CHAPTER XI
The young countess was not easily broken down. If she was ever so miserable for one hour, she was ready to be amused the next; and though when left to herself she felt very desolate in the present, and much afraid of the future, the least enlivenment brightened her up again into more than her usual spirits. Even an entertaining bit in the history that she was reading would give her so much amusement that she would forget her disgrace in making remarks and asking questions, till Lady Barbara gravely bade her not waste time, and decided that she had no feeling.
It was not more easy to find a maid than a governess to Lady Barbara’s mind, nor did she exert herself much in the matter, for, as Kate heard her tell Mr. Mercer, she had decided that the present arrangement could not last; and then something was asked about the Colonel and Mrs. Umfraville; to which the answer was, “Oh no, quite impossible; she could never be in a house with an invalid;” and then ensued something about the Chancellor and an establishment, which, as usual, terrified Kate’s imagination.
Indeed that night terrors were at their height, for Mrs. Bartley never allowed dawdling, and with a severely respectful silence made the undressing as brief an affair as possible, brushing her hair till her head tingled all over, putting away the clothes with the utmost speed, and carrying off the candle as soon as she had uttered her grim “Good-night, my Lady,” leaving Kate to choose between her pet terrors—either of the Lord Chancellor, or of the house on fire—or a very fine new one, that someone would make away with her to make way for her Uncle Giles and his son to come to her title. Somehow Lady Barbara had contrived to make her exceedingly in awe of her Uncle Giles, the strict stern soldier who was always implicitly obeyed, and who would be so shocked at her. She wished she could hide somewhere when he was coming! But there was one real good bright pleasure near, that would come before her misfortunes; and that was the birthday to be spent at the Wardours’. As to the present, Josephine had had the album in her pocket, and had never restored it, and Kate had begun to feel a distaste to the whole performance, to recollect its faults, and to be ashamed of the entire affair; but that was no reason she should not be very happy with her friends, who had promised to take her to the Zoological Gardens.
She had not seen them since her return to London; they were at Westbourne Road, too far off for her to walk thither even if she had had anyone to go with her, and though they had called, no one had seen them; but she had had two or three notes, and had sent some “story pictures” by the post. And the thoughts of that day of freedom and enjoyment of talking to Alice, being petted by Mrs. Wardour and caressed by Sylvia, seemed to bear her through all the dull morning walks, in which she was not only attended by Bartley, but by the man-servant; all the lessons with her aunt, and the still more dreary exercise which Lady Barbara took with her in some of the parks in the afternoon. She counted the days to the 21st whenever she woke in the morning; and at last Saturday was come, and it would be Monday.
“Katharine,” said Lady Barbara at breakfast, “you had better finish your drawing to-day; here is a note from Madame to say it will suit her best to come on Monday instead of Tuesday.”
“Oh! but, Aunt Barbara, I am going to Westbourne Road on Monday.”
“Indeed! I was not aware of it.”
“Oh, it is Sylvia’s birthday! and I am going to the Zoological Gardens with them.”
“And pray how came you to make this engagement without consulting me?”
“It was all settled at Bournemouth. I thought you knew! Did not Mrs. Wardour ask your leave for me?”
“Mrs. Wardour said something about hoping to see you in London, but I made no decided answer. I should not have allowed the intimacy there if I had expected that the family would be living in London; and there is no reason that it should continue. Constant intercourse would not be at all desirable.”
“But may I not go on Monday?” said Kate, her eyes opening wide with consternation.
“No, certainly not. You have not deserved that I should trust you; I do not know whom you might meet there: and I cannot have you going about with any chance person.”
“O Aunt Barbara! Aunt Barbara! I have promised!”
“Your promise can be of no effect without my consent.”
“But they will expect me. They will be so disappointed!”
“I cannot help that. They ought to have applied to me for my consent.”
“Perhaps,” said Kate hopefully, “Mrs. Wardour will write to-day. If she does, will you let me go?”
“No, Katharine. While you are under my charge, I am accountable for you, and I will not send you into society I know nothing about. Let me hear no more of this, but write a note excusing yourself, and we will let the coachman take it to the post.”
Kate was thoroughly enraged, and forgot even her fears. “I sha’n’t excuse myself,” she said; “I shall say you will not let me go.”
