Kitabı oku: «Countess Kate», sayfa 12
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.
Kate felt subdued and reverent, and loved her new relations more and more for their sorrows; and she began to dream out castles of the wonderful goodness by which she would comfort them; then she looked for her uncle’s hand to see if she could dare to stroke it, but one was over his brow, the other out of reach, and she was shy of doing anything.
The dinner interrupted them; and Kate had the pleasure of dining late, and sitting opposite to Lord de la Poer, who talked now and then to her, and told her what Adelaide and Grace were doing; but he was grave and sad, out of sympathy with his friends, and Kate was by no means tempted to be foolish.
Indeed, she began to feel that she might hope to be always good with her uncle and aunt, and that they would never make her naughty. Only too soon came the announcement of the carriage for Lady Caergwent; and when Aunt Emily took her into the bedroom to dress, she clung to that kind hand and fondled it.
“My dear little girl!” and Aunt Emily held her in her arms, “I am so glad! Kate, I do think your dear uncle is a little cheered to-night! If having you about him does him any good, how I shall love you, Katie!” and she hugged her closer. “And it is so kind in Lord de la Poer to have come! Oh, now he will be better! I am so thankful he is in England again! You must be with us whenever Barbara can spare you, Katie dear, for I am sure he likes it.”
“Each wants me, to do the other good,” thought Kate; and she was so much touched and pleased that she did not know what to do, and looked foolish.
Uncle Giles took her down stairs; and when they were in the carriage, in the dark, he seemed to be less shy: he lifted her on his knee and said, “I will talk to your aunt, and we will see how soon you can come to us, my dear.”
“Oh, do let it be soon,” said Kate.
“That must depend upon your Aunt Barbara,” he answered, “and upon law matters, perhaps. And you must not be troublesome to her; she has suffered very much, and will not think of herself, so you must think for her.”
“I don’t know how, Uncle Giles,” said poor sincere Kate. “At home, they always said I had no consideration.”
“You must learn,” he said gravely. “She is not to be harassed.”
Kate was rather frightened; but he spoke in a kinder voice. “At home, you say. Do you mean with my sisters, or at Oldburgh?”
“Oh, at Oldburgh, Uncle Giles!”
“You are older now,” he answered, “and need not be so childish.”
“And please one thing—”
“Well—”
There came a great choking in her throat, but she did get it out. “Please, please, don’t think all I do wrong is the Wardours’ fault! I know I am naughty and horrid and unladylike, but it is my own own fault, indeed it is, and nobody else’s! Mary and Uncle Wardour would have made me good—and it was all my fault.”
“My dear,” and he put the other hand so that he completely encircled the little slim waist, “I do quite believe that Mr. Wardour taught you all the good you have. There is nothing I am so glad of as that you love and reverence him as he deserves—as far as such a child can do. I hope you always will, and that your gratitude will increase with your knowledge of the sacrifices that he made for you.”
It was too much of a speech for Kate to answer; but she nestled up to him, and felt as if she loved him more than ever. He added, “I should like to see Mr. Wardour, but I can hardly leave your aunt yet. Would he come to London?”
Kate gave a gasp. “Oh dear! Sylvia said he would have no money for journeys now! It cost so much his coming in a first-class carriage with me.”
“You see how necessary it is to learn consideration,” said the Colonel; “I must run down to see him, and come back at night.”
By this time they were at the aunts’ door, and both entered the drawing-room together.
Lady Barbara anxiously hoped that Katharine had behaved well.
“Perfectly well,” he answered; and his face was really brighter and tenderer.
It was Kate’s bed-time, and she was dismissed at once. She felt that the kiss and momentary touch of the hand, with the “Bless you,” were far more earnest than the mere greeting kiss. She did not know that it had been his wonted good-night to his own children.
When she was gone, he took a chair, and explained that he could remain for a little while, as Lord de la Poer would bear his wife company. Lady Jane made room for him on the sofa, and Lady Barbara looked pleased.
“I wished to talk to you about that child,” he said.
“I have been wishing it for some time,” said Lady Barbara; “waiting, in fact, to make arrangements till your return.”
“What arrangements?”
“For forming an establishment for her.”
“The child’s natural home is with you or with me.”
There was a little silence; then Lady Jane nervously caught her brother’s hand, saying, “O Giles, Giles, you must not be severe with her, poor little thing!”
“Why should I be severe, Jane?” he said. “What has the child done to deserve it?”
“I do not wish to enter into particulars,” said Lady Barbara. “But she is a child who has been so unfortunately brought up as to require constant watching; and to have her in the house does so much harm to Jane’s health, that I strongly advise you not to attempt it in Emily’s state of spirits.”
“It would little benefit Emily’s spirits to transfer a duty to a stranger,” said the Colonel. “But I wish to know why you evidently think so ill of this girl, Barbara!”
