Countess Kate

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> Countess Kate

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The worst moments were at dinner. She was, in the first place, sure
that those dark questioning eyes had decided that there must be some
sad cause for her not being trusted to drink her tea elsewhere; and
then, in the pause after the first course, the eyes came again, and
he said, and to her, "I hope your good relations the Wardours are
well."

"Quite well--thank you," faltered Kate.

"When did you see them last?"

"A--a fortnight ago--" began Kate.

"Mr. Wardour came up to London for a few hours," said Lady Barbara,
looking at Kate as if she meant to plunge her below the floor; at
least, so the child imagined.

The sense that this was not the whole truth made her especially
miserable; and all the rest of the evening was one misery of
embarrassment, when her limbs did not seem to be her own, but as if
somebody else was sitting at her little table, walking upstairs, and
doing her work. Even Mrs. Umfraville's kind ways could not restore
her; she only hung her head and mumbled when she was asked to show
her work, and did not so much as know what was to become of her piece
of cross-stitch when it was finished.

There was some inquiry after the De la Poers; and Mrs. Umfraville
asked if she had found some playfellows among their daughters.

"Yes," faintly said Kate; and with another flush of colour, thought
of having been told, that if Lady de la Poer knew what she had done,
she would never be allowed to play with them again, and therefore
that she never durst attempt it.

"They were very nice children," said Mrs. Umfraville.

"Remarkably nice children," returned Lady Barbara, in a tone that
again cut Kate to the heart.

Bed-time came; and she would have been glad of it, but that all the
time she was going to sleep there was the Lord Chancellor to think
of, and the uncle and aunt with the statue faces dragging her before
him.

Sunday was the next day, and the uncle and aunt were not seen till
after the afternoon service, when they came to dinner, and much such
an evening as the former one passed; but towards the end of it Mrs.
Umfraville said, "Now, Barbara, I have a favour to ask. Will you let
this child spend the day with me to-morrow? Giles will be out, and I
shall be very glad to have her for my companion."

Kate's eyes glistened, and she thought of stern Proserpine.

"My dear Emily, you do not know what you ask. She will be far too
much for you."

"I'll take care of that," said Mrs. Umfraville, smiling.

"And I don't know about trusting her. I cannot go out, and Jane
cannot spare Bartley so early."

"I will come and fetch her," said the Colonel.

"And bring her back too. I will send the carriage in the evening,
but do not let her come without you," said Lady Barbara earnestly.

Had they told, or would they tell after she was gone to bed? Kate
thought Aunt Barbara was a woman of her word, but did not quite trust
her. Consent was given; but would not that stern soldier destroy all
the pleasure? And people in sorrow too! Kate thought of Mrs. Lacy,
and had no very bright anticipations of her day; yet a holiday was
something, and to be out of Aunt Barbara's way a great deal more.

She had not been long dressed when there was a ring at the bell, and,
before she had begun to expect him, the tall man with the dark lip
and grey hair stood in her schoolroom. She gave such a start, that
he asked, "Did you not expect me so soon?"

"I did not think you would come till after breakfast: but--"

And with an impulse of running away from his dread presence, she
darted off to put on her hat, but was arrested on the way by Lady
Barbara, at her bedroom door.

"Uncle Giles is come for me," she said, and would have rushed on, but
her aunt detained her to say, "Recollect, Katharine, that wildness
and impetuosity, at all times unbecoming, are particularly so where
there is affliction. If consideration for others will not influence
you, bear in mind that on the impression you make on your uncle and
aunt, it depends whether I shall be obliged to tell all that I would
willingly forget."

Kate's heart swelled, and without speaking she entered her own room,
thinking how hard it was to have even the pleasure of hoping for ease
and enjoyment taken away.

When she came down, she found her aunt--as she believed--warning her
uncle against her being left to herself; and then came, "If she
should be too much for Emily, only send a note, and Bartley or I will
come to fetch her home."

"She wants him to think me a little wild beast!" thought Kate; but
her uncle answered, "Emily always knows how to deal with children.
Good-bye."

"To deal with children! What did that mean?" thought the Countess,
as she stepped along by the side of her uncle, not venturing to
speak, and feeling almost as shy and bewildered as when she was on
the world alone.

