“Oh! keep me, keep me, Papa.”
“You will be here to-morrow at least,” he said, disengaging himself from her. “This is a terrible proceeding of yours, Kate, but it is no time for talking of it; and as your aunts know where you are, nothing more can be done at present; so we will wait to understand it till you are rested and composed.”
He went away; and Kate remained sobered and confused, and Mary stood looking at her, sad and perplexed.
“O Kate! Kate!” she said, “what have you been doing?”
“What is the matter? Are not you glad?” cried Sylvia; and the squeeze of her hand restored Kate’s spirits so much that she broke forth with her story, told in her own way, of persecution and escape, as she had wrought herself up to believe in it; and Sylvia clung to her, with flushed cheeks and ardent eyes, resenting every injury that her darling detailed, triumphing in her resistance, and undoubting that here she would be received and sheltered from all; while Mary, distressed and grieved, and cautioned by her father to take care not to show sympathy that might be mischievous, was carried along in spite of herself to admire and pity her child, and burn with indignation at such ill-treatment, almost in despair at the idea that the child must be sent back again, yet still not discarding that trust common to all Mr. Wardour’s children, that “Papa would do anything to hinder a temptation.”
And so, with eager words and tender hands, Kate was made ready for the evening meal, and went down, clinging on one side to Mary, on the other to Sylvia—a matter of no small difficulty on the narrow staircase, and almost leading to a general avalanche of young ladies, all upon the head of little Lily, who was running up to greet and be greeted, and was almost devoured by Kate when at length they did get safe downstairs.
It was a somewhat quiet, grave meal; Mr. Wardour looked so sad and serious, that all felt that it would not do to indulge in joyous chatter, and the little girls especially were awed; though through all there was a tender kindness in his voice and look, whenever he did but offer a slice of bread to his little guest, such as made her feel what was home and what was love—“like a shower of rain after a parched desert” as she said to herself; and she squeezed Sylvia’s hand under the table whenever she could.
Mr. Wardour spoke to her very little. He said he had seen Colonel Umfraville’s name in the Gazette, and asked about his coming home; and when she had answered that the time and speed of the journey were to depend on Giles’s health, he turned from her to Armyn, and began talking to him about some public matters that seemed very dull to Kate; and one little foolish voice within her said, “He is not like Mrs. George Wardour, he forgets what I am;” but there was a wiser, more loving voice to answer, “Dear Papa, he thinks of me as myself; he is no respecter of persons. Oh, I hope he is not angry with me!”
When tea was over Mr. Wardour stood up, and said, “I shall wish you children good-night now; I have to read with John Bailey for his Confirmation, and to prepare for to-morrow;—and you, Kate, must go to bed early.—Mary, she had better sleep with you.”
This was rather a blank, for sleeping with Sylvia again had been Kate’s dream of felicity; yet this was almost lost in the sweetness of once more coming in turn for the precious kiss and good-night, in the midst of which she faltered, “O Papa, don’t be angry with me!”
“I am not angry, Katie,” he said gently; “I am very sorry. You have done a thing that nothing can justify, and that may do you much future harm; and I cannot receive you as if you had come properly. I do not know what excuse there was for you, and I cannot attend to you to-night; indeed, I do not think you could tell me rightly; but another time we will talk it all over, and I will try to help you. Now good-night, my dear child.”
Those words of his, “I will try to help you,” were to Kate like a promise of certain rescue from all her troubles; and, elastic ball that her nature was, no sooner was his anxious face out of sight, and she secure that he was not angry, than up bounded her spirits again. She began wondering why Papa thought she could not tell him properly, and forthwith began to give what she intended for a full and particular history of all that she had gone through.
It was a happy party round the fire; Kate and Sylvia both together in the large arm-chair, and Lily upon one of its arms; Charles in various odd attitudes before the fire; Armyn at the table with his book, half reading, half listening; Mary with her work; and Kate pouring out her story, making herself her own heroine, and describing her adventures, her way of life, and all her varieties of miseries, in the most glowing colours. How she did rattle on! It would be a great deal too much to tell; indeed it would be longer than this whole story!
Sylvia and Charlie took it all in, pitied, wondered, and were indignant, with all their hearts; indeed Charlie was once heard to wish he could only get that horrid old witch near the horse-pond; and when Kate talked of her Diana face, he declared that he should get the old brute of a cat into the field, and set all the boys to stone her.
Little Lily listened, not sure whether it was not all what she called “a made-up story only for prettiness;” and Mary, sitting over her work, was puzzled, and saw that her father was right in saying that Kate could not at present give an accurate account of herself. Mary knew her truthfulness, and that she would not have said what she knew to be invention; but those black eyes, glowing like little hot coals, and those burning cheeks, as well as the loud, squeaky key of the voice, all showed that she had worked herself up into a state of excitement, such as not to know what was invented by an exaggerating memory. Besides, it could not be all true; it did not agree; the ill-treatment was not consistent with the grandeur. For Kate had taken to talking very big, as if she was an immensely important personage, receiving much respect wherever she went; and though Armyn once or twice tried putting in a sober matter-of-fact question for the fun of disconcerting her, she was too mad to care or understand what he said.
“Oh no! she never was allowed to do anything for herself. That was quite a rule, and very tiresome it was.”
“Like the King of Spain, you can’t move your chair away from the fire without the proper attendant.”
“I never do put on coals or wood there!”
“There may be several reasons for that,” said Armyn, recollecting how nearly Kate had once burnt the house down.
“Oh, I assure you it would not do for me,” said Kate. “If it were not so inconvenient in that little house, I should have my own man-servant to attend to my fire, and walk out behind me. Indeed, now Perkins always does walk behind me, and it is such a bore.”
And what was the consequence of all this wild chatter? When Mary had seen the hot-faced eager child into bed, she came down to her brother in the drawing-room with her eyes brimful of tears, saying, “Poor dear child! I am afraid she is very much spoilt!”
“Don’t make up your mind to-night,” said Armyn. “She is slightly insane as yet! Never mind, Mary; her heart is in the right place, if her head is turned a little.”
“It is very much turned indeed,” said Mary. “How wise it was of Papa not to let Sylvia sleep with her! What will he do with her? Oh dear!”
CHAPTER XIII
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.”