Then she went out again till the hottest part of the day, during which a bit of French and of English reading was expected from her, and half an hour of needle-work; then her dinner; and then out again- -with her aunts this time, Aunt Jane in a wheeled-chair, and Aunt Barbara walking with her--this was rather dreary; but when they went in she was allowed to stay out with Josephine, with only one interval in the house for tea, till it grew dark, and she was so sleepy with the salt wind, that she was ready for bed, and had no time to think of the Lord Chancellor.
At first, watching those wonderful and beautiful waves was pleasure enough; and then she was allowed, to her wonder and delight, to have a holland dress, and dig in the sand, making castles and moats, or rocks and shipwrecks, with beautiful stories about them; and sometimes she hunted for the few shells and sea-weeds there, or she sat down and read some of her favourite books, especially poetry--it suited the sea so well; and she was trying to make Ellen's Isle and all the places of the "Lady of the Lake" in sand, only she never had time to finish them, and they always were either thrown down or washed away before she could return to them.
But among all these amusements, she was watching the families of children who played together, happy creatures! The little sturdy boys, that dabbled about so merrily, and minded so little the "Now Masters" of their indignant nurses; the little girls in brown hats, with their baskets full; the big boys, that even took off shoes, and dabbled in the shallow water; the great sieges of large castles, where whole parties attacked and defended--it was a sort of melancholy glimpse of fairy-land to her, for she had only been allowed to walk on the beach with Josephine on condition she never spoke to the other children.
Would the Lord Chancellor be after her if she did? Her heart quite yearned for those games, or even to be able to talk to one of those little damsels; and one day when a bright-faced girl ran after her with a piece of weed that she had dropped, she could hardly say "thank you" for her longing to say more; and many were the harangues she composed within herself to warn the others not to wish to change places with her, for to be a countess was very poor fun indeed.
However, one morning at the end of the first week, Kate looked up from a letter from Sylvia, and said with great glee, "Aunt Barbara! O Aunt Barbara! Alice and the other Sylvia--Sylvia Joanna--are coming! I may play with them, mayn't I?"
"Who are they?" said her aunt gravely.
"Uncle Wardour's nieces," said Kate; "Sylvia's cousins, you know, only we never saw them; but they are just my age; and it will be such fun--only Alice is ill, I believe. Pray--please--let me play with them!" and Kate had tears in her eyes.
"I shall see about it when they come."
"Oh, but--but I can't have them there--Sylvia's own, own cousins--and not play with them! Please, Aunt Barbara!"
"You ought to know that this impetuosity never disposes me favourably, Katharine; I will inquire and consider."
Kate had learnt wisdom enough not to say any more just then; but the thought of sociability, the notion of chattering freely to young companions, and of a real game at play, and the terror of having all this withheld, and of being thought too proud and haughty for the Wardours, put her into such an agony, that she did not know what she was about, made mistakes even in reading, and blundered her music more than she had over done under Lady Barbara's teaching; and then, when her aunt reproved her, she could not help laying down her head and bursting into a fit of crying. However, she had not forgotten the terrible tea-drinking, and was resolved not to be as bad as at that time, and she tried to stop herself, exclaiming between her sobs, "O Aunt Bar--bar--a,--I--can--not--help it!" And Lady Barbara did not scold or look stern. Perhaps she saw that the little girl was really trying to chock herself, for she said quite kindly, "Don't, my dear."
And just then, to Kate's great wonder, in came Lady Jane, though it was full half an hour earlier than she usually left her room; and Lady Barbara looked up to her, and said, quite as if excusing herself, "Indeed, Jane, I have not been angry with her."
And Kate, somehow, understanding that she might, flung herself down by Aunt Jane, and hid her face in her lap, not crying any more, though the sobs were not over, and feeling the fondling hands on her hair very tender and comforting, though she wondered to hear them talk as if she were asleep or deaf--or perhaps they thought their voices too low, or their words too long and fine for her to understand; nor perhaps did she, though she gathered their drift well enough, and that kind Aunt Jane was quite pleading for herself in having come to the rescue.
