Countess Kate

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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."

Kate knew she ought to be very sorry, and greatly pity the bereaved
father and mother; but, somehow, she could not help dwelling most
upon the certainty that everyone would be much more hard upon her,
and cast up this trouble to her, as if she had known of it, and run
away on purpose to make it worse. It must have been this that they
were talking about in Aunt Jane's room, and this must have made them
so slow to detect her flight.

In due time the train arrived, a cab was taken, and Kate, beginning
to tremble with fright, sat by Mr. Wardour, and held his coat as if
clinging to him as long as she could was a comfort. Sometimes she
wished the cab would go faster, so that it might be over; sometimes--
especially when the streets became only too well known to her--she
wished that they would stretch out and out for ever, that she might
still be sitting by Papa, holding his coat. It seemed as if that
would be happiness enough for life!

Here was Bruton Street; here the door that on Saturday had shut
behind her! It was only too soon open, and Kate kept her eyes on the
ground, ashamed that even the butler should see her. She hung back,
waiting till Mr. Wardour had paid the cabman; but there was no
spinning it out, she had to walk upstairs, her only comfort being
that her hand was in his.

No one was in the drawing-room; but before long Lady Barbara came in.
Kate durst not look up at her, but was sure, from the tone of her
voice, that she must have her very sternest face; and there was
something to make one shiver in the rustle of her silk dress as she
curtsied to Mr. Wardour.

"I have brought home my little niece," he said, drawing Kate forward;
"and I think I may truly say, that she is very sorry for what has
passed."

There was a pause; Kate knew the terrible black eyes were upon her,
but she felt, besides, the longing to speak out the truth, and a
sense that with Papa by her side she had courage to do so.

"I am sorry, Aunt Barbara," she said; "I was very self-willed; I
ought not to have fancied things, nor said you used me ill, and
wanted me to tell stories."

Kate's heart was lighter; though it beat so terribly as she said
those words. She knew that they pleased ONE of the two who were
present, and she knew they were right.

"It is well you should be so far sensible of your misconduct," said
Lady Barbara; but her voice was as dry and hard as ever, and Mr.
Wardour added, "She is sincerely sorry; it is from her voluntary
confession that I know how much trouble she has given you; and I
think, if you will kindly forgive her, that you will find her less
self-willed in future."

And he shoved Kate a little forward, squeezing her hand, and trying
to withdraw his own. She perceived that he meant that she ought to
ask pardon; and though it went against her more than her first speech
had done, she contrived to say, "I do beg pardon, Aunt Barbara; I
will try to do better."

"My pardon is one thing, Katharine," said Lady Barbara. "If your
sorrow is real, of course I forgive you;" and she took Kate's right-
hand--the left was still holding by the fingers' ends to Mr. Wardour.
"But the consequences of such behaviour are another consideration.
My personal pardon cannot, and ought not, to avert them--as I am sure
you must perceive, Mr. Wardour," she added, as the frightened child
retreated upon him. Those consequences of Aunt Barbara's were
fearful things! Mr. Wardour said something, to which Kate scarcely
attended in her alarm, and her aunt went on -

"For Lady Caergwent's own sake, I shall endeavour to keep this most
unfortunate step as much a secret as possible. I believe that
scarcely anyone beyond this house is aware of it; and I hope that
your family will perceive the necessity of being equally cautious."

Mr. Wardour bowed, and assented.

"But," added Lady Barbara, "it has made it quite impossible for my
sister and myself to continue to take the charge of her. My sister's
health has suffered from the constant noise and restlessness of a
child in the house: the anxiety and responsibility are far too much
for her; and in addition to this, she had such severe nervous
seizures from the alarm of my niece's elopement, that nothing would
induce me to subject her to a recurrence of such agitation. We must
receive the child for the present, of course; but as soon as my
brother returns, and can attend to business, the matter must be
referred to the Lord Chancellor, and an establishment formed, with a
lady at the head, who may have authority and experience to deal with
such an ungovernable nature."

