Countess Kate

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> Countess Kate

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At last, while passing through the brighter and more crowded streets,
Kate having satisfied herself what had become of the personages of
her story, looked up, and saw nothing but dull houses of blackened
cream colour; and presently found the carriage stopping at the door
of one.

"Is it here, Papa?" she said, suddenly seized with fright.

"Yes," he said, "this is Bruton Street;" and he looked at her
anxiously as the door was opened and the steps were let down. She
took tight hold of his hand. Whatever she had been in her day-
dreams, she was only his own little frightened Kate now; and she
tried to shrink behind him as the footman preceded them up the
stairs, and opening the door, announced--"Lady Caergwent and Mr.
Wardour!"

Two ladies rose up, and came forward to meet her. She felt herself
kissed by both, and heard greetings, but did not know what to say,
and stood up by Mr. Wardour, hanging down her head, and trying to
stand upon one foot with the other, as she always did when she was
shy and awkward.

"Sit down, my dear," said one of the ladies, making a place for her
on the sofa. But Kate only laid hold of a chair, pulled it as close
to Mr. Wardour as possible, and sat down on the extreme corner of it,
feeling for a rail on which to set her feet, and failing to find one,
twining her ankles round the leg of the chair. She knew very well
that this was not pretty; but she never could recollect what was
pretty behaviour when she was shy. She was a very different little
girl in a day-dream and out of one. And when one of the aunts asked
her if she were tired, all she could do was to give a foolish sort of
smile, and say, "N--no."

Then she had a perception that Papa was looking reprovingly at her;
so she wriggled her legs away from that of the chair, twisted them
together in the middle, and said something meant for "No, thank you;"
but of which nothing was to be heard but "q," apparently proceeding
out of the brim of her broad hat, so low did the young countess, in
her amiable simplicity, hold her head.

"She is shy!" said one of the ladies to the other; and they let her
alone a little, and began to talk to Mr. Wardour about the journey,
and various other things, to which Kate did not greatly listen. She
began to let her eyes come out from under her hat brim, and satisfied
herself that the aunts certainly did not wear either turbans or birds
of paradise, but looked quite as like other people as she felt
herself, in spite of her title.

Indeed, one aunt had nothing on her head at all but a little black
velvet and lace, not much more than Mary sometimes wore, and the
other only a very light cap. Kate thought great-aunts must be as old
at least as Mrs. Brown, and was much astonished to see that these
ladies had no air of age about them. The one who sat on the sofa had
a plump, smooth, pretty, pink and white face, very soft and pleasant
to look at, though an older person than Kate would have perceived
that the youthful delicacy of the complexion showed that she had been
carefully shut up and sheltered from all exposure and exertion, and
that the quiet innocent look of the small features was that of a
person who had never had to use her goodness more actively than a
little baby. Kate was sure that this was aunt Jane, and that she
should get on well with her, though that slow way of speaking was
rather wearisome.

The other aunt, who was talking the most, was quite as slim as Mary,
and had a bright dark complexion, so that if Kate had not seen some
shades of grey in her black hair, it would have been hard to believe
her old at all. She had a face that put Kate in mind of a picture of
a beautiful lady in a book at home--the eyes, forehead, nose, and
shape of the chin, were so finely made; and yet there was something
in them that made the little girl afraid, and feel as if the plaster
cast of Diana's head on the study mantelpiece had got a pair of dark
eyes, and was looking very hard at her; and there was a sort of dry
sound in her voice that was uncomfortable to hear.

Then Kate took a survey of the room, which was very prettily
furnished, with quantities of beautiful work of all kinds, and little
tables and brackets covered with little devices in china and
curiosities under glass, and had flowers standing in the windows; and
by the time she had finished trying to make out the subject of a
print on the walls, she heard some words that made her think that her
aunts were talking of her new governess, and she opened her ears to
hear, "So we thought it would be an excellent arrangement for her,
poor thing!" and "Papa" answering, "I hope Kate may try to be a kind
considerate pupil." Then seeing by Kate's eyes that her attention
had been astray, or that she had not understood Lady Barbara's words,
he turned to her, saying, "Did you not hear what your aunt was
telling me?"

"No, Papa."

"She was telling me about the lady who will teach you. She has had
great afflictions. She has lost her husband, and is obliged to go
out as governess, that she may be able to send her sons to school.
So, Kate, you must think of this, and try to give her as little
trouble as possible."