“You will write a proper and gentlewoman-like note,” said Lady Barbara quietly, “so as not to give needless offence.”
“I shall say,” exclaimed Kate more loudly, “that I can’t go because you won’t let me go near old friends.”
“Go into the schoolroom, and write a proper note, Katharine; I shall come presently, and see what you have said,” repeated Lady Barbara, commanding her own temper with some difficulty.
Kate flung away into the schoolroom, muttering, and in a tumult of exceeding disappointment, anger, and despair, too furious even to cry, and dashing about the room, calling Aunt Barbara after every horrible heroine she could think of, and pitying herself and her friends, till the thought of Sylvia’s disappointment stung her beyond all bearing. She was still rushing hither and thither, inflaming her passion, when her aunt opened the door.
“Where is the note?” she said quietly.
“I have not done it.”
“Sit down then this instant, and write,” said Lady Barbara, with her Diana face and cool way, the most terrible of all.
Kate sulkily obeyed, but as she seated herself, muttered, “I shall say you won’t let me go near them.”
“Write as I tell you.—My dear Mrs. Wardour—”
“There.”
“I fear you may be expecting to see me on Monday—”
“I don’t fear; I know she is.”
“Write—I fear you may be expecting me on Monday, as something passed on the subject at Bournemouth; and in order to prevent inconvenience, I write to say that it will not be in my power to call on that day, as my aunt had made a previous engagement for me.”
“I am sure I sha’n’t say that!” cried Kate, breaking out of all bounds in her indignation.
“Recollect yourself, Lady Caergwent,” said Lady Barbara calmly.
“It is not true!” cried Kate passionately, jumping up from her seat. “You had not made an engagement for me! I won’t write it! I won’t write lies, and you sha’n’t make me.”
“I do not allow such words or such a manner in speaking to me,” said Lady Barbara, not in the least above her usual low voice; and her calmness made Kate the more furious, and jump and dance round with passion, repeating, “I’ll never write lies, nor tell lies, for you or anyone; you may kill me, but I won’t!”
“That is enough exposure of yourself, Lady Caergwent,” said her aunt. “When you have come to your senses, and choose to apologize for insulting me, and show me the letter written as I desire, you may come to me.”
And away walked Lady Barbara, as cool and unmoved apparently as if she had been made of cast iron; though within she was as sorry, and hardly less angry, than the poor frantic child she left.
Kate did not fly about now. She was very indignant, but she was proud of herself too; she had spoken as if she had been in a book, and she believed herself persecuted for adhering to old friends, and refusing to adopt fashionable falsehoods, such as she had read of. She was a heroine in her own eyes, and that made her inclined to magnify all the persecution and cruelty. They wanted to shut her up from the friends of her childhood, to force her to be false and fashionable; they had made her naughtier and naughtier ever since she came there; they were teaching her to tell falsehoods now, and to give up the Wardours. She would never never do it! Helpless girl as she was, she would be as brave as the knights and earls her ancestors, and stand up for the truth. But what would they do at her! Oh! could she bear Aunt Barbara’s dreadful set Diana face again, and not write as she was told!
The poor weak little heart shrank with terror as she only looked at Aunt Barbara’s chair—not much like the Sir Giles de Umfraville she had thought of just now. “And I’m naughty now; I did betray my trust: I’m much naughtier than I was. Oh, if Papa was but here!” And then a light darted into Kate’s eye, and a smile came on her lip. “Why should not I go home? Papa would have me again; I know he would! He would die rather than leave his child Kate to be made wicked, and forced to tell lies! Perhaps he’ll hide me! Oh, if I could go to school with the children at home in disguise, and let Uncle Giles be Earl of Caergwent if he likes! I’ve had enough of grandeur! I’ll come as Cardinal Wolsey did, when he said he was come to lay his bones among them—and Sylvia and Mary, and Charlie and Armyn—oh, I must go where someone will be kind to me again! Can I really, though? Why not?” and her heart beat violently. “Yes, yes; nothing would happen to me; I know how to manage! If I can only get there, they will hide me from Aunt Barbara and the Lord Chancellor; and even if I had to go back, I should have had one kiss of them all. Perhaps if I don’t go now I shall never see them again!”