"I could not help it, indeed--you remember Lady de la Poer, Dr. Woodman, both--excitable, nervous temperament--almost hysterical."
"This unfortunate intelligence--untoward coincidence--" said Lady Barbara. "But I have been trying to make her feel I am not in anger, and I hope there really was a struggle for self-control."
Kate took her head up again at this, a little encouraged; and Lady Jane kissed her forehead, and repeated, "Aunt Barbara was not angry with you, my dear."
"No, for I think you have tried to conquer yourself," said Lady Barbara. She did not think it wise to tell Kate that she thought she could not help it, though oddly enough, the very thing had just been said over the child's head, and Kate ventured on it to get up, and say quietly, "Yes, it was not Aunt Barbara's speaking to me that made me cry, but I am so unhappy about Alice and Sylvia Joanna;" and a soft caress from Aunt Jane made her venture to go on. "It is not only the playing with them, though I do wish for that very very much indeed; but it would be so unkind, and so proud and ungrateful, to despise my own cousin's cousins!"
This was more like the speeches Kate made in her own head than anything she had ever said to her aunts; and it was quite just besides, and not spoken in naughtiness, and Lady Barbara did not think it wrong to show that she attended to it. "You are right, Katharine," she said; "no one wishes you to be either proud or ungrateful. I would not wish entirely to prevent you from seeing the children of the family, but it must not be till there is some acquaintance between myself and their mother, and I cannot tell whether you can be intimate with them till I know what sort of children they are. Much, too, must depend on yourself, and whether you will behave well with them."
Kate gave a long sigh, and looked up relieved; and for some time she and her aunt were not nearly so much at war as hitherto, but seemed to be coming to a somewhat better understanding.
Yet it rather puzzled Kate. She seemed to herself to have got this favour for crying for it; and it was a belief at home, not only that nothing was got by crying, but that if by some strange chance it were, it never came to good; and she began the more to fear some disappointment about the expected Wardours.
For two or three days she was scanning every group on the sands with all her might, in hopes of some likeness to Sylvia, but at last she was taken by surprise: just as she was dressed, and Aunt Barbara was waiting in the drawing-room for Aunt Jane, there came a knock at the door, and "Mrs. Wardour" was announced.
In came a small, quiet-looking lady in mourning, and with her a girl of about Kate's own age; there was some curtseying and greeting between the two ladies, and her aunt said, "Here is my niece.--Come and speak to Mrs. Wardour, my dear," and motioned her forwards.
Now to be motioned forwards by Aunt Barbara always made Kate shrink back into herself, and the presence of a little girl before elders likewise rendered her shy and bashful, so she came forth as if intensely disgusted, put out her hand as if she were going to poke, and muttered her favourite "--do" so awkwardly and coldly, that Lady Barbara felt how proud and ungracious it looked, and to make up said, "My niece has been very eager for your coming." And then the two little girls drew off into the window, and looked at each other under their eyelashes in silence.
Sylvia Joanna Wardour was not like her namesake at home, Sylvia Katharine. She was a thin, slight, quiet-looking child, with so little to note about her face, that Kate was soon wondering at her dress being so much smarter than her own was at present. She h
erself had on a holland suit with a deep cape, which, except that they were adorned with labyrinths of white braid, were much what she had worn at home, also a round brown hat, shading her face from the sun; whereas Sylvia's face was exposed by a little turban hat so deeply edged with blue velvet, that the white straw was hardly seen; had a little watered-silk jacket, and a little flounced frock of a dark silk figured with blue, that looked slightly fuzzed out; and perhaps she was not at ease in this fine dress, for she stood with her head down, and one hand on the window-sill, pretending to look out of window, but really looking at Kate.