It would have been much nicer if Kate would have looked up readily,
and said something kind and friendly; but the fit of awkwardness had
come over her again, and with it a thought so selfish, that it can
hardly be called otherwise than naughty--namely, that grown-up people
in trouble were very tiresome, and never let young ones have any fun.

"Shall I take you to see Mrs. Lacy, my dear?" said Lady Barbara,
rising. And as Kate took hold of Mr. Wardour's hand, she added, "You
will see Mr. Wardour again after dinner. You had better dress, and
have some meat for your tea, with Mrs. Lacy, and then come into the
drawing-room."

This was a stroke upon Kate. She who had dined with the rest of the
world ever since she could remember--she, now that she was a
countess, to be made to drink tea up-stairs like a baby, and lose all
that time of Papa's company! She swelled with displeasure: but Aunt
Barbara did not look like a person whose orders could be questioned,
and "Papa" said not a word in her favour. Possibly the specimen of
manners she had just given had not led either him or Lady Barbara to
think her fit for a late dinner.

Lady Barbara first took her up-stairs, and showed her a little long
narrow bed-room, with a pretty pink-curtained bed in it.

"This will be your room, my dear," she said. "I am sorry we have not
a larger one to offer you; but it opens into mine, as you see, and my
sister's is just beyond. Our maid will dress you for a few days,
when I hope to engage one for you."

Here was something like promotion! Kate dearly loved to have herself
taken off her own hands, and not to be reproved by Mary for
untidiness, or roughly set to rights by Lily's nurse. She actually
exclaimed, "Oh, thank you!" And her aunt waited till the hat and
cloak had been taken off and the chestnut hair smoothed, looked at
her attentively, and said, "Yes, you are like the family."

"I'm very like my own papa," said Kate, growing a little bolder, but
still speaking with her head on one side, which was her way when she
said anything sentimental.

"I dare say you are," answered her aunt, with the dry sound. "Are
you ready now? I will show you the way. The house is very small,"
continued Lady Barbara, as they went down the stairs to the ground
floor; "and this must be your school-room for the present."

It was the room under the back drawing-room; and in it was a lady in
a widow's cap, sitting at work. "Here is your little Pupil--Lady
Caergwent--Mrs. Lacy," said Lady Barbara. "I hope you will find her
a good child. She will drink tea with you, and then dress, and
afterwards I hope, we shall see you with her in the drawing-room."

Mrs. Lacy bowed, without any answer in words, only she took Kate's
hand and kissed her. Lady Barbara left them, and there was a little
pause. Kate looked at her governess, and her heart sank, for it was
the very saddest face she had ever seen--the eyes looked soft and
gentle, but as if they had wept till they could weep no longer; and
when the question was asked, "Are you tired, my dear?" it was in a
sunk tone, trying to be cheerful but the sadder for that very reason.
Poor lady! it was only that morning that she had parted with her son,
and had gone away from the home where she had lived with her husband
and children.

Kate was almost distressed; yet she felt more at her ease than with
her aunts, and answered, "Not at all, thank you," in her natural
tone.

"Was it a long journey?"

Kate had been silent so long, that her tongue was ready for exertion;
and she began to chatter forth all the events of the journey, without
heeding much whether she were listened to or not, till having come to
the end of her breath, she saw that Mrs. Lacy was leaning back in her
chair, her eyes fixed as if her attention had gone away. Kate
thereupon roamed round the room, peeped from the window and saw that
it looked into a dull black-looking narrow garden, and then studied
the things in the room. There was a piano, at which she shook her
head. Mary had tried to teach her music; but after a daily fret for
six weeks, Mr. Wardour had said it was waste of time and temper for
both; and Kate was delighted. Then she came to a book-case; and
there the aunts had kindly placed the books of their own younger
days, some of which she had never seen before. When she had once
begun on the "Rival Crusoes," she gave Mrs. Lacy no more trouble,
except to rouse her from it to drink her tea, and then go and be
dressed.

The maid managed the white muslin so as to make her look very nice;
but before she had gone half way down-stairs, there was a voice
behind--"My Lady! my Lady!"

She did not turn, not remembering that she herself must be meant; and
the maid, running after her, caught her rather sharply, and showed
her her own hand, all black and grimed.

"How tiresome!" cried she. "Why, I only just washed it!"

"Yes, my Lady; but you took hold of the balusters all the way down.
And your forehead! Bless me! what would Lady Barbara say?"

