Countess Kate

“Well, I always knew they must be a couple of horrid old owls,” began Charlie.

“Oh!  I didn’t mean Aunt Jane,” said Kate, feeling a little compunction.  “Ah!” with a start and scream, “who is coming?” as she heard steps behind them.

“You little donkey, you’ll be off!  Who should it be but Armyn?”

For Armyn generally overtook his brother on a Saturday, and walked home with him for the Sunday.

Charles hailed him with a loud “Hollo, Armyn!  What d’ye think I’ve got here?”

“Kate!  Why, how d’ye do!  Why, they never told me you were coming to see us.”

“They didn’t know,” whispered Kate.

“She’s run away, like a jolly brick!” said Charlie, patting the pony vehemently as he made this most inappropriate comparison.

“Run away!  You don’t mean it!” cried Armyn, standing still and aghast, so much shocked that her elevation turned into shame; and Charles answered for her—

“Yes, to be sure she did, when they locked her up because she wouldn’t tell lies to please them.  How did you get out, Kittens?  What jolly good fun it must have been!”

“Is this so, Kate?” said Armyn, laying his hand on the bridle; and his displeasure roused her spirit of self-defence, and likewise a sense of ill-usage.

“To be sure it is,” she said, raising her head indignantly.  “I would not be made to tell fashionable falsehoods; and so—and so I came home, for Papa to protect me:” and if she had not had to take care to steady herself on her saddle, she would have burst out sobbing with vexation at Armyn’s manner.

“And no one knew you were coming?” said he.

“No, of course not; I slipped out while they were all in confabulation in Aunt Jane’s room, and they were sure not to find me gone till dinner time, and if they are very cross, not then.”

“You go on, Charlie,” said Armyn, restoring the bridle to his brother; “I’ll overtake you by the time you get home.”

“What are you going to do?” cried boy and girl with one voice.

“Well, I suppose it is fair to tell you,” said Armyn.  “I must go and telegraph what is become of you.”

There was a howl and a shriek at this.  They would come after her and take her away, when she only wanted to be hid and kept safe; it was a cruel shame, and Charles was ready to fly at his brother and pommel him; indeed, Armyn had to hold him by one shoulder, and say in the voice that meant that he would be minded, “Steady, boy I—I’m very sorry, my little Katie; it’s a melancholy matter, but you must have left those poor old ladies in a dreadful state of alarm about you, and they ought not to be kept in it!”

“Oh! but Armyn, Armyn, do only get home, and see what Papa says.”

“I am certain what he will say, and it would only be the trouble of sending someone in, and keeping the poor women in a fright all the longer.  Besides, depend on it, the way to have them sending down after you would be to say nothing.  Now, if they hear you are safe, you are pretty secure of spending to-morrow at least with us.  Let me go, Kate; it must be done.  I cannot help it.”

Even while he spoke, the kind way of crossing her will was so like home, that it gave a sort of happiness, and she felt she could not resist; so she gave a sigh, and he turned back.

How much of the joy and hope of her journey had he not carried away with him!  His manner of treating her exploit made her even doubt how his father might receive it; and yet the sight of old scenes, and the presence of Charlie, was such exceeding delight, that it seemed to kill off all unpleasant fears or anticipations; and all the way home it was one happy chatter of inquiries for everyone, of bits of home news, and exclamations at the sight of some well-known tree, or the outline of a house remembered for some adventure; the darker the twilight the happier her tongue.  The dull suburb, all little pert square red-brick houses, with slated roofs and fine names, in the sloppiness of a grey November day, was dear to Kate; every little shop window with the light streaming out was like a friend; and she anxiously gazed into the rough parties out for their Saturday purchases, intending to nod to anyone she might know, but it was too dark for recognitions; and when at length they passed the dark outline of the church, she was silent, her heart again bouncing as if it would beat away her breath and senses.  The windows were dark; it was a sign that Evening Service was just over.  The children turned in at the gate, just as Armyn overtook them.  He lifted Kate off her pony.  She could not have stood, but she could run, and she flew to the drawing-room.  No one was there; perhaps she was glad.  She knew the cousins would be dressing for tea, and in another moment she had torn open Sylvia’s door.

