Countess Kate

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> Countess Kate

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14

This etext was produced from the 1902 Macmillan and Co. edition by
David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk

COUNTESS KATE

by Charlotte M. Yonge

CHAPTER I.

"There, I've done every bit I can do! I'm going to see what o'clock
it is."

"I heard it strike eleven just now."

"Sylvia, you'll tip up! What a tremendous stretch!"

"Wha-ooh! Oh dear! We sha'n't get one moment before dinner! Oh,
horrible! oh, horrible! most horrible!"

"Sylvia, you know I hate hearing Hamlet profaned."

"You can't hate it more than having no one to hear our lessons."

"That makes you do it. What on earth can Mary be about?"

"Some tiresome woman to speak to her, I suppose."

"I'm sure it can't be as much her business as it is to mind her poor
little sisters. Oh dear! if Papa could only afford us a governess!"

"I am sure I should not like it at all; besides, it is wrong to wish
to be richer than one is."

"I don't wish; I am only thinking how nice it would be, if some one
would give us a famous quantity of money. Then Papa should have a
pretty parsonage, like the one at Shagton; and we would make the
church beautiful, and get another pony or two, to ride with Charlie."

"Yes, and have a garden with a hothouse like Mr. Brown's."

"Oh yes; and a governess to teach us to draw. But best of all--O
Sylvia! wouldn't it be nice not to have to mind one's clothes always?
Yes, you laugh; but it comes easier to you; and, oh dear! oh dear! it
is so horrid to be always having to see one does not tear oneself."

"I don't think you do see," said Sylvia, laughing.

"My frocks always WILL get upon the thorns. It is very odd."

"Only do please, Katie dear, let me finish this sum; and then if Mary
is not come, she can't scold if we are amusing ourselves."

"I know!" cried Kate. "I'll draw such a picture, and tell you all
about it when your sum is over."

Thereon ensued silence in the little room, half parlour, half study,
nearly filled with books and piano; and the furniture, though
carefully protected with brown holland, looking the worse for wear,
and as if danced over by a good many young folks.

The two little girls, who sat on the opposite sides of a little
square table in the bay-window, were both between ten and eleven
years old, but could not have been taken for twins, nor even for
sisters, so unlike were their features and complexion; though their
dress, very dark grey linsey, and brown holland aprons, was exactly
the same, except that Sylvia's was enlivened by scarlet braid, Kate's
darkened by black--and moreover, Kate's apron was soiled, and the
frock bore traces of a great darn. In fact, new frocks for the pair
were generally made necessary by Kate's tattered state, when Sylvia's
garments were still available for little Lily, or for some school
child.

Sylvia's brown hair was smooth as satin; Kate's net did not succeed
in confining the loose rough waves of dark chestnut, on the road to
blackness. Sylvia was the shorter, firmer, and stronger, with round
white well-cushioned limbs; Kate was tall, skinny, and brown, though
perfectly healthful. The face of the one was round and rosy, of the
other thin and dark; and one pair of eyes were of honest grey, while
the others were large and hazel, with blue whites. Kate's little
hand was so slight, that Sylvia's strong fingers could almost crush
it together, but it was far less effective in any sort of handiwork;
and her slim neatly-made foot always was a reproach to her for making
such boisterous steps, and wearing out her shoes so much faster than
the quieter movements of her companion did--her sister, as the
children would have said, for nothing but the difference of surname
reminded Katharine Umfraville that she was not the sister of Sylvia
Wardour.

Her father, a young clergyman, had died before she could remember
anything, and her mother had not survived him three months. Little
Kate had then become the charge of her mother's sister, Mrs. Wardour,
and had grown up in the little parsonage belonging to the district
church of St. James's, Oldburgh, amongst her cousins, calling Mr. and
Mrs. Wardour Papa and Mamma, and feeling no difference between their
love to their own five children and to her.

Mrs. Wardour had been dead for about four years, and the little girls
were taught by the eldest sister, Mary, who had been at a boarding-
school to fit her for educating them. Mr. Wardour too taught them a
good deal himself, and had the more time for them since Charlie, the
youngest boy, had gone every day to the grammar-school in the town.

Armyn, the eldest of the family, was with Mr. Brown, a very good old
solicitor, who, besides his office in Oldburgh, had a very pretty
house and grounds two miles beyond St. James's, where the parsonage
children were delighted to spend an afternoon now and then.