“Her entire behaviour since she has been with us—” began Lady Barbara.
“Generalities only do mischief, Barbara. If I have any control over this child, I must know facts.”
“The truth is, Giles,” said his sister, distressed and confused, “that I promised the child not to tell you of her chief piece of misconduct, unless I was compelled by some fresh fault.”
“An injudicious promise, Barbara. You do the child more harm by implying such an opinion of her than you could do by letting me hear what she has actually done. But you are absolved from the promise, for she has herself told me.”
“Told you! That girl has no sense of shame! After all the pains I took to conceal it!”
“No, Barbara; it was with the utmost shame that she told me. It was unguarded of me, I own; but De la Poer and I had entirely forgotten that she was present, and I asked him if he could account for your evident dislike and distrust of her. The child’s honourable feelings would not allow her to listen, and she came forward, and accused herself, not you!”
“Before Lord de la Poer! Giles, how could you allow it?” cried Lady Barbara, confounded. “That whole family will tell the story, and she will be marked for ever!”
“De la Poer has some knowledge of child nature,” said the Colonel, slightly smiling.
“A gentleman often encourages that sort of child, but condemns her the more. She will be a by-word in that family! I always knew she would be our disgrace!”
“O Giles, do tell Barbara it cannot be so very bad!” entreated Lady Jane. “She is such a child—poor little dear!—and so little used to control!”
“I have only as yet heard her own confused account.”
Lady Barbara gave her own.
“I see,” said the Colonel, “the child was both accurate and candid. You should be thankful that your system has not destroyed her sincerity.”
“But, indeed, dear Giles,” pleaded Lady Jane, “you know Barbara did not want her to say what was false.”
“No,” said the Colonel: “that was a mere misunderstanding. It is the spirit of distrust that—assuming that a child will act dishonourably—is likely to drive her to do so.”
“I never distrusted Katharine till she drove me to do so,” said Lady Barbara, with cold, stern composure.
“I would never bring an accusation of breach of trust where I had not made it evident that I reposed confidence,” said the Colonel.
“I see how it is,” said Lady Barbara; “you have heard one side. I do not contradict. I know the girl would not wilfully deceive by word; and I am willing to confess that I am not capable of dealing with her. Only from a sense of duty did I ever undertake it.”
“Of duty, Barbara?” he asked.
“Yes—of duty to the family.”
“We do not see those things in the same light,” he said quietly. “I thought, as you know, that the duty was more incumbent when the child was left an orphan—a burthen on relatives who could ill afford to be charged with her. Perhaps, Barbara, if you had noticed her then, instead of waiting till circumstances made her the head of our family, you might have been able to give her that which has been wanting in your otherwise conscientious training—affection.”
Lady Barbara held up her head, stiffly, but she was very near tears, of pain and wounded pride; but she would not defend herself; and she saw that even her faithful Jane did not feel with her.
“I came home, Barbara,” continued the Colonel, “resolving that—much as I wished for Emily’s sake that this little girl should need a home with us—if you had found in her a new interest and delight, and were in her—let me say it, Barbara—healing old sores, and giving her your own good sense and high principle, I would not say one word to disturb so happy a state of things. I come and find the child a state prisoner, whom you are endeavouring by all means to alienate from the friends to whom she owes a daughter’s gratitude; I find her not complaining of you, but answering me with the saddest account a child can give of herself—she is always naughty. After this, Barbara, I can be doing you no injury in asking you to concur with me in arrangements for putting the child under my wife’s care as soon as possible.”
“To-morrow, if you like,” said Lady Barbara. “I took her only from a sense of duty; and it has half killed Jane. I would not keep her upon any consideration!”
“O Barbara, it has not hurt me.—O Giles, she will always be so anxious about me; it is all my fault for being nervous and foolish!” cried Lady Jane, with quivering voice, and tears in her eyes. “If it had not been for that, we could have made her so happy, dear little spirited thing. But dear Barbara spoils me, and I know I give way too much.”
“This will keep you awake all night!” said Barbara, as the Colonel’s tender gesture agitated Jane more. “Indeed, Giles, you should have chosen a better moment for this conversation—on almost your first arrival too! But the very existence of this child is a misfortune!”
“Let us trust that in a few years she may give you reason to think otherwise,” said the Colonel. “Did you mean what you said—that you wished us to take her to-morrow?”
“Not to incommode Emily. She can go on as she has done till your plans are made. You do not know what a child she is.”
“Emily shall come and settle with you to-morrow,” said Colonel Umfraville. “I have not yet spoken to her, but I think she will wish to have the child with her.”
“And you will be patient with her. You will make her happy,” said Lady Jane, holding his hand.
“Everything is made happy by Emily,” he answered.
“But has she spirits for the charge?”