Sylvia, who was brushing her hair, turned round.  She stared—as if she had seen a ghost.  Then the two children held out their arms, and rushed together with a wild scream that echoed through the house, and brought Mary flying out of her room to see who was hurt! and to find, rolling on her sister’s bed, a thing that seemed to have two bodies and two faces glued together, four legs, and all its arms and hands wound round and round.

“Sylvia!  What is it?  Who is it?  What is she doing to you?” began Mary; but before the words were out of her mouth, the thing had flown at her neck, and pulled her down too; and the grasp and the clinging and the kisses told her long before she had room or eyes or voice to know the creature by.  A sort of sobbing out of each name between them was all that was heard at first.

At last, just as Mary was beginning to say, “My own own Katie! how did you come—”  Mr. Wardour’s voice on the stairs called “Mary!”

“Have you seen him, my dear?”

“No;” but Kate was afraid now she had heard his voice, for it was grave.

“Mary!”  And Mary went.  Kate sat up, holding Sylvia’s hand.

They heard him ask, “Is Kate there?”

“Yes.”  And then there were lower voices that Kate could not hear, and which therefore alarmed her; and Sylvia, puzzled and frightened, sat holding her hand, listening silently.

Presently Mr. Wardour came in; and his look was graver than his tone; but it was so pitying, that in a moment Kate flew to his breast, and as he held her in his arms she cried, “O Papa!  Papa!  I have found you again! you will not turn me away.”

“I must do whatever may be right, my dear child,” said Mr. Wardour, holding her close, so that she felt his deep love, though it was not an undoubting welcome.  “I will hear all about it when you have rested, and then I may know what is best to be done.”

“Oh! keep me, keep me, Papa.”

“You will be here to-morrow at least,” he said, disengaging himself from her.  “This is a terrible proceeding of yours, Kate, but it is no time for talking of it; and as your aunts know where you are, nothing more can be done at present; so we will wait to understand it till you are rested and composed.”

He went away; and Kate remained sobered and confused, and Mary stood looking at her, sad and perplexed.

“O Kate!  Kate!” she said, “what have you been doing?”

“What is the matter?  Are not you glad?” cried Sylvia; and the squeeze of her hand restored Kate’s spirits so much that she broke forth with her story, told in her own way, of persecution and escape, as she had wrought herself up to believe in it; and Sylvia clung to her, with flushed cheeks and ardent eyes, resenting every injury that her darling detailed, triumphing in her resistance, and undoubting that here she would be received and sheltered from all; while Mary, distressed and grieved, and cautioned by her father to take care not to show sympathy that might be mischievous, was carried along in spite of herself to admire and pity her child, and burn with indignation at such ill-treatment, almost in despair at the idea that the child must be sent back again, yet still not discarding that trust common to all Mr. Wardour’s children, that “Papa would do anything to hinder a temptation.”

And so, with eager words and tender hands, Kate was made ready for the evening meal, and went down, clinging on one side to Mary, on the other to Sylvia—a matter of no small difficulty on the narrow staircase, and almost leading to a general avalanche of young ladies, all upon the head of little Lily, who was running up to greet and be greeted, and was almost devoured by Kate when at length they did get safe downstairs.

It was a somewhat quiet, grave meal; Mr. Wardour looked so sad and serious, that all felt that it would not do to indulge in joyous chatter, and the little girls especially were awed; though through all there was a tender kindness in his voice and look, whenever he did but offer a slice of bread to his little guest, such as made her feel what was home and what was love—“like a shower of rain after a parched desert” as she said to herself; and she squeezed Sylvia’s hand under the table whenever she could.

Mr. Wardour spoke to her very little.  He said he had seen Colonel Umfraville’s name in the Gazette, and asked about his coming home; and when she had answered that the time and speed of the journey were to depend on Giles’s health, he turned from her to Armyn, and began talking to him about some public matters that seemed very dull to Kate; and one little foolish voice within her said, “He is not like Mrs. George Wardour, he forgets what I am;” but there was a wiser, more loving voice to answer, “Dear Papa, he thinks of me as myself; he is no respecter of persons.  Oh, I hope he is not angry with me!”