Little did they know that it was the taking the little niece as a
daughter that had made it needful to make Armyn enter on a profession
at once, instead of going to the university and becoming a clergyman
like his father; nor how cheerfully Armyn had agreed to do whatever
would best lighten his father's cares and troubles. They were a very
happy family; above all, on the Saturday evenings and Sundays that
the good-natured elder brother spent at home.

"There!" cried Sylvia, laying down her slate pencil, and indulging in
another tremendous yawn; "we can't do a thing more till Mary comes!
What can she be about?"

"Oh, but look, Sylvia!" cried Kate, quite forgetting everything in
the interest of her drawing on a large sheet of straw-paper. "Do you
see what it is?"

"I don't know," said Sylvia, "unless--let me see--That's a very rich
little girl, isn't it?" pointing to an outline of a young lady whose
wealth was denoted by the flounces (or rather scallops) on her frock,
the bracelets on her sausage-shaped arms, and the necklace on her
neck.

"Yes; she is a very rich and grand--Lady Ethelinda; isn't that a
pretty name? I do wish I was Lady Katharine."

"And what is she giving? I wish you would not do men and boys, Kate;
their legs always look so funny as you do them."

"They never will come right; but never mind, I must have them. That
is Lady Ethelinda's dear good cousin, Maximilian; he is a lawyer--
don't you see the parchment sticking out of his pocket?"

"Just like Armyn."

"And she is giving him a box with a beautiful new microscope in it;
don't you see the top of it? And there is a whole pile of books.
And I would draw a pony, only I never can nicely; but look here,"--
Kate went on drawing as she spoke--"here is Lady Ethelinda with her
best hat on, and a little girl coming. There is the little girl's
house, burnt down; don't you see?"

Sylvia saw with the eyes of her mind the ruins, though her real eyes
saw nothing but two lines, meant to be upright, joined together by a
wild zig-zag, and with some peaked scrabbles and round whirls
intended for smoke. Then Kate's ready pencil portrayed the family,
as jagged in their drapery as the flames and presently Lady Ethelinda
appeared before a counter (such a counter! sloping like a desk in the
attempt at perspective, but it conveniently concealed the shopman's
legs,) buying very peculiar garments for the sufferers. Another
scene in which she was presenting them followed, Sylvia looking on,
and making suggestions; for in fact there was no quiet pastime more
relished by the two cousins than drawing stories, as they called it,
and most of their pence went in paper for that purpose.

"Lady Ethelinda had a whole ream of paper to draw on!" were the words
pronounced in Kate's shrill key of eagerness, just as the long lost
Mary and her father opened the door.

"Indeed!" said Mr. Wardour, a tall, grave-looking man; "and who is
Lady Ethelinda!"

"O Papa, it's just a story I was drawing," said Kate, half eager,
half ashamed.

"We have done all the lessons we could, indeed we have--" began
Sylvia; "my music and our French grammar, and--"

"Yes, I know," said Mary; and she paused, looking embarrassed and
uncomfortable, so that Sylvia stood in suspense and wonder.

"And so my little Kate likes thinking of Lady--Lady Etheldredas,"
said Mr. Wardour rather musingly; but Kate was too much pleased at
his giving any sort of heed to her performances to note the manner,
and needed no more encouragement to set her tongue off.

"Lady Ethelinda, Papa. She is a very grand rich lady, though she is
a little girl: and see there, she is giving presents to all her
cousins; and there she is buying new clothes for the orphans that
were burnt out; and there she is building a school for them."

Kate suddenly stopped, for Mr. Wardour sat down, drew her between his
knees, took both her hands into one of his, and looked earnestly into
her face, so gravely that she grew frightened, and looking
appealingly up, cried out, "O Mary, Mary! have I been naughty?"

"No, my dear," said Mr. Wardour; "but we have heard a very strange
piece of news about you, and I am very anxious as to whether it may
turn out for your happiness."

Kate stood still and looked at him, wishing he would speak faster.
Could her great-uncle in India be come home, and want her to make him
a visit in London? How delightful! If it had been anybody but Papa,
she would have said, "Go on."

"My dear," said Mr. Wardour at last, "you know that your cousin, Lord
Caergwent, was killed by an accident last week."

"Yes, I know," said Kate; "that was why Mary made me put this black
braid on my frock; and a very horrid job it was to do--it made my
fingers so sore."

"I did not know till this morning that his death would make any other
difference to you," continued Mr. Wardour. "I thought the title went
to heirs-male, and that Colonel Umfraville was the present earl; but,
my little Katharine, I find that it is ordained that you should have
this great responsibility."