With thoughts something like these, Kate, moving dreamily, as if she were not sure that it was herself or not, opened her little writing-case, took out her purse, and counted the money. There was a sovereign and some silver; more than enough, as she well knew. Then she took out of a chiffoniere her worked travelling bag, and threw in a few favourite books; then stood and gasped, and opened the door to peep out. The coachman was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for orders, so she drew in her head, looked at her watch, and considered whether her room would be clear of the housemaids. If she could once get safely out of the house she would not be missed till her dinner time, and perhaps then might be supposed sullen, and left alone. She was in a state of great fright, starting violently at every sound; but the scheme having once occurred to her, it seemed as if St. James’s Parsonage was pulling her harder and harder every minute; she wondered if there were really such things as heart-strings; if there were, hers must be fastened very tight round Sylvia.
At last she ventured out, and flew up to her own room more swiftly than ever she had darted before! She moved about quietly, and perceived by the sounds in the next room that Mrs. Bartley was dressing Aunt Jane, and Aunt Barbara reading a letter to her. This was surely a good moment; but she knew she must dress herself neatly, and not look scared, if she did not mean to be suspected and stopped; and she managed to get quietly into her little shaggy coat, her black hat and feather and warm gloves—even her boots were remembered—and then whispering to herself, “It can’t be wrong to get away from being made to tell stories! I’m going to Papa!” she softly opened the door, went on tip-toe past Lady’s Jane’s door; then after the first flight of stairs, rushed like the wind, unseen by anyone, got the street door open, pulled it by its outside handle, and heard it shut!
It was done now! She was on the wide world—in the street! She could not have got in again without knocking, ringing, and making her attempt known; and she was far more terrified at the thought of Lady Barbara’s stern face and horror at her proceedings than even at the long journey alone.
Every step was a little bit nearer Sylvia, Mary, and Papa—it made her heart bound in the midst of its frightened throbs—every step was farther away from Aunt Barbara, and she could hardly help setting off in a run. It was a foggy day, when it was not so easy to see far, but she longed to be out of Bruton Street, where she might be known; yet when beyond the quiet familiar houses, the sense of being alone, left to herself, began to get very alarming, and she could hardly control herself to walk like a rational person to the cab-stand in Davies Street.
Nobody remarked her; she was a tall girl for her age, and in her sober dark dress, with her little bag, might be taken for a tradesman’s daughter going to school, even if anyone had been out who had time to look at her. Trembling, she saw a cabman make a sign to her, and stood waiting for him, jumped in as he opened his door, and felt as if she had found a refuge for the time upon the dirty red plush cushions and the straw. “To the Waterloo Station,” said she, with as much indifference and self-possession as she could manage. The man touched his hat, and rattled off: he perhaps wondering if this were a young runaway, and if he should get anything by telling where she was gone; she working herself into a terrible fright for fear he should be going to drive round and round London, get her into some horrible den of iniquity, and murder her for the sake of her money, her watch, and her clothes. Did not cabmen always do such things? She had quite decided how she would call a policeman, and either die like an Umfraville or offer a ransom of “untold gold,” and had gone through all possible catastrophes long before she found herself really safe at the railway station, and the man letting her out, and looking for his money.
The knowledge that all depended on herself, and that any signs of alarm would bring on inquiry, made her able to speak and act so reasonably, that she felt like one in a dream. With better fortune than she could have hoped for, a train was going to start in a quarter of an hour; and the station clerk was much too busy and too much hurried to remark how scared were her eyes, and how trembling her voice, as she asked at his pigeon-hole for “A first-class ticket to Oldburgh, if you please,” offered the sovereign in payment, swept up the change, and crept out to the platform.
A carriage had “Oldburgh” marked on it; she tried to open the door, but could not reach the handle; then fancied a stout porter who came up with his key must be some messenger of the Lord Chancellor come to catch her, and was very much relieved when he only said, “Where for, Miss?” and on her answer, “Oldburgh,” opened the door for her, and held her bag while she tripped up the steps. “Any luggage, Miss?” “No, thank you.” He shot one inquiring glance after her, but hastened away; and she settled herself in the very farthest corner of the carriage, and lived in an agony for the train to set off before her flight should be detected.