Meanwhile the two grown-up ladies were almost as stiff and shy, though they could not keep dead silence like the children. Mrs. Wardour had heard before that Lady Barbara Umfraville was a formidable person, and was very much afraid of her; and Lady Barbara was not a person to set anyone at ease.
So there was a little said about taking the liberty of calling, for her brother-in-law was so anxious to hear of Lady Caergwent: and Lady Barbara said her niece was very well and healthy, and had only needed change of air.
And then came something in return about Mrs. Wardour's other little girl, a sad invalid, she said, on whose account they were come to Bournemouth; and there was a little more said of bathing, and walking, and whether the place was full; and then Mrs. Wardour jumped up and said she was detaining Lady Barbara, and took leave; Kate, though she had not spoken a word to Sylvia Wardour, looking at her wistfully with all her eyes, and feeling more than usually silly.
And when the guests were gone her aunt told her how foolish her want of manner was, and how she had taken the very means to make them think she was not glad to see them. She hung down her head, and pinched the ends of her gloves; she knew it very well, but that did not make it a bit more possible to find a word to say to a stranger before the elders, unless the beginning were made for her as by the De la Poers.
However, she knew it would be very different out of doors, and her heart bounded when her aunt added, "They seem to be quiet, lady-like, inoffensive people, and I have no objection to your associating with the little girl in your walks, as long as I do not see that it makes you thoughtless and ungovernable."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Aunt Barbara!" cried Kate, with a bouncing bound that did not promise much for her thought or her governableness; but perhaps Lady Barbara recollected what her own childhood would have been without Jane, for she was not much discomposed, only she said,
"It is very odd you should be so uncivil to the child in her presence, and so ecstatic now! However, take care you do not get too familiar. Remember, these Wardours are no relations, and I will not have you letting them call you by your Christian name."
Kate's bright looks sank. That old married-woman sound, Lady Caergwent, seemed as if it would be a bar between her and the free childish fun she hoped for. Yet when so much had been granted, she must not call her aunt cross and unkind, though she did think it hard and proud.
Perhaps she was partly right; but after all, little people cannot judge what is right in matters of familiarity. They have only to do as they are told, and they may be sure of this, that friendship and respect depend much more on what people are in themselves than on what they call one another.
This lady was the widow of Mr. Wardour's brother, and lived among a great clan of his family in a distant county, where Mary and her father had sometimes made visits, but the younger ones never. Kate was not likely to have been asked there, for it was thought very hard that she should be left on the hands of her aunt's husband: and much had been said of the duty of making her grand relations provide for her, or of putting her into the "Clergy Orphan Asylum." And there had been much displeasure when Mr. Wardour answered that he did not think it right that a child who had friends should live on the charity intended for those who had none able to help them; and soon after the decision he had placed his son Armyn in Mr. Brown's office, instead of sending him to the University. All the Wardours were much vexed then; but they were not much better pleased when the little orphan had come to her preferment, and he made no attempt to keep her in his hands, and obtain the large sum allowed for her board--only saying that his motherless household was no place for her, and that he could not at once do his duty by her and by his parish. They could not understand the real love and uprightness that made him prefer her advantage to his own--what was right to what was convenient.
Mrs. George Wardour had not scolded her brother-in-law for his want of prudence and care for his own children's interests; but she had agreed with those who did; and this, perhaps, made her feel all the more awkward and shy when she was told that she MUST go and call upon the Lady Umfravilles, whom the whole family regarded as first so neglectful and then so ungrateful, and make acquaintance with the little girl who had once been held so cheap. She was a kind, gentle person, and a careful, anxious mother, but not wishing to make great acquaintance, nor used to fine people, large or small, and above all, wrapped up in her poor little delicate Alice.
The next time Kate saw her she was walking by the side of Alice's wheeled-chair, and Sylvia by her side, in a more plain and suitable dress. Kate set off running to greet them; but at a few paces from them was seized by a shy fit, and stood looking and feeling like a goose, drawing great C's with the point of her parasol in the sand; Josephine looking on, and thinking how "bete" English children were. Mrs. Wardour was not much less shy; but she knew she must make a beginning, and so spoke in the middle of Kate's second C: and there was a shaking of hands, and walking together.