For Kate had been trying to peep through the balusters into the hall
below, and had of course painted her brow with London blacks. She
made one of her little impatient gestures, and thought she was very
hardly used--dirt stuck upon her, and brambles tore her like no one
else.

She got safely down this time, and went into the drawing-room with
Mrs. Lacy, there taking a voyage of discovery among the pretty
things, knowing she must not touch, but asking endless questions,
some of which Mrs. Lacy answered in her sad indifferent way, others
she could not answer, and Kate was rather vexed at her not seeming to
care to know. Kate had not yet any notion of caring for other
people's spirits and feelings; she never knew what to do for them,
and so tried to forget all about them.

The aunts came in, and with them Mr. Wardour. She was glad to run up
to him, and drag him to look at a group in white Parian under a
glass, that had delighted her very much. She knew it was Jupiter's
Eagle; but who was feeding it? "Ganymede," said Mr. Wardour; and
Kate, who always liked mythological stories, went on most eagerly
talking about the legend of the youth who was borne away to be the
cup-bearer of the gods. It was a thing to make her forget about the
aunts and everybody else; and Mr. Wardour helped her out, as he
generally did when her talk was neither foolish nor ill-timed but he
checked her when he thought she was running on too long, and went
himself to talk to Mrs. Lacy, while Kate was obliged to come to her
aunts, and stood nearest to Lady Jane, of whom she was least afraid.

"You seem quite at home with all the heathen gods, my dear," said
Lady Jane; "how come you to know them so well?"

"In Charlie's lesson-books, you know," said Kate; and seeing that her
aunt did not know, she went on to say, "there are notes and
explanations. And there is a Homer--an English one, you know; and we
play at it."

"We seem to have quite a learned lady here!" said aunt Barbara, in
the voice Kate did not like. "Do you learn music?"

"No; I haven't got any ear; and I hate it!"

"Oh!" said Lady Barbara drily; and Kate seeing Mr. Wardour's eyes
fixed on her rather anxiously, recollected that hate was not a proper
word, and fell into confusion.

"And drawing?" said her aunt.

"No; but I want to--"

"Oh!" again said Lady Barbara, looking at Kate's fingers, which in
her awkwardness she was apparently dislocating in a method peculiar
to herself.

However, it was soon over, for it was already later than Kate's home
bed-time; she bade everyone good-night, and was soon waited on by
Mrs. Bartley, the maid, in her own luxurious little room.

But luxurious as it was, Kate for the first time thoroughly missed
home. The boarded floor, the old crib, the deal table, would have
been welcome, if only Sylvia had been there. She had never gone to
bed without Sylvia in her life. And now she thought with a pang that
Sylvia was longing for her, and looking at her empty crib, thinking
too, it might be, that Kate had cared more for her grandeur than for
the parting.

Not only was it sorrowful to be lonely, but also Kate was one of the
silly little girls, to whom the first quarter of an hour in bed was a
time of fright. Sylvia had no fears, and always accounted for the
odd noises and strange sights that terrified her companion. She
never believed that the house was on fire, even though the moon made
very bright sparkles; she always said the sounds were the servants,
the wind, or the mice; and never would allow that thieves would steal
little girls, or anything belonging to themselves. Or if she were
fast asleep, her very presence gave a feeling of protection.

But when the preparations were very nearly over, and Kate began to
think of the strange room, and the roar of carriages in the streets
sounded so unnatural, her heart failed her, and the fear of being
alone quite overpowered her dread of the grave staid Mrs. Bartley,
far more of being thought a silly little girl.

"Please please, Mrs. Bartley," she said in a trembling voice, "are
you going away?"

"Yes, my Lady; I am going down to supper, when I have placed my Lady
Jane's and my Lady Barbara's things."

"Then please--please," said Kate, in her most humble and insinuating
voice, "do leave the door open while you are doing it."

"Very well, my Lady," was the answer, in a tone just like that in
which Lady Barbara said "Oh!"

And the door stayed open; but Kate could not sleep. There seemed to
be the rattle and bump of the train going on in her bed; the gas-
lights in the streets below came in unnaturally, and the noises were
much more frightful and unaccountable than any she had ever heard at
home. Her eyes spread with fright, instead of closing in sleep; then
came the longing yearning for Sylvia, and tears grew hot in them; and
by the time Mrs. Bartley had finished her preparations, and gone
down, her distress had grown so unbearable, that she absolutely began
sobbing aloud, and screaming, "Papa!" She knew he would be very
angry, and that she should hear that such folly was shameful in a
girl of her age; but any anger would be better than this dreadful
loneliness. She screamed louder and louder; and she grew half
frightened, half relieved, when she heard his step, and a buzz of
voices on the stairs; and then there he was, standing by her, and
saying gravely, "What is the matter, Kate?"