"What, you thought it was the Salic law?" said Kate, going on with
one part of his speech, and not quite attending to the other.

"Something like it; only that it is not the English term for it,"
said Mr. Wardour, half smiling. "As your grandfather was the elder
son, the title and property come to you."

Kate did not look at him, but appeared intent on the marks of the
needle on the end of her forefinger, holding down her head.

Sylvia, however, seemed to jump in her very skin, and opening her
eyes, cried out, "The title! Then Kate is--is--oh, what is a she-
earl called?"

"A countess," said Mr. Wardour, with a smile, but rather sadly. "Our
little Kate is Countess of Caergwent."

"My dear Sylvia!" exclaimed Mary in amazement; for Sylvia, like an
India-rubber ball, had bounded sheer over the little arm-chair by
which she was standing.

But there her father's look and uplifted finger kept her still and
silent. He wanted to give Kate time to understand what he had said.

"Countess of Caergwent," she repeated; "that's not so pretty as if I
were Lady Katharine."

"The sound does not matter much," said Mary. "You will always be
Katharine to those that love you best. And oh!--" Mary stopped
short, her eyes full of tears.

Kate looked up at her, astonished. "Are you sorry, Mary?" she asked,
a little hurt.

"We are all sorry to lose our little Kate," said Mr. Wardour.

"Lose me, Papa!" cried Kate, clinging to him, as the children
scarcely ever did, for he seldom made many caresses; "Oh no, never!
Doesn't Caergwent Castle belong to me? Then you must all come and
live with me there; and you shall have lots of big books, Papa; and
we will have a pony-carriage for Mary, and ponies for Sylvia and
Charlie and me, and--"

Kate either ran herself down, or saw that the melancholy look on Mr.
Wardour's face rather deepened than lessened, for she stopped short.

"My dear," he said, "you and I have both other duties."

"Oh," but if I built a church! I dare say there are people at
Caergwent as poor as they are here. Couldn't we build a church, and
you mind them, Papa?"

"My little Katharine, you have yet to understand that 'the heir, so
long as he is a child, differeth in nothing from a servant, but is
under tutors and governors.' You will not have any power over
yourself or your property till you are twenty-one."

"But you are my tutor and my governor, and my spiritual pastor and
master," said Kate. "I always say so whenever Mary asks us questions
about our duty to our neighbour."

"I have been so hitherto," said Mr. Wardour, setting her on his knee;
"but I see I must explain a good deal to you. It is the business of
a court in London, that is called the Court of Chancery, to provide
that proper care is taken of young heirs and heiresses and their
estates, if no one have been appointed by their parents to do so; and
it is this court that must settle what is to become of you."

"And why won't it settle that I may live with my own papa and
brothers and sisters?"

"Because, Kate, you must be brought up in a way to fit your station;
and my children must be brought up in a way to fit theirs. And
besides," he added more sadly, "nobody that could help it would leave
a girl to be brought up in a household without a mother."

Kate's heart said directly, that as she could never again have a
mother, her dear Mary must be better than a stranger; but somehow any
reference to the sorrow of the household always made her anxious to
get away from the subject, so she looked at her finger again, and
asked, "Then am I to live up in this Court of Chances?"

"Not exactly," said Mr. Wardour. "Your two aunts in London, Lady
Barbara and Lady Jane Umfraville, are kind enough to offer to take
charge of you. Here is a letter that they sent inclosed for you."

"The Countess of Caergwent," was written on the envelope; and Kate's
and Sylvia's heads were together in a moment to see how it looked,
before opening the letter, and reading:- "'My dear Niece,'--dear me,
how funny to say niece!--'I deferred writing to you upon the
melancholy--' oh, what is it, Sylvia?"

"The melancholy comet!"

"No, no; nonsense."

"Melancholy event," suggested Mary.

"Yes, to be sure. I can't think why grown-up people always write on
purpose for one not to read them.--'Melancholy event that has placed
you in possession of the horrors of the family.'"

"Horrors!--Kate, Kate!"

"Well, I am sure it IS horrors," said the little girl rather
perversely.

"This is not a time for nonsense, Kate," said Mr. Wardour; and she
was subdued directly.

"Shall I read it to you?" said Mary.

"Oh, no, no!" Kate was too proud of her letter to give it up, and
applied herself to it again.--"'Family honours, until I could
ascertain your present address. And likewise, the shock of your poor
cousin's death so seriously affected my sister's health in her
delicate state, that for some days I could give my attention to
nothing else.' Dear me! This is my Aunt Barbara, I see! Is Aunt
Jane so ill?"

