is gone."
"Faith, there is'nt wan thruer to ye on airth, than mine, as sure
as yer lyin' on it. There was wan more loved ye well, besides the
masther and me--if iver man loved mortial, the Captin loved the sight
iv ye--an' well he might, many's the time I watched his face brighten
up when he heard yer voice, an' wancest I seen him take the glove ye
dropped an' kiss it, as I would the cross! and mark my words--ye'll
see him yet--och, sure there's some brightness fur us ondher all this
sorra! an' don't sob that away, jewil--if you don't come to me, faith
I'll come to you."
This last week at Hampton Court was one of unmixed suffering to Kate.
Lady Desmond was cruelly capricious in her tone and manner to her
innocent cousin. At one moment Kate fancied she could perceive rapidly
returning confidence and affection--the next, some stern look, or
icy word, implied suspicion and dislike; nothing wounded Miss Vernon
so much as the assumption of her old tenderness before any third
party, and the instant return to coldness and estrangement, when that
restraint was removed.
Sometimes Kate's gentle but high spirit was roused to indignation,
which lent her a momentary strength; but this was soon dissolved by the
compassion with which she viewed the intense and unremitting struggle,
which thus clouded Lady Desmond's better judgment.
Miss Vernon was thoroughly convinced before the day of their departure
arrived, that to live with Lady Desmond in her present mood, was indeed
impossible; and that her only chance for preserving a hold on her
cousin's heart, was absence. The approaching separation from nurse was
ever present with her--from Lady Desmond, she felt, that for a while it
would be a relief to part.
Meantime, Mrs. Storey wrote in most cordial terms, to express the
pleasure she felt in expecting Miss Vernon as a guest; and all things
progressed smoothly for the cousins' plans.
The last evening, Kate felt real alarm, at the strange brilliancy of
her cousin's eyes, and the unwonted animation of her manner. She had
passed the greater part of the day alone; and had once sent for Kate,
who found her terribly agitated, and evidently endeavouring to make up
her mind to something; after a few vague words, however, she begged
Kate to leave her--that she would defer all further arrangements till
they were in London; and as Miss Vernon was leaving the room, begged
her to keep guard over herself, in case any unexpected arrival should
startle her. "Do not betray me, Kate." Miss Vernon knew she alluded
to Lord Effingham--but since the fatal day she had overheard his
declaration, she had never breathed his name to her; but the evening
wore on, and to Kate's infinite relief, he did not make his appearance.
Kate never quitted any place with so little regret, as Hampton Court;
though, at first, she had liked it much--difficulties soon gathered
round her--difficulties, such as she had never before encountered; but
she was wofully depressed--Lady Desmond had put a finishing stroke to
her low spirits, by enquiring if she would like to drive directly to
Mrs. Storey's, or go with her to Mivart's in the first place. This
readiness to get rid of her on the part of her natural protectress,
threw a sad feeling of gloom and loneliness over poor Kate's heart,
and it was some moments before she could reply. Her first impulse was
to accede at once to the proposition, which would have relieved her
cousin of her irksome presence; but an instant's thought, showed her
two potent reasons for a different line of conduct--first, she must
cling as long as she possibly could to nurse--secondly, she knew Mrs.
Storey did not expect her till the next day, so having glanced at these
motives, and swallowed a rising inclination to sob, she answered, with
a certain degree of reproachful sadness--
"I do not think Mrs. Storey expects me till to-morrow; and if you can
bear my presence a little longer, I should prefer waiting till then.
Dear cousin, though you are weary of me, I think of our parting with
grief, and regret."
"Oh, Kate, Kate," cried Lady Desmond, pressing her handkerchief to
her eyes "would to God, I could blot out the last few months--I feel
I am utterly neglecting my bounden duty in thus leaving you--but
it is better for both of us, at least for awhile! Do you forgive
me? you would if you knew the wretched sea of doubt and difficulty
and suspicion in which my weary spirit is tossed! I should make you
miserable if you stayed with me."
"I am most fully determined, even if you were not so inclined, to leave
you; at present it is quite as much my choice, as yours--do not grieve
about that--but--but, dear Georgy, do not seem so anxious to get rid of
me!"
"What a selfish, worthless wretch I have become," said Lady Desmond,
with sudden remorse, "I am not the same for an hour--at this moment I
would fain keep you with me to the last! but Saturday, the day after
to-morrow, I leave for Ireland; till then, you shall stay with me--you
would like to stay with nurse, at all events--how could I forget, ah!
Kate forgive me! you may, you ought; God knows how much misery you have
caused me," she ended bitterly.
Kate sighed to see how implacable were the suspicions entertained
by Lady Desmond; and the rest of the journey was performed in almost
unbroken and melancholy silence.
Miss Vernon wrote a line, to announce her arrival in town, to Mrs.
Storey; and then, leaving her cousin to receive the thousand and one
visitors, who flocked to remonstrate with, and exclaim at her strange
whim of performing a personal, and purgatorial progress to her estates
in Ireland, she sought the society of poor nurse, who was plunged into
the deepest affliction--
"I'll never forgive mee Lady Desmond, fur lettin' ye stay behind this
away. There's no use in talkin' but I know there's been some ruction
betune yez--any ways, I'll do yer biddin', an' stay out the four weeks
wid her; but afther that, don't lay a vow upon me, avourneen! an' ye'll
write me long letthers."
"Write! Ah, yes, it will be my only comfort until we meet--for we
must--we shall meet soon again."
And Miss Vernon threw herself on nurse's bosom, overpowered by the
feelings she had so long suppressed. Long and passionately did she
weep--and nurse, nobly hushing her own grief, strove to cheer her
child, whose unwonted emotion absolutely frightened the honest,
warm-hearted woman. Gradually Kate listened to her words, rallied
herself from the flood of bitterness which had swept over her spirit,
and after some desultory and mournful conversation, obeyed nurse's
kindly command.
"There's no use talking any more darlin, you must go to yer bed."
Kate, fatigued by the tears and sorrow of the day, was soon wrapped in
sleep; and nurse bent over her long and tenderly as she lay, one long
wavy tress escaping from the deep lace of her cap, her hands crossed
upon her bosom, which heaved slightly with each regular softly drawn
breath, the rosy lips apart, while
"On her snowy lids, whose texture fine
Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath,
The baby sleep--lies pillowed."
As nurse gazed at this picture of profound and innocent repose, lovely
as sleeping youth must be, to every eye capable of acknowledging
beauty, all her own grief at the separation of to-morrow pressed quick
and stern upon her.
"Ah, who'll watch over ye, pulse iv me heart? Who'll ye go spake to
when yer in throuble? Where will ye turn when yer sperrit scorns the
ways iv them that's about ye. Ah, where indeed! Oh, Mary, sweet queen
of heaven, look on ye. Sure ye niver had a purer heart than hers.
Blessed Jasus shield ye. Ah, Captin, agra, it's here ye ought to be,
with the warm heart an' the strong arm to hold her up through this
weary world."
And sinking on her knees, nurse devoutly told her beads, often wiping
away the fast-falling tears, yet, with the peculiarity of her race,
fervently hoping through it all.
"There is a prescience given to grief,
Which joy may never know,
A hope of future good, to cheer,
The ruggedness of woe!
It is the soul's deep whisper heard
When earth's rude tumult sleeps,
A moment hushed, when pain or grief,
Across the spirit sweeps.
Then through the gloom of doubt and dread,
An angel voice we hear,
Which speaks its inborn happiness,
Undimmed by grief or fear."