They did not get on very well: nobody talked but Mrs. Wardour, and she asked little frightened questions about the Oldburgh party, as she called them, which Kate answered as shortly and shyly--the more so from the uncomfortable recollection that her aunt had told her that this was the very way to seem proud and unkind; but what could she do? She felt as if she were frozen up stiff, and could neither move nor look up like herself. At last Mrs. Wardour said that Alice would be tired, and must go in; and then Kate managed to blurt out a request that Sylvia might stay with her. Poor Sylvia looked a good deal scared, and as if she longed to follow her mamma and sister; but the door was shut upon her, and she was left alone with those two strange people--the Countess and the Frenchwoman!
However, Kate recovered the use of her limbs and tongue in a moment, and instantly took her prisoner's hand, and ran off with her to the corner where the scenery of Loch Katrine had so often been begun, and began with great animation to explain. This--a hole that looked as if an old hen had been grubbing in it--was Loch Katrine.
"Loch Katharine--that's yours! And which is to be Loch Sylvia?" said the child, recovering, as she began to feel by touch, motion, and voice, that she had only to do with a little girl after all.
"Loch nonsense!" said Kate, rather bluntly. "Did you never hear of the Lochs, the Lakes, in Scotland?"
"Loch Lomond, Loch Katrine, Loch Awe, Loch Ness?--But I don't do my geography out of doors!"
"'Tisn't geography; 'tis the 'The Lady of the Lake.'"
"Is that a new game?"
"Dear me! did you never read 'The Lady of the Lake?'--Sir Walter Scott's poem -
'The summer dawn's reflected hue--'"
"Oh! I've learnt that in my extracts; but I never did my poetry task out of doors!"
"'Tisn't a task--'tis beautiful poetry! Don't you like poetry better than anything?"
"I like it better than all my other lessons, when it is not very long and hard."
Kate felt that her last speech would have brought Armyn and Charlie down on her for affectation, and that it was not strictly true that she liked poetry better than anything, for a game at romps, and a very amusing story, were still better things; so she did not exclaim at the other Sylvia's misunderstanding, but only said, "'The Lady of the Lake' is story and poetry too, and we will play at it."
"And how?"
"I'll tell you as we go on. I'm the King--that is, the Knight of Snowdon--James Fitzjames, for I'm in disguise, you know; and you'
re Ellen."
"Must I be Ellen? We had a horrid nurse once, who used to slap us, and was called Ellen."
"But it was her name. She was Ellen Douglas, and was in banishment on an island with her father. You are Ellen, and Josephine is your old harper--Allan Bane; she talks French, you know, and that will do for Highland: Gallic and Gaelic sound alike, you know. There! Then I'm going out hunting, and my dear gallant grey will drop down dead with fatigue, and I shall lose my way; and when you hear me wind my horn too-too, you get upon your hoop--that will be your boat, you know--and answer 'Father!' and when I too-too again, answer 'Malcolm!' and then put up your hand behind your ear, and stand listening
"With locks thrown back and lips apart, Like monument of Grecian art;"
and then I'll tell you what to do."
Away scudded the delighted Kate; and after having lamented her gallant grey, and admired the Trosachs, came up too-tooing through her hand with all her might, but found poor Ellen, very unlike a monument of Grecian art, absolutely crying, and Allan Bane using his best English and kindest tones to console her.
"Miladi l'a stupefaite--la pauvre petite!" began Josephine; and Kate in consternation asking what was the matter, and Josephine encouraging her, it was all sobbed out. She did not like to be called Ellen--and she thought it unkind to send her into banishment-- and she had fancied she was to get astride on her hoop, which she justly thought highly improper--and above all, she could not bear to say 'Father'--because -
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