"She has had very bad health for many years," said Mr. Wardour; "and
your other aunt has taken the greatest care of her."

"'We have now, however, been able to consider what will be best for
all parties; and we think nothing will be so proper as that you
should reside with us for the present. We will endeavour to make a
happy home for you; and will engage a lady to superintend your
education, and give you all the advantages to which you are entitled.
We have already had an interview with a very admirable person, who
will come down to Oldburgh with our butler next Friday, and escort
you to us, if Mrs. Wardour will kindly prepare you for the journey.
I have written to thank her for her kindness to you.'"

"Mrs. Wardour!" exclaimed Sylvia.

"The ladies have known and cared little about Kate or us for a good
many years," said Mary, almost to herself, but in such a hurt tone,
that her father looked up with grave reproof in his eyes, as if to
remind her of all he had been saying to her during the long hours
that the little girls had waited.

"'With your Aunt Jane's love, and hoping shortly to be better
acquainted, I remain, my dear little niece, your affectionate aunt,
Barbara Umfraville.' Then I am to go and live with them!" said Kate,
drawing a long sigh. "O Papa, do let Sylvia come too, and learn of
my governess with me!"

"Your aunts do not exactly contemplate that," said Mr. Wardour; "but
perhaps there may be visits between you."

Sylvia began to look very grave. She had not understood that this
great news was to lead to nothing but separation. Everything had
hitherto been in common between her and Kate, and that what was good
for the one should not be good for the other was so new and strange,
that she did not understand it at once.

"Oh yes! we will visit. You shall all come and see me in London, and
see the Zoological Gardens and the British Museum; and I will send
you such presents!"

"We will see," said Mr. Wardour kindly; "but just now, I think the
best thing you can do is to write to your aunt, and thank her for her
kind letter; and say that I will bring you up to London on the day
she names, without troubling the governess and the butler."

"Oh, thank you!" said Kate; "I sha'n't be near so much afraid if you
come with me."

Mr. Wardour left the room; and the first thing Mary did was to throw
her arms round the little girl in a long vehement embrace. "My
little Kate! my little Kate! I little thought this was to be the end
of it!" she cried, kissing her, while the tears dropped fast.

Kate did not like it at all. The sight of strong feeling distressed
her, and made her awkward and ungracious. "Don't, Mary," she said,
disengaging herself; "never mind; I shall always come and see you;
and when I grow up, you shall come to live with me at Caergwent. And
you know, when they write a big red book about me, they will put in
that you brought me up."

"Write a big red book about you, Kate!"

"Why," said Kate, suddenly become very learned, "there is an immense
fat red and gold book at Mr. Brown's, all full of Lords and Ladies."

"Oh, a Peerage!" said Mary; "but even you, my Lady Countess, can't
have a whole peerage to yourself."

And that little laugh seemed to do Mary good, for she rose and began
to rule the single lines for Kate's letter. Kate could write a very
tidy little note; but just now she was too much elated and excited to
sit down quietly, or quite to know what she was about. She went
skipping restlessly about from one chair to another, chattering fast
about what she would do, and wondering what the aunts would be like,
and what Armyn would say, and what Charlie would say, and the watch
she would buy for Charlie, and the great things she was to do for
everybody--till Mary muttered something in haste, and ran out of the
room.

"I wonder why Mary is so cross," said Kate.

Poor Mary! No one could be farther from being cross; but she was
thoroughly upset. She was as fond of Kate as of her own sisters, and
was not only sorry to part with her, but was afraid that she would
not be happy or good in the new life before her.

CHAPTER II.

The days passed very slowly with Kate, until the moment when she was
to go to London and take her state upon her, as she thought. Till
that should come to pass, she could not feel herself really a
countess. She did not find herself any taller or grander; Charlie
teased her rather more instead of less and she did not think either
Mr. Wardour or Mary or Armyn thought half enough of her dignity:
they did not scruple to set her down when she talked too loud, and
looked sad instead of pleased when she chattered about the fine
things she should do. Mr. and Mrs. Brown, to be sure, came to wish
her good-bye; but they were so respectful, and took such pains that
she should walk first, that she grew shy and sheepish, and did not
like it at all.