Once off, she did not care; she should be sure of at least seeing Sylvia, and telling her uncle her troubles. She had one great start, when the door was opened, and a gentleman peered in; but it was merely to see if there was room, for she heard him say, “Only a child,” and in came a lady and two gentlemen, who at least filled up the window so that nobody could see her, while they talked a great deal to someone on the platform. And then after some bell-ringing, whistling, sailing backwards and forwards, and stopping, they were fairly off—getting away from the roofs of London—seeing the sky clear of smoke and fog—getting nearer home every moment; and Countess Kate relaxed her shy, frightened, drawn-up attitude, gave a long breath, felt that the deed was done, and began to dwell on the delight with which she should be greeted at home, and think how to surprise them all!
There was plenty of time for thinking and planning and dreaming, some few possible things, but a great many more most impossible ones. Perhaps the queerest notion of all was her plan for being disguised like a school-child all day, and always noticed for her distinguished appearance by ladies who came to see the school, or overheard talking French to Sylvia; and then in the midst of her exceeding anxiety not to be detected, she could not help looking at her travelling companions, and wondering if they guessed with what a grand personage they had the honour to be travelling! Only a child, indeed! What would they think if they knew? And the little goose held her pocket-handkerchief in her hand, feeling as if it would be like a story if they happened to wonder at the coronet embroidered in the corner; and when she took out a story-book, she would have liked that the fly-leaf should just carelessly reveal the Caergwent written upon it. She did not know that selfishness had thrown out the branch of self-consequence.
However, nothing came of it; they had a great deal too much to say to each other to notice the little figure in the corner; and she had time to read a good deal, settle a great many fine speeches, get into many a fright lest there should be an accident, and finally grow very impatient, alarmed, and agitated before the last station but one was passed, and she began to know the cut of the hedgerow-trees, and the shape of the hills—to feel as if the cattle and sheep in the fields were old friends, and to feel herself at home.
Oldburgh Station! They were stopping at last, and she was on her feet, pressing to the window between the strangers. One of the gentlemen kindly made signs to the porter to let her out, and asked if she had any baggage, or anyone to meet her. She thanked him by a smile and shake of the head; she could not speak for the beating of her heart; she felt almost as much upon the world as when the door in Bruton Street had shut behind her; and besides, a terrible wild fancy had seized her—suppose, just suppose, they were all gone away, or ill, or someone dead! Perhaps she felt it would serve her right, and that was the reason she was in such terror.
CHAPTER XII
When Kate had left the train, she was still two miles from St. James’s; and it was half-past three o’clock, so that she began to feel that she had run away without her dinner, and that the beatings of her heart made her knees ache, so that she had no strength to walk.
She thought her best measure would be to make her way to a pastry-cook’s shop that looked straight down the street to the Grammar School, and where it was rather a habit of the family to meet Charlie when they had gone into the town on business, and wanted to walk out with him. He would be out at four o’clock, and there would not be long to wait. So, feeling shy, and even more guilty and frightened than on her first start, Kate threaded the streets she knew so well, and almost gasping with nervous alarm, popped up the steps into the shop, and began instantly eating a bun, and gazing along the street. She really could not speak till she had swallowed a few mouthfuls; and then she looked up to the woman, and took courage to ask if the boys were out of school yet.
“Oh, no, Miss; not for a quarter of an hour yet.”
“Do you know if—if Master Charles Wardour is there to-day?” added Kate, with a gulp.
“I don’t, Miss.” And the woman looked hard at her.
“Do you know if any of them—any of them from St. James’s, are in to-day?”
“No, Miss; I have not seen any of them, but very likely they may be. I saw Mr. Wardour go by yesterday morning.”
So far they were all well, then; and Kate made her mind easier, and went on eating like a hungry child till the great clock struck four; when she hastily paid for her cakes and tarts, put on her gloves, and stood on the step, half in and half out of the shop, staring down the street. Out came the boys in a rush, making straight for the shop, and brushing past Kate; she, half alarmed, half affronted, descended from her post, still looking intently. Half a dozen more big fellows, eagerly talking, almost tumbled over her, and looked as if she had no business there; she seemed to be quite swept off the pavement into the street, and to be helpless in the midst of a mob, dashing around her. They might begin to tease her in a minute; and more terrified than at any moment of her journey, she was almost ready to cry, when the tones of a well-known voice came on her ear close to her—“I say, Will, you come and see my new terrier;” and before the words were uttered, with a cry of, “Charlie, Charlie!” she was clinging to a stout boy who had been passing without looking at her.