He did not speak, but when they came to a crossing of a main street,
he took her by the hand; and there was something protecting and
comfortable in the feel, so that she did not let go; and presently,
as she walked on, she felt the fingers close on hers with such a
quick tight squeeze, that she looked up in a fright and met the dark
eye turned on her quite soft and glistening. She did not guess how
he was thinking of little clasping hands that had held there before;
and he only said something rather hurriedly about avoiding some coals
that were being taken in through a round hole in the pavement.

Soon they were at the hotel; and Mrs. Umfraville came out of her room
with that greeting which Kate liked so much, helped her to take off
her cloak and smooth her hair, and then set her down to breakfast.

It was a silent meal to Kate. Her uncle and aunt had letters to
read, and things to consult about that she did not understand; but
all the time there was a kind watch kept up that she had what she
liked; and Aunt Emily's voice was so much like the deep notes of the
wood-pigeons round Oldburgh, that she did not care how long she
listened to it, even if it had been talking Hindostanee!

As soon as breakfast was over, the Colonel took up his hat and went
out; and Mrs. Umfraville said, turning to Kate, "Now, my dear, I have
something for you to help me in; I want to unpack some things that I
have brought home."

"Oh, I shall like that!" said Kate, feeling as if a weight was gone
with the grave uncle.

Mrs. Umfraville rang, and asked to have a certain box brought in.
Such a box, all smelling of choice Indian wood; the very shavings
that stuffed it were delightful! And what an unpacking! It was like
nothing but the Indian stall at the Baker Street Bazaar! There were
two beautiful large ivory work-boxes, inlaid with stripes and circles
of tiny mosaic; and there were even more delicious little boxes of
soft fragrant sandal wood, and a set of chessmen in ivory. The kings
were riding on elephants, with canopies over their heads, and ladders
to climb up by; and each elephant had a tiger in his trunk. Then the
queens were not queens, but grand viziers, because the queen is
nobody in the East: and each had a lesser elephant; the bishops were
men riding on still smaller elephants; the castles had camels, the
knights horses; and the pawns were little foot-soldiers, the white
ones with guns, as being European troops, the red ones with bows and
arrows. Kate was perfectly delighted with these men, and looked at
and admired them one by one, longing to play a game with them. Then
there was one of those wonderful clusters of Chinese ivory balls, all
loose, one within the other, carved in different patterns of network,
and there were shells spotted and pink-mouthed, card-cases, red
shining boxes, queer Indian dolls; figures in all manner of costumes,
in gorgeous colours, painted upon shining transparent talc or on soft
rice-paper. There was no describing how charming the sight was, nor
how Kate dwelt upon each article; and how pleasantly her aunt
explained what it was intended for, and where it came from, answering
all questions in the nicest, kindest way. When all the wool and
shavings had been pinched, and the curled-up toes of the slippers
explored, so as to make sure that no tiny shell nor ivory carving
lurked unseen, the room looked like a museum; and Mrs. Umfraville
said, "Most of these things were meant for our home friends: there
is an Indian scarf and a Cashmere shawl for your two aunts, and I
believe the chessmen are for Lord de la Poer."

"O Aunt Emily, I should so like to play one game with them before
they go!"

"I will have one with you, if you can be very careful of their tender
points," said Mrs. Umfraville, without one of the objections that
Kate had expected; "but first I want you to help me about some of the
other things. Your uncle meant one of the work-boxes for you!"

"O Aunt Emily, how delightful! I really will work, with such a dear
beautiful box!" cried Kate, opening it, and again peeping into all
its little holes and contrivances. "Here is the very place for a
dormouse to sleep in! And who is the other for?"

"For Fanny de la Poer, who is his godchild."

"Oh, I am so glad! Fanny always has such nice pretty work about!"

"And now I want you to help me to choose the other presents. There;
these," pointing to a scarf and a muslin dress adorned with the wings
of diamond beetles, "are for some young cousins of my own; but you
will be able best to choose what the other De la Poers and your
cousins at Oldburgh would like best."

"My cousins at Oldburgh!" cried Kate. "May they have some of these
pretty things?" And as her aunt answered "We hope they will," Kate
flew at her, and hugged her quite tight round the throat; then, when
Mrs. Umfraville undid the clasp, and returned the kiss, she went like
an India-rubber ball with a backward bound, put her hands together
over her head, and gasped out, "Oh, thank you, thank you!"

"My dear, don't go quite mad. You will jump into that calabash, and
then it won't be fit for anybody. Are you so very glad?"

"Oh! so glad! Pretty things do come so seldom to Oldburgh!"