She thought ease and dignity would come by nature when she was once
in London; and she made so certain of soon seeing Sylvia again, that
she did not much concern herself about the parting with her; while
she was rather displeased with Mary for looking grave, and not making
more of her, and trying to tell her that all might not be as
delightful as she expected. She little knew that Mary was grieved at
her eagerness to leave her happy home, and never guessed at the kind
sister's fears for her happiness. She set it all down to what she
was wont to call crossness. If Mary had really been a cross or
selfish person, all she would have thought of would have been that
now there would not be so many rents to mend after Kate's cobbling
attempts, nor so many shrill shrieking laughs to disturb Papa writing
his sermon, nor so much difficulty in keeping any room in the house
tidy, nor so much pinching in the housekeeping. Instead of that,
Mary only thought whether Barbara and Lady Jane would make her little
Kate happy and good. She was sure they were proud, hard, cold
people; and her father had many talks with her, to try to comfort her
about them.

Mr. Wardour told her that Kate's grandfather had been such a grief
and shame to the family, that it was no wonder they had not liked to
be friendly with those he had left behind him. There had been help
given to educate the son, and some notice had been taken of him, but
always very distant; and he had been thought very foolish for
marrying when he was very young, and very ill off. At the time of
his death, his uncle, Colonel Umfraville, had been very kind, and had
consulted earnestly with Mr. Wardour what was best for the little
orphan; but had then explained that he and his wife could not take
charge of her, because his regiment was going to India, and she could
not go there with them; and that his sisters were prevented from
undertaking the care of so young a child by the bad health of the
elder, who almost owed her life to the tender nursing of the younger.
And as Mrs. Wardour was only eager to keep to herself all that was
left of her only sister, and had a nursery of her own, it had been
most natural that Kate should remain at St. James's Parsonage; and
Mr. Wardour had full reason to believe that, had there been any need,
or if he had asked for help, the aunts would have gladly given it.
He knew them to be worthy and religious women; and he told Mary that
he thought it very likely that they might deal better with Kate's
character than he had been able to do. Mary knew she herself had
made mistakes, but she could not be humble for her father, or think
any place more improving than under his roof.

And Kate meanwhile had her own views. And when all the good-byes
were over, and she sat by the window of the railway carriage,
watching the fields rush by, reduced to silence, because "Papa" had
told her he could not hear her voice, and had made a peremptory sign
to her when she screamed her loudest, and caused their fellow-
travellers to look up amazed, she wove a web in her brain something
like this:- "I know what my aunts will be like: they will be just
like ladies in a book. They will be dreadfully fashionable! Let me
see--Aunt Barbara will have a turban on her head, and a bird of
paradise, like the bad old lady in Armyn's book that Mary took away
from me; and they will do nothing all day long but try on flounced
gowns, and count their jewels, and go out to balls and operas--and
they will want me to do the same--and play at cards all Sunday!
'Lady Caergwent,' they will say, 'it is becoming to your position!'
And then the young countess presented a remarkable contrast in her
ingenuous simplicity," continued Kate, not quite knowing whether she
was making a story or thinking of herself--for indeed she did not
feel as if she were herself, but somebody in a story. "Her waving
hair was only confined by an azure ribbon, (Kate loved a fine word
when Charlie did not hear it to laugh at her;) and her dress was of
the simplest muslin, with one diamond aigrette of priceless value!"

Kate had not the most remote notion what an aigrette might be, but
she thought it would sound well for a countess; and she went on
musing very pleasantly on the amiable simplicity of the countess, and
the speech that was to cure the aunts of playing at cards on a
Sunday, wearing turbans, and all other enormities, and lead them to
live in the country, giving a continual course of school feasts, and
surprising meritorious families with gifts of cows. She only wished
she had a pencil to draw it all to show Sylvia, provided Sylvia would
know her cows from her tables.

After more vain attempts at chatter, and various stops at stations,
Mr. Wardour bought a story-book for her; and thus brought her to a
most happy state of silent content, which lasted till the house roofs
of London began to rise on either side of the railway.

Among the carriages that were waiting at the terminus was a small
brougham, very neat and shiny; and a servant came up and touched his
hat, opening the door for Kate, who was told to sit there while the
servant and Mr. Wardour looked for the luggage. She was a little
disappointed. She had once seen a carriage go by with four horses,
and a single one did not seem at all worthy of her; but she had two
chapters more of her story to read, and was so eager to see the end
of it, that Mr. Wardour could hardly persuade her to look out and see
the Thames when she passed over it, nor the Houses of Parliament and
the towers of Westminster Abbey.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14