"Perhaps," said Mr. Wardour, "under these circumstances it might be
convenient for me to take her home again for the present."

Kate quivered with hope; but that was far too good to be true; Lady
Barbara gave a horrid little cough, and there was a sound almost of
offence in her "Thank you, you are very kind, but that would be quite
out of the question. I am at present responsible for my niece."

"I thought, perhaps," said Mr. Wardour, as an excuse for the offer,
"that as Lady Jane is so unwell, and Colonel Umfraville in so much
affliction, it might be a relief to part with her at present."

"Thank you," again said Lady Barbara, as stiffly as if her throat
were lined with whalebone; "no inconvenience can interfere with my
duty."

Mr. Wardour knew there was no use in saying any more, and inquired
after Lady Jane. She had, it appeared, been very ill on Saturday
evening, and had not since left her room. Mr. Wardour then said that
Kate had not been aware, till a few hours ago, of the death of her
cousin, and inquired anxiously after the father and mother; but Lady
Barbara would not do more than answer direct questions, and only said
that her nephew had been too much weakened to bear the journey, and
had sunk suddenly at Alexandria, and that his father was, she feared,
very unwell. She could not tell how soon he was likely to be in
England. Then she thanked Mr. Wardour for having brought Lady
Caergwent home, and offered him some luncheon; but in such a grave
grand way, that it was plain that she did not want him to eat it,
and, feeling that he could do no more good, he kissed poor Kate and
wished Lady Barbara good-bye.

Poor Kate stood, drooping, too much constrained by dismay even to try
to cling to him, or run after him to the foot of the stairs.

"Now, Katharine," said her aunt, "come up with me to your Aunt Jane's
room. She has been so much distressed about you, that she will not
be easy till she has seen you."

Kate followed meekly; and found Aunt Jane sitting by the fire in her
own room, looking flushed, hot, and trembling. She held out her
arms, and Kate ran into them; but neither of them dared to speak, and
Lady Barbara stood up, saying, "She says she is very sorry, and thus
we may forgive her; as I know you do all the suffering you have
undergone on her account."

Lady Jane held the child tighter, and Kate returned her kisses with
all her might; but the other aunt said, "That will do. She must not
be too much for you again." And they let go as if a cold wind had
blown between them.

"Did Mr. Wardour bring her home?" asked Lady Jane.

"Yes; and was kind enough to propose taking her back again," was the
answer, with a sneer, that made Kate feel desperately angry, though
she did not understand it.

In truth, Lady Barbara was greatly displeased with the Wardours. She
had always been led to think her niece's faults the effect of their
management; and she now imagined that there had been some
encouragement of the child's discontent to make her run away; and
that if they had been sufficiently shocked and concerned, the truant
would have been brought home much sooner. It all came of her having
allowed her niece to associate with those children at Bournemouth.
She would be more careful for the future.

Careful, indeed, she was! She had come to think of her niece as a
sort of small wild beast that must never be let out of sight of some
trustworthy person, lest she should fly away again.

A daily governess, an elderly person, very grave and silent, came in
directly after breakfast, walked with the Countess, and heard the
lessons; and after her departure, Kate was always to be in the room
with her aunts, and never was allowed to sit in the schoolroom and
amuse herself alone; but her tea was brought into the dining-room
while her aunts were at dinner, and morning, noon, and night, she
knew that she was being watched.

It was very bitter to her. It seemed to take all the spirit away
from her, as if she did not care for books, lessons, or anything
else. Sometimes her heart burnt with hot indignation, and she would
squeeze her hands together, or wring round her handkerchief in a sort
of misery; but it never got beyond that; she never broke out, for she
was depressed by what was still worse, the sense of shame. Lady
Barbara had not said many words, but had made her feel, in spite of
having forgiven her, that she had done a thing that would be a
disgrace to her for ever; a thing that would make people think twice
before they allowed their children to associate with her; and that
put her below the level of other girls. The very pain that Lady
Barbara took to hush it up, her fears lest it should come to the ears
of the De la Poers, her hopes that it MIGHT not be necessary to
reveal it to her brother, assisted to weigh down Kate with a sense of
the heinousness of what she had done, and sunk her so that she had no
inclination to complain of the watchfulness around her. And Aunt
Jane's sorrowful kindness went to her heart.