"O Papa, Papa, I want--I want Sylvia!--I am afraid!" Then she held
her breath, and cowered under the clothes, ready for a scolding; but
it was not his angry voice. "Poor child!" he said quietly and sadly.
"You must put away this childishness, my dear. You know that you are
not really alone, even in a strange place."

"No, no, Papa; but I am afraid--I cannot bear it!"

"Have you said the verse that helps you to bear it, Katie?"

"I could not say it without Sylvia."

She heard him sigh; and then he said, "You must try another night, my
Katie, and think of Sylvia saying it at home in her own room. You
will meet her prayers in that way. Now let me hear you say it."

Kate repeated, but half choked with sobs, "I lay me down in peace,"
and the rest of the calm words, with which she had been taught to lay
herself in bed; but at the end she cried, "O Papa, don't go!"

"I must go, my dear: I cannot stay away from your aunts. But I will
tell you what to do to-night, and other nights when I shall be away:
say to yourself the ninety-first Psalm. I think you know it--'Whoso
abideth under the defence of the Most High--'"

"I think I do know it."

"Try to say it to yourself, and then the place will seem less dreary,
because you will feel Who is with you. I will look in once more
before I go away, and I think you will be asleep."

And though Kate tried to stay awake for him, asleep she was.

CHAPTER III.

In a very few days, Kate had been settled into the ways of the
household in Bruton Street; and found one day so like another, that
she sometimes asked herself whether she had not been living there
years instead of days.

She was always to be ready by half-past seven. Her French maid,
Josephine, used to come in at seven, and wash and dress her quietly,
for if there were any noise Aunt Barbara would knock and be
displeased. Aunt Barbara rose long before that time, but she feared
lest Aunt Jane should be disturbed in her morning's sleep; and Kate
thought she had the ears of a dragon for the least sound of voice or
laugh.

At half-past seven, Kate met Mrs. Lacy in the school-room, read the
Psalms and Second Lesson, and learnt some answers to questions on the
Catechism, to be repeated to Lady Barbara on a Sunday. For so far
from playing at cards in a bird-of-paradise turban all Sunday, the
aunts were quite as particular about these things as Mr. Wardour--
more inconveniently so, the countess thought; for he always let her
answer his examinations out of her own head, and never gave her
answers to learn by heart; "Answers that I know before quite well,"
said Kate, "only not made tiresome with fine words."

"That is not a right way of talking, Lady Caergwent," gravely said
Mrs. Lacy; and Kate gave herself an ill-tempered wriggle, and felt
cross and rebellious.

It was a trial; but if Kate had taken it humbly, she would have found
that even the stiff hard words and set phrases gave accuracy to her
ideas; and the learning of the texts quoted would have been clear
gain, if she had been in a meeker spirit.

This done, Mrs. Lacy gave her a music-lesson. This was grievous
work, for the question was not how the learning should be managed,
but whether the thing should be learnt at all.

Kate had struggled hard against it. She informed her aunts that Mary
had tried to teach her for six weeks in vain, and that she had had a
bad mark every day; that Papa had said it was all nonsense, and that
talents could not be forced; and that Armyn said she had no more ear
than an old pea-hen.

To which Lady Barbara had gravely answered, that Mr. Wardour could
decide as he pleased while Katharine was under his charge, but that
it would be highly improper that she should not learn the
accomplishments of her station.

"Only I can't learn," said Kate, half desperate; "you will see that
it is no use, Aunt Barbara."

"I shall do my duty, Katharine," was all the answer she obtained; and
she pinched her chair with suppressed passion.

Lady Barbara was right in saying that it was her duty to see that the
child under her charge learnt what is usually expected of ladies; and
though Kate could never acquire music enough to give pleasure to
others, yet the training and discipline were likely not only to
improve her ear and untamed voice, but to be good for her whole
character--that is, if she had made a good use of them. But in these
times, being usually already out of temper with the difficult answers
of the Catechism questions, and obliged to keep in her pettish
feelings towards what concerned sacred things, she let all out in the
music lesson, and with her murmurs and her inattention, her yawns and
her blunders, rendered herself infinitely more dull and unmusical
than nature had made her, and was a grievous torment to poor Mrs.
Lacy, and her patient, "One, two, three--now, my dear."

