Countess Kate

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> Countess Kate

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"Oh! no, no, Aunt Jane; there's no fun unless one is rough--I mean,
not rough exactly; but it's no use playing unless one makes a jolly
good noise."

"My dear," said Lady Jane, greatly shocked, "I can't bear to hear you
talk so, nor to use such words."

"Dear me, Aunt Jane, we say 'Jolly' twenty times a day at St.
James's, and nobody minds."

"Ah! yes, you see you played with boys."

"But our boys are not rough, Aunt Jane," persisted Kate, who liked
hearing herself talk much better than anyone else. "Mary says
Charlie is a great deal less riotous than I am, especially since he
went to school; and Armyn is too big to be riotous. Oh dear, I wish
Mr. Brown would send Armyn to London; he said he would be sure to
come and see me, and he is the jolliest, most delightful fellow in
the world!"

"My dear child," said Lady Jane in her soft, distressed voice,
"indeed that is not the way young ladies talk of--of--boys."

"Armyn is not a boy, Aunt Jane; he's a man. He is a clerk, you know,
and will get a salary in another year."

"A clerk!"

"Yes; in Mr. Brown's office, you know. Aunt Jane, did you ever go
out to tea?"

"Yes, my dear; sometimes we drank tea with our little friends in the
dolls' tea-cups."

"Oh! you can't think what fun we have when Mrs. Brown asks us to tea.
She has got the nicest garden in the world, and a greenhouse, and a
great squirt-syringe, I mean, to water it; and we always used to get
it, till once, without meaning it, I squirted right through the
drawing-room window, and made such a puddle; and Mrs. Brown thought
it was Charlie, only I ran in and told of myself, and Mrs. Brown said
it was very generous, and gave me a Venetian weight with a little
hermit in a snow-storm; only it is worn out now, and won't snow, so I
gave it to little Lily when we had the whooping-cough."

By this time Lady Jane was utterly ignorant what the gabble was
about, except that Katharine had been in very odd company, and done
very strange things with those boys, and she gave a melancholy little
sound in the pause; but Kate, taking breath, ran on again -

"It is because Mrs. Brown is not used to educating children, you
know, that she fancies one wants a reward for telling the truth; I
told her so, but Mary thought it would vex her, and stopped my mouth.
Well, then we young ones--that is, Charlie, and Sylvia, and Armyn,
and I--drank tea out on the lawn. Mary had to sit up and be company;
but we had such fun! There was a great old laurel tree, and Armyn
put Sylvia and me up into the fork; and that was our nest, and we
were birds, and he fed us with strawberries; and we pretended to be
learning to fly, and stood up flapping our frocks and squeaking, and
Charlie came under and danced the branches about. We didn't like
that; and Armyn said it was a shame, and hunted him away, racing all
round the garden; and we scrambled down by ourselves, and came down
on the slope. It is a long green slope, right down to the river, all
smooth and turfy, you know; and I was standing at the top, when
Charlie comes slyly, and saying he would help the little bird to fly,
gave me one push, and down I went, roll, roll, tumble, tumble, till
Sylvia REALLY thought she heard my neck crack! Wasn't it fun?"

"But the river, my dear!" said Lady Jane, shuddering.

"Oh! there was a good flat place before we came to the river, and I
stopped long before that! So then, as we had been the birds of the
air, we thought we would be the fishes of the sea; and it was nice
and shallow, with dear little caddises and river cray-fish, and great
British pearl-shells at the bottom. So we took off our shoes and
stockings, and Charlie and Armyn turned up their trousers, and we had
such a nice paddling. I really thought I should have got a British
pearl then; and you know there were some in the breast-plate of
Venus."

"In the river! Did your cousin allow that?"

"Oh yes; we had on our old blue checks; and Mary never minds anything
when Armyn is there to take care of us. When they heard in the
drawing-room what we had been doing, they made Mary sing 'Auld Lang
Syne,' because of 'We twa hae paidlit in the burn frae morning sun
till dine;' and whenever in future times I meet Armyn, I mean to say,

'We twa hae paidlit in the burn
Frae morning sun till dine;
We've wandered many a weary foot
Sin auld lang syne.'

Or perhaps I shall be able to sing it, and that will be still
prettier."

And Kate sat still, thinking of the prettiness of the scene of the
stranger, alone in the midst of numbers, in the splendid drawing-
rooms, hearing the sweet voice of the lovely young countess at the
piano, singing this touching memorial of the simple days of
childhood.