"How COULD you do it, my dear?" she said, in such a wonderful wistful
tone, when Kate was alone with her.

Kate hung her head. She could not think now.

"It is so sad," added Lady Jane; "I hoped we might have gone on so
nicely together. And now I hope your Uncle Giles will not hear of
it. He would be so shocked, and never trust you again."

"YOU will trust me, when I have been good a long time, Aunt Jane?"

"My dear, I would trust you any time, you know; but then that's no
use. I can't judge; and your Aunt Barbara says, after such
lawlessness, you need very experienced training to root out old
associations."

Perhaps the aunts were more shocked than was quite needful and
treated Kate as if she had been older and known better what she was
doing; but they were sincere in their horror at her offence; and once
she even heard Lady Barbara saying to Mr. Mercer that there seemed to
be a doom on the family--in the loss of the promising young man--and-
-The words were not spoken, but Kate knew that she was this greatest
of all misfortunes to the family.

Poor child! In the midst of all this, there was one comfort. She
had not put aside what Mr. Wardour had told her about the Comforter
she could always have. She DID say her prayers as she had never said
them before, and she looked out in the Psalms and Lessons for
comforting verses. She knew she had done very wrong, and she asked
with all the strength of her heart to be forgiven, and made less
unhappy, and that people might be kinder to her. Sometimes she
thought no help was coming, and that her prayers did no good, but she
went on; and then, perhaps, she got a kind little caress from Lady
Jane, or Mr. Mercer spoke good-naturedly to her, or Lady Barbara
granted her some little favour, and she felt as if there was hope and
things were getting better; and she took courage all the more to pray
that Uncle Giles might not be very hard upon her, nor the Lord
Chancellor very cruel.

CHAPTER XIV.

A fortnight had passed, and had seemed nearly as long as a year,
since Kate's return from Oldburgh, when one afternoon, when she was
lazily turning over the leaves of a story-book that she knew so well
by heart that she could go over it in the twilight, she began to
gather from her aunt's words that somebody was coming.

They never told her anything direct; but by listening a little more
attentively to what they were saying, she found out that a letter--
no, a telegram--had come while she was at her lessons; that Aunt
Barbara had been taking rooms at a hotel; that she was insisting that
Jane should not imagine they would come to-night--they would not come
till the last train, and then neither of them would be equal -

"Poor dear Emily! But could we not just drive to the hotel and meet
them? It will be so dreary for them."

"You go out at night! and for such a meeting! when you ought to be
keeping yourself as quiet as possible! No, depend upon it they will
prefer getting in quietly, and resting to-night; and Giles, perhaps,
will step in to breakfast in the morning."

"And then you will bring him up to me at once! I wonder if the boy
is much altered!"

Throb! throb! throb! went Kate's heart! So the terrible stern uncle
was in England, and this was the time for her to be given up to the
Lord Chancellor and all his myrmidons (a word that always came into
her head when she was in a fright). She had never loved Aunt Jane so
well; she almost loved Aunt Barbara, and began to think of clinging
to her with an eloquent speech, pleading to be spared from the Lord
Chancellor!

To-morrow morning--that was a respite!

There was a sound of wheels. Lady Jane started.

"They are giving a party next door," said Lady Barbara.

But the bell rang.

"Only a parcel coming home," said Lady Barbara. "Pray do not be
nervous, Jane."

But the red colour was higher in Barbara's own cheeks, as there were
steps on the stairs; and in quite a triumphant voice the butler
announced, as he opened the door, "Colonel and Mrs. Umfraville!"

Kate stood up, and backed. It was Aunt Barbara's straight, handsome,
terrible face, and with a great black moustache to make it worse.
She saw that, and it was all she feared! She was glad the sofa was
between them!