Kate thought it was Mrs. Lacy who tormented her! I wonder which was
the worse to the other! At any rate, Mrs. Lacy's heavy eyes looked
heavier, and she moved as though wearied out for the whole day by the
time the clock struck nine, and released them; whilst her pupil, who
never was cross long together, took a hop, skip, and jump, to the
dining-room, and was as fresh as ever in the eager hope that the post
would bring a letter from home.

Lady Barbara read prayers in the dining-room at nine, and there
breakfasted with Kate and Mrs. Lacy, sending up a tray to Lady Jane
in her bed-room. Those were apt to be grave breakfasts; not like the
merry mornings at home, when chatter used to go on in half whispers
between the younger ones, with laughs, breaking out in sudden gusts,
till a little over-loudness brought one of Mary's good-natured
"Hushes," usually answered with, "O Mary, such fun!"

It was Lady Barbara's time for asking about all the lessons of the
day before; and though these were usually fairly done, and Mrs. Lacy
was always a kind reporter, it was rather awful; and what was worse,
were the strictures on deportment. For it must be confessed, that
Lady Caergwent, though neatly and prettily made, with delicate little
feet and hands, and a strong upright back, was a remarkably awkward
child; and the more she was lectured, the more ungraceful she made
herself--partly from thinking about it, and from fright making her
abrupt, partly from being provoked. She had never been so ungainly
at Oldburgh; she never was half so awkward in the school-room, as she
would be while taking her cup of tea from Lady Barbara, or handing
the butter to her governess. And was it not wretched to be ordered
to do it again, and again, and again, (each time worse than the last-
-the fingers more crooked, the elbow more stuck out, the shoulder
more forward than before), when there was a letter in Sylvia's
writing lying on the table unopened?

And whereas it had been the fashion at St. James's Parsonage to
compare Kate's handing her plate to a chimpanzee asking for nuts, it
was hard that in Bruton Street these manners should be attributed to
the barbarous country in which she had grown up! But that, though
Kate did not know it, was very much her own fault. She could never
be found fault with but she answered again. She had been scarcely
broken of replying and justifying herself, even to Mr. Wardour, and
had often argued with Mary till he came in and put a sudden sharp
stop to it; and now she usually defended herself with "Papa says--"
or "Mary says--" and though she really thought she spoke the truth,
she made them say such odd things, that it was no wonder Lady Barbara
thought they had very queer notions of education, and that her niece
had nothing to do but to unlearn their lessons. Thus:

"Katharine, easy-chairs were not meant for little girls to lounge
in."

"Oh, Papa says he doesn't want one always to sit upright and stupid."

So Lady Barbara was left to suppose that Mr. Wardour's model attitude
for young ladies was sitting upon one leg in an easy-chair, with the
other foot dangling, the forehead against the back, and the arm of
the chair used as a desk! How was she to know that this only meant
that he had once had the misfortune to express his disapproval of the
high-backed long-legged school-room chairs formerly in fashion? In
fact, Kate could hardly be forbidden anything without her replying
that Papa or Mary ALWAYS let her do it; till at last she was ordered,
very decidedly, never again to quote Mr. and Miss Wardour, and
especially not to call him Papa.

Kate's eyes flashed at this; and she was so angry, that no words
would come but a passionate stammering "I can't--I can't leave off; I
won't!"

Lady Barbara looked stern and grave. "You must be taught what is
suitable to your position, Lady Caergwent; and until you have learnt
to feel it yourself, I shall request Mrs. Lacy to give you an
additional lesson every time you call Mr. Wardour by that name."

Aunt Barbara's low slow way of speaking when in great displeasure was
a terrific thing, and so was the set look of her handsome mouth and
eyes. Kate burst into a violent fit of crying, and was sent away in
dire disgrace. When she had spent her tears and sobs, she began to
think over her aunt's cruelty and ingratitude, and the wickedness of
trying to make her ungrateful too; and she composed a thrilling
speech, as she called it--"Lady Barbara Umfraville, when the orphan
was poor and neglected, my Uncle Wardour was a true father to me.
You may tear me with wild horses ere I will cease to give him the
title of--No; and I will call him papa--no, father--with my last
breath!"

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