Lady Jane meanwhile worked her embroidery, and thought what wonderful
disadvantages the poor child had had, and that Barbara really must
not be too severe on her, after she had lived with such odd people,
and that it was very fortunate that she had been taken away from them
before she had grown any older, or more used to them.

Soon after, Kate gave a specimen of her manners with boys. When she
went into the dining-room at luncheon time one wet afternoon, she
heard steps on the stairs behind her aunt's, and there appeared a
very pleasant-looking gentleman, followed by a boy of about her own
age.

"Here is our niece," said Lady Barbara. "Katharine, come and speak
to Lord de la Poer."

Kate liked his looks, and the way in which he held out his hand to
her; but she knew she should be scolded for her awkward greeting: so
she put out her hand as if she had no use of her arm above the elbow,
hung down her head, and said "--do;" at least no more was audible.

But there was something comfortable and encouraging in the grasp of
the strong large hand over the foolish little fingers; and he quite
gave them to his son, whose shake was a real treat; the contact with
anything young was like meeting a follow-countryman in a foreign
land, though neither as yet spoke.

She found out that the boy's name was Ernest, and that his father was
taking him to school, but had come to arrange some business matters
for her aunts upon the way. She listened with interest to Lord de la
Poer's voice, for she liked it, and was sure he was a greater friend
there than any she had before seen. He was talking about Giles--that
was her uncle, the Colonel in India; and she first gathered from what
was passing that her uncle's eldest and only surviving son, an
officer in his own regiment, had never recovered a wound he had
received at the relief of Lucknow, and that if he did not get better
at Simlah, where his mother had just taken him, his father thought of
retiring and bringing him home, though all agreed that it would be a
very unfortunate thing that the Colonel should be obliged to resign
his command before getting promoted; but they fully thought he would
do so, for this was the last of his children; another son had been
killed in the Mutiny, and two or three little girls had been born and
died in India.

Kate had never known this. Her aunts never told her anything, nor
talked over family affairs before her; and she was opening her ears
most eagerly, and turning her quick bright eyes from one speaker to
the other with such earnest attention, that the guest turned kindly
to her, and said, "Do you remember your uncle?"

"Oh dear no! I was a little baby when he went away."

Kate never used DEAR as an adjective except at the beginning of a
letter, but always, and very unnecessarily, as an interjection; and
this time it was so emphatic as to bring Lady Barbara's eyes on her.

"Did you see either Giles or poor Frank before they went out to him?"

"Oh dear no!"

This time the DEAR was from the confusion that made her always do the
very thing she ought not to do.

"No; my niece has been too much separated from her own relations,"
said Lady Barbara, putting this as an excuse for the "Oh dears."

"I hope Mr. Wardour is quite well," said Lord de la Poer, turning
again to Kate.

"Oh yes, quite, thank you;" and then with brightening eyes, she
ventured on "Do you know him?"

"I saw him two or three times," he answered with increased kindness
of manner. "Will you remember me to him when you write?"

"Very well," said Kate promptly; "but he says all those sort of
things are nonsense."

The horror of the two aunts was only kept in check by the good
manners that hindered a public scolding; but Lord de la Poer only
laughed heartily, and said, "Indeed! What sort of things, may I ask,
Lady Caergwent?"

"Why--love, and regards, and remembrances. Mary used to get letters
from her school-fellows, all filled with dearest loves, and we always
laughed at her; and Armyn used to say them by heart beforehand," said
Kate.

"I beg to observe," was the answer, in the grave tone which, however,
Kate understood as fun, "that I did not presume to send my love to
Mr. Wardour. May not that make the case different?"

"Yes," said Kate meditatively; "only I don't know that your
remembrance would be of more use than your love."

"And are we never to send any messages unless they are of use?" This
was a puzzling question, and Kate did not immediately reply.

"None for pleasure--eh?"

"Well, but I don't see what would be the pleasure."

"What, do you consider it pleasurable to be universally forgotten?"

"Nobody ever could forget Pa--my Uncle Wardour," cried Kate, with
eager vehemence flashing in her eyes.

"Certainly not," said Lord de la Poer, in a voice as if he were much
pleased with her; "he is not a man to be forgotten. It is a
privilege to have been brought up by him. But come, Lady Caergwent,
since you are so critical, will you be pleased to devise some message
for me, that may combine use, pleasure, and my deep respect for him?"
and as she sat beside him at the table, he laid his hand on hers, so
that she felt that he really meant what he said.