"Well, we thought you might like to send Miss Wardour this shawl."

It was a beautiful heavy shawl of the soft wool of the Cashmere
goats; really of every kind of brilliant hue, but so dexterously
blended together, that the whole looked dark and sober. But Kate did
not look with favour on the shawl.

"A shawl is so stupid," she said. "If you please, I had rather Mary
had the work-box."

"But the work-box is for Lady Fanny."

"Oh! but I meant my own," said Kate earnestly. "If you only knew
what a pity it is to give nice things to me; they always get into
such a mess. Now, Mary always has her things so nice; and she works
so beautifully; she has never let Lily wear a stitch but of her
setting; and she always wished for a box like this. One of her
friends at school had a little one; and she used to say, when we
played at roe's egg, that she wanted nothing but an ivory work-box;
and she has nothing but an old blue one, with the steel turned
black!"

"We must hear what your uncle says, for you must know that he meant
the box for you."

"It isn't that I don't care for it," said Kate, with a sudden
glistening in her eyes; "it is because I do care for it so very much
that I want Mary to have it."

"I know it is, my dear;" and her aunt kissed her; "but we must think
about it a little. Perhaps Mary would not think an Indian shawl
quite so stupid as you do."

"Mary isn't a nasty vain conceited girl!" cried Kate indignantly.
"She always looks nice; but I heard Papa say her dress did not cost
much more than Sylvia's and mine, because she never tore anything,
and took such care!"

"Well, we will see," said Mrs. Umfraville, perhaps not entirely
convinced that the shawl would not be a greater prize to the thrifty
girl than Kate perceived.

Kate meanwhile had sprung unmolested on a beautiful sandalwood case
for Sylvia, and a set of rice-paper pictures for Lily; and the
appropriating other treasures to the De la Poers, packing them up,
and directing them, accompanied with explanations of their habits and
tastes, lasted till so late, that after the litter was cleared away
there was only time for one game at chess with the grand pieces; and
in truth the honour of using them was greater than the pleasure.
They covered up the board, so that there was no seeing the squares,
and it was necessary to be most inconveniently cautious in lifting
them. They were made to be looked at, not played with; and yet,
wonderful to relate, Kate did not do one of the delicate things a
mischief!

Was it that she was really grown more handy, or was it that with this
gentle aunt she was quite at her ease, yet too much subdued to be
careless and rough?

The luncheon came; and after it, she drove with her aunt first to a
few shops, and then to take up the Colonel, who had been with his
lawyer. Kate quaked a little inwardly, lest it should be about the
Lord Chancellor, and tried to frame a question on the subject to her
aunt; but even the most chattering little girls know what it is to
have their lips sealed by an odd sort of reserve upon the very
matters that make them most uneasy; and just because her wild
imagination had been thinking that perhaps this was all a plot to
waylay her into the Lord Chancellor's clutches, she could not utter a
word on the matter, while they drove through the quiet squares where
lawyers live.

Mrs. Umfraville, however, soon put that out of her head by talking to
her about the Wardours, and setting open the flood gates of her
eloquence about Sylvia. So delightful was it to have a listener,
that Kate did not grow impatient, long as they waited at the lawyer's
door in the dull square, and indeed was sorry when the Colonel made
his appearance. He just said to her that he hoped she was not tired
of waiting; and as she replied with a frightened little "No, thank
you," began telling his wife something that Kate soon perceived
belonged to his own concerns, not to hers; so she left off trying to
gather the meaning in the rumble of the wheels, and looked out of
window, for she could never be quite at ease when she felt that those
eyes might be upon her.

On coming back to the hotel, Mrs. Umfraville found a note on the
table for her: she read it, gave it to her husband, and said, "I had
better go directly."

"Will it not be too much? Can you?" he said very low; and there was
the same repressed twitching of the muscles of his face, as Kate had
seen when he was left with his sister Jane.

"Oh yes!" she said fervently; "I shall like it. And it is her only
chance; you see she goes to-morrow."

The carriage was ordered again, and Mrs. Umfraville explained to Kate
that the note was from a poor invalid lady whose son was in their own
regiment in India, that she was longing to hear about him, and was
going out of town the next day.

"And what shall I give you to amuse yourself with, my dear?" asked
Mrs. Umfraville. "I am afraid we have hardly a book that will suit
you."