“Let go, I say. Who are you?” was the first rough greeting.
“O Charlie, Charlie!” almost sobbing, and still grasping his arm tight.
“Oh, I say!” and he stood with open mouth staring at her.
“O Charlie! take me home!”
“Yes, yes; come along!—Get off with you, fellows!” he added—turning round upon the other boys, who were beginning to stare—and exclaimed, “It’s nothing but our Kate!”
Oh! what a thrill there was in hearing those words; and the boys, who were well-behaved and gentlemanly, were not inclined to molest her. So she hurried on, holding Charles’s arm for several steps, till they were out of the hubbub, when he turned again and stared, and again exclaimed, “I say!” all that he could at present utter; and Kate looked at his ruddy face and curly head, and dusty coat and inky collar, as if she would eat him for very joy.
“I say!” and this time he really did say, “Where are the rest of them?”
“At home, aren’t they?”
“What, didn’t they bring you in?”
“Oh no!”
“Come, don’t make a tomfoolery of it; that’s enough. I shall have all the fellows at me for your coming up in that way, you know. Why couldn’t you shake hands like anyone else?”
“O Charlie, I couldn’t help it! Please let us go home!”
“Do you mean that you aren’t come from there?”
“No,” said Kate, half ashamed, but far more exultant, and hanging down her head; “I came from London—I came by myself. My aunt wanted me to tell a story, and—and I have run away. O Charlie! take me home!” and with a fresh access of alarm, she again threw her arms round him, as if to gain his protection from some enemy.
“Oh, I say!” again he cried, looking up the empty street and down again, partly for the enemy, partly to avoid eyes; but he only beheld three dirty children and an old woman, so he did not throw her off roughly. “Ran away!” and he gave a great whistle.
“Yes, yes. My aunt shut me up because I would not tell a story,” said Kate, really believing it herself. “Oh, let us get home, Charlie, do.”
“Very well, if you won’t throttle a man; and let me get Tony in here,” he added, going on a little way towards a small inn stable-yard.
“Oh, don’t go,” cried Kate, who, once more protected, could not bear to be left alone a moment; but Charlie plunged into the yard, and came back not only with the pony, but with a plaid, and presently managed to mount Kate upon the saddle, throwing the plaid round her so as to hide the short garments and long scarlet stockings, that were not adapted for riding, all with a boy’s rough and tender care for the propriety of his sister’s appearance.
“There, that will do,” said he, holding the bridle. “So you found it poor fun being My Lady, and all that.”
“Oh! it was awful, Charlie! You little know, in your peaceful retirement, what are the miseries of the great.”
“Come, Kate, don’t talk bosh out of your books. What did they do to you? They didn’t lick you, did they?”
“No, no; nonsense,” said Kate, rather affronted; “but they wanted to make me forget all that I cared for, and they really did shut me up because I said I would not write a falsehood to please them! They did, Charlie!” and her eyes shone.
“Well, I always knew they must be a couple of horrid old owls,” began Charlie.
“Oh! I didn’t mean Aunt Jane,” said Kate, feeling a little compunction. “Ah!” with a start and scream, “who is coming?” as she heard steps behind them.
“You little donkey, you’ll be off! Who should it be but Armyn?”
For Armyn generally overtook his brother on a Saturday, and walked home with him for the Sunday.
Charles hailed him with a loud “Hollo, Armyn! What d’ye think I’ve got here?”
“Kate! Why, how d’ye do! Why, they never told me you were coming to see us.”
“They didn’t know,” whispered Kate.
“She’s run away, like a jolly brick!” said Charlie, patting the pony vehemently as he made this most inappropriate comparison.
“Run away! You don’t mean it!” cried Armyn, standing still and aghast, so much shocked that her elevation turned into shame; and Charles answered for her—
“Yes, to be sure she did, when they locked her up because she wouldn’t tell lies to please them. How did you get out, Kittens? What jolly good fun it must have been!”
“Is this so, Kate?” said Armyn, laying his hand on the bridle; and his displeasure roused her spirit of self-defence, and likewise a sense of ill-usage.
“To be sure it is,” she said, raising her head indignantly. “I would not be made to tell fashionable falsehoods; and so—and so I came home, for Papa to protect me:” and if she had not had to take care to steady herself on her saddle, she would have burst out sobbing with vexation at Armyn’s manner.