There was a lady besides all black bonnet and cloak; and there was a
confusion of sounds, a little half sobbing of Aunt Jane's; but the
other sister and the brother were quite steady and grave. It was his
keen dark eye, sparkling like some wild animal's in the firelight, as
Kate thought, which spied her out; and his deep grave voice said, "My
little niece," as he held out his hand.

"Come and speak to your uncle, Katharine," said Lady Barbara; and not
only had she to put her hand into that great firm one, but her
forehead was scrubbed by his moustache. She had never been kissed by
a moustache before, and she shuddered as if it had been on a
panther's lip.

But then he said, "There, Emily;" and she found herself folded up in
such arms as had never been round her before, with the very sweetest
of kisses on her cheeks, the very kindest of eyes, full of moisture,
gazing at her as if they had been hungry for her. Even when the
embrace was over, the hand still held hers; and as she stood by the
new aunt, a thought crossed her that had never come before, "I wonder
if my mamma was like this!"

There was some explanation of how the travellers had come on, &c.,
and it was settled that they were to stay to dinner; after which Mrs.
Umfraville went away with Lady Barbara to take off her bonnet.

Colonel Umfraville came and sat down by his sister on the sofa, and
said, "Well Jane, how have you been?"

"Oh! much as usual:" and then there was a silence, till she moved a
little nearer to him, put her hand on his arm, looked up in his face
with swimming eyes, and said, "O Giles! Giles!"

He took her hand, and bent over her, saying, in the same grave steady
voice, "Do not grieve for us, Jane. We have a great deal to be
thankful for, and we shall do very well."

It made that loving tender-hearted Aunt Jane break quite down, cling
to him and sob, "O Giles--those dear noble boys--how little we
thought--and dear Caergwent too--and you away from home!"

She was crying quite violently, so as to be shaken by the sobs; and
her brother stood over her, saying a kind word or two now and then,
to try to soothe her; while Kate remained a little way off, with her
black eyes wide open, thinking her uncle's face was almost
displeased--at any rate, very rigid. He looked up at Kate, and
signed towards a scent-bottle on the table. Kate gave it; and then,
as if the movement had filled her with a panic, she darted out of the
room, and flew up to the bedrooms, crying out, "Aunt Barbara, Aunt
Jane is crying so terribly!"

"She will have one of her attacks! Oh!" began Lady Barbara, catching
up a bottle of salvolatile.

"Had we not better leave her and Giles to one another?" said the
tones that Kate liked so much.

"Oh! my dear, you don't know what these attacks are!" and away
hurried Lady Barbara.

The bonnet was off now, leaving only a little plain net cap under it,
round the calm gentle face. There was a great look of sadness, and
the eyelids were heavy and drooping; but there was something that put
Kate in mind of a mother dove in the softness of the large tender
embrace, and the full sweet caressing tone. What a pity that such an
aunt must know that she was an ill-behaved child, a misfortune to her
lineage! She stood leaning against the door, very awkward and
conscious. Mrs. Umfraville turned round, after smoothing her hair at
the glass, smiled, and said, "I thought I should find you here, my
little niece. You are Kate, I think."

"I used to be, but my aunts here call me Katharine."

"Is this your little room?" said Mrs. Umfraville, as they came out.
The fact was, that she thought the sisters might be happier with
their brother if she delayed a little; so she came into Kate's room,
and was beginning to look at her books, when Lady Barbara came
hurrying up again.

"She is composed now, Emily. Oh! it is all right; I did not know
where Katharine might be."

Kate's colour glowed. She could not bear that this sweet Aunt Emily
should guess that she was a state prisoner, kept in constant view.

Lady Jane was quiet again, and nothing more that could overthrow her
spirits passed all the evening; there was only a little murmur of
talk, generally going on chiefly between Lady Barbara and Mrs.
Umfraville, though occasionally the others put in a word. The
Colonel sat most of the time with his set, serious face, and his eye
fixed as if he was not attending, though sometimes Kate found the
quick keen brilliance of his look bent full upon her, so as to
terrify her by its suddenness, and make her hardly know what she was
saying or doing.

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