Kate had a great mind to ask to go and sit in the carriage, rather
than remain alone with the terrible black moustache; but she was
afraid of the Colonel's mentioning Aunt Barbara's orders that she was
not to be let out of sight. "If you please," she said, "if I might
write to Sylvia."

Her aunt kindly established her at a little table, with a leathern
writing-case, and her uncle mended a pen for her. Then her aunt went
away, and he sat down to his own letters.

Kate durst not speak to him, but she watched him under her eyelashes,
and noticed how he presently laid down his pen, and gave a long,
heavy, sad sigh, such as she had never heard when his wife was
present; then sat musing, looking fixedly at the grey window; till,
rousing himself with another such sigh, he seemed to force himself to
go on writing, but paused again, as if he were so wearied and
oppressed that he could hardly bear it.

It gave Kate a great awe of him, partly because a little girl in a
book would have gone up, slid her hand into his, and kissed him; but
she could nearly as soon have slid her hand into a lion's; and she
was right, it would have been very obtrusive.

Some little time had passed before there was an opening of the door,
and the announcement, "Lord de la Poer."

Up started Kate, but she was quite lost in the greeting of the two
friends; Lord de la Poer, with his eyes full of tears, wringing his
friend's hand, hardly able to speak, but just saying, "Dear Giles, I
am glad to have you at home. How is she?"

"Wonderfully well," said the Colonel, with the calm voice but the
twitching face. "She is gone to see Mrs. Ducie, the mother of a lad
in my regiment, who was wounded at the same time as Giles, and whom
she nursed with him."

"Is not it very trying?"

"Nothing that is a kindness ever is trying to Emily," he said, and
his voice did tremble this time.

Kate had quietly re-seated herself in her chair. She felt that it
was no moment to thrust herself in; nor did she feel herself
aggrieved, even though unnoticed by such a favourite friend.
Something in the whole spirit of the day had made her only sensible
that she was a little girl, and quite forgot that she was a Countess.

The friends were much too intent on one another to think of her, as
she sat in the recess of the window, their backs to her. They drew
their chairs close to the fire, and began to talk, bending down
together; and Kate felt sure, that as her uncle at least knew she was
there, she need not interrupt. Besides, what they spoke of was what
she had longed to hear, and would never have dared to ask. Lord de
la Poer had been like a father to his friend's two sons when they
were left in England; and now the Colonel was telling him--as,
perhaps, he could have told no one else--about their brave spirit,
and especially of Giles's patience and resolution through his
lingering illness; how he had been entirely unselfish in entreating
that anything might happen rather than that his father should resign
his post; but though longing to be with his parents, and desponding
as to his chance of recovery, had resigned himself in patience to
whatever might be thought right; and how through the last sudden
accession of illness brought on by the journey, his sole thought had
been for his parents.

"And she has borne up!" said Lord de la Poer.

"As HE truly said, 'As long as she has anyone to care for, she will
never break down.' Luckily, I was entirely knocked up for a few days
just at first; and coming home we had a poor young woman on board
very ill, and Emily nursed her day and night."

"And now you will bring her to Fanny and me to take care of."

"Thank you--another time. But, old fellow, I don't know whether we
either of us could stand your house full of children yet. Emily
would be always among them, and think she liked it; but I knew how it
would be. It was just so when I took her to a kind friend of ours
after the little girls were taken; she had the children constantly
with her, but I never saw her so ill as she was afterwards."

"Reaction! Well, whenever you please; you shall have your rooms to
yourselves, and only see us when you like. But I don't mean to press
you; only, what are you going to do next?"

"I can hardly tell. There are business matters of our own, and about
poor James's little girl, to keep us here a little while." ("Who is
that?" thought Kate.)

"Then you must go into our house. I was in hopes it might be so, and
told the housekeeper to make ready."

"Thank you; if Emily--We will see, when she comes in I want to make
up my mind about that child. Have you seen much of her?"

Kate began to think honour required her to come forward, but her
heart throbbed with fright.

"Not so much as I could wish. It is an intelligent little monkey,
and our girls were delighted with her; but I believe Barbara thinks
me a corrupter of youth, for she discountenances us."