She sat fixed in deep thought; and her aunts, who had been miserable
all through the conversation, began to speak of other things; but in
the midst the shrill little voice broke in, "I know what!" and good-
natured Lord de la Poer turned at once, smiling, and saying, "Well,
what?"

"If you would help in the new aisle! You know the church is not big
enough; there are so many people come into the district, with the new
ironworks, you know; and we have not got half room enough, and can't
make more, though we have three services; and we want to build a new
aisle, and it will cost 250 pounds, but we have only got 139 pounds
15s. 6d. And if you would but be so kind as to give one sovereign
for it--that would be better than remembrances and respects, and all
that sort of thing."

"I rather think it would," said Lord de la Poer; and though Lady
Barbara eagerly exclaimed, "Oh! do not think of it; the child does
not know what she is talking of. Pray excuse her--" he took out his
purse, and from it came a crackling smooth five-pound note, which he
put into the hand, saying, "There, my dear, cut that in two, and send
the two halves on different days to Mr. Wardour, with my best wishes
for his success in his good works. Will that do?"

Kate turned quite red, and only perpetrated a choked sound of her
favourite -q. For the whole world she could not have said more: but
though she knew perfectly well that anger and wrath were hanging over
her, she felt happier than for many a long week.

Presently the aunts rose, and Lady Barbara said to her in the low
ceremonious voice that was a sure sign of warning and displeasure,
"You had better come up stairs with us, Katharine, and amuse Lord
Ernest in the back drawing-room while his father is engaged with us."

Kate's heart leapt up at the sound "amuse." She popped her precious
note into her pocket, bounded up-stairs, and opened the back drawing-
room door for her playfellow, as he brought up the rear of the
procession.

Lord de la Poer and Lady Barbara spread the table with papers; Lady
Jane sat by; the children were behind the heavy red curtains that
parted off the second room. There was a great silence at first, then
began a little tittering, then a little chattering, then presently a
stifled explosion. Lady Barbara began to betray some restlessness;
she really must see what that child was about.

"No, no," said Lord de la Poer; "leave them in peace. That poor girl
will never thrive unless you let her use her voice and limbs. I
shall make her come over and enjoy herself with my flock when we come
up en masse."

The explosions were less carefully stifled, and there were some
sounds of rushing about, some small shrieks, and then the door shut,
and there was a silence again.

By this it may be perceived that Kate and Ernest had become tolerably
intimate friends. They had informed each other of what games were
their favourites; Kate had told him the Wardour names and ages; and
required from him in return those of his brothers and sisters. She
had been greatly delighted by learning that Adelaide was no end of a
hand at climbing trees; and that whenever she should come and stay at
their house, Ernest would teach her to ride. And then they began to
consider what play was possible under the present circumstances--
beginning they hardly knew how, by dodging one another round and
round the table, making snatches at one another, gradually assuming
the characters of hunter and Red Indian. Only when the hunter had
snatched up Aunt Jane's tortoise-shell paper-cutter to stab with,
complaining direfully that it was a stupid place, with nothing for a
gun, and the Red Indian's crinoline had knocked down two chairs, she
recollected the consequences in time to strangle her own war-whoop,
and suggested that they should be safer on the stairs; to which
Ernest readily responded, adding that there was a great gallery at
home all full of pillars and statues, the jolliest place in the world
for making a row.

"Oh dear! oh dear! how I hope I shall go there!" cried Kate, swinging
between the rails of the landing-place. "I do want of all things to
see a statue."

"A statue! why, don't you see lots every day?"

"Oh! I don't mean great equestrian things like the Trafalgar Square
ones, or the Duke--or anything big and horrid, like Achilles in the
Park, holding up a shield like a green umbrella. I want to see the
work of the great sculptor Julio Romano."

"He wasn't a sculptor."

"Yes, he was; didn't he sculp--no, what is the word--Hermione. No; I
mean they pretended he had done her."

"Hermione! What, have you seen the 'Winter's Tale?'"

"Papa--Uncle Wardour, that is--read it to us last Christmas."

"Well, I've seen it. Alfred and I went to it last spring with our
tutor."

"Oh! then do, pray, let us play at it. Look, there's a little stand
up there, where I have always so wanted to get up and be Hermione,
and descend to the sound of slow music. There's a musical-box in the
back drawing-room that will make the music.

"Very well; but I must be the lion and bear killing the courtier."