When tea was over Mr. Wardour stood up, and said, “I shall wish you children good-night now; I have to read with John Bailey for his Confirmation, and to prepare for to-morrow;—and you, Kate, must go to bed early.—Mary, she had better sleep with you.”

This was rather a blank, for sleeping with Sylvia again had been Kate’s dream of felicity; yet this was almost lost in the sweetness of once more coming in turn for the precious kiss and good-night, in the midst of which she faltered, “O Papa, don’t be angry with me!”

“I am not angry, Katie,” he said gently; “I am very sorry.  You have done a thing that nothing can justify, and that may do you much future harm; and I cannot receive you as if you had come properly.  I do not know what excuse there was for you, and I cannot attend to you to-night; indeed, I do not think you could tell me rightly; but another time we will talk it all over, and I will try to help you.  Now good-night, my dear child.”

Those words of his, “I will try to help you,” were to Kate like a promise of certain rescue from all her troubles; and, elastic ball that her nature was, no sooner was his anxious face out of sight, and she secure that he was not angry, than up bounded her spirits again.  She began wondering why Papa thought she could not tell him properly, and forthwith began to give what she intended for a full and particular history of all that she had gone through.

It was a happy party round the fire; Kate and Sylvia both together in the large arm-chair, and Lily upon one of its arms; Charles in various odd attitudes before the fire; Armyn at the table with his book, half reading, half listening; Mary with her work; and Kate pouring out her story, making herself her own heroine, and describing her adventures, her way of life, and all her varieties of miseries, in the most glowing colours.  How she did rattle on!  It would be a great deal too much to tell; indeed it would be longer than this whole story!

Sylvia and Charlie took it all in, pitied, wondered, and were indignant, with all their hearts; indeed Charlie was once heard to wish he could only get that horrid old witch near the horse-pond; and when Kate talked of her Diana face, he declared that he should get the old brute of a cat into the field, and set all the boys to stone her.

Little Lily listened, not sure whether it was not all what she called “a made-up story only for prettiness;” and Mary, sitting over her work, was puzzled, and saw that her father was right in saying that Kate could not at present give an accurate account of herself.  Mary knew her truthfulness, and that she would not have said what she knew to be invention; but those black eyes, glowing like little hot coals, and those burning cheeks, as well as the loud, squeaky key of the voice, all showed that she had worked herself up into a state of excitement, such as not to know what was invented by an exaggerating memory.  Besides, it could not be all true; it did not agree; the ill-treatment was not consistent with the grandeur.  For Kate had taken to talking very big, as if she was an immensely important personage, receiving much respect wherever she went; and though Armyn once or twice tried putting in a sober matter-of-fact question for the fun of disconcerting her, she was too mad to care or understand what he said.

“Oh no! she never was allowed to do anything for herself.  That was quite a rule, and very tiresome it was.”

“Like the King of Spain, you can’t move your chair away from the fire without the proper attendant.”

“I never do put on coals or wood there!”

“There may be several reasons for that,” said Armyn, recollecting how nearly Kate had once burnt the house down.

“Oh, I assure you it would not do for me,” said Kate.  “If it were not so inconvenient in that little house, I should have my own man-servant to attend to my fire, and walk out behind me.  Indeed, now Perkins always does walk behind me, and it is such a bore.”

And what was the consequence of all this wild chatter?  When Mary had seen the hot-faced eager child into bed, she came down to her brother in the drawing-room with her eyes brimful of tears, saying, “Poor dear child!  I am afraid she is very much spoilt!”

“Don’t make up your mind to-night,” said Armyn.  “She is slightly insane as yet!  Never mind, Mary; her heart is in the right place, if her head is turned a little.”

“It is very much turned indeed,” said Mary.  “How wise it was of Papa not to let Sylvia sleep with her!  What will he do with her?  Oh dear!”