"Ah! one of the last times I was alone with Giles, he said, smiling,
'That little girl in Bruton Street will be just what Mamma wants;'
and I know Emily has never ceased to want to get hold of the
motherless thing ever since Mrs. Wardour's death. I know it would be
the greatest comfort to Emily, but I only doubted taking the child
away from my sisters. I thought it would be such a happy thing to
have Jane's kind heart drawn out; and if Barbara had forgiven the old
sore, and used her real admirable good sense affectionately, it would
have been like new life to them. Besides, it must make a great
difference to their income. But is it possible that it can be the
old prejudice, De la Poer? Barbara evidently dislikes the poor
child, and treats her like a state prisoner!"

Honour prevailed entirely above fear and curiosity. Out flew Kate,
to the exceeding amaze and discomfiture of the two gentlemen. "No,
no, Uncle Giles; it is--it is because I ran away! Aunt Barbara said
she would not tell, for if you knew it, you would--you would despise
me;--and you," looking at Lord de la Poer, "would never let me play
with Grace and Addy again!"

She covered her face with her hands--it was all burning red; and she
was nearly rushing off, but she felt herself lifted tenderly upon a
knee, and an arm round her. She thought it her old friend; but
behold, it was her uncle's voice that said, in the softest gentlest
way, "My dear, I never despise where I meet with truth. Tell me how
it was; or had you rather tell your Aunt Emily?"

"I'll tell you," said Kate, all her fears softened by his touch. "Oh
no! please don't go, Lord de la Poer; I do want you to know, for I
couldn't have played with Grace and Adelaide on false pretences!"
And encouraged by her uncle's tender pressure, she murmured out, "I
ran away--I did--I went home!"

"To Oldburgh!"

"Yes--yes! It was very wrong; Papa--Uncle Wardour, I mean--made me
see it was."

"And what made you do it?" said her uncle kindly. "Do not be afraid
to tell me."

"It was because I was angry. Aunt Barbara would not let me go to the
other Wardours, and wanted me to write a--what I thought--a
fashionable falsehood; and when I said it was a lie," (if possible,
Kate here became deeper crimson than she was before,) "she sent me to
my room till I would beg her pardon, and write the note. So--so I
got out of the house, and took a cab, and went home by the train. I
didn't know it was so very dreadful a thing, or indeed I would not."

And Kate hid her burning face on her uncle's breast, and was
considerably startled by what she heard next, from the Marquis.

"Hm! All I have to say is, that if Barbara had the keeping of me, I
should run away at the end of a week."

"Probably!" and Lord de la Poer saw, what Kate did not, the first
shadow of a smile on the face of his friend, as he pressed his arm
round the still trembling girl; "but, you see, Barbara justly thinks
you corrupt youth.--My little girl, you must not let HIM make you
think lightly of this--"

"Oh, no, I never could! Papa was so shocked!" and she was again
covered with confusion at the thought.

"But," added her uncle, "it is not as if you had not gone to older
and better friends than any you have ever had, my poor child. I am
afraid you have been much tried, and have not had a happy life since
you left Oldburgh."

"I have always been naughty," said Kate.

"Then we must try if your Aunt Emily can help you to be good. Will
you try to be as like her own child to her as you can, Katharine?"

"And to you," actually whispered Kate; for somehow at that moment she
cared much more for the stern uncle than the gentle aunt.

He lifted her up and kissed her, but set her down again with the sigh
that told how little she could make up to him for the son he had left
in Egypt. Yet, perhaps that sigh made Kate long with more fervent
love for some way of being so very good and affectionate as quite to
make him happy, than if he had received her demonstration as if
satisfied by it.

CHAPTER XV.

Nothing of note passed during the rest of the evening. Mrs.
Umfraville came home; but Kate had fallen back into the shy fit that
rendered her unwilling to begin on what was personal, and the Colonel
waited to talk it over with his wife alone before saying any more.

Besides, there were things far more near to them than their little
great-niece, and Mrs. Umfraville could not see Lord de la Poer
without having her heart very full of the sons to whom he had been so
kind. Again they sat round the fire, and this time in the dark,
while once more Giles and Frank and all their ways were talked over
and over, and Kate was forgotten; but she was not sitting alone in
the dark window--no, she had a footstool close to her uncle, and sat
resting her head upon his knee, her eyes seeking red caverns in the
coals, her heart in a strange peaceful rest, her ears listening to
the mother's subdued tender tones in speaking of her boys, and the
friend's voice of sympathy and affection. Her uncle leant back and
did not speak at all; but the other two went on and on, and Mrs.
Umfraville seemed to be drinking in every little trait of her boys'
English life, not weeping over it, but absolutely smiling when it was
something droll or characteristic.

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