"O yes--very well, and I'll be courtier; only I must get a sofa-
cushion to be Perdita."

"And where's Bohemia?"

"Oh! the hall must be Bohemia, and the stair-carpet the sea, because
then the aunts won't hear the lion and bear roaring."

With these precautions, the characteristic roaring and growling of
lion and bear, and the shrieks of the courtier, though not absolutely
unheard in the drawing-room, produced no immediate results. But in
the very midst of Lady Jane's signing her name to some paper, she
gave a violent start, and dropped the pen, for they were no stage
shrieks--"Ah! ah! It is coming down! Help me down! Ernest, Ernest!
help me down! Ah!"--and then a great fall.

The little mahogany bracket on the wall had been mounted by the help
of a chair, but it was only fixed into the plaster, being intended to
hold a small lamp, and not for young ladies to stand on; so no sooner
was the chair removed by which Kate had mounted, than she felt not
only giddy in her elevation, but found her pedestal loosening! There
was no room to jump; and Ernest, perhaps enjoying what he regarded as
a girl's foolish fright, was a good way off, endeavouring to wind up
the musical-box, when the bracket gave way, and Hermione descended
precipitately with anything but the sound of soft music; and as the
inhabitants of the drawing-room rushed out to the rescue, her legs
were seen kicking in the air upon the landing-place; Ernest looking
on, not knowing whether to laugh or be dismayed.

Lord de la Poer picked her up, and sat down on the stairs with her
between his knees to look her over and see whether she were hurt, or
what was the matter, while she stood half sobbing with the fright and
shock. He asked his son rather severely what he had been doing to
her.

"He did nothing," gasped Kate; "I was only Hermione."

"Yes, that's all, Papa," repeated Ernest; "it is all the fault of the
plaster."

And a sort of explanation was performed between the two children, at
which Lord de la Poer could hardly keep his gravity, though he was
somewhat vexed at the turn affairs had taken. He was not entirely
devoid of awe of the Lady Barbara, and would have liked his children
to be on their best behaviour before her.

"Well," he said, "I am glad there is no worse harm done. You had
better defer your statueship till we can find you a sounder pedestal,
Lady Caergwent."

"Oh! call me Kate," whispered she in his ear, turning redder than the
fright had made her.

He smiled, and patted her hand; then added, "We must go and beg
pardon, I suppose; I should not wonder if the catastrophe had damaged
Aunt Jane the most; and if so, I don't know what will be done to us!"

He was right; Lady Barbara had only satisfied herself that no bones
had been broken, and then turned back to reassure her sister; but
Lady Jane could not be frightened without suffering for it, and was
lying back on the sofa, almost faint with palpitation, when Lord de
la Poer, with Kate's hand in his, came to the door, looking much more
consciously guilty than his son, who on the whole was more diverted
than penitent at the commotion they had made.

Lady Barbara looked very grand and very dignified, but Lord de la
Poer was so grieved for Lady Jane's indisposition, that she was
somewhat softened; and then he began asking pardon, blending himself
with the children so comically, that in all her fright and anxiety,
Kate wondered how her aunt could help laughing.

It never was Lady Barbara's way to reprove before a guest; but this
good gentleman was determined that she should not reserve her
displeasure for his departure, and he would not go away till he had
absolutely made her promise that his little friend, as he called
Kate, should hear nothing more about anything that had that day taken
place.

Lady Barbara kept her promise. She uttered no reproof either on her
niece's awkward greeting, her abrupt conversation and its tendency to
pertness, nor on the loudness of the unlucky game and the impropriety
of climbing; nor even on what had greatly annoyed her, the asking for
the subscription to the church. There was neither blame nor
punishment; but she could not help a certain cold restraint of
manner, by which Kate knew that she was greatly displeased, and
regarded her as the most hopeless little saucy romp that ever maiden
aunt was afflicted with.

And certainly it was hard on her. She had a great regard for Lord de
la Poer, and thought his a particularly well trained family; and she
was especially desirous that her little niece should appear to
advantage before him. Nothing, she was sure, but Katharine's innate
naughtiness could have made that well-behaved little Ernest break out
into rudeness; and though his father had shown such good nature, he
must have been very much shocked. What was to be done to tame this
terrible little savage, was poor Lady Barbara's haunting thought,
morning, noon, and night!

And what was it that Kate did want? I believe nothing could have
made her perfectly happy, or suited to her aunt; but that she would
have been infinitely happier and better off had she had the spirit of
obedience, of humility, or of unselfishness.