“She has always spirits enough to give happiness to others,” he answered; and the dew was on his dark lashes.
“And you, Giles—you will not be severe even if the poor child is a little wild?”
“I know what you are thinking of, Jane,” he said kindly. “But indeed, my dear, such a wife as mine, and such sorrows as she has helped me to bear, would have been wasted indeed, if by God’s grace they had not made me less exacting and impatient than I used to be.—Barbara,” he added after a pause, “I beg your pardon if I have spoken hastily, or done you injustice. All you have done has been conscientious; and if I spoke in displeasure—you know how one’s spirit is moved by seeing a child unhappy—and my training in gentleness is not as complete as it ought to be, I am sorry for the pain I gave you.”
Lady Barbara was struggling with tears she could not repress; and at last she broke quite down, and wept so that Lady Jane moved about in alarm and distress, and her brother waited in some anxiety. But when she spoke it was humbly.
“You were right, Giles. It was not in me to love that child. It was wrong in me. Perhaps if I had overcome the feeling when you first told me of it, when her mother died, it would have been better for us all. Now it is too late. Our habits have formed themselves, and I can neither manage the child nor make her happy. It is better that she should go to you and Emily. And, Giles, if you still bring her to us sometimes, I will try—” The last words were lost.
“You will,” he said affectionately, “when there are no more daily collisions. Dear Barbara, if I am particularly anxious to train this poor girl up at once in affection and in self-restraint, it is because my whole life—ever since I grew up—has taught me what a grievous task is left us, after we are our own masters. If our childish faults—such as impetuosity and sullenness—are not corrected on principle, not for convenience, while we are children.”
After this conversation, everyone will be sure that Mrs. Umfraville came next day, and after many arrangements with Lady Barbara, carried off the little Countess with her to the house that Lord de la Poer had lent them.
Kate was subdued and quiet. She felt that she had made a very unhappy business of her life with her aunts, and that she should never see Bruton Street without a sense of shame. Lady Barbara, too, was more soft and kind than she had ever seen her; and Aunt Jane was very fond of her, and grieved over her not having been happier.
“Oh, never mind, Aunt Jane; it was all my naughtiness. I know Aunt Emily will make me good; and nobody could behave ill in the house with Uncle Giles, could they now? So I shall be sure to be happy. And I’ll tell you what, Aunt Jane; some day you shall come to stay with us, and then I’ll drive you out in a dear delicious open carriage, with two prancing ponies!”
And when she wished her other aunt good-bye, she eased her mind by saying, “Aunt Barbara, I am very sorry I was such a horrid plague.”
“There were faults on both sides, Katharine,” her aunt answered with dignity. “Perhaps in time we may understand one another better.”
The first thing Katharine heard when she had left the house with Mrs. Umfraville was, that her uncle had gone down to Oldburgh by an early train, and that both box and shawl had gone with him.
But when he came back late to Lord de la Poer’s house, whom had he brought with him?
Mary! Mary Wardour herself! He had, as a great favour, begged to have her for a fortnight in London, to take care of her little cousin, till further arrangements could be made; and to talk over with Mrs. Umfraville the child’s character, and what would be good for her.
If there was one shy person in the house that night, there was another happier than words could tell!
Moreover, before very long, the Countess of Caergwent had really seen the Lord Chancellor, and found him not so very unlike other people after all; indeed, unless Uncle Giles had told her, she never would have found out who he was! And when he asked her whether she would wish to live with Colonel Umfraville or with Lady Barbara and Lady Jane, it may be very easily guessed what answer she made!
So it was fixed that she should live at Caergwent Castle with her uncle and aunt, and be brought up to the care of her own village and poor people, and to learn the duties of her station under their care.
And before they left London, Mrs. Umfraville had chosen a very bright pleasant young governess, to be a friend and companion, as well as an instructress. Further, it was settled that as soon as Christmas was over, Sylvia should come for a long visit, and learn of the governess with Kate.
Those who have learned to know Countess Kate can perhaps guess whether she found herself right in thinking it impossible to be naughty near Uncle Giles or Aunt Emily. But of one thing they may be sure—that Uncle Giles never failed to make her truly sorry for her naughtiness, and increasingly earnest in the struggle to leave it off.
And as time went on, and occupations and interests grew up round Colonel and Mrs. Umfraville, and their niece lost her childish wildness, and loved them more and more, they felt their grievous loss less and less, and did not so miss the vanished earthly hope. Their own children had so lived that they could feel them safe; and they attached themselves to the child in their charge till she was really like their own.
Yet, all the time, Kate still calls Mr. Wardour “Papa;” and Sylvia spends half her time with her. Some people still say that in manners, looks, and ways, Sylvia would make a better Countess than Lady Caergwent; but there are things that both are learning together, which alone can make them fit for any lot upon earth, or for the better inheritance in Heaven.