“And no one knew you were coming?” said he.
“No, of course not; I slipped out while they were all in confabulation in Aunt Jane’s room, and they were sure not to find me gone till dinner time, and if they are very cross, not then.”
“You go on, Charlie,” said Armyn, restoring the bridle to his brother; “I’ll overtake you by the time you get home.”
“What are you going to do?” cried boy and girl with one voice.
“Well, I suppose it is fair to tell you,” said Armyn. “I must go and telegraph what is become of you.”
There was a howl and a shriek at this. They would come after her and take her away, when she only wanted to be hid and kept safe; it was a cruel shame, and Charles was ready to fly at his brother and pommel him; indeed, Armyn had to hold him by one shoulder, and say in the voice that meant that he would be minded, “Steady, boy I—I’m very sorry, my little Katie; it’s a melancholy matter, but you must have left those poor old ladies in a dreadful state of alarm about you, and they ought not to be kept in it!”
“Oh! but Armyn, Armyn, do only get home, and see what Papa says.”
“I am certain what he will say, and it would only be the trouble of sending someone in, and keeping the poor women in a fright all the longer. Besides, depend on it, the way to have them sending down after you would be to say nothing. Now, if they hear you are safe, you are pretty secure of spending to-morrow at least with us. Let me go, Kate; it must be done. I cannot help it.”
Even while he spoke, the kind way of crossing her will was so like home, that it gave a sort of happiness, and she felt she could not resist; so she gave a sigh, and he turned back.
How much of the joy and hope of her journey had he not carried away with him! His manner of treating her exploit made her even doubt how his father might receive it; and yet the sight of old scenes, and the presence of Charlie, was such exceeding delight, that it seemed to kill off all unpleasant fears or anticipations; and all the way home it was one happy chatter of inquiries for everyone, of bits of home news, and exclamations at the sight of some well-known tree, or the outline of a house remembered for some adventure; the darker the twilight the happier her tongue. The dull suburb, all little pert square red-brick houses, with slated roofs and fine names, in the sloppiness of a grey November day, was dear to Kate; every little shop window with the light streaming out was like a friend; and she anxiously gazed into the rough parties out for their Saturday purchases, intending to nod to anyone she might know, but it was too dark for recognitions; and when at length they passed the dark outline of the church, she was silent, her heart again bouncing as if it would beat away her breath and senses. The windows were dark; it was a sign that Evening Service was just over. The children turned in at the gate, just as Armyn overtook them. He lifted Kate off her pony. She could not have stood, but she could run, and she flew to the drawing-room. No one was there; perhaps she was glad. She knew the cousins would be dressing for tea, and in another moment she had torn open Sylvia’s door.
Sylvia, who was brushing her hair, turned round. She stared—as if she had seen a ghost. Then the two children held out their arms, and rushed together with a wild scream that echoed through the house, and brought Mary flying out of her room to see who was hurt! and to find, rolling on her sister’s bed, a thing that seemed to have two bodies and two faces glued together, four legs, and all its arms and hands wound round and round.
“Sylvia! What is it? Who is it? What is she doing to you?” began Mary; but before the words were out of her mouth, the thing had flown at her neck, and pulled her down too; and the grasp and the clinging and the kisses told her long before she had room or eyes or voice to know the creature by. A sort of sobbing out of each name between them was all that was heard at first.
At last, just as Mary was beginning to say, “My own own Katie! how did you come—” Mr. Wardour’s voice on the stairs called “Mary!”
“Have you seen him, my dear?”
“No;” but Kate was afraid now she had heard his voice, for it was grave.
“Mary!” And Mary went. Kate sat up, holding Sylvia’s hand.
They heard him ask, “Is Kate there?”
“Yes.” And then there were lower voices that Kate could not hear, and which therefore alarmed her; and Sylvia, puzzled and frightened, sat holding her hand, listening silently.
Presently Mr. Wardour came in; and his look was graver than his tone; but it was so pitying, that in a moment Kate flew to his breast, and as he held her in his arms she cried, “O Papa! Papa! I have found you again! you will not turn me away.”
“I must do whatever may be right, my dear child,” said Mr. Wardour, holding her close, so that she felt his deep love, though it was not an undoubting welcome. “I will hear all about it when you have rested, and then I may know what is best to be done.”