CHAPTER V.

The one hour of play with Ernest de la Poer had the effect of making
Kate long more and more for a return of "fun," and of intercourse
with beings of her own age and of high spirits.

She wove to herself dreams of possible delights with Sylvia and
Charlie, if the summer visit could be paid to them; and at other
times she imagined her Uncle Giles's two daughters still alive, and
sent home for education, arranging in her busy brain wonderful
scenes, in which she, with their assistance, should be happy in spite
of Aunt Barbara.

These fancies, however, would be checked by the recollection, that it
was shocking to lower two happy spirits in Heaven into playful little
girls upon earth; and she took refuge in the thought of the coming
chance of playfellows, when Lord de la Poer was to bring his family
to London. She had learnt the names and ages of all the ten; and
even had her own theories as to what her contemporaries were to be
like--Mary and Fanny, Ernest's elders, and Adelaide and Grace, who
came next below him; she had a vision for each of them, and felt as
if she already knew them.

Meanwhile, the want of the amount of air and running about to which
she had been used, did really tell upon her; she had giddy feelings
in the morning, tired limbs, and a weary listless air, and fretted
over her lessons at times. So they showed her to the doctor, who
came to see Lady Jane every alternate day; and when he said she
wanted more exercise, her morning walk was made an hour longer, and a
shuttlecock and battledores were bought, with which it was decreed
that Mrs. Lacy should play with her for exactly half an hour every
afternoon, or an hour when it was too wet to go out.

It must be confessed that this was a harder task to both than the
music lessons. Whether it were from the difference of height, or
from Kate's innate unhandiness, they never could keep that unhappy
shuttlecock up more than three times; and Mrs. Lacy looked as grave
and melancholy all the time as if she played it for a punishment,
making little efforts to be cheerful that were sad to see. Kate
hated it, and was always cross; and willingly would they have given
it up by mutual consent, but the instant the tap of the cork against
the parchment ceased, if it were not half-past five, down sailed Lady
Barbara to inquire after her prescription.

She had been a famous battledore-player in the galleries of Caergwent
Castle; and once when she took up the battledore to give a lesson, it
seemed as if, between her and Mrs. Lacy, the shuttlecock would not
come down--they kept up five hundred and eighty-one, and then only
stopped because it was necessary for her to go to dinner.

She could not conceive anyone being unable to play at battledore, and
thought Kate's failures and dislike pure perverseness. Once Kate by
accident knocked her shuttlecock through the window, and hoped she
had got rid of it; but she was treated as if she had done it out of
naughtiness, and a new instrument of torture, as she called it, was
bought for her.

It was no wonder she did not see the real care for her welfare, and
thought this intensely cruel and unkind; but it was a great pity that
she visited her vexation on poor Mrs. Lacy, to whom the game was even
a greater penance than to herself, especially on a warm day, with a
bad headache.

Even in her best days at home, Kate had resisted learning to take
thought for others. She had not been considerate of Mary's toil, nor
of Mr. Wardour's peace, except when Armyn or Sylvia reminded her; and
now that she had neither of them to put it into her mind, she never
once thought of her governess as one who ought to be spared and
pitied. Yet if she had been sorry for Mrs. Lacy, and tried to spare
her trouble and annoyance, how much irritability and peevishness, and
sense of constant naughtiness, would have been prevented! And it was
that feeling of being always naughty that was what had become the
real dreariness of Kate's present home, and was far worse than the
music, the battledore, or even the absence of fun.

At last came a message that Lady Caergwent was to be dressed for
going out to make a call with Lady Barbara as soon as luncheon was
over.

It could be on no one but the De la Poers; and Kate was so delighted,
that she executed all manner of little happy hops, skips, and
fidgets, all the time of her toilette, and caused many an
expostulation of "Mais, Miladi!" from Josephine, before the pretty
delicate blue and white muslin, worked white jacket, and white
ribboned and feathered hat, were adjusted. Lady Barbara kept her
little countess very prettily and quietly dressed; but it was at the
cost of infinite worry of herself, Kate, and Josephine, for there
never was a child whom it was so hard to keep in decent trim.
Armyn's old saying, that she ought to be always kept dressed in
sacking, as the only thing she could not spoil, was a true one; for
the sharp hasty movements, and entire disregard of where she stepped,
were so ruinous, that it was on the records of the Bruton Street
household, that she had gone far to demolish eight frocks in ten
days.

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